“What’s going on?” I asked. “That moaning! What’s making it?”
Janell laughed. “Guess we should have warned you. It’s Mama G playing a conch shell.”
“Didn’t know people played conch shells.”
“Most people don’t,” Rex said. “My dad said folks used to call their kids in from play by blowing on a conch shell. Each kid knew the sound of his family’s shell and reported home immediately.”
“Mama G’s carried conch blowing a step farther.” Janell added detergent to the machine and started the washer. “Listen carefully and you’ll hear her playing a diatonic scale. She claims it’s in the key of c-major.”
“How does she do that?”
“By blowing hard into a cut end of the shell and then adjusting her hands inside the shell opening,” Rex said.
I listened, but I could hear only weird moaning. “I’d think the sound would scare people away.”
“No,” Janell began filling a supper plate for me. “It attracts kids. They come running to see what’s going on. Mama G’s good publicity for us. But, Kitt, do sit down and eat. We have to eat supper early in order to open the café on time. We didn’t call you when we ate because you were sleeping so soundly we hated to awaken you. Kept the food warm.”
“Thanks a bunch.” I inhaled the enticing fragrance of the grouper, sat down, and began eating. “Wonderful, Rex. Didn’t realize how hungry I was.” I finished the fish and chips quickly, spooned up a helping of fresh strawberries, then placed my dishes on top of the dishwasher.
“Come outside to the patio and brag a little about Mama G’s conch shell music. As you may have guessed from her comments earlier, she thrives on compliments.”
“And compliments are usually forthcoming—at least for her sandwich fillings, if not for her conch shell music.” Rex hung his apron on a hook back of the door.
“Ace and Teach have arrived, so I’ll introduce you.” Janell opened the door between the house and the cafe and I followed her onto the patio and to the edge of the snack bar. Rex had already lit the patio torches, and their light flickered against Mama G’s face which still glowed a dull red from blowing on the conch. She looked ready for a break—or a massive stroke.
“Hola, Mama Gomez!” I greeted her in her specified way, careful to use her full name. “You get an interesting sound from your shell.”
“Not a sound, Kitt Morgan. I play a well-known musical scale. You no hear the scale?”
“Yes, of course I heard it. Of course.” No point in antagonizing the woman.
“Want to try?” After wiping the point of the shell on her caftan as if that would make the shell sterile, she thrust it toward me.
“No thanks, Mama Gomez. I’m sure I couldn’t make a sound.”
“Try,” she insisted. “Now. I want you to know for yourself how hard to do is this music I make.”
I took the shell and put it to my lips and blew. No sound. I blew again. And again. At last a faint moan wavered from the shell, and when I paused for more breath, Mama G grabbed the shell from me.
“You see, Kitt Morgan, it takes both talent and perseverance to play a melody on a conch shell.”
“Indeed it does. You have many talents.”
“And so does Ace, Kitt,” Janell said, urging me toward the band stand. “Come meet our drummer.”
A tall shaggy-haired blond wearing black jeans and a black tank top was pulling a trap set closer to the side of a piano. At our approach, he stopped tugging at the drums and turned toward me. Turned reluctantly, I thought. I guessed him to be in his early thirties. Big. Broad shouldered. Muscular. Our eyes met on a level. I wondered what he’d been doing last Friday afternoon.
Janell performed the introductions.
Ace shook my hand with a bone-grinding grip. When he looked at me, his eyes twinkled, reminding me of someone I couldn’t quite place. Crazy thinking. I’d never met anyone like this guy before.
“Glad to have you aboard.” Ace grinned at me then opened a black cordura case and pulled out two black drumsticks which he twirled into the air for a moment, caught, and laid carefully on the piano. Then his face sobered. He pulled a black bandana from his hip pocket and used it to protect his fingers when he began to twist the screws set on the rim of his snare. “Hard to keep the drums in tune in all this humidity.”
“I didn’t know musicians had to tune drums. Thought they came from the factory ready to go.”
“I’m a drum bum.” Ace grinned. “I take my time setting up for a job, and I work toward a certain sound, a certain tone.”
Twist. Rat-a-tat. Twist. Rat-a-tat. I watched while he twisted and tested the drum head for sound. He said nothing more to keep a conversation going. Janell had left us to answer a telephone, so I read words stenciled on the bass drum head in bold blue beside the likeness of a shrimp boat. “THE ACE—Freshest Shrimp in the Keys.”
“Pays to advertise, Ma’am. Always see people waiting on shore when The Ace comes in from a run.” Ace pulled up a chair behind the trap set and, using a foot pedal, tested the bass drum.
“Kitt. Just call me Kitt.” Janell had disappeared into the house, and I felt uncomfortable talking to this guy. I’d felt uncomfortable around Phud. Maybe I’d feel uncomfortable talking to any guy who’d been around the B&B when Abra had been in residence. “Rather unusual for a shrimp captain to play drums, isn’t it?”
“Drumming’s my hobby, Kitt. It’s my thing, you might say. If I hadn’t already scrimped and saved to buy my boat, I might have bought a trap set and some lessons and taken up professional drumming. A red hot drummer can make it into the big time on either coast. Gene Krupa. Buddy Rich. Louie Belson.”
“Guess it’s never too late to change occupations.”
“Too late for me. I love shrimping too much to make a change. Love shrimping when I’m at sea—love the drum bum scene when I’m ashore.”
“So how’d you get started on drums?”
“Won the traps in a poker game at Captain Tony’s several years ago—snare, bass, and Lignum Vitae sticks. Ironwood. Hardest sticks ever made. Wouldn’t take a ton of money for ’em. The Buddy Rich band was playing at Pier House, one of the island’s top beach hotels, and one night while the sidemen took a break, I talked Buddy into giving me a few lessons in exchange for a short run on The Ace.”
I laughed. “And, as they say, the rest is history?”
“Right. History.”
Ace had a charisma that made me like him—an engaging smile, a direct gaze, a sexy sort of voice. I could tell he enjoyed talking about himself and I was about to ask more questions about his trap set and his association with Buddy Rich when Mama Gomez interrupted us.
“Drums too close to my piano. Move ’em to the right.”
“In your dreams,” Ace said. “Those traps are sitting right where they usually sit. Don’t you dare touch ’em, woman.” He stood, as if his height might give him more authority.
Mama Gomez’s face hardened and she scowled, but she turned and flounced toward the snack bar.
“You gotta stand your ground with that broad.” Ace grinned. “Hey, here comes Teach.” He nodded at a short man wearing a blue jumpsuit, a baseball cap turned backward, and mirrored sunglasses. He was struggling to carry a bass viol bigger than he was. When he drew near, I saw that his head barely reached my shoulder.
“Hey, Teach! Meet Kitt Morgan, Janell’s sis from Iowa. Told her you’d like a new set of ears to listen to your tales about the fort.”
“Yo, Kitt. Pleased to meet you.” Teach grinned and rested his bass on the edge of the band stand. “Janell tells us you’re in law enforcement up north. Gonna give the police down here a hand?”
“Hadn’t planned to. And so far they haven’t asked for any assistance. Can I help you with that jumbo fiddle?”
“I can manage, thanks.”
His tone told me to back off, and his mirrored sunglasses put me on edge. I couldn’t tell where he was looking or whom he was watching.
“Little Man needs no help,” Ace said. “Won’t let anyone else touch that leviathan of his. But don’t let his size fool you. He’s a black belt—Karate, you know. He could deck a guy twice his size.”
“Janell tells me you’re a pilot.” I tried to direct the conversation away from Teach’s size, but I could see that Ace like to tease.
“Right.” He said. “In real life, flying’s my job. I make daily flights to Fort Jefferson. In unreal life, I do a little writing and pluck the bass fiddle here at The Poinsettia.”
“What sort of plane do you fly?”
“The bank and I own a five-passenger rebuilt Cessna. Amphibious, of course. The Osprey. It’s tethered at the airport. I’m booked full most days during the season. You been out to the fort?”
“Yes. Years ago our family took a day trip by ferry. As I remember it, most of our time was spent on the water and only a little of it on the fort grounds.”
Teach steadied his bass against the piano, pulled a booklet from the back pocket of his jumpsuit, and handed it to me. I smiled at the title: Meet Fort Jefferson. I flipped through a few pages of the book, noting that it had 15 chapters and lots of illustrations, both black and white and it color.
Ace sighed. “Don’t get the little man started, Kitt. He’ll talk you to death. You’d think he’d built the fort himself—single-handed.”
Teach ignored him. “I’ve written this small handbook on the Tortugas and the fort. Got word today that it’ll soon be available at the airport. You know—in those racks where the locals advertise their businesses.”
“That’s great, Teach. I’ll look for it.”
“No need to. You can keep that copy. Take it along with you.”
“Thanks, Teach. I’m sure I’ll enjoy reading it.”
“I’ve autographed it. Maybe you’d like to fly to the fort some day. I’ll let you know when I have an extra seat. Sometimes tourists book a time and then find reason to chicken out at the last minute. If you’d like to fly along with me, I’d be glad to give you a guided tour of the fort and the grounds.”
I hesitated, feeling reluctant to spend time alone with any of these people, although Janell and Rex seemed at ease with them. So what if Teach was short. He’d earned a black belt. It was reasonable to think that he was powerful enough to have overcome Abra Barrie. But I could think of no motivation. Although the word caution played in my mind, I refused to live in fear.
“You’re very generous, Teach. As for the Fort Jefferson trip, I’ll play it by ear—not sure what Janell has planned for us this week. But right now I’m eager to hear this combo.” I squelched the temptation to mention that I had once planned a musical career. Still made me sad to think ’bout it. “Have you always played bass, Teach?”
“Not always.” He laughed. “But I’ve played since junior high school days. Started when I was twelve. Most important thing I learned back then was not from books, but from a tough music teacher who was strong on discipline, the use of correct grammar, and daily practice on one’s instrument.”
“Guess it paid off big time, since you’re still playing.”
“Off the bandstand, Kitt Morgan ,” Mama G ordered.
I stepped down, giving her plenty of room.
“Gotta test the amps and get the charts lined up in correct order. Get your fronts in place, men. Almost time to start playing.”
“Don’t see anyone crowdin’ the floor yet,” Ace drawled.
“They’ll start coming when they hear the music,” Mama G said. “As usual, we’ll begin with our theme song—“Hella’s Tune” with Hella on drums.”
“Hella wrote the song?” I asked.
“Right,” Ace said. “A good melody, too.”
I backed away from the bandstand and Mama G tugged an amplifier onto the spot where I’d been standing, plugged it in, and started twisting dials, pressing buttons. Neither man helped her set up the heavy equipment nor the silver fronts decorated with music symbols stenciled in black. Nor did she ask again for help. Clearly, Mama G thought she was the glue that held the combo together. Teach and Ace grinned at each other and allowed her to do and think whatever she pleased.
“Didn’t know Hella played every night, Janell,” I said, joining her at the snack bar. “Thought she was a sub.”
“She is, but she wrote the theme music and she likes to sit in on it at the opening and closing of our evenings. Ace never objects. Guess he doesn’t dare object since Hella fills in for him when he wants time off to make a shrimp run. She has to use her own drumsticks, though. He never lends his sticks to anyone. He draws the line at that.”
“Big deal.” I laughed. “What’s so special about his sticks?”
“You’ll probably see before the evening’s over.” Janell went on about her chores and I sat at the snack bar while Hella entered the patio and took her place behind Ace’s bass drum. I was sorry “Hella’s Tune” was such a dreamy ballad. But that’s the way Mama G played it—dreamy. Not much of a tune for showing off a drummer’s expertise. Ace joined me at the snack bar while the combo played.
“That Hella! She’s quite a gal.” Ace grinned.
I smiled my agreement. “Hope I get to hear her hit some hot licks before I go home.”
“She can play hot or sweet,” Ace said. “Used to teach music. Used to play in a swing band after the war. WWII, that is. A long time ago.” Ace sat with me in an uncomfortable silence until Mama G motioned him back to his traps.
Yes, the crowd had started arriving during the combo’s first number, and for the second time that evening I noticed a cop patrolling the block on a motorbike. Maybe the police were giving The Poinsettia special attention tonight. Janell and Rex didn’t need to worry about a lack of business. Parents soon filled the tables near the edge of the patio, and kids began dancing to Ace’s steady rock beat. When I turned to face the snack bar, it startled me to see Phud sitting on a high stool at the far end and sipping a soda that frothed down the side of the glass.
“Kitt,” he called. “Looks like it’s going to be a big night at The Poinsettia.”
“Hope so.” I passed his stool and spoke to Janell who stood some distance away. “Need some help making sandwiches?”
“Thanks, but I’m keeping up with the demand.”
“Good.” Phud eased his way to my side. “Since Janell doesn’t need your help right now, may I have this dance? They’re playing a slow one.” Easing an arm around my waist, Phud pulled me onto the dance floor before I could think of a polite protest. And maybe I wouldn’t have protested. Shelby Cox didn’t care for dancing. It was a long time since a man had held me in his arms and hummed into my ear.
Phud was a smooth dancer and I had no trouble following his lead. I liked the fragrance of his lime-scented after shave. Tonight he was wearing silk—cream-colored slacks with a navy blue shirt that matched his jaunty tam. Torchlight glinted sparks onto his fringe of salt and pepper hair. The combo was playing a medley of ballads, and Phud hummed along, pulling me closer to him to avoid a teenage couple heading our way.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, suddenly pushing back from me and looking into my eyes.
“Thinking about what a lovely night this is.” I’d been thinking of the perp and of Shelby Cox, but I wasn’t about to mention either man out loud. Phud seized that moment to wink, pull me close again, and whirl me toward the garden.
“Kitt!” I felt the wooden dance floor give a bit under Hella’s weight when she joined us. Phud had been about to ease us onto stepping stones lying among huge elephant ear plants. “Been searching for you. Janell says you might like to go with me to the sunset celebration tonight.” Her heavy shoes scraped on the floor as she took another step toward us.
When I looked into her face, her dark eyes were like magnets holding my gaze. “But it’s already past sunset. You’ll be giving readings?”
“Perhaps.” She turned her back to Phud as if trying to keep him from hearing. “Or perhaps not. People hang a
round on the dock long after sunset, but if you’d rather stay here and dance, that’s fine, too. Janell doesn’t want you to be bored.”
“If Phud will excuse me, I’d like to tag along with you to the dock this evening. Like to watch…”
Phud gave an unbecoming snort and interrupted me. “Watch a phony fortune teller bilk the tourists.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “Someone should warn them about her kind.”
Hella quelled Phud with a look. “Ignore him, Kitt. As always, my work speaks for itself.”
“Excuse me, Phud. I really would like to watch Hella mesmerize the tourists.”
“As you choose.” Phud bowed and then with a flourish, he kissed my hand.
“And who’s calling who a phony?” Hella glared at Phud, then turned toward me. “Shall we go?”
“I’ll see you later, Phud,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t be insulted at being left behind.
“Come with me one minute,” Hella said. “Need to talk to Rex for a sec.”
When we reached the snack bar where Rex was manning the cash register, he was wearing a tank top instead of the handprint shirt he’d worn earlier. Hella reached into her bulging tote, pulled out the carefully folded handprint shirt, and handed it to Rex.
“The spot came out easily, Rex. A little stain remover, a few minutes in the dryer. That’s all it took.”
Rex stepped behind the swinging door for a moment and then returned wearing the handprint shirt. “Thanks, Hella. You’re a doll!”
“Glad to help.” Hella hoisted her tote and adjusted the backpack I noticed for the first time.
“Let me carry your tote, Hella. You’ve got enough of a load.” I laughed. “You don’t have Voodoo hiding in there somewhere, do you?”
“Not this time, but you can carry the tote if you want to.”
I took her tote and we started walking through the twilight toward Mallory Dock. We’d taken only a few steps before a bicycle cop passed us.
“That makes three I’ve seen this evening,” I said.
Hella adjusted her backpack and kept moving forward. “The PD has The Poinsettia under close scrutiny tonight.”
Killer in Control Page 7
