Conch Shell Murder

by Dorothy Francis

  The room grew dark as night fell, but instead of turning on the lamp, she closed the door, blocking out the glow from the hallway. Sometimes she still felt as if she were play acting as a detective and if she turned on a bright light, her job might vanish and she’d find herself—where?

  She’d come a long way from that orphanage where nobody really cared about her. It had been years since she had bothered to wonder why her parents abandoned her. She also tried to avoid thinking about her marriage to David and the excruciatingly painful divorce when he found “someone else.” That was when the anorexia started. She sighed. She had faced the knowledge that people didn’t come to the Keys blindly. Tourists might. But not real people. Real people who came here were either running away from something or toward something. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

  After five years of teaching English in a Miami middle school, she thought she had put David behind her. She thought she had arrived. But just when she began eating normally again and could think of David without an emotional upheaval, Jon McCartel brought a gun to class. He shot and killed another student before turning the weapon on her and then on himself.

  That had ended her teaching career. The experience shattered her confidence, transformed her in a way that allowed no turning back. For weeks nightmares traumatized her, replaying the terrorizing moments on the screen of her mind. For months a fog of guilt added to her sense of failure. Why hadn’t she realized that Jon was homicidal and suicidal? She found no satisfactory answers.

  She recovered from her bullet wound, but she finished out the school year on sick leave. Mac McCartel, Jon’s father, resigned from the Miami police force, and she helped him find his son’s drug supplier and bring him to justice. His incarceration had given them both satisfaction.

  Mac wanted to forget everything about Miami. And so did she. When he invited her to work with him in opening a private detective agency in Key West, she said yes, knowing that many of their cases would be drug related. Maybe she had taken the line of least resistance. She preferred to think she was evening a score for Jon McCartel, but in spite of that, she sometimes still felt guilty at abandoning her teaching career.

  Outside, someone sounded a woeful blast on a conch shell, snapping Katie from her reverie. She reached for another mint, then locked the office and headed for the buskerfest parade.

  TWO

  Darkness fell quickly in the Keys once the sun had set, and Katie locked her car door before she set out on foot, lowering her head into the wind as she walked down Simonton toward Front Street. No point in taking wheels. There would be no parking place unless she pulled into her own driveway. Some tourist eager to see the busker parade might have encroached upon even that small spot.

  Now she wished she had gone home first, showered, changed into fresh clothes, stopped at Loguns for a meal. Her third-floor apartment in Diane Dade’s old Victorian mansion was only a few blocks away, but the flow of the crowd carried her toward the parade route.

  “Hot dogs! Get your hot dogs here!”

  The stentorian cry of the Front Street vendor along with the smell of grilled pork pulled her in that direction. Food. Hardly a balanced meal, but she promised herself to pick up some fruit and milk later. She would have to grocery shop first thing tomorrow.

  “One, please.” She paid for the hot dog then added copious portions of mustard, pickles, onions. Standing on a low retaining wall to view the parade scene, she savored the saltiness of the meat, the tartness of the toppings, as she tried to keep mustard from dripping on her shirt.

  The street performers were an anachronistic mix—like visitors straight from the Middle Ages, straight from some wealthy lord’s castle where they had crossed the drawbridge and performed in exchange for roast boar, wine, and a night’s lodging.

  The juggler in the hot pink leotard tossed five oranges in the air as he pranced to a Highland tune played by a kilted bagpiper strong on the drone bass. With his hands gripping his ankles, a contortionist wearing an electric blue bikini walked along, grinning at the crowd from between his knees.

  “Ladies and gentlemen—The Great Gorinni!” A sword swallower stopped long enough to ease a flashing steel blade down his gullet, remove it, and bow to his audience.

  “The Great Gorinni, ladies and gentlemen, and you saw him at the buskerfest parade.”

  Garbed like a skeleton, the tarot card reader walked beside a man who had draped his shoulders and arms with iguanas and what Katie hoped were nonpoisonous snakes. She felt like a cliché as she shuddered. Why did snakes bring out such fear in people?

  “Katie! When did you get back?”

  Looking in the direction of the familiar voice, Katie smiled as she saw Diane threading her way toward her. Diane had that effect on everyone. People automatically smiled at her. Her denim wrap-around skirt emphasized both her plumpness and her short stature, but her wedge-cut brown hair, sky-blue eyes, and oval face held one’s attention. Usually Diane exuded an enviable contentment, but tonight her face looked pinched and the corners of her mouth drooped.

  “How’s the happy homemaker?” Katie teased gently. Diane was a feminist, but her career choice centered on home and family. It surprised Katie to see her without Randy and their two kids.

  “Why didn’t you stop by the house?” Diane asked when she reached Katie’s side.

  “I just got in town so thought I should check in at the office first. Then I got caught up in the parade.” She stopped talking when she noticed Diane’s strained expression hadn’t eased. “Something’s wrong?”

  Diane gripped Katie’s elbow, guiding her to the edge of the throng. “I’ve been hoping you’d get home soon. I need to talk to you—about Mother. You haven’t heard?”

  Katie shook her head, sensing bad news to come as she followed Diane, the parade forgotten.

  “She’s dead, Katie. Murdered. Last Monday night.” Diane’s voice sounded distraught, but not tearful, and Katie reached for her hand.

  Some old biddy got bumped off last Monday. Alexa Chitting. She should have pressed Bubba for more details.

  “I’m sorry, Diane. So very sorry.” She squeezed Diane’s hand as she looked into her eyes. “Who…why didn’t you let me know? Why didn’t you call? You had my emergency number. Why didn’t…”

  “Your first vacation in two years,” Diane said. “I wasn’t going to spoil it. But I did talk to your partner.”

  “And?” Katie thought it strange Mac had left no message about the murder. Nor had he mentioned it in their brief phone conversation. Alexa and Porter Chitting were prominent and wealthy citizens of Key West.

  “McCartel said he felt that the police were handling the case adequately.”

  Katie heard Diane’s note of bitterness, or perhaps it was despair. “Listen, let’s go home. I want you to tell me all about it, but not here on the street.” She knew Diane and her mother had been estranged in recent years, but…

  “Good evening, ladies.”

  “Mayor Layton!” Diane forced brightness into her voice as she called above the sound of the wind. “Nice to see you.”

  Katie wished she felt less wary. Why did Rex Layton seem to be turning up in her life so often lately? She sensed a planned casualness that bothered her, but maybe she was wrong. Perhaps it was Diane who had caught Rex’s attention. Diane served on several civic committees. A mayor would do well to have Diane on his side of an issue.

  Rex Layton towered over Katie by several inches, and the mid-thirties had added pounds to his rangy frame that flattered and gave him the appearance of stability. Eyeing his white slacks and red sports shirt that the wind was pasting to his body, Katie thought mayors shouldn’t look so tanned and handsome. Nor should they drive Corvettes. It bothered her that she noticed such a multiplicity of details about him.

  “Enjoying the parade?” Diane asked Rex when Katie seemed tongue-tied.

  “Buskers and buskerfests have never been my big thing, but the tourists seem charmed.” Rex’s hazel
eyes flashed and he ran his strong fingers through his thick brown hair.

  “I find the buskers interesting,” Diane said. “Up to a point.”

  “To each his own.” Rex slapped his car keys against his palm. “I was just passing by when I saw you two chatting. May I treat you to a cup of Cuban coffee?” He nodded toward a small hole-in-the-wall grocery. “It’s out of the wind, and Mama Montez brews the best on the island.”

  “Thanks, Rex, but not tonight.” Katie spoke up quickly, hoping she didn’t appear unfriendly as she demurred. “I just arrived back in town a few minutes ago and I’m really bushed.”

  “And I’ll take a rain check, too,” Diane said, smiling.

  “Another time then.” Rex turned to leave, calling over his shoulder, “Enjoy the parade?’

  “Why are you so perverse?” Diane asked. “I know he has a rakish reputation as a ladies’ man, but maybe he just hasn’t found the right lady yet. I know a dozen women who’d…”

  Before Diane could complete her sentence they saw a tall, dark-haired woman approach Rex, turn to link her arm through his in a proprietary manner, and walk on through the crowd with him, gazing into his face as if mesmerized.

  “Who’s that?” Katie asked.

  “Her name’s Elizabeth Wright. She’s head of the local office of the Department of Community Affairs. Now aren’t you sorry you refused that coffee?”

  “It’s you I want to talk to, Diane. Let’s walk the few blocks home. I can get my car later. I want to hear about your mother. Give me the details. When? Where? How? Who?”

  “It happened last Monday night—almost a week ago now.”

  “Just after I left town.”

  “Right. Mother chose to work late at the marina. She was in her third-floor office when an intruder entered and killed her.” Diane’s voice broke, and Katie remained silent until Diane regained her composure.

  “The intruder broke in?” Katie asked.

  “There was no sign of forced entry.”

  “She was shot?”

  “No. She was bludgeoned with a conch shell. I can hardly bear…to think of it.”

  “Maybe we should wait until tomorrow to discuss it:” Katie said, wondering what sort of person would choose a conch shell as a murder weapon.

  “No. No. I’m all right. I want you to hear about it now. Maybe you can help find the killer.”

  “Aren’t the police working on the case?”

  “They say they are, but they seem only to see what they want to see. The obvious. The killer took money from Mother’s safe. Over five hundred dollars.”

  “So I suppose the police are calling it a snatch and grab,” Katie said.

  “What?”

  “They’re guessing that some druggie grabbed the money to help support his habit and your mother happened to get in his way.”

  “Right. That’s their theory at this point. But it’s never been my theory.”

  “You think your mother had a mortal enemy?”

  “I believe that’s quite possible. Mother wasn’t exactly the Miss Congeniality of the Keys. Many people knew her as a hard-nosed businesswoman who demanded her way about things and who had the money to back up those demands.”

  “Every community has its hard-nosed businesspeople, and they don’t get murdered with conch shells.”

  “It’s no secret that Mother and Tyler Parish were lovers. Their assignations were well known. That miffed some of the city’s lovely ladies who envisioned themselves as possible companions of a glamorous artist.”

  “I can hardly picture a lovely lady murdering with a conch shell.”

  “But it could be possible. And as president of the Key West Preservation Group, Mother stepped on lots of toes in the business community. She could have had a mortal enemy.”

  “Who discovered the body?”

  “Mary Bethel, Mother’s secretary.”

  “When? A discoverer of bodies is always of special interest to investigators, as is the victim’s spouse.”

  “Mary discovered Mother’s body on Tuesday morning when she went to work. It was a terrible shock to her, but she has been most cooperative in the police investigation.”

  “What are the cops saying now?”

  “Not much.” Diane snorted. “When they don’t have a strong lead on a suspect within the first twenty-four hours after a crime, they say the trail grows very stale.”

  “That’s true. But it’s no reason to give up.”

  “I think they’ve done just that. Given up. Sometimes I think the druggies are going to decimate the whole state—the nation. How can a police force with minuscule funds fight criminals who can pour billions of dollars into their defense?”

  “A good question. But you said you didn’t think your mother’s death was drug related. Why?” They had reached the Dade mansion, and Diane paused a second at the wide horseshoe drive.

  “There are some things I haven’t told you yet. Come on inside.”

  THREE

  The Victorian mansion loomed above them, its first- and second-story verandas and gingerbread trim gleaming white in the glow from the street light. On sunny days the house reminded Katie of a grand dame decked out in frills and lace, but tonight in the cold, dank wind, the mansion was more like a mausoleum. Katie felt the cold of the black iron handrail and heard the gray painted steps squeak under their weight as Diane peered through the leaded glass window in the door before opening it and stepping inside. Katie sniffed the ever-present fragrance of lemon oil.

  As they closed the door, Randy Dade called to Diane from the kitchen.

  “Parade over, Hon? The buskers all back in busker-land?”

  “We left early. Katie’s here and we need to talk. Where are the kids?”

  “In bed sleeping like dead dolphins. Too exhausted to last out the parade.” Randy poked his head through the kitchen doorway to greet Katie. “Can I get you a beer?”

  Katie thought Randy’s sleek, muscled frame seemed at odds with the fragile-looking boiserie of the entryway, just as the elegant gold doubloon he wore around his neck seemed at odds with his worn jeans and T-shirt. Before going into business for himself as a backcountry fishing guide, Randy had once worked as a diver for Mel Fisher in his search for the Atocha. He still wore his long blond hair secured by a leather thong at his nape, much as he had worn it while diving for the Spanish galleon.

  “No beer, thanks,” Katie said. “But I might go for a cup of strong tea.”

  “Gotcha,” Randy said.

  “Tea,” Diane agreed. “Fewer calories. Let’s sit in the kitchen.”

  As Diane led the way through a front parlor decorated in the French style from the Napoleon II era, Katie admired both the furniture and the ornate display of ginger jars and cut glass in the china cabinet. Diane’s family rated her first attention, but the house with its turn-of-the-century frills and its antiques showed the effects of her scrupulous attention. She spent hours keeping the mansion and its tropical garden in tip-top shape.

  “Have a chair, Katie,” Diane said when they reached the kitchen. She laid her purse on the bricked center bar as Randy filled a copper teakettle and set it on a modern stove ensconced on a tiled hearth within the arch that once had housed a much larger wood range.

  Randy pulled out chairs for Katie and Diane, then joined them. “I think we need your help, Katie. But I guess Diane’s already hinted at that.”

  “Yes. But I need more facts about the…murder. And I also need to know what Mac McCartel told you. Katie said you talked with him.”

  “Mac agrees with the police that Alexa was murdered during a robbery. Probably a drug-related robbery. He wasn’t interested in the case—said he was leaving for Tallahassee and that he had more work than he could handle right now.”

  Katie wondered about that. The agency was fairly new. They seldom had so much work that they could afford to turn down more. Intuitively she knew Mac must have believed the police were on top of the Chitting murder.

 
“Diane said there were more things about the murder that I needed to know. Care to tell me about them?”

  “I’ll let Diane do that,” Randy said. “Hear her out and then see what you think. McCartel could be right. Maybe the police are doing an adequate job. Maybe we really don’t need a private detective.”

  “I think we do.” The teakettle whistled and Diane poured boiling water over the tea bags in their cups, serving the drinks when the brew grew dark. “Sugar?”

  “No thanks.” Katie sipped the hot liquid, almost burning her tongue. “So what else is there to know about your mother’s death?”

  “The murderer stole money, Katie, but he also left an envelope of cash in the back of the safe. If robbery was his motive, why didn’t he take all the money?”

  “Maybe he overlooked it.”

  “Could be, I suppose. But I doubt it. Then there’s the murder weapon to consider.”

  “Right,” Randy agreed. “I’m with Diane on that one. Wouldn’t a robber go armed with a gun? Surely he wouldn’t depend on finding an appropriate weapon at the scene. Of course, with a druggie, you never know what to expect.”

  “Mother was robust,” Diane said. “She had a personal trainer. She also worked out at a gym four times a week. It would have taken a strong person to overpower her.”

  “Tell me about the conch shell,” Katie said. “Where did it come from?”

  “Mother always kept it on her desk. Lots of people keep conch shells around for their beauty, but this one was more than a decoration. Mother was a fifth-generation Conch—born and raised in Key West. Her family followed old traditions.”

  “Meaning?” Katie absently stirred her sugarless tea, waiting for Diane to continue.

  “In more bucolic times Key West had no telephones. When a new baby arrived, the family made the announcement by pounding a stick into the ground and suspending a conch shell from it. The conch on Mother’s desk had announced her birth. It was special. At least special to her. She loved telling its story to anyone who asked and would listen.”