Becky declined to give me a fake press pass for the press conference, which was being held in the community room at the police department, so I had to settle for going to Bean for coffee and watching it on my phone with JJ. Val was still mad at me for throwing Ava-Rose under the bus. I knew that Grandpa and I both knew we had bigger things to talk about than Ava-Rose and that he really wasn’t that concerned about her attempts at detective work, but I hadn’t bothered explaining that to my sister. She got kind of wrapped up in her own stuff and tended not to see anything beyond it.
Aside from Val, Becky was busy doing newspaper things, Ethan was baking, and of course Lucas was still stuck at his conference on the mainland. We’d talked last night. He was hoping to get back on tomorrow’s afternoon ferry, but they still weren’t committing to running it. The storm hadn’t let up overnight. If anything, the winds had picked up even more. I wondered if the tapering off they’d predicted today was really going to happen.
But I’d braved the weather to get out of the house for a bit, and here I was sipping a mocha with an extra shot of espresso, eating an egg sandwich, and feeding pieces of smoked salmon to JJ, who sat under my chair, and tuning in to the local news station’s Facebook page waiting for the update. Impatient, I called Becky.
“I have some questions if your police reporter needs them,” I said when she answered.
“Really,” she said.
“Yeah. Like, if they haven’t arrested Thea Coleman, did they track her down for questioning about the whole hotel room debacle? Did they find any link between Drake and Holt?”
“Thanks, but I’m pretty sure my reporters can figure out what to ask on their own,” Becky said, sounding amused. “If not, I’m going to send them back to J-school. And if Drake hasn’t been identified as anything yet and if they’re still looking for the killer, we don’t want to tip off the rest of the reporters.”
“Good point,” I said.
“Yeah, well, that’s why I get paid the big bucks. I’ll call you later. It’s about to start.”
I jacked up the volume at the notification that the Daybreak Harbor PD was now live. Social media was pretty fabulous, if you asked me. I navigated to the page as Gil Smith, the first selectman of Daybreak Harbor, stepped up to the podium, which was flanked by the cop in charge of press, a guy named Lowman, on one side and Sergeant Ellory on the other. This was a Very Serious Matter here in town.
“Thank you all for coming,” Gil began, a somber look on his face. “As you all know, a visitor to our island died recently of unnatural causes. Lieutenant Lowman, our spokesman, and Sergeant Ellory, our lead on this case, are here to talk about some new developments.” He stepped back and Lowman took his place.
Lowman cleared his throat and glanced at his notes. “We have some new information on the Jason Holt case.” He paused for a moment as the buzz began making its way through the crowd, the air of impatience palpable even though the reporters were offscreen.
“We’ve determined that Mr. Holt, the author, was the victim of a hit-and-run. The autopsy determined that the force of the impact, though it did kill Mr. Holt, was not enough to propel his body the distance into the canal. Which meant he was moved there, in a likely attempt to cover up the death.” Another pause, possibly for dramatic effect.
“A rental car registered to Jason Holt was found abandoned in Fisherman’s Cove, with marks on it consistent with an impact of this nature,” Lowman continued. My eyes widened at this news. Fisherman’s Cove. Where we’d followed Thea Coleman last night. It was the farthest town from Daybreak Harbor, way out on the other side of the island. It was the least touristy of all five towns and the smallest populated. A lot of the local fishermen lived out there.
I almost knocked over my coffee cup trying to raise the volume. Someone had run the guy over with his own rental car? Who would’ve had access to it? Had he left the keys in it for his clandestine meeting with Drake and someone had jumped in and decided to kill him? Or had someone just tried to steal the car and he got in the way?
Was it related to Drake? Maybe he’d had someone on standby in case their meeting didn’t go right. But how would Drake know that the keys were in the car—if they were in the car?
I resisted the urge to text Becky and tell her to have her guy ask if the keys were in the car.
The reporters clamored at Lowman, anxiously awaiting their chance to ask questions.
But he ended it there. He didn’t refer to is as a murder, and he didn’t not refer to it as a murder. Which meant they probably still didn’t have a definite suspect in mind. Or maybe they did, but it was too early to tip their hand. “Sergeant Ellory, who’s in charge of the investigation, and I will take questions now,” Lowman announced.
Hands all over the room shot up as the reporters in the audience vied for first shot. Lowman pointed to one of them. I pressed the earbud farther into my ear so I could hear the question, which wasn’t very easy. I heard a mumble and something about what changed and murder.
“Whether or not this was an accident, the fact that the body was moved suggests there was a conscious attempt to cover up the death of Mr. Holt. Therefore, the charges would be different than manslaughter,” Lowman said.
“Do you have any suspects?” someone else with a louder voice shouted.
Ellory stepped up to the podium. “At this point, we have a person of interest we’re looking into,” he said. “Obviously, we won’t rest until we find the person responsible for this. We don’t stand for murder on our island.” It was his turn for a dramatic pause. “And we are committed to Daybreak Island being a safe place for residents and visitors alike.”
I rolled my eyes. If it was going to be a safe place for all residents—including the feline ones—they also needed to get rid of Thea Coleman, who I sincerely hoped was their person of interest. Sure, it was a little self-serving, but if we could solve two problems for the price of one, who could object to that?
The reporters tried to ask who the person was but got a “no comment” for their troubles. I wasn’t surprised. There were a couple of questions about the car and about motive, but the cops were basically done answering questions except for making the stale comments about the investigation being ongoing and that they’d be continually reporting any updates. No questions about the keys. I closed Facebook and drained the rest of my coffee while I thought about my next move. Which was supposed to be going to the market to get organic ingredients for some new recipes Ethan wanted to try.
It seemed like such a normal thing to do.
A shadow fell across my table. I glanced up to find Damian Shaw standing in front of me, holding two coffees and smiling.
“I saw you sitting here and you looked so engrossed in what you were doing I figured you could use more sustenance,” he said, sliding into the chair across from me and setting one of the cups down. “Hey, JJ,” he said, peering under the table. JJ squeaked back.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s much needed, actually. How are you doing? How’s the Lobstah Shack?”
Damian shrugged. “It’s not bad, actually. People still want seafood takeout. And the soups are flying out of the Crock-Pot for sure.”
“It’s that time of year.” I took a sip of my new coffee. I was probably on my way to an ulcer, but at least getting there would be tasty.
“So what are you up to?” Damian asked, leaning back in his chair. “Did you watch the press conference?”
“I did,” I said.
Damian nodded. “I listened to it on the radio on the way over. Crazy, right? You think they have anything to go on?”
“I hope so. I would think they have to at this point,” I said. “But it really is so weird. I wonder what the real story is with that guy, if someone did this on purpose or if it truly was an accident and someone panicked.”
“We’re all wondering that, honey,” the woman at the table next to us remarked.
We both turned to look at her. I recognized her from the group of friends Grandpa Leo and Grandma used to play cards with years ago. Helen, maybe? I gritted my teeth trying to remember. I hated looking rude in front of Grandpa’s friends.
“Hattie, honey.” The woman smiled at me. “It’s okay. It’s been years since I’ve seen ya. How’s your grandpa, anyway? He stopped coming around for card games lately. He’s probably chomping at the bit to get this dead guy sorted out, isn’t he,” she said, answering her own question before I could open my mouth. “I get it. Usually it’s the locals causing a ruckus amongst themselves this time a year, though you don’t see that many actual murders when everyone is drinking themselves into drunken stupors to pass the days. This guy had to have done something to make someone mad to get dumped in the channel that way. Poor sucker.” She shook her head somewhat unsympathetically. “People think this island is all fun and games, but winter brings out the beasts round here. And that storm’s coming—things like this always happen when somethin’s in the air, you know?”
I exchanged a glance with Damian. “So you think someone did this on purpose?” I asked Hattie. “That it wasn’t an accident and a cover-up?”
Hattie shrugged. “I think people have secrets. And men like that writer—the power of the pen and all that—make people awfully nervous if they don’t want those secrets coming out.” She rubbed her hands together a little too gleefully. “It’s like our very own season of Scandal.”