Murder in Mystic Cove

by Daryl Anderson

  “I suspect it had something to do with the Commentator. Everyone forgets that the paper was originally Alan’s baby.”

  “But that was some time ago, wasn’t it?” I asked.

  “Yes, but sometimes these things fester.” Just then a few fat raindrops fell. Fairley glanced at the glowering sky and back at me.

  “Thanks for your help,” I told her.

  “I hope Mr. Richt appreciates what a jewel he has in you.” Her gloved hand moved toward my arm, but there was a low growl, and the hand retreated.

  “I’m sure he does.” Richt was good at determining the price of things.

  As Fairley Sable toddled away I wondered if she bought into that karma bullshit. Did she really believe the world an honest place where each person was judged according to his or her true worth? She certainly didn’t have the excuse of youth. She must have learned that fairness is a rarity and justice mostly an illusion.

  But that was why we needed to work all the harder for it.

  Chapter Ten

  Red as a Beet

  No one was home at the Rand residence—or at least no one answered—so I zipped four houses down to see what was shaking at the Dick house. Besides, I had the perfect pretext for a visit in the wicker basket, a small deceit that had the advantage of being true. I would tell Anita of Jinks’s recovery and ask if she’d changed her mind about the dog. But as with the Rands, nobody was home.

  Admiral Street was ominously quiet—silent houses with shuttered windows, like blind eyes. The eyes of the dead. A row of identical trash containers sat at curbs, awaiting pick-up, but where were the people who’d rolled them out? I debated whether to try my luck at Gigi Tajani’s—she lived on Scylla Street, just one street south of Admiral—when Spooner rang my cell.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get back earlier,” he said, “but I got a situation here that demands my full attention. I’ll give you the heads-up as soon as I’m able.”

  “Does it concern the autopsy?”

  “Like I said, I got a situation.”

  “Can I run something by you, Sheriff? I talked with José Barracas and...”

  “Gorsky, I got a...”

  “Yeah, I know—a situation. Fuck you,” I said after he’d ended the call. “I got a situation myself.”

  And I wasn’t going to wait around for Spooner’s permission to do something about it.

  * * *

  Five minutes later Jinks and I stood on Gigi Tajani’s porch.

  “Just a moment,” a voice lilted from within. Jinks’s ears perked at the sound, but then he must have been a regular visitor with Mel. The door opened, revealing Gigi Tajani in all her glory. She wore a purple caftan, with matching turban and sandals. The morning light revealed orange bands of pancake makeup that streaked her face like war paint. She glanced at Jinks on his lead—he refused to get back inside the wicker basket—but said nothing.

  “What an unexpected surprise!” Gigi Tajani shrieked, speaking in exclamations as usual. She must be due for a collagen injection—her lips were almost normal sized, for once not resembling a couple of plump bratwurst about to burst.

  She invited me inside for coffee on the “veranda.” As she led me through her townhouse, I felt hundreds of eyes upon me. Although the old woman pursued the sweet bird of youth, she possessed an old lady’s love of knickknacks. Herds of ceramic pigs, flocks of carved flamingos, creepy porcelain dolls with painted cheeks and rolling eyes—all these and more stared from shelves or tabletops. I thought of the great pyramids of the pharaohs, tombs crammed with the simulacra of life. Unwillingly, my eyes were drawn to an odd grouping of resin figurines, a drove of busty, big-assed old ladies.

  Gigi stayed me with an imperious palm. “Do you like my collection?”

  Before I could answer she grabbed one of the figures and thrust it in my hand. The buxom old lady was in full cowgirl mode—ten-gallon hat, denim hot pants, red-checkered midriff blouse, and curling whip in hand. The placard beneath read, At my age I can still round up the boys! Suppressing a shiver, I replaced it among its obscene fellows.

  “Have a seat while I brew the coffee.”

  Once the old woman glided away I studied the so-called veranda, which was the standard Mystic Cove patio outfitted for intimate entertaining. Potted palms and flowering gingers provided plenty of privacy, the sole seating supplied by two large papasan chairs sitting side by side. A wicker sideboard was stocked with booze: several bottles of white wine, a couple of reds, along with an assortment of expensive booze including Courvoisier, Grand Marnier, Chambord. Must be nice—these days I could only afford the knockoff brands, if that. A small collection of barware gleamed on a tray, with two of everything.

  I stuck my head through the French doors. “Can I help you with anything?” Gigi was taking her sweet time with the coffee. Was she stalling?

  “No, no, no, just make yourself comfortable!”

  I brushed Jinks out of the papasan chair and sat. Gigi Tajani’s tastefully landscaped backyard was typical of the Cove, bursting with flowers, mostly oleander and purple ruellia. Beautiful but also dangerous—oleander was poisonous and ruellia an invasive exotic that if left alone would choke out all other plant life. But like Rappaccini’s garden, Florida was full of beautiful and deadly things. The soft murmur of Spanish interrupted these dismal thoughts.

  Across the swale a landscaping crew was hacking at the pinnate fronds of a tall, straight-backed palm in someone’s backyard. Next door a bald man was examining rose blooms with the eye of a surgeon. A few houses down an American flag was fluttering in the cool breeze. A thrill of comprehension—without realizing it, I’d been looking at the backside of Admiral Street. Gigi’s house was within spitting distance of her dead lover’s, and if I squinted to my right I could see the Rand backyard. An almost incestuous closeness.

  “Here we are!” Gigi shrieked in my ear. “Oh, did I startle you?”

  Twenty minutes later I was drowning beneath a deluge of words, buried in irrelevant, endless chatter. To Gigi Tajani life was an endless movie and she the only character. Every time I tried to ask her about that fateful night at the G and G, she somehow steered the conversation back to her favorite topic, Gigi Tajani. Now she was recapping her yoga regimen, of all things. Time to pin this butterfly to the wall.

  “Ms. Tajani!”

  “Yes?” Blinking eyes in that strangely still face.

  “I asked you about your relationship with Mr. Dick.”

  “I thought we had finished with that topic. As I said, Mel and I were friends.”

  “With benefits?”

  A wag of a mummified finger. “You’ve been listening to the gossips, but it’s true that we were lovers. And so what? We weren’t hurting anyone. Just two lonely people finding solace in a cold world.”

  “What about Anita?”

  “Anita? Anita,” Gigi clucked, as if trying to place the name. “Anita was Anita. It had nothing to do with her.”

  “She was Mel’s wife.”

  “Marrying Anita was the great tragedy of Mel’s life. He deserved a strong woman.” Her expression said that she saw herself as that strong woman.

  “And yet your affair with Mel ended.” I had no idea if this was so, but bet it would get a rise out of Gigi.

  “That isn’t so! We’d just reached a bump in the road.” The tattooed brows shot up and anger flashed in those emerald eyes. “Who told you that anyway?”

  “It’s common knowledge that Mel hasn’t exactly sought out your company recently, and that last night at the G and G he was positively hostile to you.”

  “He didn’t mean those things he said. Mel was confused, that’s all. In the end he knew he could come to me. He knew I was his friend. His true friend.”

  “How can you know this?” I asked.

  “Becau
se he...because a woman knows, that’s why.”

  “Who are you kidding?” I said, raising my voice. “It was over between you and lover boy.” I was pushing it, but I had to cut this woman to the bone.

  “I don’t know what you want from me!” Gigi pushed back. “It’s painful for me to speak of that night and I’ve already told you everything I know. After the terrible scene at the pub I headed straight home where I read for a bit, had a cognac and went to bed.”

  “Was it a good book?”

  The lips tightened. “It was a romance—Passion in the Highlands.”

  “And then you had a cognac on the veranda,” I said.

  “Yes, it was a pleasant night and I...” She blinked at me.

  “Go on.”

  The eyes narrowed. “There’s nothing more. I had a snifter of Courvoisier and went to bed.”

  “Did you hear anything unusual while you enjoyed your cognac?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I moved my papasan closer. “It was a clear night and we both know the Cove is deadly quiet after dark. You sat right here, enjoying your cognac. The Dick house is just across the way.” I pointed to the house with the flag. “Did you hear anything out of the ordinary?”

  Gigi bared her teeth. “I don’t like your insinuation, young woman.” The metamorphosis was startling—the purring cat transformed into a snarling beast. Making it even more horrible, the woman’s smooth face remained unruffled.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you, I...”

  “If I had heard anything suspicious I would have reported it. How dare you accuse me! How dare you!”

  By now Jinks was awake and yapping furiously, a cacophony of screaming old lady and angry dog.

  “Ms. Tajani, please calm down.”

  “Get out now, the both of you—get out!”

  She didn’t need to tell me again. I grabbed Jinks and hot-tailed it out of that madhouse.

  * * *

  Alan Rand was a man in trouble. He had dark smudges under his eyes, and his formerly leonine shock of silver hair hung like limp spaghetti around the gaunt face. But after the chaos of Gigi Tajani, Alan Rand’s quiet despair was almost soothing.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Rand.”

  Rand tried to smile. “I take my coffee black, but can I get you cream or sugar?”

  “Just cream.”

  He returned with a blue-and-white Wedgwood jug filled with enough cream for a gallon of coffee. As he placed the jug on the dining room table, droplets of thick liquid spilled onto the linen tablecloth. Rand made a few half-hearted swabs at the spreading stain with a cloth napkin but soon gave up.

  “I hope Mrs. Rand feels better soon.”

  “Tally’s sick with the flu. I’ve had a bout as well.” Alan Rand crossed his legs, exposing mismatched socks. A slight blush. He unknotted his long legs, shoved them beneath the table. His long legs must have grazed Jinks, who huffed in irritation. Rand glanced at the dog, quickly looked away. When I’d arrived with Jinks in tow I’d been surprised that Rand hadn’t questioned the dog’s presence. Maybe Alan Rand had bigger things on his mind.

  “I had a talk with José Barracas this morning,” I said. Two spots of crimson lit up Alan Rand’s cheeks. “He told me about the accusations you made against him.”

  Rand’s spine stiffened momentarily but then released. “Accusations?”

  “Mr. Barracas told me that you accused him of murdering Mel Dick.” I said the words slowly, giving them plenty of time to sink in.

  “That’s...that is just...”

  “That is just what, Mr. Rand?” My voice was hard as stone. Rand’s passive demeanor had provoked my inner pit bull. I didn’t like the way he avoided my gaze, hazel eyes darting as if the answer could be found in the elegant, cold room rather than in his own heart. “Did you accuse José Barracas of Mel Dick’s murder?”

  “I...I did.”

  “Why?”

  “I had my reasons.”

  “What reasons?”

  “You must take my word. Surely my word holds more weight than the words of a drunk.” Rand tried on another of those ghastly smiles.

  “I gotta say, I’m predisposed to accept Mr. Barracas’s version.”

  “Why...why is that?”

  “Barracas told me his story, that’s why. If you’d level with me, it might change my mind.”

  Rand crumpled like the proverbial cheap suit. “It was Mel. It all started with Mel.”

  “What started with Mel?”

  “Mel’s story. That awful story.”

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Rand—what story?”

  Rand finger-combed his white hair from his face. “When Mel discovered that José Barracas was running prostitutes out of the Grub and Grog, he planned to expose Barracas in the Commentator. Barracas must have discovered Mel’s plan and murdered him. He must have!”

  Except for the murder part, this pretty much meshed with what I’d heard earlier from José. He admitted to playing pimp, but spun it as a simple favor rather than a lucrative crime operation. “I just gave the old guys a phone number so they can get their knobs polished, Chief. But I quit weeks ago after one of the guys told me Mel Dick was on to it. Is that a crime?”

  Actually it was, but I hadn’t argued the point. Even though I’d pressed hard, José swore that he’d had no knowledge of Mel’s planned article until Rand had spilled the beans last night.

  “I can understand why Barracas wants to keep this quiet,” I told Rand, “but why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “I...I wanted to give Barracas a chance to defend himself.”

  I didn’t buy that for a second. Rand had no reason to protect José. But Rand was right about one thing: José had a hell of a motive. If the prostitution story got out, then José and his restaurant were history at Mystic Cove—Jud Richt would make sure of it. I’d also bet that José’s finances weren’t too healthy. He was a man tottering on the edge—a little push and into the abyss. People have killed for less. A lot less.

  “Tell me more about this conversation with Dick, the one where he told you his plans for Barracas.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Sure there is. For starters, when did the conversation take place? And where?”

  “I’m trying to cooperate, but you’re making it difficult.”

  “And I appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Rand.” In fact I was astounded that Rand was talking to me at all. People like him let their lawyers deal with riffraff like me. And I hadn’t exactly been polite. I was tempted to see how far Rand could be pushed. “So when did Mel tell you about the prostitution ring?”

  Alan Rand stared at his lap. “I...I can’t remember precisely.”

  “Try.”

  “Let me think. I believe it was September. Or was it October?”

  “Was Mrs. Rand with you?”

  “Of course not,” Rand snapped. “Tally has absolutely nothing to do with this—nothing.”

  “Where did this conversation take place?”

  “At Mel’s office, or maybe it was the Grog and Grub.”

  “Which was it, Rand?” I slapped the table for emphasis. Rand startled violently, but I was sick of his equivocations and qualifiers. It was deniability worthy of a politician. “You keep saying I believe or I think. I wish to hell you’d tell me what you know.”

  “I don’t appreciate your tone, Chief.” A flash of anger at last.

  “I need answers, Rand.”

  “This conversation is over and I want you out of my house.”

  “You’re the boss,” I said, pulling out my cell, “but first I have to notify Sheriff Spooner about the situation.”

  “Must you?” Rand’s voice cracked. The last turn of the screw had
done the trick: Rand was definitely hiding something.

  I put away my cell. “Let’s try again. Where and when did this conversation with Mel take place?”

  “It was definitely September, sometime in September. I met Mel at the Commentator office. He was in a good mood. He insisted on drinks, though it was a bit early for me.” The details were coming hard and fast now—amazing how a little threat can refresh the memory. “Mel kept showing off his latest acquisition, a book he’d just bought—Mel was so damned proud that the witch had autographed it for him.”

  “And what bitch was that, Mr. Rand?”

  “Not bitch, witch. I Am Not a Witch—Mel’s stupid book that he’d just bought. After Mel poured our drinks, he sprang his little surprise about Barracas, that he’d been running a call-girl operation from his restaurant for some time. Mel planned to publish an exposé in the Commentator. He wanted me to read the article, but I refused to look at it. It was all so...sordid.”

  “When did Mr. Dick plan to publish his article?”

  “I had no idea, nor did I ask him, but if past history means anything, Mel never sat on his stories for too long. Really, Chief, we must wrap this up. I have to check on my wife. She’s been ill.”

  “And you’re certain this conversation took place in September.”

  Rand licked his lips. “Yes, definitely September.”

  “But the prostitution story wasn’t in October’s Commentator.”

  “I’m aware of that, but I was not privy to Mel’s editorial decisions. I know you don’t believe me, but I’m doing the best I can. Why would I lie?” Rand spread his arms wide.

  “I just want the truth, Mr. Rand.”

  “As do I.”

  Do you, Mr. Rand?

  “Why did you disapprove of Mel’s hooker exposé?”

  “It was a bad idea for many reasons.” Rand was on firmer footing here, his lawyer training coming to the forefront. “Firstly, there was the possibility of litigation on Barracas’s part if Mel couldn’t back up his accusations with evidence. Secondly, exposing such a terrible scandal would be the equivalent of setting off a bomb in Mystic Cove. It would destroy our peaceful life here. I tried to convince Mel to let go of it, but he had the bit between his teeth.” Now Rand’s attorney background seemed to desert him. His eyes brimmed and he twisted like a soul in torment.