As it turned out, Holt’s office was a small mobile home nestled in the back of the Wahoo Police Department, right next to a trailered powerboat parked in the weeds and a weathered, rusting crime scene van. This didn’t inspire confidence that the department was making a dent in the crime rate.
I rapped on the flimsy door.
“It’s open,” a male voice called out.
Inside, I found Alex sitting at a tired desk, in an equally exhausted-looking chair. A small window-unit air conditioner wheezed in the direction of a row of gray metal file cabinets. Apparently, the town hadn’t put a lot of effort into the decor for its newest detective.
Alex stood, seemingly taking up the entirety of the small space. His desk was neat, possibly more organized than my own.
“Thanks for stopping by. This is only temporary until my office inside the police department is ready. It’s under renovation now. All this stuff is leftovers from fifty years ago.” He pointed to a cracked leather chair facing his desk. “I’ve put in a request for some new furniture.”
I sat, trying to avoid the crack that looked like it could rip open my pants from its sharp edge. I folded my hands in my lap. He eased his big frame back into his chair.
“So,” he said. “Whatcha got for me?”
I figured it was better to begin with the easy subject. “Well, the gator on the golf course is huge. Massive. At least fifteen feet. The staff there call him Chubbs.”
He chuckled. “Has it become a problem?”
“So far, no. It enjoys sunning itself near the seventh hole.”
“I’m not a fan of removing gators unless they’re a nuisance.”
That made me smile. “I’m not either! And between us, I’m not sure if I have the chops to catch this gator.”
“Have the chops. Good one.”
We grinned at each other, and it was as if the little air conditioner unit had switched off, making beads of perspiration form on the back of my neck. I folded my arms over my chest. “I told Amos at the country club not to allow anyone to feed it, and that we’d watch the situation.”
“Good plan.”
We both nodded and stared at each other. I suspected Alex Holt was only perhaps a few years older than me, but way more serious. In the harsh fluorescent light of the trailer, I noticed small lines near his eyes, and deeper laugh lines. And possibly a dimple. That was surprising.
“So,” I said.
He leaned back in his chair and studied me, clasping his hands behind his head. “Gator Gene.”
“Yes, Gator Gene.” I let out a sigh. “Listen. I’m going to be honest here. I’m worried about my sister.”
He pursed his lips. His earlier, easygoing attitude evaporated in an instant. “It’s a valid worry. Ballistics came back today and the bullet in Gene’s head matched the ones used in your sister’s gun.”
I opened and closed my mouth several times, trying to take in more air. So it was true. “Oh hell,” I whispered.
He held up his hand. “Listen, that’s not to say I think she did it. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t investigate everyone who had motive to kill Gene.”
“Of course.”
“I’m a straight shooter, so let me put it to you this way. I haven’t ruled you out either.”
I pressed my hand to my chest. “You think I might’ve killed Gene?”
He leaned forward. “I don’t, but like I said, I’m thorough. You and your sister were among the last people to have contact with him. And you had a verbal altercation. Also, you found the body.”
“You think bookstore owners are capable of murder?” I yelped. “Look at us. Together, Vera and I probably weigh less than Gene did.”
He tilted his head. “I know that you and Vera are capable of taking down some pretty big alligators. I did my research. I saw the old newspaper photos of the two of you as teens. You are two tough ladies.”
“Women,” I corrected. “We did not kill Gene Robinson.”
