Death in Her Eyes (A Mac Everett Mystery Book 1)

by Nick Vellis

  I continued through the alley, came out on the street, and walked a couple blocks. I’d just about decided I was wasting my time when I spotted an elderly lady walking a little ankle biter. She was four foot nothing with a dubious hair color and was dressed in a housecoat and tattered cloth slippers.

  “Hi,” I said. “Do you live around here?”

  “Who wants to know,” she answered turning away from me.

  “I’m Mac Everett, a private investigator working for Mr. Hunt. Would you mind answering a few questions?”

  The little dog, a poodle or some other curly haired mongrel, began sniffing me. I thought it would piss on my foot, but I choked down the urge to kick it.

  “I’ve already spoken to the police,” she responded not warming to me at all.

  I reached down so the little dog could sniff the back of my hand and looked up at her and said, “Nice dog … yes I know you did but your statement isn’t in the copy of the report I have.”

  I didn’t tell her I didn’t have the report.

  “What? I talked to two different Sheriff’s deputies one in a uniform and one in some sort of wind breaker.”

  “Could you tell me what you told them, please? What’s your name ma'am?”

  “I’m Mildred Tess young man. I told those policemen I saw Mr. Hunt leave in a big hurry. He nearly ran Lulu and me over.”

  “How is it you were out so early?”

  “I’m up early every day,” she proclaimed. She stretched out the word every. “It was the second time we’d been out that morning, Lulu, and me. I was walking Lulu the day it happened, when Mrs. Hunt was killed. I saw Mr. Hunt fly out of here like the devil himself was chasing him. It was eight thirty on the dot.”

  “You assume that was the day it happened, right? You didn’t see anyone kill Mrs. Hunt, did you?”

  “Well no, but the sheriff’s deputy …”

  “You saw Mr. Hunt or the car?”

  “Well the car actually. And he didn’t have his license plate. I told the police that too.”

  “Can you describe the car for me?

  “It was a dark blue four door Lexus ES350 with spoke wheels and very dark window tint. I saw it clear as day. It was light you know.”

  “Yes ma’am. You know a lot about cars,” I said jotting down the description she’d just given.

  “I do. My son has a Lexus just like it. His is Onyx Pearl. It’s a more elegant color.”

  “What time was this Mrs. Tess?”

  “It told you that all ready young man. Pay attention,” she scolded, shaking a crooked boney finger at me.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “It was about half past eight. The local news comes on at eight twenty-five. Lulu and I went out right after that.”

  “So it was fully light, then.”

  “Are you hard of hearing, young man? I just said it was eight-thirty in the morning. Of course, it was day light.”

  “One more point Mrs. Tess. Had you seen Mr. Hunt in the Lexus before? He drives …”

  “He drives a metallic black sapphire BMW 500i. No, I’d never seen him driving it before, but it came out of the alley behind Mr. Hunt’s unit. Well, I’ve seen it parked in the alley by that empty apartment. I assumed he got a new car. Is he going to be all right? I can’t say I blame him for killing that girl. She was a ...” Mrs. Tess leaned close to me and whispered, “a B-I-T-C-H and you can quote me. Now that Mr. Hunt, he’s a nice young man, and so handsome.”

  I snorted a little laugh and said, “I think he’ll be OK. I appreciate your help. Is there anything else you can think of that will help.”

  “No. As I said I already told this to the police,” she said.

  I thanked her, patted the little flea motel on the head and started back toward to the car. I was about to get in, when something else occurred to me. I called after Mrs. Tess and jogged over to her while Lulu peed once again.

  “Mrs. Tess, you wouldn’t know anything about Mr. and Mrs. Hunt’s personal life would you?” I asked.

  “My dear boy, what do you think I am some kind of a busy body? Why I have a mind to…”

  “I mean no offense. It’s just that you are out here often and being so observant I thought…”

  “Well since you put it that way. I have seen some pretty strange goings on over at their place.” She emphasized the word pretty by saying it slower than her other words. “Not that it’s any of my business, you see,” she responded tentatively.

  “Yes, I understand, but you did see something strange?”

  “Well I don’t know…”

  “Come on Mrs. Tess, spill it,” I said with my brightest smile.

  “Well, Mr. Hunt travels a lot you know, business I guess. When he’s out of town, she would throw these wild parties. I even called the police about the noise once. I think there was a fight too.”

  I could have kissed her on her little wrinkled forehead.

  “Thank you Mrs. Tess. Can you think of anything else?” I asked.

  “Nothing I can think of now. May I have your card, just in case?”

  I peeled a business card off the stack in my pocket and gave her a card in lieu of that kiss then left her with my thanks.

  “Have a nice day,” she said over her shoulder as her mongrel pulled her away.

  I silently prayed I’d be as sharp as Mrs. Tess when I was her age. She had not only put Cary Hunt completely in the clear, but had given me the first real lead on the killer. I wondered why the homicide detectives hadn’t questioned her any more closely, nailed down the time, or asked about the make of the car. Cary Hunt was in the clear all right. About a hundred witnesses could place him on an airplane at eight thirty the morning it’s assumed his wife was killed. His black BMW was parked in the OIA garage too. Another car, driven by someone else had peeled out of the Hunt’s neighborhood at eight-thirty.

  I decided to head out to the country club a little early and check out the parking lot. Maybe I’d get lucky and find a dark color Lexus four door with spoke wheels, an oil leak and Djarum Black slims in the ashtray.

  I wheeled past the fountains and the sign that marked the entrance to Steeple Chase Country Club. The drive wound through massive live oaks dripping with Spanish moss. The clubhouse was a three-story reproduction of an antebellum plantation house, much like General Hunt’s place. Balconies, shutters, and verandas- this place had it all. A valet sprinted toward me as I entered the circular drive.

  “Who are you visiting today, sir? The eager young preppy said all too cheerfully.

  “What?” I stuttered in response. I hadn’t run across the valet in my previous visit. Lucky, I guess.

  “Whose guest are you, sir. I need it for the registration book.” He made as if he was writing.

  “Oh, I’m looking for the pro shop.”

  “Thank you, sir. If you would care to drive around to the right, you can park …”

  I hit the gas before he finished. There’s a deep-seated rude streak in me. I pulled into a parking space next to a yellow Range Rover and headed towards a cluster of low buildings to the right of the main clubhouse. I came to the golf shop as a beefy guy in his fifties came through the front.

  He wore a powder blue Arnold Palmer golf shirt buttoned to the neck, tan chinos and a Callaway visor. Bald temple to temple, he would have benefited from an actual hat. His exposed head was as red as a blood grapefruit. His wind-burned face wore a tense smile.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked as he scrubbed his golf shoes on the cleaner by the door.

  “I’m looking for the tennis pro,” I replied.

  “Rad’s giving a lesson,” he said reaching into a cooler. “Want a water? It’s a hot one, but it’s a workin’ day.”

  “Never touch the stuff, unless it involves ice,” I replied. “Can you point me in the right direction?”

  “Sure, down the path to the right. It’s on the other side of the main building, but you won’t find Rad there. He’s giving a lesson like I said,” he replie
d.

  “Well, maybe you can help me while I wait,” I said hopefully. “I’m Mac Everett. I’m a private investigator working on the Stephanie Hunt case,” I said as I offered my hand.

  “Canning, I’m the golf pro,” the guy said shaking my hand. “Not sure what I can tell you, but I’ve got some time before Mrs. Levin’s lesson. A real hacker, that one, but she’s here going on three years.”

  “She that bad or is it the teacher? I asked.

  “There ain’t no one in the world gunna help that broad. That’s one mean bitch too. She just takes the lessons so she can mess with her husband, forces him to play with her. I don’t get it, but she pays a buck and a quarter twice a week.” He wiped his face with a terry cloth towel.

  “Two hundred fifty a week isn’t bad, if you can stand to be around her,” I replied

  “Oh I can stand it. She brings me a couple students now and again, some stock tips and her daughter isn’t too bad to look at either. What can I do for you Everett?” Canning said as he took a stool and offered me another one.

  “I’m looking into the Stephanie Hunt murder,” I began. “I hope you can tell me something about Mr. and Mrs. Hunt.”

  “Humph- I can tell you a shit load about those two. She was a whore and he was her rich as shit doormat,” he spat out the words. “What else you want to know?”

  “Specifics?” I asked.

  “I seen the way she treated him and he just took it. You just never know about people. Guess he just had enough.”

  “What would you say if I told you he didn’t do it?

  “I’d be relieved. I liked the guy, even felt sorry for him. That wife of his flirted and hung on every swinging…”

  “I get the picture. Any names you’d care to share?”

  “You didn’t get it from me, you understand, but she was stepping out with a couple guys that hang out here. Names -there are a bunch of them, but keep my name out of it.”

  “The names came to me in a dream.”

  He chortled and leaned in close. “I seen her with Howie Neal, he’s the head vet out at the marine park. He was mad as hell when she wouldn’t knock boots with him. More recently I seen her hanging all over Derrick McArthur.”

  “The basketball player?”

  “Yep. She hung out up at the main club house with her girl friends, but if you ask me it was a cover for the hook up of the week.”

  “Anyone else? Anyone get upset when she moved on to the next player?”

  “There was some foreign duffer. He was a young guy, but she hung around with him a lot. He’s the son of some former Caribbean dictator. Taylor’s his name. He was real mad when she dumped him. He tore up the clubhouse bar one night. He paid up and apologized. I ain’t seen him since.”

  “How about the girlfriends, which of them should I talk to?” I asked. I was getting more than I’d hoped.

  “You should check with Rad about her friends. She didn’t play much golf. She was more a tennis slut. Rad’ll have the skinny on that crowd. I just know some of them are as loose as her and you can take that to the bank.” There wasn’t any malice in his voice, but maybe a hint of disappointment. “One of her friends got sued or something. She lost her job, I hear.”

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Greer, Sharon Greer. She’s one of Stephanie’s friends, or I guess was.”

  “Know what happened?” I asked.

  “Naw, I just heard some of the guests talking about it,” he said.

  “What about Cary Hunt? What can you tell me about him?” I asked.

  “He seems a good guy. He’s a scratch golfer. He played here, maybe twice a month. Always was polite and quiet, good tipper. He came out to get his wife a few times when she’d had one too many at the bar. He never made a scene.”

  He took a sip of his water. The frosty plastic bottle looked pretty damn good. It was hot.

  “What have you heard, really?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Mr. Hunt was a nice guy. It’s his wife I could do without.”

  “Come on, what have you heard?” I insisted.

  “Well, there are some people really pissed with him over some investment advice.”

  “I thought he was the golden boy in that area,” I said.

  “I thought so too, but what I hear is he was into something new and some people weren’t happy. He was borrowing money and even had his wife “entertaining” the investors, if you know what I mean.”

  He gave me a slow motion wink and I got the idea. It fit with what I’d heard about Stephanie Hunt.

  “Know how much or what he was doing?” I asked.

  “Naw, I just heard some of the guests talking about it,” he said. “He was bugging them about money and they were bitching about it. The Levins even complained to the board.”

  “What happened?”

  “The general manager told him to stop. I hear he did.”

  “Anyone I should talk to about that?”

  Canning filled me in on what he knew, which wasn’t much, long on speculation, and smelled like sour grapes. He said I should talk to Max Levin to get the low-down. I left Canning as an older woman, Mrs. Levin no doubt, strolled through the door.

  I headed over to tennis shop to find Rad Wozninek. The air blasting in the Tennis Shop, called ‘The Hut’, was a welcome relief from the Central Florida humidity. The only person in the place was a tall pert babe in her twenties. With that hot body, dressed in a tennis skirt and figure-hugging white shirt she could’ve been a model or a call girl. She pretended to look at shoes, but she was really checking me out. When she was sure I was looking her way, she bent over to check out a pair of shoes on the bottom of the display. I gave her a noncommittal smile and went to the counter. I looked around, but no one was in the back.

  “If you’re looking for Rad he’s giving a lesson,” the coquette said as she sidled up to me putting her hand on my shoulder. “You’re cute,” she said. “Maybe I can help you. I’m Candi.”

  “Of course you are, but I need the tennis pro, not the local talent,” I replied.

  I didn’t have time for games and this one was all game.

  “You’re funny. I’m Candi Levin. I’m Rad’s next lesson so that’s how I know he’s out on the court.”

  She turned her head and bit her lower lip like in a bad ‘40s movie. It might work on the trust fund crowd she apparently ran with, but her charm was pretty much lost on me. As I was about to tell her off, a broad shouldered, tanned guy came through the door. Dressed in white Adidas shirt and shorts he strode confidently up to me, a pair of tennis rackets in his hand.

  “Jon at the golf shop said you were looking for me?” he said. It was more a statement than a question.

  “Yeah, I left you a message too. I’m…”

  Ignoring me, he turned to Candi and said, “Get out on court three and warm up. I’ll be out in fifteen minutes. The ball launcher is set up for you.”

  Turning back to me, he smiled as Candi sulked out the door and said, “Sorry about that. Her mother will be watching from the practice green and if she’s not out on the court she’ll accuse me of copping a feel…or worse.”

  “Yeah, I see what you mean,” I said.

  “Rad Wozninek,” he said as he extended his hand. There was no accompanying smile. “What can I do for you?” he asked. His nondescript accent was only apparent on the letter w.

  “I’m looking into the Stephanie Hunt murder for the family. I was hoping you could tell me something about her and fill me in on some of her friends.”

  “Why? I thought her husband was arrested,” he snapped.

  What passed for a marginal smile quickly disappeared.

  “Mr. Hunt has been arrested, but there are always two sides to a story,” I said. “Mind if I ask a few questions?”

  The tennis pro crossed his arms, hands in opposite armpits and drew up to his full height. I knew I wouldn’t force anything out of this man without a rubber hose. “I was wondering, could you
could tell me who some of her friends were? I saw a lot of pictures in her home of her playing tennis and a number of trophies. She seemed to have won a lot of tournaments. Would some of those pictures have been taken here? Did you coach her?”

  Since I hadn’t assaulted him directly, Rad relaxed a little.

  “She played here and in tournaments around the state. I coached her.” He puffed up a little. “She did well,” he replied.

  Vanity always works. Play to a subject’s vanity and they open like a ripe melon.

  “Did you coach her friends as well?” I asked, leading him where I wanted him to go.

  “Yes, but they are not as talented. Stephanie was a natural athlete. She might have played the circuit if she’d tried harder.” Rad’s disappointment was evident in his face as well as his voice.

  “How about the others, her friends? Are they any good?”

  “No, not like her, they party too much. Sharon could be champion, but she’s not interested. All work, that one.”

  “Tawni and Libby?”

  “Tawni Williams and Libby Davis, and Sharon, those three were always with Stephie.”

  “Sharon?”

  “Sharon Greer,” he replied.

  “Do you think they’d talk to me?” I was going slowly, and he was opening up. His arms had fallen down by his sides as he leaned against the wall. He took out a cigarette and I almost choked. It was a Djarum Black.

  “Sure, they talk to you. You a good looking guy,” he said. His accent seemed to fluctuate with the intensity of his words. “Maybe they do more than talk.” He paused to take a puff on the strange butt.

  I watched him a moment then said, “I’ve seen never seen a cigarette like that before. It smells good too. What is it?” I asked. The butt smelled like a sweet, burning sock.

  “It smells like shit and tastes worse. It’s a Djarum Black. Sharon Greer asked we get them. All these women smoke them. I don’t much like, but I get them cheap,” Rad replied taking another froufrou drag. The odor of cloves nearly choked me, but I had another lead. If it was me, I’d rather give up smoking cold turkey than smoke those things.

  “Who would want to kill Mrs. Hunt?” I asked.

  “Who knows, she was not a faithful wife. She had many lovers. I was with her myself once. Perhaps...”