by Karen Harper
Looking at the restaurant and its grounds with a critical eye, Claire evaluated its drawing power as a combination of location, location, location and charming clutter. The area fronted on a dock and canal, as did most of Goodland’s buildings. Boats brought many of the patrons who were enjoying drinks and lunch even now. A few trucks with shotgun racks, several with the Confederate flag and a few motorcycles were parked haphazardly in what must pass for the parking area.
The open, wooden Buzzard Lope stage had seen better days with its American flag hanging from the rafters and numerous banners and signs. Nick had said that people ate either inside the two-story pink building or outside at the weathered gray picnic tables. Above it all, wings outspread, loomed a large, gray metal statue of a buzzard in flight.
“Don’t look up in case it takes off,” Nick kidded her. “I’d rather eat out here but let’s go inside, sit near the bar and ask our questions.”
Inside, two female servers hustled from table to table—the place was about a third full—and one of them pointed to a table near the bar. They ordered seafood chowder, conch fritters and coconut shrimp, planning to share everything.
“I’ll just order drinks from the bar,” Nick told the server.
“Be just a sec with the fritters,” the plump, bleached blonde told them and disappeared.
Claire watched as Nick ambled up to the bar where a weathered-looking, middle-aged man was pulling beers. With the buzz of noise in here, she couldn’t tell what they were saying. Nick came back with a beer for himself and a shandy for her. “You might know he missed most of the Haze-Mark brouhaha, when he went to the john. But our waitress Betty saw it all.”
“Bingo. Are you going to tell her up front who you are?”
“More or less. And hope she’s on Haze’s side instead of Mark’s. Everyone else—except the police—around here is. The bartender also said the loner guy in the corner in the plaid flannel shirt is always here. I’ll try him, and you chat up Betty if she comes back before I do.”
Again, his trust in her warmed Claire. Despite Clayton Ames’s version of a shotgun wedding and the fact “the two shall become one” had not happened yet—because of her—she knew she was falling fast and further in love with Nick Markwood.
Their server came back with their appetizers before Nick returned. Claire saw now her lopsided, foggy, plastic nametag read Betty.
“My husband and I are friends of Haze Hazelton,” Claire told the woman. “We’re hoping to prepare a defense for him if he’s arrested for Mark Stirling’s murder.”
Her dark eyebrows lifted, but her face didn’t change expression. “You prob’ly heard I was here for the fight got Haze in hot water and maybe got Mark dead,” she said. “I been questioned before—by the cops.”
She put the conch fritters and dip down, then two glasses of ice water. Balancing her plastic tray on its end on the tabletop and leaning slightly on it, she hovered.
“Do you believe Haze is guilty?” Claire asked.
She shrugged. “Like to steer clear of the cops and court, if it comes to that. You a lawyer?”
“My husband is. And, as I said, on Haze’s side. Would you mind telling me what Haze and Mark said to each other that day?”
“It was how they said it, much as what. No secret Stirling’s newspaper riled lots of folks. He attacked the youth fountain water in print and with his big mouth in here that day. Haze was saying he was too rash to be a journalist, in too much of a rush to be rich and famous. And Haze was spouting stuff about the fact there’s a sacred fountain in lots of places on the planet—in India, Hindu legends, Far East, some spring in France cures people. That’s a good one, right? No way a spring of water around here is sacred! Ha!”
“You have an excellent memory.”
“Like I said, they yelled pretty loud. Yeah, I got a good memory for good tippers.”
“Which my husband is,” Claire said, hoping that didn’t mean she was offering a bribe. She wished Nick would come back, but she also sensed this woman might clam up with a lawyer here. Betty might not like cops or a court appearance, but she’d probably be called to testify, hearsay or not if all this went to trial.
“Well, the thing is,” the woman said, keeping her voice low and leaning closer, “Stirling told Haze he was not only going to debunk his family fountain but the scam of youth water and that face lotion stuff nationwide. Haze gave me some of that, and it felt okay—not real fast results,” she admitted, stroking her leathery cheek. She glanced around the room again, then whispered, “That’s when Fin jumped in, cussed out Stirling, said he didn’t care if he gave his wife discount ad rates, he was a damn liar.”
“Okay. Slow down. So Fin Taylor was here too and got in on Haze’s side?” Claire asked.
“Well, maybe not on Haze’s side but anti-Stirling anyway,” Betty admitted. “Geez, I could of told Stirling off too. So Fin just stormed out, and it ended with Haze yelling, ‘Just shut your stupid mouth or someone will shut it for you.’ Said it twice, threw his drink. That’s what the cops are hanging on to.”
“Haze shouted that at Stirling, not Fin?”
“You got that right.”
“Haze said ‘someone’? Not ‘I’ will shut it for you?”
“Right. And you know what? When Haze said that, couple of folks in here clapped, including me. Didn’t wish the man dead, but Mark Stirling was a big mouth, small tipper.”
No wonder the police were taking a while to arrest Haze. Maybe they were looking at Fin Taylor too—or others who were here that day and applauded. Claire wondered if they were going to find anyone at all in Southwest Florida who liked Mark Stirling.
* * *
Jace loved flying the new jet. Smooth. Sweet. After his passenger left and the plane was safely in its hangar, he walked through it again, cockpit to the cabin. He’d always wanted to fly north and he’d just been to a small airport outside Toronto and flown back by early afternoon. And to pick up just one passenger, a guy who went by the name of Thom Van Cleve. Not plain old Tom, and that last name sounded like the guy should be a duke or an earl. Kind of acted like it too, salesman smooth, fake friendly, but actually aloof. Didn’t matter really. It was only business.
Funny thing was, Thom, Duke of Van Cleve, was really tan like he’d been south instead of points north.
“In short,” Jace said to the empty cabin, “he probably works for Kilcorse-Ames.”
He instantly regretted saying that aloud, because he knew Nick was paranoid about Ames spying and listening in on everything. He wished he was going home to Claire and Lexi instead of heading for an empty condo, even a nice new one Ames’s money provided. He hoped he’d only be working for the bastard until he found a way to get himself—and Lexi and Claire—out from under Ames’s thumb. But that promise from Ames that he’d help him get Claire and Lexi back someday was terrible but tempting. He missed his daughter and hoped Claire would let him have some time with her soon.
He slumped into the comfortable seat where his passenger had been sitting, reading some papers en route from Toronto to Naples. He noticed a section of a folded newspaper stuffed—or just forgotten—between the seat and the armrest and pulled it out.
Dang, but it was in Spanish. Granma, a newspaper evidently put out by the Communist party of Cuba. He could make out that much. It had a photo of his passenger, all smiles, standing next to Raul Castro, Fidel’s brother who ran the island now. Jace flipped it open. Yeah, on the second page under the masthead it listed First Secretary of the paper as Raul and the paper’s founder as Fidel.
Jace threw himself back into the seat and crumpled the paper in his fists. Cuba? But he was flying out of Toronto. Jace knew the Canadians were permitted access to Cuba, when Americans were not. But surely Ames’s expensive health water and cosmetics were not sold in Cuba. No, something else fishy was going on here, an
d this was just another piece of a big jigsaw puzzle. And whoever managed to put the pieces together might not like the picture that emerged—or even be around long enough to figure it out.
* * *
That afternoon, Claire and Nick finally managed to get one of the officers of the Marco Island Marine Unit to lead them out to the site where Mark Stirling’s body had been found, the assumed site of his death. Officer Sean Armstrong was a young guy, polite and businesslike, but, Nick thought, with the same closemouthed demeanor he’d come up against before from the local police. He had accepted it since Haze had not been charged and a list of admissible evidence need not be handed over yet, and he didn’t want to rock the boat.
He smiled at that thought. He and Claire were in the yacht’s small dinghy with an outboard motor, which was usually lowered just to go ashore where it was too shallow to anchor. Rock the boat—yeah, the wind had suddenly come up to make it a little choppy today. The wake from the larger police boat even tilted them when they tied up near the mangrove island with the crazy name of No Name Key. At least they were inshore and somewhat sheltered by randomly shaped large and small mangrove islands. Boat traffic was next to nil out here—the perfect place for a murder or a suicide.
“Right there, Mr. Markwood,” Sean called out to them, pointing to a slight indentation in the clawlike roots of the mangrove island while he idled his larger boat next to theirs. “His body was wedged right there. Blood washed off the single stellate wound on his forehead. Corpse snagged underwater but one arm bobbed loose, which is what tipped off the guy going by on the personal watercraft. Some call it a Jet Ski or a WaveRunner. Makes huge noise and waves.”
“I was told a woman called in who found the body.”
“That came first, then the second call, the personal watercraft guy, at least that’s how he described himself. Both on cell phones, both anonymous. Obviously, didn’t want to get involved.”
“And no gun was found despite scuba divers searching? And no other signs of bullets in these mangroves?” Nick pursued.
“That’s right, sir. It’s no longer a scene we’re controlling, so have a look around if you want. I’ve got a call coming in, so have to head out. You do know your way back out of here?”
“Yes. Thanks, Officer. We have a map. We’ll stay a little longer.”
“I didn’t hear him get a call,” Claire observed when the inboard boat sped away, rocking them again.
“It may have been on his screen. You know, the Marco police and people in general may not feel real warm toward Goodland folks like Haze since the feeling’s mutual. Let’s tie up here and look around.”
“You did hear him give one thing away, didn’t you?” she asked as Nick motored them into the little cove in the ragged island. Farther in, sand and silt as well as floating debris had caught to make some solid land among the webs of roots. It was how most islands were born out here.
He killed the motor and tied the boat to a big, crooked branch. He turned to face her where she sat in the prow of the small craft. “You’re priceless. What did you hear, partner?” he asked.
“You hadn’t mentioned a stellate wound in Stirling’s head. Star-shaped. That means it’s a contact wound, doesn’t it, even more than just close range?”
“Yeah, which is one reason possible suicide is still on the table, like he pressed the gun against his forehead and pulled the trigger. It was in the autopsy report, and I forgot to mention it. I’ll let you see it. Or,” he added, frowning, “whoever killed him pressed the gun there, but you’d think someone else firing a weapon wouldn’t do it so close-up.”
Claire shuddered. That would make it a crime of passion, wouldn’t it, or a lot of hatred, to put the muzzle right up against someone’s skull, maybe look him in the eyes and shoot? And then to wedge the body in the water where sharks could get at it... If Ames had hired a hit man to shut Mark’s journalist mouth, would he have had him shot at such close range? Surely, if Clayton Ames was behind it, he didn’t want it to look like a suicide, because that wouldn’t go to trial and Nick could not publicly praise the fountain that fed the Ames High water and cosmetic products fortune.
“Nick, it has to be murder, doesn’t it? Mark could hardly wedge his own dead body under the roots.”
“Police report says the tide was going out and, if he fell in the water, his body could have been caught there.”
“But would a heavy gun fall to the bottom, tide or not?”
“I hear you, counselor. You told me that the scene is always the silent witness, but this one is really silent—except for its remote location. Listen, the wind and waves are picking up some, so let’s head back.”
“Nick,” she said, reaching out to grip his wrist, “even though they had divers search here, the tide could have moved the gun along the bottom until it snagged on one of these roots.”
“Sweetheart, they searched both the roots and the sand underneath. The report I got said they even looked at the mangrove branches and leaves to see if other shots fired could have winged them or embedded. Nothing.”
“All right, I hate to agree with Clayton Ames, but I say it’s a murder and the killer took the evidence with him. Let’s go back. You know, someone was very familiar with the area if they brought him out here to kill him—or meet him here to talk, whatever, then more or less ambushed him. There are enough twists and turns in these so-called Ten Thousand Islands that his murderer wanted privacy, and, as I said, knew the area.”
“Haze has known this area all his life, but so have plenty of others.”
“They should have found Mark’s kayak. He had to come out here in it, didn’t he, since it’s missing?”
“The police theory is someone found the kayak, took it, then was scared to come forward when they heard or read whose it was. Who knows, maybe the two found-a-body callers wanting to remain anonymous means they stole the kayak. Look, Claire, we’re heading back,” he said again and loosened her grip to untie the boat. Holding on to branches, he rotated them prow out and leaned back over the stern to start the motor.
They heard a muted roar that, at first, sounded like the surf, but grew louder. An airplane overhead? Sean Armstrong coming back? Must be a boat racing nearby, Nick thought and waited to start the motor. He stayed put in the alcove, and they both craned their necks to look out.
A noisy, one-person silver WaveRunner rushed into view, not going past but coming straight at them. The driver was bent down behind the small windshield. Nick noted a blur of the pale color, the typical rooster plume of water out its rear. Was it out of control, going to hit them? And Claire was in the prow.
She screamed as the edge of the runner glanced sideways off them, jarring their boat. The huge wall of water slammed into them as the craft veered away. Nick grabbed for her, but their small boat tipped sideways, tilted and swamped.
Claire screamed again. Nick smacked backward into the water, surfaced, spitting, sucking air, and grabbed for a branch. Their boat was upside down with the motor propeller sticking straight up.
Where was Claire?
“Claire! Claire!”
He’d have to dive for her. But thank God, she popped up outside the boat, gasping for air.
“You all right?” he shouted, dragging her to him. One arm on the branch, one around her, they rode the rest of the ebbing wake.
“Yes. Just scared. Went—under—the—boat,” she gasped out, holding on to him with one arm and paddling with the other. “A man—or boy. Wore a hoodie. Couldn’t see—his face.”
“Damn idiot! Probably drunk or—”
“Or we’re onto something—someone.”
He was out of breath but had to say this. “Or,” he began again, his voice bitter, “‘Uncle Clay’ thinks we’re getting too many possible perps, looking at others when he wants Haze arrested and in court. I’m thinking he even wan
ts him found guilty. Wants his hands on the eternal spring—buy Haze out—if I lose the case. He’s good at double crosses like that.”
“Look. The part of the motor in the water—a gasoline slick. It won’t work, will it?”
“No way. Let’s see if we can right the boat, bail out and row. I hope that bastard’s long gone. Someone just raised the stakes, but we’re trapped in this, at least until I can find and stop Clayton Ames.”
“Nick, look—a life ring! I didn’t see that before. Maybe the guy threw it out, not wanting to drown us, just warn us.”
The orange ring bobbed toward them as they held to each other and their boat. Nick reached for it.
Next to the small print, Throw This If Someone Is In Distress, were words that didn’t make sense as a calling card from Clayton Ames. Large, crudely painted black letters read GET OUT. STAY OUT.
16
“I didn’t even think about our cell phones being lost at first,” Claire told Nick as they finally got back to the Sylph.
They had tried rowing but had been towed by two tourists with their three kids in a rental boat. It was a good thing, Claire thought, because being soaked and in the breeze had really chilled her. At least their hot showers and change of clothes had helped, but they were both still shaken from the attack and the life preserver they felt wasn’t meant to really save them at all. It was a definite warning and threat. But from whom?
“At least we weren’t lost, but, then, I don’t think that was the plan,” Nick told her as they sat in the yacht’s lounge, drinking hot coffee. Even with the late afternoon sunlight streaming in here, Claire felt chilled and uneasy in this room. On their way out of the restaurant earlier today, she’d overheard two men talking about the Sylph being haunted because of an unsolved murder here. She knew it was in this very room, and now here they were with an unsolved murder of their own. She’d feel relieved when this Mangrove Murder case was over and they could just go home—wherever home was now.
