Hostile Waters

by William Nikkel

  “I think that’s more than fair. What about expenses?”

  “I’ll cover them out of my share. This is not about making money. It’s all about helping you find out what happened to your father.”

  “And if we don’t recover the idols?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Lindsey’s gaze met Cherise’s and held. “What can I say?”

  “Just say you understand how I feel.”

  Keep it together, Linds.

  CHAPTER 28

  Late the next morning, Jack motored him and Robert ashore in the dinghy. A slow start on the day after a great medium-rare steak, a few beers, and a late-night brainstorming session.

  Robert hopped out with the bow line and secured it to the dock. “Still think we can find Hemingway’s manuscript notes?”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  “We taking the Cooper this time?”

  “Leave it. The exercise will do us good.”

  “Do you good. I’m just fine.”

  “So you say. Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  Jack paused and scanned the town. “Sounds like Cheeseburger in Paradise is hopping.”

  Robert looked in that direction. “I think that place is always busy, especially on a Saturday. And keep in mind, the town is filling up for the festival next week.”

  “A blowout for sure.”

  “And this time we’ll be here to take part in it.”

  “You know what I keep wondering? Why’d Rafael tell Antonio the papers were here but didn’t tell him where?”

  “Maybe because they aren’t in Key West.”

  “As in, they never were?”

  “That’s what I’m saying. Rafael probably has the leather folder tucked away under his mattress in Cuba.”

  “And sent poor Antonio in search of something that isn’t here.”

  “Yup.”

  “That’s some wild goose chase. But if he just wanted to blow Antonio off, he could have said any number of things. Why specifically Key West?”

  “Jack, my friend, that’s the ten-thousand-dollar question. And also why we’ll spend some time poking around, and have fun while we do it.”

  Jack nodded. “Let’s start with the Hemingway Museum. You never know. We got lucky with Ned.”

  They walked the six blocks to Whitehead and Olivia Street. By the time they got there, Jack was eager to spend some time in the shade under the trees. He scanned the buildings and the grounds. A six-toed cat lounged on the front steps licking its paws. Five minutes later, he and Robert paid their fourteen dollars each and joined a group of people on a tour of the two-story house.

  It was easy for Jack to envision Hemingway living there. Of particular interest was the author’s writing studio in the loft of the carriage house. Decorated in pure Hemingway style, the room reflected a man who lived life large and then wrote, in his short, declarative writing style, some of the most extraordinary experiences a person could have.

  Not unlike my own.

  He could almost hear Hemingway’s big fingers banging away on the Underwood typewriter sitting idle atop his desk.

  When the tour concluded at the top of the stairs leading down to the basement Hemingway used as a wine cellar, Robert agreed with Jack that they were grasping at straws. Had Hemingway’s manuscript notes been placed among the items on display in the museum, a treasure like that would not have gone unnoticed. The entire world would have known about them by now.

  They stood in the shade and Robert asked, “Okay, Jack. You’re leading this expedition, where to next?”

  “So now we’re calling this an expedition, and I’m in charge. I thought we were just checking a few places to see if something clicked.”

  “I like the idea of you being in charge. That way if we come up empty, it’s your fault.”

  “What happened to the enthusiasm you had back on the boat?”

  “That was before you made me walk six blocks in the sun.”

  “What you’re saying is we should have taken the car?”

  “You made the call. And I’m sweating. Any ideas?”

  Jack checked the time on his phone. “Sloppy Joe’s for a beer.”

  “And then what?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll let you know as it comes to me.”

  Five blocks later, they stepped into Sloppy Joe’s and edged their way past a half dozen Hemingway lookalikes crowding the only empty table.

  “People are starting the celebration early,” Robert said. “If you wanted a quiet place to have a beer and brainstorm, this isn’t it.”

  Jack slid back a chair and took a seat. “Good thing this place has plenty of help or a person could run the risk of dying from thirst.”

  “There’s a few empty stools at the bar if you want to move.”

  “This is better for people-watching.”

  Robert motioned with his head. “Like this happy bunch next to us.”

  Jack scanned the room and the people occupying tables and those hugging the curved bar. “I’m sure the crowd will only get worse.”

  A young black girl dressed in a green Sloppy Joe’s t-shirt, dark shorts, and a ball cap, stopped on her way past their table and took their order.

  “That was quick,” Jack said. “Looks like I won’t die from thirst after all.”

  “She’s not back yet.”

  “No, but here she comes.”

  They sipped their lager and watched the crowd. The group of Hemingway lookalikes had grown more boisterous. Two of the beefy men were engaged in a debate over fishing and boats and which one of them had caught the bigger marlin. After a minute or two, they got up from their table and stepped to the wall of framed photographs where they continued their argument.

  Jack recalled most of the photos from his and Robert’s prior visits. Enlarged black and whites of Hemingway posing with enormous billfish, with his drinking buddies, or alone with a drink raised to his lips, always peering into a camera. A rogue’s gallery of Hemingway’s life and of 1930’s Key West.

  The men’s voices got louder, the tone of their dispute growing more heated. Three more from the group joined in the discussion.

  Jack tried to tune them out, but couldn’t.

  He leaned close to Robert. “I think I need another beer.”

  Robert drained his bottle and set it aside. “I’m not sure it will help.”

  Jack kept his arms planted on the tabletop. “I’ve been thinking. If Antonio came to Key West to find Hemingway’s manuscript notes, he must have had an idea of where to look. Otherwise, he’d have been in the same boat we are.”

  “Right, with no frigging idea where to begin looking.”

  Jack leaned back, distracted by the argument. “Maybe we’re missing something in that letter?”

  Robert nodded, his frown betrayed his own annoyance at the escalating tension. “Or Antonio’s journal.”

  “Exactly . . . a clue or something that we’ll pick up on when we look at it with a fresh set of eyes.”

  “It’s worth a try.” Robert scooted his chair back. “Shall we?”

  They stood and made an effort to excuse their way past the crowd of rowdy writer lookalikes. The man closest to them stumbled to the side, in an effort to make room. In the process, he bumped into the man next to him. That brought a litany of swearing and shoving.

  Jack tried to edge by and was pushed against the wall by the rest of the group who had joined the quarrel. The photograph he slammed against fell to the floor, in spite of his attempt to catch it. Glass broke, but the frame remained intact. He tried to rescue the photo from the herd of shoes and got kneed for his effort.

  He made another grab for the photograph and got hold of it.

  The drunken brawl escalated. He pushed aside the men closest to him, ducked a roundhouse right from one of the guy’s, and saw Robert shove the man to the floor.

  Jack reached for Robert’s arm to pull him out of the place and was stop
ped by one of the police officers from the day before. Jolly Green—Zackary.

  “Wait over there,” Zackary said.

  Jack backed away and watched the officer and his partner separate the bearded combatants. Robert joined him, ruffled but unscathed, and together they waited for the officers to get around to talking with them.

  “You okay?” Robert asked.

  “Bastards broke the glass on this picture of Hemingway.” Jack handed the photo to Robert. “Stupid assholes.”

  Robert studied it. “This is an enlargement of the photograph we found inside the box along with the letter and the book.”

  “Let me see that.” Jack took the picture back from Robert. “I’ve seen this photo on the wall in here a dozen times and never made the connection before now.”

  “Me, too. But that was before we stumbled onto Antonio’s hiding place on the Adeona.”

  “More like stumbled into it. What’s confusing is that photo was taken in Cuba when Miguel was twelve or thirteen. A year or so after Hemingway wrote The Old Man and the Sea.”

  “Then how’d the enlargement get here?”

  “And with the date 1963 written on it?”

  “Both good questions,” Robert said.

  “Very good indeed.” Jack poked at a tear in the paper backing. “And I may have found the answers to both. There’s a folded piece of paper wedged in here. If I can get it out—”

  “Be quick about it. Your two cop friends are on their way over here and they don’t look happy.”

  Jack freed the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

  Zackary fixed his gaze on him. “I thought we were done with you two?”

  “I know we promised no more fights. But we weren’t fighting.” He nodded at the group of men. “They were.”

  “How do you explain that?” Zackary pointed at the broken picture. “Appears you were involved more than you want to admit.”

  “We were trying to walk out of the place when one of those bearded yahoos pushed me into the wall, causing me to knock this to the floor, breaking the glass. The photograph and frame appear to be okay. Just needs to have the glass replaced.”

  Officer Harper, who’d let Zackary do the talking, took the picture from Jack and eyeballed it.

  “You talked to the witnesses, right?” Jack looked back and forth at the officers. “I’m sure they vouched for us.”

  “Your waitress did. And so did the bartender who called 911.”

  “Does that mean we’re free to leave?”

  “As long as you don’t want to press charges against anyone. Which I would strongly discourage you from doing.”

  “We don’t,” Robert answered for Jack. “And I’ll make sure my friend here stays out of trouble.”

  “Do that.” Zackary motioned toward the door. “Now be on your way.”

  Robert gripped Jack’s arm and pointed him toward the doorway. “You heard the officer. Time to go.”

  Jack needed no further encouragement.

  When they stepped into the mid-day heat, Robert stopped and looked at Jack. “That’s twice now.”

  Jack knew what he meant. “You’re saying we’re pushing our luck?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Then we had better not wear out our welcome with the local cops any more than we already have. Let’s go back to the boat and take a look at what I found.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Cherise got the call from the front desk at ten after one; five minutes later they followed the bellman to their rooms. Lindsey in room 426. Cherise in 427. The rooms were identically configured, mirror images with a connecting door.

  The bellman set their luggage inside and unlocked the glass slider leading to the Juliet balcony off of each one. Cherise wanted to get showered and changed. She didn’t need to wait for him to go through his routine.

  She handed the man a twenty. “Thank you. That will be all.”

  He accepted the money from her outstretched hand and said, “Enjoy your stay. If you need anything, please ask.”

  “We’ll be fine, thank you.” She pushed the door closed behind him and engaged the lock.

  “These rooms are really nice,” Lindsey said from the interconnecting door.

  Cherise laid her briefcase-sized tactical bag on the bed, stepped to her glass slider, and pulled it open to let in the meager ocean breeze wafting in off the water. The sheer curtains billowed slightly with a puff of warm wind that dissipated in the cool of the air conditioning.

  She turned to Lindsey. “Even better if we were on vacation.”

  “Which we’re not.” Lindsey leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms. “What would you like to do first?”

  “For starters, I want to shower and change. Then we’ll check out Winslow House Condominiums.”

  “Do you intend to talk to Amanda and Corey?”

  “Possibly. But not before I get the lay of the place.”

  “You have a plan, of course.”

  “I do.”

  Lindsey rocked away from the doorjamb. “I’ll be ready in ten.”

  Cherise showered quickly and changed into a sheer turquoise silk blouse, medium blue slacks, and a lightweight, white silk jacket. The right look, she thought, for a woman in the market for a multi-million dollar condo.

  There was a knock at the interconnecting door and she opened it. Lindsey stepped into the room dressed in white shorts, a sleeveless yellow blouse, and a sun visor most people would expect to see on a tennis player.

  Lindsey’s version of Florida beachwear.

  The colors deepened her mocha skin.

  Cherise checked the time on her phone. “We have an appointment with a salesperson at 2:30. Get your purse and we’ll go.”

  “To the Winslow House?” Lindsey seemed confused.

  Cherise slung her Kate Spade bag over her shoulder and picked up her Burberry sunglasses and a big white sunhat. “Can you think of a better way to have a look around the place without arousing suspicion?”

  “It’s perfect.”

  On the way downstairs, Cherise phoned the realtor to let the woman know they were on their way.

  The taxi driver drove south along the beach and dropped them off in front of an eight-story condominium building located on the corner of Worth Avenue and South Ocean Boulevard. Cherise paid the fare in cash and exited the cab. A platinum blonde, nearly as tall and trim as her, and maybe a couple years shy of her age, approached carrying a Gucci briefcase.

  “I’m Carla Simmons,” she said. “We spoke on the phone.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Cherise motioned toward Lindsey. “I’m Cherise Venetta and this is my friend Lindsey Taylor.”

  “A pleasure,” Lindsey said, stepping forward to greet her.

  After a quick round of hand shaking, Carla said, “I have several properties that I feel will interest you.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Cherise said. “I did specify that I was interested in a unit on the seventh or eighth floor with an ocean view.”

  “You did. But as you might imagine, prime ocean-view condos on the upper floors don’t come available often. Fortunately, 608, a two bedroom, two bath unit on the sixth floor, came on the market a week ago. I also have a couple of places on the second floor that might interest you.”

  Cherise turned to Lindsey. Time to bring her into the conversation. “What do you think, Linds, unit 608?”

  Lindsey pursed her lips in a prearranged pouty face of a spoiled life partner and said, “I did have my heart set on one of the upper floors.”

  Their little act put an eager smile on Carla’s face. The desired effect Cherise was after. If Carla believed she had a prime opportunity to make a sale, the more helpful she would be.

  “You know I’ll get you what you want,” Cherise said, setting the hook. She arched a brow at Carla.

  The woman bit. “Let’s do a walk-through of unit 608. I think the two of you will be impressed. It’s an exceptionally nice unit with updated marbl
e counter tops and fixtures, tile and hardwood floors, multi-zone air conditioning, and stainless steel kitchen appliances.”

  “Sounds like they put a lot of money into the place. May I ask why the owners are selling?”

  “They’re trimming their portfolio. But I have to tell you, they aren’t desperate to make a sale.”

  “Perhaps a generous offer will change their minds.” Cherise looked up at the seventh floor where Amanda and Corey lived. Their only reason for being there. “How about building security?”

  “You’ll be pleased to know Winslow House has a twenty-four-hour doorman and an in-house manager. If you’re ready, I’ll take you up.”

  Cherise glanced at Lindsey and got an eager nod in return. If she had a problem playing along, she didn’t show it.

  “We’d love to. Thank you.”

  “Winslow House is one of the most impressively located residences in Palm Beach.” Carla talked while they walked. “You’ll have direct access to an abundance of shops, elegant boutiques and restaurants. The building has a heated pool, a private tunnel for beach access, a fitness center and club room, a rooftop sundeck, and garage parking for residents, up to two cars.”

  “Impressive,” Cherise said. “Linds loves to shop.”

  “Don’t we all.” Carla handed the doorman her business card and motioned them inside.

  He eyed the card, studied the three of them, and flashed a row of even, white teeth. “Ms. Simmons, you’ve been here before. I assume you’re familiar with Winslow House?”

  “Quite,” Carla said.

  Cherise mentally noted the exchange between the agent and the big, black fellow manning the door. He seemed pleasant enough. Especially to a pretty face. Information that could prove useful.

  They followed the realtor up and Cherise had Lindsey take the lead. She gave an Academy Award performance, with well-placed oohs and ahhs to achieve the anticipated response from Carla.