“Whether the community wants them or not?”
The smile faded. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but just because a few old ladies want to keep a beach to themselves is not a reason to stop progress. Florida is one of the fastest-growing states in the nation, and nothing can stop it. Nor can they stop me.”
“Even if someone dies trying?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Portia Shelby.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Mrs. Shelby had a heart attack,” he said, his voice hard. “You can hardly hold me responsible for that.”
“Denny Carimbolo?”
“Our visit is over. You’re obviously not interested in buying an apartment. If you’re here to make trouble, I’ll have you thrown out.”
“Mr. Wainscott, does someone who opposes you die on every project of yours?”
“Out!” he roared. He grabbed my elbow, dragged me to the door, and flung it open, ready to hurl me outside.
A young man holding a pad and pen was poised to knock. “Hi, Mr. Wainscott. I’m Jared Levin from the Key West Citizen. My editor called about an interview.”
Wainscott stopped, nonplussed. He released my elbow, put a hand on my back, and shoved me out. “Come in,” he said to the reporter. “Mrs. Fletcher was just leaving.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wainscott,” I heard the reporter say as the door was shut firmly behind me.
I paused to collect my wits. I’d wanted to raise the topic of the diet pills, to accuse the builder of supplying, if not administering, the ephedra that caused Portia’s death. But without sufficient evidence to prove my suspicions, not to mention treading on Truman’s trust by revealing his indiscreet comments about a patient, I’d remained mum. Wainscott was a ruthless man, but was he ruthless enough to have ordered a murder—or two? I’d taken a chance referring to Denny Carimbolo. I hadn’t had an opportunity to verify Gabby’s accusation. But it was too late now.
I straightened my shirt, patted down the back of my hair, hooked my bag over my shoulder, and looked around. In the time I’d spent with Wainscott, the caterers had finished setting up the buffet in the lobby. They had thrown open the double doors, and a good-size crowd was spilling in, some already lining up for the food. I scanned the faces in the throng, wondering which ones were the “big-money guys.” One face was familiar.
“Jessica, we’ve been looking all over for you.” Maureen came to my side and waved to where Mort was standing in the buffet line. “Honey, I found her.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been here awhile, but I was in the office talking to the builder.”
“That’s nice,” Maureen said, absently tugging on my arm. “Come on. Mort’s holding a place for us. Wait till you see what they’re serving: stone crab claws, shrimp, sushi, and—”
“Steak sandwiches,” I finished her sentence.
“Yes. How did you know?”
Mort had reached the buffet and had already taken three plates, handing one to Maureen and one to me. From the amount and variety of the food, not to mention the ice sculptures and the floral arrangements, I gathered that Wainscott had some very important people coming to the reception, and hadn’t spared any expense. I ate lightly, not entirely certain I wanted to take advantage of the largesse of a man who might have been responsible for Portia’s death.
“After lunch, we’ll take you around to see the model apartments,” Maureen said to me.
“Won’t you be bored? You’ve already seen them,” I said.
“But you haven’t, Jessica. Besides, I brought my camera today. I could never describe what they look like to the ladies back home.”
Mort was on his second piece of key lime pie when I thought I saw someone I knew among the attendees. “Isn’t that Mark Rosner?” I said, pointing out a man standing in Wainscott’s doorway.
“Who’s Mark Rosner?” Mort asked.
“He’s the manager of Foreverglades,” I said. “I arranged our apartments at Foreverglades with him. That’s funny.”
“What’s funny, Mrs. F?”
“He never mentioned that he was coming down here when I told him we were driving to Key West.”
“Maybe he decided to come at the last minute. Kind of like us driving down to Boston for the weekend.”
Rosner surveyed the room, looking for someone. When his eyes met mine, he turned back to the door, said something to someone inside, and moved across the room in our direction. At the last moment he swerved away from us and went out the front door. I had the feeling he had something to say to me, but changed his mind when he saw Maureen and Mort.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I want to check on something. I’ll be right back.”
“Do you feel okay, Jessica?” Maureen asked.
“Want me to come with you?”
“No, thanks, Maureen. I’m fine. I just need to talk with someone.”
I walked out the double doors into the broad driveway and looked for Rosner. He was starting down the stairs for the pool. “Mr. Rosner,” I called, waving, hoping to flag him down. But he didn’t hear me. I followed him to the stairs, only to see his back as he disappeared to the left, in the direction of the construction site.
There was a low rumble from above. I looked up. Dark clouds had moved in and were rolling across the sky. I reached the bottom of the stairs, took the path to the construction site, and was surprised to see the gate standing ajar. Up ahead, Rosner lifted a corner of the plastic sheeting and slipped under it, into the ground floor of the half-built structure.
What’s he up to? I wondered. I picked my way across the construction site, skirting a rusting reel of electrical wire, and careful not to trip on the many bolts, nails, and screws that littered the ground. A large drop of water hit me in the head; another splashed on my shoulder. Then it began to rain in earnest. I sprinted the last few yards to the tarp, pulled it aside, and ducked into the building.
It was the smell that first assaulted me, a combination of damp cement, raw wood, lubricating oil, and the indefinable tang of steel. I stood for a moment in the dim interior and listened, to make out whether I could hear where Mark Rosner might be. On clear days the sun would illuminate the building—at least when the angle of its rays allowed light to pour in. But the dark skies overhead let little light penetrate the gloom. And the pounding of the rain on the equipment outside and the slap of water when the wind blew the drops against the long tarpaulins made hearing difficult.
“Mr. Rosner,” I yelled. “It’s Jessica Fletcher, Mr. Rosner. Are you there? I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Rosner.”
There was no answer, but I thought I detected a muffled sound from somewhere inside.
I fumbled in my bag for the flashlight I always carry and flicked it on. The floors were dusty but clear of debris, other than a scattering of crushed cigarette butts in the corner. The light bounced off the massive steel beams that connected the floors. The workmen had begun framing out the spaces to be enclosed— wooden studs stood every sixteen inches, limiting visibility—but the electrical and plumbing connections had yet to be installed. A box of nails and tendrils of wires had been left lying along a stack of two-by-fours. I moved toward the concrete stairs, swinging the light, hoping to capture some movement in its ray. As I put my foot onto the first step, I heard a scraping sound overhead.
I shone my light up to the second floor, but the beam disappeared into the gray ceiling. There was no railing to steady myself as I climbed slowly, keeping my eyes and the flashlight on the next step to avoid stumbling on some unseen obstacle. Behind me, the wind whipped the edges of the tarps, making them flap against each other and setting up a deafening clamor. A gust blew up the stairs and raised the hair on the back of my head. I whirled to see whether someone or something was there. No one. I was alone.
On the landing I turned, training the light down what would eventually be a hallway, and crept forward. The thicket of studs standing upright on either side cut off what little light filtered in from the o
utside and shielded the rest of the space from view, except those areas directly to my right and left. I aimed the flashlight at a piece of equipment far down the hall sitting atop a wooden ramp. It was a large rolling trash receptacle—the kind with a hinged front panel that tilts down to make it easier to empty. I walked up the ramp to take a look at it. The cart was too tall for me to peer inside, but two split beams and a crumpled canvas dropcloth were visible poking out the top. It was also too wide to squeeze past, and too heavy to move. I tried pushing against it. It wouldn’t budge.
I retraced my steps, intending to search for Rosner on the other side of the stairwell, when I heard the scraping sound again. It was behind me this time. I turned to see the dump cart rolling slowly in my direction. The weight inside must have shifted when I’d pushed on it. Suddenly the hinged front panel dropped down with a terrible thud, exposing the contents of broken beams, shredded cloth, and shards of metal. As the cart bore down on me, its wheels made an earsplitting squeal.
I heard a faint voice calling my name. “Mrs. F?”
“Mort? I’m up here.” There wasn’t time to say more. I had to get out of the way. The dump cart picked up speed, thundering down the ramp, spears of splintered wood aimed at my head. I turned to run and the strap of my bag snagged on an exposed nail, jerking me backward. The flashlight flew from my hand and crashed to the floor. I stumbled, losing my balance, falling, falling. Then everything went black.
Chapter Sixteen
“Dang it, Truman, I’ve got her.”
“Hell, it’s my hospital, Seth, let me do it.”
“This thing’s like a shopping cart with a bad wheel.”
“You just don’t know how to steer it.”
I sat in a wheelchair in the hall of the Lower Keys Medical Center on Stock Island, where I had spent the night under observation. I knew I was fine, but the doctors had been adamant. They’d wanted to be certain I hadn’t sustained a concussion. I had a bump on the head and some bruises, but overall I’d escaped serious injury. I could have insisted upon being discharged, but didn’t. When I saw how pale Seth and Truman were when they tumbled through the door of the emergency room and rushed to my side, I decided I would probably get more rest—and so would they—if I stayed in the hospital rather than returning to Truman’s home, where the two of them would have fussed over me like a pair of hens fighting over one egg.
The wheelchair lurched forward, and I gripped the arms as I was propelled down the corridor.
“Got it now, Jess,” Seth said.
“I can walk, you know.”
“Sorry, Jessica,” Truman said from behind me. “Hospital rules. You have to be wheeled to the door.”
I sat back and sighed.
Mort had brought me to the hospital, but I didn’t remember getting there, and I was eager to ask him the details of my accident. I only knew—or thought I did—that I’d been hit by the trash container. It wasn’t a head-on collision. If it had been, like a cowcatcher on a train, the heavy metal cart would have scooped me into its maw, and I’d have been skewered by the sharp debris. That hadn’t happened. While I was bruised, I wasn’t cut.
“Did you sleep all right, Jessica?”
“I did, Seth, considering how many times the nurses woke me to see if I was sleeping.”
“And you got to sample our delicious hospital food,” Truman said, a smile in his voice.
“It was fine,” I said. “I wasn’t terribly hungry, but I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea when we get back to your house.”
“We’ll give you a lot more than that,” Truman said. “We left the lunch preparations up to Maureen and Benny. They promised a feast by the time we get back.”
“Truman, don’t you have office hours today?” I asked.
“Don’t even think twice about it. Sunshine canceled my appointments, but she’ll be there in case someone shows up unannounced. You had a message, by the way.”
“I did?”
“Yes. Someone called last night. Sorry, I can’t remember the name, but I wrote it down.”
“I wonder who it could be,” I said. “So few people know where we are.”
Truman took a clipboard from a nurse at the door to the hospital, signed a form, and I was officially free.
Seth had parked nearby, and I declined to have him pull the car up to the door, preferring to walk. I wanted both men to see that I was well. Which I was. Physically, anyway. Mentally, I was a little shaky. I’d spent a good portion of the night in my hospital bed going over in my mind the circumstances leading up to my injury. It was Mark Rosner at the reception. I was sure of that. He had spoken to someone in Wainscott’s office, presumably the builder himself. I’d followed him, convinced he intended to deliver a message. Perhaps he had. Had he lured me into the construction site for the purpose of scaring me—or worse? Was my accident not an accident at all? Was this a warning? Or an attempt on my life? Now, don’t get paranoid, Jessica. You observed him enter the empty building, but you didn’t see him inside. I turned the incident over in my mind, examining it from every angle. I could be certain of only one thing: Rosner had been in that building. Why couldn’t I find him? I would ask him that question when we returned to Foreverglades.
Mort was waiting in Truman’s driveway when Seth pulled in. From the sheen of perspiration on his forehead, I suspected he’d been pacing up and down the gravel for some time. “How’re you doing this morning, Mrs. F?” he asked, opening the passenger door.
“Just fine, Mort,” I said, taking the hand he extended to help me out of the car. “And I have you to thank for it.”
“No trouble, Mrs. F. I was just on the scene at the right time.”
“Thank goodness for that, or who knows where I’d be right now.”
“You were lucky. It could have been worse. You weren’t wearing a hard hat. Everyone knows you’re supposed to wear a hard hat on a construction site. Why did you go into that building anyway?”
“Mort, give the woman a chance to get inside before you give her the third degree,” Seth said.
“Oh. Sorry, Mrs. F.”
“No need to be,” I said. “I’ll tell you all about it after I’ve had a cup of tea. There are some questions you can answer for me, too.”
“Like what?”
“Like, would you happen to have seen my handbag? It wasn’t with me at the hospital. I’m hoping you took it with you.”
“Maureen did. She brought it back to the hotel for safekeeping.”
“Thank heavens. I have an extra pair of glasses in there, and I didn’t relish having to cancel my credit cards if my wallet had gone missing.”
Maureen, with Benny’s able assistance, had put together an elaborate luncheon for us—two different seafood salads, a spinach quiche, fresh-baked bread, orange and grapefruit juices, string beans vinaigrette, a platter of tomatoes, cucumbers and radishes with a creamy avocado dip. I had the feeling she’d been influenced by the spread DeWitt Wainscott’s caterer had supplied, and I was grateful. Contrary to what I’d told Truman, the hospital cuisine left something to be desired.
We gathered around the oval table in Truman’s dining room, under the crystal chandelier, and above a hand-hooked rug with all the colors of the sea, and celebrated my return. Maureen and Benny had set the table with flowers, and used Truman’s silver and fine china. Benny had removed the studs from his chin, nose, and eyebrows for the occasion and, except for the row of rings up the side of each ear, looked almost wholesome, his scarlet hair washed, his face scrubbed, a smile on his lips.
Sunshine joined us from the dispensary, along with her affenpinscher, Harriet. She was a quiet and serious girl, but her pet expressed all the joie de vivre the owner lacked. The little black dog scampered from guest to guest, showing off how well she could sit, shake, and roll over, in hopes of being rewarded with a morsel or two from the table. She ate very well.
No one wanted to disturb the festive atmosphere with talk of what might have happened if Mort hadn’t found me
, and I was happy for the diversion.
“How come I haven’t gotten any questions about my very first golf game yesterday?” Truman said. “It’s not every day I pick up a six-iron. Is that right, Seth?”
“You went golfing?” Benny was flabbergasted.
I heard Sunshine giggle.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll bite. How did you fare on the golf course?”
“I was terrible!” Truman said, laughing. “If anyone I know saw me, I’ll never live it down.”
“You weren’t that bad,” Seth said. “You were starting to get the hang of it at the end.”
“I could live to be a hundred and ten and never get the hang of it.”
“The course only had nine holes. If we’d gone another round, you would have seen improvement.”
“You’re far too generous, my old friend. I think I’ll stick to tiddlywinks, and save my ego from a beating.”
Happy to see that Seth and Truman had set aside their differences, I got up to help Sunshine clear the table while Truman regaled the others with stories of his ineptitude at golf.
“You don’t have to do that, Jessica,” Maureen said, rising from her seat.
“Please sit down, Maureen. You took care of all the preparations,” I said. “Now it’s my turn. I’m perfectly fine, and I want to help.”
“I’ll give you a hand, Mrs. F,” Mort said, picking up his plate, and winking at Maureen. “We need to talk anyway.”
I carried two dishes into the kitchen and set them on the counter next to the sink, while Mort collected more in the dining room. Sunshine rinsed the plates before she put them in the dishwasher.
“You have a charming little dog,” I said.
Sunshine smiled. “She was a present from Truman.”
“She was? How lovely. Was it for your birthday?”
“No,” she said, blushing. She mumbled something, her chin on her chest.
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