Eden Palms Murder

by Dorothy Francis

  “Out of here!” Zack shouted. “Now! Go!”

  Ben lifted us quickly. If the captain fired at us, other noises camouflaged the sound. When we looked for the boat again, it had disappeared, probably into one of the mangrove coves that surrounded nearby islets. Ben circled the area for a few minutes, but the speedboat never reappeared. We returned to Ben’s clearing.

  “Wonder what that guy was up to,” Zack asked after we left the helicopter.

  “Up to no good, that’s for sure,” Ben said. “I’ll give the shore patrol a call.”

  Ben had landed the ’copter smoothly, and now I wondered what I should say. Thanks for the ride. Thanks for not crashing. Give my regards to Quinn. Zack spared me from having to say anything.

  “Send me your bill, Ben. I appreciate your help.”

  “No bill,” Ben said. “This one’s a freebie—for Francine.”

  When Zack and I reached home, we both were exhausted, but Zack surprised me after he stopped in front of the cottage.

  “How about a swim, Bailey? It’s a lovely night, and we both need a break. The stress’s getting to me. Whadda ya say?”

  He gave me an option. I could have said no. I could have asked if the pool was heated. I could have laughed at the idea. I could have…

  “Sure, Zack. Why not?”

  “Great. While you change, I’ll park the car and walk back for you.”

  Once inside the cottage, I skinned from my jumpsuit, pulled on my favorite green bikini, and grabbed a terry-cloth robe. Were we crazy or what! The clock said two a.m. I forgot about warning notes and slashed tires. I’d just survived a helicopter ride, and I felt like a free spirit let out of jail.

  I snapped on the TV while I waited for Zack to return. Did TV stations still broadcast in the wee hours? I flipped channels until I found a live one. Marine Patrol Captain Michael Beaumont reports retrieving marijuana bales from the sea east off the reef. As yet, no one has been apprehended, but boats from the shore patrol are aiding in the search.

  When I turned toward the door, Zack stood there listening. “Guess that explains the speedboat we saw. Druggies must have been spotted trying to make a drop tonight.”

  “Didn’t see bales of anything aboard that guy’s boat.” I grabbed a couple of Hershey’s Kisses to nibble on the way to the pool. “Glad Ben’s going to call in a report.”

  I shivered while we strolled to poolside and shivered even more after I shed my robe. The night air sent goose bumps prickling my skin.

  We splashed into the pool. Ice water! Corking a scream, I recovered from shock while I did a crawl, racing Zack to the other end of the pool. Palms shaded the water from the moonlight, darkening it to match the deep shadows surrounding the mansion.

  “Whew! That’ll shake the cobwebs from your head,” Zack said.

  I clenched my teeth to stop their chattering, but I had no luck until Zack covered my lips with his. I returned his kiss, feeling an inner fire warm me. Zack pressed his body against mine until no water flowed between us. I clung to him, feeling tingles in my breasts, my thighs—places I’d almost forgotten. Zack’s body throbbed against mine and our lips parted, only to close again in an even deeper kiss. How had I let this happen? Zack stopped any mental questions with another kiss, and I welcomed his touch.

  When we heard a splash at the other end of the pool, we broke apart like guilty kids.

  “Who’s there?” Zack called out, again pulling me toward him.

  I held my breath. Who had followed us? Why? The note writer? The tire slasher? I clung to Zack. After a brief moment, Courtney broke the surface. Nude. She seemed as surprised as we were, and she ducked back under the water. Did she think submerging hid her voluptuous breasts, the curve of her waist and hips?

  “Zack!” Courtney exclaimed, resurfacing. “I had no idea! I mean, please forgive my intrusion.” She swam to poolside, climbed the ladder, and slipped into a robe. “I mean, Francine offered me the use of the pool whenever I cared to swim.” She knotted the sash of her robe—loosely. “I couldn’t sleep tonight. Had no idea you were here.”

  “It’s okay, Courtney. No apology necessary. It’s a wonderful night for a plunge. I guess we all needed a break.”

  Zack and I swam toward our robes, climbed the poolside ladder, then stood dripping while we donned our cover-ups. Zack didn’t try to stop me when I turned and jogged toward the cottage. At first I’d been furious at Courtney for interrupting us. But she might have done me a favor, might have saved me from falling irretrievably in love.

  I was still pacing about in my swimsuit and robe when Zack knocked.

  “Bailey?” He rapped again and called out. “Bailey, we need to talk.”

  I opened the door. He stepped inside and covered my lips with his. I forgot about Courtney. Warmth surged through our bodies until our kiss blazed beyond our control.

  I followed Zack willingly when he led me to the bedroom, doused the light, and raised the window shade, allowing moonlight to fall across the bed—and moments later across our bodies. We made love until dawn, parting reluctantly to face the new day.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Zack kissed me and slipped from the cottage. For over an hour I lolled in bed reliving the moments we’d shared. Love? I tried to quash the idea. My eyes felt scratchy from lack of sleep, but I rose, dressed, and fortified myself with M&M’s and black coffee. Nothing stirred at Eden Palms so Zack must have decided to try to get a couple of hours’ sleep. Good. I wanted to leave without waking him.

  The snatch of news I’d heard last night fired purpose into my plan. There had to be a link between the unlighted speedboat we’d seen and the TV report of jettisoned marijuana. I might be unable to help Zack solve Francine’s murder, but I sensed a new mystery at hand and I itched to know more. Maybe I’d learn something that would help me come up with the idea for a new song. Maybe something like “Mack the Knife.”

  That boat captain we saw last night couldn’t hide forever. He had to moor his craft somewhere near. In a mangrove cove? No way could I check all those uncharted islets. Private dock? Perhaps. But off-limits for me. Public marina? Maybe. The boat’s name and registration had been blacked out last night. This morning? A boat with no I.D. would be obvious as a beached whale. True, I didn’t know the craft’s name or registration number, but I could look for a boat with a sun and a conch shell decorating its floorboard.

  I left the cottage, making no noise and locking the door behind me. Then I checked the screen door. No note this morning. I breathed easier. I’d be safe enough in my car with doors locked. Walking toward the carport, I saw no sign of life at the mansion. Good. I wanted to avoid Zack this morning. If he heard me and called to me, he might ask questions I’d rather avoid. But once I reached the shadowed carport I saw Francine’s bicycle, its new tires air-filled and at the ready.

  “Mitch,” I whispered.

  Maybe I could camouflage another beg for help with my need to thank him for the bike repair. Two tourists bicycling around a marina would attract less attention than one woman in a green Lincoln. I shuddered, remembering the slashed tires. I had no business bicycling alone on this early morning when so few people were out and about, but taking the bike would allow me to leave Eden Palms without waking Zack.

  Pausing at the cottage only long enough to change into biking shoes, I pedaled to the Bridle Path, stopping at the lane leading into Mitch’s chosen thicket. Now what?

  “Mitch?” I called into the thicket. “Mitch, can you hear me?”

  No response. Then I remembered a signal Mitch and I’d used as kids to alert each other. I puckered my lips and gave a whistle. No bobolinks in the Keys. If Mitch heard me, he’d come investigate.

  I whistled again. An early-morning walker gave me the eye and broke into a jog. Scared? Feeling a need to put distance between him and the crazy lady?

  Another call, and Mitch stepped into sight.

  “Hey, Sis. What’s the buzz?” We grinned at each other, but neither of us mentioned th
e years that had passed since we’d used our signal. “You haven’t seen Wizard, have you?”

  I shook my head. “Too bad, Mitch. Guess you’ll have to call him AWOL.”

  “Fat lot you care.”

  I didn’t argue that point. I thanked Mitch for the bike repair and told him what I’d done and seen last night before I asked him to go riding with me—again.

  “Look, Sis. Your Key West audience wants to hear blues tunes about moon and June or love and dove. The Sandbar crowd isn’t likely to want to hear a song about marijuana. When you mess with druggies, you’re messing with big-time crooks. I know. Count me out.”

  “I don’t plan to mess with crooks, but I’m curious. There’s no law against taking a look-see at boats docked at a marina. And if I see that certain boat—”

  “Even looking could get you in deep do-do if the owner saw you nosey-poking around.”

  “Looking is not nosey-poking. But forget it, Mitch. Sorry I woke you up. I’ll go alone.”

  “And leave me to feel guilty when you wind up dead? No way. Stay here. I’ll get my bike.”

  Do people ever give themselves a high five? I stood grinning and congratulating myself for getting my way with Mitch—something I’ve seldom been able to do.

  When he returned, I patted my new front tire. “Thanks again for the tires and the repair job, Mitch.” I reached for my billfold. “Got a bill for the repair? That twenty probably didn’t cover it and I want to pay in full. I feel like a creep accepting help from the homeless.”

  “My pals want no money for their help. We look out for each other. However, if you find it deep in your heart to repay their kindness, you might bake us a pie sometime. Coconut cream would be good. Very good.”

  I scowled. “Sorry. Pie baking’s never been in my job description. But I’ll buy you a pie.”

  “Not the same thing. Not the same thing at all.” Mitch grinned and we both knew he had one-upped me. Again.

  We rode to Old Town, stopping at the first marina we reached, walking our bikes along the concrete in front of the ship’s chandlery. Then, after locking our bikes to a dock piling, we walked onto one of the floating catwalks where we could get a close look at the moored boats.

  “The Sea Nymph. Mama O. Mindy.” I read the names on boats bobbing in the bottle-green water. Gulls screamed. Cormorants soared, searching for an unwary shrimp or a squid. Mitch ducked and dodged, barely in time to avoid a pelican relieving itself. I laughed.

  “Not funny,” he called over his shoulder. “You ever try washing pelican poop out of blue jeans?”

  “Not lately.” I stopped laughing.

  “This’s dumb, Bailey. You don’t even know the name of that boat you’re looking for.”

  “A black boat.”

  “Lots of boats look black at night. Might have been any dark color.”

  “But it had that sun and a conch painted on the floorboard near the bow. Fluorescent paint. Maybe. The image glowed. That’s what I’m looking for. The name of that boat might give me an idea for a song title.” We walked all the catwalks before returning to our bikes.

  “Ready to give it up?” Mitch asked.

  “Not yet. This’s only one marina.”

  “You plan to check out all of them? And what about private docks? Lots of guys keep boats right on their property. Be real, Sis. This’s a lost cause.”

  “Humor me. Let’s ride to Chitting Marina where the Shiptons dock their boats. No black speedboat there? I’ll go home.”

  We rode toward the marina, pulling to curbside when a Conch Train clanged its bell. The “engineer” playing tour guide told the oldie about the Key West hotel that offered free rooms—the jail. Mitch and I sighed, but the tourists laughed. Sometimes tourists are easily entertained.

  As we pedaled closer to Mallory Dock we saw a Costa cruise ship, its yellow smoke stacks bright against the sky. We watched passengers on an upper deck helping each other into orange jackets. Lifeboat drill. In an hour or so, thousands of cruisers would stream down the gangplank and into the streets and shops. If they happened to crowd a local off his own sidewalk, the local usually smiled and remembered the tinkle of his cash register. Ah, Paradise.

  When we reached Chitting Marina, a few early-morning fishermen were checking their rods and reels, filling bait buckets with seawater, and readying chum bags in preparation for a day on the water. We locked our bikes in a rack and began touring the catwalks. Dozens of boats bobbed in their slips. We started with the catwalk where the Shiptons moored their runabouts. I pointed to Francine’s boat.

  “Key West Mama,” I said. “Zack named it. Francine objected, but she couldn’t come up with a better name.”

  “Sea Questered.” Mitch read the name on Zack’s backwater skiff. “If I owned a boat, I’d call it Sea Cured.”

  “Clever, Mitch. Clever.” We walked along, observing the boats, feeling the gentle sway of the boards underfoot. I took pictures of a few yachts, and nobody stopped us or asked for an I.D.

  “How about some coffee?” Mitch asked at last.

  “I had coffee at home, but go ahead. I’m sure there’s a pot brewing in the chandlery.”

  Mitch headed toward the main dock and called over his shoulder. “I’ll bring ya a mug, too.”

  I prowled the catwalks a long time before I spotted a boat that demanded more than a casual glance. The craft shone in the sunlight, gleaming in its blackness. Why did the word lethal spring to mind? From where I stood, shadows shaded he floorboard near the bow. I leaned as far forward as possible without losing my balance. A picture of a sun encircling a queen conch gleamed from the floorboard—an image more easily seen from above than from the ground. Hairs stiffened and prickled the back of my neck.

  This had to be the boat we’d watched from the ’copter. Surely, there wasn’t another boat like it in Key West. I looked aft, searching for the boat’s name. Sea Date. The name must have been blacked out last night. My heart raced and I almost choked on saliva before I could swallow. The captain aboard this boat had flashed a gun. Maybe he’d been involved in a drug deal gone wrong.

  Run, Bailey. Run! I heard the warning in my mind, but I balked. Common sense told me I shouldn’t mess around here trying to get a pic of this boat, but, on the other hand, what could it hurt? Nobody stood guarding any of the crafts. I saw no dockmaster. I continued to rationalize. Creators of lyrics needed inspiration. I needed to snap some pictures here for future reference. Right?

  “Sea Date. Sea Date.” No reason I couldn’t show a snapshot to Zack and let him take it to the shore patrol if he thought it advisable. Sea Date. Where had I heard that name before? Who owned this speedboat? I stood there trying to memorize the I.D. numbers on the stern until I realized my craziness. Lifting my camera I focused on the registration number, clicking two shots in case one of them didn’t turn out. Then I thought more about the floorboard painting. I wanted a picture of that sun and conch shell. “Conch Shell Blues.” How was that for a song title?

  I stood winding my film, readying the camera for the next shot, before I tried to sight through the lens and focus on the painting. For the first time I wished I had a new digital camera. I didn’t have enough light. The gunwale shadowed the floorboard, and besides that, I stood at a poor angle. I saw only one way to get the shot I needed. After stepping from the catwalk onto the bow of Sea Date, I hopped onto the floorboard, focused on the picture, and snapped the shutter.

  After I stepped back onto the catwalk, I felt it sag and sway and I turned, expecting to see Mitch approaching with coffee.

  “Mitch! I found—” My voice trailed off when I saw the newcomer.

  “You found what?” Dr. Gravely asked, his gaze boring into me.

  Heat rushed to flush my face. “Why, hello, Dr. Gravely. You surprised me.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Please forgive me for trespassing.” My throat went dry, blocking more apologies that I couldn’t vocalize.

  “Is there something special on my bo
at or inside it that interests you?” He stepped closer, and I backed off in spite of an inner vow to show no fear.

  “No, nothing special,” I lied. “I had no idea you owned this boat. I’m interested in all beautiful boats. Sea crafts have inspired lots of songs. ‘The Good Ship Lollipop.’ Remember that oldie? ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’? I’ve always liked that one.”

  Gravely’s voice dripped sarcasm. “If you’ve taken pictures of every beautiful boat you’ve seen, you must have quite a collection.”

  “Yes, I do. At least I’m starting one.”

  He smiled, taking another step toward me. I took another step away from him. Why did I feel threatened? What was going on here? The man was Zack’s neighbor and friend. I certainly had no proof that he was involved with last night’s drug problems. But if I kept on backing away from him, I’d soon reach the end of the catwalk and splash into the sea. I saw no way to sidle around Gravely, and his body language made it clear he had no intention of letting me pass.

  “I do have quite a few boat pictures.” I forced calmness into my voice. “But I need a variety of shots to draw from. When I’m composing at my computer, either lyrics or music, it distracts me and slows my progress if I have to leave my desk to find some item I’m trying to describe. It’s much more practical to have a snapshot at hand for quick reference. That way I can get on with the composition without interruption and…”

  I realized I was babbling and that Dr. Gravely realized it, too, and knew he had unnerved me. Where was Mitch? I felt desperate for that coffee he’d promised. But no. Forget that! I needed to warn Mitch away. I didn’t want Gravely to see me with him or to realize Mitch and I had a bring-me-a-cup-of-coffee relationship.

  “Thank you for letting me snap a shot of your boat, Dr. Gravely.” I stepped forward and tried to ease past him on the catwalk, but he blocked my way and reached toward me. I gripped my camera strap and pressed my camera close to my body.

  “Excuse me, please. May I get past?” My mouth felt so dry I could hardly speak.

  “Winton?”

  Caught off guard by the sound of his name, Gravely turned and stepped back, giving me room to pass him. The voice had surprised me, too. I fought to keep my balance on the narrow catwalk.