by Lee Hanson
CASTLE CAY
by
Lee Hanson
Smashwords Edition
* * * * *
Published on Smashwords by:
Lee Hanson
Castle Cay
Copyright 2010 by Lee Hanson
ISBN-13: 978-0-578-06322-5
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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* * * * *
For Janice Jerome,
my invaluable Reader-in-Chief
* * * * *
Prologue
He was naked and slick with sweat, despite the coolness of the room. Moonlight sliced through the partially open verticals, casting a striped pattern of light across his body. The ceiling fan made a low, hypnotic sound and was spinning so fast its blades were invisible. The weighted bottoms of the vertical cloth slats moved silently in the breeze. Within reach on the nightstand, a plethora of prescription drugs stood ready to aid sleep or relieve pain. Surprisingly, the needle slipped right into the vein on the first try.
If there’s a hell, I’m going there…
* * * * *
Chapter 1
Unlike most Floridians, Julie didn’t want to live by the sea. Her condo overlooked Lake Eola Park in Downtown Orlando, fifty miles inland and twenty miles northeast of Disney. It was an older building with only four floors, but Julie had the whole top-right corner with a clear view of the urban lake across the street, which was interesting and pretty…and small enough not to give her bad dreams.
It was just after eight in the morning and the French doors to the balcony in both her bedroom and her living room were flung wide to let in the balmy September air. Julie was in her tee shirt and shorts, lying in the sun on her chaise. She had closed her eyes and knit her hands together on her chest. Her legs were too long for the chair and her narrow, bare feet hung over the cushion.
She had towel-dried her shoulder-length hair, planning to let the sun finish the job while she read the Sunday paper, but she’d become so comfortable that she had let the bulky edition slide to the floor. She was lulled. Breathing deeply, she savored the rain-washed air that brushed her skin like a satin slip and rustled gently - swish, swish - through the ancient oaks. A Mockingbird sang one soft trill after another.
Julie was pleasantly drifting off when the unmistakable sound of smashing pottery snapped her back. Her eyes popped open.
“Shit, Sol! What did you do now?”
Quickly rising, she scooped up the newspaper, dropped it on the outdoor table and hurried inside. Her living room/library was arranged more for work than leisure, with a large cherry and glass desk sitting in front of a wall of books. Her big Bengal cat lay there, peering over the edge. He had knocked over an oversized coffee mug, which had shattered on the dark hardwood floor and dumped Julie’s cache of odd pens and pencils.
Sol was a year old when Julie adopted him directly from his overwhelmed owner. A genetic throwback, the exotic-looking spotted cat was twice the size of a typical housecat and couldn’t be let outdoors. Now, for her trouble, he was gleefully crouched on her desk like a leopard cub that had just whacked a rabbit.
“Damn it, Sol. How come I’m not the alpha cat here? How come that only works with dogs?”
Sol sat up to his full height on the desk, dwarfing the computer monitor. He cocked his head, curious at her reaction, as if she were a littermate with very odd priorities.
She was picking up the mess and scolding him when the phone rang. So much for the Sunday paper…
She decided that she wasn’t going to answer it, but out of curiosity, she checked the caller ID. To her surprise, the call was from Boston, but she didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Julie? It’s Pete. Pete Soldano.”
“Pete! My God! It’s been years! Are you coming down to Orlando?”
“No, I’m not, Julie, but you might wanna come up here. I guess you didn’t see the paper yet?”
“My paper? The newspaper?”
“Julie, it’s about Marc Solomon. He’s dead. A drug overdose. It’s in the paper up here, I don’t know if it’s in yours.”
“That can’t be right! I just saw Marc and David, not more than a month ago!”
“I’m sorry, Julie. I’m afraid it’s true. Look, why don’t you go see if the story’s in your paper, then call me back. The funeral’s gonna be up here. If you wanna come up, you can stay with Joan and me. We can go together.”
Julie was stunned; it took her a full minute to reply. “Okay, Pete. Uh, okay. I’ll call you back.”
Shaking, she scribbled the number on a pad, and ran out on the balcony. She stood at the table, flipping frantically through the paper. If any birds were singing, she was no longer aware of it.
•
KEY WEST ARTIST DIES
The art world lost a rising star on September 18th, with the death of Marcus Solomon. The artist’s body was discovered early Saturday morning by his companion, David Harris.
Key West Chief of Police Jeffrey Sanders was cautious in responding to reporters’ questions about the possibility of a drug overdose. “It’s too early to speculate about Mr. Solomon’s death. We cannot confirm intentional or accidental death. We’ll leave that determination to the medical examiner.”
Mr. Solomon was 38 years old…
•
There was more, mostly biography.
Julie exhaled a cry, grabbed her stomach and fell into the nearest chair as if she’d just taken a punch to the gut.
We were celebrating… We danced at the Sunset Party! Yes, he had AIDS…but he was doing well…
Suicide? There’s no way…not Marc!
It had to be an accident!
Oh no, no…
After a time, she managed to compose herself. She called Pete back, and found out that the Solomons hadn’t scheduled the wake and funeral; the body hadn’t been released to them yet.
The body.
A wave of nausea gripped her, held her.
She managed to tell Pete she was definitely coming up and asked him to please call her as soon as he knew any more. And then she hung up and cried, and cried some more.
When the endless day grew dark, she slept…empty and shattered like the mug that had once held together her pens and pencils.
* * * * *
Chapter 2
The pain of the previous day had given way to a pervasive, deadening grief that filled every part of Julie’s body. Like an automaton, she left her red Honda scooter behind and struck out for her office on foot. Her destination, a two-story vintage house, was less than a mile away on Cypress, a
dead-end street on the east side of Lake Eola.
The sky was a robin’s egg blue and a light breeze wafted through the giant oaks, lifting their lacy hems of moss. Neighbors, walking a dog or pushing a carriage, smiled at her as they passed. Julie was so numb that none of it registered. It seemed to her that she had just left her building and suddenly found herself facing the lake at the end of Cypress, turning left into the bricked parking area in front of her office. The handsome amber house was angled toward the water, white columns gracing a wide veranda. Only the gold plates on the dark green double door hinted at the business done inside. The left one read, “Garrett Investigations”. The right plate had only one word…“Merlin”.
For the past three years, Julie had leased her office space from Joe Garrett, a private investigator who lived upstairs. Her office was on the right and his was on the left. For a change, she was actually hoping to see him.
At that moment, Joe Garrett came out and started down the front steps. He was a tall, broad-shouldered guy in a dark tee shirt and jeans, a little older than Julie, perhaps forty. He was ex-military, which probably accounted for his no-nonsense haircut. He smiled when he looked up and saw her. “Morning, Merlin,” he called out. “You’re up bright and early.”
As she approached, he saw the desolation on her face. “What’s the matter? You look like your best friend died.”
Julie handed him the paper coldly, folded to show the article. “He was my best friend.”
“Oh, Jesus, I’m so sorry, Julie…”
Grief pierced the dullness like a sharp knife. Joe was one of the few people she knew who called her “Merlin” one time and “Julie” the next …just like Marc had always done.
“Wait a minute,” he said, scanning the article. “Is this the guy you visit down in the Keys?”
“Yes, it is. Marc and his partner, David. I haven’t been able to get David.”
“So it just happened yesterday?”
“I guess so,” she said, holding back tears. “Joe, I was thinking about your friend, Jake Goldman, the attorney in the Keys. Do you think he could get some more detail about this?”
“I don’t know, but sure, I’ll call him.” Concerned, he put a hand on her shoulder.
“Good, thank you,” she said, moving away.
Joe got the message. “Well, I’ll call you later, okay?”
“That’d be good. Thanks a lot. I’ll be here most of the day.”
Julie turned, quickly climbed the steps and went into her office.
Luz Romero, Julie’s assistant, was already at her desk, sipping coffee. She was a tall, well endowed woman in her late forties who was blessed with thick and glossy black hair which she twisted in a chignon at the nape of her neck. Unfortunately, the same Latin genes had given her equally heavy lashes which seemed to pull the outer corners of her lovely brown eyes downward, suggesting a sadness that was rarely the case.
A warm-hearted, single woman who thought of Julie as a daughter, Luz took one look at her boss, and was out from behind her desk. “What happened?” she asked, hugging her close. “Are you all right?”
Julie’s face crumpled, despite her resolve. “No, I’m not. My friend died.” Julie handed her the paper.
“No,” said Luz, incredulous, “your artist-friend?”
“Yes.”
Julie grabbed some tissues. After a moment, she regained her composure. “I need to clear my calendar, Luz,” she said, heading for her desk in the other room. “I’m going to Boston for the funeral. I’m not sure yet of the dates, but I’ll know soon. I’ll probably go to Key West, too. Anyway, I need some time for this. Will you bring the schedule in?”
The two of them spent the rest of the morning rearranging her itinerary. Later, when Luz left for lunch, Julie’s eyes fell on her business card:
MERLIN
She smiled. Marc adored my crazy name. Julie had hated it in the beginning. She was a corporate trainer, a body language expert, not a magician! But the odd single name had been an undeniable boon for her business. She had John Tate, an attorney, to thank for the moniker.
She’d only been a few months into her consulting business when Robert Cronin, an accountant with the Lindsor hotel group - one of her clients - was murdered. His body, shoeless, was found in the dense shrubbery behind the parking lot of their headquarters in Orlando.
The police, following an anonymous tip, had found the shoes in the backseat of a beat-up old Toyota, which belonged to a drug addict who lived nearby.
Julie had never met Cronin but, as it happened, she knew the accused. During a drug-free period, Michael Trudeau had been hired by Lindsor to sell timeshare in LVC, the new Lindsor Vacation Club. He’d been in a training class Julie was conducting for Lindsor to help their new hires recognize different social styles and deal with them more effectively. Julie had been impressed with the young man’s demeanor and the questions he’d asked. She had a hard time believing that Michael Trudeau could kill anyone.
And for what? A pair of shoes?
Julie had offered her services as a body language expert to John Tate, Michael’s attorney. She sat at John’s side and advised him during jury selection, skillfully helping to ferret out biased and unsympathetic jurors. Most important, she identified two who could be counted on to side with the defense.
The state’s case was circumstantial and the jury had acquitted Michael Trudeau. When interviewed later by a local TV reporter, the two jurors’ comments had confirmed Julie’s analysis.
John had teased her afterwards. “I’m going to call you ‘Merlin the Magician’.”
“Don’t you dare!” said Julie.
And so, of course, he did. When Luz answered the phone, John would ask for “Merlin.” He dutifully referred Julie to his colleagues, too, but always as “Merlin.” Her reputation and demand as a body language expert had flourished exponentially.
She shook her head, thinking back on it.
There was never any magic, John.
I just see what people aren’t saying.
* * * * *
Chapter 3
“The Solomons got word last night that the Coroner in Key West is gonna release the body for shipment back to Boston,” said Pete Soldano. “They’re plannin’ the wake for Tuesday night, September 18th, with the funeral the next day. Want to come up Monday and stay with us?”
“Sounds fine, Pete, thanks. Tell Joannie I’m looking forward to seeing her. Don’t worry about picking me up; I’ll rent a car at the airport. See you guys soon.”
Julie spent the next few days finishing up some work. Luz, who adored Julie’s cat, offered to spend time with Sol twice a day while she was gone.
At last, she was on her way to Boston. The plane was full, but, thankfully, it was quiet up front. Julie felt so bone tired. She wanted nothing more than to lay back and rest. She hadn’t been sleeping well at all since Marc’s death.
Joe Garrett’s friend, Jake Goldman, had told him that the Key West police – unofficially - considered the case a probable suicide. Julie simply couldn’t believe that. If only she could talk to David. Surely, he’d be at Marc’s funeral.
She closed her eyes as her thoughts drifted back to Marc.
Eighteen years ago.
Such an odd place to meet…
* * * * *
Chapter 4
June 1989
Boston, Massachusetts
It’s too damn hot for pants!
Julia scolded herself for wearing them as she pulled open the heavy glass showroom door. She sighed with relief as the cool air from inside washed over her. Straightening up, she tucked some stray locks of hair back into the tortoiseshell barrette at the nape of her neck, and looked around.
Five brand-new cars gleamed on the polished floor, and several curious male heads turned her way. Their gaze made her change her mind in a flash. She had gone back and forth over what to wear today; her blue summer dress and heels, or the tan slacks with a plain, white silk shirt and flats. Now, desp
ite the heat, she was glad that she had opted for the latter.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and headed for the circular desk centered on the rear wall. A young, pretty brunette behind the desk looked up at her, smiling.
“Welcome to Solomon Chrysler. May I help you?”
“Yes. I’m Julia Danes. I’m here to see Mr. Soldano.”
The girl pulled the big microphone toward her, pushed a button and intoned, “Mr. Soldano. Mr. Soldano. Front desk, please. Customer waiting.”
“Oh, I’m not a customer,” said Julia.
“I’m here for the job interview.”
The brunette’s brow creased into a puzzled frown. “You must want Mrs. Bennett, the Office Manager?”
“I spoke to a Mr. Soldano on the phone. His name was in the ad…?”
A tanned and dapper, thirty-ish man walked up and interrupted them. “Hi, Julie Danes? I’m Pete Soldano.”
He was shorter than she had expected him to be, but then most people seemed short to Julia. They shook hands as he looked her up and down approvingly. Then he nodded to his right.
“My office is just down the hall there.” With that, he leaned over the desk, put his left hand over the microphone, and whispered to the receptionist, “Don’t put any calls through to my office, Doll. And keep these knuckleheads out here on the floor. I don’t want any of them interruptin’ me, either.”
As they walked back to his office, he smiled broadly at Julia. “So you want to sell cars, huh?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned into a small office with glass windows facing the hallway. “Come on in, Julie,” he said, grabbing the chair behind the desk.
She hesitated a moment too long, and then it seemed too late to tell him that her name was “Julia”, with an “a”.
