Page 127 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case

Soaked to the Bone

“Thank you, Mr. Foss,” said Labelle briskly. “You can go home
now. But please don’t leave town before checking with us.” She gave
him a business card. He took it, read it from top to bottom and side
to side, and carefully tucked it away in a battered wallet. She looked at
me and I followed her out of the cabana after bidding farewell to the
lugubrious—but not lachrymose—gardener, pool cleaner, car washer
and all-around busybody. I didn’t doubt a word of his account of the
movements of Fish’s retinue.
A policeman approached her as she flipped open her cell phone: I
stopped in my tracks. This was no time and place to be her shadow.
She pointed me in the direction of the poolside patio table and chairs
not far from the scene of Fish’s last gasp. I sat down in one of the
ornate wrought iron chairs facing the Whirlamatic: what story could it
tell the trained investigator? I could picture the scene, having
witnessed its elements often. Fish, in this case alone (or not), boozy
and choleric, barking orders into his phone (or an unsympathetic
ear), overcome at last by the cumulative abuse to his body (or some
immediate abuse administered by the owner of that ear); unable to
call for help (or without anyone in earshot, or already unconscious
thanks to a stroke or coronary infarction or having been knocked on
the noggin with his own bottle of Scotch), slipping below water level;
there to slow-cook overnight in rather warm water. No wonder Alma
was distraught: it could not have been a pretty sight next morning.
So, was it an accident, compounded by misadventure (Fish’s whole
life)? Or had he been murdered? Means, motive, opportunity. I could
see that Labelle Gramercy was circling around all three like a hungry
buzzard. Cui bono? was the next cliché coupled to that train of
thought. Did G.F. have much to leave anyone? I knew his debts were
enormous, the fancy house mortgaged to the hilt, nothing but the will
o’ the wisp of his next successful project between him and penury. I
rephrased the question: who beside heirs had anything to gain by his
terminated existence? That led to the proverbial enemies list, and I
can’t assemble that many names in my head without losing a few in
the process. For openers, there was—
“Nick Krotz is here.” Labelle’s not-dulcet tones broke into my
deductive chain, saving me the test of its weaker links. “It would help
if you could tell me why he was packing a carry-on bag for a quick
trip to Mexico City when we picked him up.”

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