by John Clement
Well, I thought as I kicked off my shoes. There’s only one way to find out.
I dragged it across the sand into the surf until the waves were lapping at my knees and the boat was gently swaying up and down. Miraculously, it seemed more or less seaworthy. I untied the oar and used the frayed rope to secure my phone to the seat deck as snugly as possible—I didn’t want it to get thrown overboard if the waves got too rough—and then, without even the slightest nod to what surely would feel like a ceremonious occasion later, I gave the boat a good shove.
All the way to the house, I watched over my shoulder as the waves gently ferried it out into the darkness.
23
It’s strange …
I don’t consider myself to be particularly plugged into the modern world. I still have a rotary phone on my desk along with one of those old digital answering machines. I don’t have a Facebook account or, for that matter, a computer (shocking, I know), and I don’t tweet, poke, like, or click … ever. I’m totally fine with it. But as I made my way down the beach in the dark, with Todd’s old cell phone drifting out to sea behind me, I felt completely, thoroughly, inevitably … alone.
It wasn’t an altogether unpleasant feeling, though. In fact, for the first time in days, I felt like I was in complete control of my own world. If it was true that somebody was tracking my cell phone’s position, they’d think I was headed out into the Gulf right now, drifting to Mexico or Texas or wherever the waves wanted to carry that boat. Of course, it was entirely possible they’d carry the damn thing right back to shore, but I tried not to think about that. At least now I had time to make a plan.
I hadn’t wanted to leave a trail leading away from my launching point, so I stayed knee-deep in the water, about a yard out from the edge, shuffling my feet in the sand to ward off stingrays and praying there were no jellyfish floating around. When I got even with the house, I walked backward out of the water until I reached the dunes, slipped my shoes back on, and then snuck through the woods. At the edge of the courtyard, I crouched down behind an old coco-plum bush and waited.
Everything was still.
I knew Michael wouldn’t be home—his shift at the firehouse had started that afternoon—but I couldn’t be so sure about Paco. His schedule is always a mystery, so there was no way of knowing if he was at work or not. I could see a single light glowing in the kitchen window of the main house, which was definitely a good sign, but I’d have to check the carport to know for sure.
After a few minutes, my eyes started to sting, and I realized I was scanning the darkness so intently I’d forgotten to blink. If anybody was there—hiding in the shadows and waiting for me to come home—they were doing a damn good job of it. I decided I’d just have to trust my gut, which was telling me there was no one here … yet.
I tiptoed around the edge of the deck and paused at the kitchen window. The only light came from the exhaust hood over the stove. Ella was curled up in one of the bar stools at the center island, sleeping soundly.
I let out a sigh of relief. That was the best proof I could hope for that no one else was here. I knew Ella would’ve run for cover if a stranger had showed up.
Thank God for small favors, I thought.
As I climbed the steps to my apartment, doing my best to avoid the squeaky spots, I shook my head. Here I was, sneaking around like a lunatic, convinced I was being followed by a serial killer and sensing danger at every turn. And yet, given the circumstances, what choice did I have?
When I opened the door, I silently thanked Ethan for locking it when he left for work. At least I didn’t have to worry about somebody jumping out from under my bed with a machine gun. Even so, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. There was something eerily unsettling about creeping through my living room in the middle of the night … like a burglar in my own home.
The hallway was darker, so dark in fact that I had to feel my away along the walls to the closet, where I slid my fingers across the desk until they bumped into the cold brass base of the lamp. I didn’t dare turn it on, but just next to it was a candle and a box of matches—a remnant of the time when our electricity could go out at the drop of a coconut. These days it’s a lot more dependable, but I still keep a candle in every room just in case.
As soon as I struck the match, the whole closet filled with ghoulish shadows, but I ignored them. I slid the door shut so the light wouldn’t show down the hall, and then I pulled out my suitcase and threw some clothes in, barely paying attention to what I was grabbing. The entire time, I had the weirdest feeling I was being watched, but I ignored that too.
When I was done, I went over to the desk and picked up the phone. I figured I couldn’t just run off without calling Michael. He’d never forgive me for not at least giving him a chance to talk me out of it.
As soon as I heard his voice, I knew he’d already talked to Ethan. He didn’t even say hello when he answered. His voice had that authoritative, older-brother edge to it.
“Dixie, what’s happening?”
“I’m fine. Just a little shaken up.”
“I’ve called your cell phone a hundred times.”
I said, “I know, but listen: I was at Elba Kramer’s tonight, and somebody shot the place up with an automatic rifle. They killed her husband.”
“I know. I talked to Ethan, and Detective Carthage called looking for you too. He said you just drove off…?”
“I didn’t know what else to do. I mean, that makes three people killed. And that note left on Edith Reed’s body said, ‘Third time’s a charm.’”
“Yeah?”
“So, don’t you see? Somebody knew I was there, and I think they just assumed we were in the front room because that’s where Elba keeps her bird. Michael, they meant to kill me.”
“Dixie, I’m sure there’s an explanation for all of this…”
“Well, if there is, I’m not waiting around to find out. If somebody wants to murder me, they’re gonna have to find me first.”
Michael said, “Okay, listen. I asked Detective Carthage about that. He said they can keep you safe until this whole thing blows over.”
“Right. In a holding cell at the station. No, thank you. And anyway, I’m not putting anybody else in danger again. If whoever’s after me found out I was there, who’s to say they wouldn’t walk in with a machine gun and mow the whole sheriff’s office down?” There was a long pause. I said, “Look, Michael, I’ll be fine. I made sure nobody followed me.”
“Dixie, there’s no way in hell I’m letting you drive off in the middle of the night by yourself. First of all, where will you go?”
For a split second, I considered the possibility that the house phone might have been tapped, which was probably as good an indication as any that I’d turned into a complete, paranoid mess. But I wasn’t taking any chances.
I said, “I don’t know. I’m just gonna … drift.”
He said, “Okay, I’ve got an idea. Come to the firehouse. One of the guys here has a fishing cabin at Lake Parrish. I’m sure he’ll let us use it. Come get me and we’ll drive up there together. They can send a deputy to go with us. We can stay there until they catch whoever this maniac is.”
I thought for a second. A remote fishing cabin in the backwood swamps of Florida sounded exactly like the kind of place I’d want to be if I was being stalked by a crazed serial killer. I said, “Okay. But Michael, you have to promise me you’ll stay put until I get there.”
There was a pause. “Of course…”
I said, “I’m on my way,” and hung up.
As I passed the kitchen, I noticed the basket of mail on the counter, with Guidry’s wedding invitation inside. There was a shaft of moonlight falling across it from the kitchen window, which made it float in the surrounding darkness, like a piece of space garbage lost in the infinite, unknowable universe.
Well, I thought to myself. No time like the present!
I tore the envelope open and pulled the card out.
Jean
Pierre Guidry and Monica Alice Diderot request the honor of your presence at the Saint Louis Cathedral, New Orleans, to witness their union in the sacrament of holy matrimony. In lieu of gifts, the bride and groom request that donations be sent to the Children’s Police Fund of New Orleans.
For a minute, I just stood there staring at the time and date. The wedding was tomorrow morning, which meant right now, while I was running around in the dark like a hunted animal, Guidry was probably sitting in a fancy restaurant or a chic, crowded bar, surrounded by friends and good cheer, drinking a toast to new beginnings, his buddies teasing him about his old ball-and-chain and saluting his last hours of freedom. I wondered what he would do if he knew what was happening to me …
Would he even care?
I shook my head. At that point, I think the lurking realization that I’d sent my cell phone, Todd’s cell phone, floating out into the ocean had somehow unleashed all sorts of feelings in me … feelings I hadn’t expected … feelings I had no idea what to do with. I dropped the invitation back in the basket and headed for the door.
Luckily, not a single car went by as I lugged my suitcase along the roadside back to the Bronco, but as soon as I got in behind the wheel, two deputy cruisers roared by at top speed, one right after the other. I knew Detective Carthage wouldn’t be too happy, considering I’d left the scene of a crime without letting him question me first, but I also knew he wouldn’t want me left alone for one more second. I just hoped Michael or Ethan would explain to him why I was running away. It was for everyone’s own good that I disappear … the problem was, where could I disappear to?
As much as I wanted to, I didn’t dare meet Michael at the fire station. His intentions were good, but I know him all too well. There was no way he meant to take me to some cabin in the woods. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he’d be there waiting for me, along with Paco and Detective Carthage and probably a couple of deputies to accompany me to a holding pen at the sheriff’s department.
There was only one place I knew where no one would ever think to look for me …
24
There are all kinds of retirement homes and assisted-living communities in Sarasota, but Bayfront Village is the queen of them all, despite the fact that its exterior is a garish, Pepto-Bismol pink and its architecture is a mishmash of styles, with beet-red terra-cotta shingles on the roof, faux-gold Gothic spires rising from all the corners, and gaudy, turquoise tiles plastered along the roofline. But at night, with its banks of windows twinkling against the dark sky, it doesn’t look much different from any of the other high-rise-condo buildings that stand in a gaggle at the edge of the bay. In front, there’s a white wrought-iron gate that leads down a cobblestone drive to a Spanish-style portico, complete with cascading fountains and a couple of chubby concrete cherubs to herald your arrival.
My friend Cora lives on the sixth floor, and whenever my life starts to veer a little off course, I find myself floating to her. It’s almost an unconscious instinct on my part, which is funny when you think about it, because she’s practically three times my age. You’d think we wouldn’t have much to talk about, but she’s sharp as a tack, full of finely tuned wisdom, and she always leaves me feeling like my batteries have been one-hundred-percent rejuvenated.
I admit going to Cora’s place wasn’t the smartest move on my part, but I was so exhausted, and I just needed to be in the presence of something good … something honest. If only for a few moments.
I couldn’t risk going in the front, though. I knew Vicki would be there, sitting at her concierge desk, and there are usually a couple of guards in the lobby and I didn’t want to risk anybody recognizing me.
I parked behind the building and snuck through the manicured grounds, avoiding the pools of light from the gas lamps along the walkway. I knew there were at least three fire-escape doors in the back, each leading to emergency stairwells, so I was hoping maybe one of them might have been left open and I could slip in.
Just as I was about to try the handle of the first door, it opened and a thin woman in a black pencil skirt and pink blouse stepped out. I must have scared her as much as she scared me, because she jumped back a foot, dropping a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. We both knelt down to pick them up at the same time, and it was only then that I recognized her. It was Vicki, the concierge from the lobby.
She said, “Oh my gosh, Dixie, you scared me to death! What are you doing out here?”
I tried to think fast. “Oh, I was just taking a late night stroll and … and then I thought I’d drop by, I mean, that’s why I don’t have a car. With me.”
“Well, you caught me red-handed. This is strictly a no-smoking establishment, but it’s been a long day, so…” She held up a cigarette and shrugged. “I didn’t think anybody’d find me back here.”
I mustered a smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell on you.”
“I’ll call up and let Cora know you’re here. She’s doing much better, by the way.”
I frowned. “What do you mean better?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, no. She swore up and down she’d already told you.”
“Told me what?”
She sighed. “I shouldn’t say anything, but you’re practically family. There was an incident in the elevator on Tuesday. She fell. Luckily, one of the maintenance boys was there or it would have been much worse. She hit her head, and we were afraid she’d broken her hip, but it’s fine. They gave her some pills for the pain, but you know Cora. She hates pills.”
When I stepped off the elevator, Cora was waiting outside her apartment at the end of the hall. She’s barely five feet, with knobby little knees, skinny arms, and hair as light and wispy as raw cotton. She grinned from ear to ear when she saw me, but even from a distance I could see a dark purple bruise hovering over her left eye, and she was holding herself up with two bright pink crutches.
She said, “Now, Dixie, before you say a word, I want you to know that I’m perfectly fine. A little sore here and there, but believe me, it’s not near as bad as it looks.”
“Cora, what in the world happened?”
She gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I got old is what happened. I don’t know how, but suddenly I’m an old lady.”
I put my hands on my hips. “No offense, Cora, but you’ve been an old lady for as long as I’ve known you.”
She grinned. “I know, dammit. Come on in and have some tea, and I’ll tell you all about the great fall.” She handed me the crutches. “Carry these.”
“Wait. You don’t need them?”
“They’re supposed to take the weight off my hip, but they’re just more trouble than they’re worth. And the pills they gave me for the pain just knock me out cold.”
She shuffled in ahead, even slower than usual, and once we were inside she said, “Lock that door behind you.”
“Oh, no. I guess you saw the news, huh?”
She nodded grimly. “Three murders in one week. It’s just terrible.”
“Well, with all the staff downstairs, I think you’re safe.”
“Oh, it’s not that. It’s Reggie Anderson. He keeps dropping by unannounced.”
“Reggie Anderson? Who’s that?”
She flicked a hand in the air. “You might have seen him in the lobby. Lives on the third floor. Silver hair, handsome … once. He’s sweet on me like syrup on a pancake.”
I grinned. “You mean, he’s your beau?”
“Beau? Such an old-fashioned word. Now who’s the old lady? And no, for your information, he’s not my beau, although I imagine that’s exactly what he’s got in his stupid bonehead. He’s already stopped by two times today, and the last time he left that monstrosity.”
She pointed at a vase of pink roses on the dining table.
I said, “Oh. He means business, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Well, what’s so bad about a handsome man bringing you flowers?”
“Dixie, what’s wrong is he’s ten y
ears older than me!”
I leaned her crutches against the small bar that separated the dining area from the kitchen. “Oh, come on. I’d think it’d be nice to have a man around the house. You know, to fix things.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Dixie, trust me, what I’ve got is long past fixing.”
“Okay, that’s not what I meant!”
Just then a kettle whistled on the stove and Cora padded into the kitchen. I’d already prepared a bogus story to explain why I was showing up so late, but if Cora was curious about it, she didn’t say a word. I leaned over the bar and watched her, hoping she had a loaf of her homemade chocolate bread in the works. She usually serves it warm, and when she slices into it, little rivers of chocolate ooze out and call my name.
There was no sign of the bread, though. She filled a teacup with steaming water and handed it to me. “And anyway, this is an assisted-living community. Assisted! That means there’s a whole staff here that gets paid to fix stuff. What in the world do I need a man for?”
As I took a sip of tea, her eyes widened, almost as if she was seeing me for the first time.
“Oh, Dixie.”
“What?”
“Sweetheart, you look exhausted.”
I felt my eyes immediately well with tears. “I’m not surprised. I’ve had a…” I paused, searching for the right words.
“Bad day?”
I nodded. “More like a bad week.”
“Oh, dear, and here I’ve been babbling on about my silly problems while you … Well, you look like you’ve been rode hard and hung up to dry. Why don’t you go on in and lie down.” She nodded toward the living room. “And drink that tea right up. It’s delicious—elderberry, cinnamon, licorice root, plus a little secret ingredient of my own. It’ll make you feel better right away.”
I felt like a child being fussed over, but Cora was right. I was exhausted. And I knew if I stood there any longer, gazing into her clear blue eyes, so full of love and concern, I’d start crying like a baby. I did as I was told and ambled into the living room.
