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

by Christopher Pinto

  Then there was a very nice Food and Beverage Manager who came around in 1954. He and Melinda hit it off very nicely, but Hawthorn knew the relationship was doomed to mere friendship when he discovered the manager taking more of an interest in the men who worked the loading docks than Melinda. Que sera sera.

  But this young Detective looked promising. He was smart, good looking, and all man from his broad shoulders to the way he wore his hat. Here was a man who could take care of Melinda (and the Resort). He just needed a little convincing.

  Hawthorn knew he had to act fast. He saw the signs; his health was failing, both mentally and physically, and the visions…he just knew that the day would come soon that he’d leave Tiki Island forever. That’s why he drummed up the courage to face the world outside his door, that’s why he put on his nicest yet most comfortable clothes and made that giant leap from his threshold into the public area of the hotel. That’s why he braved the lobby bar and even went as far as to speak with Riggins, to plant the seeds that would hopefully take root and secure Melinda’s future. Melinda would just have to see it his way, no matter what she may have felt. She would just have to let go.

  Finally, he convinced her. And over tearful embraces she ultimately agreed that Hawthorn was right, and that she should think about her future and what she really wanted out of life.

  That was Wednesday.

  Now it was Saturday, and Hawthorn knew Melinda had given herself to Riggins.

  He should have been happy.

  He realized he was not.

  Que sera sera.

  Saturday

  Melinda had a full day of hitting the grindstone ahead of her, so after lunch I kissed her goodbye and told her I’d meet up with her later at the shipwreck bar. She told me I should try snorkeling so I did. I was a pretty good swimmer, always liked it but had never been snorkeling. A pontoon boat took me and eleven other people out to a coral reef on the Atlantic side of Bahia Honda. The crew gave us the lowdown on the gear, and in twenty minutes we were checking out beautiful, colorful reefs with the craziest kinds of fish and creepy-crawlies I ever saw. A barracuda slipped between me and a pretty redhead, and that was enough for the Captain to call it a day. It was still early so the Captain asked if we wanted to head down to Key West for a tour of the Turtle Kralls and the Aquarium. Everyone agreed, and we headed down. The sea turtles were amazing...giant creatures, relics from the age of dinosaurs. They said some of those suckers were over a hundred years old. Imagine that, turtles that had been around during the Civil War. Seemed a shame to kill them just for soup, but I guess that’s all in the circle of life. The Aquarium was small but nice, with lots of colorful fish with names I’ll never remember. Even the ride back was nice...with a great view of a half-dozen half-naked chicks sunning themselves on the front deck of the boat.

  I was back in my room by five-thirty, showered, shaved and all nice and presentable. I fixed myself a Manhattan and checked out some of the albums on the hi-fi. Everything was Jazz and Exotica….Arthur Lyman, Martin Denny, 101 Stings, Les Baxter, all the stuff you’d hear in some swanky bachelor’s pad on the Upper East Side. I tossed a Les Baxter platter on the hi-fi and let it roll. What a sound, let me tell you. It sent me right off into Tikiville. I ditched the Manhattan and cobbled together a Mai Tai as best I could. It was decent. One of those quickie Florida five-minute rainstorms came through, throwing just enough thunder around to set the mood perfectly. I sat on the balcony (correction: In Florida, I was told, it is called a lanai) and watched the storm drift off down the keys and out to the ocean with the lilting music in the background. What a scene. I was hooked and I didn’t even know it.

  Around seven o’clock I made my way down to the lobby shipwreck bar. For the first time I noticed the entrance itself looked like the back of a sunken ship. Wooden letters spelled out “Tahitian Queen” across the top, and I wondered how much else I’d missed since I got here. Some detective.

  I was lucky to get a seat at the bar. It was more crowded than I’d ever seen it, and the mermaids were in full show, five altogether. I was in the mood for something strong so I ordered a Zombie.

  Bachman walked in and it was only a few seconds before he spotted me. He zeroed in and I was stuck.

  “Good even, Mr. Riggins, enjoying your stay?”

  “Immensely,” I answered.

  “Where is Ms. Rutledge tonight?” he said looking around the bar. He had to ask.

  “Working, I’d guess,” I said. I wanted to say, “you tell me, jackass” but I held my tongue. Didn’t want to upset the cart, not with things going well with Melinda and all.

  “Oh, I thought she’d be spending her time here during your stay,” he said, somewhat cautiously. “Did you not, eh, get along? She’s a wonderful person once you get to know her.”

  I honestly couldn’t tell if he was being nice or checking up on his employees. I was having a good day and really didn’t want to get into it with him, so I said, “We had our fun. Time to move on…life’s pretty damned short, and this vacation is even shorter. Right?” I smiled when I said it, but it wasn’t easy.

  He smiled too. “Of course, of course, I understand completely. Variety is the spice of life, yes?”

  “Yeah,” I said, hoping to end the conversation. I don’t think he had any idea I knew he was pimping out girls to his guests, but at the same time he seemed to be treating me like a ‘client’. Kookie.

  “Well, Mr. Riggins, I’m sure another companion will turn up, if you’re interested.” He gave me a wink and turned to leave. “Remember, anything you need, just ask,” he added and left the bar.

  I could swear one of the mermaids flipped him the bird. Nahhh, couldn’t be.

  Not three minutes went by when a long-legged doll in a red evening dress pushed her way up to the bar beside me. She spoke with a southern accent not unlike Jessica’s.

  “Mighty crowded in here tonight, ain’t it? Mistuh, mind if I squeeze in here? This lady needs a drink.”

  “Go right ahead,” I said and moved over a little to let her in. She waved down the bartender (another pretty Polynesian chick in a sarong) and ordered a Jim Beam on the rocks. Instead of taking her drink away, she stayed squeezed in standing at the bar.

  “Thank you mistuh, much obliged.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  She paused only a second, then went to work. “My name’s Penelope. I’m only here for the weekend, on my way to the Bahamas. How about you?”

  “Pleased to meet you Penelope,” I said and held up my drink. She clinked it and we drank. “The name’s Riggins, but most people call me Bill. Here through the week on vacation.”

  “Just you? Or are you here with your family, or a group?”

  As if she didn’t already know. “Just me.”

  She turned slightly more towards me and leaned down the slightest bit, just enough for her v-crossed dress to open an inch or two and allow her cleavage to spill out the perfect amount…not too much, not too little, just enough for a tease.

  “Got a cigarette?” she asked and licked her lips. She took another drink without taking her eyes off me. I unloaded two sticks from the deck and lit them both. I offered her one and she took a deep drag, then let the smoke out slow. “Thanks.”

  “De nada.” I took another belt of the Zombie.

  “Well, Bill, it would seem we’re both here alone this weekend. Now is that any way to spend a holiday?” Her movements were a symphony of sex. The way she slowly brushed her long, chestnut hair away from her face, how she teased the rim of the glass with her index finger. The way her cool brown eyes stayed wide and focused, and how her lips parted ever so slightly, suggestively. She was a pro, no doubt about it. She was sent by Bachman as a party favor, a part of the VIP treatment. I guess he didn’t know I wasn’t in the market. But I decided to play along, just to see the pitch.

  I didn’t make a move, just spoke. “No, that would be a shame now wouldn’t it. So what did you have in mind, doll?”

  “O
h, I don’t know,” she said coyly, “Maybe dinner?”

  “How about we skip dinner?” I said low. She didn’t flinch, just gave me a sort of naughty look.

  “You work fast,” she said.

  “You said yourself you’re not here long,” I answered and took a sip of my cocktail, this time not taking my eyes off of her. I could play the game too, ya know.

  “Your room?” she asked quietly, smiling just a little.

  “No dice, I have a suite and made some friends here, and too many of them think they can walk in anytime. Have to be yours, kitten.”

  “All right,” she said, “Shall we?”

  “Can’t right this minute. Meeting someone here in a few. Slip me your key and I’ll meet you at eight.”

  “Al’right sugar,” she said, got up from the bar, smiled and left. Her key was next to her drink.

  “Sugar,” I said to myself. I was beginning to hate the term.

  A half a Zombie later Melinda floated in on a cloud. She looked spectacular, more than before. Tonight she wore a stunning black dress with red tropical flowers intertwined with dark green vines. Her hair was held back by a nearly-black orchid, and her smile was so bright it lit up the room. Every eye in the place turned to her when she walked through the door…even the mermaids’.

  I left the bar and met her near the entrance. “Hello kitten,” I said as she gave me a somewhat friendly, professional kiss on the cheek. She was still at work after all. I could dig it.

  “Hello William. Shall we have a drink? I could use one.”

  “Not here, it’s too crowded. Don’t you have a less sardine-like place we can go?”

  “Oh, certainly. There’s a quiet deck bar out on the North Beach, near the garden. Not usually crowded. Let’s go there.” She led and I followed. We walked through the garden, which had taken on a mystical quality in the late twilight. Twilight seemed to last forever down here, I thought. It was past seven-thirty and the sky was still purple and blue. The Tiki torches were already lit around the Island and the effect was pure magic.

  We walked by the gravesite. It was the first I’d seen of it since Wednesday, and it looked much different. The grave had been filled in and grass sod placed over it. Small tropical plants and a stone bench were placed off to the side, and just over it a waist-high bamboo monument was built, set with a bronze plaque that read, “In memory of the hundreds of souls who perished in the Great Atlantic Hurricane of 1935, you can never be forgotten.”

  “Eliot do that?” I asked Melinda as we strode by.

  “Yes, he felt it was the right thing.”

  “Last line is a little odd.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “’You can never be forgotten.’ Seems ‘You will never be forgotten’ would sound better, no?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe the signmaker got it wrong. It was a rush job. Eliot insisted it be up as soon as possible. I think he just wanted the whole thing over with. He had them pour the concrete and shovel over the dirt as soon as –“

  “Pour the concrete?” I interrupted, and that cop alarm in my head started to buzz. “What concrete?”

  “Over the body…he had the workers seal the bones in a foot of concrete, I guess so they’d be preserved. Is that unusual?”

  I didn’t want to cause any unnecessary suspicion so I said, “No, not really. A little overkill I guess, but it’s done often enough.” I lied. It was very unusual, downright oddball, and it wasn’t done often at all. Then again, she said he was cracking up a little at a time, so maybe it was just that. Maybe.

  We wandered down the flagstone path to the North Beach, and there out on the surf was a small thatched hut built on pilings, set about forty feet into the water. A gangplank led up from the beach, and as we entered the bar the only male bartender I saw on the Island greeted us with a big smile and “Aloha, Ms. Hawthorn, Aloha, friend.”

  The bar was open-air and dark. Everything was made of coconut logs, bamboo and thatch, all stained a rich, dark brown and inlaid with hand-carved designs. The floor was wood planks spaced a half-inch apart. You could see and hear the ocean underneath.

  There were only a few people sitting around, but we took a small booth in the back corner anyway. Without asking, the bartender built two cocktails and brought them over. He made the drop, smiled, bowed and walked off. I checked my watch. It was quarter to eight.

  I started in with, “Nice shack. This joint’s full of surprises.”

  “Yes it is. Here are two now.” She held up her drink and said, “Navy Grog. Something you haven’t tried yet.”

  I picked up my drink and toasted. “Here’s to surprises.”

  “Mahalos,” Melinda said sweetly and held up her drink. For the second time tonight I clinked glasses with a pretty girl. This time I meant it.

  “So what’s the plan for tonight?” I asked.

  “No plan. Dinner I suppose,” she said rather nonchalantly. “Of course there is this great band playing in the Hukilau dining room tonight.”

  “Anyone I’d know?”

  “Maybe. If you’ve ever heard of Martin Denny.”

  “Holy cats! The Martin Denny? From Hawaii?”

  “The one and only,” she answered smiling brightly.

  I was a jazz & swing man at heart, but I was a sucker for Bossa Nova and Exotica. “Yeah, I’d dig that.”

  “I thought you might. They go on at nine.”

  “Perfect,” I said, remembering the chestnut-haired doll waiting in room…what was it? I pulled out the key and threw it on the table.

  “By the way, Melinda, is there anything special about room 322?”

  Melinda looked down at the key, a somewhat irritated expression glazing her perfect face.

  “Where did you get that?” she asked without looking up.

  “A chestnut brunette in a red dress and peekaboo cleavage handed it over to me in the bar.”

  “Let me guess,” she added, “You talked to Bachman today.”

  She knew the score. How much she knew, I knew not.

  “About three ticks before the dame showed up. She came on hot and heavy. Didn’t blink when I said I should meet her back at her room.”

  “It’s not her room. It’s one of several rooms Rutger keeps on reserve in case a VIP customer calls for a last-minute stay. He says that’s done in all the major hotels. I suspect those rooms don’t stay vacant very long.”

  “How much do you know about Bachman’s…eh…VIPs? And how he treats them?”

  She took a long pull of the cocktail and finally looked up. “I’m not supposed to know anything. But I do. I’m not an idiot, although he and Eliot sometimes think so. Sometimes our guests have special requests. The staff is instructed to direct them to Key Largo or Key West when they ask for things like girls or…well anything illegal, really. But Bachman has his own way of doing things. I know he…arranges things for people. But I can’t do a damned thing about it because Eliot has the same philosophy. And as long as he’s still the owner of Tiki Island, I can’t change it.”

  “So Bachman is running hookers through here. I pretty much figured it. Jessica Rutledge works for him.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I wasn’t sure if you knew that. I wasn’t going to be the one to tell you. You had to find out for yourself.”

  “You know you’re talking to a vice cop, right?” I said with a half-smile.

  She smiled too. “You’re a little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you Detective?”

  “Maybe. I could call the Sheriff.”

  “But you won’t,” she said teasingly.

  “No,” I said, “I won’t.” She was right. It made me sick, but it wasn’t my business.

  Unless I made it my business.

  “Just out of curiosity, dollface, what if old man Hawthorn’s wildest dreams came true, and we got all nice and hitched and I left the police racket and became your partner in running this joint. What would happen then?”

  Her answer was very serious. “Then Elio
t would sign over the entire estate to me, and the first thing I’d do is fire Rutger and end the little side-business he’s running.”

  I finished my Navy Grog...helluva strong drink, by the way...and held up the key to room 322. “You can start putting a dent in things tonight, if you’re up for it.”

  She smiled.

  +++

  Melinda and I stood in front of the door to room 322 at three minutes to eight. We went over the plan one more time (it was a simple plan) and got ready. Melinda moved a few feet away and I knocked.

  Penelope opened the door wearing a silk robe and slippers. Her makeup was fresh and a little gaudy. A radio played softly in a corner, generic Rockabilly. “Come on in, sugar,” she said with that southern lilt. I walked in and shut the door. “Have a drink?” she asked and poured herself a Jim Beam, neat.

  “Same as you’re having is fine,” I said and sat on a chair by the bed. The room was small, much smaller than my suite, but still decorated with plenty of bamboo and rattan. A black velvet painting of a nude woman laying on a tropical beach in the moonlight hung over the headboard. Imagine that.

  Penelope turned and handed me the drink. Her belt slipped, and the robe opened slightly leaving her secrets exposed. “Here sugar,” she said and leaned down to hand me the drink. I got an eyeful.

  “You’re coming undone,” I said.

  “Oh dear, I am,” she said and let the robe slide to the floor.

  She stood their naked with one hand on her hip and the other holding her lowball. Her cream-white skin reminded me more of New York chicks than the tan variety found here in the Keys, but she was a taught-bodied beauty nonetheless. I didn’t say a word. I just waited for the knock.

  It didn’t come.

  Penelope took a long belt of her drink, put it on the table and came over to me in the chair. She sat on my lap, straddling the chair with her long, strong legs and hooking her hands around the back of my neck. She closed her eyes and began to twist her hips, swaying with the music from the radio. She leaned down to kiss me and found my lips. Hers were burning hot. Mine were cold. Funny, but all I could think of was Melinda, and why she hadn’t knocked yet.