Take care, Bailey Green, if you want to live to record another CD. Stop snooping into affairs that are none of your business.
The note wasn’t signed. Death threats seldom carry signatures. I darted inside, closed and locked the door. Who? Who had written this? Who had come skulking to the cottage and taped this threat to the screen? Quinn Bahama? She’d left last night thwarted and in high dudgeon. Was this her way of getting even? Childish. Did Quinn really think she could frighten me with a note? I wouldn’t admit fright, but she’d shaken me. I called Zack as soon as I’d calmed down.
“I’ll be right over,” Zack said. “Don’t handle the note. The police may be able to lift some fingerprints.”
I should have known better than to touch the note, but I never dreamed it would contain a threat. I pulled a plastic bag from a utility drawer, and using kitchen tongs, I lifted the note and laid it inside the bag. The only prints on it should be mine—and those of the person who taped it onto my screen.
Zack ducked his head as he entered the cottage, a protective habit tall people develop. The scent of lime aftershave accompanied him. He’d unzipped the bottom half from his pant legs and I wondered why he didn’t wear shorts more often. He looked good in them. His casual appearance told me he didn’t intend to go to his office.
“Where is it, Bailey? Let’s see the note.”
When I handed him the Baggie, he grinned. “Good work, detective.” His grin disappeared as he read the threat. “W-who…”
“I think I know who.” I told him about Quinn’s visit, her request for information. “She stormed out of here last night, banging the door. She must have returned later to leave the note.”
“You didn’t hear anything?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Zack studied the note again. “Where’s the piece that’s missing? You tear it getting it off the door?”
“Guess I did. It’d been taped to the screen.” I followed Zack who’d already headed for the door, and I stopped him seconds before he touched the paper. “Fingerprints. Remember?”
I used the kitchen tongs to remove the torn scrap, took it to the snack bar, and stuck it inside the Baggie before we tried to examine it.
“It’s so tiny, Zack. I don’t think there’s anything on it. Guess I didn’t destroy any evidence after all.”
“Maybe not. But look at this.” Zack had turned the baggie over and used his thumbnail, pointing to a dark S-shaped line.
“A snake.” I leaned closer to be sure I hadn’t made a mistake.
“Yes, a snake.” Zack scowled.
“So what do we do now? I’m not the Nervous Nellie type, but this scares me.”
“I’ll call the police.”
“Wait. Let’s think a minute. Quinn’s nobody to be afraid of. Anyway, I don’t see her that way. Maybe we both need to calm down before we call the police. Maybe we should call Quinn and talk to her about this.”
“Think, Bailey. Quinn couldn’t have written this note. So far the police have released no information about a snake. None.”
“Then if Quinn already knew about the snake, maybe she had something to do with the murder. Or maybe she knows more than she’s telling. That’s hard to believe. She’s the last person I’d suspect of murder.”
“Forget Quinn for now. I’m thinking about that guy we saw on the dock yesterday afternoon.”
“Reptile Man? He flared up because he thought you were accusing him of stealing his snake. But, Zack, he had no way of knowing our names or address. And even if he did know, why wouldn’t he have left the note on your door rather than on mine?”
“I don’t know how that guy fits into the picture, but he seems at home with reptiles. Maybe he supplied a snake to some unsavory character—maybe to the murderer. That’s possible. He may know more about Mother’s death than we think” Zack tapped the Baggie with his finger. “We need to get this note to the police right now. You may be in danger.”
Zack stepped to the phone and punched Cassidy’s number. When he had him on the line, the one-sided conversation told me Cassidy would arrive here in living color soon.
“We couldn’t bring the note in for him to examine at the police station?”
“No. He wants to check the area around the cottage and the mansion for footprints or other signs of disturbance.”
I brewed a pot of coffee and set three mugs on the snack bar.
“Better make it four,” Zack said. “Burgundy will probably come with him.”
I brought out another mug and added more Oreos to a plate. We’d each had a cup of coffee and several cookies before the detectives arrived in their unmarked car, which to me had become an oppressive hallmark of their presence.
Detective Burgundy towered over Cassidy on the bar stools as they examined the note.
“Good thinking to place it in the bag.” Burgundy’s smile dissipated some of the tension in the room. Cassidy never changed his dour expression, acting as if underlings always presented him evidence prewrapped in see-through plastic.
He spent several minutes listening to my story and studying the note from every angle before he spoke.
“I’ll take a look around the cottage, Joe.” Without a smile and without saying thanks for the coffee—and six Oreos—Cassidy tucked the note into his jacket pocket and nodded toward Zack’s home. “You take a look around the mansion. If we find any unusual footprints, we can get some photos—maybe make a plaster cast.”
Zack and I drank more coffee, devoured more cookies. I’d opened a fresh bag of peanut butter cups before Cassidy returned to the door.
“Found nothing significant,” he said. “I’ll take the note to headquarters and have it checked for prints. We find anything, we’ll let you know.”
NINETEEN
“Well, there goes the morning.” We watched Cassidy and Burgundy drive away. In the distance, a cruise ship sounded its noon whistle, punctuating Zack’s words. “And all we know’s that someone dislikes our snooping around playing detective.”
“Our snooping? The note was on my door. I think Quinn Bahama wrote it. She’s a writer and writers like to write. She left here in a rage because I refused to give her information, then she wrote the note, returned, and taped it to my door. She’s trying to scare me. I don’t think Reptile Man had anything to do with it.”
“How can you be so naive? I think he’s the logical suspect. The snake drawing on the note makes him number one in my mind. Remember—Quinn knew nothing of the snake. Nada. Zilch.”
“That’s true, Zack, but yesterday at the dock, Reptile Man vented his anger at you, not at me. If he wrote the note, why didn’t he leave it on your door?”
“Good question. Why? I don’t have the answer, but someone’s threatened your life. That’s never a thing to dismiss lightly. Think I’ll phone Cassidy’s office again and demand police protection for you.” He stepped toward the telephone.
“No way.” I stood, easing between him and the phone. “No way at all. I’ve had more than enough of police presence since I arrived. If we’re going to investigate your mother’s death, we can’t do it with detectives snooping around.”
Zack nodded and stepped away from the phone. “You’re right. I really don’t want the police tailing you, either. But don’t let that note get to you. I’ve guys working for me who’ll be willing to do some subtle watch-dogging—especially around the cottage.”
“I hate the idea of being spied on or of having the cottage under scrutiny. I’ll watch my back. I’m not afraid.” I spoke with ebbing bravado. The words on that note were etched into my brain. Even though I’ve taken some judo training, I’m not eager to put it to use.
“For now, you’re safe enough with me, so let’s go on with our plans for the day. Gravely said he attended a party at Kelly’s on Monday. Let’s stop by there and see what we can earn.”
Zack picked me up in the convertible and we headed toward Old Town. I looked over my shoulder, but I didn’t see anyone I though
t might be following us. Reaching for my purse, I dug out a few quarters, and we’d driven almost to the Little White House before we found a parking slot on Whitehead. Zack’s parking karma must have taken a holiday. Back-racking toward Kelly’s, I watched a gardener trimming the hedge behind one of the wrought-iron security fences that protected all the mansions along that side of the street.
“Wonder who lives in those houses,” I murmured. “Special people?”
“I know some of the families. Most of them are retired couples. A few widows. They’re just ordinary people.”
“Yeah. Ordinary people with mega-bucks.” We crossed the street to the sidewalk in front of The Banyan guesthouse. Zack guided me around spots where huge banyan roots had broken through the concrete. When we reached Kelly’s Caribbean, I took a long look before I snapped some pictures. The upscale restaurant is advertised as an exotic bar, grill, and brewery, and I liked the old whitewashed building on sight. I also liked the medley of exotic fragrances drifting from its kitchen.
“Caribbean charisma, Bailey. Drink it in. All the brochures say Kelly’s is the reason you came to Key West.”
“Hope it’s open and someone’s willing to talk to us.” I peered behind us, checking for followers, before we climbed a few steps to a waiting area.
“They’re open for lunch, so let’s have a bite to eat and work from there. Want to sit at the bar or outside under the palms and figs?”
“Let’s do outside, okay?” I glanced around, enjoying the aviation-oriented decorations—airplane photos, propellers from an old seaplane, and a sculpture of a helicopter. We followed a waiter between two touch-the-sky strangler figs that guarded steps down to an open-air dining room. Miniature hibiscus and glossy-leaved ivies in terra-cotta planters decorated the perimeter of the area.
Once seated, in the sun-dappled shade of a palm, we studied the menu briefly before ordering conch chowder, Cuban bread, and beer.
“We’ll be enjoying some history along with the great food,” Zack said once the waiter left. “Kelly’s once housed the original offices of the first international airline—Pan American. And now the new owners are making their own history.”
“You’ll be disappointed if I don’t ask how, won’t you?”
Zack grinned. “Of course. I planned to tell you all along. The actress Kelly McGillis and her husband, Fred Tillman, have created a unique microbrewery on the premises. It’s one of a kind. Their all-natural beers are as special as the food they serve.”
Before Zack could download more facts, the waiter returned with our order. The beer came as advertised—smooth on the tongue, delicious, and memorable, and it enhanced the flavor of capers, bay leaf, and leeks in the chowder. I wished we’d come here for the fun of it instead of for business.
“Who do you think will talk to us about the party on Monday?” I asked.
“Leave that to me. And put your mind and memory to work. Try to remember everything that’s said.”
“No note taking?”
“That’d be too obvious, don’t you agree? We don’t want to give anyone the idea we’re prying into Gravely’s private affairs.”
I rolled my eyes. But when Zack motioned to a waiter, I listened to every word.
“I’m interested in knowing more about the luncheon party Winton Gravely attended here last Monday. Do you know Dr. Gravely?”
The waiter shrugged. “I know him by sight only—not personally.”
“Could you give me names of some of the people at that party?”
The waiter backed off a step. “Why are you asking, sir?”
“I heard that the party concerned creating an addition to the Conch Republic’s annual celebration. Island history interests me. In fact, I’ve been doing some special research on the Conch Republic flag. I thought some of the people in attendance at last Monday’s get-together might have some esoteric information to offer. I’d like to contact them.”
Zack’s long-winded approach sounded weak to me, but the waiter bit on it. “I’m a fan of the Conch Republic myself. Read a lot about it. You might want to look for information upstairs in our writer’s library. The Key West Writer’s Guild meets here on Saturday mornings. They maintain a few shelves of books pertaining to the island.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll check up there before we leave, but could you give me a few names of the guests here last Monday? I’d ask Winton himself, but he’s off-island today.”
The waiter drew his lips into a tight O-shape and stared thoughtfully into the distance before he spoke. “Well, I remember Ben Bahama.”
“Was his wife, Quinn, with him?”
“No.”
Again, I watched the waiter’s O-shaped lips and his gaze into space. Zack slipped him a twenty. He nodded his thanks and pocketed the bill.
“There was a lady who volunteers at the Hospitality House near Mallory. Ann Chaffey. And I remember a secretary from Pier House. Sue somebody. She stops here now and then. I think there were others in the group, too, but I can’t remember any more names.”
“How long did that party last? Remember that?”
“Oh sure. I was their waiter. It ran from about four until five-thirty or so.”
“Dr. Gravely present all that time?”
The waiter shrugged. “Can’t answer that one. It was a very informal get-together. Some people arrived late and others left early. I can’t rightly say if Dr. Gravely stayed beginning to end. Being a doctor, he may have been called away.”
“That’s possible,” Zack agreed. “Well, thank you for your help, sir. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome, Mr.—Mr.… I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Not important. Not important at all. Give your cook our thanks for the delicious chowder.”
“I’ll do that, sir. He’ll be pleased. You be sure to take a look at our books upstairs.”
“Thank you. I’ll do that.” Zack paid our bill. We left Kelly’s and hurried to our parking slot, happy to see we still had a smidgen of time on the meter. Sitting in the car we considered our options.
“We need to find one of the guests who stayed at the affair from beginning to end,” I said.
Zack started the car and eased into traffic. “Let’s find out what we can about Winton’s whereabouts.”
“That’s not going to be easy. Nor is getting info from Quinn Bahama. Don’t count on me to talk to Quinn. She probably has me on an I’ll-never-speak-to-her-again list.”
“Okay. Let’s drive to the shrimp docks. I help Ben out now and then. Shouldn’t have any trouble asking him a few questions and getting some straight answers.”
We reversed our direction and headed for Land’s End Village and the shrimp docks. Of course all the parking places were taken, so Zack drove to the city parking ramp. Even though the ramp’s an open-air structure, the trade wind failed to blow away the stench of exhaust fumes. We walked to the shrimp docks from the ramp, once again enjoying the salt scent of the sea.
Tourists crowded the area, window-shopping the unique boutiques, pausing for hot dogs at the food stands, or drifting toward the Raw Bar for oysters on the half shell. Once we stepped onto the shrimp dock, I felt the sway of the wooden planks underfoot, and Zack took my hand to steady me. In the distance, several shrimp boats bobbed at anchor, their rigging silhouetted like jackstraws tossed against the sky. Closer at hand, pelicans perched on the dock pilings, and gulls screamed and swooped while kids flung the remains of their sandwiches into the air.
“Where can I find Ben Bahama?” Zack called to a deck-hand standing on a rusty boat that looked as if it would rather sink than float.
“He’s out on a run.” The guy swabbed his neck with a red bandana. “Probably won’t be in for a few days.”
“Thanks, buddy.” Zack nodded to the sailor, and we retraced our steps to the parking ramp.
“So forget Ben Bahama,” I said. “Not that I mind too much. I’m in no mood to talk to either of the Bahamas today.”
&nbs
p; “We might try to find Ann Chaffey at Hospitality House,” Zack suggested.
“Why don’t we walk there, Zack? It’s not far, and it’d be easier than finding another parking place.”
“Okay by me.”
We headed toward Front Street and Mallory Dock on foot. Zack circled his arm around my waist, pulling me close, so we could walk abreast along the narrow sidewalk. I didn’t mind. I liked the feeling of being protected—a feeling I’d never needed until I discovered this morning’s note on my door. Sometimes overhanging palm fronds tangled in our hair, and now and then we had to break apart to let pedestrians pass, but it took us only a few moments to reach Hospitality House and learn that Lucy wasn’t there. Ann Chaffey had little to say about the Conch Republic party.
“I only stayed a short time.” She pointed to a rack of brochures across the room. “We have folders with information about the Conch Republic. Freebies. Take one if you care to.”
Zack cared to. He picked up a brochure for me as well as one for himself, and he pretended to scan it as we left the building.
It seemed like a long walk back to the car, and we said little until we were heading back toward Eden Palms.
“We’ve learned nothing, Zack. Most of the people that we know who attended that party didn’t stay from beginning to end. Maybe Winton Gravely arrived late or left early, too. Just because he said he attended the party doesn’t mean that he did. He could have paid the waiter to say he attended in case anyone came snooping around.”
“Winton said he attended, and I believe him.”
“Why? According to you, he had strong motive to protest the disturbance of his neighborhood—his and yours.”
“I can’t see him as a murderer, Bailey. I’ve known Winton almost all my life. We’ve been friends and fishing buddies. I can’t believe he’d harm my mother for any reason in the world.”
I scowled. “As an outsider, a newcomer to the neighborhood, I see Winton Gravely as totally weird. Who knows what goes on in his so-called clinic? Who knows his reasons for operating a pseudo-hospital in a residential neighborhood?”
Eden Palms Murder Page 14
