poor kids.”
“Do you know the name of Doug’s supervisor over at the college?” I asked George.
“No,” he said. “He worked out of the maintenance department. That’s all I know. Why?”
“Don’t take this wrong, Mr. Brewster,” I said, “but we need to make sure Doug was in Charlotte at the time Katherine died.”
Estelle put her hand to her mouth. “He had dinner here that day. With us. Besides, Doug loved Kat. He would never have harmed her.”
“I’m sorry I had to ask,” I said, feeling a little foolish.
We talked some more without me learning anything new. I got up from the chair, thanked them for their time, and followed George toward the front door. Hanging on the wall between a window and the door was a shadow box with military decorations pinned inside along with the symbol of the U.S. Marine Corps.
“You were a Marine?” I asked.
“Yep. Did six years in the corps. Two tours in Vietnam. Did you serve?”
“Yeah. I did a tour right at the end of the war. Army.”
“What branch?”
“Special Forces.”
“You guys were tough.”
“So were you jarheads. Were you infantry?”
“Yeah. I was trained as a sniper and worked in Force Recon.”
“A Marine sniper. The best of the best.”
“So they told me.”
I shook his hand. “Thank you for your service.”
“And thank you for yours.”
I left them standing on the porch as dusk enveloped us.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The small jet banked slightly and lined up on its final approach to Sarasota-Bradenton Airport. I looked down at the dark expanse of Sarasota Bay, clearly outlined by the lights of the mainland and the barrier islands. Headlights moved across the Anna Maria Bridge, its superstructure defined by red and green lights. People on their way home or out to eat. A placid scene that reminded me of why I loved my islands so much. It was hard to reconcile this sense of normalcy with the murders that had occurred a couple of months before. I wondered if I would be able to find the murderers, to bring some peace to the victims’ families and perhaps to the spirits of the dead themselves.
I’d driven the rental car away from that small house in Charlotte where grief was edging out the good memories of an aging couple who had lost their only child and their remaining hope of happiness. The plane was fueled and ready to go. Two hours later we were crossing the bay on final approach.
During the flight, I’d typed my notes into my laptop and e-mailed them to J.D. and Chaz Desmond. I called Jock and arranged to meet him for a late dinner at the Seafood Shack in Cortez. He was going to bring J.D. I pulled into the restaurant parking lot a few minutes after nine o’clock, walked down the outside deck to the bay side dining area. Jock and J.D. were already seated at a window table. I joined them.
“How was the trip?” Jock asked.
“Quick.”
“Did you find out anything?” asked J.D.
“Betty Garrison remembered an Asian man speaking to Katherine
Brewster on the boat the night of the murders.” I filled them in on the rest of the trip and what I’d found out. Which wasn’t much.
A waitress came and took our orders, and removed the menus. She looked tired. The beauty of the bay would have long ago been lost on her. I guess when one works in paradise every day, one becomes a bit jaded about the scenery that draws the tourists that makes the job possible in the first place. She returned immediately with our drinks, a beer for me, wine for J.D., and O’Doul’s for Jock.
“I’m interested in the bogus travel agency,” said J.D. “How did the gift certificate from the B and B on Anna Maria end up with Katherine? And why a fictitious travel agency?”
“Debbie called this afternoon,” said Jock. “She ran the credit card number on EZGo and came up with a blank. The card was issued to a company named EZGo and was guaranteed by a man named, get this, John Doe.”
J.D. laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Apparently the credit card companies aren’t very discriminating. The card was used twice. Once for the gift certificate for the Anna Maria Inn and a second time for gas at a service station in Bradenton.”
“Did the name Brumbaugh come up in Deb’s search?” I asked.
“She didn’t mention it to me,” said Jock, “and she would have, I think. So I’d say no.”
“Anything from your agency on Soupy?” I asked.
“A lot, but I’ve still got to sort through all the