Murder on Tiki Island: A Noir Paranormal Mystery In The Florida Keys (Detective Bill Riggins Mysteries)

by Christopher Pinto

  Later he was told that Gregor’s boat was recovered from a sandbar, but Gregor was never found.

  His wife and his best friend, gone without a trace.

  He sighed, and strained to hold back the bitterness and tears that pressed against his eyes. His trembling hand held a picture of the trio, taken last summer on the island. He on the left, his wife in the middle, Gregor on the right. It wasn’t a very good picture, he thought; at the last minute something had gotten Vivian’s attention, and she’d looked over to the right, smiling at something off-camera. She never liked the photo, thought it made her look aloof, she’d said. But it was the only one taken that day, a very special day to Eliot. That was almost exactly a year ago in late August of 1934. She always said there would be plenty of time for plenty more pictures. She was never so wrong.

  It was at that moment Eliot decided to leave Florida, possibly for good. He wired ahead to his lawyers and told them to secure a suitable temporary home for him in San Diego, something by the sea. No matter what, he loved the sea and wanted to be near it always. He arranged passage on a cross-country train, and by October of 1935 Eliot had extricated himself from Florida and took up residence in San Francisco, California. His old life was over. His new life was about to begin.

  +++

  “I was about to go look for greener pastures,” I said with a flirty smile. That was me, Mr. Smooth, playing all the angles. “You walked up just in time.”

  She sat next to me and leaned in close. “You’d have waited all night for me.”

  “Would I?”

  “Natch, sugar. I know; men have done it before.” There was a playful, yet truthful tone in her voice, that angel voice tinged with southern charm.

  “Oh, so you’re the game-playing type,” I said. “Great.”

  “Don’t worry, William, I won’t play any games with you. You wouldn’t take it too well, and I have a feeling I’d be the one losing out.”

  Without even asking, the bartender slid Jessica a tall drink in a ceramic blue glass shaped like one of those Tiki poles I saw out front. It had so much fruit on it I thought it might fall over, but it held up.

  “Here’s to a winning season,” I said, and clinked her drink. She drank from the straw, pursing her ruby lips in a way that could make a dead man come to life. All I could think about was sinking my lips deep into hers, kissing her wildly, making love to her in the sand of that crazy beach. Man was my mind on a single track or what? I don’t know why I was thinking these things, about Melinda, about Jessica, even about the chick waitress on the boat ride. I mean sure, I liked the company of dames, and took a few around the block whenever I could. But it seemed like since I got to Florida all I could think about was getting in bed with a doll, or several dolls, or hell all the dolls. Must be something in the water. Or maybe the rum.

  “What are you drinking?” she asked, and it tossed me because I thought she was reading my mind or something.

  “Oh, eh, a Mojito. Just had one on the boat ride over for the first time. Not bad. Generally I’m a Bourbon man, but I can get used to these rum concoctions.”

  “You should try one of these,” she answered, and turned the straw around to face me. “It’s a lot stronger than it looks.”

  “What is it?” I asked, then took a sip as she answered. The little paper umbrella almost went up my nose. She laughed.

  “It’s called a Mai Tai. It’s the Island’s signature drink. Supposedly the owner learned the recipe from the guy who invented it, and even pays the man a license fee for using it.”

  “No kidding? What’s in it?”

  “Rum. And more rum. And a bunch of other stuff. Not bad, huh?”

  “Best drink I’ve had in Florida, so far,” I said, and I wasn’t kidding. I was hooked.

  Three Mai Tai cocktails later we were sitting in the sand, facing the ocean. We’d found a secluded little spot away from the bar, away from the lights. Now it was just the two of us, the ocean and the stars. There was no moon at all.

  We riffed for a while on this and that, the weather, the usual stuff. I lied about my job as an insurance investigator. She lied about working as hostess and cigarette girl. She told me what it was like to grow up and live in Key West, I told her what it was like to live and work in New York City. I told her about the new blue Chevy and promised to take her for a ride; she laughed and asked if that was an innuendo and we both laughed together. It was right then the booze got the better of me and gave me that false courage that only comes from a high blood-alcohol level.

  “Jessica, what’s your last name?” I asked, and she answered, “Rutledge, why?”

  With one smooth move I leaned over and kissed her, slowly and softly at first, then a little harder until I had to come up for air. She didn’t resist.

  “Because I like to know the name of the girl I’m kissing, that’s why,” I oozed with corny charm. She said nothing; she just looked into my eyes with a half-wonderful, half-frightened look. I leaned over and kissed her again, and she took my kisses and returned them with hungry lips, lips full of passion and lust and pent-up desire. We kissed for what seemed like hours, although surely it was only minutes. The fire lessened slightly, and we took the opportunity to get our heads together, to plan the next move. She was silent. I figured I’d go for broke.

  “I, eh…Listen, Jessica, I know we just met, but I…well what I’m saying is they gave me the biggest room in the hotel, the Kona Kai Suite, and there’s a full bar up there and a Hi-Fi, and so I was thinking, maybe if you’d like you could eh…come up?” There I go again, Mr. Smooth. I was never too sure of things like this. Ask that to the right dame and you’re in for a hell of a night. Ask it to the wrong dame and you could get your puss slapped, or worse, no second date. Then again not asking at all got you nowhere.

  She didn’t answer right away, as if she were contemplating the situation and how it would play out. I could tell from her eyes this wasn’t the first time she’d been asked to go to town. I could tell from her smile, she’d gone slumming a few times. When the silence lasted too long, I said, “Or we could just stay...”

  “I’d love to,” she interrupted, and raised herself up from the sand. “Just let’s make one thing clear. I’m just coming up for a few drinks and a few laughs. I’m not that easy, OK? So don’t get any ideas.”

  Sure she wasn’t. “That’s fine, Jessica. I’ll even leave the door unlocked.”

  Two drinks and a half an hour later she joined me in the king-sized bamboo bed.

  +++

  Jessica was gone when I awoke at nine in the morning. It had been a hell of night; a few drinks, a few laughs and then some. Frankly I hadn’t met a doll like her in my entire life. It wasn’t just that the sex was great, there was something about the way she did it, the way she performed, almost as if she were showing off skills she’d learned in some French women’s training camp or some crazy thing. She did things most other women wouldn’t even consider, wouldn’t even have ever heard about, and certainly wouldn’t do willingly. From the way she slipped her sundress off her shoulders to the way her back arched and her whole body shuddered, there was an air of superiority to other women in her manner that made me want to take her again and again. Now she was gone, like a faded dream; all that was left were the blurry memories of her face close to mine, her soft body pressed against me, her hair brushing against my chest. Damned good memories, if you ask me.

  It took me a minute to find the phone. It was actually built into the headboard, which was mahogany and ebony, hand-carved with tropical flowers and Tiki guys like everything else in this crazy place. The handset was hand-caved too, and blended in with the rest of the décor. A little door flipped down to expose the rotary and a list of numbers to call for services. I dialed #3 for room service, ordered up a breakfast fit for a king (I remembered all the food and booze was on the house) and hung up. I yawned and stretched like a bear, the memories of Jessica still lingering.

  Twenty minutes later I was sitting out on
the lanai (in Jersey it would be called a porch, in the City a balcony. In Florida it was a lanai), drinking fresh-squeezed Florida orange juice and eating poached eggs with salmon and grits. Never had a grit before; wasn’t sure why a southern dish would be served in a Hawaiian resort but what the hell, they weren’t bad. I finished it off with an excellent cup of java; supposedly the beans were grown on the side of a volcano on one of the Hawaiian Islands.

  “I sure could get used to this,” I said to no one as I looked out over the lower Keys. A little wisp of wind came up, and I could almost swear I heard, “Don’t”, faintly on the wind. Just my imagination, or fate reminding me that in less than two weeks I’d be back in the dark, dingy office at the station, breathing in too much cigarette smoke instead of the mild scent of tropical flowers, dealing with the dregs of society instead of pretty dolls and interesting island characters.

  I lit the first Camel of the day and my mind drifted.

  Maybe a transfer, I thought. Maybe I could get a job with the local sheriff’s office, or hell, start my own private investigating agency in Miami. I could buy one of those new blue Chevys with the rag top and the Powerglide transmission. Trade in my cop shoes for a pair of boat shoes, and live next to the beach where the temperature never dipped below sixty. And maybe we’d land on the moon next year and find out it really is made of green cheese, and the Ruskies would realize communism was for boneheads and would beg America to teach them democracy, while handing over all their atom bombs for us to bury in the desert. Yeah, all that might happen, but it wouldn’t, of course. In a couple of days I’d be back on the iron horse heading home, heading back to the City with all its crime and all its grime, and all its wonderful art and theater and food, with its crazy people and its fantastic people and cool jazz and hot rock ’n’ roll and all that goes with it. And I’d complain about the cold but I’d like my coat and gray Stetson fedora, and wearing ties and watching sophisticated women walk in black leather boots and silk stockings with the seam up the back. Florida was nice, but the north had its advantages, too.

  I realized I hadn’t even unpacked yet. If I was going to be here for another eight days or so, I might as well settle in nice and cozy, I figured. First I unzipped the suit bag and hung the two suits in the closet. They were wrinkled as hell, and I’d have to get them pressed before wearing them. Wasn’t sure if I’d actually need to wear them though; even though they were summer-weight, they still seemed out of place here on Tiki Island. Next I unpacked the big suitcase. At the bottom of the suitcase was my .45 automatic, the Colt 1911A I carried in the shoulder holster for work. Next to it was the snub-nosed .38 detective special, the Smith & Wesson issued by the department that went in the fast-draw hip holster on my belt. It was small-framed enough to conceal easily under these flowy Hawaiian shirts, so I loaded it up, slipped it into the holster and clipped it to my belt. The .32 Beretta was there too; being ever so careful I checked the clip, made sure there was a round chambered and slipped it into my nightstand. The .45 would stay in the suitcase. I hadn’t had a heater on my side since I got on the train to Miami. I felt better now, more like my old self. Once a cop, always a cop.

  At a little after ten-thirty it occurred to me I had nothing to do. I wasn’t about to stay in the room all day, but I had no idea what this little island offered as far as daytime activities. From the lanai I could hear the faint call of Bingo, but I really had no interest in it. I was thinking more along the lines of something on the water…boating, maybe even taking a crack at fishing. I found the phone in the living room…another hidden job, built to look like a coconut sitting on the table in the center of the sunken, circular sofa. I dialed #7, and a familiar sweet voice answered.

  “Hey kid, it’s Bill. So what’s there to do on this little piece of paradise?” I asked. Her voice lit up with real excitement as she ran down the short list. She really did love her job. Melinda told me to meet her in the lobby bar in fifteen minutes, and she’d help me plan some fun stuff to do. As I hung up, all I could think of was seeing her beautiful face again. Man, was I gone. Then the memory of Jessica floated by, and I was gone way out, so far out I almost didn’t make it back in. Two smokin’ chicks, taking up all my thoughts. Not one thought about work. This was certainly turning out to be a great vacation.

  In the lobby bar (a separate room made up to look like a sunken ship) Melinda did not disappoint. She stood near a giant fish tank built into the wall, holding a clipboard and smiling that smile again. A single, yellow flower held back long, dark hair behind her right ear. She wore a red and blue flowered dress, similar to the one she wore last night but considerably tighter and just a smidge more revealing. This number featured a plunging neckline that made my legs wobble, and a slit up the right side that almost made it illegal. She was barefoot.

  “Hello Melinda,” I said, full of unusual friendliness.

  “Good morning Bill. Did you sleep well?”

  I damned near blushed. “I had a great night,” I said and left it at that.

  “Let’s have a seat, and we’ll see what we can arrange for you to do today.” She directed us to a table next to the fish tank.

  Melinda showed me some brochures, very colorful and full of valuable information on such important topics as sport fishing, sail boating and snorkeling. It was hard to concentrate on the brochures of course, as she held them at about the same level as the plunge in her neckline. My one-track mind was full steam ahead.

  I had just about settled on a little afternoon fishing trip when a mermaid came up and knocked on the glass.

  “What the hell!” I said, and jumped out of my skin. In the giant tank were two women dressed in mermaid get-ups, complete with fishy tails, swimming around among the fish and coral. I could tell the one who knocked on the glass was laughing at my jump.

  “Lelani and Kaliki, they’re our mermaids,” Melinda told me with pride. “They sometimes swim in the tank, sometimes in the pool. Occasionally they even swim in the ocean, but we have to be careful they don’t try to swim away to their underwater city,” she said jokingly.

  “Underwater city, huh? And where might that be?”

  “Spring Hill,” she answered, and laughed that special little laugh again. I couldn’t stand it.

  “I’ve been a mermaid myself,” she said a little playfully.

  “Really? You swim in the tank?”

  “I used to a lot growing up...even have my own tailfins. See those fish?” she asked pointing at the tank, “I know everyone of them by name.”

  “Come to think of it, I think I’ll take the fishing trip,” I said with a grin.

  “Nice,” she answered with a smirk. “Sure, go hook all my aquatic friends.”

  “Hey, you said the best fishing in the world is off the Florida Keys.”

  “I can’t deny it Bill, I did say that. Just try not to reel in any blondes.”

  I know she said it jokingly but there was something behind it. Maybe...aw, what the hell, can’t hurt to try...

  “So that’ll get me back by what, five?”

  “Yes, around then.”

  “Good. Just in time for you to join me for dinner.” There, I said it. She continued to smile, her eyes giant brown moons gazing at me. She hesitated.

  “Normally I’m not supposed to dine with the clientele,” she said slowly.

  “You spent an hour locked in my room last night,” I said coolly.

  “In your case, Mr. Riggins,” she said with that smile getting brighter, “being that you are a VIP, I’m sure the management can make an exception.”

  “Groovy. Eight o’clock work for you?”

  “That’s perfect. Mr. Bachman is back on duty today, so technically my responsibilities end at six. Not that it would matter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Daddy owns the Island, remember?” she laughed, and said goodbye. She offered her hand, very businesslike, and I shook it. It was soft and luxurious, and that single touch made my soul scream for more. Then she was
gone. I turned and looked at the mermaids. They were smiling at me. They knew. Smart fish.

  1935

  The weeks went by, then the months, falling away like too little sand in an hourglass, counting away the days since that wretched storm. Eliot had taken a moderate hacienda in San Francisco, a four-bedroom brick and stucco house overlooking the bay. The Miami and Key West properties had been sold, as well as the St. Augustine summer house and the Tampa townhome. All that remained of his life in Florida was the Island; by now it had been bulldozed and replanted with coconut trees and ferns, tropical flowers and palm plants of all kinds. And that’s how it would stay, he thought, a memorial to those who died in the storm, never to be inhabited by people again.

  It had been eight months since the storm when he met Marietta. She and her daughter had moved into the villa across from him, and stopped by one sunny June afternoon to introduce themselves. Marietta had been recently widowed, her husband’s life taken by a steam shovel accident while building a pier. Eliot fell for her almost instantly, her and her beautiful five year old daughter. He invited them in for coffee; later he invited Marietta to a show. Within two months they were married…not quite a year from the date of the storm. Marietta and her daughter Melinda moved into the hacienda with Eliot just after the wedding in late August, 1936. As the nightmares of the Storm of the Century faded, Eliot once again found happiness.

  +++

  I found fishing to be nice, if not a little dull at times. There were six other people on the forty-foot boat with me: the Captain, the first mate and four other tourists. None of us five knew anything about fish, fishing or boats, which made it a comically interesting day. The Captain, Captain Steve, was pretty patient with us as was his first mate Raul. They taught us how to hook the bait, taught us how to reel ’em in. We didn’t reel much in though; in fact, only one of us five caught anything, a skinny kid that I recognized from the boat ride in. He hooked a forty-pound bass, and with the help of Raul got it into the boat. We all cheered, had a beer (all they brought on the boat was beer and pretzels) and headed back. Captain Steve told us he’d arrange to have the fish cleaned and cooked on the applewood fire pit for tonight’s luau, with Jim (the kid) as the guest of honor. Perfect, I thought, a great story for dinner with Melinda.