A killer app, p.10
A Killer App, page 10
Try as I might, I can’t force my jaw to unclench and fake a smile. Can’t believe this introduction is some crazy coincidence. How did I end up on this snoop’s radar?
Better let them in. See what I can find out.
“I’m very pressed for time,” I say. “But you’re welcome to come in for a minute.”
I lead the pair into the living room. A space I haven’t set foot in for at least a month. They take seats on opposite ends of the sofa. I perch on the edge of a club chair across the way.
“My perspective is probably no surprise,” I begin. “I do own and rent two Rand Creek condos. Naturally, I oppose any covenant change. While I inherited the first unit, I bought the second as an investment property. Certainly, if any change is contemplated, owners like me who purchased investment properties in good faith must be grandfathered.”
The snoop doesn’t take her eyes off me. Looking for some tell?
“Have you spoken with Andrew Fyke about the petition he’s circulating?” she asks.
“Andrew Fyke?” I tilt my head, mimicking how I think I’d react if I heard a name that’s familiar but can’t be placed. “Oh, yes, I’ve never met the man, but I did hear he was trying to get names on some sort of petition.”
Don’t overdo it. Just act unconcerned.
I scoot forward in my chair, preparing to stand. “Afraid I can’t provide insights about how other Rand Creek owners feel about rentals. Since I don’t live there, I haven’t met many residents.”
The snoop and the chef don’t shift their butts a single millimeter. Can’t they take a hint?
“Mr. Fyke had a nasty fall the other day,” the snoop adds.
Good grief, the woman acts like I’ve invited her to spend the afternoon.
“But the gentleman’s recuperating,” she continues. “From what I hear, Mr. Fyke’s friends plan to continue his petition effort. Since the rental debate won’t vanish any time soon, you may want to contact the board to make sure your opinion is heard.”
Does she expect me to sob or have a tizzy fit?
“Sound advice. However, I’m afraid I have more pressing concerns. I’m immersed in a software development project that requires my full attention.”
“Oh, what kind of software project?”
“Artificial Intelligence—AI. A new app.” I hope my sharp tone and clipped reply will communicate that my visitors have overstayed what little welcome they had.
“AI…Are you working on one of those chatbots that can carry on conversations with users?” the chef asks. “I heard it won’t be long before I can look in my refrigerator, list the ingredients nearing their expiration dates, and ask for a recipe to incorporate them.
“Is that right? Would it suggest tried-and-true recipes or try to invent one. Can’t imagine—”
I clear my throat to cut him off and simultaneously study my watch. Not about to swap recipes with chubby Mr. Ed. I almost smile, remembering a re-run of an old television show that featured a Mr. Ed, a talking horse. Horse…ass—close enough.
I stand. “Sorry, but I am pressed for time. Hope you understand.”
“Well, thank you for seeing us,” the snoop says.
I don’t reply, just usher my two unwanted pests out the door and close it firmly the minute their butts cross the threshold.
Need to give this nuisance visit some thought.
Wonder if I can convince J.T. to confess and commit suicide?
A succinct note in J.T.’s handwriting admitting she attacked Fyke would nicely tie up all the loose ends. If her note says she pushed Andy because he’s a perv, it would end the feverish online speculation that Fyke’s fall had something to do with his proposed rental ban. The gossip could then switch to Fyke. Is he really a perv? How did J.T. find out?
Is it harder to convince someone to do themselves in than it is to coax them to off another human? This could prove to be an interesting experiment.
Yet I shouldn’t put all my eggs in a J.T. confession basket. Kylee Kane deserves some research. I have no doubt I can find ways to ensure she’s far too busy to poke her nose in my affairs.
I smile. Based on her bruised face, it appears I’m not the only one who thinks she should mind her own business.
Hullis Island is one of Welch HOA Management’s clients. Since I own two rentals on the island, I received a notice about Sunday’s hastily-called owners’ meeting. Based on the social media hysteria surrounding some idiotic rules about outdoor decorations, the gathering promises to be contentious.
Wonder how well the snoop and her employer handle adversity. I definitely plan to attend. If nothing else, it should give me ideas about ways to stir the pot and keep Kylee’s feet to the fire.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Kylee
Saturday afternoon, July 1
“Well, Kylee, what’s your read?” Ed asks. “Is my neighbor, Dr. Holder, just rude or is she pretending indifference and ignorance in regard to Mr. Fyke and his quest to nix rentals.”
I chuckle. “My guess is the latter. While I never went to a private girls’ school, Dr. Holder’s looks made me want to squirm like a student who’s been sent to see the headmistress. That is assuming the headmistress never smiles and enjoys rapping knuckles with a ruler.
“Not what I expected,” I add. “She’s not unattractive. Or at least she wouldn’t be, if she lost the glare, and didn’t look as if she were grinding her teeth behind those thin, sealed lips. She’s not afraid to spend money on herself. Those blonde streaks in her dark hair aren’t from the sun, and I’ll bet her contact lenses are tinted to make her eyes that unusual emerald green.”
Ed laughs. “She definitely works out, lifts weights,” he adds. “Maybe she wrestles under the name Amanda the Anaconda. If she wrapped those arms around my neck, she could choke me out before I could squeal ‘I give.’”
Ed and I seem to have launched a competition for who can best diss the doc. “Her nose is a little big, but maybe I think so because she looked down it the whole time she talked with us.”
Ed laughs. “Together, we’ve painted her to a tee. Attractive face, ugly personality, and arrogant as all get out. Wonder why Dr. Holder didn’t want to share more about her software development project. Most people love to brag about their accomplishments. D’you suppose she thinks we’re secret agents for a rival software developer?”
“Doubt that. More like she decided we’re too dumb to understand. And I certainly didn’t buy her ‘gee, who’s that’ act when I mentioned Andy Fyke. She knows exactly who he is. Fyke filed a complaint about her renters, and he’s leading the effort to end rentals. Dr. Holder may be a computer genius, just like her mother boasted, but the professor’s no actress. Bet she scared the crap out of her students.”
“That’s a safe bet. If I were a kid, I’d run from her class like a scalded cat,” Ed comments as we reach his front yard.
“Come inside, and I’ll treat you to lunch. At least, I hope my new recipe is a treat. We’ll know in five minutes. That’s when it’s due out of the oven. I’m always happy to have unbiased testers.”
“Ed, there’s nothing I’d rather do. Your creations are spectacular, but I promised Andy Fyke I’d pop in the hospital to deliver a computer tablet. Robin texted she has one all set for delivery. I need to swing by the office and pick it up. With Andy’s broken jaw and atrocious handwriting, he needs help pronto. Of course, playing delivery gal will give me a chance to ask Andy about his dealings with Dr. Holder.”
Ed pulls a sad face. “Guess I’ll have to lunch alone and rely on the missus for a recipe appraisal when she comes home from the pool. Let me know when you and Ted are free for dinner. Would love to have you over to meet the family. We plan to be here for two weeks.”
“Can’t imagine anyone turning down an invitation to dine with the star of the Eats with Ed TV show. I’ll check when Ted’s available. Promise.”
* * *
The entrance to Beaufort Memorial Hospital is quieter than I expect on a holiday weekend. There are plenty of convenient parking spots and no ambulances queued to drop off ER patients. While the Fourth of July holiday isn’t until Tuesday, Lowcountry vacationers tend to arrive early and start setting off fireworks as soon as they unpack. While many beach communities ban fireworks, it’s legal to sell them throughout the state. I’m sure this hospital plans for the inevitable accidental burn cases.
The mid-summer celebration always puts the Coast Guard on high alert, too. Heavy boat traffic, inebriated skippers, and overconfident swimmers combine to ensure a heavy volume of calls for rescues and boat accident investigations.
Since I know Andy’s room number, there’s no need to stop at the reception area. This call is well within normal visiting hours.
Walking down the hall, I can tell the door to Andy’s room is open. Oh, but he has company. Sherry LeRoy hunches over to study a clipboard in the patient’s hands.
“Sorry, Andy, I just can’t make out your writing,” Sherry says.
“Sounds like I arrived in the nick of time.”
I announce myself and hold up my gift. “Andy, I’ve got your loaner tablet, and our computer expert promises it’s super simple to use. It’ll let you type whatever you want to communicate.”
“Oh, Kylee, thanks for coming.” Sherry smiles. “It’s really nice of you to provide a loaner.”
That’s when Sherry’s smile slides into a grimace. She’s noticed the damage to my face.
“It looks worse than it feels,” I say. “Hey, I’m the victor. I successfully broke up a fight between two over-stimulated female combatants. Nothing to worry about.”
Turning my attention to Andy, I give him a cheerful smile. Can’t tell if he’s glad to see me or not. Facial expressions are tough to interpret when a man has his jaws wired shut.
“Did you hear about that dreadful boat accident this morning?” Sherry asks. “The one that killed Steph Cloyd. It’s really upset Andy and me. We both volunteer with FACE, and Steph was a real champion for the environment.”
“I heard the news report,” I answer. “A terrible waste.”
I quickly change the subject. Don’t want to give Sherry any hint I’ve been asked to poke around and see if Steph’s death is something more sinister and tragic than an accident.
I offer Andy a few simple instructions on using the tablet. Once he’s typed a few lines, I casually mention that I happened to run into another Rand Creek property owner this morning—a Dr. Holder.
Andy’s reaction is immediate. His fingers practically punch through the tablet screen as he types. “THAT WITCH! I’LL STOP HER IF IT’S LAST THING I DO!”
Sherry pats Andy’s arm. “Now, don’t upset yourself. I’ll give Kylee the lowdown on the foul doctor. Thank heavens she’s a PhD and not a medical doctor, or none of us would be safe.”
For the next five minutes, Sherry unloads nonstop about Dr. Holder. Here are the nuggets that stick in my brain. The bridge players’ gossip is accurate. After Andy complained about Dr. Holder’s renters damaging common property, the doc retaliated, calling Andy senile and suggesting he actually might have been responsible. While it’s true Dr. Holder and Andy have never met face-to-face or communicated one-on-one, Dr. Holder absolutely knows who Andy is. No need to wrack her brain to place him.
Why did she bother to pretend when it’s so easy to check the history?
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kylee
Saturday afternoon, July 1
I grab a takeout burger and fries at the nearest fast-food joint and call Donna while I’m wolfing down the meal in the parking lot.
“I should be at Satin Sands in thirty minutes,” I tell her.
To forestall the shock that seems standard when friends first see my fresh bruises and eye-catching scratch, I give Donna an advance warning and assure her it’s really nothing.
After she commiserates, the Satin Sands president instructs me to meet her at a beach launch area favored by the coastal rowers.
“Since Satin Sands doesn’t have a gate, we attract a lot of coastal rowers,” she explains. “This afternoon, members of Steph’s rowing club and FACE friends are building a beachside tribute with shells and flowers. I want you to talk with Chad Norton, one of Steph’s friends. He can fill you in on Steph’s history with Bubba Quarles.”
It takes a few minutes to find a parking spot near the beach. Along the shore, dozens of men and women wearing swimsuits and shorts have built a mountain of flowers. Given Donna’s five-foot-one height, I worry about spotting her in the swarm. Good thing she has fiery red hair.
“Kylee, I’m over here,” Donna hollers and motions for me to join her. “Been watching for you.”
My friend hugs me. While an impish grin usually creases Donna’s freckled face, there’s no hint of a smile today. The tracks of recent tears mark her plump cheeks.
As soon as Donna releases me, she introduces the tall, lanky man towering over her. “Kylee Kane, meet Chad Norton, Steph Cloyd’s best friend and rowing buddy.”
A ball cap shades the top half of Chad’s tanned face. Can’t tell whether his light eyes are gray, green, or blue. Whatever the color, his swollen eyelids attest to recent tears.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
As I voice my condolences—a phrase I’ve repeated far too many times—I feel the inadequacy of the words.
Chad dips his head in acknowledgment. “It’s too late to save Steph. But I’m determined Bubba Quarles will pay for my friend’s murder. His death can’t be called anything else.”
Surprised, I frown. “Has Quarles been positively identified as the hit-and-run boater? Did he turn himself in?”
Hadn’t heard any updates on the radio.
“No,” Chad admits. “But I know it’s Bubba. Steph had a run-in with that raving lunatic four weeks ago. Bubba’s boat came screaming around a bend and capsized Steph. The redneck’s got a four-hundred-horsepower motor mounted on the back of a fishing boat that probably cost three times more than the rusting trailer he calls home.
“What did Bubba do when Steph went in the water? He drove his boat in circles around him. Creating waves and chop to prevent Steph from righting his shell. Whole time, Bubba was laughing hysterically. Yelled, ‘Come and get it, gators! Fancy pants on the menu.’”
Chad shakes his head. “Steph reported Bubba, but since he had no evidence to corroborate his story, the guy only got a warning.”
“I understand why you suspect Bubba,” I reply. “Yet, from my Coast Guard days, I can safely say he isn’t the only careless showboater gunning a fishing boat in these narrow inlets.”
Chad sighs. “You’re right. Believe me, as a rower, I’ve run into plenty of idiots with a hundred times more horsepower than brain cells. But, just last week, Bubba threatened Steph again. Told him his days were numbered for snitching and reporting him for fire violations. Said he’d add Steph with the other trash to his next burn pile. Just waiting for the right opportunity.”
“Did Steph report the threat to the Sheriff’s Department?” I ask.
Chad takes off his cap and runs his fingers through his hair. “No, given what happened the last time, he didn’t see the point. But Steph told me, because he wanted someone to know about the threat in case anything happened to him.
“I told all of this to a deputy this morning. He discounted it. Said people posture and make threats all the time to scare people. Doesn’t mean they ever plan to act on them.”
Sounds like Deputy Do-Wrong, aka Nick Ibsen. Judging others by his own bluster. Can’t believe I ever dated the man, no matter how briefly.
“Chad, I’m sure the authorities will pay Quarles a visit and look for damage to his boat.”
“Lot of good that’ll do,” Chad replies. “I know where Bubba lives. So, another rower and I went to check out his dock. His motorboat is gone, nowhere to be seen. An inflatable dinghy is tied to the dock where the motorboat normally sits.
“Bubba was sitting on his dock, a shotgun in his lap. As soon as he spotted us, he raised the gun and started yelling obscenities. Told us to get the hell away, that the water near his dock was private property. Private, my ass. These tributaries are all public property.”
“What do you think happened to the boat? The authorities should be able to get a warrant.”
“Maybe they will, maybe they won’t,” Chad answers. “My guess is the boat was damaged in the crash, and Bubba stashed it somewhere for the time being. If deputies come by, he’ll claim the boat sunk or some bull crap. Once again, no one will be able to prove otherwise.”
“Not necessarily,” I say. “I checked with Coast Guard friends this morning. They didn’t have satellite imagery of the area at the time of the crash, but it’s possible future fly-overs can locate the boat.”
I pause. “You seem certain Bubba planned the attack. That it wasn’t a chance meeting. How would Bubba know where and when to stage it?”
“Nobody’s more predictable than Steph. Barring bad weather, he rowed out every morning. Followed the same course every day, starting at dawn. Liked to get his exercise in before any possible interruptions.
“Can you help?” Chad’s fingers twist the ball cap in his hand. “Donna says you’ve helped solve crimes before when nobody with a badge seemed to care.”
“I’ll do what I can,” I say, “but, as you note, I don’t have a badge. That severely limits my investigative options. However, what I do have are a number of talented friends and dogged determination. How can I reach you if I have more questions?”
I tuck Chad’s business card in my pocket, and he returns to the group, mourning Steph’s death and sharing memories of better days.
Donna walks me to my car. “Thanks, Kylee. Couldn’t let this drop, knowing how Nick Ibsen’s biases can distort investigations. But I realize you aren’t eager to start a turf battle with the Sheriff’s Office. If you find evidence, I’ll be happy to act as a go-between.”
