“‘To me—the guy who’s spent his last dime on a non-wedding.’
“For a while everyone nicknamed him Dime. Although his fiancée had hurt him deeply and although gossips gossiped, Zack put up with the name until everyone forgot it. Live and let live, that’s Key West.”
I’d been standing in the doorway peering at Courtney’s departing figure. Now I turned, and followed Zack into the solarium. Francine had coaxed a gardenia plant into early bloom, and its fragrance greeted us, heady, cloying, reminding me of funeral flowers.
“Zack, I don’t want to go back to Iowa, although it’s a great place. I remember one summer when Chet and I were hiking. We’d been following a creek that babbled through a cornfield. When we came to a railroad trestle spanning the creek, we used wild sumac branches for handholds and climbed to the bridge.”
“Courting danger?”
“Yes, but luckily, no train rumbled within sight or sound. I turned to look back, and I’ve never seen such beauty, not even in the Keys. The sun shone between a fluff of cotton candy clouds onto a sea of green cornstalks undulating in the breeze. A hawk soared toward a willow tree, and three red-winged blackbirds perched on swaying cattails at the brook’s edge. I drank in the scene until I felt the railroad ties vibrating. Chet shouted a warning. We escaped from the bridge minutes before a freight train blasted its whistle.”
“A memory like that might tempt you to return to Iowa—beautiful land. Isn’t that what the Indians called it?”
“Yes, but I’ll never go back. I also remember blizzards, subzero temperatures, and streets that remained ice-packed for weeks. One winter we were without power for six days. Friends took us in until we found a hotel room—a room of sorts. After the ordeal, people asked us if we paid the hourly rate or the night rate.”
Zack smiled. “Guess I’ve never experienced true cold.”
“In spite of the frosty winters, Iowans were warm and friendly. It’s memories of my dad deserting us, of Mom struggling to support us, of her battle with cancer—those memories hurt.”
We saw a delivery boy approaching, peering over the top of a miniature hibiscus plant full of salmon-colored blossoms. Zack turned to answer his knock, and my thoughts masked Zack’s conversation with the boy.
In the distance, I heard the clatter of a Conch Train carrying tourists to see the interesting and historic spots on the island. The train’s a boon to the tourism that keeps the island alive.
Most locals seldom rode it more than once. Nor did they rush to the sunset celebration on Mallory Dock unless visitors had arrived and needed to be entertained for an evening.
“Beautiful, Zack,” I said when he returned to the solarium with the hibiscus. “Where would you like to put it?”
“On the coffee table?”
“Fine.” I slid a conch shell to one side, making room for the plant while Zack opened the card tucked into the leaves. “Why don’t I make a list of the friends who’ve sent remembrances?” I asked. “It’ll help when you write the courtesy notes later.”
“Good idea, Bailey. Thank you. My mind’s not in gear yet this morning. Guess we were discussing your leaving or staying.”
I sorted through my thoughts. I felt guilty at arriving too late to help Francine. I might have prevented her death. She’d asked me to help her find the cause of the strange happenings here.
Surely Francine hadn’t expected me to play detective, but she had asked for help and I’d failed her. I had to stay here. I had to help bring her murderer to justice if I could. I couldn’t walk away from that obligation, nor did I want to. I thought about my brother, too. I couldn’t desert Chet, either. I loved him, and I’d promised Mom… “What are you thinking, Bailey?” Zack broke into my thoughts and I managed a smile.
“Thinking about Key West.” I couldn’t tell him all I’d been thinking. I certainly couldn’t mention my brother—Mitch, not Chet. I had to remember that.
“People either love Key West or they hate it.” Zack adjusted the hibiscus plant on the table.
“I’ve listened to lots of people, Zack. It’s a thing songwriters do. They listen. Many locals view all the tourists down here, especially the ones on Mallory at sunset, as an unwanted mass of humanity.”
“You see it otherwise?”
“Definitely. At sunset, I see a rich tapestry of strangers. Sometimes I feel that I’ve known them all before in some faraway land.”
“A land of your imagination, but I hope that’ll persuade you to stay here. By the way, the plant’s from Winton Gravely. I’ll find a notepad if you’re serious about keeping track of the gifts.”
“Sure thing.”
Zack disappeared, then reappeared carrying a yellow notepad. “I have an ulterior motive for wanting you to stay, here, Bailey.”
His low tone made me wary, put me on guard. “What could that be?”
“I know I’m facing an in-depth police investigation. According to law, any suspect’s supposed to be considered innocent until proven guilty. But, instead, sometimes a suspect has to take the lead in proving himself innocent. I think you can help me with that.”
“How?” My mind backed off another step from Zack.
“We talked about the how of it last night—briefly. Again, I’m asking you to work with me, covertly of course, in finding the person who murdered Mother. Your experiences have put you around clues, motives, suspects. I hope you’ll help me now.”
“All right. I’ll try.” I hoped my quick response masked my reluctance. “But I can tell you right now, I don’t know where to start.”
I couldn’t tell him that he loomed as a key suspect in my thinking. The neighbors all had tentative alibis as to their whereabouts during the estimated time the murder might have taken place. Zack had accounted for his time, too, in a general way. But if the others were all occupied elsewhere, how easy it would have been for him to have returned home unseen and…
I could barely stand to think of Francine, the snake, the staircase. Could I bear to go on living next door to a man who might be a murderer? Might I be his next victim?
TWELVE
A steady stream of visitors came to the mansion bringing food and flowers. In spite of his consternation over the death-scene photographs and Detective Cassidy’s visit, Zack managed to be gracious to the callers. I carried cakes, pies, and salads to the kitchen, hoping the refrigerator would hold the must-keep-chilled dishes. After each visitor left, Zack and I worked together, recording each person’s name, address, and a brief description of the gift.
“Oh.” Zack rose and looked out the window. “Here come the servicemen returning your car.”
I jumped up. A dream car. It glistened in the sunshine like a green magnet pulling me toward it.
“Go ahead.” Zack nodded toward the door. “I know you’ve missed it. Take it out for a spin.”
“I do need to pick up a few groceries from Fausto’s. But I won’t be gone long.” We hurried outside, and while Zack chatted with the servicemen, I slid beneath the wheel, waved to them, and eased into the Tuesday morning traffic on Eaton Street. Three mopeders cut in front of me, and I braked to avoid a mishap. I didn’t honk. They rode on, unmindful of their danger—or mine. Even after two years, the interior of the Lincoln still held the new-car smell. I inhaled deeply, admiring the cream-colored leather seats and reaching overhead to open the sunroof and allow a sea breeze to cool me.
Doing a slow Duval crawl, I inched along, enjoying a quick glimpse of Fast Buck Freddie’s, Margaritaville, Sloppy Joe’s. I took a longing look at The Sandbar where Francine had managed to have me invited as a guest soloist on my previous visit to celebrate the release of Greentree Blues. I hoped the owner might hire me for some gigs now that I would be living in Key West. A few people gawked at my car, and a male voice shouted, “There goes Bailey.” For a moment I had forgotten my name was on my license plate. Could I consider that word-of-mouth advertising?
I spent only a few minutes in the grocery store. A bag of M&M�
�s. Some peanut butter cups. A half gallon of milk. The fragrance of freshly baked donuts tempted me, but I thought of the food arriving at Eden Palms. Zack would share.
Back at the cottage, I parked at the door while I carried my purchases inside, and moments later, I eased my car into the carport that sat out of sight behind the mansion. I smiled when I entered the kitchen. Zack sat nibbling on a chocolate chip cookie. Sometimes food does help minimize one’s troubles—at least momentarily.
At mid-afternoon, during a lull in the flow of visitors, I wandered into Zack’s art studio. North light flowed into the spacious room and I eyed the easel draped with a white cloth sitting near the door. I smelled the faint but pungent scent of oil paints and turpentine when I peeked under the cloth at the likeness of a white boat with kelly-green sails.
“Beautiful, Zack,” I said when he followed me into the studio. “Do you manage to find a regular time for your art?”
He smiled. “Not every day, but I live in possibility. Someday I’ll finish the painting—and the boat.”
I heard the wistfulness in his voice, and I empathized with him when I thought of my own work-in-progress on a new blues composition. I’d hoped to have plenty of writing time. I owned software that allowed me to compose at the computer, and my electronic keyboard coaxed me to work every day. Yet few new ideas for lyrics or fresh rhythmic patterns had flowed to me in recent months. I told myself that was understandable, considering my mother’s recent death—and now Francine’s.
“My face aches from smiling,” Zack held a sheet of notepaper on a clipboard toward me. “I’m taping this note onto the door, thanking visitors for coming and promising to get in touch later.”
“If you’d like, I’ll stay here and greet people.”
“No. You’ve already done more than your share and I appreciate it. People will understand our need for a respite. Go on to the cottage and grab some rest. I need to take care of details at the funeral home, and I promised Ben Bahama some help. He’s been waiting since yesterday.”
“Quinn’s husband?”
“Yeah. Know him?”
“No. But Quinn mentioned him when we were talking at the airport last night. Said he’d gone shrimping.”
“Guess those were his plans, but he won’t be going out today. His boat’s at the bottom of the bay near Land End’s Village.”
“Accident?”
“No. The boat’s old—a floating disaster. Or, as of last night, a sunken disaster. I promised to salvage it, and he really needs it today. He’s having a rough time financially and The Seawitch’s under water almost as much as it’s floating. If I get over there and winch it up this afternoon, he may be able to dry it out, do some makeshift repairs, and take his crew out tomorrow night.”
“Can’t you send some of your workers to do the job?”
Zack shook his head. “I do it personally—as a favor. Ben keeps me supplied with fresh shrimp. Besides, my employees face deadlines on other projects.”
“What about a late lunch before you go?” I asked. “I saw a chicken casserole that looked delicious.”
“Not hungry. But you help yourself. Take it to the cottage if you’d feel more comfortable eating there.”
“Think I’ll do that.” I went to the kitchen and picked up the casserole, feeling it warm my hand even though it’d been in the refrigerator a few minutes. Before I left, I turned to Zack. “Give me a call if there’s anything more I can do here.”
“Thanks. Will do.”
When I left the mansion, a cloud blocked the sun and a mist began to fall. I hurried to the cottage. Strange to have rain in January, but it matched my mood. Once inside, I enjoyed a helping of the casserole along with a piece of toast covered with Francine’s special guava jelly. Everything I saw or did reminded me of Francine. Busy as she always was with her bridge groups and civic activities, she always took time to pick the summer-ripe guavas from the tree beside the carport and spend hours turning them into jelly.
The casserole hadn’t tasted as good as I hoped it might, but I finished the serving on my plate. Clean your plate if you expect dessert. My mother’s voice did an instant replay in my mind. Why, I wondered, did my mind focus so sharply on the dead?
I’d gone to my bedroom to unpack when the phone rang.
“Hello.” I’d expected to hear Zack’s voice requesting some bit of help, but instead I heard Chet—er, Mitch. Even in my mind I had to learn to think of him as Mitch.
“Hi, Sis. What’s the buzz? Can we get together for a while this afternoon? I’ve tried to call you several times this morning. You been away?”
I explained my morning to him. “What do you have in mind?”
“You promised you’d let me introduce you to a couple of my friends, remember?”
“Your homeless friends?”
“Those are the ones. How about it? They’re good people. All they need’s a little help from someone who cares about them. This afternoon would be a good meeting time for them and a good time for me, too. Nothing much going on in my life today.”
I wanted to tell him about the blacksnake, the special horror concerning Francine’s death, the pictures, but Detective Cassidy had demanded secrecy.
“Well, there’s plenty going on in my life right now. I haven’t even had enough free time to unpack.”
“I saw you doing Duval in your car. Remember hearing someone yell at you? Well, that was me.”
“Thanks a lot—Mitch.”
“Seems to me, if you have time to joyride, you should have time to meet my friends.”
“I wasn’t joyriding. Well, not exactly. I loved seeing my car again, so I made buying a few groceries a reason for taking it out for a drive.”
“So take it out again. I’ll introduce you to Wizard and Princess. We can give them a spin around Old Town. They probably haven’t ridden in a Lincoln anytime recently. How about if I bike over to your place, and we can drive to the Bridle Path? They live near there.”
“No way. Think, Mitch. We can’t risk being seen together. What would Zack and his neighbors think of my sudden friendship with their yardman? Or with a part-time dishwasher at a local eatery? What would the police think?”
“You ashamed of me?”
“Of course not.” I hesitated, wishing I could warn him about the police investigation, wishing I could tell him how he might have compromised himself with his tale of the blacksnake. “Of course I’m not ashamed of you. Honest work makes anyone respectable in my thinking. It’s you I’m concerned about. What if someone guesses we’re related? Guesses your identity? Your life could be on the line.”
“Yeah. You’re right. Sometimes I forget I’m a new person. Thanks for the reminder. We’d better avoid togetherness. Especially togetherness in your car. Those wheels grab plenty of attention. So why don’t you park at Smathers and hoof it, cliché intended, to the Bridle Path. I’ll meet you there. You’re a strong walker, and the path’s close to the beach. Once we meet, it’ll be easy for you to disappear with me into the thicket.”
I eyed my tumbled clothes in the suitcase and sighed. “Okay, Mitch. Give me half an hour, okay?”
“Okay. See you then.”
In that half hour I managed to unpack only one suitcase—the one that held the glamorous gowns I wore when I performed at The Sandbar. I felt the cool smoothness of the jewel-toned satin. I could hardly wait to wear them again. I sighed, tucking the empty case into the back of my closet before I hoisted the other bag onto the luggage rack—the sturdy bag that held my laptop. Enough. I slung my camera around my neck, glad that it was an old friend I’d owned since high school days, a camera I could depend on. Maybe someday I’d invest in a new digital variety, but not yet. I headed for the Lincoln and the beach, glad for the diversion even if it involved meeting my brother’s indigent friends.
Sunbathers crowded the sand this afternoon, but I found a parking place and fed quarters into the meter. A mixture of enticing aromas wafted from the many vendors’ trailer
s parked bumper to bumper next to the sidewalk that separated beach from boulevard—hotdogs, pizza, barbecued pork.
Dreading this secret meeting with Mitch’s newfound friends, I stalled now and then, stopping to drink in the scene at hand. In the distance the gray silhouette of a cargo ship inched across the horizon. High overhead a blue-and-gold hot-air balloon trailed a streamer advertising tonight’s harbor sail, promising dinner as well as a sunset. Below the balloon, a plane towing a parasailer grabbed my attention. I stood gawking, but I heard the warning shouts.
“Outta the way, lady! Duck!” A blue volleyball whizzed by, barely missing my head.
“Sorry, lady.” A sunburned boy wearing nothing but a red Speedo retrieved the ball. Amid catcalls and whistles, he rejoined his pals waiting ankle deep in sand on the volleyball court.
I walked faster, narrowly missing a collision with a guy flying a giant turtle-shaped kite. Then I jumped aside in time to avoid a head-on with two skateboarders intent on eating huge puffs of pink cotton candy. Horns honked when I jaywalked across the highway toward mounds of dirty beach sand that had been bulldozed from the street following hurricanes Georges and then Wilma.
A few yards farther on I walked under palms that shaded the old Bridle Path. I found it hard to imagine anything as sedate as a horseback rider enjoying this trail. Such activity must have taken place in another day, another age. Right now, I wished Mitch had been more specific about our meeting place, but I needn’t have worried. In a few moments he stepped from the thicket beside the path.
“Thought you were going to stand me up,” he said. “Been waiting a while. But come on. Follow me.”
“Where to?”
Mitch was alone, but I glanced over my shoulder now and then while I followed him a few yards into a small clearing hidden from the street. We stopped when we reached a tattered blue tent blocking our path.
“Okay, people.” Mitch lifted the tent flap and leaned into the opening. “She’s here. Come on out. Meet my friend.”
Eden Palms Murder Page 9
