Chapter Eight

Bright white walls surrounded the metal table in the one and only interrogation room of the Olympus Bay Police Department. While the clean walls and lingering odor indicated a recent paint job, the rickety wooden chairs and 1990s-style tape recorder bespoke a department often short on funds.

Pruitt depressed the tape recorder button, reported the day and time, as well as the subject of the interview, Mr. Hal Jenkins. “Mr. Jenkins, you operate a food truck on the boardwalk, is this correct?”

“You saw me there. Hot Dog Hal, they call me.”

“Could you tell me where you were and what you were doing on Sunday, the first of June, between the hours of nine and ten a.m.?

“I was in my truck, prepping for opening time, which is ten a.m. Not many people are eating hot dogs at ten a.m., but there’s an occasional customer. The real influx is after eleven.”

“Then why arrive so early?”

Hal paused and a startled look swept over his face. “Location. The tourist area is small and there are lots of food trucks vying for space. If I arrived at ten-thirty, for instance, all the spots would be taken.”

“A competitive business.”

“All trade is competitive, Detective. I wouldn’t expect a public employee to understand. I have expenses to meet and product to sell. Same for every food truck. I don’t live off the public dime.”

Pruitt nodded in acknowledgment, and ignored the overt insult. The morning jostling for space at the beach was well known. He studied the man across the table. Hal’s hands rested on the table, cuticles well-tended and nails clipped short, hinting at a manicure. “You appear to be a stylish dresser. Most of the vendors wear shorts and T-shirts.”

Hal’s upper lip curled. “I’m an entrepreneur. You might think I just sling hot dogs for a living, but this is only the beginning. You watch, I’ll have a string of trucks one day.”

Pruitt gestured to Hal’s shirt. “I swear I saw that same polo on a mannequin in Hardy’s,” he said, mentioning an upscale men’s store in the downtown part of town. “I was shocked at the price tag. And your hair, very nice cut.”

“I get it, Detective. This is a shakedown, right? You want your piece of the pie.”

Riled by the suggestion, Pruitt leaned forward on the table, his voice low. “What I want, Hal, is to know why a man so careful about his appearance would go for a swim in the ocean right before his business opened for the day.”

The other man opened and shut his mouth. Through gritted teeth he offered, “No law against taking a swim.”

“You weren’t washing blood off, were you? Off your skin and hair. It probably didn’t come off your clothes, did it? But a man like you would have a change of clothes on stand-by in your truck, in case of an errant catsup stain.”

Hal straightened in his chair. “Am I charged with something? I’d like an attorney.”

Water facts shuffled unbidden through Pruitt’s mind. Water can dissolve more substances than any other liquid, including sulfuric acid. Ninety-seven percent of the Earth’s water is saline, up to three-quarters of a human’s weight is water.

An ability for total recall had made school a breeze and trivia games a snap. But on occasion, odd facts interrupted his focus. Like a lot of trivia, these details weren’t useful.

The door opened and an officer poked his head in and gestured to Pruitt. “We need you out here for a moment, sir.”

The angry voice of a woman rose behind the officer. “You have the wrong person. The mayor will hear about this. Every minute I’m here, I’m losing business.”

Pruitt switched off the tape recorder and rose. “You’ll need to excuse me for a moment.”

Hal huffed a breath of annoyance, but his gaze focused on the doorway.

In the corridor Mims stood clad in a hot pink sundress and matching flip-flops, hands set firmly on her wide hips. He frowned at the other officer. “What’s all this?”

The officer threw back his shoulders. “We got a call about a knife washed up on the beach. The type a chef would use. This woman here,” he pointed at Mims, “identified it as belonging to her. Sir, I do believe this is the murder weapon, thrown in the ocean after the crime.”

Pruitt frowned and wondered how he could have been so wrong. But the woman just stood there, unabashed, and didn’t deny owning the knife at all. “You confirm this is your knife?”

“Yes,” she said, “I already told this officer it is. And I’d like it back too, please. That’s a very expensive knife, one my husband uses all the time. I have no idea what it was doing out on the beach.”

He nodded to the other officer. “Let’s get it tested and see if we can pull any prints or bloodstains.” The rough tumbling of the surf could have washed the knife clean, but the woman didn’t need to know this.

There was only one interrogation room and he couldn’t very well question the woman in the corridor.

“Sir, shall I read this woman her rights?” The other officer’s expression was hopeful. A murder conviction would raise the officer’s profile in the department and set him up for a promotion to detective.

Mims glared at the man. “You’re not pinning this murder on me. I’m only here to get my knife back.”

Pruitt stepped forward between the two. “Officer Caine, could you let Mr. Jenkins know I’ll be a few more minutes. Then tell the lab we need a rush on the knife. I’ll take over with this witness.”

“Witness?” Caine sputtered before Pruitt put a hand up to stop him from saying more.

“Come with me, Ma’am,” he said to Mims, and led her to his desk in the broad open space where all the officers worked.

Once settled in a chair, the woman compressed her lips. “How long is this going to take? I can’t leave my husband to do everything himself. He’s not a multi-tasker. He’ll muck everything up and I’ll have a mess to clean up when I get back.”

This was a quandary. He had a man in custody who a dog identified, and a woman in front of him who admitted to owning what appeared to be the murder weapon. Logic told him Mims should be in the interrogation room, not Hal. Instinct, however, kept him in his seat.

“Just a few questions, if you don’t mind. We’ll get you back to your business just as soon as possible.”

She straightened in her chair. “Ask away. Let’s get this over with.”

“You’re absolutely certain the knife found on the beach is yours?”

“Yes, my husband etches his initials into the handle so we can identify our tools. You can’t be too careful around other chefs. The knife the officer showed me has my husband’s initials.”

Could he have overlooked a suspect, this woman’s husband? Impatient with himself, he tossed a lock of hair out of his eyes. Maybe he needed an appointment at Hal’s salon; time for a good trim. “Do you have any idea how your knife ended up in the water?”

A trace of uncertainty crept into her eyes. She compressed her lips again. “No.”

“Mims, if you know something, you should speak up now.”

She murmured, almost as if to herself. “The murder was a terrible business.”

“Your husband—did he leave the truck the morning the man was killed?”

Her eyes widened and her face reddened. “Are you accusing him of murder? Why, he wouldn’t hurt a flea.” Her voice rose an octave. “He didn’t do it, he never left my side that morning. It must have been…I can’t believe…but—” Her voice trailed off and she twisted her hands in her lap before meeting Pruitt’s gaze. “We loaned the knife to Hal last month. My husband didn’t want to ask for it back; he said good friends always return what they borrowed.”

Electricity surged through him. “Hal had the knife, the same one washed up on the beach?”

Her shoulders slumped and she nodded. “We’ve known him for years. It’s impossible.”

Pruitt recalled other murders he had worked, where family and friends couldn’t believe the perpetrator capable of such a crime. “I’m afraid it’s very likely indeed,” he said softly.

****

Mark’s broad shoulder rested next to Rosella’s, his male heat blending with hers. Although the day was warm, she didn’t shift away. In the distance, Poseidon rose from the water’s edge, his stone eyes focused on her. For once, those carved abs didn’t stir feelings of longing for the cold embrace of the sea god. In contrast, she was exactly where she wanted to be.

“Tell me how you broke Hal and got him to confess,” she asked, letting her knee bump his.

“We were lucky the knife’s shaft was metal which is where we found a decent fingerprint. Salt water degrades prints quicker than fresh water, but the knife hadn’t been in the ocean very long. Hal didn’t know the fingerprint probably wouldn’t have held up in court because it had already started to degrade. A good defense attorney could have attacked us on that point.”

She met his gaze and absently nudged that wayward lock of hair out of his eyes. “But Hal didn’t know that.”

Mark grasped her hand and entwined their fingers. “I told him we had his fingerprint on the murder weapon and he started sputtering and contradicting his earlier story. First he denied even having borrowed the knife. Then, he said he never went for a swim that morning. Finally, he said Mick cost him thousands of dollars in sales and needed to be dealt with.” He gripped her fingers a little more tightly. “I believe he would have harmed you next.”

Aphrodite nuzzled her other hand and she rubbed the dog’s silky ears. “Poor Mick, all over a parking space. He just wanted to help and do something nice for me. It cost him his life. I feel so guilty.”

“You’re guilty of nothing.”

A pleasant buzz of nearby conversation and laughter wrapped around her. Her pink and cream truck with its striped indigo awning stood before her, in its usual parking spot. She’d scripted the flavor of the day, Sea-Salt Lavender for Aphrodite, on the new chalkboard Mark delivered the morning after Hal’s arrest. Under the flavor were the words: Lactose-free. Above, another not-quite-right name: Sweet Bliss.

“Crab cakes?”

Warmth traveled through her. “I’d love some. One for Aphrodite too, please, if you don’t mind.”

Pruitt chuckled and scratched the dog’s neck. “Do you care if I stroll her down the beach a bit? My shepherd passed away last year and I miss having a furry friend. I’ll pick up our lunch on the way back.”

He stood, but didn’t shift away or release her hand. He cleared his throat. “I’m not a bad cook myself. I could make dinner for you sometime, at my place.”

She had no answer except one: “I’d love to. Friday?” Her stomach did a flip flop at the smile that spread across his face.

He let go of her hand and gazed down at the poodle. “Make sure you bring Aphrodite, too.”

“Of course. We’re a team now.”

Two white-haired women appearing to be sisters in their similar features, hairstyles and dress, strolled up. Rosella climbed into the truck to tend to her customers. Mark and Aphrodite followed her a few steps and still he didn’t leave, as though a tether fastened the three of them together.

The women studied the chalkboard menu and consulted each other before ordering. “I’d like a scoop of sea-salt lavender,” the woman who appeared to be slightly younger said.

“Make it two, but I’ll have a double-scoop,” the other woman said. “Best ice cream I’ve ever had.”

Rosella traded glances with Mark as she served the women. “I’ll carry the flavor all summer, as long as my lavender supply holds up.”

“The nice thing about lavender is it can bloom forever,” Mark called out, Aphrodite sitting prettily at his side.

Their gazes locked, his warm brown eyes promising even more than his words. Any reply caught in her throat. Oh boy, her life was definitely headed for complications.

Her past had already been full of twists and turns. Whatever the struggles, they all transported her to this moment, on a sunny boardwalk with a man who put her stomach in knots, and a new furry friend. Was she ready for this? The sun warmed her shoulders, the waves crashed against the shore, and still she couldn’t glance away.

The older woman’s chuckle broke the spell. “We’d better go and let these love birds get back to business.” She dropped an extra dollar on the counter as a tip.

“Oh, to be young again,” the other woman said as they strode away.

Rosella descended from the truck and, using a napkin, erased the name from the board. With a piece of pink chalk, she rendered a new name in decorative script, taking time to sketch baroque curlicues on the first and last letters of each word. In the top right corner of the sign, she drew a sprig of lavender.

Pruitt stood at her shoulder as she straightened, chalk in hand, to study the newest name of her business: “Sweet Complications.”

His voice was very close to her ear. “This looks promising.”

“I have a pretty good feeling about it.” Her lips curved into a smile. So much about this moment felt completely right—this seaside business, the warm summer day and, most of all, the man at her side.

Seagulls called overhead, and Aphrodite rose in one graceful movement to eye the greedy birds. A perfect day indeed.