Conch Shell Murder

by Dorothy Francis

  “You’re the private investigator in the Chitting murder?” Parish asked. “We’ve talked on the phone?”

  “Yes.” Katie hid her surprise at his questions. Surely he was well aware of her identity, well aware of their recent conversation.

  Parish chuckled. “You don’t meet my mental stereotype of a female detective.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, but rest assured that I won’t trouble you with questions tonight.”

  “No trouble. I apologize for my brusqueness when we talked earlier. My mind was on preparations for this show. Fact is, now that the show’s underway, I’d like to get your questions behind me.”

  “Well…”

  “There’s a quiet room across the corridor. Why don’t we go there and talk? Will you excuse us, Mayor?”

  “If it suits Katie to talk with you now, of course I’ll excuse you.” Rex looked at her for confirmation.

  She felt thrown off balance. She preferred setting up her own interviews and she resented Tyler Parish taking such strong initiative. She also felt it imperative that he not be cognizant of her insecurity.

  “If Rex will excuse us, I’d appreciate the chance to talk with you, Mr. Parish, and I’ll be brief.”

  Rex nodded his consent, and Tyler Parish led the way to an unoccupied room where the Sanchez works were on exhibit. There were no chairs, so they stood near the doorway.

  “Fire away, Katie Hassworth, P.I.” Parish leaned against a wall, his gaze boring into hers.

  “Since brashness seems to be the order of the day, perhaps I should begin by asking if you murdered Alexa Chitting.”

  He laughed. “I like your style. I like women who say what’s on their minds. But no. I didn’t murder Alexa. Why would one do away with the goose that was laying the golden eggs? It would make no sense.”

  “I understand your work’s catching on—that you’ve been invited to hang one-man shows in important places. Perhaps your lifestyle and your occupation no longer needed Alexa Chitting’s financial support.”

  “My occupation? Painting isn’t my occupation. It’s my life. Let’s get this straight. Alexa Chitting supported me through the hard years when I might have died, and I’ll be ever grateful to her for that.”

  “So grateful that you’re frequently observed in other cities with other women?”

  “I see you have a sharp eye for detail.”

  “Why were you scrutinizing my office?”

  “I’d heard you were investigating for the Chittings. I wanted to see the person who might possibly deal me a lot of grief.”

  “You weren’t very subtle.”

  “Subtle’s never been my style.”

  “Why did you avoid me at your art studio?”

  Parish looked blank. “I’ve never seen you at the studio.”

  She let it pass. Maybe he’d been so engrossed in this show that he hadn’t noticed her—or hadn’t recognized her. “Where were you on Monday night a week ago?”

  He met her direct gaze. “I felt ill that evening and I stayed at home resting and reading.”

  This man, ill? She could hardly imagine it. It was equally difficult to imagine him spending a quiet evening with a book. “Were you with anyone who might vouch for your presence that night?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but I was alone. I can’t prove it, of course. But neither can you disprove it. It’s one of those alibis you detectives hate, isn’t it?”

  “No, Mr. Parish. It’s really no alibi at all. When did you last see Alexa alive?”

  “That fateful Monday around noon. She stopped by my place for…a chat. I never saw her again. Of course, that’s another statement I can’t prove.” He smiled. “Nor can you refute it.”

  Determined to take charge of the situation, she looked directly at him. “Who do you think might have hated Mrs. Chitting enough to kill her?”

  “People don’t become as wealthy as Alexa was without making some enemies along the way, but I know of nobody who wanted to see her dead.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Parish. That will be all the questions for now.” She turned, left the room, and rejoined Rex in the other gallery. “Ready to go?”

  “You’re finished viewing the show?”

  “Yes. Let’s go, please.”

  They left East Martello, and Rex drove toward Old Town. “Did you learn anything important from Parish?”

  “On the night of the murder he was home alone.”

  “Not much help.”

  “None. I try to keep an open mind, but I dislike that man.”

  “Any special reason?”

  “He’s overbearing. Blatant. Posturing.” She wanted to call him a sneak, but in all fairness she couldn’t. A sneak wouldn’t have circled her block five times in broad daylight and while driving a bright yellow car. “I had the feeling that behind all his hubris he was secretly laughing at me. He took delight in presenting an alibi that could be neither proved nor disproved.”

  “Then I’m sorry I placed you in the position of having to talk business with him without the proper preparation.”

  “I doubt there could have been any proper preparation for a meeting with Tyler Parish. I can’t imagine him and Alexa Chitting…”

  Rex laughed. “Let’s forget about Parish for tonight.”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  “I’ve a surprise for you. I’ve bought steaks and some Idaho bakers, and I’ll treat you to a home-cooked dinner at my place if you’ll toss a salad.”

  A night for surprises, she thought, again feeling off balance. She was not at all sure she wanted to share an intimate dinner at Rex’s home, and not at all sure she wanted to offend him by refusing.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “How can I turn down an offer like that? You’re playing to my major weakness. Food.”

  “Good. All detectives should have at least one major weakness.”

  He drove to Caroline Street and parked in front of a two-story house surrounded by a white privacy fence. “So this is what you bought instead of a hotel?”

  “Right. Like it?”

  “It’s unusual. And yes, I like it. Since it appealed to you, I assume it’s steeped in island history.”

  “Right again. Local carpenters built the house before the Civil War and it’s called an eyebrow house. The style’s unique to Key West.”

  She admired the home with its peaked roof and slender porch posts which rose from the porch floor to the second story eave. “Why the name eyebrow?”

  “See the series of small windows set close beneath the roof overhang? If you use your imagination they can remind one of eyebrows—hence the name. And that’s all the history lesson for tonight—at least until we make history of those steaks I’ve had marinating since morning.”

  She followed him inside the high-ceilinged house, through a deeply carpeted central hallway and into a kitchen ruled by stainless steel and white porcelain. Its sliding glass doors opened onto a tropical garden and pool where philodendron and bougainvillea twined between sea grape trees. As Rex stepped onto the patio to light poolside torches and the grill, the fragrance of jasmine wafted to them, and she saw an inflated likeness of a huge hibiscus blossom floating in azure water.

  “Lovely,” she murmured. “Whimsical.”

  Stepping back into the kitchen, Rex removed two steaks from the refrigerator. “Lovely jasmine. Lovely steaks. Only the plastic hibiscus is whimsical. But first things first. You’ll find lettuce, tomatoes, avocados in the hydrator. I’ll have the steaks ready by the time you’ve tossed the salad.”

  He laid the steaks on the grill, then splashed white wine into the frosted goblets he’d had chilling in the freezer. They sipped as she worked on the salad. When the meal was ready, they ate at a poolside table in the flickering torchlight. Although the privacy fence protected them from some of the chilly wind, she allowed him to drape a white cardigan around her shoulders.

  “Such a lovely setting. You must really enjoy all this.”

&n
bsp; “I do. I’d hate to have to give it up. The house has a mind of its own and so does this island.”

  “Key West’s a city a person either loves or hates.”

  He cut another bite of steak. “I know what you mean. It’s seedy at the same time it’s eclectic.”

  “Right. Sometimes I feel as if someone’s tried to thumbtack culture on it the same way I thumbtacked literary quotations on my classroom bulletin board.”

  “It’s fanciful and freewheeling. It’s also dignified, stylish, and grand.” He winked. “It’s my kind of city.”

  “And mine. I think the thing I like most is its excess of individuality. I like its live-and-let-live attitude.”

  He peered at her over the rim of his wineglass. “Katie, tell me more about yourself. I want to know you better.”

  “There’s nothing more to tell.”

  “There’s always more to tell. Your ambitions. Your goals. What do you expect to be doing five years from now? Do you intend to spend the rest of your life solving murder cases?”

  “Do you intend to spend the rest of your life being mayor of Key West?”

  “I think I’d like that, if it were possible. But we were talking about you. Do you really like being a private detective? How does it compare to teaching English?”

  “Are you subtly insinuating that I should return to the classroom?”

  “No way. I’m just trying to learn how you feel about your life—past, present, and future.”

  She leaned back, enjoying the relaxing effect of the wine, the cool night. “I want my life to count for something. I almost lost it in the classroom, but now I feel as if I’ve been granted a second chance.”

  “Everyone’s life counts for something. Who’s to say it’s more important to try to teach the sonnet form to kids who prefer to glamorize the lyrics of Michael Jackson than it is to take criminals off the streets?”

  “Or to plan additional housing developments for an island city that’s already overcrowded? Everyone has to do his own thing, I suppose. But I’m a coward.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I still have nightmares about Jon McCartel and I can’t face returning to the classroom. Can you imagine what it’s like to have a child shoot you?”

  “Is it worse than risking a pot shot from some known or unknown criminal? You’re risking your life every day in your job.”

  “To see a child wield a gun vitiates the spirit.”

  “Do you carry a gun in your work?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes not. I like the ‘sometimes not’ the best.”

  “Have you put any criminals behind bars?”

  “A few. Druggies. But I’ve dealt mostly with cases involving missing persons. Not too much danger there.”

  “When you send some creeps to jail, how long do you think they’ll be off the streets? If they hold grudges, who do you think they’ll look up first when they’re released? I hate seeing you in such dangerous work. Have you thought of its long-term ramifications?”

  “Nobody’s taken a shot at Katie Hassworth, P.I. That’s more than I can say about Katie Hassworth, middle-school English teacher.”

  “But someone might. I worry about you.”

  “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

  “If you get too close to the person who killed Alexa Chitting, you’ll really be jeopardizing your life. A person who could bash in a head with a conch shell wouldn’t hesitate to kill you if you threatened to expose him. Think about that.”

  “Him? You think a man killed Alexa?”

  “Probably. But that’s not my point. My point is that you’re in constant danger.”

  “But I’m on guard. In that classroom, I was totally vulnerable. Who would have thought…but enough about me. Enough. You’ve told me about your stint in Africa and your coming to the Keys, but I sense that you’re holding something back.” She grinned at him. “What about the women in your life? Have you been married?”

  “No. There are no ex-wives cluttering my past.”

  “Strange. I can imagine that lots of women would have liked to be Mrs. Rex Layton. How have you avoided them all?”

  “It wasn’t all that hard, and I learned early on to avoid situations that threaten to ensnare.”

  “You consider marriage a snare?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Frankly, yes. Who needs it? I like thinking for myself. I like earning my own money—and spending it according to my own whims. I like coming and going as I please—no questions asked or answered.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “But you have that ladies’ man reputation.”

  “It figures, doesn’t it? Think about it. If I surround myself with lots of women friends, no one of them can endanger my freedom.”

  “I’ll bet lots of them have tried.”

  “Flattery. Flattery.” He pushed his chair back from the table then helped her to her feet. “Care for a moonlight swim?”

  She shivered and pulled the cardigan more closely around her shoulders. “It’s too cold tonight.”

  “The pool’s heated. I swim under the stars all winter. Come on.”

  She stooped at poolside and waggled her fingers in the water. “It’s lovely, but I didn’t bring my suit.”

  “Sure you need one?”

  “Absolutely sure.”

  “In that case, I have a few on hand for just such occasions.” He led her to the guest bedroom. “Bottom drawer to the right. Take your choice.” He left, closing the door behind him.

  Katie opened the bottom drawer and held up three suits. Green. Yellow. Red. Bikini. Tank style. French cut. Which one had Elizabeth Wright worn? Or perhaps Elizabeth was the type who felt no necessity to wear any of them. Katie slipped into the yellow tank model. When she walked to poolside, Rex was doing laps in the deep end. She dived in, joining him, relaxing at the touch of the warm water.

  “Do you suppose the neighbors are watching our craziness?” She glanced at the windows of the nearby houses.

  “No, I’m sure they aren’t. The privacy fence blocks the view from ground-floor windows, and before I rented those two houses, I hung their second-story shutters with the louvers upside down. We’re alone.”

  They swam the length of the pool, then Rex hauled himself onto the floating hibiscus and pulled her up, molding his body to hers as the chilly air raised goose bumps on their flesh. They lay warmed by a close embrace until she forgot about conch shells and murders and artist suspects who looked like stevedores. Rex kissed the back of her neck and ran his warm hands along her arms and thighs until she turned to face him and let her lips yield to his.

  When they accidentally slipped from the hibiscus float into the satiny water, Rex held her to him, kissing her again and again and again. Her strong response left her gasping for breath. No longer trusting her emotions, she forced herself to ease from his embrace. Swimming to the ladder, she climbed from the pool and wrapped herself in a bath sheet before she stepped inside the house.

  He followed. “I’ve frightened you. Forgive me.”

  His apology astonished her. “You didn’t frighten me. I frightened myself.” She paused at the bedroom door, waiting for him to move back so she could close it.

  “You needn’t go, Katie.” He took her in his arms, kissing her again until she felt her body melt against his. The temptation to stay all but overwhelmed her, but she managed to step back and smile as she closed the bedroom door. Her hands trembled as she dressed.

  *

  Later that night in her own bed, she wondered why she had come home. She had wanted Rex. He had wanted her. Yet here she was. Alone. She rose and poured herself a drink of the French Colombard she saved for guests and she sipped it on the cold porch balcony overlooking Old Town until she convinced herself she had done the right thing. She was not ready to be involved in a new relationship.

  Dawn grayed the sky before she returned to bed and fell into a troubled sleep.

  TWENTY-THREE

/>   She didn’t know how many times the phone had rung before she reached to answer it, sleep clogging both her mind and her voice, but as she squinted at her bedside clock, she saw it was past eight. A rage of wind carried the cries of screaming gulls, and she knew the much-touted cold front still held the island and its inhabitants in its grip.

  “Good morning.” Rex’s voice flowed low and soft across the wire. “I’ve missed you. Do you realize it’s been seven hours and thirty-six minutes since I’ve seen you?”

  “You’ve been counting?”

  “Every minute. I slept very poorly.”

  “So did I.” Her voice caught in her throat. “You were in my thoughts, shredding any hope of sleep—until early morning. Now I’ve overslept.”

  “And it’s all my fault?”

  “I would be unfair to say that.”

  “A guy who has been rejected would like to hear that. It would be a deft and healing stroke to his ego.”

  “Then believe it.” She threw the blanket back and sat on the edge of the bed, easing her feet into slippers and tucking her hair behind her ears.

  “I’ll believe it if you’ll go out with me tonight. May I stop for you after work? I have a surprise in mind.”

  “What sort of a surprise?”

  “If I told you, it would spoil it. Trust me.”

  “I do.”

  “Then I’ll be at your office a little after five.”

  “I’ll be ready. It’s so good to hear from you.”

  “See you, Katie.”

  She held the phone for a few moments after their conversation ended, then she considered what she should wear that would see her through the mundane chores of the day yet look festive enough to please her on her five o’clock date. It had been good to hear from Rex—so good it made her wary of their meeting.

  Please yourself or you’ll please nobody.

  She showered, added a cardigan to her usual khaki skirt and shirt, then ate breakfast, resisting a second piece of toast, a second cup of coffee.

  Once at her office, she picked a fresh hibiscus blossom for her desk, but she didn’t open all the windows and doors. Too cold. She forgot the stale smoke smell as she consulted the phone book, then dialed an unfamiliar number. She counted eight rings.