“I’m afraid there’s no way I wouldn’t have an interest.”
“You found the body.”
“Right.”
She exhaled a long sigh. She’d ordered iced tea to drink and she took a long swallow of it.
“No wonder Liam is...”
“Determined?”
“Distracted,” she said. She was silent a minute. “I’m concerned, of course. Horrified. And I totally want the truth to be discovered. But I don’t think that Liam is giving enough attention to...”
“Cliff.”
“You think I’m being ridiculous?” she asked.
“No. But when we left the morgue this morning, Cliff was still awaiting autopsy.” He hesitated. “Why would anyone want to kill Cliff? Our Mr. Ferrer... Maybe his documents would incriminate someone who didn’t want to be known as the descendant of a slave trader—at least, there’s somewhere to follow with that. Cliff—from everything that I’ve seen and heard, from everyone that I’ve met—the guy was great. And loved.”
“I know,” she said softly. “He was loved.”
“Well, we’ll find out more tomorrow.”
“Right.”
“So...”
He paused, and they both thanked the waiter as their dinners arrived.
After the waitress left, Brodie smiled at her and asked, “What made you come up with your ‘haunted’ part of the museum?”
She looked down, pretending great interest in the shrimp dish she had ordered.
Then she looked up. “Well, we have some of the best ghost stories in the world here. Any place this old is bound to be haunted—well, you’re from Virginia. You must know that.”
“We have ‘Washington Slept Here!’ signs all over,” he agreed. “And there’s a charming place—privately owned and opened now and then—that Jefferson had purchased for a relative. People claim that he can be seen sitting by the fire, contemplating, now and then.”
“Nice,” she murmured. “We have poor Elena de Hoyos—a man named Carl Tanzler fell madly in love with her. He was working as an X-ray technician and tried to convince her family he could save her. She had tuberculosis and died, and he bought her a beautiful mausoleum...then stole her corpse and lived with it for seven years, saying it was just fine—he had married her. And we have an old theater where a fire took the lives of many—pirate ghosts, soldier ghosts...you name it.”
“A bevy of activity.”
“Of course.”
“And Robert the doll, of course.”
“Yes, I’ve seen Robert. At the East Martello Museum. Creepy doll.”
“Yes, well, Robert Otto—who grew up in and inherited the Artist House, a beautiful Victorian B and B now—blamed everything on that doll. It is a creepy as hell doll. We have that story in our ‘haunted’ area, as well. But of course, time...time lends to ghost stories.”
“It does.”
“Your house is historic, right?”
“It is. It belonged to a Captain Blake Hunter. He was a Confederate—and on a blockade runner when he was killed. Sad, of course. The thing is, he was a Floridian. Back then, you owed your first loyalty to your state—remember, the US was formed as a union of states. United States. But we didn’t have the internet and constant news and travel and when Florida became part of the Confederacy, he went with the Confederacy.”
She seemed determined that he understand that her house had been owned by a good man.
He smiled. “It’s a nice house.”
“It is. I love it.” She quickly turned the conversation away. “So, how do you like where you’re staying?”
“Love it.”
“And you came to relax. Boy, do you know how to have a vacation,” she murmured, her tone dry and sad.
“So it seems.”
She hesitated, looking at him.
“Will you...will you look into Cliff’s death, too? Please?” she added softly.
He reached across the table, placing his hand on hers.
It had just been a kind gesture. But he found he loved touching her.
He withdrew his hand.
“Of course,” he promised.
She tried to get him to talk; he tried to get her to talk. He listened, realizing that he was often lost in her eyes.
He didn’t touch her again.
He told her about the mountains in Virginia, about living near DC.
She talked about fishing and diving with her parents, and how her mother had recently remarried a remarkable man. And she talked about the festival where they had paired performers with musicians and writers with artists and every mix within.
But in doing so, she came back to Cliff.
At last, they had coffee.
And then it was time to leave.
“You don’t have to walk me home,” she told him.
“I do.”
“No, really, you don’t. I live here. I walk these streets all the time.”
“I had dinner with you. In my family, that makes my walking you home a commandment. Hey, you wouldn’t want me in trouble, would you?”
“With the dead?” she asked. “Lord, no!”
He smiled. No, she really didn’t understand.
They walked on to her house. She paused on the sidewalk before the little stone path that led to her porch.
There were lights on.
He could see a strange silhouette within the house.
She wasn’t going home to a lover, he felt certain. But she wasn’t going to say anything, either.
Neither did he.
“Good night. And thank you.”
“I’m sure I’ll see you.”
“Of course. You promised to investigate...everything.”
“I did, indeed. Hey, I’m not leaving until you’re inside,” he told her.
She stepped back. “Okay, okay.”
She walked up the steps and unlocked her door.
Before she stepped in, Brodie saw him. Tall, wearing a sweeping plumed hat—and dressed in an 1850s frockcoat.
He had been waiting for Kody to come home.
Watching over her?
Captain Blake Hunter?
Had to be.
Brodie watched the door close, and then he headed down the street, making his way to his own bed-and-breakfast.
Kody was right.
He didn’t know how he knew, or how—under the circumstances—he could be so convinced.
There had been two murders in Key West.
And he knew that no matter what, he wouldn’t leave until he knew the truth.
* * *
“You’re all right?” the captain asked Kody as she entered. He sounded anxious.
“Of course, I’m fine. I spent the day with Rosy, but then Emory came and I went to the museum. Brodie McFadden came by and we went to dinner,” Kody assured him. “Why?”
“I don’t like what’s going on,” the captain said.
“Blake, no one likes what happened. But please don’t be worried about me.”
“I have to worry about you,” he said indignantly. “That’s what I do!”
“Well, thank you, but I’m fine. Honestly.”
“Hmm.”
“Were you here all day worrying?”
“Oh, no. I went strolling around town, and I stopped into a bar or two.” He shrugged. “Ah, even for a seaman in the day, I wasn’t much for rum. But it’s good now and then to sit and listen to the music—not that I could imbibe the rum now anyway. Not the point. I listened. And everyone is talking about the murdered man. They know who he is now.”
“Yes, I know.”
“He was involved with the ship.”
“I was supposed to meet with him,” Kody said.
“And there’s the rub!” he announced. �
��Why I should worry—you’re involved with that cursed ship!”
“I’m not involved with the ship itself—I haven’t—”
“You are planning a display. For the museum.”
“I already have a segment on the Civil War. And slavery,” Kody reminded him.
“Maybe you should take it down.”
“I will not! What—you’d actually want me to take out an era of history?” she asked incredulously.
“No,” he admitted. “It’s just that times are tense. People attack one another over small and imagined slights these days. Over the past. Over any perceived insult.” He hesitated. “Kody, someone murdered that man.”
“They’ll find out who, Captain. They’ll catch him,” she tried to assure him.
For a man who was already dead, Captain Blake Hunter seemed incredibly anxious.
“Hey,” Kody said. “Captain... Blake. You’re worried—so you keep doing what you’re doing. Travel the streets. See what you can, listen to tourists, locals, anyone. There has to be someone out there who knows something.”
He swept off his hat and bowed to her. “I’m off then. I haven’t quite got the qualifications of your newfound friend, but I shall do my gallant best.”
He left her, disappearing through the closed front door.
It was so strange. She could sense him when he was there.
And she could feel it when he was not there, as well.
She glanced at the hands on the grandfather clock in the parlor to the left of the hallway. It was past ten. Not late at all for nightlife in Key West.
She walked down to the stairway and made her way up to her room. Ready for bed, with the lights out and room quiet, she lay down to sleep.
She couldn’t.
The questions kept running through her mind. Why was Arnold Ferrer killed?
Why did Cliff die?
She lay awake a long time. Somewhere in there, she knew that the captain had returned.
He never entered her room, but she knew that he was near.
He had taken up a stance in the hall, just beyond her door. Regardless of whatever he could or couldn’t do, he would be standing guard throughout the night.
* * *
The sun was out, but the water was deep. With flashlights attached to their masks, Brodie and Liam could see an extended view before them and around them. It was a strange feeling being down there.
Brodie’s last dive had been when he’d worked with the police divers to bring up the corpse of Arnold Ferrer. He had waited on the boat with Ewan and Liam while the divers had then searched and searched for anything else that they could find.
There had been nothing.
Just the man. No wallet having fallen elsewhere, no murder weapon. Just a floating dead man.
Today, he was back with Liam. Tomorrow, they would reopen the dive to the Sea Life crew and return it to those searching for history—not clues. Then again, what they would find were clues to history—artifacts that either gave credibility to or disputed the truth that had been assumed.
Under the sweeping glare of both their flashlights, they searched the ship, deck by deck.
Brodie saw tiny pieces of metal in the hold, and he was certain that he was seeing the time and sea-encrusted remnants of chains. He didn’t touch them. He would report to Ewan on anything that he had seen, so the Sea Life crew could follow up.
Brodie moved through the darkly shadowed decks, listening to the sound of his even breathing through his regulator. Parts of the ship were eerily intact—as if a ghost army might move about daily, striding over the deck to take part in daily chores.
Parts were gone completely; time, the sea and the whimsy of the winds and tide had stripped away full pieces of the hull and the inner workings.
A crab, having found a home in a layer of sand on the deck, scurried by. A flash of silver moved before him: a lone barracuda, seeking a meal.
He saw Liam’s light behind him; he turned. Liam beckoned that he was heading one deck up. Brodie gave him the “okay” sign.
When Liam was gone, he stared at the spot where the body had been.
He held still in the water, allowing his buoyancy vest and a slight movement of his flippers now and then to hold him in place.
If you’re here in any way, Mr. Ferrer, help me...
Brodie might have seen the dead many times, but he didn’t really believe that he could communicate telepathically with a ghost that may or may not exist.
The words were to himself.
Dr. Edmond Locard, 1877-1966, had coined the Locard’s Exchange Principle.
Every contact made left a trace...of something. Every criminal brought something to the scene of his crime; he took something away, and he left something behind.
What could a killer have left behind?
Of course, in modern forensics, that often included minute skin cells, tiny drops of blood, little bits of fabric or fluff...
None of which had been found down here. None of which could have remained on a body, drifting deep in the sea for more than twelve hours.
He thought he saw a shadow. Maybe a large fish moving across a shaft of light coming in through a tear in the hull.
But Brodie knew it wasn’t.
He still didn’t think that his thoughts had summoned the remnants of a human soul. But he did believe that Ferrer did somehow remain...a spirit lost in the depth of the sea, not manifesting completely, though not really managing to move on. Perhaps, at some point, he might.
The shadow seemed to shift.
Brodie moved. He thought about the logistics of someone bringing a body down here. If the men on Sea Life’s ship Memory were as innocent as they appeared to be, whoever had brought the body had done so from another boat. There might have been dozens of boats in the surrounding area. The men who’d been onboard the Memory that day couldn’t remember anything specific. But the killer had to be a diver. This was Key West: many people were divers. Many visitors came specifically to dive.
But dragging a buoyant corpse down wouldn’t have been easy. It must have been weighted down.
The shadow flickered.
Brodie saw a glint in the sand. He reached down for the object.
5
Kody wasn’t sure if she’d tossed and turned all night and so overslept because she was tired, or if circumstances had just dragged her down. She tended to be an early riser; not because she didn’t wish she could make greater use of the night, but simply because she seemed to awaken—no alarm needed—soon after the sun began to rise.
That morning, it was almost ten o’clock before she cracked open an eye and noted the time.
She swore, leaped out of bed, and dashed right for the shower. She’d barely gotten out before her phone started to ring.
She made a dive for it on the nightstand.
It was Rosy.
“Kody, they’re going to release Cliff’s body to me. I have to go to the funeral parlor today and make arrangements. Will you come with me?”
“Of course, Rosy. When do you want me?”
“Eleven? Meet there?”
“Perfect,” Kody said.
She ended the call. But before dressing for the day, she dialed Colleen.
Colleen was already at the museum.
“I’m so sorry. I just woke up,” Kody said.
“Good—you needed sleep. And I told you not to worry. I have it all planned out for the week. I’ll be here, okay?”
“Thank you, Colleen.”
“I wish I could help more.”
“You’re the best. Hey, how are you doing yourself? How was going out last night? Did you do something touristy or hang with friends?”
“Well, I’m not that...brave. You know O’Hara’s? I went up there. They have a great karaoke host. I knew some friends
would be going, too.”
“And you had a good time?”
“Yes, but...”
“But?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Colleen said, and laughed softly. “Yes, I had a nice time there. But when I came home, I wondered why I hadn’t had the nerve to try a single song. And when I was falling asleep...”
“Yes?”
“You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“Never.”
“Oh, trust me!”
“Colleen, come on. You can’t leave it at this kind of a tease.”
“I’ve invented a dream lover, I guess. With the softest blue eyes and sweetest grin. Oh, it’s not...not tawdry in any way...just...nice. Sweet. Gentle. A guy who touches me, and tells me how lovely I am, how sweet and how wonderful, and that I deserve so much. He strokes my cheek. It’s... I don’t know, Kody, this sounds ridiculous, but this man I’m creating in my imagination... It seems so real sometimes. He’s such a flirt. But oh, so sweet! And sexy, too. Maybe one of these days... Oh, I didn’t say that. I mean... Oh, I just really can’t wait to go to sleep at night these days.”
“You don’t sound at all crazy,” Kody assured her. “You’re finally gaining the self-confidence that you should rightly have.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely. Okay, I’ll see you later.”
Kody broke the call and smiled; Colleen definitely deserved to get out there and have a life. She was all the right things, sweet, smart, loyal, dedicated—and pretty, as she finally seemed to be recognizing herself.
Kody quickly dressed and hurried toward Simonton Street and the funeral home.
* * *
“It’s a piece of gold chain,” Brodie said. He held it before Liam, not worried that he was touching the inch-and-a-half piece of links.
He’d seen it time and again, mostly with new divers. It wasn’t that earrings, chains and rings couldn’t be worn, and, of course, most people did wear wedding rings when they went diving, but dangling earrings and chains could easily be tangled up in a regulator or buoyancy vest.
Liam studied the piece of jewelry.
“We’ll have to find out if any of the Sea Life crew lost a chain,” Liam said. “Someone could have been down there working and lost this.”
Ewan was just a few feet away on the deck of the Memory, staring at them.
Echoes of Evil Page 8
