The Labor Day Murder Read online

  “And did he?”

  “He owned up. And he paid a little something, not as much as they agreed to.”

  “Then the girl had an abortion.”

  “It was the only way.”

  I didn’t argue. “And the father still carries a grudge.”

  “Do you blame him?”

  “I don’t. I’m just thinking about where grudges lead.”

  “Not to murder, at least not in this case. My friend sold his house in Blue Harbor and moved to another town on Fire Island. He’d been planning to do it anyway and this gave him the impetus. His daughter is now happily married and it’s all behind them.”

  It sounded like a neat wrapping-up of a sordid affair. “When did this happen?” I asked.

  “Oh, must be four years by now. Maybe five. I haven’t kept track.”

  “Do you know the Buckleys, Al?”

  “I know a lot of people. We’re certainly not friends.”

  “I understand that. I just wondered if you had any insight on why Eve has stayed with Ken all these years.”

  “The simplest answer is, she got something from the marriage. They have two nice kids, a beautiful house somewhere, and Ken made a lot of money. Maybe those are three reasons.”

  “Maybe.”

  We both stopped walking at the same moment. We had left Blue Harbor and crossed into the beach of the next town. We turned away from where the sun had set and started walking back.

  “There’s something else,” Al said. “I heard Eve and Ken had decided to try to turn their marriage around.”

  “You mean Ken had decided.”

  “And Eve agreed to work on it. There was someone he was interested in at the beginning of the summer, a young, dark-haired lawyer. Good-looking woman. There are several stories making the rounds, but the one I heard was that he told her he was going back to his wife and she left Fire Island and hasn’t been seen since.”

  I didn’t think a dark-haired lawyer in her thirties could be mistaken for Tina Frisch. But before I could say anything, Al stopped and looked up at the dune. An almost invisible figure sat up there, the tip of a cigarette glowing.

  “Evening, Chief,” Al called.

  “Who’s that?” a familiar voice called back.

  “Al Jorgensen. Walking with Chris Brooks.”

  “Nice to see you. Have a good evening, folks.”

  We waved and sent our greetings and then I said, “Is that Chief La Coste?”

  “One and the same. He sits out there every night, smokes a cigarette—or two—and contemplates the eternal verities.”

  I smiled. I had seen the glow on the dune one night last week when I took a stroll along the beach.

  “We were talking about the beautiful young lawyer,” Al said.

  “And that Ken had gone back to his wife. Then someone shoots him. It doesn’t sound as though his wife did it.”

  “His wife? You didn’t think Eve could have done this, did you?”

  “I think she’s one of many possible suspects. I’ve never come across so many people with a motive to kill one man. It doesn’t mean they all had murder in their hearts, but it wouldn’t surprise me if at least one of them did. What do you think, Al? We know Ken was shot. Who’s your favorite to be the killer?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it. I guess I assumed someone had gotten off the ferry looking for an empty house to rob.”

  “Seems like a lot of trouble to go to just to rob a house. First you park your car in Bay Shore, then you get on a ferry, then you find the right house. And if you’re spotted, where do you go? You’re on an island.”

  Al laughed. “I guess that shows why I’m in industry and not in the business of catching crooks.”

  Ahead of us I could see Jack and Marti on the deck next to the grill. “I hope you’re hungry,” I said to Al. “Our main course should be just about ready.” I waved and Marti waved back. I thanked Al for telling me what he knew and then I set it all aside for the rest of the evening.

  —

  “Did he tell you the name of his friend?” Jack asked, after I had related Al’s story much later that evening.

  “He didn’t give a hint. Never even used his first name. It was ‘my friend’ over and over. I’m sure we can find out, if it comes to that. He certainly had a motive, but at this point, it’s kind of weak. His daughter is happily married and she’s put this all behind her. Do you wait five years to get even?”

  “Who knows what people do?” Jack said. “In my experience, the most amazing things have happened. Human nature is pretty unpredictable.”

  “I think I’ll sleep on it,” I said, feeling completely done in.

  “I’ll call the Blue Harbor chief cop tomorrow and see if anything’s turned up.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. I was already half asleep.

  —

  The traffic pattern, if you could call it that, tended to move toward the beach most of the day and then away from it toward dinnertime. People walked in bare feet and sandals, in sneakers and rubber flip-flops, alone, in groups, in couples. Since school was starting in New York and all the suburbs, the only children walking past our kitchen window on Wednesday morning were small ones and the crowds were much thinner than the week before Labor Day.

  Jack went off to talk to the officer face-to-face, rather than on the phone. When Eddie fell asleep, I wheeled him outside on the deck and took a book for myself. It was too sunny on the beach side so we sat on the side facing the street, which was west.

  A few doors down across the street, I could just see the ramp to the Kleins’ house through the pines, who came and who went. There was one young man who was an early riser, often heading for the beach while we were having breakfast, a shirt covering his chest and much of his trunks. I had seen him go by earlier carrying snorkeling equipment. Now he climbed up the dune, his bare feet covered with sand, his shirt wringing wet.

  “Hi,” he called.

  “Good morning,” I answered. “See anything interesting under the water?”

  “Some shells. Not a lot. But the water’s great. Have a good day.” He waved as he passed.

  I watched him go down the street, his gear dripping. As he got to the house, a woman coming from the direction of Main Street also approached. He bounded up the ramp to the front door as she made her way more slowly. There was something familiar about her and I stood and walked to the deck railing to get a better look. She was in her forties, wearing jeans and a short-sleeved white shirt. As she turned to go up the ramp to the Kleins’ house, I recognized Eve Buckley.

  —

  I was absolutely certain she had told me she did not know Tina Frisch. It was possible she was visiting someone else in the house, but it seemed like too much of a coincidence. Perhaps she had decided to question Tina herself.

  I moved my chair so I could see the ramp to the Kleins’ house without turning. No one went in or out for a long time. Then the young man I had spoken to came out and headed for the bay. That was where the food and liquor stores were. I noticed he was wearing sneakers now and had put on dry clothes. Ten minutes passed and no one entered or left the house. Then I caught sight of Jack. I waved and he waved back and picked up his pace. He came up the ramp near the kitchen door, which was near where I was sitting.

  “Before you say anything,” I said, leaning over for a quick kiss and then returning to my vigil, “Eve Buckley has been inside Tina’s house for about fifteen minutes.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “I want to see what happens when she comes out. I may just follow her, run into her by accident, and see if she’ll tell me what she was doing there.”

  “Take the bike. You can catch up to her faster.”

  “Good idea.”

  Just as I said it, both Tina and Eve came down the ramp of the Kleins’ house. “There they are,” I said.

  “Doesn’t look like they’re enemies.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  The two women stood
talking for a minute as a bicyclist rang a warning bell and scooted by. Then they put their arms around each other and hugged.

  “Even more interesting,” Jack said.

  Eve then walked slowly back toward Main Street.

  “You going?”

  “I don’t know. What’s Tina doing? She didn’t go back in the house.”

  Tina had walked around the side of the house where I could not see her. When she appeared a minute later, she had a bicycle with her.

  “I’m going,” I said, and I hopped on the bike and coasted down the ramp.

  Tina wasn’t going very fast. The street was wood and there were occasional people on foot that had to be dodged. For a little while I thought she might be on her way to the stores at the bay, but then she took a right turn. I was confident she had no idea she was being followed. I rarely see people on bikes looking back, and here she had no traffic to worry about. I took the same turn. She was about a block ahead of me. At the next corner, she turned left, back toward the bay. She made one last turn, this time to the right, and I began to have misgivings. I had come this way myself. I followed her, slowing down in case she stopped. When she turned up a ramp, I stopped so she would not see me if she looked back.

  I started pedaling slowly down the street, pausing to check the house where her bicycle was propped up next to the door. She had gone to visit Chief La Coste.

  7

  I rode home. I wasn’t about to confront Tina and I didn’t know what to say to the chief, so it seemed better to get my thoughts in order and find out what, if anything, Jack could tell me. It wasn’t promising.

  “Bottom line is, Springer doesn’t think you saw Tina at the fire.”

  “Well, you’ve just given me the best incentive to try to figure out what’s going on. She was there and I saw her, and now it looks as if she’s tied up somehow, not just with Eve Buckley, but with the old chief as well.”

  “Makes a pretty picture. Wife and girlfriend join forces to kill husband and lover.”

  “But where does the chief fit in, Jack?”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  “Are you going to tell Springer?”

  “I don’t think he wants to hear. I’m the arrogant cop from the big city. I’m the last guy he’s going to let tell him what to do.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t been arrogant,” was all I could manage to say.

  “The feeling I got is that everyone around here would rather consider this a murder perpetrated by an outsider than by one of their own. So they’re checking who took the ferry on Labor Day, did anyone see any strangers, that sort of thing.”

  “There must be strangers on every trip.”

  “There are. They’re doing what they think is right, honey. Hey, look who’s coming up our ramp.”

  It was Chief Curt Springer himself in shirtsleeves and riding a bike. He dismounted on the deck and came to the kitchen door just as Eddie was waking up.

  “Hello again, Jack,” he said cordially, as he stepped into the kitchen. “Morning, Mrs. Brooks.”

  I acknowledged him, poured some iced tea, and started to get Eddie’s lunch together.

  “Nice house you’ve got here. Max Margulies’s, right?”

  Jack told him yes, it was Max’s house. Springer seemed to be making small talk in preparation to saying what he had come for. I listened until he was ready.

  “I thought you folks might be interested to hear that we got the autopsy report this morning.”

  “Very interested,” Jack said.

  “There’s every indication that Ken Buckley was dead before the fire. There’s also no evidence of sexual activity. So it looks like Ken went home to grab a nap, left the door unlocked, and some stranger came in and popped him.”

  “What kind of weapon was used?” Jack asked.

  “Twenty-two handgun.”

  A woman’s gun, I thought, although men have been known to use them, too.

  “What was the point of entry?” Jack asked.

  “The back of the neck. He was lying on his side when we found him, facing away from the door. The shooter could have come into the bedroom without being seen and shot him as he lay in bed. He was shot close-up.”

  “I can’t see why it was necessary to shoot him,” I said. “If he was sleeping, why did the shooter bother?”

  “We don’t know that yet, ma’am,” Springer said with perfect courtesy. “But we’ll find out. The sheriff’s committed to this and so am I.”

  “Any leads?”

  “None that we’re talking about.”

  I assumed that meant there weren’t any. “Then you’re sure Tina Frisch wasn’t involved.” I wanted to hear him say it to me.

  “We’re not sure of anything right now,” he said judiciously. “We know where we can reach her if we have to question her again. But there wasn’t any gun in the house she’s staying in and there wasn’t any fireman’s coat. And she says she wasn’t at the scene and never saw you.”

  “Has the body been released to the family?” I asked.

  “As far as I know. Mrs. Buckley is leaving Blue Harbor today. I think the funeral is tomorrow or the next day. I heard Ken’s brother made the arrangements.”

  “Curt,” Jack said, “it seems to be common knowledge that Ken Buckley liked the ladies.”

  Springer smiled in spite of himself. “And they liked him. Love is a two-way street, you know.”

  “But he disappointed some of them, from what I’ve heard. Treated his wife badly. Are you looking into anything in that area?”

  “We’re looking into everything. I don’t think Mrs. Buckley is a viable suspect. She was at the tent on the beach where lots of folks saw her. As for the others, we’re trying to find out whether any of Ken’s—uh—lady friends might have been in Blue Harbor on Monday. I want you to understand we’re not out to embarrass anybody. Mrs. Buckley’s a good woman and Ken was as good as they come. He earned his rank with a lot of hard work over a lot of years.” It sounded like a campaign speech for a dead candidate.

  “Do you know what caused the fire?” I asked.

  “No sign of an accelerant, I can tell you that. Seems like something on the stove ignited.”

  “He was cooking something?” I asked in disbelief.

  “I didn’t say that, ma’am. It’s possible there were papers or other combustibles near the stove and a burner was left on. You’d be surprised how many fires are started that way. I can’t tell you how careful we are in our restaurant.”

  “Where is the bedroom in relation to the kitchen?”

  “Right over it.”

  I was about to ask for permission to look at the crime scene when Jack said, “Do you think Chris and I could walk over and take a look at the house?”

  “I don’t see what purpose there is—” Springer stopped, seemingly unable to say no and unwilling to say yes.

  “I’m a detective,” Jack said easily. “I look at crime scenes every day of the week. Here’s one in my backyard.”

  Springer smiled. “Sure, you can. Just don’t touch anything. And be very careful where you walk for your own safety. The Blooms next door have the key. I’ll call and tell them to expect you.”

  That seemed the end of the discussion. I had Eddie in the high chair and was spooning lunch into his eager mouth. Why Chief Springer had bothered to come over, I didn’t know, unless Jack had asked specifically about the autopsy.

  I waved as the men left through the kitchen door. Springer didn’t know or wasn’t saying who the viable suspects were. He had Ken Buckley sleeping peacefully in his bed sometime after I had spoken to him on the beach. No one had seen anything in the moments that led up to the murder, and Springer pretty much pooh-poohed the only possible lead I had uncovered. It crossed my mind that maybe he had had a grudge against Buckley himself.

  Jack was back in a few minutes. I had seen the two men talking on the deck.

  “So what do you make of it?” he asked, as I helped Eddie drink his milk from his
cup.

  “Looks to me like nobody’s at fault. Ken Buckley accidentally left some newspapers near the stove, forgot to turn the burner off, and as he lay sleeping, someone stole into the house, shot him in the back of the head, and the house conveniently went up in flames.”

  “That’s about the way I read it. Want to go over and look at the crime scene?”

  “Definitely. Let me ask Marti if she’ll keep an eye on Eddie while he’s napping. Then we can go.”

  Marti said she’d be delighted and I wheeled Eddie over in his stroller. There was lots of shade in one area behind the Jorgensen house and Marti got comfortable with a book while Eddie slept.

  —

  Ida Bloom walked over and unlocked the front door for us. She had not, she assured us, been home when the fire started. Along with the rest of her family, she was on the beach when the smoke was sighted.

  The outside of the Buckley house was still wet, and as we approached it, I could see rivulets of water still oozing from under the shingles. The ground was wet and from what I could see under the stilts, it would be a while before the lake that had formed there would dry up or find its way into the soggy earth.

  Jack and I went inside the house into a charred foyer. A rug squished underfoot. Despite the warmth and light of the summer day outside, the gloom of the fire permeated the interior. The acrid smell of burned plastic and wood was very strong. Motes of black soot hung in the air. The texture of some of the wood reminded me of alligator skin. As I looked around at the blackened furniture in the living room, I wondered if Eve Buckley would ever return to this house or if it would be torn down and replaced. Springer had told Jack that the exterior appeared to be structurally sound, but the smoke and water damage inside was depressingly great.

  “Here’s the kitchen,” Jack said, and I followed him to the doorway. Whatever color the stove and refrigerator had been before the fire, they were black now. A film of black also covered the remaining windows over the sink. One window was gone and boarded up. But the worst damage had been done to the ceiling above. The fire had burned through to the upstairs master bedroom and pieces of furniture had fallen into the kitchen. What looked like a night table had dropped directly onto the stove, where it had fueled the fire.