Sunshine State

by D P Lyle

  “Tricky,” I said.

  “Sure is. But be cool and it’ll work out.”

  I shrugged. Be cool. Ray-speak for saying little but gathering a lot. No small task here.

  Ray continued. “You and Nicole hit up the folks Betty Lou told us about. Pancake and I are meeting with the pathologist tomorrow. The one that did the autopsies. Then we’ll begin getting deeper into Frank Clark’s world and see what we can find on Noleen Kovac.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Oh,” I said. “We, Pancake and I, just had a chat with Angus Whitehead.”

  “I met him,” Ray said.

  “He was telling us about something that happened at the station the night the shoplifters were brought in.”

  “Same night Sara Clark was murdered,” Ray said.

  I nodded. “Apparently, when the three girls showed up, they tossed him out. Clark and Munson. Said they weren’t very nice about it. More so than usual.” I glanced at Pancake. “I think he said they treated him like a dirt ball.”

  Pancake nodded.

  “They had a lot on their plate that night,” Ray said. “Even before the murder was discovered. The fight on The Boardwalk, the shoplifters, the car accident on the bridge. Don’t you think they’d find Angus particularly annoying under those circumstances?”

  “Sure. But he said something else happened.”

  “What?”

  “Clark and Munson showed up about that time. He got nervous, clammed up, and left.”

  Ray considered that. “Any idea what he might be referring to?”

  I shook my head. “No. But, whatever it was, it was enough for him to remember something happened. With Angus it could be anything. His brain isn’t the most functional.”

  “Maybe revisit him at some time,” Ray said. “Can’t hurt.”

  “Next time I see him,” I said. “Which shouldn’t be too long. I think he’s at Woody’s on a daily basis.”

  “What’s your take on him?” Ray asked.

  “Seems to be a happy drunk.” I looked at Pancake, who nodded agreement. “A pleasant enough guy. I suspect he has a fairly good relationship with the police. Morgan and Clark for sure. And probably even with Munson though he said he was sometimes a dick.”

  Ray smiled. “At least he doesn’t seem to have worn out his welcome over there. They tolerate him using the jail as a B and B.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE NEXT MORNING, Nicole and I decided to go for a walk. Get some fresh Gulf air and a little exercise. Sure beat Krav Maga classes. Much safer, and infinitely less painful.

  Our first stop was the reception desk downstairs to see where the best hiking trails were. A trim, neatly dressed middle-aged woman with chin-length dark hair, streaked with gray, smiled and looked at us over half glasses that rode low on her nose.

  “You must be Jake and Nicole,” she said.

  “We are.”

  “I’m Louise Phillips. The owner. You met my daughter Monica when you checked in.”

  “Yes. She was very nice.”

  “She better be.” Louise laughed. “She’s the one who told me about you. Handsome and gorgeous were the words she used.” Another laugh.

  “Yes, Jake is gorgeous,” Nicole said.

  She’s funny. She really is.

  Louise thought so, too. “She told me about the film you guys are doing. On Billy Wayne Baker.”

  “Not exactly on Billy Wayne,” Nicole said.

  “Monica told me. And, I have to say, I like the approach you’re taking.”

  “Thanks. Our goal is to tell this town’s story.”

  “It’s quite a tale.”

  “I’m sure you knew the victims,” I said.

  “Very well. Especially Loretta Swift. She and I went way back.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Louise gave a brief nod. “Still miss her. She could light up a room.”

  “That’s what we hear,” Nicole said.

  “And Sara Clark?” I asked. “I understand she was into a lot of things around here.”

  “That’s a fact. She seemed to volunteer for everything. And she always did a good job.”

  “Everyone says she and Frank had a great marriage. Sort of pillars of the community.”

  She sighed. “That’s true. Her murder damned near killed Frank.” She slid the sign-in ledger book to one side and flattened her palms on the counter. “They were married a long time. One of those couples you just knew were made for each other. ’Course you could say the same for Peter and Loretta.”

  “We heard that, too,” I said.

  “Were Loretta and Sara friends?” Nicole asked.

  “Absolutely. Peter and Loretta always took goodies over to the police station. Every morning. Sara was often there. Frank practically lived there. So, yeah, the two couples got along very well.”

  “What about Noleen Kovac? She part of that group?”

  “I don’t think so. I mean everyone here knows everyone else. It’s a small and tight community. But Noleen wasn’t that close to either Loretta or Sara. That’s my impression anyway.” She slid her glasses off her nose and let them dangle from the old chain that wrapped her neck. “Of course, the Clarks, the police department, too, for that matter, did their banking over where Noleen worked.” She smiled. “We do, too.”

  “I talked with Tommy Lee,” I said. “He felt Noleen was a loner. Kept to herself.”

  “That’s true. I’d see her around from time to time, but she didn’t go to many of the community events. Except for the annual Pine Key Fishing Regatta. The Farmers and Merchants Bank where she worked is one of the event sponsors.”

  “Tommy Lee also said she didn’t date much or see anyone on a regular basis.”

  “I don’t really know but I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s true.”

  “Sounds like the town lost three very special women,” Nicole said.

  “We did. None of them will ever be replaced.”

  Nicole laid a hand on the counter. “I think we’d like to get you on camera when we get into production.”

  “Me? Whatever for?”

  Nicole smiled. “You’re a part of this community. You knew the victims. You know the town. You also have a finger on the pulse of what visitors say and think when they come here. All of that is important to the story we want to tell.”

  Louise gave a nod. “Anything I can do to help.”

  “Besides, you’d look good on camera.”

  Louise laughed. “I don’t know about that.”

  “I do,” Nicole said. “It’s my job to know those things. You’ll be great.”

  We left Louise to her workday and headed down The Boardwalk. Louise had said that once we cleared town, heading south, the walk was quiet and peaceful. The wooden walkway ended at a dirt and gravel trail that wound through some scrub brush and trees before opening along the coast, where it melted into a sandy pathway that snaked through the dunes and followed the shoreline a good ten feet above the beach. We passed a few other walkers, each nodding and saying, “morning,” and a young couple throwing a stick into the water, their yellow lab retrieving it and splashing back toward them as if retuning it were a life-and-death matter.

  Louise was right. The walk was pleasant, with expansive views over the Gulf. Beat the hell out of Krav Maga classes. Easier for sure. I opened and closed my fists a few times. They actually felt normal.

  “You miss it, don’t you?” Nicole asked.

  “Miss what?”

  “Our classes.”

  “Yeah. Like I miss jock itch.”

  “Colorful.”

  “Trying to be funny.”

  She slapped my butt. “Keep working at it. You’ll get there.”

  Thirty minutes out, we turned back toward town. I saw a boat churning out into deep water. Fishing rig for sure. I wondered if it was Tommy Lee Kovac, taking a charter group out for a day of wetting lines. Too far to tell.

  “Isn’t this great?” Nicole said.

>   “Sure is.”

  It did have all the makings of a prefect morning. Until that old “man plans; God laughs” business reared its ugly head. In the form of a phone call. I checked my caller ID. Tammy. My ex. My insane ex. I punched it over to voice mail and kept walking.

  Two minutes later another call. Another dump to voice mail. Ninety seconds later another.

  “You might as well talk to her,” Nicole said. “She won’t give up.”

  Over the months I had known Nicole, she had gotten to know Tammy. Sort of. Enough to know that Tammy’s major flaw was that she lived in Tammyville. A place brimming with drama. Tammy possessed some deep-seated and inexplicable need to drag me into her psychosis. I mean, we were divorced. And she was married to Walter the wonder attorney.

  I answered.

  “Jake, why are you ignoring my calls?”

  “What do you want?”

  “It’s Walter.”

  The aforementioned mega-buck wonder attorney. Part of his mega-bucks came from my wallet. He handled our divorce. Not exactly handled. More like manipulated, engineered, whatever term works best for me getting a proctoscope and Tammy getting a big check. But then, he was now stuck with her, so I got off light.

  “I guess it wouldn’t do any good if I said I wasn’t interested.”

  Nicole laughed. Even she saw that wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Is that Nicole?”

  “It is.”

  “I can’t believe she’s still with you. Guess you haven’t had time to cheat on her yet.”

  “Or a reason.”

  “You’re such an ass.”

  “I am. Is that why you called? To forward that little tidbit?”

  “No. It’s Walter.”

  “So you said.”

  “He’s having trouble peeing.”

  I expected a lot of crazy shit from Tammy. Voice of experience here. But this took the cake.

  “Okay. What am I supposed to do about that?”

  “What if it’s prostate cancer? Or something like that?”

  “He’s surviving you. I don’t think a little prostate problem will derail Walter.”

  “Jesus, Jake. Show a little compassion. A little empathy for what I’m going through.”

  “You? It’s Walter’s prostate.”

  I could feel the heat through the line. Almost hear her teeth grinding. It’s the small pleasures that make life fun. But thankfully, she couldn’t think of anything to say so I continued.

  “I’m not a doctor. You do know that?”

  Laughter burst through the line. “You a doctor? That’s a hoot.”

  “It is. So why are you asking for my medical opinion?”

  “I’m not. Walter’s seeing his urologist this morning. I just thought you’d be a little sympathetic. I should’ve known better.”

  She hung up. I returned my phone to my pocket.

  “That sounded like fun,” Nicole said.

  “Sort of like a prostate infection.” I smiled. “An incurable one.”

  We ended our walk at Swift’s Bakery. Why not? Whitney Wilkins manned the counter. She looked up and smiled as we came in.

  “Welcome back,” she said.

  “Thanks,” Nicole said. “Smells good in here. As usual.”

  “Just took a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls out.” She nodded toward the tray on the counter behind her.

  We ordered a pair and two coffees.

  “Where’s Peter and Charlaine?” I asked.

  “He’s on a supply run up to Panama City. Charlaine took some stuff over to the police station. Oh, and the mayor’s office. Mayor Olsen has some budget meeting with the city council this morning and she always serves pastries for those things.”

  “To soften them up?” Nicole asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  She handed us each a plate with a massive cinnamon roll, dripping with icing.

  “Looks good,” I said.

  “Take a seat and I’ll get some coffee.”

  We did.

  She settled two cups on the table and filled them. “Anything else?”

  Nicole swiped a finger through the icing and licked it. “Hmmm. Wonderful.”

  Whitney smiled. “We try.”

  “Can I ask you something?” Nicole said.

  “Sure.”

  “It’s personal.”

  “Oh?”

  “About Peter and Charlaine? Anything there?”

  She hesitated and then said, “Why’d you ask that?”

  “She’s nosey,” I said.

  “I am. But the last time we were here, I got a vibe. And, we’ve talked to several people around town. Many of them think Peter and Charlaine would make a good couple.”

  Whitney smiled. She glanced toward the door, then lowered her head slightly, her voice dropping. “I do, too.”

  “Maybe you can make that happen,” Nicole said.

  “I’m working on it. They’re just not quite ready yet.” She shrugged. “But, if you ask me, I think it’ll work out. They’re perfect for each other.”

  The front door opened. I looked up. Pancake.

  “I’m hungry,” he announced.

  Of course.

  “You came to the right place,” Whitney said.

  “I thought you and Ray had a meeting this morning?” I asked.

  “Headed that way,” Pancake said. “But can’t do that on an empty stomach.” He looked at my plate, then up to Whitney. “I’ll take three of those.”

  “What? Nothing for Ray?” I asked.

  “He can forage for himself.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  RAY PARKED IN front of the Pine Key Hospital just as Pancake polished off his third cinnamon roll.

  “You get enough to eat?” Ray asked.

  “For now.” Pancake licked his fingers and wiped them with the wad of napkins Whitney had stuffed in the bag. “Don’t want to talk about autopsies and stuff on an empty stomach.”

  “Is your stomach ever empty?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  The white stucco building sat in a wooded area two blocks north of downtown. Brown block lettering over the entry portico indicated it was the Pine Key Medical Center. Not exactly what Ray would consider a true medical center, too small, but it appeared to be clean and pleasant. He and Pancake had done their research. The hospital had eighty beds, including a six-bed ICU, four surgical suites, an emergency department, and ten beds devoted to rehab services.

  They had also delved into Dr. Adrian McGill, the pathologist. The guy who performed the autopsies on the three Pine Key victims. Everything they found echoed what Clark and Munson had told them earlier. Dr. McGill had trained in Pensacola and then Jackson Memorial Hospital/University of Miami Medical Center in Miami, was board certified in clinical pathology, and had indeed spent ten years working in the Miami/Dade County Medical Examiner’s Office, which was located on the Jackson Memorial campus. He relocated to Pine Key nearly ten years ago.

  Ray held the door for a nurse pushing a wheelchair, the passenger a woman, cradling a newborn. A young man, loaded down with overstuffed plastic bags, trailed them. He looked bewildered. Ray gave him a smile. Poor kid had no idea how life was going to change. Ray remembered when Jake came home from the hospital. He wasn’t ready. His wife wasn’t ready. But they managed. At least Jake had been what they called “a good baby.” Meaning he ate well, slept a lot, and didn’t raise too many ruckuses. That came later. The teen years when Jake pushed the envelope to the breaking point. Pancake had helped him push.

  Dr. McGill sat behind his desk, microscope before him, a tray of stained slides near his right hand. He looked to be the fifty-seven years his bio had stated, his hair thinning and graying, a mustache-goatee combination, also gray, enveloping his mouth. He wore green surgical scrubs. He looked up when they entered.

  “Dr. McGill?” Ray asked.

  “You must be Ray Longly,” McGill said as he stood.

  “I am.” They shook hands. �
��This is Pancake.”

  “Never heard that name before.”

  “Me, either. But it works.”

  McGill had no reply for a second or two but then said, “Please. Sit.”

  They did.

  “Looks like your injury is healing well,” he said to Pancake. He smiled. “Betty Lou Thompson told me about it.”

  “She seems to get around,” Ray said.

  “She does. She also told me about the film you’re working on. Sounds interesting.”

  “It is.”

  “I understand you’re going to focus on the victims, not Billy Wayne Baker.”

  “That’s true,” Ray said. “Everyone knows Billy Wayne’s story, what he did, but no one knows what the victims’ families and friends went through.”

  “An admirable endeavor.” He gave a slow nod. “I understand Charles Balfour is producing it.”

  Ray nodded. “Also true.”

  “How on earth did you get someone like him onboard? I mean, he’s a big deal.”

  “He is. But the concept came from his niece, Nicole Jamison. She dates my son, Jake.”

  “Ah. So that’s your connection,” McGill said. “But why do they need to involve a P.I. firm?”

  Ray smiled. “We’re what they call technical consultants. Pancake and I are trying to nail down all the police and forensic work. To help clarify and explain things. Give it perspective.”

  “Makes sense. Anyway, Chief Morgan called, said I should talk with you. Apparently, you guys impressed him. No easy task.” He smiled.

  “He’s an impressive guy himself.”

  McGill nodded his agreement, then opened the right-hand drawer of his desk. Three folders appeared. “I pulled my records on the cases.” He laid them on his desk, tapping them with an index finger. “To help my feeble memory.” Another smile. “So, what can I help you with?”

  “What we know is that each victim was killed at home. Bound and then strangled. Manually. And there were no real signs of a struggle in any of them.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So none of them resisted? Fought back?”

  “I, of course, read all the crime-scene reports and none of them indicated any kind of struggle,” McGill said. “I also visited each scene and that was also my impression. In the autopsy examinations, other than the wrist and ankle ligature bruises and abrasions I saw in all three, the closest thing would be some contusions on the right upper arm of Noleen Kovac. In a finger and thumb pattern as if someone had grabbed her there.”