Sunset in Old Savannah Page 9

  “Elizabeth Kirby of Price Investigations. My partner and I work for Mrs. Doyle in another capacity, but right now she needs you. She’s being held at the Tybee Island police station.”

  “My expertise is tax law, with some experience in wills, trusts, and real estate acquisitions. I’m not a criminal lawyer. What has Mrs. Doyle been charged with?”

  “I don’t think anything yet, but she needs her lawyer to be present during questioning. If she needs a different type of lawyer down the road, you could arrange a replacement later.”

  “Do the police believe Evelyn had something to do with Lamar’s death?”

  “Look, Mr. Singleton, all questions will be answered in due time. Will you help her or not?” Beth’s voice rose in intensity and volume.

  “Very well. I’m on the other side of town, but I’ll go there now.”

  “Thank you so much,” Beth drawled sarcastically, but the man had already hung up.

  “We just crossed the Wilmington River. Should I head to the station?” Michael asked.

  “Let’s check out the crime scene before Singleton springs her from jail. Just when we thought we had a few days of vacation…”

  “Rude of Lamar to curtail our fun and games by getting shot.”

  “You know what I mean. Plus, I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “Someone wise once told me to let the evidence do the talking.”

  Beth rolled down the window as her bad feeling took root and began to grow. Although the security guard waved them into the complex with a friendly smile, whatever evidence might be in the Doyles’ backyard was off-limits to them. The entire property had been cordoned off with yellow tape—a barrier they weren’t allowed to cross. No matter how Beth pleaded or cajoled, their identification as Mississippi PIs carried no sway in Georgia. To kill time they listened to the radio and walked up and down the street as officers bustled around like ants. Finally, two more cops arrived in a late-model sedan. Beth knew by their suits and swagger that they were detectives. Who said Tybee was just a little island?

  When the male detective headed to the police van, the thirtysomething female marched straight to the Charger. “You two the PIs from Natchez?” she asked, extending her hand to Beth. “Detective Diane Rossi.”

  “I’m Beth Kirby, and this is Michael Preston. We’re also friends of Mrs. Doyle.”

  Beth’s description triggered a laugh as Rossi shook hands with Michael. “Yeah, I already know why Mrs. Doyle hired you. What I don’t understand is why you’re here.” The question sounded straightforward, not accusatory.

  Michael was quick to respond. “We’re still on Mrs. Doyle’s payroll for another week. So we’d like to find out who killed her husband.”

  A commotion erupted at the police barricade with the arrival of a television news van. The detective frowned at reporters pouring from the vehicle. “Sure doesn’t take them long when the victim happens to be rich.” She turned back to Beth and Michael. “Look, unlike many of my peers, I usually play nice with PIs as long as they follow the rules. But this is my case and my crime scene. I don’t want you near that house until the tape is down. Then if you think you can help, have at it.”

  “Thanks, Detective,” said Michael. “We offered assistance to both the Natchez PD and the FBI during our last investigation.”

  “Really? You don’t mind if I verify that? And how come you didn’t report shots fired here on Wednesday night?” Rossi aimed her question at Beth. “That certainly would have been helpful. Mrs. Doyle told you someone is trying to kill her, yet you don’t alert law enforcement?”

  “Our client was hysterical, distraught, and absolutely refused to let us call the police. She threatened to recant her story if we did. Because there were ongoing problems in the Doyle marriage, I figured it might have been a cry for attention.”

  “That she had shot the gun herself,” Michael added.

  “What gun would that be, Mr. Preston?”

  Beth held up a hand. “We saw no gun, Detective. The sound could have been a car backfiring or kids playing with firecrackers. Mrs. Doyle was down at the beach with a turbulent surf that night. When Mr. Doyle cut his business meeting short and came home Friday, Mrs. Doyle said they were able to resolve their differences.”

  “Their marital difficulties seem to be over now.” The detective gestured toward the house.

  “You can’t possibly think Evelyn Doyle did this.” Michael sounded like an afternoon talk show host. “She loved her husband.”

  “Ahhh, love. If my husband knew how many murders were committed in the name of love, he would be worried.”

  “What motive did she have?” asked Beth.

  Detective Rossi scowled. “Please don’t insult me. I know all about Lamar’s affair with a twenty-four-year-old. That could make a wife trigger-happy.”

  “Mrs. Doyle’s one desire was for them to reconcile.” Beth crossed her arms.

  “Maybe, but how come she didn’t call the police when she first found him?” Rossi pulled out her notebook. “Mrs. Doyle said she woke up around nine this morning. The log shows the 9-1-1 call coming in at 10:16. That’s approximately forty-five minutes. Then Mrs. Doyle took a shower before the paramedics arrived and washed her clothes. Who would do such things with her husband dead in an Adirondack chair?”

  Beth did her best to hide her reaction. “I’ll ask her that when I see her.”

  “Good idea. That information would be helpful. And be sure to stop at the station to turn over any evidence pertinent to the murder, unless you plan to interfere with an official investigation.” Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  Beth surely did not, not after charges had been brought against her in their last case. “We’ll make you a copy of our report, providing Mrs. Doyle grants permission. Where is our client, by the way?”

  Rossi glanced at her watch. “Still being processed. She should be on her way home in a few hours. We’re not charging her at this time, but she shouldn’t venture too far from Savannah, if you catch my drift. And if you’re really her friend? Tell her to hire a new lawyer. Singleton is the one who told us about Lamar’s affair, not that we wouldn’t have found out anyway.”

  When the detective turned to leave, Beth blocked her path. “Have you found the murder weapon yet?”

  “If we did, Mrs. Doyle would be in a cell waiting for bail to be set for capital murder. When you see her, ask her where her husband’s gun is—the one Lamar kept locked in his safe. That’s something else we learned from Alfred Singleton.” Rossi threw her head back and laughed. “If that lawyer keeps doing my job, I can put in for early retirement, and I’m not even forty.” She ducked under the tape and headed for the front door.

  “I could kick myself for mentioning the gun,” Michael muttered once Rossi was beyond earshot.

  Beth shrugged. “Don’t beat yourself up. Thanks to her lawyer, they already knew about it. Or they would have soon found out the same way you did.”

  “What a mistake to call Alfred Singleton. An entry-level public defender would better serve Mrs. Doyle. If we don’t get Singleton off the case, she will soon be doing twenty-five to life.”

  Beth climbed into the passenger seat without comment. Her silence didn’t go unnoticed.

  “What are you thinking, Beth? That Mrs. Doyle did it?”

  She stared at the cops and news reporters milling around the Doyles’ formerly pristine yard. “No way. She’s totally incapable of such violence.”

  “Like Rossi said, Mrs. Doyle had plenty of motivation in that stack of eight-by-ten glossies. Maybe their conversation on Friday didn’t go like she said it did. Maybe you and I were part of an elaborate smoke screen. And we fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Maybe if Mrs. Doyle couldn’t have the man she loved, then nobody would.”

  Beth shook her head. “That’s not love. That’s jealousy, control, anger, and vindictiveness. Mrs. Doyle is a patron of local artists, donates to environmental charities, and grows prizewinning orchids in he
r little greenhouse. There is no way she could creep up and shoot her husband in cold blood. But something hasn’t felt right since the night of the alleged shooting on the dunes. When I suggested a car had backfired, she said she knew what gunfire sounded like.”

  “So what? Everyone has heard gunfire on TV.”

  “Still, it’s not something my mother would say.”

  “Then we’ll put it on our list of things to ask her. Why don’t we go somewhere and come back in a couple hours? I am starving.” Michael turned the key, and his powerful engine roared to life.

  “That will give Mrs. Doyle a chance to recover from her ordeal before we question her. I want to look into her background to see if there’s anything else she’s not telling us.”

  “We’ll need to call Nate with a full update too. After the boss hears this story, he might want us off the case. I wonder if Mrs. Doyle’s offer of expense-paid sightseeing still stands.”

  Beth turned to face him. “Right now I’m convinced she’s innocent, but I want to make it crystal clear that I won’t be part of any murder cover-up.”

  “On that succinct point, you and I are in complete agreement.” As Michael drove slowly away, the crime scene faded from sight.

  Four hours later, after a lovely meal and walk on the beach, the partners returned to the Tybee beach house after verifying Mrs. Doyle was indeed in residence. The woman looked haggard when she opened the door, even though her incarceration was even shorter than Beth’s recent jail stay had been.

  “Good to see you, Beth, Michael. I hope it’s all right if I call you by your first names now.”

  “Of course, but we’re not sure how long we’ll be on your case.” Beth stepped across the threshold. “Since this is no longer a matter of spousal surveillance, the decision as to whether we can continue to work for you will be up to our boss.”

  “Goodness, I hope Mr. Price doesn’t need you back in Natchez. If price is a problem, I can increase your fee considerably.” Mrs. Doyle led them to the living room, her usual designer heels replaced by fuzzy slippers.

  “Money isn’t the issue, ma’am. As you mentioned, we’re from Natchez. We’re not only unfamiliar with the island, we’re not even from this state.”

  She crooked a brow. “I can supply good maps if you’re still getting lost.”

  Beth lowered herself to the love seat. “That’s not it. To be effective, private investigators need to work with local law enforcement. That’s especially true in a murder case. The Tybee Island police don’t know us. A Savannah PI might better serve you—someone who has already gained their trust as a professional. We’re fish out of water here.”

  The woman’s bloodshot eyes filled with tears. “Please don’t leave, Beth. I trust you and Michael. You’re not only discreet, you see things as they are and are unafraid to speak your mind. I’ve had my head buried in the sand too long.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Michael. “The first thing you should do is fire Mr. Singleton.”

  Couldn’t that have waited until later? Beth glared at Michael.

  Mrs. Doyle nodded. “I realized that when the police questioned me. I got the distinct impression Alfred thought I had… murdered Lamar.” She gripped the arms of her chair. “How could he think that? Lamar and I have socialized with him and Sybil for years.”

  “Shows how much we really know our friends,” said Beth. “If you like, we could contact the local bar association for a referral. They’ll recommend an experienced criminal attorney to take over for Singleton.”

  “Thank you so much. I’m not sure what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come back today. I’m so alone and so afraid I’ll say or do something else stupid. Please don’t go back to Mississippi. I beg you.”

  Unless Beth had been born yesterday, there was no faking the terror in the woman’s voice. She locked gazes with her partner. Without exchanging a word, Beth knew where Michael stood. “If it’s okay with our boss, we’ll stay, at least until we’re sure you’re in capable hands.”

  Michael stepped into the bad-cop role. “But we have some questions you need to answer truthfully, Mrs. Doyle.”

  “Of course,” she whispered, her chin trembling. “And I know what the first one is. On my honor as a Christian woman, I had nothing to do with my husband’s death.” She placed her hand over her heart.

  Evelyn Doyle didn’t so much as blink as Beth studied her. “Well, that’s the most important one, but we have others.”

  Mrs. Doyle expelled a pent-up breath. “Ask what you like. I have nothing to hide.”

  “According to Chatham County gun registrations, your late husband owned a thirty-eight-caliber Beretta.” Michael lifted his brows as though awaiting confirmation.

  “I wouldn’t know the caliber, but Lamar bought a gun for protection after he saw a frightening movie about home invasions. This stretch of beach is rather remote. Lamar kept the gun locked in the safe. But when he went out of town, I put it in a drawer in the bedside table.”

  “Do you know where that weapon is now?” Michael asked, glancing around the room as though it might suddenly materialize.

  “I don’t. After the police asked about a gun, I checked the drawer and the safe, and it’s not anywhere. It’s disappeared.”

  “On Wednesday, the night you heard shots on the beach, where was the gun then?” Beth asked.

  Mrs. Doyle tightened her cardigan around her shoulders. “When I got back to the house, I checked the drawer, and it was right where I left it.”

  Beth jumped to her feet. “Had it been fired?”

  “How on earth could I tell?”

  “By counting the number of shots in the clip, sniffing the barrel, or checking for residue in the chamber—any number of ways.”

  “I have no idea. The gun looked normal, but I didn’t pick it up. I’ve never fired the thing. To my knowledge, Lamar never had either.”

  “Not even at the firing range? Maybe in a class or a lesson?”

  “No, never.” Her complexion had grown waxy and pale and her speech labored. “I might have to lie down for a while. I’m not feeling well.”

  “I’ll get you a glass of water, ma’am. We only have a few more questions.” Michael left the room. Beth considered how best to phrase her next question. “The detective is curious why you waited so long to call 9-1-1.”

  “Was it a long time?” Mrs. Doyle shrugged. “I remember seeing Lamar in the chair and thinking he was asleep. Then I saw the blood and thought he’d taken his own life. I threw my arms around him.” With the scene replaying in her mind, Mrs. Doyle held out her arms and embraced the air. “I asked him how he could do such a thing. There was so much blood.”

  “What happened next, Mrs. Doyle?”

  Her face contorted in anguish. “Lamar was so cold that I knew he was gone. Paramedics…EMTs…no one could help him now. I just sat there, holding him and praying. I knew it would be the last chance I’d have.”

  Michael returned and handed her the glass. “Did you take a shower and change your clothes?”

  “Of course I did,” she said after a sip of water. “There was blood on my hands, on my face, even in my hair from holding him.” Grimacing, she touched each offending area. “How could I ride in the ambulance with Lamar like that? All I could smell was blood, so I took a shower and put on clean clothes.”

  “Where are those clothes now?” asked Beth.

  She paused a moment to consider. “The police took them from the washer and put them in a bag. I don’t know where they are now.”

  “Did you wash them before or after you called 9-1-1?”

  “I can’t remember. What difference does it make, Beth?” Mrs. Doyle’s voice turned shrill.

  “If you look suspicious, the police won’t search for the real killer,” said Michael, almost as agitated as the client.

  “All right, let me think. First, I took a quick shower.” Mrs. Doyle ticked off tasks on her fingers. “Then I called the police and got dressed. Before they arrive
d, I started the washer so my maid wouldn’t have to deal with set-in blood.” She sighed with great weariness.

  It was then that Beth realized their client wasn’t quite right. “Did you take anything? Maybe some kind of medication?”

  She stared blankly into space. “Only the Xanax prescribed by my doctor. I doubled the dosage since I felt a panic attack coming on.”

  “Before we leave, I’ll call your doctor. You might be suffering a delayed shock reaction. Don’t take any more pills until he or she examines you.”

  “Very well, if you think it best. I need to find his number for you.” Mrs. Doyle staggered into the hallway for her purse.

  Beth followed at her heels. “What about a close friend or family member? Someone really should be here with you.”

  The corners of Evelyn’s mouth turned down. “All I have is my sister in Atlanta.”

  “Get me her number, and I’ll make both calls.”

  “Thank you, Beth. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  It took Mrs. Doyle five minutes to locate her address book. Afterward, she staggered into her bedroom, collapsed on the bed, and fell asleep almost instantly.

  Beth drew the coverlet over her legs and turned off the lights. “Looks like we’re in charge of tracking down the sister and finding her a new attorney,” she said to Michael at the front door.

  “You call her doctor and the sister. I’ll try to find her a new lawyer.” He followed her out, locking the door behind them. “Plus I need to talk to Nate before we get ourselves in deeper with Mrs. Doyle.”

  “How could we abandon her now? Evelyn Doyle might be the stupidest woman in the world, but I’m convinced she didn’t do it.”

  “Then we’d better both hope Nate says yes.”

  TEN

  On the way back from Tybee, Beth and Michael stopped at the City Market to sightsee. Walking through two blocks of shops, restaurants, and art galleries let them feel like tourists for a couple of hours before returning to the real world—made all the more real by a murder. When Beth headed to her room, Michael went to his for an overdue phone conversation with Nate Price. Michael had a hard time conveying the story once he dropped the bombshell on the boss.