Island Storms

by Sherryl Woods

  Michael hesitated at the door to the den. “Where were you last night, Mr. Mendoza?”

  “At the condo meeting. You were there, Detective. I’m quite sure you saw me.”

  “And after the meeting?”

  “Rosa and I went to dinner, alone.”

  “Do you happen to have a credit card slip from the restaurant?”

  “I always pay in cash, unless it is for business. However, you could ask. The waiters all know us. They would tell you we were there until nearly midnight. Now, please, follow me.”

  In the living room, he introduced them to several couples as if they were merely late-arriving guests, then pointed the way to the bar. “Enjoy yourselves. I am delighted you were able to stop by after all.”

  On their way to the bar, which had been set up near the balcony doors, Molly held Michael back. “Why did you agree to his terms?”

  “For one thing, I spotted Enrique as we came in. I wanted a chance to speak with him. For another, it was clear we were getting nowhere with Mendoza. I didn’t want his guests getting out of here tonight without my talking with them even if I have to do it discreetly and under Mendoza’s watchful eye. You know some of these people, don’t you?”

  “Some.”

  “Then you might do a little mingling yourself. See what you can pick up.”

  “About Mendoza’s alibi for the night of Allan’s murder?”

  “And last night.”

  Molly nodded. “Anybody in particular you’d like me to approach?”

  “Take your pick,” he said, handing her a snifter of brandy. He rolled his own expertly around the glass, then took a sip. “God, I hate this stuff. Enrique, I don’t suppose you have any beer tucked behind there.”

  With that he turned his back on Molly and began a friendly conversation with the fired security guard. Left to her own devices, Molly mingled, listening to the flow of conversation around her, much of it in Spanish. Occasionally the sentences would drift from Spanish to English and back again, as if the speaker could express some things more clearly in one language than in another or was, perhaps, unaware of the switches entirely.

  It was the head of the Latin Builders Association, a man with whom she’d often dealt when looking for special locations for various producers, who finally approached her. “Molly, you are looking lovely this evening,” Xavier Nunez said, brushing his lips across her fingers in an old-world courtly gesture.

  Despite the sincerity of the compliment, Molly suddenly realized how inappropriately she was dressed. The other women in the room wore fancy cocktail dresses, dangerously high heels, and enough gold jewelry to pay for a low-budget motion picture. Feeling the need to explain, she gestured at her slacks and blouse and picked up on Mendoza’s earlier lead. “I was on a night shoot for a film and was able to get away at the last minute. Manny said to come by no matter how late it was.”

  “You would be beautiful no matter what you wore, señora. How is the movie business these days?”

  “Picking up all the time.”

  “I have an interesting home you should visit. The architecture is very modern, very Miami. It is almost complete, but the owner will not take possession for a few months yet. I am sure he would be agreeable to having it used in a film. In fact I think he would find it most amusing. I could take you one day next week if you like.”

  Molly was only half listening by the time he finished. Distracted, she murmured her thanks and moved across the room in the direction in which she’d seen Jack Kingsley go with Manny Mendoza. Why would the manager of the condominium be at a party with the Mendozas and their high-powered friends? She went down the hallway after him, pausing outside the door to the den. It was closed, but she could hear the murmur of voices. If she recalled correctly, there was a bathroom connecting the den and the bedroom next door. Perhaps she could hear more clearly from in there.

  Glancing down the hallway, she slipped into the bedroom and peered cautiously through the open doorway to the bath. The door to the den was closed. She went into the bathroom and checked to make sure both doors were locked. Then she listened.

  “The board wasn’t happy with that last supply,” Kingsley said. “You’ll have to increase the quality this time or I’ll have trouble getting an approval.”

  “You forget that I am back. I will sign off. If I send you a higher grade material, that increases the cost to me. The increase will have to come out of your cut.”

  “No,” Kingsley said. “It comes out of your share. You do what you have to do or I’ll find a supplier who can come through for me.”

  “And who will sign the papers for you?” Mendoza countered. “You lost money those months when Allan was in charge. The college bills for your children did not stop, however, did they? Be sensible, my friend, or one of these days you’re going to go too far. In many ways these penny-ante deals of yours are more trouble than they’re worth.”

  Suddenly the picture came clear to Molly. It was the manager, not Mendoza, who’d been behind the purchasing decisions, obviously with Mendoza’s cooperation. Mendoza’s company was apparently getting its own share of the take.

  With his business background and distaste for waste and mismanagement, Allan Winecroft had probably figured out the scam the first time he’d taken a good look at the books. Certainly he would have noticed the first time a major bid came in for supplies and was submitted from Mendoza’s firm without competing bids. Even if he hadn’t yet figured out who was responsible, if he’d objected strenuously, it would have threatened Kingsley’s way of doing business. If he was raking in thousands of dollars a year in kickbacks, that was certainly motive enough for murder. Mendoza had a motive also. Had Allan exposed his role in the scheme, it would have damaged his reputation as a legitimate businessman.

  But what about opportunity? Which man had that? And how had either of them known about the matching knives? Was there a set in Kingsley’s apartment? Or maybe even in this one? The two of them clearly worked together in everything else. What about the murder? Could they have plotted it together?

  Molly slipped out of the bathroom and made her way to the kitchen, where the caterers were just cleaning up. She smiled brightly. “Excuse me, I just wanted to get a plain glass of water. Would you mind?”

  One of the women nodded politely, got a glass from the cabinet and filled it with ice and bottled water. Molly sipped it slowly as she glanced around. “This is really quite a kitchen. Mrs. Mendoza has obviously done a lot in here. You must enjoy working for her.”

  “Sí,” the woman said. “She has only the best.”

  Molly’s gaze focused on the butcher block table at the back of the room. A wooden knife holder sat on it. The handles sticking up looked exactly like her own. “Oh, are those those Swiss knives?” she said, already moving toward them. “I’ve been wanting to buy some, but they’re outrageously expensive. Are they good?”

  The caterer looked puzzled, but nodded. “Sí, very good, very sharp.”

  Sharp enough to cut through human muscle anyway, Molly thought with a shudder. One by one she lifted them up, glancing at the blades. The paring knife was there, the utility knife, a bread knife, and a meat cleaver. The serrated knife and the carving knife were missing. Either Mendoza was behind the murders after all or Kingsley had had access to his kitchen on occasions other than tonight. Judging from the conversation she’d just heard between the two, it was likely that they met often. In fact, when Mendoza had been president of the board they would have had plenty of opportunities to plan and scheme together without anyone suspecting a thing.

  Once he’d been voted off the board and was no longer able to protect Kingsley’s unwise decisions, perhaps Mendoza had become a threat, too. She had just heard him suggest that he was about to cut the flow of money into the manager’s hands by ending the sweetheart deals he’d been making. By implicating him in the murder of Allan, t
he manager would have rid himself of all interference so that his shady business could continue as usual. Or Mendoza could have decided to take matters into his own hands.

  Her pulse racing with the excitement of her discovery, she went back into the living room and looked for Michael. Though the crowd was much thinner than when they’d arrived, she didn’t spot him immediately. She was so busy looking, though, that she didn’t see Kingsley coming up beside her. Before she realized he was there, his hand was under her elbow and he was wordlessly guiding her toward the balcony. Uneasy with his peremptory manner and filled with her own suspicions, she balked at the door.

  “Please,” he said then, smiling. “You look pale. A little air will be good for you. I’m sure you’re distraught over seeing Ingrid like that last night.”

  “I’ve survived,” she said, hanging back. He urged her forward. They were only twelve floors up, but for Molly that was several stories too many. She stayed as far from the metal railing as she could, her back pressed tight against the wall.

  “No, my dear, you must see the view,” Kingsley said, gesturing widely. “Because it’s on a northwest corner, you can see the Coconut Grove skyline across the bay. It really is lovely from here, especially at night.”

  At Molly’s failure to respond, a flicker of shrewd awareness sparked in his eyes. “Oh, that’s right,” he said with exaggerated innocence. “Heights make you nervous, don’t they?”

  Molly was trying to keep her teeth from chattering. She stared at the floor. Every time she dared a glance at Kingsley himself, she glimpsed beyond him and automatically calculated the drop to the ground. Dizziness swept over her.

  “How do you know that?” she asked, her voice choked.

  “I believe you mentioned it when you moved in. You said you could never live on a floor higher than the fire ladders could reach. That’s why you picked the apartment on five, even though we had one available with a nicer view and a better deal.”

  Terrific, the sadist knew all about her fear of heights and had brought her out here anyway. She had to keep him talking. Sooner or later Michael would miss her and come looking. If she stayed calm and didn’t look down, she’d be just fine. Maybe if she acted nonchalant, he would let her go, satisfied with having frightened her.

  “Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?” she asked in the closest thing she could manage to a conversational tone. “If not, I’d like to go back inside. Detective O’Hara will be looking for me.”

  She took a step toward the door, but Kingsley’s hand clamped around her elbow so tightly that she knew there’d be bruises by morning. He yanked her closer to the edge. Even though the railing was waist high and reasonably sturdy, Molly could feel bile rising in her throat. She tried to tell herself to remain calm, to keep talking, maybe get him to confirm some of her suppositions about what had happened. But that would mean telling him that she knew the truth and something warned her that would be the most dangerous thing she could do.

  Or would it? Even if he was guilty, maybe she could bargain with him. Was it possible to bargain with a man who’d killed twice? Wasn’t that what Ingrid had tried? Her attempt at blackmail had certainly backfired.

  “You won’t do it,” she said with far more bravado than she was feeling.

  His smile sent chills down her spine. “Do what? I am merely showing you the view.” He backed away a step. “I am sorry if you were frightened.”

  He sounded very sincere. “Perhaps I should get you a drink. Wine? Brandy?”

  The manager appeared so concerned Molly was caught off guard. She wondered if she’d been imagining the menace only seconds before. “No, thanks,” she said hurriedly. “I was just getting ready to leave.”

  He nodded and stepped aside. “A pleasure seeing you as always.”

  Molly shivered. She had to force herself not to turn and run. Inside she spotted Michael, moved toward him and linked her arm through his. Though he kept talking, there was a quizzical expression in his eyes when he glanced at her. As soon as there was a lull in the conversation, she said, “I really want to get back to Brian. Are you about ready to leave?”

  “Not quite yet,” he said.

  “Then I’ll see you downstairs.”

  He regarded her worriedly. “Molly?”

  “It’s okay,” she told him. “Really.” Still shaken, she practically raced from the room. As soon as the door to the Mendoza apartment closed behind her, Molly released the breath she’d been holding. She was in such a hurry to get back to the relative sanctity of her own apartment, she almost took the stairs, then thought of being trapped in the stairwell with Kingsley or Mendoza after her. Again, a chill raced down her spine. She punched the button for the elevator again and again.

  “Dammit, come on,” she muttered, already regretting the impulse that had made her flee Michael’s side. Too late now. She’d be fine, though, once she was home.

  The elevator doors slid open and she stepped inside. They had begun to close all too slowly, when hands braced the two sides apart. The doors retracted and Kingsley stepped in. “If you don’t mind,” he said. “I’ll just ride along with you.”

  Instinctively, Molly reached for the emergency button to set off an alarm, but the manager was quicker. Stepping neatly between her and the control panel, he pressed the button for the garage.

  With every ounce of bravado she possessed, Molly said, “Hit five for me, please.”

  There was that slick, fake smile again as he said, “Not quite yet. There’s something I’d like you to see first.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t be so impatient. We’ll be there in just a minute.”

  In the garage he grabbed her elbow as roughly as he had earlier and guided her toward the greenhouse and toolshed. When they reached the shed, he opened the lock and shoved her inside. Molly knew she had to keep him talking, had to keep him from locking that door and leaving her in this metal box to die of the heat, if she didn’t die of sheer terror first.

  “Why are you doing this?” she demanded, hoping for a confession she could pass along when she got out of this.

  “Don’t play games with me. I know you’ve figured everything out. I saw you try to slip away from the bathroom after my meeting with Mendoza upstairs. You went straight to the kitchen to check on the knives, didn’t you?”

  There was little point in denying it, she decided. “Did Mendoza kill Allan?” she asked, hoping that casting blame elsewhere would buy her a little time. Instead, Jack Kingsley looked insulted.

  “Please,” he said derisively.

  Molly was startled by the too easy admission. Then, again, what could it matter? He was going to leave her here to die. Obviously he saw no reason not to tie up any loose ends for her satisfaction before he shut her in and locked the door.

  “Okay, how did you know about the knives? It was very clever of you.”

  “Drucilla sliced a piece of cake for me when I dropped by the cardroom later that night. I didn’t realize the knife was yours at the time, but the opportunity was too good to miss. When she’d taken it with her, I slipped upstairs, used the master key, and borrowed one from the Mendozas’ kitchen. I figured I had two people in line in front of me as suspects. The owner of the first knife and Mendoza. Should have been the perfect crime. It would have been, too, if it hadn’t been for that foolish girl. Ingrid had borrowed one of Rosa’s knives one night and recognized that it and the murder weapon came from the same set. She had seen me coming from the Mendozas’ apartment the night of the murder and put two and two together. She tried to blackmail me. I couldn’t let her get away with it.”

  “So you killed her last night.”

  “I had no choice, just as I have none now.”

  Molly guessed his next move and tried to grab him as he backed out of the shed. She caught the edge of his sleeve and heard it rip as he shook her off, t
hen slammed the door with a metallic crash. She threw herself against it, but it didn’t give. She picked herself up and prepared to make one last desperate attempt, but she heard the ominous click as the door locked.

  “Oh God,” she muttered, sliding to the floor. “Oh, damn.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Twice during the endless, sweltering night Molly heard the distant sound of car doors closing. Each time she pounded on the walls of the shed and screamed at the top of her lungs. Each time she failed to attract any attention.

  Morning would be better, she told herself repeatedly. More people would be coming and going. Perhaps someone from maintenance would even come to open the shed for supplies. Surely by then Michael would have launched a full-scale search as well. It would be okay.

  But all the time she sought to reassure herself, she could feel the perspiration trickling down her back, feel the heat closing in and the air getting more and more stale and lifeless.

  Inch by inch she searched the shed for some sort of tool that could be used as a lever on the door. Surely it couldn’t take too much strength to pop the hinges on a temporary structure like this. The only thing she found was a supply of mop handles, and those couldn’t be wedged into the tiny slit between the door and its frame.

  She finally sank onto one of the boxes and tried to think. She needed to conserve her strength, too. Perspiring too freely would only speed the heat prostration she was facing if she wasn’t found soon. It was too dark inside to see her watch, but from the way the heat was building, she could tell it was daylight. As the sun rose, so would the temperature in the shed. She had no idea how long a person could survive in that sort of intense heat, but it probably wasn’t long. Hours, perhaps.

  Bordering on panic, she began taking shallower and shallower breaths as perspiration dried and her skin burned feverishly. For something to do, she began counting supplies. Fifty ten-gallon drums of rug shampoo. Ten, no, twelve boxes of extra-large-size bottles of liquid soap. Five, no, eight—oh, God, how many cartons of paper towel rolls? They seemed to be swimming in front of her eyes. She licked her lips, surprised to find them already dry and cracked.