Free Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_04 by Death in Paradise

took a rowboat out on the lake, drank a bottle of wine laced with the stuff, waited till it spaced her out, then rolled overboard.”
    â€œWas a rowboat missing from the Ericcson dock?”
    â€œAs a matter of fact”—his voice oozed confidence—“there was a boat missing. It was found drifting near a public ramp.”
    â€œBut the ransom money was picked up.”
    â€œPicked up? Maybe. Maybe not. Look at it this way, lady. The money was gone by the time cops checked it out.” His tone was sardonic. “Listen, how do we know any of the crap the family told us was true? Did they call us in when they got the ‘kidnapper’s’ note? Hell, no. We didn’t even know there’d been this ‘kidnapping’ until a fisherman pulled herbody up on Monday. She had on a silver bracelet with her name and it rang a bell with one of our troopers. He’d given her a ticket once. We ID’d her quick. We went out to the house and got this cock-and-bull story. I never did believe it.”
    â€œBut the money.” I wondered about Pierson’s blood pressure. His entire face glistened like burnished copper.
    â€œYeah.” His tone was grudging. “The goddamned money. Two hundred thousand in fifties and hundreds. In a shoe box. Miz Ericcson followed the directions. She got this dude out of the east to take the shoe box to the old cemetery in Gainesville. I mean, can you believe that? A cemetery! If they’d called us, we could have sewn it up tighter than a bulldogged calf. But no, they don’t call anybody, they get the cash from a bank in Dallas and give it to this dude to deliver to the cemetery at midnight that Sunday.”
    I’d not known the details. As I said, Richard and I never discussed it. The news coverage didn’t include information about the ransom drop.
    When the story broke, Richard was identified simply as a friend of the family who had delivered the ransom.
    â€œMidnight!” Pierson snorted. “Why didn’t she throw in clanking chains and a buzz saw!”
    â€œBut the money was taken.”
    â€œSure. Hell, yes. The dude tucked it behind the Beckleman mausoleum and the cops got there on Monday afternoon. More than twenty-four hours! Sure, it was gone. Anybody could have gotten it. Kids out there necking and they see this dude hide a shoe box at midnight. Or next day somebody drops out there to decorate a grave. Somebody in the family, for that matter. Those damn people. Nobody’d look at you straight.”
    â€œThey didn’t need the money,” I said dryly. There are people to whom two hundred thousand is pin money. Belle’s family members fit that description.
    He shrugged. “Maybe not. But who the hell should be surprised when we check it out after the body’s found and the shoe box is gone! Plenty of candidates. Maybe the dude who delivered the shoe box came back. Maybe he never left it.”
    â€œNo.” My answer was swift and harsh.
    He looked at me sharply. His green eyes brightened. “Oh, hey. Collins. You’re Mrs. Collins. That was the dude’s name.”
    â€œYes.” My throat felt tight. Yes, that was the dude’s name.
    â€œSo what’s your game, Mrs. Collins?”
    I gave him stare for stare. “My husband Richard came here six years ago to talk to Johnnie Rodriguez. Then Richard went to Hawaii to see Belle Ericcson. He fell to his death from the terrace of her home. On April first.” I stopped, bent my head. It still hurt so damn much and the pain throbbed anew, as if Richard had just died. I took a deep breath. “This week I received an anonymous message saying he was pushed.”
    Pierson kneaded his hand against his red cheek. “And Johnnie drowned that year.” His tone was speculative. “So, what are you going to do?”
    â€œGo to Hawaii.” Yes, I was going to go to Kauai and claw my way into Belle Ericcson’s