Eden Palms Murder

by Dorothy Francis

  How could I refuse! Down deep, I didn’t want to. I liked Zack. Our friendship had been pleasant and platonic. Surely if Zack were guilty, he wouldn’t be spearheading a personal investigation. I wanted to believe in his innocence. I wanted to work with him for his sake. I wanted to work with him for Mitch’s sake. How I wished Mitch had never mentioned snakes.

  “What are you thinking, Bailey?”

  “I’m thinking that I agree with you. Perhaps we can do more toward finding the culprit than the police can. What are your plans? What should we do first?”

  “Go out to dinner. You’re probably right about not being seen together in Key West, so let’s drive up the Keys to a smaller island.”

  “Agreed.” To my surprise I felt hungry. “Do you know of some out-of-the-way restaurants farther up?”

  “None of them are out-of-the-way during tourist season. Let’s head out and stop at some place that grabs us. Do you need a wrap?”

  “Good idea.” Again, I wondered if Courtney hid watching while I ran inside the cottage and returned with a sweater.

  Darkness had fallen hours ago, but a harvest moon brightened the sky—harvest moon if you’re from Iowa, seafarer’s moon if you’re from the Keys.

  “Think we’d be less conspicuous if we put the top up?” I asked.

  Zack grinned, and I think it was the first time I’d seen him smile since I’d returned. “No need. You forget we’re in Paradise. Convertibles are more common than seashells. A car with the top up on a night like this would be the one to attract attention.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” I loved to watch the moonlight silver the palm trees as we left Key West and later the mangroves growing between the highway and the sea.

  A genius must have designed the bridges connecting the islands. Instead of railings at eye level like the ones I remembered in Iowa, these bridges had low concrete walls. Passengers could enjoy an unrestricted view of the Gulf of Mexico on one side and the Atlantic Ocean on the other. I wondered who had decided exactly where the two bodies of water met.

  “Lovely night,” Zack said. “I’m glad I have business that draws me out of Key West now and then. The drive between offices refreshes me. Some of the locals seldom leave the rock or travel north of the Boca Chica Bridge.”

  I tried to imagine we’d left our worries behind us and I enjoyed the wind in my hair, the salt scent of the sea. We’d driven only a short distance before I slipped on my sweater.

  “Shark Key. Sugarloaf. Cudjoe,” I said, naming the keys we passed. “Interesting place names. I wonder where they originated.”

  “I’ve heard several theories about Cudjoe. Some say it came from the joewood, a small tree that thrives in the area. But more likely the name came from Africa.”

  “When sea captains brought slaves here?”

  Zack nodded. “In those days, Cudjoe was the common name of an African boy born on the first day of the week.”

  “Interesting.”

  “There’s also the story that an early homesteader with a speech impediment had a cousin named Joe and that he often talked about his Cudjoe.”

  I laughed. “I like the joewood theory best.”

  “Now we’ve passed Ramrod Key, and there’s a turn coming up soon that I don’t want to miss. Help me watch for it. It’s just before we reach Big Pine Key. There’s a restaurant overlooking the bay called Parrotdise.”

  “Have you been there before?”

  “Oh, yes. Many times.”

  I wondered who he’d chosen as a companion on those visits, and it bothered me that I wondered. The moonlight must be getting to me.

  Zack found the obscure road he’d been looking for, turned onto it, and then slowed the car. The tires crunched on gravel and I smelled dust. But after a short distance, neon signs marked an entryway and he turned again, this time onto a concrete slab.

  “Whew!” he exclaimed. “Hate to coat my car with gravel dust, but the entrees here are worth the sacrifice.” He parked in a visitor’s slot below a coral-colored restaurant supported by tall pilings and overlooking the water. A heron called in the distance, and once we left the car, Zack took my hand to guide me up a dozen wide steps. At the restaurant’s entry we stepped into a dimly lit room where candles flickered in hurricane globes. A sign said “Please seat yourselves.”

  An assortment of long-haired men wearing jeans and tank tops perched on stools at the bar. A few sat eating boiled shrimp. Most of them were drinking beer and watching either the comely waitress or the basketball game blaring from an overhead TV. Zack led the way past the bar and to a row of high tables set alongside open windows that offered a view of the moon-silvered bay and a small dock where two moored runabouts bobbed in the waves.

  “Look, Zack.” I pointed at the water where a small boat with white sails drifted with the current. “Some lucky couple’s taking a moonlight sail. What a beautiful scene.”

  “Someday we may be able to do that—if I ever find the time to work on my sailboat.”

  “Sounds like fun. When do you plan to finish it?”

  “Who knows! Building a boat takes a lot of time, and sometimes life interferes.”

  I laughed. “Sounds much like composing song lyrics.” The boat drifted from our view, and I glanced around the restaurant. Pictures of exotic parrots hung on the walls and parrot paintings decorated the kitchen and restroom doors.

  Thank goodness we were the only dinner customers—at least so far. Zack had selected an excellent spot. Beautiful. Secluded. We sat on spindle-legged stools at a high table. After a short time, a waitress wearing a T-shirt with the word “Parrotdise” embroidered on the neckline, jeans, and a scarlet hibiscus in her hair approached us. She brought menus and a dazzling smile—for Zack. I studied the parrot-decorated menu while I waited, wondering if she’d tell Zack she was a poor girl working her way through college.

  “What may I bring you to drink?” Merry Sunshine asked, her gaze still focused on Zack.

  “What would you like?” Zack asked me.

  “A Coke, please.”

  “Make it two,” Zack added. “I’m the designated driver.”

  Merry Sunshine’s smile faded when she saw her tip dwindling. “Square grouper fillets are the special of the day.” She slapped the menus in front of us and left to get our Cokes. If Zack noticed or resented her sudden change of demeanor, he didn’t comment.

  “Square grouper?” I asked.

  Zack grinned. “It’s a joke. This place’s noted for its grouper entrees. A square grouper refers to a bail of marijuana locals sometimes find in the sea if a smuggler’s had to jettison it to avoid shore patrol arrest.”

  “Oh. An insider joke.”

  “So now that you’re an insider, what would you like to order?” Zack perused the menu. “Forget the hamburger and salad. Let’s go for something elegant and eclectic. You might like their gazpacho and Cajun crunchies for starters. And their coconut crusted shrimp are the best in the Keys.”

  “Sounds great to me.” I glanced on down the menu. “And look at this dessert special. Cappuccino bread pudding with White Russian Chantilly cream. Would you split one of those with me?”

  “Sure you can’t eat a whole one?”

  “Positive. Halfies.”

  “You got it.”

  Merry Sunshine returned. After she took our order, she brightened. I could imagine her mentally tallying the bill, calculating twenty percent. I peered out the window. Below us miniature floodlights glowed on a pool where a baby shark and a barracuda swam among tendrils of seaweed. Snappers shared space with the biggies, swimming as if unconcerned about being selected as their next meal.

  While we waited for our order, we talked about everything and about nothing, avoiding the topic uppermost in our minds—Francine’s death. When our appetizer arrived, the gazpacho and crunchies whetted our appetites for the entrees yet to come.

  Later, the shrimp lived up to Zack’s description. “It’s the best I’ve ever tasted.”

/>   Zack laughed. “I told you so.”

  When I saw the dessert, I almost wished Zack had ordered one for each of us. The cappuccino flavor, the sweetness of the White Russian cream made the perfect finale for a perfect meal. Once we’d finished eating, I excused myself for a restroom visit while Zack paid the bill. When I returned, the smile on Merry Sunshine’s face told me Zack’s tip had been more than adequate.

  We held the pine railing on our way down the steps, but before Zack headed for the car, he led me around the building for an up-close-and-personal look at the fish darting about in their pool. Leaning forward to get a better view of the elusive ’cuda, I lost my balance. Zack caught me, pulled me to safety, and then into his arms. Instead of protesting, I clung to him, enjoying his nearness.

  “Bailey,” he murmured into my ear. “I’m really glad to have you living at the cottage.”

  My brain warned me to break the embrace, but my heart ruled. My career escaped my thinking for the moment, but I stopped short of telling Zack I was glad to be in the Keys—and his cottage.

  Before I could say more, he tightened his embrace and our lips met in a warm kiss. And another. Then when I looked above us, I broke from Zack’s arms, and stepped away from the pool.

  “Bailey! Please. I didn’t mean to…”

  My look stopped his apology. “Don’t be obvious, but glance up at the dining room.”

  Zack glanced, then took my hand and led me toward the car.

  “Detective Cassidy, Zack. I’m sure that’s who we saw watching us. Do you think he followed us here?”

  SIXTEEN

  When we returned to the parking lot, we counted three cars in addition to Zack’s convertible. Detective Cassidy’s gray Ford? No.

  “That looked like Cassidy to me,” I said. “Maybe he owns a second car. Maybe taxpayers raise a storm if they see Key West’s finest driving a city vehicle while off duty.”

  “Possible and probable,” Zack said. “But we only caught a glimpse of the guy in the window. It might have been someone else. We’re thirty miles from Key West, and it’s past the dinner hour for most people.”

  “You’re right. Cassidy doesn’t seem the type to be enjoying a late dinner at such a romantic spot.”

  Zack sighed. “Probably spends his evenings at home sucking on a beer and watching reruns of Court TV.”

  Zack took my hand while we approached his car. The evening had grown chill, and he pushed a button that raised the top and then settled it in place. Good plan. I felt less exposed in the closed car, but it irritated me that Cassidy had the power to make me nervous. Zack held my hand while we drove to Eden Palms. I didn’t pull away.

  When we turned into the cul-de-sac, Courtney’s house loomed before us, stark and dark. In case she stood beside some curtained window watching, I didn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me look in her direction. A dim light glowed from deep in the interior of Winton Gravely’s home—maybe a night light for his patients. Zack stopped in front of the cottage, walked me to the porch, held his hand out for my key. I waited while he unlocked the door and entered, uninvited. I held my breath. Was I afraid of an intruder? Or of Zack? After making a thorough inspection of the interior, he stepped outside.

  “Bailey, you call me if anything frightens you.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m not afraid, and I’ll be fine.”

  “I have business on Stock Island tomorrow morning, but if you’ll be free in the afternoon I’d like to begin checking on some of the stories we’ve heard.”

  “Fine with me. Any ideas on where to start?”

  He paused for a moment. “Maybe with Tucker Tisdale.”

  My mind recoiled from my mental image of Tisdale, his falsetto voice, his flaky skin. “Why him first? Any special reason?”

  Zack stepped back, ready to return to his car. “No special reason except that he seems elusive. His absence Monday night when Cassidy called everyone in for questioning makes me wonder. Remember? Burgundy had to go get him, bring him to the solarium.”

  “I didn’t think that strange at the time. The man’s in the funeral business. There’d been a death of a friend and neighbor. Wouldn’t it be normal for him to be at his funeral home overseeing his staff?”

  “Could be, but I didn’t call Tucker. I didn’t ask for his services. At that time, nobody had told me his services were needed. Someone may have tried. I may have been on the road between offices. Mother’s body had been removed from the house by the time I arrived home. I thought that strange. I resented it.”

  “So who called Tisdale? I remember Gravely saying he called nine-one-one, but I don’t think he mentioned phoning Tisdale.”

  “I’ll check on that tomorrow. Maybe the medical examiner made the call. Since the police were dealing with a suspicious death, the M.E., under Cassidy’s orders, may have called the shots. Since Tucker and his wife are long-time friends and neighbors of ours, the Tisdale Funeral Home would have been my choice. And Mother’s. She prepaid her funeral arrangements years ago—wanted to spare me having to make those decisions later.”

  “How like her. How thoughtful.” I paused before closing the door. “Have you decided on the time of the funeral?”

  “No. The police haven’t released her body yet. Until they do, the service will be on hold.”

  “The indecision makes it hard on everyone.”

  “Funerals are never easy. What do you think, Bailey? If you object to starting our investigation with Tisdale, we’ll choose someone else.”

  “No. Your idea’s good. I’ll begin thinking about him, his words, his actions. Maybe I’ll remember some little thing that might make a deeper look-see in his direction interesting.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you as soon as I get home from Stock Island—probably shortly after noon. We can go somewhere for lunch and fine-tune our plans.”

  “I’ll be ready, Zack. And thank you for a wonderful dinner.”

  “My pleasure.” He brushed a kiss on my cheek then waited until I closed and locked the door before he strode to his car. I heard him turn into his driveway and park in the carport.

  Once he’d left, I double-checked all door and window locks and lowered all shades to the sills before I drew the draperies. Thinking of snooping into Tucker Tisdale’s activities left me too wired for sleep, so I tried to count my blessings. At least Zack hadn’t suggested starting our investigation with Mitch. How easy it might have been for him to try to blame the yardman, the stranger, instead of one of his longtime neighbors and friends.

  I set up my keyboard and laptop, never an easy job for me. My mind balks at dealing with cables, three-pronged electrical plugs, and power packs. And in the Keys a surge protector’s a must. I think a competent serviceman or perhaps Bill Gates himself should be included as basic equipment with every laptop when it leaves the factory.

  I played a few melody lines and tried to fit words to them, but nothing seemed to work so I went to bed. Even with my head on the pillow, I couldn’t close my eyes. I lay staring at the ceiling and thinking of Tucker Tisdale. Had he known his koi pond attracted snakes? Had he seen snakes there? Had he dealt with so much death in his business that one more body meant little to him?

  Then I thought of Tucker’s wife away visiting her sister. Francine had told me Mrs. Tisdale was friendly and outgoing and that she doted on their koi pond. Zack told me he had sketched some of the colorful fish while she coaxed them to the surface with food. His sketches turned out well but I’d never seen them hanging at Eden Palms. Maybe he had given them to her.

  Had Tucker chosen this time of his wife’s absence to murder Francine? Perhaps he was depending on her absence to give him extra time to foolproof an alibi. Surely the need to hide an evil deed from a spouse and from the police-would add to any culprit’s angst. I’d read where the wife of the serial killer on Big Pine had suspected his blood-covered clothes were a result of more than a successful night of fishing. Why hadn’t she told the police her suspicions? Why had she wa
ited—and let him take her life, too? Could I be playing the same kind of deadly waiting game? No. Impossible. I had no firm reason to suspect anyone of Francine’s murder.

  I slept fitfully, turning my pillow from side to side, waking only when a cock crowed under my window. Still drugged with sleep, I rose to open the drapery, raise the shade. Sunshine had dried the morning dew, and its rays glinted on a rooster’s black and russet feathers, its red comb, while it chased a hen across the yard. I smiled.

  Francine had written to Mom that when the state passed laws forbidding cock fighting, some irate bird owners released their gamecocks to roam the city. Now, years later, many tourists think roaming chickens lend quaintness to the island. Residents have mixed emotions—depending upon whose window the cocks choose to crow under.

  When I answered the telephone, Zack’s voice flowed across the line.

  “Everything okay at the cottage? It looked quiet there when I left earlier.”

  “Everything’s fine. I overslept.”

  “Can you be ready if I pick you up around two?”

  “Fine. I’ll be expecting you.”

  Zack broke the connection, and I sighed as I poured a glass of chocolate milk and made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Flying into Key West on Monday, I’d looked forward to getting to work on a new song. That plan had gone down the tubes—at least for one more day. I needed time to rethink some options. I like to work in the early morning when I can blot the world out and live for a few hours with my melodies and their variations. And then there are titles to consider. Titles are always hard for me. I’d been unable to come up with any good ideas. But my computer sat at the ready in case free moments and ideas presented themselves.

  When Zack stopped the convertible in front of the cottage, I hurried out and slid onto the passenger seat.

  “The neighborhood’s deserted,” I said. “Except for a few chickens. No cars in the carports. Of course we can’t tell for sure about Dr. Gravely’s.”

  “I’ve already stopped at the funeral home,” Zack said, turning toward Eaton. “I called earlier and learned Tisdale’s in Miami for the day, so I stopped by his business before I called you. Thought it’d be a good time to talk to his staff.”