Conch Shell Murder

by Dorothy Francis

  The place was deserted except for the yellow cat, an old Conch drinking beer at the far end of the oval, and the middle-aged bartender, a short and fat man wearing barkeep chic—faded tank top, frayed jeans, dirty Nikes. He reminded her of a bloated elf.

  “May I help you, Ma’am?” The elf decorously swiped a gray rag across the bar, leaving a damp streak in its wake.

  She eyed a barstool bearing the name Spike painted in bold black letters and she raised her voice above the cacophony of the jukebox. “This seat reserved?”

  “Not at the moment. Spike won’t show until after six. Enjoy.”

  The Beatles tune ended, and she basked in the sudden silence. The cat lifted its head and twitched its tail as if the quiet had disturbed its sleep.

  “Do you serve sandwiches?”

  “No food. Just drink.”

  “I’d like a beer, then. Light, please.”

  He uncapped a Miller’s and set it and a glass in front of her. His bored expression and slow quiet movements gave her the impression that a trained ape could handle his job with no sweat. But under his sleepy lids, she discerned bright sparrow-like eyes covertly studying her.

  “Are you Jib Persky?”

  “The same.”

  “Katie Hassworth, private detective.” She pulled out her billfold and flashed her license, which he barely gave a glance. “I’m investigating the Chitting murder and I’d like to ask some questions.”

  “You going to read me my rights first?”

  She smiled. “That’s police procedure. My questions are informal and they concern the whereabouts of Porter Chitting on the night of his wife’s murder. That was a week ago this past Monday. Mr. Chitting says he was here and that you can vouch for that. True?”

  “He was here. I’ve already told the police that. I remember the date because it had been hot as Hades all day, then a cold front blew in about eight o’clock. Captain Tony lit some logs in the fireplace and the bar filled up fast. The locals rate cold right along with AIDS and heart attacks. I had to call in a buddy to help me keep up with business.”

  “And Mr. Chitting came in at what time?”

  “He came in shortly after seven o’clock and he took his usual place.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Sixth stool down from where you’re sitting.”

  She read the barkeep well. He not only knew the score, but he also knew the full names of all the players without having to check his program. She slid off her stool and walked to the seat Jib indicated. The letters PO were painted on it.

  “Everyone has his special place?”

  “Just the regulars. And the cat. Jezebel outranks a tourist any night of the week.” With studied nonchalance Jib picked up a dingy towel and began polishing bar glasses. She returned to the stool marked Spike and wondered if he had touched the glass she was using with that towel.

  “And Mr. Chitting remained here all evening that night?”

  “As far as I remember, he did. I don’t recall him leaving until around midnight.”

  “Did he always stay that late?”

  “That was his usual custom, but sometimes he left earlier or sometimes he didn’t show at all.”

  “But on that Monday he stayed until midnight.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could he have slipped out unnoticed? Left for half an hour or so and then returned?”

  “I suppose that’s possible, Ma’ am. What with drinking and all, most guys go back to the biffy to take a leak now and then.” He nodded toward the restroom at the back of the bar. “I don’t make them sign up for the privilege.”

  “You’re saying that Mr. Chitting could have left for a short time and returned to his barstool without being noticed.”

  “That’s possible. All I can tell you for sure is that he was here that night and that I didn’t notice him leaving until around midnight. On other nights he’d sometimes slip out for a couple of hours to visit Angie, but not that night. She works on Mondays. Po was here.”

  “Angie? Who’s Angie?”

  Jib Persky gave his full attention to rearranging his bar paraphernalia. For a few moments she thought he was trying to recall Angie’s last name, then it became evident that he had turned off his charisma and was merely ignoring her question.

  “Thank you, Mr. Persky.” She stood, leaving her beer barely touched. “You’ve been helpful.”

  Squinting against lambent sunshine that was fighting a losing battle with the clouds, she strolled back to her office, thinking about Jib Persky and Po. Since the bar had been crowded that Monday night, Po could have slipped away unnoticed. He could have walked the few blocks to the marina, killed Alexa, then reclaimed his barstool as if he were returning from the john. Somehow she doubted that he had done that. Bubba claimed to have seen him on Houseboat Row. Would a stoic who had endured Alexa’s domineering for years suddenly take action in his own behalf? Maybe. Maybe he would if he saw his opulent lifestyle threatened. She sighed. She couldn’t cross Po off her suspect list just yet.

  On impulse she decided to visit Tyler Parish’s place of business—the artists’ studio a couple of blocks from the sea on Simonton Street. Parish didn’t know her. She could browse as a tourist or an art lover with no need to make her professional presence known. Maybe seeing some of his work would give her some clues to the inner man.

  HAVEN OF THE ARTS. She read the words on the pink and gold sign under an apricot tree which shaded the two-story building that had been turned into an artists’ workshop. Diane had told her the place was a draw, that many tourists enjoyed watching artists at work. As she entered, the premises weren’t crowded, but there were a few people milling about. Good. She didn’t want to be conspicuous.

  “May I help you, miss?” A blue-smocked woman rose from her easel, smiling.

  “I’ve just come in to look, thank you.” She peered at the street scene in progress on the easel. “Lovely. Are you painting it from memory?”

  “No.” The woman pointed to a small photograph at the side of the easel. “It’s a street in Key Largo. I used to live there as a child. I’m Beth Greenwheel. You’re free to look around and if I can help you, let me know. I believe the other artists are out right now, but if you have questions, I’ll try to find some answers. The others should be returning within just a few minutes.”

  “Thank you.” She started to say that she was interested in Tyler Parish’s work, but thought better of it. Did artists suffer from professional jealousy? She was glad Parish was out at the moment.

  “Francine Wong’s space is right in back of mine,” Beth Greenwheel said. “And you’ll find Tyler Parish’s studio up the stairway at the back. I think he’s at East Martello preparing for his show.”

  Katie glanced at the stairway at the rear of the building just as a burly man came down the steps and disappeared through a rear door. She stepped behind a large oil, waiting to see if he would return, but she heard a car start. The yellow VW? She recognized him as the one who had circled her office the day Po Chitting had called on her. When she felt sure the man wasn’t coming back, she pretended to look at more paintings for a few minutes, then she left the building without venturing to the second floor.

  Unnerved. That’s how she felt. Had the man followed her here, slipping in the back entry as she went in the front? Maybe he had been following her all afternoon and she’d been too careless to notice. Or maybe she was getting paranoid. Who was that man? Maybe he was an undercover cop checking up on her private investigation. But probably not. Even a cop would have been subtler. At any rate, she’d had enough of the art studio for now. She probably shouldn’t have come here. Parish had said he would call her after Thursday. She should give him the courtesy of waiting. Plenty of time to tackle him later, if his call didn’t come as promised. Somehow she guessed that it wouldn’t.

  Her telephone was ringing as she entered her office and she made a dash for it.

  “Hassworth and McCartel.”

  “Thought i
t was McCartel and Hassworth,” Rex said.

  “Only when McCartel’s in town.” She laughed, pleased to hear Rex’s voice. Subconsciously, did she want to be the head of the agency? Unlikely!

  “May I take you to dinner tonight? I hear there’s a new chef at Sugarloaf Lodge.”

  “That sounds very inviting. What time?”

  “Around five thirty. Okay? Hope that won’t rush you.”

  “That’s early, but I can make it. I’ll be looking forward to it.”

  “And so will I. See you then.”

  She sat down still staring at the telephone, but as she tried to concentrate on Jib Persky, Po Chitting, and the man at the art studio, her mind kept dwelling on Rex. She wasn’t ready for a new relationship. Not now. Maybe never. Then she laughed. What was wrong with her? Rex had asked her to dinner, not to bed. She started to smile at her foolishness, then she stiffened. An almost imperceptible sound put her on guard. When she looked toward the door, Bubba was leaning against the jamb watching her.

  “I didn’t hear you come in.” Although nothing minatory showed in his manner, she had to struggle to keep her voice casual but firm.

  “Bare feet give advantage.” Bubba sniffled and approached her desk.

  “You might consider knocking. People do it every day.”

  “I found out about that bridge wreck.”

  “Quick work. Then there was one? Niles Channel?”

  “Right. It didn’t make the rag or the police blotter. They hushed it up.”

  “Who hushed it up?”

  “Brewer. The looie.”

  “Why?”

  “The deal was to find out if there was a wreck. More info costs you more bread.”

  “Okay. Another ten. Why did Brewer hush up the wreck?”

  “The accident involved his kid. He was drunk again. It was about his umpteenth offense, and in addition to the rotten publicity for the kid, his family, and the police force, it would have meant a suspended license.” Bubba held out a grimy hand. “Payday?”

  Katie pulled a twenty and a ten from her billfold and laid them on her desk, watched him scoop them up and stuff them into his pocket.

  “Thanks a bunch. The bucks will brighten my evening.” He turned and headed for the door.

  “I’ve another job for you.”

  He stopped and faced her again. “Too much wealth may corrupt me.”

  “Risk it, okay? I need to know who Angie is.”

  “Angie who?”

  “That’s what I want to know. Angie who? An Angie who’s a friend of Po Chitting’s. See what you can find out. I’d like her last name and her address.”

  “That’ll cost you another twenty.” He watched her reaction. “Hope you ain’t got a cash flow problem.”

  “Okay. Twenty?’

  “Let’s see your money.”

  “You mean you know who she is?”

  “Sure. Little Angel. Of course, that’s just a nickname. Angie Garcia. She works at Rico’s—a bar on Stock Island near the old dog track. The guys that hang out at Rico’s kid her a lot about her rich boyfriend.”

  “Where does she live? Stock Island?”

  “No. She’s got a floating palace over on Houseboat Row. The drab brown one that’s supposed to look like a Swiss chalet.”

  “You know about Swiss chalets?”

  “I been around, Blondie. Don’t let my looks and my naive manner deceive you.”

  Katie laid another twenty on his palm. “Thanks, Bubba. You save me a lot of leg work.”

  Bubba grinned, pocketed the bill, and left the office. Maybe she’d made a mistake paying him so much at once. He wouldn’t want to work again until he was broke. But he’d be back eventually. The Bubbas of the world always returned.

  Angie Garcia. If Po had a girlfriend, then the all-knowing Beck Dixon must have been aware of it. Why hadn’t she mentioned Angie when they had talked over lunch? Maybe Beck was trying to help, or maybe she was trying to point the investigation in the direction she wanted it to go. Angie Garcia. She didn’t need another name on her suspect list.

  Katie locked her office and headed for Hibiscus House.

  SEVENTEEN

  Hibiscus House looked deserted. Someone had drawn the window shades and closed the front door, but when Katie knocked, she heard footsteps approaching.

  “Dear child!” For a moment Beck looked nonplused, then she smiled and flung open the door. “Good to see you. Come right in.”

  Katie stepped inside, noting a faint fragrance of cinnamon rolls. Beck led her to an alcove on their right where white rattan chairs with jewel-toned cushions flanked a white-bricked fireplace. In the murky late afternoon light, Beck’s jumpsuit reminded Katie of apricots drenched in cream, and the older woman carefully chose a green-cushioned chair. Surely she planned for effect. Katie sat across from her, feeling drab and sparrow-like in her utilitarian chinos and shirt as her fingers rested on the smooth silk of the cushion.

  “Something exciting has developed on the case?” Beck leaned forward.

  “Yes.” Katie decided to drive right to the point, and she looked directly into Beck’s guileless blue eyes. “I’ve just learned that for years Po Chitting has been seeing a mistress named Angie Garcia.”

  The silence between them sizzled like a firecracker on a long fuse. Katie waited. In the distance, a whistle blast announced the cruise ship’s imminent departure from Mallory Dock. Closer by she heard the Dade kids playing in their backyard and the strident voice of a tour guide as the Conch Train rounded the corner. At last Beck spoke.

  “Yes. Po does see Angie Garcia.”

  “My knowledge of that fact might be important to the investigation.”

  “Yes. I suppose it might. But I hope not.”

  “And that’s why you withheld this information?”

  “Yes.” Beck looked at her left toe. “I had hoped we could keep Angie’s name out of this.”

  “She’s a special friend of yours?”

  “In a way, yes. I’ve known her for years. Angie’s a spitfire, but she’s a good person and she’s not promiscuous. She’s not brilliant, either.” Beck chuckled. “A brilliant woman wouldn’t take up with Po Chitting, but Angie’s a nice hard-working lady and she comes from a good Cuban family.”

  “So that makes her above anything as gross as murder and that’s why you avoided mentioning her to me the other day?”

  “Well…yes. Angie’s special. She supports herself. She’s not a kept woman. Sometimes she waits tables here at Hibiscus House, and she always manages to help me out in an emergency. She’s my friend, Katie.”

  “I can understand why you like her.”

  “A few years ago she even worked for no pay during a spell when I was having tax troubles. She’s no killer. Some things a person knows, and I know Angie’s no killer.”

  “How long have she and Po been a twosome?”

  “For many years. Angie’s a beauty. She could have had lots of boyfriends. She could have married years ago, but for some reason she prefers Po.”

  “Sometimes a person seeks the safety of dating someone who’s legally unattainable.”

  Beck shrugged. “Really now, must you drag Angie into this investigation?

  “I’ll need to talk with her. Frankly, you disappointed me by withholding this information.”

  “Makes you wonder what else I’m holding back?”

  “Something like that, yes. Is there other information you should tell me?” Again she forced Beck to meet her gaze.

  “No. Nothing.”

  Katie looked away first. “You say Angie supports herself, but if Po was a widower, they might marry. Right?”

  “I suppose that’s possible, but it’s only a speculation. As you suggest, perhaps she’s afraid of marriage. And given his past experiences with wedded bliss, Po might have some reservations about it, too:’

  “But if Angie did marry Po, Alexa’s new will could have made a big difference in their future. Few women would rush to the alt
ar to assume the support of a man who has never made an effort to support himself.”

  “Po writes.”

  “Yes. That’s what I mean. Po writes.” Katie stood. “Thanks for talking with me.” She turned to leave.

  “Dear child, I hope you’ll do what you can to protect Angie’s name. I didn’t intend to be devious. It’s just that she’s my friend. In my opinion, you’ll be wasting your time by focusing attention on her.”

  “I’ll remember that. An investigator’s never out to hurt people.”

  Leaving Hibiscus House, Katie crossed the lawn to the Dade home, called a greeting to Diane, then took the steps to her quarters two at a time and began dressing for dinner. Five thirty! Why so early? She thought Rex would be more the late-romantic-dinner type. Last time they had dined at seven. This had been her day of surprises.

  She showered, checked her weight, then dressed carefully in a creamy knit shift that flattered her figure. Once she was ready, she went downstairs and sat on the veranda thinking about Po Chitting and Angie Garcia until Rex arrived. How unfair for one man to be so handsome! White slacks seemed to be Rex’s trademark. She couldn’t remember seeing him in anything else. Tonight a black silk shirt accentuated his tan.

  “Katie! How lovely you are. I’ve been looking forward to this evening.”

  “For all of an hour?” She laughed.

  “Glad you could accept on the spur of the minute. I like my friends to be flexible.”

  Friends? Girlfriends? She wondered how many other numbers he had dialed before trying hers, and she let his comment pass as he helped her into the Corvette, left Old Town, and headed north. It was good to forget the Chitting case for a while.