In the ruckus, the silt blossomed again. Through the haze of gray, and in utter agony, Juan could see the door still boring down on his arm mercilessly like an iron vice. Fiery pain raced up to his shoulder. In desperation, with his left hand he reached to the side, trying to feel for the key in the keyhole, hoping he could turn it and spring the door open.
At the moment he found the key, Cortez was suddenly free. He fell away from the iron wall, backpedaling over the soft seafloor, his one bare foot sinking deep in the silt.
The silt stirred and continued to obscure his view. The harsh warmth flowing through his right arm, however, was the most beautiful pain he had ever experienced. Although still unable to see it, the pain and the prickly sensation in his limb were proof that his arm was intact.
He was surprised to feel the key in his left hand. It must have pulled free after the door opened. He tucked it into the bag on his waist.
Still blinded, he moved forward, his left hand outstretched. Cortez met the surface of the door. He was surprised it was closed again.
His right arm no longer tingled, but the pain in his elbow intensified. Then, oddly, he noticed that the cloud of silt around him had darkened and grown thicker.
Cortez reached down with his right hand to search for the flashlight, keeping his left hand steadied on the side wall. His thoughts suddenly blurred, and he felt intensely tired. No matter how hard he tried, he could not reach the sandy bottom. As a matter of fact, he could not feel anything. The damage to his arm must be worse than he first thought.
Cortez rose, trying to fend off an unsettling feeling. His left hand was still propped on the iron wall, and the silt seemed to be ever darkening. A nauseating sensation swept through his body.
As the black water hampered his vision, he ever-so-slowly drew his left hand to his right shoulder. His fingers moved down his right arm. He was aghast to find tattered strips of his wet suit comingled with shredded flesh that ended at an exposed stump of bone.
The lower half of his arm was gone.
CHAPTER 1
Amelia Island, Florida. Friday, August 31, 2012.
Fawn awoke in her bedroom with a start. She sat up and looked at the clock: 7:14 a.m. Sunlight knifed in through a crack in the drawn window curtains. She brushed her hair from her eyes, still unsure what had roused her.
After a cup of coffee, shower, make-up, and a brief phone conversation with her fiancé, Mike, Fawn left her house on foot in blue jeans, a light blue, cap-sleeve tee shirt, and white Nikes. She was destined for the flower shop several blocks away where the floral arrangements for her wedding were to be prepared.
It was a muggy, late-summer day. The faint smell of salt accompanied the breeze from the west, carried from the Amelia River two miles away. The river separated the 18-square-mile island from the main body of Florida.
As she strolled along the sidewalk, her mind thought back to the events of this year. The spring had been a trying time for Fawn. Her father, Juan Velarde Cortez, perished while diving in the Gulf of Mexico. His body was never recovered. After the funeral in June, she had made a spontaneous decision to leave her residence in Tallahassee and join Mike in his hometown of Fernandina Beach on Amelia Island. Although they planned to marry late next year, they felt it best to assume separate residences until then. Mike had a place on the southern end of the island several blocks from the beach and also owned the house in town his parents had willed to him as their only child. Fawn was given a rent-free deal by her landlord and soon-to-be husband.
Connected by the lofty Thomas Shave Bridge to the west where the highway meets I-95 farther inland, and to the south by A1A traversing a series of bridges that connect to the Jacksonville Beaches, Fawn discovered Amelia Island was a community unto itself. The people here were different. They were relaxed; not uninspired but methodical, performing tasks in time, doing what needed to get accomplished as each day dictated. This was the way people were meant to live. A smile had unexpectedly crept over Fawn’s face on the first morning she awakened in her new home. Her zest for life, which had been suppressed since her father’s death, was slowly returning.
A change of scenery had also meant a change of jobs. A TV news field reporter in Tallahassee, Fawn had made a decision two years ago to concentrate on journalism. In preparation, she took night classes at Florida State University. Ultimately, she wanted a writing career, whether for a newspaper, magazine, or online publication. Upon moving to Amelia Island, Fawn had discovered what she considered to be her dream job: working as a free-lance journalist for several of the area newspapers. She had embraced her new profession with fervor.
Then, as if in a fairy tale, Mike had suggested they move their wedding date forward. They jointly agreed on October 20th of this year.
There was only one thing troubling Fawn these days. No matter how hard she tried to let go, her father still weighed heavily on her mind; not his death per se, but the things he had done in life, or not done, as the case may be. They were memories Fawn knew she would always struggle with. His ways had been challenging. He had had his own set of priorities, which generally put his family—Fawn and her mother—secondary. His death caused internal strife that had blindsided Fawn.
Each day, as the wedding drew closer, the familiar pangs of his passing ebbed and flowed in her thoughts. On some days, Fawn was forced into tearful submission. On others, a smoldering disdain would surface that surprised even her. It was an emotional rollercoaster that stretched to the sky one moment, then plummeted into the bowels of the earth the next.
At Mike’s suggestion, she had attended counseling two months ago. After four sessions, she felt no differently and had stopped going. She would deal with it in her own way. Right now, her way was to preoccupy her thoughts with work, house chores, Mike, and planning for their upcoming wedding. She knew avoidance was not the long-term answer, and eventually she would have to sort out her feelings, but at the moment, given everything she needed to accomplish, she had neither the time nor the desire to deal with the past. With any luck, time would unravel her father’s memory into something palatable; something she could comprehend and accept. For now, life called.
****
The flower shop was located on Centre Street, a tourist destination running east and west through the heart of Fernandina Beach. The street was part of a 55-block historic district peppered with antebellum homes and architectural designs spanning the last 130 years. The area held a plethora of gift shops, restaurants, luxury hotels, and bars interspersed with historical buildings abutted to newer structures such as banks and the post office.
Fawn walked into the flower shop and was greeted with a smile by the shop owner, Lisa Fortney, who was busy behind the counter working on an arrangement. Fawn had met Lisa through Mike, who was friends with Lisa’s husband. Physically, the two women could not have been more opposite. Where Fawn was tall and lithe, Lisa was tiny. Fawn had golden-bronze-colored skin, and Lisa was classically fair. Fawn’s long, tawny hair was streaked with blond; a sharp contrast to Lisa’s shoulder-length, jet-black locks. Yet, despite their physical differences, the two hit it off immediately, and Fawn did not hesitate to hire Lisa to create all the flower arrangements for the wedding. While the chapel was not large and the guest list relatively small, this did not lessen the work that had to be accomplished in the compressed time. This is where Lisa’s calming demeanor came into play, and Fawn was grateful for her help, professionally and personally. For Fawn, the trip to the flower shop this morning was as much a personal visit to settle her angst as it was business.
The shop was empty except for an older gentleman looking into a refrigerated display case where pre-assembled floral arrangements crowded each shelf. A jumble of fragrances filled the air.
Lisa placed a few stems of baby’s breath in a glass vase and walked toward the counter. “Ms. Cortez, what a pleasure,” she said with a smile. She used a finger to sweep aside a c
urly tress from her forehead.
“You know, you don’t have to be so formal with me,” Fawn said.
“But you’re a customer. I treat all my customers with equal respect.”
“Well then, Mrs. Fortney, respect me, but call me Fawn,” Fawn replied with a laugh.
The older gentleman walked up behind Fawn with an arrangement. Fawn moved aside so Lisa could check him out. A minute later, he was gone.
“So what brings you here?” Lisa asked, stepping back to the counter as she tended to an arrangement. “You know I’ve got your wedding under control, so I hope you didn’t make a trip for that.”
“Yes and no. I’m glad about the flowers, but I also want your advice as a friend. Five months was such a short time to plan all this. Now I’m down to little more than eight weeks. I feel like I must be missing something.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me, right? You bought every wedding magazine on the planet as far as I can tell.”
Fawn chuckled. “That I did.”
“You’ve got the chapel reserved.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve got an extraordinary florist handling your flower arrangements,” Lisa flashed a whimsical smile and curtsied.
Fawn grinned. “Yes, I do.”
“You’ve got the rings, the photographer, the reception hall, the caterer, entertainment, rehearsal dinner plans, honeymoon reservations, the guest list, the invitations ready to go, your dress, his tux, the bridesmaids’ dresses…”
Fawn nodded continuously as Lisa spoke.
“Have I missed anything?”
“That’s what I was asking you,” Fawn playfully grimaced. The two laughed.
“Fawn, you’re as regimented as anyone I’ve ever met. If any woman could pull off the perfect wedding, it’s you. Funny, Mike’s exactly the opposite from what my husband tells me. Not that that’s bad. It’s just that he tends to do things more by the seat of his pants.”
“Typical pilot,” Fawn laughed, referring to Mike’s former profession of flying helicopters. For the last year and a half, he had given up the skies to work as a mechanic at Jacksonville International Airport, southwest of Amelia Island.
“Seriously, the wedding will be perfect, and you will live happily ever after.” Lisa snipped the ends of several long-stem roses before tucking them in a vase.
“That’s my dream. I think I’ve waited late enough in life to get married. God knows, if we want to have children, we’ll need to start right away.”
“That’s what the honeymoon is for, sweetie,” Lisa said with a sly grin. She paused, adding some more baby’s breath to the arrangement. “How did Mike finally convince you to move away from Tallahassee to our beautiful little island?”
“That was more my decision than his urging. I needed a change of scenery.” Fawn felt her emotions stir as thoughts of her father returned. “Anyway, I couldn’t be happier. In retrospect, I wish we had shortened the engagement time before. It wasn’t until early last year that I decided to make a career change and to reprioritize my life. Work isn’t everything, you know.” Fawn looked up and gave Lisa a smirk.
“You’re talkin’ to a small business owner,” Lisa said, before breaking into a bad French accent. “Zees words you speak of...zay are, how-you-zay, foreign to me.”
The two women laughed. “By the way,” Lisa started, “are you and Mike coming by the house this weekend? Tim’s looking for a buddy to watch some college football. Opening week, you know.”
“Mike left this morning for a two-week training class in Connecticut for work. He doesn’t return until the 12th,” Fawn responded.
A teenage girl entered the flower shop. Fawn backed away as the girl approached. While Lisa attended to the customer, Fawn meandered to the plate glass window at the front of the store and gazed outside at the sunshine-drenched street.
It was a beautiful late summer day. Pedestrians wandered by and vehicles passed sporadically. The digital clock on the bank across the way showed the time to be 9:36 a.m. Then the numbers faded, replaced by the temperature: 91 degrees. It was the type of Florida day where you would break out in a sweat sitting under a shade tree; the type of weather Fawn loved. It was not just warm, but hot. It must have been her Puerto Rican heritage, or maybe the fact she had lived in Florida her entire life.
This last thought drew images of her father: the man responsible for uprooting his pregnant wife and moving her from Puerto Rico to the United States. The woman had left her family and every friend she had ever known to move to America so Fawn’s father could toil about in the Gulf of Mexico, chasing a dream: his destiny, as he called it.
Her mother had come willingly, ever the good wife. Only in later years would she confess the slightest resentment of him, but even this was overshadowed by her love for the man. While their time together was limited by her father’s own volition, her parents had always seemed content, rarely fighting. Although he was an absent father while Fawn was growing up, he had always shown his love to his daughter when he was home.
Juan Velarde Cortez also had his critics: their own family and friends who had chastised him for his “fool’s chase,” making a mockery of his search. Their words and insults had been severe, even brutal at times. There were times when Fawn felt he deserved it. Yet he was still her father.
Damn him.
The clinking of the metal door handle aroused Fawn from her thoughts. She turned to see the teenage girl exit the shop. Lisa approached her.
“What is it?” Lisa asked. There was concern in her voice.
Fawn momentarily hesitated. “What?”
“What’s troubling you? You say all is well, relationship’s fine, wedding plans on target, job’s good, but your face tells me differently.”
Fawn was suddenly aware of her creased brow. She had shown her conflicting emotions for her father without realizing it. “Oh, nothing really.” She formed an excuse. “It’s just that, while I like being a journalist, the stories tend to be few and far between. Not that Tallahassee was a hotbed of activity, but there are the universities, and it is the state capitol.”
“That’s what you get for moving to an island with 20,000 inhabitants. You know we haven’t had a serious crime here in quite a while. As a matter of fact, I believe there’s only been one murder in the last few years. It’s tough, but somehow we manage to get by,” Lisa mused.
A bizarre expression suddenly washed over Lisa’s face. The woman’s eyes were fixed beyond Fawn. Unblinking, her lips parted silently as if in disbelief.
Fawn turned toward the glass door to see a man awkwardly shuffling across the street toward the flower shop. While his clothes were fresh, he looked haggard and confused, stumbling this way and that, finally reaching the sidewalk and approaching the door. Fawn recognized him as the old man who had been in the flower shop earlier. Now, his thinning gray hair, which had been perfectly in place, was disheveled. His face was pale, eyes darting back and forth.
He reached for the handle. Red smudges coated his fingers. Both women audibly gasped.
He barreled through the door. Fawn unconsciously took a step back as Lisa slid to the side. His wild eyes looked from one woman to the other as he labored for each breath.
“A man!” he choked out. “A man is dead! Beside that building!” He pointed across the street. “In the bushes! He…the man…fell…” He took a long, wheezing breath, exhaled harshly. “From the sky! I tried to revive him!”
Fawn turned to her friend. “Lisa, call 911!” Then she spun back to the man. “Are you okay?”
The man nodded without speaking, his face ashen, as he struggled for another gulp of air. “Asthmatic,” he forced out.
As Lisa went to the phone, Fawn retrieved a chair from behind the counter and brought it to the man. He sat, reached into his pocket, and withdrew an inhaler. He pumped once, taking a deep pull of the medica
tion.
Fawn retrieved a pencil, notepad, and her cell phone from her pocketbook and then flung the pocketbook over the counter. She jogged back to the man. Perspiration beaded across his forehead, and he took slow deep breaths. Fawn stared at the red stains on the man’s fingers.
“Is that blood?” she paused.
“I don’t think so,” he gargled, looking at his hands in wonderment.
At the counter, Lisa spoke to the 911 dispatch operator. Fawn was not waiting. She rushed to the door, hitting the handle with a loud clank.
Items in hand, Fawn checked the traffic then quickly crossed the street.
CHAPTER 2
Fawn bolted down the narrow alley threading between the cement sidewalk on the right and rows of waist-high bushes, which lined the building to her left. Not far in, she stopped. Her mouth involuntarily gaped open.
Before her, sprawled on top of the bushes, was the contorted body of a man lying face down. Her first thought was of the old man saying that the body had fallen from the sky. The ravaged tops of the bushes confirmed the body had landed there with force.
Fawn shuddered.
The top of the man’s head was a mass of gritty red. The left side of the face was partially obscured, but what she could see of it through the sparse bush was also bathed in red, albeit a somewhat lighter shade. Sand and ground debris clung to the skin, blending with the shadows from the foliage, creating a macabre effect. The nose looked bruised and malformed, and the one visible eye was a sunken, hollow socket.
The man’s clothes were tattered and crumpled. He was wearing unmatched attire: a worn brown shirt and dirty green-and-white plaid pants with a rip from the back of his knee to where the pants pocket had once been. His arms, scraped and pale, lay extended at his sides. A worn sandal covered one foot, attached to a leg bent backward eerily perpendicular to his body. The other leg was straight but mangled, with a shoeless foot facing up.
Three Keys to Murder Page 2
