“Maybe you liked her too much.”
“You’re sick!” Aldous spat.
“Am I? You’ve bought into the legend of pirates and their swashbuckling adventures since you were a kid. Look at your normal mode of appearance. You’re not married and never were. You own all kinds of ships. You’re rich, and you’re rich because of the sea. You know the Dragonslayer, you know Savannah and the river. And you know your pirate history. Come on, Aldous. You want to live a fantasy. You probably imagined from the first that you could kidnap a girl and convince her you were a charming rogue, an Errol Flynn or a Johnny Depp. But you could never get the right girl.”
Aldous Brentwood’s eyes widened with incredulity as he stared at Malachi. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” he shouted. “And I sure as hell don’t know what this scarf—that isn’t mine—means!”
“It was used as a blindfold, Aldous,” Malachi said. “Poor Felicia cried—cried in fear and terror and despair—when she was bound in a cabin on one of your ships. She cried, and she left traces of her DNA to prove that you were her killer.”
“I’m not—and that wasn’t on my yacht!” Aldous protested. “The police were on my yacht.” His eyes narrowed. “They didn’t find anything there—unless it was planted!”
“Planted by the police?” Malachi asked, raising an eyebrow.
“By the police,” Aldous agreed energetically. “Or...or someone!” He pointed at Malachi. “Or you. You! We don’t know you—you don’t belong here. You’re not one of us. Maybe you planted it on the yacht!”
“Aldous, get over it. I was the one who found the scarf, but I wasn’t in Savannah when this spree of kidnapping and murders began,” Malachi told him.
“But you found it, right? You went on my boat illegally. I don’t know the law all that well, but I know you can’t use evidence in court when you got it illegally. And don’t you get it? You’re harassing the wrong person. I didn’t do any of this. I’m innocent—I swear it!”
Malachi decided wearily that he believed him. Aldous was passionate in his denial. But he pushed a little further.
“Actually, I’m not a cop. I’m a civilian and I thought I heard you screaming on your yacht. I went out to see if you needed help. I saw that scarf, and took it in case you’d been kidnapped or injured—one victim was a man, you know—and it meant something. I gave it to the police.”
“That’s the biggest crock I’ve ever heard,” Aldous sneered.
Malachi shrugged. “Maybe. We know you have all the right credentials—and a rowboat and a scarf with a victim’s DNA.”
Aldous shook his head. “But...it’s not me. I didn’t do it.”
“So, how did your rowboat wind up loose and how did the scarf wind up on your yacht?”
“I don’t know! I’m telling you, someone put them there,” Aldous said. “I swear to you, I know nothing about that scarf.”
“Who else is on your yacht on a regular basis?” Malachi asked.
“I have a cleaning crew that comes in once or twice a month.” He paused. “There are ten berths there, so one of the other owners could have gotten on my yacht. And, then, of course—”
Aldous broke off. He looked ill.
“And then, of course—what?”
“Gus, Bootsie and Dirk. The three of them had keys to the dock,” he said. “They’re my best friends. They were always welcome on my yacht.”
Something cold hardened inside Malachi. Aldous could be lying, trying to shift the blame.
But he didn’t know; he didn’t have a definite sense that yes, he was guilty, or no, he was innocent. He believed Roger, and even though he wasn’t completely certain, he leaned toward believing Aldous.
That left Dirk or Bootsie.
Or...
Someone else who was always at the Dragonslayer, someone who knew everything about the way it ran, day in and day out.
Grant Green, Macy Sterling, Jerry Sullivan.
Macy? Doubtful—unless she was someone’s accomplice. Grant? Not around during the day. And yet, that could mean he was able to be anywhere else, without even having to slip away.
Jerry Sullivan, the bartender, friendly, ever listening, knowing everything and everyone. Always there from lunch until closing.
“Aren’t there any cameras around that river that might’ve been aimed at my Lady Luck?” Aldous asked him. “I’m telling you—someone was on my boat and planted that scarf.”
“Say it was planted, and the police didn’t do it. Who would it have been?”
Aldous shook his head, lost and dejected. “I...I don’t know. All I can tell you is that I’ve never attacked anyone, I just happen to be bald, and I don’t have any fantasies about being a pirate,” he said.
“I’m going to see what I can do for you, Aldous.” Malachi got to his feet.
“You’re going to let me go?”
“I’m going to ask that you stay here for the moment. They’ll get you some coffee.”
“Yeah, sure, if it’s going to clear me. I’ll drink coffee and play Tiddlywinks all night if it’ll make you people believe me.”
“Great. I’ve got to go.”
Malachi was anxious to be on the move.
They only had one real connection to the killer. Helen Long. He had to talk to her again.
There had to be some clue in her story. There was something he should be seeing clearly, but couldn’t, not yet. The answer to the riddle was in the back of his mind somewhere; he just hadn’t figured it out.
Tap.
Tap, tap.
Tap, tap, tap.
14
“Pirates were really bad, right?” a little boy asked Abby, his smiling mother beside him. She might have been portraying a girl who was an utter nitwit, but the audience seemed to have sympathy for the damsel in distress.
“Hmm. Well, yes, piracy is bad. There are still pirates out there today, and they’re very bad,” Abby said, crouching down to his height. “But Blue Anderson walked a middle ground. He started out as a privateer. That means, more or less, that he was asked to be a pirate.”
“People can ask you to be a pirate?” The towheaded boy stared at her, eyes wide.
“Back then, we weren’t a country yet. We were a group of colonies governed by the English. England and Spain always seemed to be at war. So the king or queen of each country would allow men to seize ships—as long as they were ships that sailed under the enemy’s flag. So, Blue was a privateer to begin with. He never did seize an English ship. You remember the story in today’s show? He actually saved the crew of a foundering ship, but kept Missy because he thought he was owed something for his work.”
“What happened to Blue?” the boy asked.
“Tyler, you’re driving the lady crazy,” his mother said apologetically.
“Not at all,” Abby assured her. “Blue never begged for a pardon, but he wasn’t a bad guy. Legend had it that the Royal Navy could have sunk his ship several times, but they let him sail by. Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know. One day he sailed out—and he never came back. No one heard from him or any of his crew again, so history records that he was caught in a storm at sea and went down with his men and his ship.”
“Wow, cool!” Tyler said. Gripping his mother’s hand, he asked, “Can we go in there—to Blue’s tavern—and have lunch? The menus for kids are supposed to be pirate hats!”
“Paper pirate hats, but yes,” Abby told him.
“Yes, lunch!” his mother said. “Come on now. Thank you...Missy.”
Abby grinned. “My pleasure.”
Standing, she looked around. Will Chan was heading into the restaurant; Jackson Crow was keeping an eye on her and talking on the phone.
Roger and Paul were still talking to tourists.
Aldous, she knew, was at the police station.
She went into the restaurant herself—and saw Dirk just ahead of her and glanced at her watch. The Black Swan would have finished the first tour of the day.
He was probably on his way to the bar for lunch before the second tour.
Abby quickened her pace. The show was over; she wanted out of Missy Tweed’s voluminous gown and into her own clothing—and she especially wanted her Glock.
She walked into the tavern. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light.
Grant and Macy were at the host stand, talking. She assumed Grant had come in to make sure that their return to the Saturday-morning theatrical events went smoothly.
But, as she watched, Grant gave Macy a kiss on the cheek. Macy walked over to the bar where Bootsie and Dirk were now seated together. She sat down next to Dirk and let out a sigh.
“How was the show?” she asked.
“It went very well,” Bootsie said. “Very well. You and Grant are keeping everything moving along. Gus would be pleased.”
“I’m relieved.” Macy shrugged. “Why I thought anything would be different...I don’t know.” She sighed again. “I miss Gus.”
Abby hurried over to where Macy was sitting. “We all miss him,” she said.
“Oh, Abby! I didn’t see you there.” Macy turned, touching Abby’s arm. “I’m sorry—I mean we all miss Gus, but he was your grandfather. We don’t have the same right to miss him that you do.”
Abby smiled at that. “Macy, you were just as much family. Miss him all you like—and I’m grateful that you do!”
“I wish you were staying around, Abby,” Sullivan said.
“You don’t need me,” Abby assured him.
Grant came striding over, watching the host stand as he did, but grinning. “We have to let her move on, you know!” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I think love is in the air.”
