The Crab Trap: A Murder Mystery

By Henry Scott Holte

Wesley Camden drinks too much, has a bad case of writer's block. The afterglow from his top-ten novel on the Rockports of Garden Bay is rapidly fading. His malaise changes when he meets eleven-year old Jennie Jenkins. Jennie and her dad, Lenny, are recent arrivals to Garden Bay. Wes wants them to experience the wonders and vistas of Puget Sound but instead he is plunged into intrigue and murder.
James Rockport, a hopeless alcoholic, has died. His only son, Donny, stands to inherit the Rockport fortune and can't wait to assume control of the business. Donny has numerous enemies: Sam Brown, C.P.A., who managed the business for James; Bill Turner, attorney for the Rockports; Walter Flannigan whose son, Ben is serving time in federal prison for violent strike activities against Donny when he took over and ruined the one business his father let him manage; and many others whose lives were wrecked by the union strike.
But Donny's plans are seriously threatened. Lenny Jenkins claims to be James' illegitimate son not mentioned in his will and entitled to one-half of the family fortune. Wes is hired to travel to Montana to investigate Lenny's claims; then learns that James was murdered. Wes' investigation is intertwined with the rediscovery of a childhood sweetheart, Constance Dubois, and her world of wealthy Garden Bay art patrons, art and artists, including Eleanor Harper Rockport, Donny's estranged mother. Wes begins to feel he has a chance at a normal life with Connie.
Wes confirms that Lenny is entitled to one-half of the fortune but finds him dead on his return. Then Eleanor Rockport is murdered. Donny is the obvious suspect, but then he is found dead. Jennie is now the sole heir, but after one more murder everyone is stymied. Wes discovers the answer lies in the tangled web of wills and estates, but realizes he has left Jennie with the murderer. All that is left is a rush across Puget Sound in a speedboat to try to save Jennie and catch a murderer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483530314

Book preview

coincidental.

CHAPTER 1

The steam rose from the coffee and was obliterated in an exhale. New steam replaced the old and was lost in the gray of early morning. It was dawn, without hint of a sunrise. The low gray clouds reflected in the gray-green color of the water, which was still as the morning. Dawn, not filtered through a hangover, was splendid. I blew again and took a sip of the dark rich brew. The Seattle coffee phenomenon had reached Garden Bay and I was quite proficient with my new espresso machine. I wondered if any of my neighbors had espresso machines.

I glanced at my beach house, which sat atop a large outcropping of rock. The weathered cedar siding matched the silvered shake roof. A gaze across the beach logs and sand – more grays and silvers. I took a long drink from the heavy porcelain mug. Coffee was an essential part of my morning. A long practiced art of balancing caffeine and alcohol, alcohol and caffeine.

I breathed deeply. A sober breath – the first in two weeks. I surveyed the mess on my front porch. The evidence of a two-week bender was everywhere – cartons of empty six packs strewn among empty fifths. A pile of The Sound News – my former employer - was neatly stacked next to the front door. (The paperboy deserved a good tip.) The morning's paper was on top. To catch up on two weeks in Garden Bay, I'd have to start at the bottom. I put my mug on the railing and moved the pile aside. The front-page headline for Monday, August 6, 1990 froze me in my tracks: JAMES ROCKPORT FOUND DEAD. It wasn't really shock or even surprise. James had abused his body enough for several lives. The stark headline underscored the overriding fact of my life – my inexorable ties to the Rockports. I won a Pulitzer Prize while at The Sound News thanks to the Rockports. I had a top ten selling historical novel on the Rockports. Hell, my beach house, bank accounts – all thanks to the Rockports. This wasn't pleasant reminiscing – it was the inescapable weight of my life, and I wanted a drink. I tossed the paper back onto the pile and walked off the porch onto the beach. I was far too fragile for news of the outside world.

It was fully light now. Across the water the jumbled mass of Rockport Mills framed the city. The outline brought despair instead of contentment. I had a very bad case of writer's block and I didn't have much confidence in my newfound sobriety to solve the problem.

Maybe it's time to get blitzed, I smiled at the thought. Like Marvell, the poet, wine lifts my spirit and exalts my muse.

Fortunately, no one was around to read my thoughts – a line used far too many times. A slight ripple breezed across my back. I was facing almost directly south, where the mansions of the rich lined the bluff. I couldn't make them out in the overcast, but knew they were there, including the one where James Rockport was found dead. The wind stirred at my back again, this time with more definite direction. It wouldn't rain today, despite the threatening skies. A bark, followed by a spray of sand interrupted my musings. I had just enough time to cover the coffee mug.

I don't want cafe au sand this morning Bart, thank you.

At the sound of his name, Bart pressed close. I stroked his head, and the golden retriever laid his chin on my knee. A look of pure contentment filled his dark brown eyes. I recalled that Bart had his favorite squeaky toy just before being let out. It was an orange carrot, same size and shape as the real thing, with a green top.

You better not have lost your carrot. I'm going broke, replacing your goddamn toys.

The dog looked up. I drained the coffee and gave him a hug.

Come on boy, let's have some breakfast.

We were halfway across a patch of beach grass when I heard a small thin yell.

Hey mister! Is this the goddamn carrot you're looking for?

I was startled by the yell. A child was gesturing with Bart's carrot grasped between the thumb and forefinger. Bart had turned and was preparing to dart off. The body language of the child showed some alarm. I said softly,

Sit Bart.

Bart reluctantly obeyed – because of the carrot, or the child, I wasn't sure.

Yes, I believe that is Bart's carrot. Where did you find it?

I walked toward the child, motioning for Bart to stay. It worked. The child was a young girl of about 10 or 11. A tight guarded look, as pinched as her yell, kept her face half turned away. She had short, cropped black hair and huge brown eyes. Upon seeing her eyes, I had a flash of deja vu.

I saw him drop it in the sand in front of our house - well it's really not our house - just where we're holed up for now. You want it? It's really yucky - full of sand and slobber.

The girl handed over the toy. It was a mess, and Bart had surpassed his limit. He leaped, spraying the girl's feet with sand and uprooted beach grass. She stepped back.

Down Bart! I yelled.

The retriever went down, but looked like he'd leap any second.

I told you to sit.

Bart laid his chin on his forepaws.

He really minds pretty well, most of the time. But he gets excited and forgets.

The girl gave me a slightly scornful look, which said Oh yeah.

Is that coffee?

Yes - well, I mean it was. I have more in the beach house. Would you like some?

I made the suggestion without really thinking about it.

Yeah, that would be great.

I struggled with curiosity and adult sensibility. I offered the carrot to the girl.

First, we should all be properly introduced. You should rightfully return Bart's carrot to him, since you found it. He will love you forever. Besides, it's yucky.

  The girl smiled slightly and took the carrot, dangling it toward Bart.

Take it in the palm of your hand - offer it to him. He won't hurt you. He's a retriever – with a very soft mouth.

The girl looked apprehensive, but offered, extending her hand. Bart gently took the carrot and immediately started making sounds - guttural throat noises and high-pitched whines.

Why's he growling?

He's not growling, he's talking. That's how he lets you know he's happy.

I was uncomfortable. I'd spent very little time around children.

We need to get back to introductions, I said awkwardly. You already know Bart's name. My name is Wes Camden, and your name is -

Jennie Jenkins. Jennie is short for Jennifer, but I prefer Jennie. Is Wes short for Wesley?

Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. And like you, I prefer Wes. Pleased to meet you Jennie.

I extended my hand and Jennie responded with a firm handshake.

Does Bart shake hands?

Afraid not, but he does talk.

Jennie, you mentioned you're living in a house - is it near here?

Yeah, it's just down the beach a ways. It's Jane somebody's. She's loaded and doesn't live there. She's letting us stay there for awhile.

Oh, I said, recognizing the description, you're staying in Jane Rockport's beach house.

That's it - that's the broad.

The young girl was tall and angular, although slight in comparison to my six feet two. She wore blue jeans, sneakers, and a t-shirt, which wasn't enough, even though it was August. She shivered slightly in a gust of wind.

Do you think that coffee is still hot?

I was puzzled by her information.

Oh, it's fine, I'm sure.

Who's us? I asked.

Jennie looked slightly startled.

My dad and me. His name is Lenny Jenkins. Do you know him?

No. You know, I think I should meet him before inviting his daughter in for coffee.

Jennie's face dropped.

You can't! He's asleep - he needs his rest.

Jennie's face became tight, like before. She hunched up her shoulders and turned away. I felt terrible.

Maybe your dad and you could stop by my place for a cup of fresh coffee later on.

The girl turned and gave me a whimsical look. She half-smiled, and said,

Maybe.

CHAPTER 2

I poured more coffee and took a seat in a captain's chair. Swiveling toward the view, I caught a glimpse of Jennie in the brush and scrub trees at the base of the rocks. From the angle, I knew her vision was blocked by the trees. She cast a furtive glance in my direction, and reached into her jeans pocket. She turned her back, hunched over, the puff of white smoke was unmistakable.

Why that little shit.

My irritation passed, as Jennie strolled down the beach, smoking her cigarette. The lifeless gray morning also passed, and blossomed into a new day. Shafts of bright sunlight knifed through the clouds rapidly dissipating to the south. A blue heron was fishing for his breakfast along the edges of a tide-pool. The stiff jerky walk and odd tilt of his head belied the fluid swiftness of the kill. I caught the silvery flash, just before it disappeared down the long gullet.

My thoughts returned to Jennie and my impulse to invite her for coffee. I hadn't even questioned why a girl so young would want coffee. Why had I reacted so foolishly? Was it really curiosity, or did I need companionship that badly? The answer was sadly yes. To my knowledge I hadn't really talked to anyone in two weeks.

The telephone's ring startled me. I hated phones, and often thought about disconnecting. I assumed the caller was Linda Jones or Brian Tanner, the only people who called me.

Wes, this is Chance Roberson.

I hadn't seen Chance since we shared two very expensive bottles of champagne over the acceptance notice for my novel.

Chance - how the hell are you? You want to drink some great champagne? I'm ready to fall off the wagon - I'll buy this time.

I had always liked Chance. He had a somewhat mysterious background and was an excellent trial lawyer. I followed more than one of his trials for the Sound News. It was one of those friendships I was ashamed of not nurturing, but Chance had very little time outside his work at Cooley & Turner.

How the hell do you think I am? I'm a goddamn lawyer - it's Saturday, and I've been in this fucking office since seven a.m.!

That's how you make all those piles of money Chance my boy! Why are you taking time out of your busy schedule to call a non-paying, non-client like me?

Well - Chance paused for a moment, first, I wanted to know if you'd dropped off the face of the planet; and, uh, second - if you've got another novel for me to proofread -

That's a touchy subject at the moment. I haven't been very productive lately, I interrupted, but not too rudely. As far as falling off the wagon – well, I only got on today.

I suppose everyone wants a Rockport sequel, Chance said, ignoring my reference to drinking.

Yes, everyone but me.

You'd have a lot of juicy material to work with based upon what's been happening.

You know, I was just thinking the same thing when you called, but I really am through with the Rockports.

Yea - well, I guess you are. Donny Rockport won't be signing any releases.

I don't imagine so, now that his father is dead. I just learned about that this morning.

Jesus Christ Wes. Where the hell have you been? James Rockport was buried two weeks ago today.

I'm sure Chance wasn't completely surprised because he knew me well. He knew I could quarantine myself from the outside world for weeks at a time. It happened during prolonged bouts of drinking, or working, or sometimes just floating around daydreaming.

I was mildly surprised you didn't show up for the funeral, but - not many people did.

I must have been finishing a hellish toot when he died Chance. I had no idea. It's funny no one's contacted me. You'd think at least Linda or Brian would have called me.

Maybe they did, and you just don't remember.

I winced at the comment.

Now that I think of it, both Linda and Butch have been out of town the past two weeks. Linda went to the ocean as a counselor at some camp, and Butch has been at a forensic pathology seminar in Los Angeles.

Almost everyone called Brian Tanner by his nickname, Butch, but I had known Brian for ever and always used his given name.

Well, that explains it then. What happened to James?

Just a massive heart attack. They found him in bed, peaceful as a baby. Christ, it's a wonder he lived to sixty-five, the way he abused himself. You should remember that, Wes.

I'm taking notes, I said glibly.

I do appreciate your catching me up on the latest gossip, but I have the feeling you called for something more.

You're very perceptive when you're sober, and even sometimes when you're drunk. I did call you for a specific reason Wesley, but I can't properly explain it over the phone. Could you meet me at the office at seven a.m. sharp on Monday? I know you're an early riser.

Of course I can meet you, but why?

I want to hire you.

For what?

I need some fast, intensive investigation. All our paralegals are tied up in anti-trust document production. Besides, you're the best investigator I know.

I refused to be put off.

Flattery will get you everywhere, but I need to know more. You could hire a number of competent investigators.

Not when there is four hundred and fifty million dollars at stake. We're talking beaucoup bucks here my friend. We're talking about the Rockport fortune.

But -

I know, I know, you're through with the Rockports. I'm not asking you to write about them, or even talk to them. All I want you to do is some top-notched investigation. No one will know about it, and we will pay you very well. Besides, you need to get off your butt and do something. Just hear me out Monday morning and then decide.

Chance was at his persuasive best. He quickly added,

You should know that our client in this matter is the estate of James Rockport.

I was sure that was the case, but I do appreciate your candor. I'll see you at seven on Monday.

Great!

No problem, besides, I haven't said yes yet.

Okay Wes. Thanks. I'll see you Monday, and I'll have the coffee on.

I'm not drinking that crap you make! You better have a tall double latte from Mary's waiting for me!

Okay, okay, said Chance, laughing, you got it.

   I hung up the phone, my mind racing. James Rockport dead and some problem with his estate requiring investigation! I didn't understand how there could be a problem. Included in my knowledge of Rockport history was the arrangement for James Rockport's trust. His father, Franklin Rockport, had realized the potential for disaster with James running Rockport Enterprises. At the urgings of his lawyers, he created a lifetime trust, which left the management of the various businesses to a hired manager upon Franklin's death. But Franklin insisted that the management arrangement be renewed by annual contracts approved and signed by James. James had cheerfully acquiesced in his father's arrangement, signing management contracts each year. William Turner, of the law firm, Cooley & Turner, had convinced Franklin to promote Sam Brown, certified public accountant for Rockport Enterprises, Inc., to overall manager. Sam had continued to manage the businesses pursuant to the yearly contracts signed by James. With James' death the trust ended, and the entire Rockport fortune became his estate, with his son, Donny, as the sole heir.

   Maybe that's it. Maybe there's some problem with Donny.

Donny had really made a mess of Rockport Rails & Panels, the lodestar of Rockport Enterprises. After years of trying, he finally talked his father into amending one of the annual contracts. Sam Brown and Bill Turner had done their level best to change James' mind, but Donny won the battle, and became President and manager of Rockport Rails & Panels. That was two years ago; and today the business was almost bankrupt. I smiled ruefully at what must be going through Sam Brown's mind. Now that James was dead, there wouldn't be any more management contracts. Donny Rockport would assume full control of all the businesses.

The outcome would certainly be interesting, but how did the future of Rockport Enterprises and Donny Rockport have anything to do with his father's estate? What would require investigation? Chance had said the client was James' estate, not Rockport Enterprises, although they were one and the same. The problem, whatever it was, had to be something other than Donny.

I was most puzzled about one comment - four hundred and fifty million dollars at stake. I knew enough of the Rockport fortune to place its value at twice that figure. Something very strange was going on; and my interest was piqued. I smiled to myself.

The bastard! He aroused my curiosity without telling me a fucking thing. He knows I'll take the job, before I even know what's going on.

I laughed out loud. There was nothing I could do until seven sharp on Monday. My laughter ended with a quick involuntary sigh. Happiness these days was fleeting. The norm was weakness and insecurity, the warm glow of alcohol – and the powerful allure of the Rockports.

CHAPTER 3

Dr. Broche was so engrossed in his editing, he didn't hear the timid knocking on his office door. When the visitor redoubled his efforts, the loud banging so startled the pathologist, he tore a hole in the manuscript with his pen.

Yes! What is it!

The door opened slightly, and a red-faced intern peeked around it, without fully entering the room.

The doctor recognized the intruder and did his best to hide his irritation, laying his pen gently on the pile of papers to his left.

Yes, Knowles - come in, he said, motioning with his right hand.

What can I do for you?

Well, sir, Knowles said, with a pained expression, do you remember that autopsy you performed in Garden Bay a couple weeks ago?

Dr. Broche thought for a moment, and recalled the visit to Garden Bay just before his trip to Los Angeles. The Medical School had an arrangement with several county coroner offices to perform run-of-the-mill autopsies as part of the medical training for interns. As head of pathology, Professor Broche oversaw the procedures.

If I remember correctly, he said, looking directly at Knowles, you assisted me in that autopsy.

Knowles blanched and opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. Dr. Broche looked at him more intently.

In fact, he said, I dictated the final report this morning and directed it to you for your review and approval. The deceased was a Rockport - James Rockport - correct?

Knowles merely nodded his head in response.

What is it, Knowles? the pathologist said, with a slight edge of anger in his voice.

Well, sir, Knowles said gulping, when the report was delivered to me, I remembered something.

Remembered something - what the hell does that mean?

I - I remembered something I forgot to tell you.

What!

Dr. Broche started to come out of his chair, but quieted himself, and motioned the intern, who was still standing, to be seated. Knowles sat in a chair opposite his teacher, and for the first time didn't look like he was about to jump out of his skin.

Why don't you start at the beginning, Dr. Broche said quietly, and tell me what this is all about.

As you may recall, you allowed me to do the blood analysis on the subject. I did all the screens for blood alcohol and narcotics, and measured the carbon monoxide level.

Yes, yes, and the only positive result was the B.A., which was consistent with all the other physical findings indicating a chronic alcoholic.

Yes - that's correct, but there was an additional positive in the blood which I couldn't immediately identify.

What! Dr. Broche yelled in spite of himself. Why didn't you report this to me?

Well I - Knowles said plaintively, I meant to ask you about it - but in the rush to do a good autopsy quickly, it slipped my mind. Besides - it was obvious the subject died of a heart attack. We didn't even have to crack him open.

Dr. Broche was visibly angry. He pointed his finger directly at Knowles.

You don't do a good autopsy quickly. That way, things don't slip your mind. And, one reason we didn't do a full body examination, was because your blood work was grossly normal, except for the B.A. - and now you're telling me it wasn't! Have I got that right?

That's correct, Knowles said, dejectedly. I meant to follow up on my own and then report it to you - but you left for the seminar in L.A. - and I - I got wrapped up in other things.

Knowles sighed, and Broche felt some compassion for the young man. Although the medical establishment was changing, interns were still worked like dogs as some sort of rite of passage before they could join the brotherhood. Dr. Broche started to say something, but didn't, deciding instead to let Knowles explain himself.

In any event, Knowles said, straightening himself, when I saw your report this morning, I remembered I hadn't gone back to identify the substance in the blood. I hadn't released any of the samples, so I retested the original - and then I tested another sealed vial of blood. Both showed positive.

For what? the pathologist said, puzzled.

Ether. Lots of ether.

Ether! A rather strange finding for someone who succumbed from an heart attack - don't you think?

Yes.

We've got a problem Dr. Knowles, a very big problem.

Yes, sir, I know.

Okay, Broche said, placing his hands on the desk.

"I want a