Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

With minutes to spare, I checked the blog for contact information. No phone number, just a gmail address. I went into my email and quickly shot off a message, expressing an interest in talking to someone at FPL about Bower Farms, and Marshall Bower and family, in particular. If Bower had the kind of clout that could end up railroading my best friend into pleading guilty to something she didn’t do, I intended to find the guy’s Achilles’ heel.

In the meantime, I’d learn what I could on my own.

With address and map in hand, I went off in search of Bower Farms.

*****

Thirty minutes later, I was cooling my heels in the reception area decorated in soothing shades of red, yellow, black, and white. Soothing, that is, if you enjoy that particular riot of colors. Bower, for reasons known only to him and against all better judgment, had chosen to emphasize his loyalty to Maryland by doing up his office in the colors of the state’s flag. A bit jarring to the eye and unlikely to win any awards from Interior Design Magazine.

Bower’s receptionist, Gwen, a woman who looked to be in her early sixties with blonde hair piled high in a do that was (in an odd coincidence of sorts) fashionable during the early ’60s, had told me Mr. Bower had a full schedule and was on a conference call at that time, but he might be able to “squeeze” me in if I waited. While waiting to be squeezed, I selected a magazine from the array on the ebony coffee table. Poultry Today. And the latest issue, too. How lucky can a girl get?

I was perusing one of the front-section department items (“Chicken Feed”—a gossip column for poultry farmers, if you can believe that), when I overheard

Gwen say, “Oh, yes. All right.” She paused and nodded with vigor, perhaps attempting to make the movement visible through the phone. “I understand. Yes. Okay. I’ll tell her.”

She placed the receiver in the cradle as gently as a jeweler placing a Faberge egg in a packing carton.

I leaned forward and bared my teeth in what I hoped resembled a winning smile. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear. Tell me what?”

Gwen’s gaze flicked briefly to the desk blotter, then the wall over my shoulder, as if she were searching for the answer somewhere in the gaudy room.

“Let me guess. Mr. Bower won’t be able to squeeze me in?”

“I … I’m afraid not.” Gwen gave me a beseeching look.

“Perhaps I could schedule another time to meet him?”

“Well …” Her face contorted and she bit her lip. This was not looking good. “That may be complicated.”

I took a deep breath. “Why is that?”

“Mr. Bower says he wants to have his lawyer present if he talks to you. I’d need to coordinate his schedule, as well.” She sounded as perplexed as she looked. I felt almost the same. Almost.

I closed the magazine and, grinning with all I had, rose and said, “Tell you what. I’ll call you later to set something up, okay? By the way, this is really great reading. Do you mind if I take it with me?”

*****

As I left Bower Farms’ paean to all things Maryland, I reached a stunningly obvious conclusion: this is a small community. People talk to each other. They already know who I am and what I’m doing. It’s going to be really hard to get any useful information from anyone. That’s why Conroy was hired. Duh!

By heading directly for Marshall Bower, I had in effect thrown myself at a brick wall. Of course, I hadn’t thought that a man who wasn’t accused of anything would lawyer up. What was that all about?

When I returned to the motel, I found a note from Jamila saying she’d gone to the beach to relax and try to forget. After a quick call to her cell phone (which she’d turned off or wasn’t answering), I left a message about needing to use her laptop to do some research. Not waiting for a yea or nay on this issue, I took the laptop to the nearest coffee shop with Wi-Fi. I tried looking into Billy Ray Wesley’s background, seeking anything that would point to another person or thing I could investigate about the man. Scanning the local news items, I ran across a really interesting tidbit.

About four months ago, the local paper had announced that Billy Ray was engaged to a Danielle Beranski. Danni, I thought. The quiet one who had hung back while the others followed their leader to the car after that first encounter.

The engagement must have been called off, since Danni was “no longer his girl,” as I recalled. So, what was she doing hanging out with the guy? Maybe they’d decided to part as friends. Or maybe there was more to Danni than met the eye. Either way, she seemed like an excellent source of dirt on good old Billy Ray.

I looked up D. Beranski and found a local address and phone. After pinpointing her location on a map, I called the number (using *67 to shield my own) and got voice mail delivered in the shy girl’s distinctly faltering tone. I disconnected without leaving a message and shut down the computer.

Surely, it wouldn’t be stepping on Ellis Conroy’s toes to have a short talk with Danni Beranski.

CHAPTER TEN

Danni Beranski lived in an old Victorian in Berlin (pronounced BER-lin, emphasis on the first syllable, unlike the German namesake), a small town only a few minutes drive from Ocean City. Its gingerbread brown with yellow trim had faded a bit with time and weather, but a realtor could still call it “quaint,” as opposed to a “fabulous fixer-upper.”

Climbing the creaky porch steps, I rang the doorbell and practiced smiling.

Eventually, a blonde woman in jeans and an oversized T-shirt opened up. She could have been Danni’s mother, although she looked young for that.