by John Clement
I sat up, remembering the crime cleanup crew. “You know, I should probably meet your bird before it gets too late. I’m hoping I can bring Caroline’s pets back home, maybe even tonight. I think the police might be finishing up their investigation. And also, your assistant mentioned something about a nondisclosure agreement?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, good grief. That’s Albert’s doing. He always expects the worst in everyone, but I could care less. And, anyway, my life is an open book. Always has been. He’ll probably ask you to sign one, though. I hope that’s not a problem.”
I shook my head. “Of course not.”
“Good.” She glanced at her watch. “Let’s go over to the pool house.”
I took my backpack and followed her through the living room out to the pool, which was a deep indigo blue in the failing light. On the far side were three red umbrellas hovering over a line of white lounge chairs, each perfectly parallel to one another, and beyond that was a low-slung building, almost like a tiki hut or a cabana but bigger and fancier, with three sets of folding glass doors and matching red curtains held open with white cords. I couldn’t see it, but somewhere nearby a fountain was gurgling.
“Oh, wow,” I said. “This is beautiful.”
Ms. Kramer winked. “I know. Having a rich husband does have its perks.”
I grinned. “Ha. I wouldn’t know.”
She held her arm out and looked at her watch again, which she’d done so many times I was beginning to think she needed to be somewhere, but now that I had a closer look, I realized her motive was a little simpler: she was showing off.
It hardly looked like a watch at all—more like an elegant gold bracelet with an oval-shaped bauble in the center. Only this was no ordinary bauble. It was a platinum gold watch face, encrusted with so many diamonds that even in the fading twilight it gleamed and glittered impressively.
Ms. Kramer smiled. “You should definitely try it. I recommend everyone have at least one rich husband before they die.”
The living area inside the pool house was just as spacious and exquisitely decorated as the main residence, with the same polished granite flooring and sleek, modern furniture, including a white leather sofa and two red velvet armchairs around a long rectangular glass coffee table. Ms. Kramer pointed down a hallway just beyond the kitchen.
“The guest room is down there, and then beyond that is the spa. It’s divine. You’re welcome to use it while you’re here. There’s a hot tub and a steam room, and beyond that are two showers and then a dry sauna. None of this was here when I met Al, just the pool. It was the first thing I did after we got married. I literally could not face the world without a steam room. Do you know what I mean?”
I gave her a half nod, followed by a quick shake of the head. “Actually, no. I’ve never been in a steam room in my life.”
She turned, her face suddenly somber. “What? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No. Never.”
She shook her head. “Okay, that’s literally the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
I was beginning to wonder what in the world we were doing out here, mostly because I didn’t see a bird anywhere, nor, for that matter, did I hear one. It suddenly dawned on me that perhaps Ms. Kramer was expecting me to stay at her house while she was away.
I said, “You know, I don’t normally do overnight visits, although we could arrange it, but generally I charge more for…”
Her face changed slightly, a subtle narrowing of her eyes, but enough to make me stop talking, and then I heard a sound, almost like a muffled typewriter, but louder somehow—Pop pop pop pop pop pop!
Ms. Kramer frowned slightly. “What the hell was that?”
I’d heard that sound only once before, but it had stayed with me for more than a decade. During my training for the force, a deputy from the Miami sheriff’s department had given a presentation on how rapidly changing technology presents an ongoing challenge to law enforcement officers. If I was right, the sound we had just heard was an automatic rifle with a high-tech silencer attached.
Ms. Kramer took one step toward the living room with a puzzled look on her face. “It sounded like it came from the house.”
Just then, a man’s voice broke through the silence. He shouted something, but I couldn’t tell what, and then there were two more gunshots, much louder this time. As Ms. Kramer and I looked at each other, the sound of tires screeching on pavement came from somewhere beyond the house, and then we heard the grinding of a car’s engine recede into the distance.
Ms. Kramer whispered, “Albert…”
I reached for her wrist, but it was too late.
She ran.
22
As Elba Kramer rushed out of the pool house, I didn’t move. I just stood there, my feet glued to the floor. The sound we’d heard was gunfire—of that I was certain. A siren had started up in the distance, just barely audible over the chirruping of the crickets, so it was hard to tell exactly how far away it was—or from what direction—but I figured south, probably taking the longer but faster route up Midnight Pass to avoid Ocean Boulevard traffic.
I told myself to breathe. Blood was coursing through my body harder than I thought possible—I could feel it behind my eyes and in the tips of my fingers—and there was a loud banging in my ears, like a bass drum pounding to the beat of my heart.
I cursed myself for being so stupid. The moment there’d been even the slightest hint that someone was after me, I should have listened to Detective Carthage. I should have stayed home. I should have called each and every one of my clients and told them I’d have to send someone else to look after their pets until this whole thing was over.
I took a couple of feeble steps forward, but apparently the lecture I’d given myself about no longer moving through life with fear hadn’t quite yet taken effect. Every muscle in my body was telling me to turn around and run like hell in the opposite direction.
But I knew I couldn’t.
I reached into the side compartment of my backpack for my pistol, which seemed ridiculously small now given the circumstances, but I pulled it out anyway and released the safety. Then I willed myself forward, walking on rubbery legs through the pool house and out to the patio, all the while keeping my gun steady and my eyes open for any sign of movement.
It was eerily quiet.
I followed the edge of the pool and then slid in behind one of the columns by the back porch, feeling the vines brush the back of my neck. I had a feeling I knew what those louder shots had been shortly after the rapid gunfire: Deputy Morgan’s pistol. He’d followed me here, and I knew he was still outside. I just couldn’t remember if he’d driven through the gate when I arrived or if he had parked in the street.
A chill ran down my spine. I had just assumed the gunfire had come from inside the house, but it dawned on me now that it could just as easily have come from outside—from the driveway or beyond the front gate in the street. In which case, Morgan …
I shook my head.
No. I told myself not to panic, to try to concentrate and focus on one thing at a time, and for now the only thing I needed to do was find Ms. Kramer.
I peered around the column through the vines. I could see into the living room, but there was no one there. I leaned out a little farther to get a view down the long hall to the front door, but still there was nothing. Just as I was about to make a move, a gut-wrenching scream—high-pitched and piercing—echoed through the house.
I moved out from behind the column just in time to see a shadow fall across the open door of Mr. Kramer’s study, and then Ms. Kramer stepped into the hallway, cradling something in her arms. She was staring at the open door of the room on the opposite side of the hall, her back erect, her chin tipped up slightly.
Almost at the exact same moment, the front door burst open to reveal Deputy Morgan with his gun drawn. There was a look of sheer panic on his face. He shouted, “Is everybody okay?”
I said, “We’re fine, but Ms. Kramer
’s husband…”
“Where is he?”
I pointed at the study.
Elba Kramer had barely moved. She was still staring straight ahead, unblinking and barely acknowledging Morgan’s presence.
He said, “Ms. Kramer, I’m Deputy Jesse Morgan with the Sarasota Sheriff’s Department. Is your husband okay?”
There was a pause, and then she turned in my direction without answering. Whatever she’d seen inside that study had thrown her into a complete state of shock.
Morgan took a couple of steps toward the door and looked inside. His face went pale. He held up one hand as he unclipped his radio. “You better take her outside.”
Ms. Kramer was moving toward me like a sleepwalker, her face an empty mask, her eyes wide open and distant, and now I could see what she was holding in her arms. It was a domed birdcage about the size of a lampshade. Inside was a small bird, although it was flinging around the cage so fast all I could see was a yellow blur. I stepped aside as Ms. Kramer came closer. I thought I heard the bird twittering, but then realized the sound was coming from Ms. Kramer. She was talking to herself, like a whimpering child.
“I should have known. We should have left this godforsaken place years ago … we could’ve gone anywhere.” Her eyes glassed over when she looked at me. “I tried to tell him. We could have gone anywhere, anywhere in the world. France or Mexico, anywhere we wanted. We could have gotten away…”
She continued out to the patio, and when the cage hit the light, it gleamed and sparkled. I remember thinking it had to be gold-plated, or maybe even solid 14-carat. I glanced at Morgan, who was still standing in the doorway. There was a trail of small yellow feathers sprinkled along the red carpet where Ms. Kramer had walked.
I said, “What happened?”
He said, “I was parked in front of the house. I heard gunfire and ran up as fast as I could. The front window was blown to bits and there was a man running around the side of the house with a rifle. I fired, but I don’t know if I hit him or not. I was climbing over the gate when I heard a car speed off.”
I said, “Ms. Kramer’s husband…”
He shook his head. “You don’t want to see it. The whole room’s been sprayed with bullets. They shot right through the curtains.”
And then it hit me: the heady, sweet smell of magnolia that had permeated the air in my driveway. Instantly, the image of Mrs. Reed’s body flashed in my mind. I bent over and put my hands on my knees. I was having some kind of hallucinatory flashback, imagining the overpowering scent of those flowers. It seemed so real I could actually taste it in my mouth.
I said, “I need some air.”
I went through the living room and out to the pool, where Elba was sitting on one of the lounge chairs in front of the pool house, slumped over the gold birdcage in her lap. For a split second, I thought the cage was empty, but then I saw the small bird sitting still on the cage floor. It was banana-yellow, with an orange beak and small eyes like black ink spots. It looked absolutely terrified, as if it had just been through the most horrific ordeal imaginable, which of course it had. It was a miracle it was still alive.
Ms. Kramer had a cold, distant expression on her face, but there were tears streaming down her cheeks. When she sensed my presence, she looked up, and even from several feet away I could see that her eyes were completely swollen and bloodshot.
She said, “He’s dead, right?”
* * *
I always say our local law enforcement has some of the best officers in the business, but even I was impressed with how quickly they arrived on the scene. Someone must have called 911 the moment that gunfire rang out, because by the time I made my way along the side of the house to the front, there were at least a half-dozen emergency vehicles surrounding the place, with all kinds of sheriff’s deputies and Sarasota policemen, as well as two guys in suits walking around looking official and flashing their badges at everyone in sight.
Detective Carthage had arrived shortly after. I waited behind some bushes until one of the deputies led him into the house where Ms. Kramer was waiting, and then I walked right across the lawn, trying to look as cool and calm as possible, which must have worked because no one seemed to notice me. I might as well have been a ghost.
When I got to the Bronco, I didn’t even look around. I got behind the wheel and shut the door as quietly as possible, then I closed my eyes and sat there for a good minute or so, watching the muted colors of the emergency lights as they played across the insides of my eyelids. I concentrated on willing whatever part of my brain was creating the smell of those magnolia blossoms to stop. Gradually, it faded—which was a good thing, because otherwise I would’ve thought I’d finally lost my mind.
The giant front gate was standing open, but I knew any minute they’d be stringing up police tape, so I started up the engine, sunk down in my seat, and rolled out the driveway. At the corner, I turned right and headed for Ocean Boulevard.
Third time’s a charm, the note had said.
Apparently not, I thought …
I’m still alive.
* * *
The whole way home, I felt surprisingly calm, despite the fact—or maybe because of it—that my brain was filled with blank noise, like a chalkboard that’s been written over so many times it’s turned completely white.
At some point, my cell phone rang but I didn’t bother to see who it was. Instead, I plugged it into the car charger and switched the ringer off, and then I focused on the road in the glow of the Bronco’s headlights. About a mile or so outside the village, something small darted into the bushes on my left—a squirrel or a rabbit—and I thought of Franklin and Gigi.
They were still waiting at the Kitty Haven. I figured I’d have to ask Ethan to go and check on them, and maybe even take them home when the investigators were done with Caroline’s house—although given what had just happened next door, I imagined that could very well be delayed even longer. Practically all of Old Vineyard Lane was an active crime scene now.
Long before I got to my house, I pulled over on the right, making sure there were no headlights coming in either direction, and then rolled into a sandy clearing, hidden from the road by a stand of scrubby pines and chest-high beach grass. Luckily, the moon had risen above the treetops, so I was able to make my way without much trouble. I followed a narrow trail through the brush down to the beach and then walked the rest of the way along the water’s edge. When I was about a hundred yards from the house, I sat down on an old overturned skiff that was tethered to a rusty pole stuck in the sand. It’d been there for as long as I could remember. When we were kids, Michael and I would paddle around in it, pretending we were marauding pirates, but to this day I have no idea who it belongs to. Probably no one.
I pulled out my cell phone. There were seven missed calls from Detective Carthage.
Ethan answered on the first ring.
“Dixie, the cops just called. Where are you?”
Keeping my voice to a whisper, I said, “I’m just down the beach from the house. Where are you?”
“I’m working late, but—”
I said, “Okay, listen, we need to talk.”
“You’re damn right we need to talk! The detective told me you just disappeared. What were you thinking?”
I said, “Okay, did he tell you what else happened?”
There was a pause. “Look, just stay where you are. I’ll be there in ten minutes, and we can figure it out.”
“No.” I shook my head. “There’s nothing to figure out. Somebody’s after me. They want to kill me, or terrify me, or just plain kill everybody around me. Either way, I can’t risk you or anybody else getting hurt too. I need to get as far away from here as possible.”
“Dixie, are you crazy? Just wait for me.”
“Ethan, no. I’ll be gone before you get here. It’s not safe. Promise me you won’t come.”
There was a long pause. “Okay. I promise.”
“And you have to get ahold of Michael a
nd Paco and tell them everything. I don’t think it’s safe for anybody here.”
There was silence.
I said, “Did you hear me?”
“Yes, I’ll call them right now … but I don’t like this one bit.”
I said, “Me neither. You just have to trust I know what I’m doing.”
“Okay, I trust you. I really do. But where are you gonna go?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll call you when I get there.”
Before he could say another word, I snapped the phone shut and cringed. I hated hanging up on him, but he was right. I had no idea where I could go that was safe. All I knew was that whatever maniac was on my trail seemed to be constantly one step ahead. They’d known where I lived. They’d known I would be at Caroline’s house. They’d known I had an appointment with Elba Kramer.
But how?
I was still sitting on the edge of the boat in the dark, holding my cell phone. It was one of those old flip types, ancient by today’s standards. Ethan and Michael and Paco had been teasing me about it for years, but I’d stubbornly refused to exchange it for a more modern model, not only because I’m a dyed-in-the-wool Luddite when it comes to technology but also because it had originally belonged to Todd. I liked having it.
I looked down and turned it over a couple of times in my hand.
Was it possible someone was tracking my phone’s GPS signal? Were they using my phone to monitor my movement around the island? Or had they somehow listened in on my calls? I’d have thought that kind of thing would require some pretty sophisticated technical skills, or at least inside access to the phone company’s servers, but hacking is not exactly my field of expertise. For all I knew, anybody with half a brain and a fourth-grade education could pull it off.
I glanced up at the darkened ocean, its gentle waves twinkling in the moonlight like a field of fireflies.
“Huh.”
I stood up and flipped the boat over. The inside was covered in rust and filled with old cobwebs. Lashed to the seat was an old wooden oar that looked like it might fall apart if you touched it. In fact, I wondered if the whole boat wouldn’t break into pieces and sink the moment I put it in the water.
