his words as slow and deliberate as his hands. “He knew the Gulf, like I said. Miss Melba was a tourist several years ago. She went out fishing with some friends. Their boat broke down. Storm came up quick, like they do here. Caught those folks and swamped their boat. The story goes Melba was scared silly. They would’ve all been lost for sure, when along comes old Tugboat on a fast track back to port. Hauled them out of the water and into his boat like drowned rats and towed their boat in. Made him a hero. He was a rugged looking guy then, too, but he had it all together. An exciting guy, I guess, to a woman who probably hadn’t been courted much.” Brandy thought of Melba’s gaunt but elegant face, her bony frame. Again the bartender stroked his tiny beard; then he shook his head. “Now he lives off his wife, as far as anyone can tell. But he lives well.”
When a waitress came from the restaurant with their salads, Brandy turned to Grif. “Sad story,” she said, frowning. She had picked up her fork when she saw the two women rise. They had both noticed Grif and Brandy. Alma May’s lips tightened and she turned away, but Melba had regained her self-assurance. She gave the two of them a brusque nod before they swept out.
* * * *
In the morning, coffee still in hand, Brandy called the Sheriff’s Office in Inverness and asked for Detective Sergeant Strong. When he came on the line, he didn’t sound pleased.
“Little lady,” he said, “don’t expect special treatment. You want to know about the lab results, you come in like the other reporters and hear the spokeswoman’s statement. Say, about eleven o’clock.”
Brandy rolled her eyes upward, but she had determined to be agreeable. “Thanks for the information, Sergeant. No quotation to help start the day?”
Strong paused, then said in his give-me-patience tone, “Seek not out the things that are too hard for thee, neither seek the things that are above thy strength.”
Brandy smiled. She had no intention of following this advice. “Thanks again, my friend. I hope you’ll let the press know whose fingerprints are in the briefcase.”
“All in good time,” he said and hung up.
After putting out fresh water for Meg, she fastened the retriever again to her chain and stake in the front yard. Brandy was glad the dog enjoyed socializing with the neighbors, who kept an eye on her. Still, Meg lay down under an orange tree in a huff, disappointed that again she wouldn’t share the day with Brandy. Brandy gave her a final pat before stepping into Carole’s small sedan for the drive to Inverness.
At the Sheriff s Office, the brunette with the starched face and heavy glasses addressed the press in a careful monotone. “The lab report is in earlier than we dared hope,” she began from behind her desk. “Timothy Hart’s stomach contents have been analyzed. He died of poison. Pokeweed, a native Florida plant. His death may have been accidental, but because of the quantity and parts of the plant ingested, the Sheriff s Office is treating his death as homicide. He continued to eat only the poisonous roots and berries and leaves after he would’ve been quite ill. Likely someone else is involved.”
The Chronicle reporter raised an eager hand. “Has the Sheriff s Office discovered the source of the pokeweed?”
The spokeswoman studied her nails, considering. Then she said, “Deputies found a possible source on Tiger Tail Island, where the victim was staying, but it was relatively inaccessible.” Hart tramped all over the island, Brandy remembered. Grif had helped him buy his high boots. “The press can help the investigation,” the spokeswoman went on, “by alerting the public to the danger of pokeweed, and asking readers to notify the Sheriff s Office of other locations in the area.”
Brandy knew it would be useless to ask about the briefcase. The results would not be in, and why tip the others to its existence? The interview was clearly over.
When a waitress came from the restaurant with their salads, Brandy turned to Grif. “Sad story,” she said, frowning. She had picked up her fork when she saw the two women rise. They had both noticed Grif and Brandy. Alma May’s lips tightened and she turned away, but Melba had regained her self-assurance. She gave the two of them a brusque nod before they swept out.
* * * *
In the morning, coffee still in hand, Brandy called the Sheriff’s Office in Inverness and asked for Detective Sergeant Strong. When he came on the line, he didn’t sound pleased.
“Little lady,” he said, “don’t expect special treatment. You want to know about the lab results, you come in like the other reporters and hear the spokeswoman’s statement. Say, about eleven o’clock.”
Brandy rolled her eyes upward, but she had determined to be agreeable. “Thanks for the information, Sergeant. No quotation to help start the day?”
Strong paused, then said in his give-me-patience tone, “Seek not out the things that are too hard for thee, neither seek the things that are above thy strength.”
Brandy smiled. She had no intention of following this advice. “Thanks again, my friend. I hope you’ll let the press know whose fingerprints are in the briefcase.”
“All in good time,” he said and hung up.
After putting out fresh water for Meg, she fastened the retriever again to her chain and stake in the front yard. Brandy was glad the dog enjoyed socializing with the neighbors, who kept an eye on her. Still, Meg lay down under an orange tree in a huff, disappointed that again she wouldn’t share the day with Brandy. Brandy gave her a final pat before stepping into Carole’s small sedan for the drive to Inverness.
At the Sheriff s Office, the brunette with the starched face and heavy glasses addressed the press in a careful monotone. “The lab report is in earlier than we dared hope,” she began from behind her desk. “Timothy Hart’s stomach contents have been analyzed. He died of poison. Pokeweed, a native Florida plant. His death may have been accidental, but because of the quantity and parts of the plant ingested, the Sheriff s Office is treating his death as homicide. He continued to eat only the poisonous roots and berries and leaves after he would’ve been quite ill. Likely someone else is involved.”
The Chronicle reporter raised an eager hand. “Has the Sheriff s Office discovered the source of the pokeweed?”
The spokeswoman studied her nails, considering. Then she said, “Deputies found a possible source on Tiger Tail Island, where the victim was staying, but it was relatively inaccessible.” Hart tramped all over the island, Brandy remembered. Grif had helped him buy his high boots. “The press can help the investigation,” the spokeswoman went on, “by alerting the public to the danger of pokeweed, and asking readers to notify the Sheriff s Office of other locations in the area.”
Brandy knew it would be useless to ask about the briefcase. The results would not be in, and why tip the others to its existence? The interview was clearly over.
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