“Some of them are downstairs, too?”
“You’re sharp as a tack.”
He ignored my comment. “You think the killer is downstairs too?”
“I’d bet on it.”
“Sherlock likes you for it,” he said. “Why do you think it’s someone downstairs?”
“No one could’ve got in without an invite,” I said. “I was at the bar until ten, and
Dallas left, I’d say, a little before nine-thirty, but I don’t know if he came up here or went to the head. But the likelihood that an outsider got up here that late in the morning,” I shook my head, “is impossible. Your detectives think the murderer watched Dallas bleed to death. That’s cold and that’s somebody with a grudge.”
“You were here and had an invite,” he said. “No grudge between you two that I should know about?”
I looked at Chief. “You don’t think I had anything to do with it.”
“You’re saying the vic could’ve been up here with the killer for half an hour before you showed up?” He was asking the questions, not answering.
“Easily.” I wondered how long it took to whittle a point on a drumstick. “Can I tell you something that you’re not going to like?”
“I don’t like anything about this.” His sigh was so loud I couldn’t imagine no one else heard it. “Yeah, but if you’re going to admit to the killing . . .”
“No, not that.” I needed him to believe me. I told him about the whittled shavings.
“So, someone sat up here, waiting to kill him.”
“That’s what it looks like, a sharpened drumstick like he was a vampire. I thought it had to be a strong guy to drive the drumstick in. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Maybe someone downstairs thought he was a blood sucker?”
“Has to be to be something like that.”
“Let’s go downstairs and find Murdock and the BMI guy.”
As we walked toward the hallway, Chief stopped and told Sherlock about the shavings and then a commotion at the door caught everyone’s attention.
“Gene,” Chief yelled.
“Woman says she’s supposed to meet Murphy up here at eleven,” Gene yelled back, keeping the impatient woman at the door.
“No idea,” I said without being asked and watched Sherlock smile.
We walked to the door and I knew the attractive woman with short, blonde hair and blue eyes. She was a new songwriter. I had to think hard and fast to remember her name.
“Melissa,” I said, not speaking to her, but telling Chief her name.
“Dallas wanted me to come in at the end of his interview, Mick,” Melissa said.
“Do you have a last name, Melissa?” Chief asked quietly.
“Ratcliff.” She growled the name. “What are you cops doing with Dallas? Damn, you ain’t bustin’ him for a joint, are you? I mean, not even Nashville cops would do that. I thought Key West was supposed to be acceptable to different lifestyles.”
By the time she huffed out the last words, Sherlock, Donny, and Alfredo where behind us. When I turned, Donny had his tape recorder directed at her.
“We’re not arresting Dallas for anything,” Chief said. “Tell me why you’re here.”
“Dallas is going to feature me tonight in his show,” she said and grinned, which did little to hide her bloody-Mary eyes. “He wanted me here at eleven, so Mick could end the interview by talking to me. Just ask him, he’ll tell you. Dallas,” she yelled his name, expecting a reply. “Where is he?” She looked past us toward the stage, while Gene held her arm, to keep her in the hallway.
“Dallas can’t talk to you right now.” Chief put his large hand on her thin shoulder, taking over from Gene, and walked her toward the door. “We really need you to wait downstairs and you can have your interview with Mick in a little while.”
Gene closed the door as Melissa looked like a lost kitten in the rain, unaware of how she had ended up outside.
“Who is she?” Chief turned to me, while the detectives waited quietly for my answer.
“I met her last year,” I said. “Melissa Ratcliff, she’s written a song or two that have become hits. But the interesting thing is Dallas said I had a half-hour for the interview, so I would have been gone before eleven.”
“Why’d he tell her eleven?”
“Did you look at her, Chief?” Donny whistled as we watched Melissa light a cigarette and pace on the outside deck. “She’s not hard on the eyes.”
“I told you, Chief, Dallas liked his women,” I said.
“She married?”
“Don’t know.”
“Maybe a boyfriend?”
“No doubt about that,” I said, because she was a good-looking woman. “I saw her earlier with a couple of guys at the indoor bar.”
“Could she have killed him?”
“I’d put her on my suspect list with Murphy,” Sherlock said, before anyone else could answer.
Richard pushed his glasses in place. “Well, we have a lot more suspects downstairs, so let’s go talk to them.”
“You want me to wait up here for the medical examiner?” Sherlock’s tone said he didn’t.
“Give it an hour. The M.E. should be here by then,” Chief said. “Join the team boys.” He nodded to Donny and Alfredo. “Go see Detective Morales and help him with the interviewing. Gene, no one comes in.”
Melissa watched us walk down the stairs, dropping her cigarette and crushing it on the deck, without saying anything. She stared at Gene, as if she considered trying to get in the room, again, but followed us instead.
Uniformed police officers stood at the Saloon’s three exits, but it didn’t seem anyone paid attention to them. The buffet was gone, but both bars were full and Tim and Danny Carter were on the stage with Emily Roach and Texas Rich, for another brief jam session.
Charlie Murdock and Rob Bauer were waiting at the bottom of the stairs, a police officer kept them from coming up. I introduced Rob to Richard as Donny and Alfredo met with lead detective Luis Morales.
“I need to get sandals,” I told Charlie.
He looked at my bare feet and pointed to the empty T-shirt shop. “Just take a pair off the shelf. You can pay me later,” he said, “and explain why you’re barefoot.”
As I walked away, I heard him ask Richard what was going on upstairs. When I got back, they were huddled on the first landing, away from the crowd that was beginning to realize something was wrong.
“Looks like we’ve got a room full of suspects,” Richard said as I came to the landing. “Is there anyone here that didn’t want to kill him?”
Rob Bauer scanned the bar and bandstand area. “There’s only one person who ever walked out on Dallas and is successful. No reason for her to kill him.”
“And why’s that?” Richard followed Rob’s stare.
“Because she’s the woman who left Dallas, the others were dumped by him, and you know what they say, ‘a woman scorned . . .’”
“Who is she?” Richard interrupted. “The one without the reason to kill him.”
“Barbara Linder, over there between the bar and bandstand.” Rob pointed.
“There’s a dozen women over there,” Richard said. “Let me guess, the petite blonde?”
“You know her?” Rob was surprised.
“No, but she’s a double for Melissa.”
“Miscalculation, Richard,” I said. “Dallas liked blondes, but he’d mess with brunettes or redheads.”
“Someone hold a rattlesnake, he’d probably do it.” Rob laughed before realizing his humor was out of place.
I handed Richard an event program I found in the T-shirt shop. “This has photos of everyone participating in the festival. It might help in the interviewing, if your officers had copies.”
“And where they’re playing is listed too,” Charlie said. “If you need a follow up interview, it could be helpful and maybe get some of them out of here before show time.”
Richard glanced through the program. “Th
ere a place you two can walk me through all this? Maybe give me your opinions?” He slapped the folded program against his open palm. “I need some quiet and privacy.”
“My office.” Charlie pointed toward the T-shirt shop.
“We all want to get this over with.” Richard looked at the crowded room. “We’ve got suspects because the vic stole their songs or slept with their women,” he said, shook his head and straightened his glasses. “This could take forever.”
Charlie looked at his wristwatch. “Shows begin late this afternoon.”
“Maybe.” Richard walked down from the landing. “You wait out here.” He pointed at me. “Sherlock thinks you’re a suspect, you can’t leave,” he said and followed Charlie toward the Saloon’s office.
I took a seat at the bar, as far from the commotion on the stage as possible. “A bloody Mary, Brian.” I opened a program that lay on the bar and started looking through it.
“This seat taken, cowboy?” Barbara Linder drawled the words softly, like Bacall whispering to Bogie, and sat down next to me. She was wearing an oversized Songwriter Festival sweatshirt, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, and shorts that made a fashion statement.
She sipped from her glass. I’d watched Brian earlier, as he made her drink, so I knew there was a double shot of vodka in her orange juice. Her green eyes sparkled, even with morning drinking.
“Hell of a morning,” I said, while I reread her profile in the program.
“Everyone thinks it’s drugs.” She smiled. “Dallas get busted for drugs?”
“You asking or you know?”
Brian brought my drink. It was a little heavy on the hot sauce and vodka. I liked it.
“Tellin’ you what the gossip is.” Her voice was naturally sultry.
“You’re playing at the hotel by the beach again.” I read from the program, as I bit into the drink’s piece of celery. “A good gig with great surroundings.”
“You took photos of me last year, remember?” She turned to face me.
“We had lunch before the show.”
“I remember.”
“That’s good.”
“No, I remember because you didn’t make a pass at me.” She smiled and touched my hand. “Most men do, even without my encouragement.” She was one of those women whose sex appeal came effortlessly and she’d given up trying to hide it.
It was my turn to smile, a little embarrassed because smart, beautiful women scare me.
“I was there to photograph you,” I said. “I think you’re talented and I was trying to capture that on film.”
“You still use film?” She giggled.
“No, it’s all digital, but capturing you on memory card doesn’t sound right.”
She smiled and sipped her drink. “Thank you for the respect, it was refreshing.” She let go of my hand and twirled strands of her blonde hair between two fingers.
Brett Jones and Ernie Deck shared the stage with Nadia and Amanda, two local entertainers backing them up as Brett talked about the song he was about to sing.
Barbara feigned interest in what he was saying. She lit a cigarette and continued to play with her hair.
“I bet you could get us out of here and we could have lunch on your boat,” she said with an impish smile that made promises I didn’t want to think about.
“I don’t think so.” I smiled back and looked at the closest exit. “The police consider me a suspect, so I can’t leave.”
“I don’t have a show until tomorrow afternoon.” Her green eyes suggested things I could only imagine, as she twirled a strand of hair like an impatient teenager. “Suspect?” Barbara turned around in her seat and looked upstairs.
I smiled my reply and read more of the event program. Before I finished I’d read enough to know who killed Dallas.
“Are you going to sell your bird sculptures at the hotel again?” I closed the program.
“You like them?” She turned back to me and stubbed out the cigarette.
“Impressive work.”
“You know, they’re actually very detailed.” She sipped the last of her drink and moved the empty glass forward so Brian would refill it. She lit another cigarette.
“I read that in the program.”
“It’s relaxing.” She looked toward the stage, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “Writing is work. I enjoy it, and love it when it’s successful, but sometimes facing that blank page, even with an idea in my head, is frightening. But give me a block of wood and I can see the bird hiding inside and I help it come out.”
She fell silent and took the fresh drink from Brian.
The songwriters became aware that the public wasn’t being allowed into the Saloon, even though it was past eleven, and they were not being allowed out. Brett Jones was off the stage and without the music, the hum of conversation seemed loud. All the cops did when questioned was shake their heads. No one in, no one out.
Barbara took a long swallow of her drink and looked at the anxious crowd. She smiled nervously at me, stubbed out her cigarette, stopped twirling her hair, and massaged her temples, elbows on the bar.
“It was an accident.” The words came out in a soft hum, the seductiveness of her voice effortless. Even so, she looked like a child standing next to a broken lamp, when she turned to me.
“How’d it happen?” I kept my voice low.
“You know my brother has a couple of songs on the charts, right?” She tried a shallow, childish grin and took her drink off the bar. “Dennis Linder.”
“And he’s here.” I tapped the show’s program.
“Yeah. He has shows Thursday and Friday with me.”
“So, what happened upstairs?” My curiosity piqued as to why she was confessing to me.
“Dallas wanted me to move back in with him. He’d been working with Dennis like he does with novice writers. He wanted all of us to work together, make a fortune, he said. And Dennis believed him, because he has his own dreams. Our getting back together was supposed to be your exclusive this morning. But I knew he only wanted me because I’d left him. I didn’t love him then and I don’t even like him now.”
She reached out and touched my hand. Her eyes were cold and the sparkle was gone. Would Barbara have been there when Melissa showed up at eleven? Dallas was Dallas, I thought to myself.
She took a sip of her drink, using her free hand. “I waited upstairs and, as usual, he was late, and then he came with the proposition. He talked about success and money and when I said no, he grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard.” Her voice trembled. “He said he’d continue to work with Dennis and ruin us both in the end. I panicked, and he scared me.” Her eyes moved toward the bartender and then back to me. “I knew he’d ruined other careers, and without thinking I struck him with the drumstick.” She was squeezing my hand, hard. “It was an accident.”
“You were by the bar?” I could see the scene in my head and wondered how she handled all the blood.
“Yes. He bled a lot and I pushed him away.” She wiped her eyes with the bar napkin from under her drink. “I guess I hit an artery or something, he leaned against the bar. I grabbed hold of his arm and moved him back to the stage.”
“You didn’t try to take the drumstick out? Or call for help?”
“There was too much blood. I had it all over my blouse and it wouldn’t stop. I wasn’t thinking about anything but the blood and the gurgling sound in his throat.”
“Where’s the blouse?”
“This sweatshirt was behind the bar, so I put it on and wrapped my blouse in an old bag and tossed it in a bin downstairs,” she said. “It was like a dream. No, a nightmare and it happened in a second.”
“They’ll find the blouse.” I was thinking about what the detectives had accused me of.
“Of course, but I wasn’t thinking past the moment.” She took her hand away. “I saw a Kristofferson CD on the bar and put it on loud before I left.”
“Why?” When she said Kristofferson’s name, she tried to hide
a smile.
“Dallas was jealous of him, always has been and I knew he was dying and thought it was poetic justice that he died listening to Kristofferson’s hits.”
“How come I didn’t see you coming down the stairs?”
“It happened as soon as he came upstairs,” she said, crocodile tears rolling down her cheeks. “Around nine-thirty and I was downstairs hiding my blouse before quarter to ten.”
So, Dallas went right upstairs from the bar, letting Barbara wait only a few minutes. I wanted her to say more, wondering if I would hear from her bitter side or a sultry woman.
“What’s going to happen, now, Mick?”
Her amorous voice and frightened schoolgirl look made me want to grab her hand and run away.
“You have to turn yourself in,” I said instead. It was my turn to touch her cold hand. “Tell them the truth. But you have a problem.”
“Don’t I know it,” she said and placed her free hand over mine.
“The whittled drumstick, it looks like you planned to use it as a weapon,” I said. “It looks premeditated and the cops said the murderer watched Dallas bleed to death instead of calling for help. They won’t buy it was an accident.”
“The dead son-of-a-bitch is still screwing with my life!” With teeth clenched, she controlled the anger, but her face couldn’t hide it. “Instead of leaving when he was late, which I should’ve, I waited because Dennis wanted me to talk to Dallas.” She pulled her shaking hands from mine.
“You need an attorney,” I said.
She had stopped crying, but still looked helpless.
“I know a local one, Nathan Smith. I’ll call him.”
“How do I do it?” She reached out and touched my face. “I guess there’s no lunch this time.”
“Maybe when this is all over.” I got up.
I called Nathan’s cell and gave him a brief explanation of what was going on. His office was three blocks away and he told me sit still and hold on to Barbara. I promised I would. Then I found Detective Morales, and asked him to allow Nathan into the bar.
He looked at me with concern in his black Latin eyes and grinned. “Why? You going to confess?”
Vampire Slayer Murdered in Key West - Mick Murphy Short Stories Page 8
