by Don Bruns
James was waiting in front of the station when I pulled up in the truck. He got in the on passenger side and didn’t say a word.
“We’re going to take a trip down to a motel on the beach. There’s a property there you’re going to find interesting, James.”
He was biting his lower lip, staring straight ahead.
“Want to tell me what happened?”
“No.”
“Hey, bright side. You’re free and we’re still employed. I checked with the front desk. They’re comping us a second room. We both get a room and one’s got a kitchenette. Pretty cool.”
He didn’t smile.
“We’re moving up in the world, James.”
Turning left just before The Vein Care Center clinic, we crossed Old Highway and pulled in at the Ocean Air. Motel apparently wasn’t the appropriate word. The sign said Ocean Air Suites. A forty-something guy with short hair and an earring stood on the white porch, watching us get out of the truck. Slowly walking to the oil-guzzling truck, he approached me.
“We were thinking of maybe staying here sometime in the next couple of months. Thought we might check the place out.”
He kept staring at us.
“So, I wondered if we could just maybe take a quick look at the beach down there? Just a quick look.”
He nodded. “You understand it’s for guests only?”
“Just going to look. We’ll be right back.”
“Okay, then.” He didn’t sound happy about it. “You see it, then you come right back, you hear?”
James and I walked down the shell-covered path, heading toward the ocean. In the distance I could make out several wooden deck chairs and a tiki hut with a grass roof.
“So what are we going to see?”
I pointed to my right, where a tall metal fence ran the entire length from the road to the water. Trees, orange-flowering bougainvillea, and high grass blocked any view of the property next door.
“We’re hopefully going to get a view of that property.”
“And why are we doing this?”
“We might want to come back some night this week and bring a shovel.”
James’s eyes opened a little wider. “So, you found it already.”
“I did.”
“Pard, that’s great.” He punched me on the shoulder.
“Property is owned by a doctor on the Overseas Highway. Not a very pleasant guy. He keeps it under lock and key.”
“What’s so valuable?”
“Don’t know.”
We reached the beach, a little point of sand that stuck out into the water. An older, heavyset couple was sprawled out on two chairs, lathered in lotion, their tiny suits covering far too little. She was bright pink and the guy with socks and sandals was pasty white. European, for sure. I’d seen it before. The sun was bright, and I figured the guy’s white skin would be red soon. Except for his feet.
Walking farther to the edge, we could look back into the fenced-off grassy ground.
“Dude, there’s nothing there.”
A wooden boat dock reached into the water. Other than that, there was grass. Grass and more grass. The lot was vacant, fenced in on all four sides. Three sides were covered in trees and lush flowering plants, the waterside free of vegetation, but the fence ran all the way to the water’s edge.
“Why do you keep a vacant property locked up?”
I stared out at the sky-blue water, then back at the empty land. There was no boat at the dock.
“Picnickers? Kids? I mean this would be a great place to drink a six-pack, make out with your girlfriend—”
“Maybe go skinny dipping?”
“So you put up a sign that says private property. No need to put up a major security fence.” It seemed to make no sense.
“A sign would be a lot cheaper than this fence, that’s for sure.”
“Time to vacate the premises, boys.”
I spun around and there was the guy with the earring, perched on a white electric golf cart. Electric. A silent approach.
“I told you, we were just looking.”
Glancing down at the seat beside him I saw a nickel-plated revolver. Just lying on the white vinyl. A subtle threat, or else he was going to do some target practice with the dolphins.
“Move it. Guests here pay for this privilege. Understand?”
It was a spit of land, with no ambiance, no personality. Hardly worth the price.
The golf cart guy sat there, waiting for us to make our move.
“No problem. I don’t think we’ll be making reservations today. Okay?”
“We have no problem with gays, but you two are an exception.” He paused for a moment and just as I got ready to say something, he said, “Okay?” We walked back toward the truck, James kicking the occasional big piece of shell.
“Gays?”
“Everybody is trying to push your buttons today, James. Just settle down.”
“Sons of bitches seriously thought I might have had something to do with that Weezle guy. They thought that I would have killed someone. I mean what kind of a person would just automatically assume that—”
“James, you were not cooperating.”
“You think? When the first question out of their mouths was, ‘Did you kill the man in your room?’”
I hadn’t realized they would be that blunt.
“Hey, you’re free. They couldn’t make that connection because it didn’t exist. And by the way, that’s another thing I found out.”
“What?”
“The dead guy. It wasn’t Jim Weezle.”
“What? There’s no question, is there? We both recognized him from the Yellow Page ad online, right?”
Flipping the keys to James, I opened the passenger door and climbed up into the white beast.
“I thought so. But the name with the body is Peter Stiffle.”
“Stiffle?”
“That’s what Big D says.”
“Big D?”
James started the engine and it coughed several times before catching. Glancing in my side mirror I saw the cloud of oily smoke as James pulled away.
“Big D is—was—Maria’s boyfriend. He’s one of the cops who was at the Cove.”
He backed up, and we headed back to the highway.
“You know, I was gone one hour. I watched my time very carefully.”
“And?”
“In that time, in one hour, you learned that Maria has an ex-boyfriend named Big D, you learned that the dead guy was Peter Stiffle, you met a doctor you’re not too fond of, and you found the location of the old Coral Belle Hotel.”
“I did.”
“Why do you need me along, pard? You’re a one-man detecting machine.”
I smiled, looked out the window, and that’s when I saw the red flashing light in the side mirror.
“Did you cut somebody off? Change lanes with—”
“There are no lanes. Damn it, Skip. These guys aren’t going to leave me alone.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“We knew who you were, because you had that black paint spatter on your truck. Easy to identify.”
James said nothing through the rolled down window. The dark look on his face and his rhythmic heavy breathing gave it all away.
“We have a question for you,” the officer said. “Something you weren’t asked during our previous interrogation.”
James turned to me with a pleading look on his face. I would have to take the questions because if James said what was in his heart, they’d take him back to jail, toss him in, and throw away the keys.
“That question is?” I leaned over and shouted out James’s window. He absolutely wasn’t going to cooperate. I knew that.
“Somebody saw a Harley-Davidson pull out of the parking lot at Pelican Cove, about the same time that the resort reported the dead body.”
I’d heard that Harley. Wondered about it as well.
“The driver had a helmet on, face guard pulled down, and he …” the
officer hesitated, looking back at his partner, “he, or possibly she, rode a black cycle with a gold fender.” Taking a deep breath, the officer continued. “Does any of that sound familiar? Do you know anyone who owns that cycle?”
“No.” I shouted out the answer to his last question. We knew no one who owned that cycle. So technically I was telling the truth.
“Guys,” the officer looked up at James, “we want to solve this homicide as soon as possible. Understand that with every minute that goes by, it gets harder to solve the crime. We just want to put it to bed by tonight.” He looked back at his partner. “Is there any reason that the driver can’t answer any of these questions?”
James gripped the wheel even tighter.
“If we have any information, we’ll call you.” I shouted it out. “Who should we call?”
“Danny Mayfair.”
“Big D?”
He paused.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Not important. I just wanted to make sure you were the guy.”
I leaned back and nodded to James. He took his foot off the brake and coasted out of the shell-filled parking lot. We crossed Old Highway and got back on the Overseas Highway. Both of these roads were definitely not highway status, but it made no difference. We would ride it back to our abode.
He drove in silence for a minute or two, stopping at a long red light. Finally, James turned to me and grinned.
“Dude. You smarted off to that police officer. The “Big D” thing.”
“I did.”
“You’re the buttoned-up guy. My man who usually plays by the rules, doesn’t want to ruffle feathers.”
“I am that guy. Usually.”
“Pard, I’m impressed.”
A tandem semi pulled up behind us, the driver’s air brakes screeching. For a moment the sinister-looking dude made eye contact, the man nodding at me as I checked my side mirror.
“You’re not a murderer, James. You’re my best friend. I don’t hang around with killers. You know?”
Without missing a beat my best friend turned to me and said, “You killed Ferraro. How did it feel?”
His eyes were steady, turning back to the road as cars whipped by us in the southbound lane.
“A quote, but I have no idea from where.”
“His Kind of Woman. Nineteen fifty-one. You had to love it. Robert Mitchum, Jane Russell, Vincent Price. Private yachts, planes, and mayhem.”
“My God, James. Sixty years ago. Black-and-white for God’s sake. I bow to your knowledge.”
He nodded, a smile forming on his lips.
“I have a soul in the history of cinema, Skip.” Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, he said, “It may not be relevant to what’s happening today, but—”
“What’s happening?”
“Oh, come on, pard.” He lifted his hands from the wheel. “Rerun. That’s from What’s Happening. But it’s a TV show, so it only counts for half a point.”
Damn. I’d been found out.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mary Trueblood was waiting for us when we got back. She must have seen the truck pull in and she met us in the parking lot while James added oil to the engine.
“Boys, this is getting a lot messier than I thought it would. If you walked away right now I wouldn’t blame you.”
“Mrs. T., we found the Coral Belle.”
Her eyes got big. “Any chance we can find the foundation?” No more thought of walking away.
“The property is empty. Some doctor has it all fenced off, but we can probably sneak in there tonight. We were thinking of maybe taking a couple of shovels and seeing if we can find any sign of a foundation.”
“You want to stick it out?”
James nodded enthusiastically. “Look, we know where the hotel was. That’s a real positive. And someone was killed while they were searching our room, leading us to believe people want to stop the investigation, so it seems we’re on the right track.”
“Okay.” She still sounded skeptical. “What’s your next step?”
“There’s got to be a library in this town. Let’s see if we can find pictures of the Coral Belle.”
Every once in a while James comes up with a good idea.
Kathy Ebert, the library director, pointed us to files and files of newspaper stories, and we sorted them out on a large table.
“There was just one restaurant back then. Look at this.” James pointed to a photograph of The Russell Café. The sign outside boasted Key lime pie and coconut cake.
“And here’s the Matecumbe Hotel. After the storm. That windy sucker knocked one whole corner off the building.”
“But it’s still standing in that picture.”
James studied one page, I studied another.
“There was a post office, a Methodist church, a school—”
I looked up from my page, “and pineapple docks. They imported a lot of pineapples from Cuba, then transported them by train up to Miami.”
“I thought we got most of our pineapples from Hawaii.”
“Check it out, James. Hawaii was thousands of miles away. According to this story, Islamorada imported cheap pineapples and limes from Cuba. Havana and Matanzas, Cuba.”
“Cuba. Who would have thought. We’re getting a history lesson here, brother.”
“Yeah.” History. We were investigating something that happened seventy-five years ago. Something we’d studied in the eighth grade.
“I guess you just loaded the fruit on a boat and brought it into Islamorada.” James looked back at the old news article.
“Unload it at the docks here, load it onto Flagler’s train, and take it to Miami.”
“Looks like it was a big business,” I said.
“And there was a Methodist cemetery.” James pointed to another article.
“There still is,” Kathy said. “The Methodists were insistent that it stay in the same place. They refused to give in to the Cheeca Lodge, so right there, by the swimming pool and the beach, is a home for dead people.”
“It still exists?” I couldn’t believe that people would tolerate a cemetery in the middle of a resort.
“It does. The Pioneer Cemetery.”
My cell phone buzzed and I grabbed for it. Em.
“Hey, Em. I miss you.”
“You miss me where?”
“In my heart?”
“No, silly, where are you that you miss me?”
“Well, we’re somewhere in the Keys. Mrs. T. didn’t want us to tell anyone about our mission and—”
“Skip, I got a letter today regarding Mary Trueblood and you.”
“What? Me and Mrs. T.? She’s a little old for me, Em. And besides, nobody gets letters anymore.”
“I did, Skip, and it isn’t funny. The letter is unsigned, and it scared me.”
“What did it say?” I couldn’t imagine someone writing Em and saying that I was having an affair with—
“It said that all the gold in Islamorada couldn’t save you if you didn’t abandon your treasure hunt. You, your partner, and Mary Trueblood would end up at the bottom of the ocean if you didn’t go back home.”
I was silent for a moment. James was poring over old papers, and Mary Trueblood was back at the resort. Was I the intended victim in the room at the Pelican Cove? Did the killer make a mistake and knock down the wrong person?
“Skip?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“Someone wants to kill you. Did you hear me?”
“Maybe someone already tried.”
“What do you mean?”
I walked outside the library and got into our truck for privacy. I told her about the murder, about the gold, and about the fenced-in property. I knew it was supposed to be a secret, but I end up telling Em almost everything. Almost. What I don’t tell her, she usually finds out.
When I hung up, I looked across the street. There was the monument that had been built to commemorate the hurricane victims. Three hundred people�
�s ashes were in that stone structure.
I walked back in, and James motioned me to the table.
“Check it out, amigo. Here’s the Coral Belle. You can see the water about twenty, twenty-five feet from the porch.”
“Yeah. And the southeast corner would be straight across from where we were on that little beach.”
“Skip, if that information, in whatever form it is in, still exists, we seriously might be the first people to find it. Think what that could mean.”
I felt his excitement. This property was vacant and maybe, just maybe, the foundation for that long-forgotten hotel still existed.
“Plan. We go buy a couple shovels, charge them to that dwindling debit card. Then we have dinner, we go over to Rumrunners—that bar at the Holiday Isle—have a few drinks.”
“I like the dinner and drinks part. And charging it all.”
“About three a.m. tomorrow morning we drive down to the vacant lot, scale the fence, and put our shovels in the ground.”
“It sounds like what we should do.”
“Then it’s a plan.”
“Good to go, James.”
“Dude, when is she getting here?”
I gave him a blank stare.
“Come on, man. I heard part of the conversation. I saw the look in your eye. Em’s coming down to give us a hand, am I right?”
“She got a note, James. Somebody wrote her and said if we didn’t drop this project, all three of us were going to get killed.”
“Jesus.”
“Em has good ideas. You know she does.”
He rolled his eyes. “Seriously? Someone wrote her and said they were going to kill us?”
“They did.”
“What about Mary?”
“What About Mary, a movie staring Cameron Diaz, Ben Stiller—”
“Not this time, pally. I’m asking what you’re going to tell our employer?”
“She knows Em. They work out at the same gym. Em’s the reason we got this job.”
“It’s another mouth to feed, Skip. Are we going to have to share the wealth?”
“We’ll worry about it later. Right now, we could use the help.”
“Oh, it’s all right. I get along so well with your girlfriend.”
