“Actually it’s about Dixie Hardaway.”
That jolted her. “So just what is it you want?” she said in a manner that told me I wouldn’t get it, whatever it was.
To protect Nora’s privacy I turned my back on the old woman in the wheelchair and said, “Eight years ago my father was murdered on a beach down Brackett Shores. He was a policeman watching a cottage where people purchased drugs.”
That brought a concerned, puzzled look.
“You spent your weekends that summer in Cape Porpoise with Dixie Hardaway.”
She didn’t deny it, but the observation made her impatient. “What is it you want?”
“I want to know whether he was with you every weekend?”
Again the puzzled expression. “I don’t understand. What is it you’re...?”
“You were taking courses at Southern Maine. Every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday you were in Cape Porpoise with Dixie.”
“Eloise told you that?”
“She said if he hadn’t been at the cottage any one of those weekends, you’d’ve been upset.”
“And what is it you want me to say?”
“I just want to know whether the police questioned you.”
“Why would they?” shaking her head as though the question didn’t make sense.
“They questioned Dixie. He didn’t tell you that?” She didn’t answer, didn’t intend to answer, still trying to figure out what I wanted. “This is very important to me,” I said. “I’m trying to find out who killed my father.”
“You think Dixie did?”
“I didn’t say that. But he apparently lied to the police about where he was that weekend, and I want to know why.”
After a moment’s reflection, she said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what he said to the police. I didn’t know he talked to the police or had reason to.” She started to walk away.
“Please!”
She waved me off with deprecation. That offended me.
“Talk to me or talk to a grand jury,” I said.
She took about four steps, turned, and came back. In a tone intended to bring all of this to a close, she said, “I knew nothing about a murder. The police had no reason to question me. Dixie never told me the police had questioned him.”
“Was he with you every weekend?”
About ten seconds floated past her eyes. She resented me and resented my question. But she said, “Yes,” and turned and walked away.
That brief answer gave me incentive to book a flight to Fort Myers, Florida, where I spent a day and a half in a rented Ford before I located Dixie at a bar in an outdoor bistro on Sanibel Island.
The sweet smell of decaying algae floated in off the Gulf of Mexico and mingled with odors of cigarettes and whiskey in the humid Florida atmosphere. Seven stools down from me, facing a mirrored wall of bottles, a man who resembled the man in the photo the police had given me removed pictures from his wallet and showed them to the woman on the next stool who regarded them with indifference. For ten minutes he had been hitting on her, unmindful of the amused skepticism that should have told him he was wasting his time.
While I glanced at four pelicans flying languidly down the channel toward the yacht basin, the man I suspected was Dixie Hardaway had pocketed his wallet and was moving down the bar in search, probably, of more receptive prey. I watched him tap a woman on the shoulder, watched her look up at him, smile, and turn toward him. I watched him raise a hand and snap a finger at the barkeep, ordering a drink.
I slid a leg over the stool he had just vacated and looked past the woman’s face at the sun dropping slowly into the sea on the western horizon.
“Name’s Kerrigan,” I said. “Duff Kerrigan. Can I refill your drink?”
“You’re wasting your time, honey. I’m waiting for someone.”
I smiled and watched painted fingers stroke the stem of her glass.
“I’m not hitting on you. I just want to know about the guy who was just sitting here. Do you know who he is?”
“I believe his name is Benedict Hardaway. Are you gay?”
I laughed. “Is he?”
She shrugged, caressing her glass. “I think he may have a Don Juan complex, trying to prove he’s straight with every woman in sight.” She pushed her glass toward the barkeep, tapping the rim with a long finger. I saw more years in her eyes than on the smooth flesh of her face.
“He was showing you pictures.”
“Of his son. At least that’s who he said it was.”
“He’s married?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. A lot of these barstool johnnies...”
“Forgive me,” I said, watching Dixie heading down the planks toward a men’s room. “Nice talking to you.” I hurried after him.
I found him bent over a porcelain sink, a slight, good-looking guy in his early thirties, with dark hair and dark eyes. I waited until he poked his hands under a blower. I saw no wedding ring.
“Dixie Hardaway?”
He gave me a questioning look, a half smile. “We know each other?”
“Name’s Kerrigan,” I said.
He laughed. “And I suppose you want a deal on a Cadillac. New or preowned?”
“You sell cars?”
People say there’s something intimidating about me — maybe my size, maybe something lingering from when I was a cop. I have no idea. But the smile left his face. Later I learned that he owned a Cadillac dealership. Maybe he thought I should have known.
He started to walk past me.
“Nora Murphy,” I said.
His face froze. He stopped, turned, started to say something.
“Let’s go somewhere and talk,” I said.
He didn’t want to go anywhere. For several long seconds he stared at me with stubborn resolve.
“It’s important,” I said. “It’s about a man on a beach with five bullet holes in his back.”
On what might have been weakening legs, he walked with me down the planks of the pier and leaned on the rail. Pole lamps shed little light on us, but I could see a small tic twitching at the edge of his eye. With a trembling hand he offered me a cigarette. I watched him light one and drag smoke into his face.
“A name I haven’t heard in a while,” he said, fumbling with his lighter. “Something happened to her?”
“No, and she doesn’t know I’m here.” I would have handed him my card, but in the dim light he wouldn’t’ve been able to read it.
“Is this about my son?”
That hit hard: I had mentioned Nora Murphy and he asked about his son. My thoughts flew to the rocks at the salt marsh and Eloise telling me that Nora had taken a year off from work. Maybe not only to care for an invalid mother.
“It’s about the summer you spent at Cape Porpoise.”
“What about it?”
“You were on a list of people who patronized a candy store on Brackett Shores.”
He angrily stepped back. “Is this some kind of shakedown?”
“No, and I’m not a cop. I just want to know why you told the police you were in Florida the weekend my father was murdered. You weren’t in Florida. You were in Cape Porpoise with Nora. Why did you lie?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I caught his arm as he started to move away. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” He yanked his arm free. “Talk to me or talk to a grand jury,” I called as he walked away.
He stopped. In a nervous voice he said, “I was here with my father that weekend,” breathing rapidly. He put his hand to his chest, maybe to quell a rapid heartbeat. “The police have my statement. If you try to damage my reputation—”
“You weren’t here. You were with Nora.”
“My father—”
“If he said you were here, he lied for you. This is the murder of a policeman. It’s not going away. You’ll get dragged back to Maine. Your father will be questioned.”