“Of course they do. We’re the only ones not spending money like water to renovate our property. They’d kick us out if they could.”
Bessie shook her head and looked at me. “Our neighbors are very nice.”
“They’re pains in the butt,” Violet corrected.
“Violet!”
Violet grinned at me. “One of the advantages of being my age is being able to say what I think.”
“Just because you’re old doesn’t mean you’re right,” Bessie said.
Luckily, Bill returned with the basket before the sisters came to blows.
“Oh, my.” Bessie clasped her hands together in delight.
“What’s the catch?” Violet said.
“There is no catch,” Bill assured her.
Violet eyed him with distrust. “We don’t have to sign up for water softeners or some danged annuity or buy magazines?”
“All you have to do is enjoy.” I handed her my card. “And if you ever have a problem you need solved, remember our agency is here to help.”
“Thank you,” Bessie said, “and don’t mind Violet. She’s too mouthy for her own good.”
“Thank you,” Violet said. “And please ignore my little sister’s bad manners.”
“You’re very welcome,” Bill said. “Enjoy.”
He caught my eye, and we made a quick retreat with the women’s voices following us to the car.
“Put those flowers in some water,” Violet said.
“Just because you’re the oldest doesn’t give you the right to boss me around,” Bessie countered.
“And stay out of those muffins. We’ll have them for supper.”
Bill was grinning as we drove away. “Makes their longevity all the more amazing, doesn’t it? Not only that they apparently have their health, but that they haven’t killed each other by now.”
In spite of their bickering, I’d sensed the underlying affection between the two sisters. Caroline and I had never fought. We’d never been that close, I realized with regret.
CHAPTER 19
Adler didn’t call back with the info on Jorges Garcia until late the next afternoon.
“Sorry to take so long,” he said. “We’ve been working a homicide, a drive-by in the North Greenwood area.”
“Gang activity?” I asked.
“Probably. There’s been tension in the neighborhood, dueling graffiti.”
“You be careful.” I sounded like his mother. “Those drug-crazy kids shoot without thinking.”
“Ralph is watching my back,” he said with a smile in his voice, “almost as well as you used to.”
Before I teared up with nostalgia, I asked, “What have you got on Garcia?”
“He lives just outside Fort White.” Adler rattled off the address and I jotted it down. “He’s your man all right. I compared his driver’s license photo with his mug shot from his Tennessee prison days. Same guy, just older and uglier.”
“Probably meaner, too.”
“Yeah, you be careful yourself, Maggie.”
“You’ve saved us a lot of legwork. Thanks.”
I hung up and went into Bill’s office. Like a tan shadow, Roger trotted behind me.
“Adler’s located Garcia.” I told Bill the address.
He smiled with satisfaction. “His proximity to Shively can’t be a coincidence.”
“Ready to check him out?”
Bill nodded. “But first we need a direct line to Keating. If something goes down, we have no authority to detain or arrest.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
I returned to my desk and phoned the Pelican Bay substation.
“Garrett,” I said in my sultriest voice when the detective came on the line. “It’s Maggie Skerritt.”
“Well, hel-lo.” His enthusiasm was almost pathetic.
“I need a favor.”
“Anything, as long as it’s not illegal.”
I laughed at his feeble joke. “Just a number where I can reach you night or day at a moment’s notice.”
I could hear his heavy breathing. “You thinking about taking me up on getting together?”
“Um…possibly.” I let him draw his own conclusions.
“Then here’s my cell number. You can reach me any time.”
I wrote down the number on my desk pad. “Thanks.”
“And Maggie…”
“Yes?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Garrett knew I was engaged to Bill, but his super-sized ego made him think he was a contender.
“Believe me, Garrett, I hope I’ll be calling you soon.” I said in my best imitation of Marilyn Monroe and hung up.
With Keating’s cell number tucked in my pocket, Roger once again in Darcy’s care and Bill at the wheel of his monster machine, we struck out toward Fort White.
Unfortunately, it was quitting time, and everyone who lived in the northern suburbs and beyond and commuted to work was also headed in the same direction. Traffic slowed to a crawl, and by the time we hit the open stretches of U.S. 19 in Levy County, the sun was dropping like a rock.
Darkness had fallen when we arrived in Fort White and followed a secondary road east toward the interstate. Five miles out of town, we found the address Adler had given us. Built in the 1930s as an overnight stop for visitors driving south toward the beaches, the motor court, long too dilapidated for the tourist trade, had been rented out as low-income housing. Weeds sprouted in the asphalt of the drive that circled a swimming pool, empty except for piles of trash and old furniture. Lights streamed from the tiny cabins set back among the pines, and most had their doors and windows propped open in hopes of catching a breeze in the stifling humidity. Grown-ups, children and several large mongrel dogs spilled over from the crowded spaces onto the porches, in search of a breath of cooler air among the lingering odors of cooking.
We located Garcia’s place at the far end of the semicircle. Bill’s headlights swept across an aging Pontiac Firebird with oxidizing black paint parked beside the cabin. I started to get out when Bill did, but he stopped me with a hand on my arm.
“Let me handle this.” He registered my look of surprise in the glow of the dome light. “Garcia might respond more quickly to a man. And to a single interrogator.”
I nodded. “I’ll be watching.”
Bill turned on the ignition long enough to lower the window on the passenger side. “You should be able to hear from here, too.”
He stepped out and walked to the sliver of porch at the front of the cabin, but he didn’t climb the stairs. “Hey, Jorges,” he called through the open door, “can I talk to you, amigo?”
A short but muscular man stepped onto the threshold and turned on the porch light. He was dressed in a dirty white undershirt, jeans and motorcycle boots. Tattoos covered his skin from the top of his neck, down his chest and arms to his hands. His bald head gleamed beneath the feeble glow of the bare bulb, and at least one gold tooth glinted in the dim light. He held a machete in his right hand.
“I don’t know you,” he said in a cold voice.
“No, you don’t. I’m Bill Malcolm with Pelican Bay Investigations.” Bill flashed his ID, stepped up so Garcia could see it, handed Garcia his business card and stepped back.
“Why you investigating me, man?” Garcia asked in the same hard tone. “I done nothing.”
“Of course not.” Bill appeared at ease, but he moved farther away from Garcia, opening the distance.
Any good cop knew a man with a knife, especially with a big blade like Garcia’s machete, could cover ground faster than the cop could draw his weapon if they were too close together. And Bill’s SIG-Sauer was tucked in its holster beneath his Hawaiian shirt at his waist. I slid my gun from my purse and held it at the ready below the window, just in case.
“You may be a witness to something, however,” Bill added from his safer distance.
“Witness to what?”
“We have a man who identified you at Grove Spirit Hous
e in Pelican Bay a few nights ago.”
“Sí, I was there. So what?”
Garcia’s quick admission surprised me. No excuses, no alibis. The guy acted as if he had nothing to hide.
“Why were you there?” Bill asked.
“No big deal.” With his left hand, Garcia scratched his chest. “I went to pick up something.”
“Mind telling me what?” Bill asked.
“Some jewelry, love letters, that kind of shit, for a gringo in town. He was breaking up with his girlfriend. Wanted them back.”
“Gerald Shively?”
“Sí, he’s the one.”
Bill pressed on. “You drove his truck.”
For the first time, Garcia hesitated. “He loaned it to me.” He hefted the machete. “Shively, he’s not saying I stole it?”
“No, no one’s accusing you of anything,” Bill said quickly. “I’m here to ask if you saw anything suspicious that night?”
“Suspicious?”
“A man died at Grove Spirit House. He was murdered.”
“Mierda! I know nothing of any murder. And I think you better leave now.”
“You didn’t see anyone else at the compound?”
“Just a tall, skinny kid with glasses. Maybe he is your killer.” But there was no conviction in Garcia’s voice. He knew more than he was telling, but the way his grip was tightening on the machete indicated he’d finished talking.
“Thanks for your help.” Bill turned and headed for the car.
I kept my eye on Garcia, who remained on the porch, glaring at Bill with a scowl that wrinkled the scar on his cheek.
Bill slid onto the driver’s seat, started the car and raised my window. “Which way to Shively’s place?”
I pointed back toward town.
Bill pulled onto the highway and headed toward Fort White. He’d gone only a few hundred yards when he stopped, backed into a drive almost covered by underbrush and turned off the engine.
In a few minutes, Garcia’s Firebird roared by in the direction of town. Bill waited until he was well past, then pulled onto the highway and followed him.
When Garcia turned south at the town’s main intersection, I was sure he was headed for Shively’s. Bill tailed him, far enough behind to avoid detection, and just as I’d expected, the Firebird made the turn into Shively’s neighborhood.
Bill pulled to the shoulder of the highway and waited several minutes before following the Firebird into the riverside development. By then, Garcia had already disappeared onto Shively’s street, so I had to give Bill directions. He killed his headlights and eased slowly down the road that lacked streetlights but was partially illuminated by intermittent security lamps on the adjoining properties. When we reached Shively’s driveway, there was no sign of the Firebird parked on the street.
Bill drove past the entrance to Shively’s drive, turned the SUV around and parked in the shadows of scrub oaks that overhung the street. We left the car and sprinted back to Shively’s drive, then walked among the weeds on the shoulder to prevent the crunch of our feet on the crushed shells from announcing our presence.
I was thankful to be wearing jeans that protected my legs from thorns and scrapes, and I tried not to think about fleas, ticks and chiggers that could be crawling over my shoes and up my pant legs. I was already in a state of hyper-itching from overactive hives. I’d popped a Benadryl before leaving the car, but it had yet to take effect.
There was no moon, but light filtering through the trees from Shively’s pole barn kept us on course and prevented us from tripping over anything. A screech owl called from a branch high above our heads, and something, probably a coon or possum, rustled in the brush off to our right. Beyond the house, something splashed in the waters of the river.
Ahead, a car door slammed violently, and Garcia’s voice broke the stillness.
“Shively! Turn off that damned torch. We got to talk.”
“Got nothing to say to you, Jorges,” Shively shouted back.
“You got one choice, man. You talk or you die.”
CHAPTER 20
Bill and I had edged as close to the pole barn as we could without being detected, and as loud as Garcia and Shively were shouting at each other, we could hear every word.
“You set me up, man,” Garcia said.
“Cool it, Garcia. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Just go in and pick up the stuff from the lady,” Garcia chanted in a whiny, singsong voice. “No sweat, you said. In and out. You’d wait in the truck. Now I got an hombre asking questions about a murder.”
Between the fronds of a saw palmetto, I could see the men beneath the lightbulbs strung across the ceiling of the pole barn. Garcia gripped his machete, but Shively hadn’t shut down his torch. One move forward and Garcia was toast. Literally.
“I did wait in the truck,” Shively said. “Besides, I’ve looked up the newspaper reports of the murder on the Net. They’ve already arrested the killer.”
Garcia didn’t relax his hold on the hilt of his blade. “Then why is this man asking me questions?”
“You know how that works. You’ve been in the system. They want to convict this woman they say did it, and they have to dot their i’s and cross their t’s, so there’s no grounds for appeal. So relax. That visit’s probably the end of it.”
“They visit you?” Garcia hadn’t relaxed. His tone and body language remained tense and confrontational.
“No,” Shively lied. “Why would they?”
“Maybe that skinny kid saw your license tag, and they traced it to you, and you sent them to me. I won’t take the fall for this, man. I done my time and I ain’t going back to jail. Not over some stupid lovers’ quarrel.”
“More likely,” Shively said with cold dispassion, “the geek described you, not my truck. And when the police checked into Ryan Wayne’s background, your prison fight popped up, mug shot, scarred cheek and all.”
“Wayne’s the hombre who died?” In his surprise, Garcia dropped the machete to his side.
“Poisoned by some little slut he was banging,” Shively said.
“But, man, I got motive and I was there. They’ll come after me.”
“Not if you stay cool.”
“They don’t know I had no reason to kill him.”
“He ripped your face.”
“It’s nada. A mark of honor, since I won the fight. I just wanted to make his life destrado, all the venganza for my face that I needed.”
Shively’s laugh was without warmth. “You made him plenty miserable with your anonymous complaints while he was here in Fort White. And when the local police broke up his operation, you had your revenge.”
“Sí, so why would I want to kill him?”
“Like I said—” Shively’s voice turned soothing, conciliatory “—the visit you had was just routine. They’ve got Wayne’s killer, so you got nothing to worry about.”
Shively had apparently succeeded in calming Garcia’s fears. He loosened his hold on the machete. “All right, if you say so, man. But if they come after me, I’m giving you up.”
Garcia stomped out of the pole barn, wrenched open his car door and got in. With a grinding of gears, he backed up the Firebird and stomped the accelerator, spewing crushed shell as he exited the drive. Bill and I ducked deeper into the underbrush to avoid exposure from his headlights.
As soon as Garcia left, Shively shut off his torch, pulled a cell phone from his pocket and punched in numbers.
“Answer the damned phone, Celeste,” he muttered. After several rings, he flipped his phone shut and returned it to his pocket. He took a shirt from a peg, shrugged into it and headed for his truck, parked among the stilts that supported his house.
Bill and I made a run for the SUV. By the time Shively left his driveway, we were belted inside, ready to follow.
We tailed Shively to Chiefland, where he stopped to buy gas at a busy truck stop. Bill pulled into the far row of pumps and topped off his tank. I ke
pt my face hidden beneath the brim of a ball cap I’d grabbed from the back seat. Shively, who obviously had other things on his mind, paid no attention to the surrounding vehicles. Bill fell in behind him again on U.S. 19 South when he left the gas station.
“You think Shively’s our killer?” I asked Bill.
The discussion was moot, since we’d know more about Shively’s motives when he reached Pelican Bay. Unless we were way off base, he was headed for Grove Spirit House and Celeste. I was talking mainly to keep us from dozing off. The Benadryl had kicked in and alleviated my itching, but it was also threatening to put me to sleep.
“Celeste dumped him,” Bill said. “Returned his gifts. Guys in love are often bitten by the stupid bug.”
“What if Ashton’s murder had nothing to do with Shively? Maybe Celeste wanted to get rid of her husband and deflect suspicion? She could lay the blame on Alicia or Shively and be home free.”
Bill’s forehead wrinkled in the glow of the dash lights. “You think she’s that devious?”
“She was terrified of Ashton, Ryan, whatever his name du jour. Probably hated him. This was her chance for payback for his mistreatment and to finally get away.”
Bill shrugged. “She looks like a black widow spider, so maybe she did devour her mate.”
“I don’t think Garcia’s our man,” I added.
“I agree. He was genuinely surprised by the turn of events.”
“So that leaves Celeste and Shively,” I said.
“Unless Garth Swinburn has us all fooled.”
On an open stretch of highway, Bill eased off the gas to place more distance between us and Shively’s truck, its taillights plainly visible ahead on the deserted highway.
“I hope not,” I said. “Garth seems like a good kid, and Alicia’s been through enough trauma without having her fiancé arrested.”
I turned the radio up loud and Bill opened the windows in an effort to keep us alert.
When we left Hernando County and entered Pasco, I borrowed Bill’s cell phone, removed Keating’s number from my pocket and punched it in.
A sleepy voice answered.
“Hello, Garrett,” I said in my breathy Marilyn Monroe voice. Or was it Jackie O? Both women had sounded like idiot bimbos, which was the effect I was going for.
Wedding Bell Blues Page 15
