A Minor Case of Murder Page 15

  Donna Carter was sitting at the card table. From time to time, when the mood was right, she picked up a puzzle piece and added it to the jigsaw. Spit was outside on the dock, enjoying the cool October morning. Inside, the phone was ringing. Donna called out to let Spit know, "I'll get it."

  "Hello."

  On the other end of the phone, Donna heard a smooth baritone voice. "Hello. My name is Louis Garibaldi. I'd like to speak to Mr. Pettigrew, please."

  Donna decided not to disturb Spit. "I'm sorry, sir. I believe you have the wrong number."

  Mr. Garibaldi tried again. "Are you sure, Miss? Mr. Pettigrew. Perry Pettigrew."

  Before Donna could hang up on the persistent caller, Spit ambled into the cottage. "Who's that on the telephone?"

  Donna shrugged. "Wrong number."

  "Who are they looking for?"

  Donna stifled a laugh. "Perry Pettigrew."

  Spit reached out his hand. "I'll take it."

  Donna handed Spit the receiver. "Hello."

  Mr. Garibaldi tried a third time. "Mr. Pettigrew?"

  "Speaking."

  "Mr. Pettigrew, sir, I am an attorney here in WhiteSandsBeach. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

  Spit seemed embarrassed to admit that he was not familiar with Louis A. Garibaldi, Esquire.

  "That's all right, sir. Anyway, I represent a businessman who has expressed an interest in purchasing your waterfront property."

  Spit had no particular interest in selling the land, but Mr. Garibaldi was persistent and, finally, in order to get off the phone, Spit agreed to meet with the attorney. Of course, when Spit hung up the telephone, Donna had a question of her own.

  "Perry Pettigrew? You have got to be kidding."

  Spit pretended to take offense at Donna's teasing. "What do you think, my parents named me Spit? I was born Perry Stephen Pettigrew, Jr., and I remained Perry Pettigrew until I went to Iraq."

  "I'm sorry, Spit. Or should I call you Perry? Or Mr. Pettigrew? How about Junior?"

  Spit waited patiently for Donna to finish making fun of his name. "The last person who called me Perry was my grandmother. And, except for the DMV, no one ever called me Mr. Pettigrew."

  "Okay, I'll stick with Spit. What'd the guy want anyway?"

  Spit had already forgotten about Louis Garibaldi, Esq. "What guy?"

  "On the phone, Spit. The guy on the telephone."

  Spit laughed. "Oh him…nothing, really. He wants to buy the land."

  Spit might drive a taxicab and live in a shack, but Mr. Perry Stephen Pettigrew, Jr., was apparently a land baron, owner of one of the last undeveloped pieces of oceanfront real estate in south Jersey. Donna was impressed.

  "What are you going to do?"

  Spit wasn't sure he understood Donna's question. "I'm gonna go back out on the dock and enjoy the fall weather."

  Donna smacked Spit upside the head. "About the land, silly. Are you gonna sell?"

  "Nah. I like it here."

  Donna had heard Spit offer to meet with the attorney. "But you agreed to take a meeting."

  "Don't worry about it, Donna. I was just being polite."

  Donna gave Spit a hug. "Okay then. When is this big meeting?"

  Spit shrugged. "I told the attorney I'd come to his office tomorrow morning."

  A Good Influence

  When Donna awoke, she found Spit standing at the kitchen sink dressed only in his boxer shorts and Dallas Cowboys t-shirt, trimming his hair and cursing.

  "#&*#@!"

  "And a good morning to you too, Spit."

  Spit jumped, nearly poking his eye out with the scissors. "Shit, Donna. Don't do that."

  "I'm sorry, Spit." Donna watched for a minute as Spit battled to assert control over his spaghetti hair. "Would you like me to help you with that?"

  Staring uneasily at the random clumps of hair accumulating in the kitchen sink, Spit was grateful for the offer. "Thanks, Donna. I'm glad you're here."

  Donna chuckled. "Yeah, it's almost fun. Gimme the scissors."

  Donna examined Spit's head, looking for a safe place to start. Slowly she worked her way in, like a gardener attacking an overgrown hedge. Neither of them spoke until the pruning was complete. Finally, Donna stood back, admiring her handiwork. "There."

  Spit stared in the mirror. "Thanks."

  "Now that we trimmed your hair, how about a shave?"

  Spit took another look in the mirror. "Do you think so? It's only been a couple of days."

  "Whatever. It's up to you. Why'd you decide to cut your hair anyway?"

  Spit adopted a serious pose. "I'm not sure. The attorney, I guess. I don't want him taking one look at me and thinking I'm just some loser he can dick around with. I need to work on my look."

  Donna imagined Spit on one of those TV makeover shows. She tried to look at Spit with a queer eye. "What are you going to wear?"

  "This…" Spit thought about his answer for a moment. "…And my jeans."

  "Tell you what, Spit. While you shave, I'll take a look in your closet."

  Donna knew it would take more than a queer eye to make sense of Spit's wardrobe, but in the back of the closet, behind the stained blue jeans and the olive drabs, behind the army surplus and the thrift shop bargain rack, Donna found a black wool-blend three-piece suit. The vest was beyond repair, but the jacket was still serviceable.

  Spit walked in as Donna was examining the slacks. "I haven't worn that since my grandmother's funeral."

  "It's a good suit for your meeting with the lawyer. How about a shirt and tie?"

  Spit had to draw the line somewhere. "No tie."

  "What about a shirt?" Donna rummaged through Spit's closet, but the best she could find was a clean blue denim work shirt. "This'll have to do then. Get dressed, Spit."

  Donna stood there and for a moment Spit believed that she planned to supervise him while he changed.

  "I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready." Donna exited the bedroom, leaving Spit alone with his wardrobe. Ten minutes later Spit emerged from his bedroom, the makeover complete, wearing his black suit, blue shirt and red Converse sneakers. "I'm sorry, Donna. I don't own a pair of dress shoes anymore."

  Donna smiled. "It's okay, Spit. You look fabulous."

  Spit grinned. "I do, don't I?"

  When Spit was ready to head for the attorney's office, Donna gave him a peck on the cheek and sent him out the door. "Remember, Spit, just don't sign anything."

  Half an hour later, Spit was pulling up in his cab at the office condominium belonging to Louis A. Garibaldi, Esquire.

  Doris greeted him warmly at the door. "You must be Mr. Pettigrew."

  "No, I'm…" Spit snuck a peek at his wardrobe. "…Actually, yes, I am Mr. Pettigrew."

  Doris opened an inner office door. "You can wait in here."

  Spit found himself alone in a large, oak-paneled conference room, imbued with the scent of pipe tobacco and successful litigation. Several minutes passed before Mr. Garibaldi squeezed in through another private door at the far end of the conference room.

  "Mr. Pettigrew, thank you for coming."

  Despite the red sneakers, Spit felt good about the image he projected. "Thank you for inviting me."

  "Let me get right to the point then." Mr. Garibaldi did his best to explain his client's interest in the property, without actually divulging either the client or the intentions.

  Spit was thoughtful. "The thing is, Mr. Garibaldi, that spot is very special to me. I would hate to see yet another condo community go up on my grandmother's land."

  Mr. Garibaldi made a show of winking conspiratorially at Spit. "I'm not supposed to tell you this, but I'm sure I can trust you. My client intends to use the land to create a bird sanctuary."

  Spit returned the wink. "I like birds, Mr. Garibaldi. However, it seems to me that the property is already a spot where birds congregate. I mean, it's not like your client can attract more birds by advertising. So how exactly do you create a bird sanctuary?"

  Mr. Garibaldi chuckle
d. "No, you're correct, Mr. Pettigrew. I misspoke. It's not that my client intends to create a bird sanctuary. Your property is already teeming with birds. My client wants to protect the land as an official bird sanctuary, a safe spot for birds and birders."

  "That's very interesting. Do you know why I like birds, Mr. Garibaldi?" Spit didn't wait for a response. "Because I don't like people. And do you know what people I don't like most of all?"

  This time Spit waited, but Mr. Garibaldi offered no guess.

  "The people I don't like most of all are other birders, mainstream, respectable, broomstick-up-their-butt birders. I'm sorry, Mr. Garibaldi, but I think I will hold on to the property."

  "I can certainly respect that. May I ask you a question, Mr. Pettigrew? Is it true that you currently live on the property?"

  Spit nodded quickly. "Yes."

  "In one of those…cottages?" Mr. Garibaldi didn't want to insult the prospective seller by referring to his home as a shack.

  "Yes."

  Mr. Pettigrew recalled his first view of the property from land's end with Mrs. Patterson. "It must be very peaceful out there."

  "It is." Spit had an idea. "Would you like to go out there with me?"

  "Excuse me, but did you mean now?"

  "Sure. Now's fine."

  "I think I'd like that, Mr. Pettigrew."

  As the two men exited the conference room, Doris barely looked up from her computer screen.

  "Doris, I'll be back in an hour or two. I don't think I have anything on the schedule today that can't be changed."

  Doris rolled her eyes. "I'll take care of it for you, Mr. Garibaldi."

  "What would I do without you, Doris?" The attorney closed the door behind him before his paralegal dared to respond.

  Mr. Garibaldi took Spit into his confidence. "Honestly, I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have Doris to take care of me. A man in your position, Mr. Pettigrew, I'm sure you understand."

  Spit ran a hand across his neatly trimmed hair. "I know what you mean, Mr. Garibaldi."

  Spit offered the attorney a ride in the taxicab. There was a moment of awkwardness as each man privately considered the matter of cab fare. Mr. Garibaldi tactfully suggested it would be easier for them both if he followed behind the cab in his Cadillac Seville.

  Mr. Garibaldi was relieved to have a guide leading him to the isolated spot. Spit found the unmarked turn leading down to his property on his first try. When they parked their cars at land's end, the attorney took a closer look at the rickety wooden walkway spanning the marsh.

  Spit set out on foot along the wooden path. Mr. Garibaldi, an exceptionally large man with dainty feet, had second thoughts about accepting Mr. Pettigrew's invitation. Still, there was no turning back. Moving carefully, he followed his host along the path.

  "It must be hard living out here all alone."

  Spit waited for Mr. Garibaldi to catch up. "Right now it feels kind of crowded."

  Spit realized that Mr. Garibaldi might not understand. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean you. I have a houseguest this week. A very nice girl…a good influence…still, I'll be glad when everything gets back to normal."

  Something was bothering Spit, but try as he might, he could not remember what it was.

  From the cottage, Donna could hear two men talking. She looked out the window, spotting the men as they made their way across the marsh. She had spent enough time with the Sand Skeeters to recognize the team's rotund attorney.

  Donna didn't want Mr. Garibaldi to stumble upon her hideout. Had Spit forgotten she was in hiding? She was in a state of panic. She couldn't stay in the house without being found out, but there was no place to go without risk of being seen. Standing at the window, Donna sneaked another peek. The two men were getting closer.

  In Her Summer-Weight Wool Bikini

  Donna knew that she had to make a decision. Moving to the back room, where the house itself would shield her actions from view, Donna clambered out the window and followed the path from the rear of the cottage, moving quickly, heading deeper into the marsh. Donna stopped some thirty yards behind the cottage, crouching in the mud along with the gnats and the mosquitoes, hidden from view by the tall marsh grass waving in the wind.

  She could no longer see the two men and was fairly certain they could not see her, but she could hear their voices carrying from the dock.

  "I don't think I could live here, but there is something romantic about the idea." The two men stood on the dock, watching a colony of common terns.

  Mr. Garibaldi continued to be surprised by his reaction to this desolate spit of land jutting out into the ocean. "I can respect your decision not to sell…Still, I can't help but wonder whether you shouldn't consider my client's offer. Can I tell him that you'll think about it?"

  Spit had begun the day nervous about meeting Mr. Garibaldi, but he realized he had something that the attorney wanted—not the real estate, but the way of life. He pictured the oversized Mr. Garibaldi living on the water, dressed in his custom-tailored suit, and on his dainty feet, in place of the expensive Italian loafers, a pair of tiny red sneakers.

  "I'll think about it."

  Mr. Garibaldi watched as a tern suddenly snatched a small fish from the water. Meanwhile, a sea gull watched Mr. Garibaldi. "I should be heading back to my office." Mr. Garibaldi made no attempt to leave.

  When Donna moved in, Spit managed to adjust to the doubled occupancy. He had a sudden uncomfortable vision of the trebling of the local population. "Would you like me to walk you back to your car?"

  Mr. Garibaldi had got Mr. Pettigrew's commitment to think about the offer. It was time to leave. "No, thank you. I can find my way back to the car. I'll call you in a few days, okay? We can talk some more about my client's offer." Mr. Garibaldi turned and headed back over the marsh.

  Spit opened the door to his home and stepped inside. It took him a moment to realize the house was empty. Scratching his head, Spit stepped out onto the dock. He was startled to see Donna coming around from behind the house.

  "Are you okay?"

  Donna scratched at a mosquito bite on her cheek. "I'm fine, Spit." She scratched at a bite on her neck. "How was your meeting with the attorney?"

  "Okay, I guess."

  "Did you sign anything?"

  From his car, Mr. Garibaldi called Andy MacTavish and briefed him on his meeting with Perry Pettigrew. "I'm going to talk to him again in a few days, but when all is said and done, I don't think he'll sell you the land, sir."

  Andy's experience had taught him that some of the best deals begin with a "no." "You may be right, Mr. Garibaldi, but our Mr. Pettigrew sounds like a shrewd businessman. I bet you he's got a counterproposal the next time you hear from him."

  Mr. Garibaldi had learned to respect Andy's instinct for the deal. Still, Andy had not met the eccentric Mr. Pettigrew. "We'll see. In the meantime, with your permission, I'd like to reach out to Mrs. Patterson. Perhaps she knows something more about our Mr. Pettigrew than she has let on."

  "That's a good idea, Mr. Garibaldi. Let me know what you find out."

  When Mrs. Patterson answered the telephone, she was pleased to hear Mr. Garibaldi's strong baritone voice.

  "It's so nice to hear from you, Mr. Garibaldi. Have you made any progress locating the owner?"

  Oozing male pride, Mr. Garibaldi briefly explained the situation. "Not only have I identified the owner, but I've met with him already."

  "Is he willing to sell?"

  "We'll see." Mr. Garibaldi knew this was a conversation he needed to do face to face. "Perhaps we should get together to discuss it."

  Mrs. Patterson eagerly accepted the offer. "I'm meeting my husband for a late lunch in town. I can meet you on the boardwalk at three o'clock."

  "On the boardwalk?"

  "Yes. The coffee shop on the boardwalk. Three o'clock."

  When Mr. Garibaldi approached the coffee shop, Mrs. Patterson was standing on the boardwalk, tall and stiff, a vision in glen plaid, watching the laughing gulls
scavenging on the beach.

  "It is a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Patterson. You look lovely."

  Mrs. Patterson giggled. "Oh, Mr. Garibaldi, how sweet of you to say so."

  Mr. Garibaldi ordered one black coffee and one mocha latte with raspberry syrup. "The back deck has a lovely view of the beach." Mr. Garibaldi held the door for Mrs. Patterson. Off-season, they had their choice of seating on the deck.

  Mrs. Patterson sipped her black coffee. "Don't you just love the beach this time of year? In season, everyone flaunts their sun-tanned bodies. It's all so in-your-face, don't you think?"

  Mr. Garibaldi said nothing. He liked those sun-tanned bodies.

  Mrs. Patterson continued. "The way everyone stares at you…I mean, one look at the men and it's obvious what they're thinking, and the women are even worse…I won't walk on the beach anymore."

  Mr. Garibaldi tried to imagine Mrs. Patterson, in season, walking on the beach in her summer-weight wool bikini. "Would you like to hear about my meeting with Mr. Pettigrew?"

  Mrs. Patterson caught Mr. Garibaldi discreetly checking her out, before he changed the subject. She thought she wouldn't mind with Mr. Garibaldi.

  "I would like that very much." Mrs. Patterson could feel the warmth in her cheeks. "Hearing about your meeting, that is."

  Mr. Garibaldi described his appointment with Mr. Pettigrew. "He's really quite eccentric…you know, he lives on the property."

  "You mean he actually lives in one of those shacks? I thought the place was abandoned." Mrs. Patterson considered that eccentric was not a strong enough adjective for the man who would choose to live in such a dwelling.

  "Yes, he does. And he drives a vintage taxicab."

  "How unusual."

  Mr. Garibaldi agreed. "Yes. He is a most unusual gentleman. I fear, however, that he may not be swayed by matters of finance."

  Mrs. Patterson weighed the attorney's words. "Perhaps it is just a negotiating ploy."

  "Perhaps. Mr. MacTavish thought the same thing."