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

by Christopher Pinto

  “So this is where he got it,” I said, not asking.

  “Yeah, this is where Bachman took his last breath.”

  All the rum on this trip had made me soft. I looked around again, then went back to the front door, then back to the bedroom. “Sheriff, there’s no sign of forced entry. No sign of a struggle, nothing.”

  “Nope, not at all. Whoever killed Bachman waltzed right in here while he was sleeping, took his time to aim perfectly with a heavy pipe, and came down right on his throat crushing his windpipe. They did it a couple of more times, or held it down on him hard just to make sure the job was done right.”

  “I’m guessing Bachman didn’t sleep with his door unlocked, did he?”

  “Nope. Whoever did this had a key, or access to a key.”

  “Like someone who works in the hotel.”

  “More specifically, like someone who works in the hotel who can easily get a key, or already has one.”

  “Like Hawthorn.”

  “Yes, or his daughter, or you, Bill.”

  “Now I see your line of thinking.”

  “So you see why my list is so short.”

  “And why you added the hooker and the mermaid so fast.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Or, maybe...they were a guest of Bachman...staying the night, waited for him to go to sleep, than whacked him and took off.”

  “Possible, but there were no signs of a second person here. No extra glass in the sink, the pillow next to his wasn’t touched...”

  “No used rubbers in the trash.”

  “Yeah, that too. No, I think whoever killed Rutger Bachman, Bill, did it last night sometime between one a.m. and four-thirty a.m., had a key, and took the murder weapon with them.”

  “Murder weapon could be in the middle of the Gulf by now.”

  “Yep, tossed off the side of a boat on the way to Key West, maybe.”

  He had a point. He was wrong, but he had a point. Dammit.

  “And now I see why I’m really a suspect.”

  “I thought you would.”

  “But we both know I didn’t do it.”

  “Do we, Bill?”

  “Well let me ask you this, Sheriff. Where were you last night, at the time of the murder?”

  Jackson stepped back a little, not expecting that question. He hesitated only slightly. “I was here, on Tiki Island, with Mr. Hawthorn part of the evening, then asleep in one of the rooms on the third floor. But I suppose you already knew that piece of information.”

  “I did. And why were you here?”

  “Mr. Hawthorn asked me to come here. He…wait, I ain’t got to tell you any of this, bub.”

  “You don’t have to but it may help.”

  “Help what? You’re trying to make it look like I’m a suspect, you crazy Yankee.”

  “You were here because Hawthorn said he had a feeling he was in trouble, that something bad was going to happen. He wanted you here for protection. Maybe you protected him against Bachman, and went a little too far.”

  Jackson laughed, hard. “Oh man, you are one crazy som’bitch. Ok, sure Bill, I did come here because Hawthorn was afraid. But it was ghosts he said he was afraid of, as usual. The poor man’s brain is dying off, Bill. He sees things. But he didn’t mention nothin’ about being a’scared of old Bachman. No, you can rest your mind it wasn’t me.”

  “Just as you can rest your mind it wasn’t me. I check out on Friday, and unless cupid comes down and shoots a V2 rocket at me and I fall head-over-heals for Ms. Hawthorn, there’s nothing stopping me from going back to my twelve-hour a day cop gig in the big City. I’ve got no reason to stick my neck out for anyone here, no dame, no old man, no coconut-bikini’d hula dancer, nobody. I’ve got an alibi that’s not perfect and that makes it more believable than if I’d been in Miami all night. And moreover, I’ve got no reason to kill Bachman at all. He gave me two weeks free hotel and meals, and his brother is my best friend. I’d have to be some kind of nut to pull the rug out from under the guy, and the faster you catch on to that the faster we can both start looking for the real killer.”

  Jackson didn’t say a word. He lit a cigar and puffed, looking at the glowing tip. Finally he said, “Bill, I think you’ve been square with me from when we first met. And I’m inclined to believe you. But you’ve got to see it my way. You’re mixed up, in whatever way, with two very fiery young women who both had a deep hatred for Bachman, and a lot to gain by his death. I’ve seen plenty of strong, smart men take the bait and off a man they didn’t even know for the touch of a woman. The movies are full of it, and the movies get it from real life. Sure, I think you’re a fine man, and a fine cop. And I’m inclined to believe you. But if I find out down the line that you’ve played me for the fool, so help me Detective Riggins, I’ll personally see to it you never breath fresh air again. Deal?”

  I smiled and held out my hand. He shook it, strong and hard. “Deal,” I said. “Now let’s make that call on Roberts.”

  Jackson called the prison where Roberts was being held from the front desk telephone. Sure enough the rat was still in his cage. A few minutes on the line and Jackson found out he had no visitors and made only two calls, one to a relative and one to a lawyer. The lawyer hadn’t shown up yet.

  After that we parted ways and I headed back to my suite for a break. It was almost seven. The day had flown by, and all I could think was another day of my vacation gone, wasted. I didn’t want to screw around with trying to figure out a murder of a guy I didn’t even know. I wanted to go to Key West and see the sights, have lunch in an outdoor café in Bahama Village, check out the museums or watch the sailors bring in the giant sea turtles. I wanted to do more diving along the reefs and maybe rent a powerboat for the day. I’d even settle for a few hours in and by the pool. Anything but this.

  My room seemed dark. The blinds were open but the sky was so strange and alien that it cast a dull, charcoal light over everything. The sun had been lost long ago somewhere over the Gulf, far beyond the swirling overcast clouds that broke loose with tons of heavy drops on our little Island. The roof of the lanai kept the rain from pelting the glass of the windows, but the roar of the wind and now almost constant thunder reminded me this was no joke.

  There was a note taped to my door ordering all guests to keep their windows closed under possibility of injury or death. Twice a porter came and knocked to make sure I (and the other guests) were adhering to this rule. Hell, you’d have to be a brain-dead moron to open the sliding glass doors in this mess. You couldn’t see ten feet out anyway…just a fuzzy gray wall of water and fog.

  Made me think. Made me wonder about some things. Made me wonder about Hawthorn, twenty-one years ago, driving his boat through weather like this toward Islamorada, braving the rain and wind and waves to get away from this very Island. Made me wonder what he was thinking when he decided to abandon the train and continue up the coast in his boat. It was the right decision, but it must have been a friggin’ nightmare.

  I wondered why he waited to the last minute.

  Then I wondered why I was wondering all this. What did I care? That was long ago and far away. Another storm, another time.

  Saturday, September 28, 1935

  The storm was an inevitability. It would come, and nothing but God or Poseidon could change that. How strong and when were not certain, but Eliot knew one thing: He’d have to go to Key West tonight. He needed her. He needed Rose, needed her back on the Island when the storm came, needed here more than anything. Without her he’d never be able to make it through the storm. He knew that, and he knew it was the only way. On Saturday evening he cranked up the Chris-Craft Double Stateroom Cruiser and made his way to Key West.

  The waters were calmer than he expected, the visibility much clearer. It was still early evening when he docked at his private slip, but no one was around. Most of the vessels had already left the Island for cover up on Florida’s west coast, past Everglades City, up in Venice Beach. He even had trouble finding a ta
xi on the Key.

  But he found one.

  He motored up to Roberts’ place, and told the cabby to wait.

  Inside he found Rose sitting on a settee in the parlor. She was shocked to see him.

  “Well hello, sugar! What brings y’all down here this weekend? I hear the weather’s gonna be just nasty.”

  “It is. And I don’t want you to stay here. I need you to come with me, back to the Island.”

  “But sugar, I ––”

  “Don’t argue. It’s not…safe, here. I want you to come with me where you’ll be safe. I…I don’t want anything happening to you.”

  “Aw, sugar, that’s sweet but I’ve got to stay here and work. Roberts’ orders.”

  “Fuck Roberts.”

  “I’d rather not,” she said with her southern charm, and Eliot suddenly felt horrible, then sick, then hardened.

  “I’ll deal with Roberts. Get your things. You have five minutes. I’ll wait here.”

  Rose got up from the settee, her long legs unfolding like a spider. She sashayed her way over to Eliot and put her arms around him. She kissed him, not like she kissed her customers, but like a woman hot for a strong man. “I’ll be back in four, sugar,” she whispered, and ran up the steps.

  The taxi sped them back to the marina. A light rain had started and the sun was gone.

  Before Rose got into the boat she asked, “You sure it’s ok, with the storm comin’ and all? It seems a might dark out.”

  “I’ve got a spotlight,” Eliot said, “and a compass. We’ll be fine. Just get in and make yourself comfortable, baby.”

  “Mighty fine yacht, Mr. Hawthorn.”

  “Yes, she’s a fine vessel. Now shut up and get in the cabin.”

  They took off from the dock quietly and slipped out into the Gulf unnoticed. The taxi driver didn’t recognize Eliot. No one saw them on the dock.

  An hour and a half later Rose was on her back in the boathouse and Eliot forced his way deeper and deeper inside her, taking every ounce of pleasure from her he could derive. Then he left her, with the usual instructions not to come to the house or turn on the lights.

  “But what if…what if the storm kicks up?”

  “If it does I’ll come and get you. We have a safe room that can withstand any storm.”

  “And you’re wife?”

  “I’ll tell her you’re one of the new maids. She’s always so drunk she won’t know the difference.”

  Monday Night, October 29, 1956

  The sun was gone and the wind was whipping black fury against the thin glass that separated me in the safety of my room from the certain watery death waiting outside. I’d never been through a storm like this before. Sure, we had Nor’Easters that could tear your head off, but this was different…I wasn’t in a steel and concrete building in the City or anchored in my old brick row-home in Weehawken; No this time I was sitting in an overblown Tiki hut with the Atlantic Ocean knocking on one door and the Gulf of Mexico banging on the other, and if the two decided to rendezvous I’d be caught in the middle with no goulashes.

  I tried ringing Melinda twice, but got no answer at her apartment. The front desk said she hadn’t been around for hours; she’d had her hands full organizing the storm preparations. Then I remembered Jessica, and wondered how she was doing. I decided sitting alone in my room wasn’t going to do anyone any good so I threw on a clean white shirt and my beige summer sport jacket and made my way up to Jessica’s room

  “Man, am I glad to see you, chum. This storm is giving me the heebie-jeebies.” Jessica lit a cigarette as I entered her room and shut the door. She waved one my way and I accepted. “Have a drink?” she asked, pointing at a bottle of Jim Beam on the dresser.

  “Sure. Ice, soda if you’ve got it.”

  “I do,” she said and poured us a couple of highballs. She was acting very relaxed, as if nothing had happened, as if we were still pals like we were a few days ago. She was sober. I was surprised. “You look good kid, I guess a little rest is all it took.”

  “Usually does. And I always rest better here, for some reason. Here on the Island. Like I…I don’t know, it’s silly I guess, but I always feel like I belong here, like this is home.”

  “Whatever it takes, kid. Cheers.” We raised glasses and I took a generous sip. Then I put the drink down and sat on the edge of the bed. “So, you have time to think about your future?”

  Jessica took a long drink and set hers down next to mine. She looked around the room, then parted the curtains and took a peak out into the darkness. The rain fell so hard and the thunder came so often now I’d almost gotten used to it. Almost.

  “The storms are when they’re at their worst, you know,” she said quietly.

  “How’s that?”

  “The spirits…when it storms, they come out in full force. At least they do in Key West. Never seen them here during a storm.” She turned and looked at me with big, blue, sad eyes. “Glad I’m here now, with you.”

  “Jessica,” I said in a sort of tired way, “Ok, I’ve seen some crazy stuff since I met you. But I still find it hard to swallow that you’ve got ghosts tormenting you all the time. Don’t you think a lot of it can be the booze and monkey juice?”

  She laughed at me, and shaking her head said, “Billy, I told you. That stuff doesn’t cause the visions. That stuff makes them go away.”

  “And what if you went far away, maybe all the way across the country. Would they follow you?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Look,” I said standing up. I was close to her now, too close for my own good. Everything was topsy-turvy now, and I wasn’t playing it smart. I knew Jessica was a bad seed but I couldn’t help how I felt. I didn’t want to fall for her. I didn’t want to fall for Melinda. Dammit, maybe it was the rum, or something in the limestone under this crazy place but I just couldn’t help it, couldn’t control myself the way I had with other women.

  I took a step closer to her and said, “I want to help you, Jessica. I want to help you get away from these – things, whatever they are. I want to help you get cleaned up and find a decent way to make a living, far away from the Roberts and Bachmans of the world. I want –” I couldn’t finish the sentence. She moved in so fast I didn’t know she’d done it until her lips were on mine and her arms were wrapped around me. I gave in and kissed her back hard, holding her head in my one hand, her waist in the other. I pulled her in close and kissed her and didn’t stop until I couldn’t breath anymore. Then I let the oxygen flow back to my brain and I got wise and gently pushed her away.

  “Bill,” she said, pleading, begging. “Bill, I…I love you.” Her eyes were watery and a little red. I stared down at her, not knowing what to do or say. Her lips quivered just a little. A tear made a path down her soft, pale cheek. “Bill, please, say something.”

  I stood there like a mute jerk, without even an expression of love or hate or anything in between on my poker face. I was still holding her arms. I could feel her tremble under my fingers. I gently let go.

  I said low and quiet, “I can’t,” and left her there in the room, crying.

  I hightailed it down the hall as fast as I could without making a racket and found myself at the entrance of the back deck dining room. The room was full of people eating and drinking and looking out at the foggy, rainy mess through he picture windows. I asked the girl if Melinda was in there. She was not.

  I walked some more. I walked down the newer wing, built for the economy class. I just walked and walked and tried to clear my head as best I could. What was it about that dame that cast a spell over me whenever she was near? Dammit, if I was going to complicate my life, I could do it with Melinda – smart, beautiful, rich, living in paradise. Why was my head playing tricks on me, trying to get me to fall for the equally as beautiful and smart but oh-so-screwed-up Jessica?

  How could I possibly have any feelings for a junkie, even if she was just a borderline junkie?

  I walked and walked and found myself
in a strange place, a back-of-the-house storeroom. It had a padlock that’d been jimmied open with a crowbar. My old gumshoe senses kicked in and with a heavy dose of caution I went inside. Strange shadows jumped out at me from all kinds of crazy stuff piled up in the dark, illuminated only by the light from the open door. I found a light switch and flipped it up, and a bank of dim fluorescents cast an eerie light over the stock.

  What a weird place, I thought.

  Lined up against a wall were giant carved Tiki Gods, none smaller than five feet high. To the left were dozens of round wooden tables, folded up and ready to be deployed for a banquet. All sorts of decorative props filled in the space in between, from plastic palm plants to wood columns. Boxes of gold chains and seashells created a pile near the door. Next to them sat a very old looking desk, fitted with a green banker’s lamp not unlike mine in New York. Curiosity got me and I pushed the black “on” button on the lamp.

  I don’t know what led me to that room, but what I found on that desk answered some big questions and raised a lot more.

  +++

  The wind and rain bashed itself against Jessica’s window so hard she thought any minute the glass would shatter and the gale-force wind would drive thousands of crystalline shards into her shivering body. She’d already drank a little too much and didn’t dare drink more; if Bill should come back and find her drunk he’d really have nothing to do with her.

  But she was scared, oh so afraid of what might come out of that storm. For it was on nights like this with the wind howling and the raindrops beating and the thunder crashing through her skull that the phantoms came out in full force, not just one but dozens, sometimes hundreds of souls appearing from nowhere, forming first as dark, wispy mists then growing clearer and more horrifying with each flash of silver-white lightning. It was on nights like this that Jessica would sit curled up and shivering in her Key West apartment, terrified at what she had done, as her walls disappeared and the beach came to her doorstep, and wave upon wave of the dead would slowly emerge from the surf, black and rotted and covered in barnacles, dark green seaweed crawling with myriad unknown sea creatures dangling from their bloated skin. Their eyeless faces would direct themselves toward her, and from mud-filled mouths they would call out her name; evil, gurgling sounds from hell with the underlying tone of “Jessica”.