Death Fish

DEATH FISH

A DAN JAMIESON AND RACHEL MAGUIRE MYSTERY

BY

ROXANNE HUNTER

Copyright January, 2016 by Roxanne Hunter

All rights reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual event, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or electronic transference without written permission from the author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

AFTERWORD

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER I

There was nothing in that clear, calm day, with its blue sky and flood of sunshine, to suggest the awful tragedy that was so close at hand, a tragedy that confounded the police and came so close to wrecking the happiness of so many people.

The waters of the inlet sparkled like silver, and an osprey was poised over the water, her rapidly moving wings and fan-spread tail suspending her almost stationary in one spot, while, with eager and far-seeing eyes she peered into the watery depths below. The bird was a dark blot against the perfect blue sky for several seconds, and then, suddenly folding her pinions and closing her tail, she streamed downward like a graceful bullet.

There was a splash of the water, a shower of sparkling drops, and then the osprey arose, a fish vainly struggling in its talons, and from a dusty black car halted along the side of the highway came an exclamation of satisfaction.

Did you see that, Harry? called the tall blond haired man leaning against the black Porsche to his muscularly built, bronzed companion who was seated in a BMW convertible painted a brilliant yellow. Did you see that kill? As clean as a whistle, and without a wasted motion. Some hunter, that fish hawk!

Yes, it was a clean kill, Jerry. But not really in keeping with the spirit of the day.

Not in keeping? What do you mean?

Well, out of harmony, if that sounds better. It's too perfect a day for a killing of any kind, it seems to me.

Are you going sentimental on me, Harry? asked Jerry Pollard, with just the trace of a sneer in his voice. I suppose you wouldn't want an osprey to catch a meal on a bright, sunshiny day, even if she has a nest full of hungry chicks. You'd prefer to have her wait until it was dark and gloomy and rainy, with a storm wind blowing. As far as I’m concerned, a kill is a kill, no matter what the weather.

The better the day, the worse the deed, I suppose. Harry Bartlett smiled as he leaned forward to shift his car back into gear, for both drivers had pulled to the side of the road to watch the osprey’s hunt.

Oh, well, I don't know that the day has anything to do with it, said Jerry. I was just fascinated by the clean dive after that fish. Flounder, wasn't it?

Yes, he’s a happy bird today; especially since ospreys are usually happy enough to get a blue crab. Well, that fish will be a dead one soon, I suppose.

Yes, dinner for the little ospreys. In any case, it's a good way to die, serving a useful purpose, even if it's only to be eaten. I didn't expect to get on such a gruesome subject when we started out. By the way, speaking of killings, I expect to make a good one today on the Winner’s Cup match.

And how’s that? I didn't know there was much betting going on.

Oh, you don’t seriously think there isn’t any gambling, do you? I've picked up some good odds against our friend Caldwell. I'm taking his end, and I think he's going to win.

Better be careful not to lose your shirt, Jerry. Golf is an uncertain game on any day, but especially when there's a match among the old boys like Henry Caldwell and that crowd of past Cup winners he always plays with. He's just as likely to pull or slice as the newest player, and once he starts on a slide, he's a goner. No reserve comeback, you know.

Oh, I'm not so sure about that. He'll be all right if he leaves the booze alone before he starts to play. I'm banking on him, but at the same time, I haven't bet all my money. I've got a hundred left that says I can beat you to the Clubhouse, even if one of my gears has been slipping for the last couple of miles. How about it?

You're on! said Harry Bartlett shortly.

There was a throb from each engine as the ignition turned over, and then they shot down the wide road, clouds of dust rising around the sleek black car and the more flashy yellow two-seater, while above them, driving its talons deeper into the sides of the fish, the osprey circled off toward its nest of rough sticks in a dead pine tree on the edge of the forest.

On the white underbelly of the flounder were bright red spots of blood, some of which dripped as the cruel talons closed until they met. It was only a little tragedy, the kind that went on every day in the inlet and neighboring ocean, and yet, somehow, Harry Bartlett, driving with ever-increasing speed in an endeavor to open a lead on his opponent, could not help thinking of it in contrast to the perfectly blue cloudless of the sky. Was it prophetic?

Ruddy-faced men, pale-faced men; young women, girls, matrons and caddies burdened with golf bags and pockets bulging with retrieved balls; skillful waiters hurrying with trays of glasses of various shapes, sizes, and contents tinkled musically, these all were on the veranda at the Mariposa Club that June morning as Jerry Pollard and Harry Bartlett raced their cars.

It was the biggest day of the year at the Mariposa Golf Club, for there would be several rounds of golf played, the most important being the Winner’s Cup, which was open only to members who had previously won prizes in other hotly contested matches on the home course.

In spite of the fact that on this day there would be several rounds in which visiting and local champions would test their skill against one another to the delight of a large audience, most of the crowd’s interest centered on the Winner’s Cup battle. It was rumored, and not without good reason, that large sums of money would change hands on the result.

Not that there was any official gambling going on. Absolutely not! In fact, any betting was strictly prohibited by the Club's Constitution. But there are ways and means of getting cattle through a fence without taking down the bars, and there were rumors that Henry Caldwell had made a pretty stiff bet with Jonathan Ward on the outcome of the big match they each hoped to win. Ward and Caldwell were rivals of long standing in the matter of drives and putts.

A fine day, isn’t it? exclaimed Bruce Garrigan, as he set an empty glass on the tray a waiter held out to him, giving every indication that he had been delighted with its contents. If it had been made to order it couldn't be any better, he said as he flicked at the lapel of Tom Sharwell's jacket, brushing away some ashes blown there from the cigarette Garrigan had just lit.

You're right for once, Bruce, Sharwell responded. Never mind the ashes, you'll only make it worse if you rub them in.

Right for once? I'm always right! cried Garrigan And it may interest you to know that the total precipitation, including rain and melted snow in Yuma, Arizona, in 2013, was three and one-tenth inches. Now that’s a sunny climate!

It doesn't interest me a bit, Bruce! laughed Sharwell. And to prevent you from getting any more of those statistics out of your system, let’s go to the bar and we'll do a little precipitating of our own. I’ll buy you another drink.

An offer I can’t refuse! But, speaking of statistics, did you know that last year 840,612,030 gallons of whiskey was distilled? What the thirty gallons were for I don't know, but …

And I don't care to know, interrupted Tom. If you spring any more ridiculous factoids I’ll, … hell, here comes something a lot more interesting, he broke in. Look at those two idiots taking that last turn!

That’s some speed, murmured Garrigan. It's got to be Bartlett and Pollard, he went on, as a shift of wind blew the dust to one side and revealed the black roadster and the yellow convertible. The rivals are at it again.

Bruce Garrigan, who had a reputation among the club members as a human encyclopedia with the habit of informing his companions on almost any subject that happened to pop into his head, tossed away his cigarette and watched the oncoming racers with Tom Sharwell.

They're rivals in more ways than one, I hear, remarked Sharwell. It looks like Jerry has the edge on Harry, in spite of the color of Harry's car.

He might win this time, admitted Garrigan. Is it true what I've heard, that each of them hopes to place the diamond hoop of proprietorship on the lovely finger of the fair Lady Viviane?

I guess if you've heard that they're both hoping to win her heart, it's true enough, answered Sharwell. And it also happens, if you believe old lady Turnbull, that our esteemed Yacht and Golf Club President has the inside track.

How's that? I thought Harry made a good piece of change on that yacht-building project he pushed through. He should have made enough money to impress even Viviane’s father.

He did make a lot, but we all know he and his family have an affinity for doing that sort of thing, so it doesn’t really count. There is one not so small problem. Several years ago, in one of the big mergers, the Bartletts pinched Henry Caldwell so badly that he squealed like a pig being led to the Wall Street slaughterhouse.

So that's what happened, is it?

Yes, at least that’s the way I heard it. Anyway, ever since, even though Viviane Caldwell appears to be as interested Harry as she is in Jerry, at least as far as anyone can tell, Harry is very definitely persona non grata as far as her father is concerned. He never forgives anyone who beats him in business, and he absolutely believes Harry creamed him.

It must have been a pretty bad loss, commented Garrigan as they watched the racing automobiles swing around the turn of the road that led to the Clubhouse.

I don't know the particulars. It was before my time. I mean before I paid much attention to business things.

Hell, you don't pay much attention now. You only think you do. But I'm interested. I’m hoping to do some business deals with Caldwell myself, and if I could get an inside track…

Sorry, but I can't help you out, my friend. You’d be better off talking to Harry. He knows the whole story and he insists that it was all straight on his family’s side. But it's like shaking a carving knife at a turkey to mention it to Caldwell. He knows he can’t get away with forbidding Harry from seeing his daughter, but there's a bit of a chill in the air, just the same.

I see. So that's why you think Jerry has the inside edge on the love game. Well, Ms. Caldwell has a mind of her own, I imagine.

You better believe she has! She's just like her mother. I remember Mrs. Caldwell from when I was a kid. She was a beautiful if somewhat straight-laced woman. How she and Henry ever hooked up is a mystery. But as far as anyone knows they were happy.

Were? Then Mrs. Caldwell is no longer with us?

Oh, she's been gone for some years now. A string of nannies and housekeepers stepped in to help with Viviane in the beginning and to keep The Haven running, but Viviane’s managed the family residences since she graduated from college. You've been up there?

Only once, at a reception. I'm not on their regular invitation list, although Viviane is pretty enough that I wouldn’t mind getting to know her a little better.

Look out! cried Sharwell impotently as the two racing cars careened down the dusty road. The yellow car made a sudden swerve and seemed about to turn off the pavement.

But Bartlett skillfully pulled the vehicle back onto the road again and pulled alongside his rival for the home stretch, the broad driveway that ran to the front of the Clubhouse.

The golfers starting out on the championship course; the members, the gallery, and the staff all gathered to see the finish of the impromptu race, wondering how close it was likely to be and placing their final wagers on the outcome. And close it was, for when the two cars came to a stop with a screech of brakes in front of the Clubhouse, their front tires were in such perfect alignment that there was scarcely an inch of difference.

A dead heat! exclaimed Bartlett as he leaped out and tossed his keys to one of the valets to take his car to the parking lot.

Yes, you win! agreed Pollard, as he pushed his sunglasses back on his head. He held out a bill.

What's that for? asked Bartlett.

I put up a hundred that I'd beat you. I didn't, and you win.

Buy the drinks with your money! laughed Bartlett. The race was to the finish, not a dead heat. We'll do it again, sometime.

All right, any time you like! Jerry said crisply as he sat down at a table after greeting some friends. I’ll get the first round and you can get the next one.

Now you’re talking, my throat is as dusty as my car. Have any of the big matches started yet, Bruce? he asked, turning to the Human Encyclopedia.

Only the early ones for junior members. And, speaking of newbies, do you know that in Scotland there are fourteen thousand, seven hundred …

Cut it, Bruce! Cut it! begged Jerry. Join us and we'll make it four beers. Anything to choke off your endless flow of useless statistics, he laughed good-naturedly.

When does the Winner’s Cup match start? asked Harry as the four young men sat down at a table under the veranda. That's the only one I'm interested in.

In about an hour, announced Sharwell as he consulted a schedule. Hardly any of the players are here yet.

Has Henry Caldwell arrived? asked Jerry, as he raised his glass and intently studied the bubbles spiraling upward from the hollow stem.

You'll know when he gets here, answered Bruce Garrigan.

How that? he asked. Does he have an official announcer?

No, but you'll hear his car before you see it.

New horn?

You could say that. He got a new car, new color, new everything! said Garrigan. He just bought a new hundred thousand dollar car, and he had it painted red, white and blue.

Red, white and blue? echoed the other three men.

Yes. Very patriotic. I don’t don't know whether he's honoring Uncle Sam or the French Republic. Doesn’t matter, it's all the same. His car is a sight to behold.

I should challenge him to a race! laughed Jerry.

Don't bother. You'll lose, advised Garrigan. It can do one fifty in fourth gear, and Caldwell wouldn’t hesitate to slip it into high gear if he needed to.

Um! Guess I'll wait until I get a faster car, then, decided Jerry.

The four friends continued to talk, weighing the odds and bets for the day’s matches, boasting about their stakes in each. Harry gradually dropped out of the conversation and went to walk about the Club grounds.

The Mariposa was a social as well as a golfing club, and the scene of many dances and other happy events. It lay a few miles back from the shore near Lakeside, in New Jersey. The Clubhouse was large and elaborate, and the grounds around it were spacious, well laid out and meticulously maintained.

Not far away was Loch Harbor, where the yachts of the club of which Jerry Pollard was also president were moored, and a mile or so in the opposite direction was Lake Tacoma, around whose shore nestled the small resort village of Lakeside. It was a rather exclusive colony that summered there; long driveways led to secluded mansions that were summer homes to many wealthy families in the height of the season. Most of the families were members of the Mariposa Club and all the Club members had summered in Lakeside all their lives.

Harry Bartlett, wishing he had worked at his golf game more vigorously, was wandering around casually greeting friends and acquaintances when he heard his name called from the cool and shady depths of a home situated on the edge of the first hole.

Hey, Caitlin! How are you? he greeted a tall and dark haired woman who extended her slim hand to him and quickly pulled him in for a quick hug and kiss. I didn't expect to see you today.

Oh, I watch all the big matches, although I can’t say that I play much myself. Too boring, answered Caitlin Webb. I'm surprised to find you roaming around without a caddy, though, Harry.

Too lazy, I'm afraid. I’ll be joining the on-lookers today. Meanwhile, if you don't mind, I'll sit here and keep you company.

I’m always happy to be kept by your company, she replied as she shifted to make room for him to join her on a garden bench overlooking the fairway. Isn't it just perfect weather!

At one time Caitlin Webb and Harry Bartlett had been very close friends, engaged, some rumors had it. But that hadn’t worked out and their romance had gradually drifted into a good friendship. It was one of Harry’s great qualities that he could keep a former lover as a friend.

Have you seen Henry Caldwell’s new car? I hear it’s something else, asked Harry.

No, I haven’t seen it but I've heard all about it. I assume they'll be driving it today.

Does Viviane drive it?

I haven't heard that. It's a powerful machine, more of a racer than a car. Lee Blossom told me all about it.

Well, he should know. I heard he's buying into a partnership with Mr. Caldwell.

I don't know about that, murmured Caitlin, and she seemed suddenly very much interested in the vein structure of a leaf she pulled from a vine covering a nearby tree.

Harry smiled. Gossips at the Club were saying that Caitlin Webb and LeGrand Blossom were a hot item. There had been no formal announcement, although the two had been seen together more frequently in the past year than mere friendship would warrant. Harry hoped Lee Blossom appreciated his good fortune at landing a woman who was as beautiful as she was passionate and intelligent.

There was a stir at the front of the Clubhouse, followed by the rumble of voices, and Caitlin peered through a gap in the vines.

I’ll bet that’s the new car now. Oh my God, I don't like those colors at all! What in the world was he thinking? I'm as patriotic as the next person, but to mess up a perfectly good car like that! Well, it's …

Flashy, I suppose Caldwell thinks, finished Harry. He had stood up to leave, but when he saw Jerry Pollard step up and offer his hand to Viviane Caldwell as she got out of the new car, he drew back and again sat down beside Caitlin.

A small crowd had gathered around the big car, obviously to the delight of the preening Henry Caldwell, who was proud of the commotion created by his latest purchase.

Although he kept up his end of the conversation with Caitlin as they sat on the garden bench, Harry Bartlett's attention was obviously not on his companion or their conversation. Caitlin Webb would have noticed his distraction and called him on it, but she too had her attention centered elsewhere. She watched the group gathering about the big car, and her eyes followed a young man as he made his way out along a path that led to a quiet spot.

I think I'll be going along now, said Caitlin. I have to see …

But Harry was not listening. In fact, he was glad to have an excuse to leave Caitlin’s company when he saw Viviane Caldwell turn away from Jerry Pollard with what he thought was a flash of impatience. This was the opportunity he had been