by Mary Bowers
“Naturally, I already did,” he said languidly. “Did you? You ladies been discussing it?”
After giving him another grudging look, I told him about my kitchen-corner meeting with Patty the day before. I wrapped it up by suggesting he look into Fred’s private conversation with Edith. “Patty said Edith was really interested in what he was saying, whatever it was. Have you talked to her?”
Bruno nodded. “She was pretty upset. She made it sound like everybody in town hated Fred. Apparently Fred’s main interest in life, other than women and tennis, was being a political busybody. You know the type – everything’s a conspiracy. He’s the horror of the City Council meetings. Council members crawl under the table when they see him coming in.”
“The City Council?” I asked.
“Just a fer-instance. Anyway, they had an Anastasia Resort Homeowners’ Association meeting last week, and Fred did his usual thing. Something about the monthly maintenance fee going up big-time.” He shrugged. “Apparently, Mr. Rambo lived for that kind of thing. Loved to have a cause.”
“Ah! No wonder Terri Jones didn’t really want him getting near her at the party. I’m told that she brought Jason the handyman along to run interference. Only he ended up needing help himself, as it turned out, with the love-struck little girl.”
“Something like that. Terri Jones is a pretty lady. She probably didn’t really take fire from Mr. Rambo like the City Council members do. They’re not a pretty bunch; she’s a knock-out. But I heard from a couple of people – actually from your friends – that Terri and Fred didn’t seem to want to talk to one another at the party, so maybe they were sore at one another after all. In fact, she wasn’t as popular as a pretty lady should be at a party. The handyman Jason kept away from her, too.”
“He was here at the shelter yesterday,” I said uncomfortably.
“Oh? Does he work for you?”
“Oh, heck no. We can usually manage to cadge that kind of help from somebody who’ll do it for free. He volunteered to do some carpentry work for us. At least I think he did. I wasn’t here when he showed up.”
“Might want to check that out. Let me know. I’d be interested.”
“Is that what this is about?” I asked. “You think this Jason is . . . up to something?”
He made a few little air-pushing motions. “Now don’t get carried away. That might be a separate matter altogether. And maybe the man just wanted to help you out of the goodness of his heart. But Candy Cutter told my cop a few suggestive things about those two, Ms. Jones and the handyman. I’ll ask again today, but according to my partner, she’s not the best kind of witness. Gets carried away, maybe confabulates. Anyway, I’ve got to get going. Thanks for the coffee. And have a nice visit with your friends. You’ll be seeing a lot of them this week, I suppose? You’ll be going over to the Resort and spending the day with them as much as you can? If you think of anything you want to talk about, here’s my card.”
He thumbed it down onto the granite countertop and I stared at it.
“Very subtle,” I said.
“I’m a subtle kinda guy. And I’d be curious about why that maintenance man is suddenly doing free carpentry work.”
I waved my hands around. “Carlene Hathaway’s mother’s cousin is related to Jason’s almost-wife – Carlene being my main-girl volunteer – and she told Jason we had a broken floor where the cats were getting out . . . .”
“Uh huh.” He lifted heavy eyelids. “That explains everything, don’t it?”
“Okay, now you’ve got me worried.”
He gave me another one of his sad smiles. “A little worry isn’t always a bad thing. But only a little. Have a good day, Ms. Verone, Michael.” He made a little bow to the cat and solemnly said, “Bastet. Don’t bother to get up, I know the way out.”
He left us in the kitchen staring at one another. I gazed into Michael’s eyes for a moment, then got up decisively. I’d left my cell phone in my office.
“Where are you going?”
“To call Bernie. She promised to keep me informed, and so far all I’ve gotten from her is crickets.”
* * * * *
“The cops were just here.”
“Oh, good. What did you find out?”
“’Oh, good?’ What’s that supposed to mean?”
She hesitated, just a half-beat, and I could almost see her waving a lit cigarette around while she eased herself back into her desk chair. “Self-fulfilling prophesy? Is that the term I want?”
“You lost me.”
“People believe you have some kind of magical ability to unravel mysteries, so they bring them to you, giving you the chance to actually unravel them, with or without help from the great beyond.”
I let it sink in. “You mean this kind of thing is going to keep happening?”
“I think the correct word would be snowballing. Yes. People will tell you till they’re blue in the face that they’re not superstitious, but at the first sign of trouble, they’re knocking on wood, throwing salt over their shoulders and going to fortunetellers. And people with magic cats. So who showed up? Burtie?”
“Detective Burton Bruno. I am not on an affectionate-nickname basis with him; I don’t call him Burtie, and if he calls me Taters – if one more person calls me Taters –”
She chuckled and I fumed.
“So,” I said, controlling myself, “how is the investigation going?”
“They got nothing. That’s probably why Burtie was at your house this morning. The gods of Egypt are his last resort. And you, of course. Just what did he say, after all?”
I gave her a brief synopsis. Wrapping it up, I said, “So Kyle isn’t involved in this at all? You’re getting nothing from the Flagler County Sheriff’s office?”
“Wrong county, sweetie, remember? It happened in St. John’s County.”
I’m wise to Bernie’s tricks. Saying it was the wrong county isn’t the same as saying Kyle hadn’t told her anything. I asked again.
“Well, Kyle has a lot of friends and relatives spread out across the counties, and he did pick up something odd. Not about Fred Rambo. About things in general over there.”
“Over where?”
“Where your friends are staying. The Anastasia Resort.”
“What about it?”
She prevaricated, maundered and temporized until I finally said, “Bernie! You’re better at expressing yourself than that. Let me put it this way: what are you working on for this week’s Beach Buzz? You’re doing an article on Fred’s death, right?”
“Y-yes. Hard news isn’t what The Beach Buzz is all about, but I am doing an article about an elderly man who died at a party. I have to strike a delicate balance, you know. The locals won’t stand for it if I don’t report the real news, but I can’t scare away the tourists or I won’t have any advertisers. I’m also,” she added in a suspiciously airy way, “doing a puff piece on the Anastasia Resort itself. You know the kind of thing: what a nice mix of locals and visitors it is, how it’s one of the last pet-friendly resorts, how romance is always blooming among the elderly widows and widowers that live there.”
“Is it? Blooming, I mean?”
“It happens.”
“Are you being paid for this article?”
“Sadly, no. I called Terri Jones at the rental office and dangled it in front of her, but she wasn’t biting. Something about trolling for customers further north than Tropical Breeze. So short-sighted. Tropical Breezers have northern friends who ask for recommendations. But get this – when she found out I was doing an article on her development, she wanted me to let her review it before I publish.”
“Are you going to let her?”
She snorted. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I bet if she’d paid for an ad in your paper, you’d have been more agreeable.”
“I’m a reporter. I stand by the facts.”
“Oh, come on. It’s not going to be a grubby exposé. It’s going to be a bonbon about a reso
rt by the ocean, with more pretty pictures than text. And besides being a reporter, you’re a businesswoman. You’re perfectly capable of making a deal if somebody sweetens the pot.”
“We-ll, maybe I would’ve run it by her one time.”
I paused. “Is something funny going on at the Anastasia Resort?”
“I’m sniffing around. I’ll let you know . . . .”
“What is it you suspect? Some kind of sweetheart scam aimed at the rich widows?”
“It definitely involves money.”
“Not love?”
“Maybe love too. I haven’t got my facts nailed down yet. I’ll let you know when I do. And don’t forget, our deal is reciprocal.”
“I’ve already reciprocated. At least one of us is a woman of honor.”
Instead of being ashamed of herself, she chuckled. Finally she brushed off a few more questions and hung up.
I’d have to keep a better watch on my friends. If some kind of scam was going on at the Resort, Coco was ripe for the picking. Three divorces had left her extremely well off, (after the first divorce, she had discovered the pre-nuptial agreement), and she was narcissistic enough to believe that any man could fall in love with her at first sight. Also, she tended to trust strangers. And last but not least, she was always up for a new adventure.
Chapter 11
“I know who did it,” Coco said as soon as I got all the way into the condo.
“Again?” I asked without bothering to look interested. “Same suspect, or somebody different this time?”
Patty had answered the door and let me in. Coco was draped across the couch in the living room, sipping a pink beverage from a frosty glass. She looked very picturesque in a magenta sarong with matching, strappy sandals with amazing heels. She looked like she belonged in one of those Road to . . . movies with Crosby and Hope.
“It’s a little early, isn’t it?” I said, raising my eyebrows at what looked like a boozy drink.
“Oh, this? It’s perfectly legal. Healthy, in fact. Just a concoction of fruit juices to keep my strength up while I cut back on calories.”
“You’ve got about 300 calories right there in the glass.” I raised my hands defensively. “I’m just sayin’. How nice that you’ve run our poisoner down. Let’s notify law enforcement and then we can get cooking on our next diet meal. What’s it going to be, by the way?” I was deliberately baiting her and she knew it. I also knew that until the cops made an arrest, she was going to be throwing out accusations like party favors, and she didn’t know who the killer was any more than I did.
Patty played along, describing an almond-crusted creation involving meat, which I wouldn’t eat, but I didn’t stop her since out of the corner of my eye I could see Coco beginning to steam.
Finally, she blew.
“It was obviously a love triangle,” she said, just when Patty was verbally getting the pork chops nice and tender. “That Candy woman was the only one fooling around with Fred’s drink. Ipso facto, she did it. Everybody knows murder is always about love. Or money. But mostly love.”
“Exactly,” I told her. I turned back to Patty. “It’s pan-fried, is it?”
“Sautéed,” she corrected. “In butter.”
“And this is a diet thing? Tell me you don’t serve it with French fries.”
Coco popped off. She got up on her high heels and began swinging her drink around, getting all magenta in the face, to match her dress.
As I watched her, a medium-sized white dog ran by outside the patio doors behind Coco and kept on going, trailing a leash from its collar.
I think I’m part Australian Shepherd. The herding instinct gripped me. I was up and out of that chair before Coco could utter a complete syllable. She called something after me as I ran out the door, but I didn’t hear what it was, and I didn’t care.
* * * * *
The dog was friendly. It had the best excuse any dog can come up with for running away: it had seen a squirrel. And with only an 8-year old girl to restrain it, it had broken free and been all the way down the main drive before it had even been able to think, “What am I doing?”
By the time I got out onto the drive, the little girl was as close to the dog as I was, and she was yelling, “Mokey! Come here!” like it was ever going to happen that way.
“Is that your dog?” I asked, taking up the chase.
“He ran away from me! He’s a bad boy!”
By then the squirrel had gone up a tree and was blowing raspberries at the dog. Mokey had taken up a position at the bottom of the tree to wait it out. I’d like to say they never learn, but the truth is they never lose hope. One day, they fantasize, they’re going to catch that squirrel. They never seem to think beyond that point. I saw a dog actually corner a squirrel once. It surprised the dog so much he just stood there, and the squirrel made a spectacular leap right over his head, which solved the problem for both of them.
I got to Mokey first and picked up the leash before little Kate (I presumed it was she) caught up with us, puffing and panting. Mokey was perfectly happy to allow a stranger to have his leash, and he smiled up at me goofily and prepared to walk with me wherever I chose to take him on that fine summer day.
“Where’s your condo?” I asked her. “I’ll walk you two home so he doesn’t get away from you again. By the way, my name’s Taylor.”
She looked up at me with large hazel eyes and took my measure. Mokey trusted me, and we were heading back to where mom and dad were, so she decided I was okay and fell in beside me, getting chatty. First, she informed me that I couldn’t fool her, my actual name was Taters. We had a brief, friendly disagreement about that, and then she was off. It turned out she was one of those kids who never stop talking.
“I’m Kate. He’s Mokey. He’s my dog.”
“Mokey with an M? Not Smokey?”
“No. Mokey, for moke. That’s what my brother Carson calls milk, or anyway he used to when we first got Mokey, only he’s five now and he doesn’t say moke anymore. Everybody else does, but he doesn’t. He gets mad, too, because he thinks we’re making fun of him. And we are.” Grin.
“So . . . Carson called your dog Mokey because he’s white?”
“No. We named him Mokey because the first thing Carson did was spill milk all over him. He liked it,” she added, looking at the dog, who gave her an adoring look with his tongue hanging out. “He shook it all over the place and then started licking it up. And Mommy wasn’t mad. She just laughed. Everybody laughed. Everybody’s always laughing at Mokey.”
“Yeah, I can tell he’s a clown. I know lots of dogs. I run an animal shelter.”
“You DO?”
“Yep. Lots of dogs, lots of cats. Heaven. Except I have to be able to let them go when they get adopted, and that can be hard. But I make sure they go to good families and I always know they’ll be happy, so that makes it easier.”
“Don’t you ever keep any for yourself?”
“Well, I have a cat.” I told her about Bastet, hinting at her strange powers, since I was talking to a child.
“Are the other cats jealous?”
It was a new concept. I thought it over. “I don’t think so. Bastet stays in the house, mostly. Did you get Mokey from a shelter?”
“Mommy did. There was a whole litter of puppies, and Mommy said Mokey just looked at her.” She stopped, not knowing quite how to put it.
“I know exactly what you mean. I know that look. I’ve seen it many times.”
“You have?”
“It’s like some kind of ESP, and when it happens, you just know it. At the shelter, when people come in to adopt, I always know when they get the look. Just where is this condo of yours, anyway?” I said, stopping and looking around. I realized we’d walked all the way down the main drive and were at the other end, near the real estate office. “Did we pass it?”
“No, it’s over there,” she said, pointing to the last driveway splitting off from the main road. “It’s one of the farthest ones from the be
ach, but Mom and Dad like it, because it’s got an upstairs, and the furniture isn’t tacky.”
“Oh. One of the townhouses?”
“Right. All the townhouses are on this end of the Resort. By the duck pond. I like the duck pond. Do you?”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“Let’s go! It’s got ducks and turtles, and Daddy says it keeps the condos from flooding by catching all the water when it rains. We bring old bread and stuff down there and feed them, even though we’re not supposed to.”
“You really shouldn’t. It’s not a balanced diet for them.”
“They don’t mind. They like it.”
While I dizzily groped for a way to reason with the child, she was off onto something else again.
“We went to a party.”
I had been wondering how to work my way around to the party, and here she’d made the leap for me. I should have known. Jason had been there. He was probably occupying most of her stray thoughts these days. I wondered if she even knew about Fred’s death yet. She was bound to find out sooner or later, but I didn’t want to be the one to tell her. I decided to be careful what I said.
“Were there a lot of people there?”
“Tons. Mostly old people. It’s pretty much just old people that live here. The renters have kids, but not the owners. And Jason was at the party, too. I like him.”
“He works here, right?”
“He runs everything here. He’s got a new truck. It’s huge! He needs a big truck, because he has lots of tools and stuff.”
“He runs everything?”
“Yep. Except for the stuff that Terri runs, which is everything else. She works in the real estate office, and her assistant is a real dunderhead. Jason has a crew, and they’re all really good at their jobs, like him.”
