The Weekenders (37 page)

“I can't get into any specifics,” the sheriff said. “I can tell you that, based on new information from the coroner, we've widened the time frame in which we believe he was assaulted.”

“How so?”

“Since the body was found in the water early Saturday morning of Memorial Day weekend, we assumed it had taken a couple of days for it to wash up,” he explained. “However, the coroner took a look at the weather and tide patterns on the island in the week leading up to the murder, and he now believes your husband could have been killed as late as Friday evening.”

“Forgive me, I don't understand the significance of that,” Riley said.

“It just means that he could have been killed either Thursday
or
Friday evening. More work for me, because it considerably increases the number of suspects.”

She let that sink in. “Are you telling me that I'm a suspect?”

He shrugged. “You, and everybody else who was on the island Friday night. And we know from the ferry manifest that at least a hundred and twenty more people arrived here on Friday. That's in addition to the folks who were already here.”

“But I told you where I was,” Riley objected. “Parrish and Ed Godchaux dropped me off here at Shutters around eight p.m. My daughter was with me. We didn't leave the house. And my mother came in when she got home from the full-moon party. I'm not sure what time, but well before midnight. I was still sleeping the next morning when you arrived to tell me Wendell's body had been found.”

He uncrossed and recrossed his legs. “The problem is, theoretically speaking, you could have left here, after everybody in the house was asleep, killed your husband, and then returned in plenty of time.”

“And why would I do that?” Riley asked.

“Seems to me you'd have plenty of reasons. Let's see, he'd driven you into debt, emptied your trust fund, and you suspected him of having an affair.”

“I didn't know any of that until after he was killed.”

The sheriff smiled. “So you say.”

“Wait. Who told you I thought Wendell was having an affair?”

“Just some folks I've talked to around town.”

“Are you referring to Melody Zimmerman? She's the only one I've accused of sleeping with my husband. And, by the way, she didn't deny it.”

“I'm keeping an open mind,” the sheriff said.

Riley was dumbfounded. “Are you really telling me I'm your number one suspect? That's … mind-boggling.”

“Not necessarily number one,” the sheriff said. “But you were a reporter once. I'm sure you know we don't consider this a random stranger-to-stranger homicide. This island is small and fairly close-knit. A stranger—any stranger, would have stood out. No, ma'am, I feel sure whoever killed Wendell Griggs knew him, and from the impact of the blow to the back of his head, meant to do him harm.”

“Lots of people on this island besides me knew Wendell, and could have wished him harm,” Riley pointed out. “I take it you know about his questionable business dealings.”

“Oh, yes,” the sheriff said. He gave her a stern look. “You know you had no business ransacking your husband's office. Tampering with what might be evidence in a homicide investigation only makes you look guiltier.”

“I didn't ‘tamper' with anything. I made copies of financial records that I had every right to know about—both as Wendell's widow and as somebody who was victimized by his fraudulent activities.”

He shook his head in disgust. “This is what happens when amateurs go blundering around, trying to play detective. You have no way of knowing what evidence you might have destroyed.”

Riley refused to be cowed by him. “How long did it take you to search that office, Sheriff? If I'd waited around for you, whoever killed him could have gotten into that office just as easily as I did, and removed any incriminating evidence.”

“The fact is, I did search the office, and my people are following up on what we found. And since you bring it up, we're aware that your husband borrowed heavily from several of your family members, which also makes them suspects.”

“You mean my mother and my brother?” she asked incredulously. “My mother is seventy-two years old. She's no murderer. Anyway, dozens of people must have seen her at the full-moon party that Friday night.”

“Oh, sure, plenty of people saw her that night, and even saw her leave the party shortly after ten p.m. with your aunt,” he agreed. “But we have the same problem with your mother that we have with you. She could have easily left the house under cover of darkness that night or even Thursday night after she supposedly went to bed.”

“My mother was the last person who would have killed my husband,” Riley said. “She adored Wendell, believed in him totally, despite all the evidence that he was a rat. In fact, she was furious when I told her I intended to divorce him. As far as Evelyn Nolan was concerned, Wendell Griggs was her second son. Hell, she thought he was the second coming.”

“Sometimes people say one thing and do another,” the sheriff said. “Your brother, for instance.”

“And what's that supposed to mean?”

“The first time I interviewed him, he told me he was at his home, that old firehouse, all night Friday, after he arrived on the island. But when I started asking around the past couple of weeks, at least two people told me they remember that he arrived at the full-moon party alone, around eleven p.m.”

“Billy went to the party that night?” Riley was dumbstruck.

“Yes, ma'am. And when I went back to see him today, and questioned him a little closer, he finally did admit that he lied about going out that night, because he didn't want his uh, boyfriend, to know he'd been partying.”

“Scott happens to be Billy's husband,” Riley said. “And I suppose Billy might not have wanted his partner to know he'd gone out, not because he'd decided to run out and kill Wendell, but because Scott's very concerned about my brother's drinking problem.”

“So you acknowledge he does have a drinking problem?”

“I'm afraid so,” Riley said. “My mother is in denial about it, but I'd say it's an open secret that Billy is a high-functioning alcoholic. And he may be that, but he is
not
a murderer.”

“We'll see,” the sheriff said. “Of course, his whereabouts on Thursday night are unaccounted for, too. He says he was on the mainland, doing errands for your mother, but nobody else can vouch for him.”

“And I'm sure nobody can place him anywhere near that marina either,” Riley said, doing a slow burn. “Because he didn't kill Wendell. If you really want to figure out who did kill him, take a look at his business associates.”

“We are doing just that,” Sheriff Schumann assured her.

“And what kind of an alibi does Melody Zimmerman have for those two nights?” she asked.

“You think she could have killed your husband? Why is that?”

“She was his loan officer at the bank that went out of business when he defaulted on several million dollars in real estate loans,” Riley said. “He'd always banked with Wells Fargo before, and then suddenly he closes out all our accounts there and switches over to this tiny community bank? Where his friend Melody, from Kiwanis, happens to be vice president of lending? Don't you find that kind of odd? Because I do.”

“If she was having an affair with him, why would she kill him?”

“I don't know,” Riley admitted. “Maybe because he was the reason her old bank went under? I don't know all the ins and outs of the banking business. That's for you people to investigate.”

“Which we are doing. As is the FBI,” the sheriff assured her.

“Ask the FBI to tell you who Samuel Gordon is, why don't you?” Riley asked.

“I don't have to ask. I already know. He was the lawyer in Wilmington who set up those dummy corporations, presumably for your husband. I've left several messages on his answering machine, asking him to call me, but he hasn't responded yet,” Schumann said.

“I wouldn't hold my breath waiting to hear from Mr. Gordon,” Riley said. “Unless they have long distance in heaven, that is.” She stood up and gave the sheriff a sweet smile. “As one amateur detective to another, I'll give you a tip. He's dead.”

 

44

After the sheriff was gone, Riley opened her laptop, intending to continue her job search. But she was still seething from the injustice of being considered a suspect in Wendell's murder. She was fed up with being his victim. If the sheriff couldn't find his killer, maybe she'd have to take matters into her own hands.

She sat back and thought about Melody Zimmerman. Not a very likely looking murderer but, as she knew, looks could be deceiving. What, exactly, did anybody know about the woman, beyond the fact that she worked at the bank and was perpetually overshadowed by the showy, nosy Andrea Payne?

Riley decided to start her search with a call to her best friend, but her phone rang just as she was picking it up.

“Hey,” Parrish said. “Word on the street has it that Sheriff Schumann paid you a visit this morning. Did he have any news?”

“Wow, that was fast. I guess I shouldn't underestimate the power of the coconut telegraph. How'd you hear?”

“I saw Evvy in the village. She was pretty ticked off that she'd been banished from her own home.”

“She'd be even more ticked off if she knew Sheriff Schumann considered her and me and the rest of her family prime suspects in Wendell's murder.”

“Evvy?” Parrish laughed. “Get real.”

“That's what I told him. I also told him he should take a good look at Melody Zimmerman's motive and alibi.”

“Damn!” Parrish said. “You know, this totally slipped my mind. Ed told me awhile back that he'd heard through the grapevine that Wendell was having a fling with some young chick who worked at a bank. No names mentioned. He said it was strictly locker-room stuff.”

“Parrish!” Riley said. “You're just now mentioning this?”

“I know, but he swore me to secrecy at the time, and anyway, I didn't think it had any bearing on his murder, and I didn't want to hurt you.”

“I bet the chick was Melody. That's why I was getting ready to call you. What do we know about her?”

“Not much. She lives in a kinda nondescript seventies cottage on the south end. I think it actually belongs to an elderly relative who lets her live there rent free in return for keeping it up.”

“That's all?”

“Don't rush me,” Parrish said. “Okay, here's something else. I was just reading the Belle Isle Country Club's online newsletter. Her picture was posted as being a new member.”

“Just now? But I see her there all the time.”

“She probably either used her relative's membership or sponged off Andrea Payne.”

“Okay, that's something,” Riley said. “How much does it cost to join the club these days?”

“We've been members for so long, I have no idea what the initiation fee is.”

Riley opened her laptop's browser and pulled up the Belle Isle Country Club's Web site. “Hang on, I'm looking. Hmmm. No mention of the fees. I guess it's considered gauche to put it out there for the unwashed public to see. Sort of a ‘if you have to ask, you can't afford to join' mind-set.”

“I'll text Ed and ask him to find out, and then I'll call you back,” Parrish said.

“Cool. In the meantime, I'm gonna see what I can find out about Melody online.”

*   *   *

Melody's LinkedIn profile wasn't terribly informative. She'd attended college at UNC-Charlotte, and her current job description was vice president of lending, Baldwin Community Bank. Her Facebook listing wasn't much better. Photos of dogs, funny dog videos, a few selfies of Melody and Andrea Payne at the beach, and some glowing color photos of Belle Isle sunrises. Riley tapped the sunrise photo to enlarge it. It was fairly generic, showing a glowing orange orb casting a molten glow on the surf. There was a strip of beach, but it could have been almost any strip of beach on the East Coast. On the far right corner of the image, she could just make out the arm of a familiar-looking wrought-iron chair. She maximized that detail.

“That bitch,” she fumed. The chair was one of a pair she'd personally dragged home from the Hickory Furniture Mart sample sale and placed on the master bedroom balcony of the house at Sand Dollar Lane. If she'd had any doubts before, they were gone now. The only way Melody Zimmerman was snapping sunrise photos that included that chair was if she'd spent the night in that master bedroom. And Riley was certain she hadn't stayed there alone.

“Gotcha,” she muttered. She took a quick screen shot of the photo, just in case Melody decided to delete the photo in the near future. Other than that one slipup, Melody was disappointingly discreet with her social media posts. Her relationship status was single, and Riley couldn't find a single photo that included anybody who even remotely resembled Wendell Griggs. She didn't seem to have an Instagram or Twitter account.

Most of the hits she found for Melody were professionally related. Items from banking publications announcing her job promotions, a couple of items from her college alumni magazine, and a brief profile from a “Women in Banking” newsletter.

Riley scribbled some notes. Melody was thirty, a hometown girl who'd grown up in Southpoint, and had a degree in business administration. The profile noted that her first job out of college was at a law firm in Wilmington. Had she worked for Samuel Gordon, the lawyer who'd set up Wendell's dummy corporations? The article didn't mention it. She might have to do some more digging. After leaving the law firm, Melody had worked as a clerk at a Bank of America branch in Wilmington before starting to climb the career ladder at first Coastal Carolina Bank, and now Baldwin Community.