John D MacDonald - Travis McGee 19 - Freefall in Crimson

by Freefall in Crimson(lit)

  "The point Ron was making," I told her, "was that anybody who arranged the death of a dying man shouldn't inherit. So what we are talking about is the way Josephine Laurant Esterland inherited the bulk of the estate."

  It startled her. She swung her feet down from the railing and turned to face me more directly. "Ron is thinking that? It seems sort of sick. I mean, it seems so... cumbersome. A public place like that. Witnesses. So much could go wrong. I see what he means, of course: that if Romola died in that coma, which she so apparently was going to do and finally did, then Josie would get only a small bequest. The support stopped when Ellis died. We-Ellis and-we were taking it for granted that he was going to outlive his daughter. And we were talking about the foundation. And he had appointments with the lawyers and trust people and his CPA to work out the final details. He died before he could keep those final appointments. He hadn't really put much thought into the foundation until Romola had that terrible accident. And we knew she probably would die. And yes, it did make a difference of an awful lot of money to Josie to have Romola outlive her dad. Joe+ie would make such a terrible conspirator. She babbles. She can't keep secrets."

  "Are you in touch with her?" I asked.

  "I think I owe her a letter. We've been tapering off. After all, Ellis was all we had in common, and memories of Ellis aren't enough to keep a friendship going. In her last letter she said she was going back to work, that it wasn't really a very good part, but she was looking forward to it, to working again."

  She sighed, looking downward into her glass. I liked the line of cheek and jaw, the gentle look of the long dark lashes, the breasts small under rosy gauze, the pronounced convexity of the top of the thigh. Except for small lines at the corners of her eyes, a puffiness under her chin, the years had left her unmarked. She checked the glasses, took them to fix another drink.

  When she came back out, she said, "I can understand why Ron is suspicious and upset. But I think it just happened. I don't think anybody planned it. What will you do next?"

  "Go to Citrus City and see if the River County sheriff has anything at all," I said.

  "If he had anything, wouldn't he have arrested somebody?"

  "You have to have some pretty solid facts before you arrest anybody. He might have some suspicions he'd talk about."

  "Let me buy you gentlemen some lunch, one of the Eden Beach's great luncheon taste treats."

  "Why should you buy us lunch?" Meyer asked.

  She patted his arm. "Promotion and advertising, dear Meyer. I have a nice expense account all my own and I hardly ever get a chance to use it. So humor me."

  Three

  IN THE early afternoon I turned off Route 41 onto 846 and drove the small empty roads over past Corkscrew, Immokalee, Devil's Garden. The tourists were booming down the big roads, white-knuckled in the traffic, waiting for the warning signals from their Fuzzbusters, staring out at endless strips of junk stores, cypress knees, plaster herons, and instant greasy chicken. We rumbled gently along through the wild country, watching the birds, the dangle of Spanish moss, the old ranch houses set way back under the shade trees, the broad placid faces of the Brahma cattle.

  I went up 27 past Sebring, Avon Park, and Frostproof, went over 630 through Indian Lake Estates, and came up on Citrus City from the west. The groves marched over the rolling land, neat as Prussians. Some rain guns were circling, the mist blowing across the ranks of trees.

  We agreed on a motel west of the city limits at about six o'clock. Low white frame structure with a central office and restaurant portion looking like a piece of Mount Vernon. Above five cars were lined up in front of their thirty units.

  There was a thin, middle-aged, weather-worn woman behind the desk. She had tooth trouble and held her mouth funny when she talked, and quite often put her hand in front of her mouth, the gesture of a child hiding laughter.

  Once we had signed in and paid in advance, I said to her, "Say, is Dave Banks still sheriff?"

  She stared at me. "Lordie, no! Dave's dead six year anyway. Guess you have been gone a time. The sherf we got now, he's new last election. Milford Hampton. They call him Fish, but not to his face, on account he looks kind of like a fish, his mouth and the way his eyes are set. Maybe you heard of the family. His granddaddy had the big Star Bar ranch north of town. Still in the family, what's left of it after they sold off some for groves and some for town houses."

  "I think I heard the name."

  "He's trying to do a job, but this place is getting rougher every year. I don't know what's doing it. Floaters and drifters. Boozing and knifing folks. Used to be quiet and pretty and nice. Now a lady wouldn't want to go into town of a Saturday night at all. The good stores, they're all out in the Groveway Mall. Look, you men want a good honest dinner at an honest price, we're serving from six to eight thirty. Tonight is ribs and chicken."

  The River County sheriff's office and jail were in a white modern building diagonally across the street from the ornate yellow turrets and minarets of the old county courthouse. County cars and patrol cars were parked in a wire enclosure beside the building. When we went in, I could hear the flat mechanical tone of voice of the female dispatcher somewhere out of sight. A fat girl in a pale blue uniform with arm patch sat behind a green desk, typing with two fingers.

  She glared at us and said, "You want something?"

  "Sure do," I said, "but if I asked you for it, you'd probably bust me alongside the head."

  "Oh, you!" she said, with a chubby simper. "Who you wanna see?"

  "Whoever is still assigned to the Ellis Esterland killing."

  "Esterland. Esterland. Oh, the rich millionaire guy. That was a long time ago. Look, what we got around here, we got Sunday evening, which is supposed to be a big rest from Saturday night, but tonight it isn't, you know what I mean? I got to finish this dang thang. It has to go in. Couldn't you come back tomorrow, fellas?"

  "Would it be assigned to anybody in particular?"

  "I wouldn't rightly know myself. My guess is, it would just be an open file, you know. And in the monthly meeting, the sheriff, he goes over the open files with the officers, to kind of remind them to keep their eyes open and keep asking questions even when they're checking out other stuff. You fellas from another jurisdiction?"

  At that moment a sallow man in baggy yellow slacks and a Polynesian shirt came out of one office, heading for another, a stack of papers in his hand.

  "Oh, Barney! Look, can maybe you help these fellas? They want to know who's still working on that rich millionaire that got beat to death at that rest stop over on the turnpike a long time ago."

  He stopped and stared at us, a slow and careful appraisal, and then managed to herd both of us over into a corner away from the girl typing. He smelled tartly of old sweat.

  "My name is Odum," he said.

  "Meyer. And Mr. McGee," Meyer said. There was no hand extended.

  "What would be your interest in that case? We're short-handed here at the best of times. No time for book writers, newspaper people, or those who're just damn nosey."

  As I hesitated, hunting the right approach, Meyer stepped in. With a flourish, he handed Odum one of his cards. I knew it was meaningless. But it is a thick card on cream-colored stock with raised lettering. There are a lot of initials after his name, all earned. In the bottom left corner is his adopted designation: Certified Guarantor. He had conducted some field surveys of his own and had weeded his options down to these two words. They sounded official and had the flavor of money and personal authority. People treat a Certified Guarantor with respect. If they asked what it meant, he told them in such a way that respect was increased.

  "Mr. McGee is assisting me, sir," Meyer said. "The Esterland estate is a phased estate, in that certain incumbrances and stipulations have to fall into place in a time frame that takes heed of certain aspects of taxation on properties coexistent with the residual portions. So I'm sure you understand that just as a formality, sir, we have to go through the motions of testifyin
g and certifying that yes, we did indeed proceed to Citrus City and review the status of the open case of murder and report back to the administrators and adjudicators, so that things can move ahead and not be tied up in jurisdictional red tape. Please believe me when I tell you that in return for your cooperation, we will take a minimum of time from busy officers of the law."

  Odum's eyes looked slightly glazed. He shook himself like a damp dog and said, "You want to just... check out where we are on that thing?"

  "On a totally confidential basis, of course."

  "Sure. I realize that. Fine. Well, I guess Rick Tate, Deputy Rick Tate, would be the one who'd have it all clearest in mind. Where's Rick, Zelda?"

  She stopped typing. "Rick? Oh, he's went up to Eustis with Debbie on account of her mom is bad off again. He'll be back on tomorrow on the four to midnight."

  "You can get hold of him tomorrow," Odum said. "He'll come in about three thirty, around there. I won't be here."

  "If we could have some kind of informal authorization?" Meyer asked. "Maybe you could just write it on the back of the card I gave you."

  He went over to a corner of Zelda's desk and wrote on the card, Rick, you can go ahead and tell these men everything we got to date on Esterland, which isn't much anyway. Barney Odum.

  When we walked back out into the warm evening, I said, "Certified Guarantor! You could write political speeches."

  "Let me see. You are a Salvage Consultant. Anne called us a couple of con men. From now until tomorrow what do we do?"

  "We can check out the Palmer Hotel. Where Esterland was last seen alive. You did nicely with Barney Odum, friend."

  "Yes. I know."

  Most of the old hotels in the central cities of Florida, in the cities of less than a hundred thousand, have gone downhill, decaying with the neighborhoods. Some of them have turned into office buildings, or parking lots, or low-cost storage bins for elderly indigents.

  Though the neighborhood had evidently decayed, the Palmer was a pleasant surprise. A clean roomy lobby, pleasant lighting, trim and tidy ladies behind the desk and the newsstand. Walnut and polished brass.

  The dark bar off the lobby was called The Office. Prism spots gleamed down on the bald pate of the bearded bartender, on shining glassware, on good brands on the back bar, on the padded bar rim, on black Naugahyde stools with brass nailheads. A young couple off in a corner held hands across the small table.

  The bartender said, "Gentlemen," and put coasters in front of us. I ordered Boodles over ice with a twist, and Meyer selected a white wine. After serving us he moved off to that precise distance good bartenders maintain: far enough to give us privacy if we wanted it, close enough to join in should we speak to him.

  "Good-looking place," I said to him.

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Do much business?"

  "Not much on weekends. Big noon and cocktailtime business during the week."

  "This is a very generous shot of gin."

  "Thank you, sir. This is not really a commercial place, I mean in the sense that there is a lot of cost control. It's owned by National Citrus Associates. The cooperatives and some of the big growers maintain suites here. There's a lot of convention and meeting business, a lot of businessmen from overseas, a lot of government people, state and federal. It's something like a club. The number of available rooms is quite limited."

  Meyer said, "A friend of ours from Fort Lauderdale had lunch here the day he was killed at a rest stop over on the turnpike. A year and nine months ago. Ellis Esterland."

  "A tragic thing," the bartender said. "Beaten to death and robbed. There is so much mindless violence in the world. I've been here five years, and I can see the difference in just that short time. Mr. Esterland had a drink here at the bar before he went to the grill room for his lunch. He sat right where you are sitting, sir. He had a very dry vodka Gibson, straight up, and soon after he left there was an order for another one from the grill room. Of course, I did not know his name at that time. They showed me his Florida driver's license, the police did, and I recognized the little color photograph as the man who was in here."

  "What did they ask you about him?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "If we had any conversation beyond his ordering his drink, and I said we didn't. I had a dozen customers at the bar, and I was quite busy. I had no chance to notice him, really, to guess at his state of mind. That's what they asked. Was he nervous? Was he elated? I just couldn't help them at all. From his manner I judged him to be a businessman of some importance, used to good service. He spoke to no one else, and no one joined him. They questioned his waitress and the people at the desk and the girl at the newsstand. I don't think they learned anything useful. At least they've never arrested anyone."

  "It's puzzling," I said. "Why would a man pull into a rest stop on the turnpike after he had been driving only six miles?"

  "Car trouble?" the bartender said.

  "He had a new Lincoln Continental with just over two thousand miles on it," Meyer said.

  "Perhaps he felt unwell," the bartender said. "He didn't look like a really healthy person. His color was bad."

  Three new customers arrived, laughing and hearty, dressed like Dallas businessmen, ranch hats and stitched boots. Juice moguls, maybe. They called the bartender Harry, and he greeted them by name. Two bourbons and a scotch.

  We had a second drink and then went to the dining room for better than adequate steaks, green salad, and baked potatoes, served efficiently by a glum heavy woman who knew nothing about anybody who'd been a customer over a year ago, because she had not been there a year.

  Back at the motel, Meyer went to bed with a book called Contrary Investment Strategy. I told him to be sure to let me know how it came out. I tried to think about Esterland's misfortune, but my mind kept veering into trivia, to a memory of the fine matte finish on the slender Renzetti legs, and the tiny beads of sweat along her forehead at the dark hairline as she sat in silhouette against the white glare of beach. Meyer, in bright yellow pajamas, frowned into his strategy book.

  I slipped away into nightmare. I was running after a comedy airplane. Gretel was the pilot, very dashing in her Red Baron helmet, goggles, white silk scarf, white smile as she turned to look back at me. The little biplane bounded over the lumps in the, broad pasture. I was trying to warn her. If she took off, she would fly into the trees. She couldn't hear me because of the noise of the engine. She thought I was making jokes, chasing her. I could not catch her. The engine sound grew louder and the tail skid lifted and she took off toward the pines.

  As I ran, still yelling, I saw her tilt the plane to try to slide through a gap in the trees, saw the wings come off, heard the long grinding, sliding, clattering crash into the stones. I climbed down the slope. The whole, gully was cluttered with large pieces of airplane, but strangely old, stained by time and weather, grass growing up through rents in the aluminum. I couldn't understand. I kept hunting for her. I flipped over what seemed to be a small piece of wing, big as the top of a card table, and there was a skull in the skull-sized stones; helmet in place, the goggle lenses starred by old fractures, a bundle of soiled gray silk bunched under the bones of the jaw.

  Meyer shook me out of it, and I came up gasping, sweat-soaked.

  "Okay?" he asked.

  "Thanks."

  "A lot of moaning and twitching going on."

  I wiped my face on a corner of the sheet. "Gretel again. She doesn't seem to want to stay dead." He went back over to his bed and covered himself and picked up his book. He looked over at me, thoughtful and concerned.

  "How is the book coming?" I asked.

  "The bad guys are winning, I think."

  "Sometimes they do. Sometimes you can't tell the bad guys unless you buy a program at the door." And when my heart slowed back to normal, I was able to go back to sleep.

  At breakfast Meyer said, "I'd hoped to be back by early evening. In fact I would very much like to be back."

  It took me a few moments
to understand the urgency. Then I remembered that Aggie Sloane was due in on her big Trumpy again, called the Byline. Aggie, an ex-news hen who had married a publisher and assumed the management of the chain of papers when he died, had first come to Meyer as the friend of a friend, with a delicate international money problem. Their friendship had blossomed during and after Meyer's deft solution to her problem.

  Though Meyer loves to look upon the lively young beach girls and is often surrounded by little chittering platoons of them, running errands for him and laughing at his wise jokes, when it comes to any kind of personal involvement, Meyer feels most at ease with-and is usually attracted to-mature capable independent women, the sort who run magazines, newspapers, art galleries, travel agencies, and branch banks: For them, Meyer is a sometime interlude, reassuring, undemanding, supportive, and gentle. They return, refreshed, to their spheres of combat. They are women who take great good care of themselves and are not inclined toward any permanent attachment. Meyer smiles lot.