“Why Monty?” Tom asked, catching me off guard.
“Huh? Well...he kind of runs the place,” I said. “And he’s the only one I can think of to question besides the old guy in the beekeeper’s hat. And nobody’s seen him around since the...well...you know.”
“Good point,” Tom said, as if it cost him to utter the words. “What have we got to lose?”
BRAD PITT’S YOUNG PORTER double didn’t appear to know me when I walked into the resort’s Hawaiian-inspired lobby. I remembered him, but this time his diamond smile didn’t fool me. It was pure cubic zirconia.
“Hello, miss,” Brad beamed. “Are you checking in?”
“No. I’d like to talk to the reception clerk,” I said. “I believe his name is Monty?”
Brad’s smile never wavered. “I’m afraid he’s not available.”
“Oh. When will he be in?”
“That’s very hard to say, miss.”
“Who’s running the desk, then?”
“I am,” Brad said. The phone on the desk began to ring. Brad’s smile faltered. He sprinted to the big, black, complicated-looking phone system and hesitated over it, biting his lip.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” I asked.
“Wrong number,” Brad said. “Now, perhaps you should come back tomorrow?”
“Perhaps,” I said. Dang it! With no other strategy, I headed back out the door to the parking lot. Tom was waiting outside.
“Well?” Tom asked.
“Total bust. Where’s Winky?”
“Men’s room.”
Tom and I stood in awkward silence, waiting for Winky to come out.
“Well, at least you got to do your business,” I said when he finally stumbled out the door.
“No I didn’t,” Winky said, “on account of some snooty guy wouldn’t come out of the only stall in there. What I need to do don’t go down a urinal.”
“More info than I wanted to know,” I said.
“I guess that’s it,” Tom said, and took a step toward the parking lot.
“Wait a minute,” I said to Winky. “What do you mean, snooty?”
“Huh? Oh. I dunno. The feller in the stall talked all fancy-like in some weird accent. When I asked how long he planned on sittin’ on the john, he said, ‘Until you leave, my good sir.’ All high and might-like. Now that’s what my granny would call one snooty fella.”
“Oh my word. That sounds like Monty!” I said. “He’s holed up in the bathroom because he doesn’t want to talk to me. I knew something was going on! That Brad kid. He had no idea how to answer the phone....”
“I wouldn’t doubt that,” Winky agreed. “Poor little fella’s been hit with the idiot stick. I seen him talkin’ to the door behind that fancy desk. He called it ‘Freddie,’ and then told it to stay put. Like a door could move. Geeze Louise.”
“Freddie?” Tom asked. “As in, ‘I think Freddie’s done it again’?”
I clenched my jaw. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Mahi burritos?” Winky asked.
“No! I want you to go back in the bathroom, Winky, and ‘flush out’ that snooty guy, so to speak.”
Winky grinned. “I think I can handle that.”
“Tom, you follow my lead. Pretend to be my attorney.”
Tom scowled. “But I made the reservation. Won’t he know I’m your...I was your...?”
“No chance of that,” I said. “They think I’m a lesbian.”
“What?” Tom gulped.
I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Don’t ask.”
“Val, maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” Tom said. “You have a way of...making things...go...haywire.”
“And your point is?” I snapped.
“Nothing,” Tom sighed.
“Okay then. Let’s roll.”
“BACK SO SOON, MISS?” Brad’s voice cracked as I strolled into the lobby, Tom and Winky at my side. I saw a flash of blue suit disappear into the men’s room. Winky nodded at me and took off behind it.
“I really need to speak with Monty,” I said. “Why don’t you go get him?”
Brad’s blue eyes registered panic. “Like I said, he’s not here right now.”
“Okay then. We’ll wait.”
We didn’t have to wait long. A moment later, Monty came stumbling out of the bathroom, one hand pinching his nose, the other waving away imaginary flies.
“Why Monty, nice to see you again,” I said with all the fake sincerity I could muster.
Monty gasped, then stared at me as he marched to his post behind the desk. He appeared shaken, but determined to keep his act together.
“Monty,” I began, “do you know anything about Cold Cuts you’re not telling me?”
“Of course not, madam,” he said. He breathed low and steady to calm himself.
“I just don’t see why you’re lying,” I said. “Unless you had something to do with her disappearance.”
“I didn’t,” he barked. “And I don’t appreciate your insinuations. Leave now or I’ll call the police.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Tom said, and pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. “I am one.”
Monty’s face turned yellowish green. “I see. But officer...?”
“Foreman,” Tom offered.
Monty’s eyes lost their focus for a moment, as if preoccupied scanning his memory banks. His eyes bulged when he hit pay dirt. “Foreman, you say?” he coughed.
“Yes.”
“Well, as I’ve said before, I know nothing more than –”
“Who’s Freddie?” I asked.
Monty choked on his words and hacked up half a lung. “Freddie?”
“Yes. The guy you have locked up in that room behind you,” Tom said.
Monty wobbled, as if he might faint. Winky’s voice sounded behind us. “Oh, so that’s what’s goin’ on. I knew they was somethin’ fishy about him.”
“I...uh...,” Monty muttered.
“You going to open that door, or should I call for a warrant?” Tom asked.
Monty’s shoulders slumped. “That won’t be necessary. Freddie is my uncle. He...um...owns this place.”
“Why are you holding him in there against his will?” I demanded.
“I’m not holding him against his will. He’s not a prisoner. Not like you think,” Monty said.
“Then let us see him,” Tom demanded.
“He’s sleeping. He’s an old man,” Monty pleaded.
“Last chance,” Tom said.
Monty closed his eyes, sighed, and unlocked the door. He opened his eyes again and looked us over. Then he stepped aside and flung the door wide open.
Standing at attention in the doorframe was a naked old man. His head turned in my direction. From underneath his beekeeper’s hat he uttered the words, “Hard bodied grubs.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Well I’ll be a Monty’s uncle,” Winky said, and whistled low and long.
Monty’s face drained to alabaster. He collapsed onto a stool behind the reception desk like a punctured balloon.
Old Freddie raised a hand and lifted the shroud on his beekeeper’s hat. He whispered to Monty, “Have the Tartan’s been vanquished?”
“Yes, Sir Freddie,” Monty said tiredly, and rose from his chair. “I’ll send a telegraph. Now lay low until the troops arrive.”
The old man nodded and laid down on a cot. Monty closed the door, then shook his head and muttered, “I don’t get paid enough to put up with this crap anymore.”
“What in the world is going on?” Winky asked.
“I can explain,” Monty said. “As you can see, my uncle has dementia. We can either keep him here or lock him up in a nursing home. He used to live in cottage 22, but now he needs too much supervision. That’s why I keep him in there. It’s not a prison, I assure you.”
A knock sounded from the other side of the door. “Excuse me,” Monty said, and opened the door a crack.
“Bring me the Tid
dly Winks, you heathen!” the old man whispered.
“Yes, very good, sir.” Monty closed the door and faced us again, his haughty façade totally erased.
“I used to like playin’ me some Tiddly Winks,” Winky offered.
“Cottage 22,” I said. “That’s the one I was in. Do you think your uncle might have...I dunno, gone there and thought Cold Cuts was an intruder? I left the door unlocked. Could he have –”
“My uncle’s harmless, I swear,” Monty said. “He spends his time fishing and...in there.” He nodded toward the door.
“Why did it take so long to get my room ready that day?” I asked. “The police reports said it was cleaned up. But they used...uh...Luminet?” I looked at Tom.
“Luminol,” Tom offered. “The SCI report showed that the room had recently been spattered in blood and cleaned up.”
Monty sighed. “Like I said. That’s Freddie’s old cottage. Sometimes he forgets – or remembers – hard to tell. Anyway, sometimes he goes back there and tries to get in. Your room wasn’t ready on Sunday because Freddie had caught a huge tarpon and filleted it in there. It took them forever to get the blood stains out of the carpet and bedspreads.”
“Who is ‘them’?” Tom asked.
“I hired a professional cleanup company,” Monty said.
“Which one?” Tom asked.
“Vellum Vistas,” Monty said.
“They’re crime-scene cleaners. You just happened to have their number handy?” Tom asked.
“No. Well, yes. My uncle is a pretty...active fisherman.”
“Could they have overlooked some of the blood or fish parts?”
“No.”
“Then how do you explain this?” I said, and held up the tarpon scale I’d lifted from my coffee table. “It was in my hair when I got home.”
“I’m the one found that!” Winky beamed.
“I don’t know,” Monty said. “I guess anything is possible.”
“A pair of bloody pliers and a tooth were also recovered the day after your professional cleanup,” Tom said, “along with a blood trail from the cottage to the beach. If your uncle could carry a huge fish like a tarpon and butcher it, then it’s highly likely he’s capable of, in a delusional state, doing the same thing to a human....” Tom’s voice trailed off.
“I just can’t see him doing that,” Monty said. “But I’ll come clean with you. He picked the lock Sunday night. He was unaccounted for...for a few hours.”
“How many hours?” I asked.
“All night,” Monty confessed.
“Do you think he’s capable of pulling out someone’s tooth?” Tom asked.
“Yes,” Monty sighed. “He’s done it before.”
“What?” I almost screeched.
Monty sighed. “He was a dentist before he became an hotelier.”
“Hotelier,” giggled Winky. “That sounds funny.”
I gave Winky the evil eye.
“What’s the full name of your uncle?” Tom asked.
“William F. Rockbottom,” Monty said.
“I ran the plates of every car in your lot,” Tom said. “That was one of the names.”
“Yes. That’s him.”
“He still drives?” I asked, incredulous.
“No. Not technically.”
“What does that mean?” Tom asked.
“We have to keep the keys locked up,” Monty explained. “If Freddie finds a set, he’ll...you know, try to take off.”
“So your uncle can carry and butcher a huge, 60-90 pound fish, he can drive, and he was missing during the time Cold Cuts disappeared,” Tom said. “What’s your financial position in this resort, Monty?”
“Excuse me?” Monty said, startled by the question.
“You got any clams in the place.” Winky explained.
“I...uh...don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Well then, let me make it clearer,” Tom said. “Suppose you’re in line to inherit this place. If your Uncle Freddie went and murdered someone, you might lose everything you’ve been so diligently working for.”
“Confound it!” Monty snapped. “I never thought of that. He tricked me, that little turd.”
“Who did?” I asked.
“Freddie’s idiot son. Monday morning, he made me help him load a piece of rolled up carpet into an old RV on the lot. I saw blood dripping out of it. He told me to keep quiet about it. He said it was in everybody’s interest that I keep my mouth shut. He didn’t tell me anything else, so I couldn’t rat him out, I assume.”
“And Freddie’s son is...?”
“William F. Rockbottom, IV,” Monty said. “But he goes by the stupid name of Bill Robo.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Bill Robo? Where is he now?” I bellowed at Monty. He shrunk back as if I’d struck him in the face with a dirty flyswatter.
“I don’t know,” Monty said. “I haven’t heard a word from him since I helped him load the body in the RV. I swear.”
“Did Bill do it, or was he covering for your uncle?” Tom asked through clenched jaws.
Monty’s face went slack for a moment, as if he was pondering the question for the first time. He shook his head softly. “I honestly couldn’t tell you for certain. I’m sorry.”
“Who says Bill ain’t coverin’ for your snooty butt?” Winky asked.
We all stared at Monty. His eyes grew wide and he stuck his nose in the air. “I’m British, not American. We don’t solve disputes by killing each other.”
“Why does your cousin Bill use an alias?” Tom asked. “Does he have a criminal record?”
Monty sighed. “He got in a spot of trouble a while back. When he was a teenager. He’s always been a little...different. That’s why Freddie asked me to come over and help out. His son is...unreliable, to put it mildly.”
“You said he got in trouble.” I said. “What did he do?”
“He was charged with car theft, reckless driving and...,” Monty sighed again, “kidnapping.”
“Geeze!” I said.
“I don’t get it,” Winky said. “If he didn’t have no wreck, why was he charged with wreck-less driving?”
Tom and I turned and shouted at the same time. “Winky!”
Winky took a step backward. “’Scuze me! Just trying to get the facts straight.”
“So Bill’s done this before,” I said to Monty.
“If he kidnapped your friend, and took her vehicle, then, yes. But if he uh...killed her...I couldn’t tell you for sure if it was his first...you know...murder.”
“Any idea where he might have gone with the RV?” Tom asked.
“None.”
“Do you know if he had a friend...a woman with red hair?” I asked.
“Bill’s a trust-fund beach bum. He always has ‘friends’ around. I gave up trying to keep track of them all a long time ago.”
Brad came through the lobby door with a couple of new guests. The way Monty looked at the young porter, it was probably Brad’s last chance for a good tip.
“I have to keep things going here,” Monty said to us. “The place would fall down around my ears if I didn’t work twenty-four seven. I don’t have the time or energy to kill someone...much less plot their disposal. I don’t mean to be rude, but I really need to check these folks in.”
“Okay,” Tom said. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything else. Thanks for your cooperation.”
“You’re in America now,” Winky said to Monty. “You need to learn you how to speak good, proper English, feller.”
Monty blew out a breath that contained the last of his patience, then turned and plastered on a fake smile for the tourists. I almost felt sorry for him.
“Come on, Winky,” I said, and tugged on his arm. “We’re done here.”
We left the lobby and headed to our cars.
“I guess that’s all we can do for now,” Tom said. “I’ll stop by the Sarasota station and fill in Detective Stanley. It should be enough for him to put out
an APB for the RV.”
“I hope it doesn’t land you in any trouble, Tom,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
“Sure,” he said solemnly. “But you don’t need my help, Val. You handled yourself pretty well in there.” He looked down at my hand. His eyes lingered on the place where his ring used to be. “It looks like you’re doing all right on your own.”
“So what happens next?” Winky blurted.
“Well, I guess that depends on the boss.” Tom said. He shot me a glance, then turned and walked away.
“WELL, AT LEAST YOU didn’t hit Rockbottom,” Winky joked as I pulled out of the resort’s parking lot. He’d meant to make me laugh, but his words cut through me like a hot knife through Crisco. They’d hit way too close to home.
I poked my chin up and turned the radio on full blast to drown out Winky’s voice and the thoughts percolating like rancid coffee inside my head. When I’d finally dropped him off at Davie’s Donuts, I’d gone home, put on my pajamas and crawled into bed.
I was physically and emotionally spent. As I sunk down in the pillows, the doorbell rang.
“Who the hell could be bothering me at this hour?” I muttered. I looked at the clock. It was 6:33 p.m.
Laverne was at the door. “Did you hear the news?” she asked, wriggling with excitement like a wormy puppy.
“No.”
“Jorge passed his tests! Isn’t that fantastic!”
I mustered all the enthusiasm I could, considering the facts that Cold Cuts was probably dead, and so was my relationship with Tom. “That’s great.”
“They’re having a little party at Caddy’s to celebrate tomorrow.” Laverne’s grin straightened out a notch. “Hey. What’s gotten into you?” She grabbed my hand. “You’re not wearing that horrible ring, are you?” She examined my fingers to make sure it wasn’t on one of them.
“No,” I said, and yanked my hand away. There was no use telling Laverne the bad news about Cold Cuts until it was official. So I told her about Tom and me, instead. “Tom and I aren’t doing so well.”
“Because of the ring?”
I hadn’t really put the two together until she’d said that.
Fifty is the New F-Word Page 17
