by AJ Basinski
“Senor,” the big man began. “I understand you want to go upstairs to the Club Santiago,” he continued in only slightly accented English.
“Si,” I said. “I’m Lieutenant Mario Morales.” I extended my hand in friendship to the big guy and he grabbed my hand in his enormous paws and pressed them together like a Cuban sandwich. I could see he would have no trouble in removing even the most troublesome guest from the bar if he had to. I did not point out to him that I was no longer a real police lieutenant, nor was I associated with any police force. I was just a lowly security guard. I felt a little sheepish about that little masquerade, but then again, he never asked.
“Lieutenant, I am Phillippe Hernandez” the big man said as he dismissed the bartender with a wave of his enormous right hand. “For what reason do we owe the honor of your presence in our humble restaurant?”
I thought it best not to reveal the real reason for coming here right away, so I had dreamed up a cover story that I hoped would get me in the door of the club in order to talk to the Cuban refugees who had been part of the Bay of Pigs invasion force.
“Senor Hernandez,” I began. “I am not here in any official capacity if that was what you were worrying about. You see, I am actually writing a book about the Latino experience in America and wanted to talk to some of the Cuban refugees who had been involved in the Bay of Pigs invasion. Among other things, I wanted to get their perspective on the recent overtures the United States government has made to Cuba, including the potential opening of an embassy there. I am aware, of course, that many Cubans here in Miami are very much opposed to these overtures.”
“Lieutenant, you have come to the right place. I promise you that you will hear many stories from our little group here on these very subjects. Some will be positive and some, of course, they will also be negative. We have had many, many arguments on this struggle over the years, more so now than ever, for the reasons you have stated. The opening to Cuba by the United States has reopened old wounds and old memories. Let me take you upstairs and introduce you to some of our people here and you can judge for yourself, as they say, which way the wind is blowing.”
Hernandez then nodded his head towards the bartender, who reached under the bar and suddenly a door opened to the side of the bar. As if by magic, a staircase appeared behind the now open door, seemingly from nowhere.
“Follow me, please, Lieutenant, and be sure and watch your step. These steps are kind of rickety and steep. I would hate to have you get injured here on your first visit to our club. This whole place, upstairs as well as downstairs has seen better days,” Hernandez laughed. “But we like it here and that is all that matters.”
Chapter 20
When we got upstairs to the club room, the first person I saw was Enrique Valdez. Enrique lived in my apartment building in Little Havana. We occasionally had exchanged pleasantries in Spanish while we were passing each other on the steps to our apartment building or down in the lobby while we were each getting our mail.
As soon as he saw me, Valdez shouted very loudly, “Mario, how very good to see you! Como estas?” A number of men sitting at the upstairs bar turned around as he said this and looked at me, clearly sizing up this stranger in their midst.
“Muy bien. And you, Enrique, good to see you also. I had no idea that you had been involved in the Bay of Pigs invasion.”
“It was not something I talk about to people other than my family and my friends. And even then, I do not talk about it very much. Here, have a seat with me and let’s have a drink. Miguel” He yelled to the bartender, “dos Cuba libres.”
I had to laugh when he ordered the Cuba libres. The Cuba libre, of course, had always been the preferred drink of Cuban revolutionaries seeking to gain their freedom from the various dictators who had ruled Cuba over the years. Today, most people just call the drink a rum and Coke.
“Mario, what brings you here to our humble little club? As you can see, we have many mementoes of our failed struggle to free our homeland from that bastard dictator, Castro. I do not understand, he is older than me and yet he lives. Did you know that he and I were once classmates in a Jesuit school together in Cuba? But I have kept the faith, while he has joined the devil.” Enrique’s voice rose as he said this and he crossed himself several times as if to cleanse himself of his contact with Fidel Castro so many years before.
As he was talking, I looked around the bar area. I could see that the walls of the club were covered with photographs and other memorabilia relating to the Bay of Pigs. The room was dominated by a flag with the insignia of the 2506 Brigade. That was the official name and the battle flag of the Bay of Pigs invasion force.
Although I was sure that Enrique knew that I was serving as head of security aboard a cruise ship, I decided I had better stay with my cover story for now. “Enrique, as you know. I now am the head of security aboard the Mardi Gras,” I said.
“Yes, of course. Of course.”
“Well, with that job, I have lots of free time to pursue other interests.”
“Yes, of course.” Enrique chimed in. “I am very familiar with retirement. But sometimes you must continue working even after your formal retirement.”
“Yes, exactly, Enrique. I have always been interested in writing,” I said.
“Si, si,” Enrique said. “Writing is good. Someday I want to write a book myself. What do they call that in English? A memoir? But I doubt anyone will want to read it,” Enrique said sadly, shaking his head. “I, unfortunately, have led a very dull life. Isn’t that right, Miguel? Very dull.”
Miguel could barely contain his laughter as he heard this. I also had to stifle a grin when I heard this. I knew just a tiny bit about the life he had led in Cuba and in the United States. “Dull” is hardly the word I would use to describe it.
“One of the writing projects I have been working on,” I decided to press on, “is a book about we Hispanics in America and the role we have played in the history of America. One of the chapters will be about the Bay of Pigs invasion. It seems to me to be fairly central to that role. “
“Yes, yes,” Enrique responded. “That is certainly appropriate.” I could certainly see that he was very enthusiastic about the idea.
“I’ve been trying to follow up on some things I have heard about the invasion and was hoping someone here might give me some help answering my questions.”
Enrique looked very puzzled as I said this, wrinkling his forehead. Just then the waiter brought over our drinks and he said “Salut” as he raised his glass to me. I joined him in the toast and he then asked, “What is it specifically that you are interested in? I once knew a lot about this invasion but time has taken its toll on my memory. As you can see, I am now an old man,” he said, shaking his head. “Yes, an old man. I am older now than when my father passed away.” I thought I saw a tear in his eye as he said this.
We discussed various aspects of the invasion, including why it was not successful. He was very forthcoming with information and I scribbled notes on a small notebook I had brought with me for that purpose. After about fifteen minutes of discussion of these issues, I decided to get to the real reason I was there.
I began, “I have heard that before the invasion, the American CIA may have given some gold to the invasion force to help set up a new government replacing Castro’s communist economy.”
Enrique took a while before responding and quickly finished off his Cuba Libre. “I know nothing of that. Gold? Where do these stories come from? There is no gold. There never was any gold. If anyone would know about gold, it would be me. I was to be in charge of the Cuban treasury if we had been successful. There is no gold,” Enrique emphasized. “But,” he continued, “I am very curious, why are you asking me this now, Mario? Just a couple of weeks ago, another man was here also asking about gold.”
To say the least, I was shocked when I heard this. “Did this man give his name?” I asked Enrique.
“Yes, it was Mark, Mark something or other. Miguel, w
hat was the name of that man who was here a few weeks ago asking about gold? I can’t remember it now.”
“His name was Mark Sullivan,” came the reply from Miguel. I could see a look of distaste on Miguel’s face as he said the name.
“Yes, of course. ‘Mark Sullivan,’ that was his name. Do you know this man, Mark Sullivan?” Enrique said to me.
“Yes,” I said. “He was shot to death recently on Palm Island and his dismembered body was discovered in an ice cooler in Palm Island Sound.”
Enrique crossed himself as he responded to this news. “Requiest stat in pace.”
I immediately noticed that Miguel had no visible reaction. I wondered if he already had known about the murder of Sullivan. I even began to wonder if I should consider him to be a suspect.
I thanked Enrique for his help and left the club.
Was it possible that Enrique was lying about the gold? Maybe Sullivan had found out about the gold and came here looking for some help in finding it, just as I was doing. Could he have been murdered to shut him up? At this point in the investigation, I could not dismiss that possibility.
Chapter 21
I knew that I needed to get back to Palm Island as quickly as possible with the information I had learned and my own thoughts about the gold. I called Ed Shipley and when he didn’t answer, I left him a voice mail asking if I could meet him in his office as soon as I got back to the island. I told him that I needed to talk to him in order to discuss what I had learned so far about the gold and about Mark Sullivan and his relationship to the gold. I also wanted to talk to him about that second body that had been found in Palm Island Sound, someone named Amanda Blakely. He did not return my voice mail, which I found to be very, very odd. I began to wonder if he had decided to cut me out of the loop for some reason. And if so, why?
I drove overnight back to Palm Island and went directly to Shipley’s office at about 7 a.m. Once again the Florida weather interfered with yet another night of heavy rain all the way back to the island. When I got to Shipley’s office early the next morning, he was already there. It was clear to me that he was beside himself. Pacing back and forth in his small office, he was obviously extremely agitated. I was surprised. Because, like me, he had been a homicide detective in Los Angeles and he had seen many murders, including some very brutal ones, nothing should have phased or surprised him. What was it about these particular homicides that had him so upset and anxious?
“Tell me about this Amanda Blakely,” I said as I settled into his hard wooden guest chair as I watched Shipley who was still pacing up and down his office. For some reason, I decided it was best if I didn’t bring up what I had learned in Miami about the gold and the possible connection with Sullivan. I just had a hunch I was better off not bringing it up with Shipley quite yet. I wanted to see how everything else played out first and I heard what Shipley had to say.
When I asked about Amanda, Shipley ignored my question and, instead, began by first telling me about Elsa Pierce, who was Amanda’s partner in the Bed and Breakfast on the island. I had never heard of Elsa Pierce before I got to Palm Island but I did now understand that she was something of a big deal. I also would hear her name often during the remaining time I spent on Palm Island.
Shipley told me that Elsa was a well-known local artist who lived on Palm Island, not far from the Bonita Inn where I was staying. He said that Elsa had moved to Palm Island about ten years ago. She told everyone that her husband, Richard, had been a wealthy New York City investment banker, who had died of a heart attack in his early fifties. She told people that they had no children and she was tired of the hustle and bustle of life in New York City by herself. A friend of hers had told her about Palm Island. When she came down to the island, she apparently was enchanted by the beauty and quiet of the island. Shortly afterwards, she had bought a house just down the road from the Bonita Inn. She had been living there ever since with her friend, Amanda Blakely.
Amanda was a few years younger than Elsa. Shipley said that there were lots of rumors about the two of them that the gossip mongers on the island enjoyed spreading. But no one seemed to be certain as to the real nature of their relationship. One of the rumors was that the two of them had both been nuns in another life and that Elsa’s story about being married and from New York City was all a cover for her real sexual orientation.
Regardless of the nature of their relationship, they certainly had made an odd couple as they visited the shops along Palm Island Road. Elsa was short and thin with long silver gray hair that she sometimes wore in a bun. Amanda, on the other hand was tall, with short black hair usually covered by a white, large-brimmed hat. And no one could ever recall seeing Amanda without her very large, very dark sunglasses that she wore indoors as well as in the sun.
For several years, Shipley said that the two women had run a small bed and breakfast in their house. They lived downstairs in a small bedroom located off the kitchen and rented out the three upstairs bedrooms. Each of the three rooms in the bed and breakfast was named after one of the countries or cities they apparently had visited together in whatever prior life they may have had together. There was the Morocco room, the Peru room and the Mombasa room. Each room was decorated according to the country’s or city’s motif.
Elsa ran the kitchen and prepared the homey breakfasts for the visitors and guests that made the B&B very popular with tourists. On the other hand, Amanda had absolutely no idea how to cook. Trying to figure out the way to heat the tea kettle on the gas stove was enough to cause her to pull her hair out.
Elsa, according to Shipley, had always liked to paint and she claimed that she had taken a number of classes at the Y in New York before moving to Florida. She decided when she arrived in Florida that she would take up painting seriously. She started by painting a few seascapes of the views of Palm Island Sound from the window of her bedroom. Amanda had urged Elsa to put her paintings up for sale as she thought they were quite good. Reluctantly, Elsa finally agreed after several months of coaxing by Amanda.
At first. Elsa had sold the paintings on consignment for twenty five or thirty dollars each in several of the small shops located in the pastel-colored cottages that lined Palm Island Road. She soon became a local favorite both on the island and all of Southwest Florida and had several exhibitions at studios in Fort Myers. Things changed quickly for her one day when a vacationing critic from The New York Times saw several of her paintings in one of the shops on Palm Island Road and wrote an article about her and her paintings for the Sunday New York Times. Soon, art collectors and dealers from around the country and even the world were now trooping to Palm Island to buy her paintings, some of which sold for thousands of dollars. Shipley described her as the new Grandma Moses.
“Very interesting,” I said to Shipley. “What did these two people, Amanda and Mark Sullivan, have in common?” I asked Shipley. I was hoping to discover some reason that the two of them would both be murdered and in the same manner. I also wanted to find out why Shipley had told me earlier that their murders were not related.
“Nothing as far as I know,” answered Shipley. “They traveled in very different circles on the island. Amanda, of course, was part of the ‘artsy fartsy scene,’ excuse my French, due to her relationship with Elsa. I can’t think of a single person who disliked her. In fact, very few people knew very much about her. She was very quiet, almost remote. Yeah, remote, that’s probably the best word that I would use to describe her. And Sullivan, I’m not sure how you would classify him. In my opinion, he lived for fishing and women. I’m not sure which he had more of. There were lots of people who are probably more than happy he is gone. I don’t even know if Sullivan and Amanda ever met or knew each other. I would sort of be surprised if they did.”
“Well, they certainly met in death, didn’t they?” I said
“What do you mean, Mario?”
“It’s pretty obvious, don’t you think, that they were murdered at the same time?”
Shipley thought a
moment before responding, rubbing his chin. He finally said. “Hell, I guess you’re right. The forensics people did say that they were shot by the same gun. When I told you earlier that they weren’t turned out to be wrong.” Shipley said. “But how come Sullivan’s body was found almost a week ago and Amanda, her body, was just found yesterday?” Shipley asked me, which I thought was rather strange.
“That is what we need to find out, my friend,” I quickly responded. I sensed that now was my opportunity to get more involved in the investigation rather than just playing a peripheral role as I had been. Someone had to take the reins as so far it had gone nowhere.
I continued, “Someone wanted them both dead. That we know for sure. Anything else is speculation for now. Was Amanda reported missing by anyone?”
“That’s what’s strange. No, no one ever reported her missing. But if you are right, of course, she must had been missing for several days. Now, why in the hell wouldn’t have Elsa called me to let me know that Amanda was missing? I don’t get it. It makes no sense. No sense at all. They were as close as you can get without being married. I went by their place after Amanda’s body was found, but there was no one there. And the place was all locked up. I’ve tried to reach Elsa several times by phone with no success. Oh, you don’t think, maybe something happened to her too?”
“Obviously, I don’t know for sure, but I wouldn’t be too surprised. We had better get over to the B&B right away.”
Chapter 22
When Shipley and I arrived at the B&B operated by Elsa and Amanda, we were met by the handyman, Mike Schafer, who was cutting the grass in front of the house. As we approached the house, I noticed a sign on the mailbox alongside the road in front of the house that proclaimed this place as “Xanadu.” I recognized that name immediately as the name the famed English poet, Samuel Taylor Coleridge had given to the “pleasure dome” in his famous poem,”Kubla Kahn.” It was also the name that Citizen Kane had given his outrageously large mansion in the movie, “Citizen Kane.” Whichever endeavor had prompted the naming of the B&B, Xanadu seemed like an odd choice for a B&B run by two older women.
