by Kieran York
I neared the place where Pixy’s nearly lifeless body was discovered. The killer viciously beat her, then shoved her under shrubbery. I wondered if that indicated it was rushed job. If it was a robbery, she might have fought back. In a rage the killer beat her. Didn’t want her discovered right away. Perhaps he wanted it to be a clean getaway.
The detectives were collecting evidence they might have missed earlier. Processing the scene of a night slaying for a second time, when the sun offered better lighting, was standard. The area was bloodied, particularly under the shrubbery. The splattering indicated to me that she was indeed beaten there. Perhaps the killer didn’t have a car, so he drags her to the shrubs. If he had wanted to sexually attack her, he would have taken her farther back. There was still bound to be some light spill out from the door having been opened. The killer must have been hiding.
Glancing around, I didn’t see any kind of a camera security system. I knew there was one at the entrance of Glitters. I used my phone’s camera to photograph the area. I sent the shots directly to Summer and Rachel.
Scanning my incoming messages, I saw that we’d received the first files on the murder. Tom was definitely making certain we were in the loop.
Inside, I spotted the owner/manager of Glitters. She sat alone, looking completely bewildered. I went directly to her table. “Hi, Cheryl,” I greeted her as I sat across from her.
“Hey, glad to see you here. Damn, what’s happening to this area. First Rachel gets shot. Now, little Pixy is murdered.” Her face blanched. Cheryl Garth was in her late thirties. She’d purchased the bar several years ago. She described herself as being a fluffy, loveable dyke. Her light hair was spiked and dyed in different colors for different events. It was rainbow splotched. Her full face was usually joyfully. Today it had dismal written all over it. “Want something to drink?”
“No thanks, I’m investigating Pixy’s death.”
“I’m having a little bracer.” She lifted her hand to order a drink. “Sure you don’t need something?”
“Thanks, but I’d better keep a clear head. Do you have cameras in the back?”
“No. I’ve been wanting to have the system installed. I wish I had.” Dejection filled her face. “Hell, the kid didn’t deserve to die like that. She never did anything to upset anyone.”
“Pixy was in here earlier in the evening?” I inquired.
“Before closing, actually. She only had a couple roses she was hawking. I guess she’d spent most of the evening at the Purple Sand. Someone mentioned that she’d been at the beach doing her busking yesterday afternoon. Then Purple Sand. She must have had a good day and evening.”
“So, she would have had a bankroll?” I knew that no money was reported on her body when she was discovered.
“Probably a good taking. She didn’t stay that long. She didn’t sell the roses, so she went to a couple of regulars. She did that grandiose little bow she does, and presented them with the roses. I didn’t see her leave. Damn, this is awful.”
“Is there anyone she might have talked with about where she was going?”
“You know, she didn’t talk. And what she said rarely made sense. The only one I ever saw her really conversing with was a marine biologist. The woman doesn’t live here. She’s a professor in a school somewhere up the coast. Maybe Maine or Delaware. No, it’s Vermont. Anyway, this biologist is named Evan. She often took Pixy home.”
“Were they romantic?” I questioned
“Naw. Pixy’s brain injury made her oblivious to anything like that. They seemed to be friends.”
“Anyone have a last name for Evan?”
“I never heard it. She hangs out at Silky’s Garden Grill. I know that’s where Evan and Pixy would meet. Evan liked the food at Silky’s. I recall she would bring her iPad with her wherever she went. Once she told me she got lots of her research done while hanging out at Silky’s”
Checking my wristwatch, I saw it was a little after lunchtime. I had missed lunch, but perhaps Evan would be doing some after-lunch research. I scooted the mile down the road to Silky’s.
Silky’s was a West Palm lesbian neighborhood bar and grill. Owned by Silky Gomez, it was an upscale seafood grill. I’d teased Silky that her lobster sandwiches were nearly as good as mine. The truth was that I watched her at the grill behind the bar. I wanted her recipe. Naturally, she knew that. I loved joking with the woman in her mid-fifties. Her Cuban heritage had gifted her with dark hair and sparkling eyes, a full moon-round face, and broad lips with a perfect smile. A clean apron hung from her medium-short, portly frame.
Silky had never, to my knowledge, announced the reason for her moniker. Although many of us guessed, from time to time. We were never privy to her secret.
Because of my interest in cooking, I enjoyed stopping by Silky’s when in the area. Over the years, it had become a kitchen away from home. A place of enjoyment. This was the first time I entered with a heavy heart.
Before I even sat down at the bar, she had placed a cup of freshly brewed coffee in front of me. Too much temptation, I thought as I sipped. I then thanked her. “Hits the spot!” I gave her a thumbs up. “Coconut?”
“And?”
After another sip, I answered, “Almond?”
“A new flavor,” she nodded. Her shoulders then dropped slightly. “You’re here about little Pixy? Lo que faltaba!” She’d said what we all thought – ‘just what I needed’. “First Rachel is shot nearly to death. Now this.”
“I was told a woman named Evan had befriended Pixy. I’m here to find her, and see if she knows anything about Pixy’s identity.”
Silky’s arm lifted as she pointed. “In that booth. The professor.”
Standing, I lifted my coffee. “I haven’t eaten yet. How about one of your lobster sandwiches. Hold the fries.”
A dismissive wave was given by Silky. “I’m bringing fries. You bony bitch!” she indicted my figure.
After a quick shrug, I took an opposite seat in the booth. “You’re Evan?” I questioned as I sat in the booth.
“Yes.” She looked at me quizzically. “What do you want?” Her tone was sharp, unfriendly. Her reddened eyes scowled. There was an attractiveness, a natural attractiveness. Short, light brown hair with natural waves hung around her face Her short haircut shingled in back and was stylish. Yet her haircut was purely for ease of care. Her jade eyes seemed to have gold flecks when the lighting hit them.
“My firm is currently investigating the death of a friend of ours. I thought maybe you could assist us. I’m Beryl Trevar, with Trevar Investigators.”
“I’m Evan Finch. Sorry if I came on brusquely. I just found out about Pixy an hour ago. I’m not handling this very well.”
“I’m sorry. I think we’re all shocked. I desperately need help to identify her. The police have nothing at all. Not even her name.”
“I have no idea.” Her emotions became more tranquil, yet there was a flatline kind of expression. “I befriended her month before last. She sold me shells.”
“Cheryl Garth, owner of Glitters, mentioned that you took her home once in a while. I wonder if you could tell me her address.”
“She doesn’t have an address. She lives on a dilapidated old fishing ship. I could take you there.”
“I’d really appreciate it, Evan.” I watch as Silky carefully placed my platter on the table. My hands wrapped around the enormous sandwich. “Could you could tell me anything you know about her, while I eat lunch. Then we can check out where she lives.”
“Sounds fine. I’m unable to get anything done with my research project. This doesn’t make sense. She didn’t have enemies.”
While I finished eating the scrumptious lobster sandwich, Evan gave me as much information as she could. She had befriended a young woman who was disabled through some type of blunt force. Pixy was schooled in the busking arts of mime, juggling, and some, albeit limited, acrobatics. This limitation also might have come from an injury. Small in stature, probably, I estimated
a few inches less than five foot, Pixy might have been in some form of circus training. Evan knew of no other friend, with the exception of an elderly semi-vagrant living aboard the houseboat docked next to Pixy’s craft, The Ghost.
Evan had met Frank Leroy, aka Lefty, the first time she dropped Pixy back at The Ghost. Lefty Leroy had introduced himself to Evan. He explained that since he had a ‘rattle-trap’ Chevy truck, he often brought Pixy home after she finished busking and selling flowers.
When we arrived, and I met Lefty, I had misgivings about him. But after he broke down upon hearing the news of Pixy’s death, I decided his concern was valid. He was a heartbroken senior man, telling me that she was like a granddaughter to him. He’d driven to the areas where she usually hung out last evening, he explained. He figured that she’d been picked up by Evan, and so didn’t question her safety.
He mentioned that he had no idea who might have killed her, but recently there was a couple young fellas, high school or college age, that had bullied her. They might have stolen her money a few times. I gave him my card and asked him to let me know if he thought of anything that might be helpful to the investigation.
Next to the houseboat was docked a dilapidated older fishing boat. The Ghost. It had long ago ceased to be seaworthy. It was now moored to the dock, and had housed the victim of a murder. I examined the craft. The upper half of the hull was a chipped and worn Capri blue. The lower part of the hull was white. It was dirt-tarnished, and rot was beginning to set in near the waterline. The cabin was painted a fresher white. However, the grime was beginning to build.
Evan and I boarded. “You have a key?” I questioned.
“She gave me a key when I brought her a television. She enjoyed a kid’s show called Splash and Bubbles. But her TV had broken. I picked her up a new TV, then hooked it up for her. When I finished tuning for her, she gave me this key.”
Evan turned the key. The door fanned back to show a room in disorder. But not as if it might be ‘turned over’ in a robbery. Just messy, and things out of place, but not unkempt and dirty.
“We shouldn’t touch anything,” I cautioned. I took a rubber surgical glove from an envelope I carried with me. “I can snoop without losing prints.”
“You P.I.s come prepared,” she muttered.
Turning on the lights carefully, I got a better look at everything. The clothing she wore, was stacked. A clean stack on one side of the dresser, and a heaping mound of dirty clothing on the other side.
After an hour of photographing, and searching, I put a call into Homicide Headquarters. When I reached the Chief, I could tell he was miffed that I didn’t call him immediately, before boarding. In past years, it would have created more tension. Then he didn’t like the Team solving crime. Now, it appeared, there was more than enough crime to go around.
The Chief had also told me that the fingerprint database had not identified Pixy. Nor had the dental search given up anything. She was not registered as a missing person.
We waited until the detectives arrived, then on our way down the ramp, I saw Lefty exit his houseboat. “Mrs.,” he called out. I looked nothing like any Mrs. Somebody. However, I did answer to his call. “You was asking about visitors. People who knew her. You said how we should tell about this?”
I moved nearer, “Yes?”
“Well, Pixy girl didn’t own the The Ghost – she was squatting at first. Then last year when she kept getting notices from the salvage folks that wanted the boat, some lady comes and buys it. The lady knew Pixy. I could tell. Anyways, she pays cash for it. I know the salvage yard fella that had bought it. Then he sells it to this lady, and hell, he stuck that money up his ass. He wasn’t paying taxes on cash.” Lefty cackled. “I know his type.”
A cash deal. I fidgeted with my pen and pad. “What was the yard’s name?”
“Don’t know what he’s calling the business now.”
“Can you recall when that purchase was made? I can look to see if the boat is licensed and to whom it’s registered.”
“Now, that’s a hell of a good idea, girl,” Lefty said with a laugh.
By the time Evan and I arrived back at Silky’s, where she’d left her car, my mind was spinning. We’d talked about the kid’s show that Pixy loved. In it there was a seahorse named Ripple. Pink. When Evan told the story of Pixy pointing to Ripple, then pointing to herself, she did it with fondness. Pixy was always in the state of excitement when seeing any seahorse. I also loved seahorses. With their prehensile tail, elongated snout – foreparts-horse and hind-parts-fish. Now, that would be something Pixy and I had in common. That I had not known we had in common, assuredly. But meaningful now.
Evan had also said she liked my dimples. She did that with a wispy smile of her eyes. It had spoken sentences to my confidence.
After leaving her off, I checked my calls. Glenda Perrault’s assistant had called to ask if I’d found anything about Wendell’s murder. I promised a full report in the morning.
Heading to the hospital, I decided that Summer, Rachel, and I would have a confab about both cases. Then Summer and I would return to our yacht to make file entries on all the information we had so far. When I got to Rachel’s hospital room, her royal highness, Dr. Hanna Zachery, was on her high horse.
Both Summer and Rachel were looking guilty as hell about something. Hanna was reading them a major riot. Turning, with her white coat flaring, she nearly screamed her scolding to me. “They’ve been working all afternoon long. Rachel needs rest. Can’t I make you understand that?”
“I’m sorry,” I stuttered.
“It won’t happen again,” Summer promised.
Rachel’s face flushed. “Hanna, it’s important that we get as much information as possible on the cases. They go cold quickly.”
“Yes,” Hanna’s fists squeezed. “Patients who don’t take doctor’s orders also can go cold very quickly.”
She bumped my shoulder as she stormed out. Rachel issued a sigh. “Sorry. I really wanted you to like her.” Rachel shut her eyes. “I adore Hanna, but she does have a one-note personality.”
“Rach,” I teased, “I’m crazy about her. Just now, when she said the cold deal, I could see how much she cares for you.”
The three of us laughed, Rachel’s hands paddled in the air, “Don’t make me laugh. My ribs aches.”
“A serious subject,” I offered. “Pixy didn’t have any known next-of-kin. No one to pay for her final resting kinda bills. We have enough, from our Perrault retainer. What do you two say we take care of burial, services, whatever…”
“Our coffer is filled,” Rachel said. “Yes, we really need to pick up the final tab. Great idea. I’m in.”
Summer paused. “I’m in. I wish there would have been more we could have done for her while she was alive.”
“Let’s think on that. There may be something else. Maybe a memorial or something,” I suggested. My partners quickly agreed.
We stayed for a little longer, then when Rachel’s eyelids fluttered to a stop of sleep, Summer and I snuck quietly out.
Repeating Hanna’s ‘cold’ comment, Summer got into the elevator. As the elevator lowered, she began to howl with laughter. “Cold cases and cold patients.”
I joked, “The doc doesn’t want Rachel cold.”
Summer sputtered, “She wants Rach steaming hot. Smoldering hot!”
Sneering, I added, “After the trio’s last love interests went out from under us, we vowed to do without love interests for a long time. We called our vacation, our renovation time after a hard-won case. Now it looks like Rach is abandoning renovation time.”
“Come on, Trev, you’re just jaded because of getting dumped by your love interest in our last unfortunate case.”
“I was jaded way before that,” I answered. “I’ve been jaded since I was a toddler.”
“That I do believe,” Summer smirked.
“I’ll meet you back on The Radclyffe in ten. I’ll fix us some chow, then we can work on files for the r
est of the evening.”
After Summer left, I sat in the hospital parking lot for a couple of minutes. There seemed so much to comprehend about the last couple days.
How would we ever make it through the mire and maze of two murders? Also, the attempted murder of Rachel.
I stuck a lemon drop into my mouth. I thought of my last lover. That was a file I wished not to review. Still, the memory of romance was with me. The engine of love seemed forever unexplained.
Chapter 5
“Where you floozies been? Where you floozies been?” Pluma was due for a late feeding, and she wasn’t holding back her surliness. “Putas. Putas!” She gave several ‘caws’ of warning that indicated her feathers were well-ruffled. Expletives were prominent when she was displeased. Her feathers were flailing as she clutched her swing bar.
Pluma had been the parting gift from a drug lord that I had defended when I was practicing law. I kept him out of the slammer. However, he was shot down by a competing drug dealer. I was bequeathed a parrot. My gift, Pluma, was a very creative parrot. She’d picked up the vocabulary of the gangsta and his pals. Most of whom didn’t have the intelligence quotient of the bird they were coaching with cuss words. Pluma’s rude specialties were wolf whistles and kisses. Yes, her beak shoves through the bars and she smooches the air repeatedly. My partners say that the parrot has no shame.
I contend that poor Pluma had no idea she was screeching such garbage. Or maybe she did. She was still located in the back corner of her immense cage. When I slipped my index finger through the bars, she attempted to attack me.
Because Rachel’s workload was based aboard the yacht, she and Pluma were best buds. In Pluma’s mind, aka bird brain, Rachel was her soulmate. Now, having not seen Rachel for a couple days, Pluma was acting out. Being a little feathered terror-beak about everything. First, the hiding and resisting our friendliness, and now calling Summer and me a couple of whores.
