3 A Brewski for the Old Man

by Phyllis Smallman

  Inside the doors, I turned to him and said, “I’ll come by later, promise.”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you crazy? I need a shower.”

  “I’ve noticed.” He grinned.

  “Look, what’s the rush? We can talk for as long as you want later, only I have to tell you, I can’t add a whole lot to the story.” I was finding it hard to focus on what Styles was saying. My mind was still back on the lake, still seeing churning water and still hearing the screams of those men.

  But Styles had his mind fixed firmly on the single problem of murder. “I want you downtown now. You have to come in and sign your statement.”

  I made a face. There were so many other things I needed to do first. I headed for the elevators. The only bright spot in the day was the shock of the immaculate woman at the desk when she saw me. Maybe it was the pants still tucked into the socks or what Styles had called the night-in-a-ditch look. Either way, I always like to give folks something to talk about.

  At the apartment I asked Styles, “Can you cook?” “More or less.”

  “Then make breakfast while I shower and make it more rather than less.”

  I stood under the shower forever, not even worrying about the water shortage that normally had me bathing like a bird in a saucer. I didn’t feel like I’d ever be clean again. Can little microbes crawl up into your body out of the dirty water and give you parasites or something? And how come I’d never worried about that as kid? When did weird things like this begin to scare me? This was a nasty part of adulthood no one had warned me about and one more reason not to grow up as Marley was always advising me. Grown-ups just have too many awful things to worry about.

  I got dressed but left my shoulder-length hair wrapped up in a towel. The smell of coffee and bacon had me salivating and I wasn’t wasting any time on hair.

  Out on the balcony, Styles had set the wicker table with placemats and everything. He pointed to a coffee carafe on the table beside a container of orange juice. “Pour the coffee,” he ordered, “and I’ll bring the food.”

  C H A P T E R 3 9

  When I’d eaten just about everything in sight, I asked, “So have you got Ray John’s killer yet?” Styles grimaced. “That’s why I’m here.” “You think I’ve got him?”

  “You have to come in, alibi or no. Your truck was there. Marley wasn’t in the room with you so you’re still the best bet for the killer.”

  “Do you really believe I killed Ray John?”

  “No, but your truck was at the scene of the crime. You or Marley or Lacey Cagel drove it there, you being the most likely.”

  “Oh, come on. What happened to me was a long time ago and wasn’t near as bad as what happened to Lacey.”

  He pointed his knife at me. Ruth Ann would have had a few words to say to him about that — it was a thing that was never done in her trailer. “You wanted to help Lacey Cagel. The question is, would you kill to protect her?” “Of course not, she isn’t my daughter.”

  He tilted his head to the side and considered it. “You still are capable of it if you thought it was the only way to stop him. And it was your truck. You are the most likely person to drive it out to the Preserves.”

  “Or someone who snuck into the parking garage and used the key under the front bumper. What about the security cameras?”

  “They show the truck going in and out but not who was driving it. The person who went into the garage was smart enough to avoid the cameras.”

  Which is what Lacey would do if she were stealing my truck. Ray John would have passed along everything there was to know about security cameras. He was the kind of guy who liked to show off his knowledge and he had nothing else to talk about.

  “Both Marley and Lacey have made statements,” Styles said, pouring me more coffee. “Now it’s your turn.” “What did Lacey say about Ray John?”

  “Everything was goodness and light — no problem, he never touched her, she never cut her wrists, and until we have some reason to, we can’t push her any harder. Her mother backs up everything she says.”

  “So it’s just me with a reason to kill Ray John.”

  “And the other women we tracked down whose kids he abused, but you’re the favorite.”

  “Well, as I always say, it’s nice to be popular but hell to be the rage. Accusing me of murder never gets old with you, does it?”

  “I’ve been looking at other possibilities.” He looked like he was in pain.

  “And?”

  His look of pain didn’t go away.

  “Are you having any luck with that?” I prodded again.

  “Not so far. We’ve talked to dozens of people at the Preserves. It isn’t what they’ve said but what they aren’t saying. No one is sorry he’s dead, that’s crystal clear, but they all claim they know no reason for his murder. They all hated him but now he’s dead they just want to forget about it. No one wants to stir up any mud and they’re all insisting the reason for his death comes from outside the Preserves.”

  “How do they explain the killer getting in?”

  “Various ways, it seems at sometime or other they’ve all snuck in or out without using the main gate. Maybe you can tell me how it could be done.” “How would I know?”

  “You know who was there driving your pickup and you know how they got in and out.”

  “I’ve only been inside the place once, as someone’s guest, so I’m not the best one to ask about the place.”

  “But you know who drove your truck out there.”

  “Says who? Did you find the gun that shot Ray John?”

  “No.”

  “What kind of gun was it?” I tried to sound casual.

  “Why?” Styles asked.

  “I just wondered.”

  He was watching me closely as he replied, “It was a twenty-five caliber.”

  “And you didn’t find it, so the murderer probably still has it.”

  “Or he threw it in the lake.”

  “But you dragged the lake.”

  “Now, how do you know that?”

  “Someone told me the police were dragging the lake in the Preserves.”

  “We can’t be sure it isn’t still there.”

  “Or that the murderer won’t use it again.” He sat up straighter. “Do you have reason to believe that will happen?”

  “God no, absolutely not, but if you kill once, I’d think it would be easier to do it a second time.”

  “Rena Cagel thinks you killed R.J. Leenders. She’s telling everyone who will listen that you did it. You need to come in and make a formal statement.”

  “Okay, but it has to be quick. I’ll be bankrupt if I don’t get my ass into the Sunset.”

  “Let’s go now.” He crumpled his paper napkin and tossed it on his plate. “I’m not on duty yet so I’ve got the time to take your statement.”

  I nodded, only half-thinking about making a statement, while the other half of my brain was working out possibilities. Somewhere there was something I’d forgotten. There was also something I wanted to ask Styles, but I couldn’t remember what.

  Styles started stacking up the dishes.

  “Leave those,” I told him. “Mrs. Whiting will be in. It’ll give her something to do and something to tsk over, leaving dirty dishes, how disgusting.” I got to my feet. “I have to do my hair and I need my own wheels. I’ll follow.”

  He frowned. “You have a lousy record of doing what you promise.”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  He still wasn’t believing it and quite rightly too. “If you aren’t there in an hour, I’m sending out a patrol car to bring you in.”

  He pointed a finger at me. “One way or another, you’ll be there this morning.”

  “So get going already. The sooner you get out of here, the faster I can make myself beautiful.”

  “You’re always beautiful,” he said and then flushed. He turned quickly away from me and headed for the door.

  “Of course I am,” I sa
id, picking up my keys off the bar and following him.

  As we came out into the hall, the door to the penthouse next to Clay’s opened and Mrs. Finestein came out, carrying her little Yorkshire terrier. Her eyes opened wide and she stopped. She was looking at the towel wrapped around my head and jumping to conclusions.

  “Business,” I said, pushing Styles in front of me. “Never enough time,” I added, keying in the ground floor for him. “Be there,” he ordered as the doors closed.

  I meant to follow him to the station, I truly did, but I still couldn’t stop thinking about the goons from Ohio. On the way to the truck it hit me that Tully might not have told me the whole story. He said he found Ziggy’s address in the camper, but had he also found the name or telephone number of the person who hired the muscle? What would he do if he knew the name of the guy who set the dogs on Uncle Ziggy? And an even bigger worry was where was Tully now and what was he doing?

  It was the coffee that made me suspicious. On the way back to town, I suggested we go through a drive-through for coffee and Tully begged off, said he needed a shower. So did I, but not that bad. Coffee came before everything else for Tully and me, so what was the old bastard up to? Panic exploded in my chest and I started begging that deity that I disclaimed to keep Tully safe and for once, just this once, don’t let him do anything stupid. I was promising all kinds of acts of contrition if Tully could only be somewhere safe.

  I tried my cell but it didn’t work in the parking garage. I pulled out and headed for the hospital. Maybe he went to tell Uncle Ziggy about events on Soldaat Lake. Tully’s truck wasn’t in the hospital parking lot and unless he snuck by the dragon on the desk he wasn’t in the hospital. Visiting hours didn’t start until ten and she wasn’t likely to let anyone in.

  Would I get lucky and find his beat-up truck if I drove through the neighborhood of new houses behind Uncle Ziggy’s scrapyard? I headed for the over-priced suburb.

  I drove slowly up and down the streets but there was no sign of Tully. What would he do if he found the person who hurt Ziggy? In Tully’s old Baptist head it would be an eye for an eye or maybe fire for fire. Bad thought, bad thought — surely not even Tully would go that far, but I found myself listening for fire trucks and watching over the rooftops for black clouds rising into the crystal-blue sky.

  None of those things happened. It was just a pristine suburban neighborhood, with people leaving the pale stucco houses for school and work. I gave up and headed for the police station.

  Styles was livid. We sat in a tiny room across a small wooden table from each other on straight-backed wooden chairs. The walls were totally unadorned except for an apple-green paint, chipped and gouged where chairs had been pushed into it.

  This small claustrophobic room brought back to me all the shock and horror, all the emotions and all the pain, of my husband’s death. I tried to decide if it was the same room we’d been in when Styles showed me the plastic bag with Jimmy’s wedding ring, taken off Jimmy’s severed hand.

  Styles turned on the tape recorder and started asking questions. One thing was certain, anyone listening to the tape wasn’t going to think he was cutting me any slack. The man sure as hell sounded like he thought I shot Ray John Leenders. But there was one question that really got to me. “Did Marley Hemming kill Ray John Leenders?”

  “What? Are you crazy? Why would Marley kill him?”

  “Someone drove the pickup out there that night. If it wasn’t you, then it had to be Marley Hemming.” “Why? Why would she kill him?”

  “Perhaps you weren’t the only one he abused fifteen years ago.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  His face turned puce. “Sorry,” I added quickly. “I just meant Marley had no reason to kill Ray John. She wouldn’t kill anyone anyway. Oh, she might trample you if you got in front of her at a real good yard sale, but that would be an accident, wouldn’t it?” He didn’t smile.

  “So that leaves you,” he said. “You drove out to the Preserves. You took a gun with you and you killed Ray John Leenders.”

  He held up his hand to stop my protest. “Your truck was there. You, Marley Hemming, or Lacy Cagel drove it there. You tell me which one it was.” “Or someone stole it.”

  “Let me see,” he said, scratching his head, pretending to actually consider it. “Someone slipped into the parking lot of a high-security building, stole a red pickup with distinctive plates, drove out to the Preserves and shot someone and then took the truck back. How well do you think a jury will take to that story?”

  Put like that, even I, loaded with optimism, didn’t having a real good feeling about it but it was all I had to work with.

  He started asking me about holding a shotgun on Ray John and threatening to kill him.

  “Why is that still on my record? I was just a kid and no charges were filed.”

  “There isn’t a record, just a cop with a long memory.”

  “Then I’m not talking about it.”

  “The fact remains, you had a gun and threatened to kill Ray John Leenders and now he’s dead.” “But it wasn’t loaded,” I protested.

  “Did you know the shotgun wasn’t loaded when you picked it up, Ms. Travis?”

  “Well, no, but I didn’t shoot him, even though he was beating on Ruth Ann. Why would I shoot him now?” None of this seemed to be helping me. “I want a lawyer,” I said. All those hours of watching Law And Order had taught me that much about the law, always ask for a lawyer.

  “Why?” Styles said. “You aren’t under arrest, at least not yet.”

  C H A P T E R 4 0

  I came out of the police station shaken but still claiming ignorance. Why hadn’t I told him that Lacey had been at the Preserves with my gun? I guess because I was still hoping to wiggle out of it. When that little piece of news dropped on his desk, I was in shit up to my eyeballs. What would happen to me for letting a minor get her hands on an unregistered gun? I was sure that Florida had a new law — if your gun was used for a crime, you were equally as responsible for that crime as the person holding the gun. It would certainly have been madness to try and clarify this law with Styles. I didn’t even want to ask a lawyer…best to worry in silence. I only remember this new law because of a horrific newspaper story about the first person tried under the new law, a grandfather whose small grandson had picked up his grandpa’s gun and accidentally killed someone.

  And then there was what would happen to Lacey if she were arrested for murder. Even if she could prove her innocence, and that didn’t look likely, what would it do to her messed-up head? But then, perhaps it was one way she could get help for her problems and any jury would see it as self-defense — even if she had taken the gun and driven out there. Still, I was hoping there was another option. Maybe I could find someone else to blame, always my first choice.

  The Sunset felt like the best place in the world to be that day.

  Miguel and Isaak seemed to have declared some kind of truce, no suppliers bugged me and the dining room was as full at lunch as the last Sunday before Christmas would be. Even the rain that started late in the morning didn’t scare the diners away. Gwen Morrison told me that we were over half-booked for dinner which, with walk-ins, meant a full house. At least something was going right.

  I settled down to work, trying to forget the hard decisions I knew were coming. But not yet, now I needed a little timeout for myself and for me that meant fitting into the ebb and flow of the Sunset. At four the rain was long gone and the sun had come out again. I went into the dining room to lower the mesh blinds against the setting sun. The dining room is two-tiered; the upper tier is part of the old hotel and the lower tier, two steps down, is the former balcony. Some might see it as a tribute to a lousy building job, but the two-level dining room gives the Sunset a wonderful theatrical feeling, with the sun sinking in the west being the nightly performance.

  Standing there with the beach spreading out before me, I was struck once again at the beauty of this place I lived in. Be
tween the Sunset and the Gulf of Mexico there is only a thin strip of road, some tall, elegant, black light standards in a whimsical Victorian style, and some beach grasses bordering seventy feet of sand before the breaking waves. Umbrellas in rainbow colors danced in the breeze out on the beach. People folded them up and took them away each night, but every morning they sprang up again like flowers opening in the sun. You can pretty much tell the temperature by counting the umbrellas on the sand.

  On the beach a small pot-bellied boy of about three ran from his father, laughing back over his shoulder as the man flapped his arms, pretending to be some scary monster. I watched man and child race in front of the water that lapped at the sand. It was a dolphin day on the gulf. Flat and on the cusp of a changing tide, there were no waves. You can see dolphins better on such days, although I always prefer to think that the calm water brings them out to play. Right on cue, as this thought entered my head, a pair of dolphins breached the waves. With backs arched, they rose from the water, shining and graceful.

  A woman, sitting on a red towel, called out to the man and the boy, pointing offshore to the dolphins. The man swept the child up in his arms and pointed to where the dolphins broke the water again. The boy stiffened in delight and threw himself forward as if he might join the watery creatures. But his father held him tight, twirling him around, making the child swoop and fly in arcs about him while in the distance the dolphins rose and fell, pure and innocent, sweet and joyful — laughter on a sunny beach. Hot tears bit my eyes and a longing tugged at my heart.

  “Sherri,” Gwen called behind me. I fingered away the tears and turned to her.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Sure, the sun got in my eyes,” I told her.

  “Yeah, that happens. A woman in the bar wants to speak to you. She says she’s a friend.” Something in her voice, an undertone of disbelief or wry amusement, warned me.

  “I’ll just close the shades and then I’ll go find her.”

  “I’ll do it,” she said and moved beside me. “Go.”