by Tom Corcoran
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PRAISE FOR TOM CORCORAN’S MYSTERIES
BONE ISLAND MAMBO
“Corcoran’s insider knowledge makes him a terrific tour guide, and he spins a complex but extremely enjoyable yarn that includes murder, family squabbles, a stolen-car ring, and a warm, folksy sense of community.”
—Miami Herald
“BONE ISLAND MAMBO starts fast, never lets up. Key West’s crazies are a hoot, and Tom Corcoran’s plot and range of characters add to a series that won’t quit. Treat yourself to an exotic setting, laughs, and suspense.”
—Janet Evanovich, author of HOT SIX
“Tom Corcoran knows the human heart, sure as hell knows how to write a good book, and knows Key West—a setting so real you’ll get a sunburn.”
—Steve Hamilton, author of THE HUNTING WIND
“Vividly written and filled with hilariously eccentric Key West denizens, the novel is as twisty as a mangrove root and as fast moving as the local characters are laissez-faire.”
—The Dallas Morning News
“BONE ISLAND MAMBO gives an atmospheric view of Key West, from a creepy deserted alley to the rush of Caroline Street . . . Melding history with the present, Corcoran preserves Key West for tourists and residents alike.”
—Philadelphia News
“BONE ISLAND MAMBO is Rutledge’s third appearance in an excellent series by Tom Corcoran, who moves deep into Carl Hiaasen territory with a story about murder mixed with the continuing development of old Key West.”
—Minneapolis Star-Tribune
“Exciting . . . [A] fast-paced adventure . . . Rutledge leads a fine tour of the area, from the Green Parrot bar to fishing flats in the mangrove forests. The best aspect of this novel is summed up in the line, ‘Key West used to be a quaint drinking village with a fishing problem.’ Corcoran captures this local atmosphere extremely well.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Corcoran writes in a concise and breezy style, and Alex Rutledge should be attracting more fans to his laid-back lifestyle, which always includes a murder or two.”
—Otto Penzler, Penzler Pick May 2001
“Corcoran has a real feel for the laissez-faire Key West style, and he knows how to meld island history into his stories . . . The mellow mood guarantees a good time.”
—Booklist
GUMBO LIMBO
“Corcoran lubricates his tangled plot with lashings of rum and beer, and keeps it moving across a shrewdly observed landscape that reeks with authenticity. The gumbo is spicy, the limbo swift in this hot pepper of a novel.”
—Publishers Weekly (Starred Review)
“GUMBO LIMBO . . . is often amusing. Key West, as well, continues to be a terrifically atmospheric setting for intrigue, and Corcoran’s wacko cast of characters is colorful. It’s nice to be back in the tropics.”
—Chicago Tribune
“In GUMBO LIMBO, Tom Corcoran delivers a well-plotted, atmospheric mystery that even surpasses his superior effort, THE MANGO OPERA. The author brings a vivid imagination and a unique view to the Florida mystery fold. Let’s hope Alex Rutledge never runs out of film.”
—The Florida Sun Sentinel
THE MANGO OPERA
“With its sure feel for the Key West that resides beneath the tourist facade and a quirky, hard-edged rhythm pulsing beneath the surface calm, this debut deserves a wide and welcoming audience.”
—Publishers Weekly
“MANGO OPERA leapfrogs over many first-time novels to put Corcoran solidly in the company of the likes of Laurence Shames and Robert Crais. Tom Corcoran is off to a very fast start on what is sure to be a long career as a fine mystery novelist”
—Bookpage
ST. MARTIN’S / MINOTAUR PAPERBACKS
MYSTERIES BY TOM CORCORAN
Bone Island Mambo
Gumbo Limbo
The Mango Opera
Octopus Alibi
AN ALEX RUTLEDGE MYSTERY
BONE ISLAND
MAMBO
TOM CORCORAN
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
BONE ISLAND MAMBO
Copyright © 2001 by Tom Corcoran.
Excerpt from Octopus Alibi copyright © 2002 by Tom Corcoran.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 0-312-98008-6
EAN: 80312-980085-5
Printed in the United States of America
St Martin’s Press hardcover edition / May 2001
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / August 2002
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4
Contents
TITLE
COPYRIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks must go to Cindy Thompson, Carolyn Ferguson, Dink Bruce, Mitchell Kaplan, Mark Houlahan, Adrian Hoff, John Boisonault, Carolina Garcia-Aguilera, Ken Snell, Dawn Bailey, Frank Sauer, and Pete Wolverton.
Special thanks to Pat Boyer, Susan Richards Coleman, DeeDee Bartlett, Bill Bartlett, Sandie Herron, Sebastian Corcoran, and Dinah George.
Whether man die in his bed
Or the rifle knocks him dead,
A brief parting from those dear
Is the worst man has to fear.
—William Butler Yeats,
Under Ben Bulben
1
I recognized a Bonnie Raitt song from the seventies, her solid voice, her spine-chilling slide guitar. Without moving my arms or camera, I turned my head left
Eight feet away and closing. The self-absorbed Heidi Norquist.
Diamond earrings blazed just below the headset’s pink foam cushions. Tiny diamonds, for a Sunday-morning jog. Her hair fell to one side, five-toned butterscotch and gold. She stopped advancing but pumped her slender legs, ran in place, paced the music. A l
oose pink tank top, tight black shorts, sculpted running shoes fresh from the box. Inch-wide neon-pink wrist bands. Next to the Walkman, a small belly-pack—sized, I guessed, for lip gloss, a cell phone, maybe a fifty-dollar bill for pocket change. A hint of trendy, expensive perfume. A discreet gold neck chain. Direct sunlight, no evidence of sweat. Because of the cool January air or spontaneous evaporation?
A million dollars wrapped in a suntan. Or a fine approximation.
Heidi had come to town with Butler Dunwoody, the younger brother of my friend Marnie Dunwoody. The evening we’d met, eight weeks ago, Heidi had impressed me as a woman who’d done time at the mirror, long enough to understand her power, and shape it Her conversation had plainly mocked Dunwoody. I recall speculating later that she viewed Butler as a handy layover on her journey to more lofty playgrounds. Marnie had assured me that her brother worshiped the young woman’s shadow. With the late-morning sun almost straight up and Heidi’s slender frame, there wasn’t much shadow to consider. I wondered if, given the chance, I might act the fool equal to Butler Dunwoody.
With my wallet, there would never be that chance.
Two cars on Caroline slowed to check her out. A catcall from the second vehicle didn’t faze her. “What’re you shooting?” She breathed in and out, a separate aerobic exercise.
“Changes on the island.” I waved my free arm toward the construction site. The parking lot between the old Carlos Market and a multi-unit rental property had provided access to a wood shop and a sculptor’s studio. With the start of construction, each outfit had been offered square footage in the new “complex,” complete with an advertising package, common signage, pro-rated insurance and utility bills, and upscale rent. Each had packed it up. A large white sign bolted to the eight-foot fence listed architects, structural engineers, consulting engineers. Underneath it all: APPLEBY-FLORIDA, INC., GENERAL CONTRACTOR. A nearby sign listed four law firms, three local banks as financiers, a security outfit, and a waste-management consultant. The sign did not mention Butler Dunwoody, who I knew was the project developer.
“For the newspaper?” said Heidi.
I laughed. “I don’t do news.”
She pushed her hair behind one ear, fiddled to park it there. It fell when she removed her finger. Fifty yards away, in the old shrimp-dock area, an offshore sportsman cranked an unmuffled V-8 marine engine, then a second one. Cubic decibels. She fiddled with the hair again, turned her attention to the waterfront.
When the noise died, Heidi faked a coy face. “You from zoning?”
She didn’t recognize me. A slap to the ego. I shook my head.
“Some kind of protester?” Her face went harder. She kept jogging, in a tight circle.
The construction site had received heavy news coverage, a call-to-arms to discover how the project had survived variance, had slid through the approval process. The public wanted to know which politicians had sold out I said, “Nope. No protest”
Heidi jogged to the fence. A red, foot-square DANGER sign loomed above her head. “Why don’t you mind your own fucking business?”
My question, too. I stared without speaking, hoping her message would turn around. It did not
With the first step of her departure sprint she muttered, “Jerk-off.”
I flat-toned, “Have a nice day.” For some reason, I snapped a photograph of the woman’s departure.
Ten seconds later, a female voice behind me: “That should be a good shot Alex Rutledge.”
I turned. Same flavor, better quality. Julie Kaiser, lovely without undue effort heiress to half the island. She stopped gracefully on her Rollerblades. She also wore a tank top and shorts. A coral-colored elastic ribbon held her dark brown hair to a neat ponytail. My first impulse was to lift my camera, to document the tan glow on her cheeks, the sparkles in sunlit peach fuzz.
“What was that about?” She gave me a conspirator’s grin.
“It’s her boyfriend’s construction project She saw me with a camera and stopped to vent her opinion. Her suspicions outran her manners.”
“Suspicions?”
“Bad press, I suppose. Zoning pressures, typical hassles.”
“Understandable in Key West” she said.
“And a promise for newcomers. Except with his sister at the Citizen, Butler Dunwoody’s probably gotten a few breaks with bad press. We know about public opinion. Zoning’s negotiable. The banks and the permit people and progress inspectors shape the rules as they go.”
Julie looked northward, pondered the waterfront development area. “It happens to my family, too,” she said softly.
“But not recently.”
“You’d be surprised. The city knows that my father wants to see this succeed. He’s been giving advice to Butler Dunwoody. My sister’s husband has been a part-time on-site liaison.”
Julie’s father, Mercer Holloway, had been our representative in Congress for three decades. He’d brought in the military when the Keys’ economy most needed help, moth-balled the Navy base once tourism regained its strength. With the economy at rock bottom, he had methodically acquired real estate in the Lower Keys. When growth and inflation arrived, his foresight became evident. His white elephants became prime property. He had put Julie and her notoriously unpleasant sister, Suzanne, through college and law school. Divorced before he left Washington, Holloway had retired to Key West to manage his holdings. His son Gram had died four years ago at age twenty-six. Tequila and speedballs, and a widely acknowledged death wish.
“How are things at home?”
Julie shrugged. “Hasn’t been great.”
I’d never felt comfortable around Julie’s husband, Philip Kaiser. After six years at Tulane in the eighties, her undergrad and postgraduate studies, she returned to Key West and began dating him. Within a year they were married.
“It’s been a third of your life,” I said. “Same old outlook?”
She looked me in the eye. “Philip thinks expressing jealousy is showing his love. He thinks you’re hot for my bod.”
“I thought you might’ve settled that before you rang the church bell,” I said. “Or else he’d chill out, all this time.”
She turned away. “You’re not the only one.” Her eyes returned to me. “He suspects every man on the island. I thought a long time ago about going to Atlanta, where his folks moved. But he’d have the same attitude there.”
“How does he pat you on the ass, with a paddle?”
“It’s not quite that bad. He’s a good business partner.”
“So you put up with it?”
“Philip fears scorpions, poverty, and losing me. Aside from that, he’s not a bad person.”
A silver Infiniti honked and drove past us. Julie waved. The windshield reflected blue sky. I couldn’t see through it, or the tinted side glass.
She changed the subject “You keeping busy?”
“Paying the bills,” I said. “I did eight days in the Exumas, shooting next summer’s fashion for some Boston department store. Skinny, snotty models, but fresh fish three meals a day. Then I did a magazine piece up in Alabama, a photo essay on the last year-round waterborne mail route in the country. Beautiful river in Magnolia Springs.”
“Did you stay at the Grand Hotel?”
Way out of my price range. “My friend Sam Wheeler, the fishing—”
“I know Sam.”
“He’s had a camp for years on Weeks Bay, where the Magnolia flows into Mobile Bay. I stayed in his cabin.”
“Weren’t you doing crime-scene work?”
“Part-time. Not much since last summer. I did a couple minor things for Sheriff Liska in December. The city hasn’t called since Liska moved over to the county. I don’t think anyone at city hall remembers me. How about you?”
“The last six weeks, I’ve been slamming deals, thank goodness. I ruined October. I sold a condo to three twenty-four-year-old boys. Twenty percent down on a pricey party pad. Like a three and five zeros. They turned it into a crank factory with an o
cean view, making the modern equivalent of bathtub gin. They used the tub to mix methamphetamine. And, stink? The chemicals could have blown the whole complex out to Sand Key.”
“They part of the justice system now?”
“I don’t know about justice. They’re neck-deep in the legal system. We managed to annul the sale. Of course, my commission flew out the window. I’d already spent the money.”
I stared at the new version of Caroline Street the three-story shopping arcade about to fill the last “vacant” lot between William and Duval. I didn’t begrudge Julie Kaiser’s livelihood, the real estate business. But real estate and cooperative, sometimes crooked city officials had redefined the island since the Nixon years, the buying, selling, and expansions, the tear-downs and the new developments.
“So,” she said, “why are you taking pictures?”
“My unending documentation. The island. The changes.”
Julie looked through the chain link. “By changes, you mean progress?”
“Some people don’t use that word.”
“When’s your exposé hit the papers?”
“The people who’d care already left town.”
“Why shoot die pictures?”
“Habit. I’ve got boxes full, packed away in closets. I keep them for me. It helps me put everything in perspective, the twenty-odd years I’ve lived here. Someday, off in the future, maybe I’ll do a slide show at the San Carlos. A one-night excuse for old-timers to drink wine and laugh.”
Julie rolled backward, poised to skate away. “Or else cry. But I want to be there. Put me on your invitation list, okay?” Her departing wave suggested some great secret between us. If one existed, it fell within the realm of ten or twelve years’ flirting, a great promise of attraction, and a handful of innocent hello or good-bye kisses at parties or in restaurants.
