I wanted to ask Mitch if and what he knew about Francine’s death, but someone knocked and Zack called out. “Bailey, you still awake? Bailey?”
FIVE
“Just a minute.” I shoved Mitch out the back door, hoping nobody would see his exit. I wondered about his apartment, wondered when I’d see him again. Once he left, I ran through the living room, grabbed a deep breath, and opened the door. Zack stood waiting on the doorstep, but he didn’t mention my delay in appearing.
“The police want to talk to you and all the near neighbors at Eden Palms. Detective Cassidy will notify us in about ten minutes. You’ll come along, won’t you? They’re removing the crime scene tape now.”
I motioned Zack inside. “But—”
“Don’t worry. Cassidy says this’ll be an informal meeting.”
“Yeah, right. I watch Law and Order. The words ‘informal questioning’ are a ploy. They hope the culprit will be so nervous he’ll drop his guard, say something incriminating, and make their investigation easier.”
“If you’d rather skip their questions tonight, Cassidy said you could come to police headquarters tomorrow. Your choice. Why not go tonight? Get it behind you.”
“Was Francine…was she murdered?” The word snagged in my throat.
“The police haven’t said for sure. They’re calling their work tonight a death investigation. But since they strung tape, I’m guessing they suspect foul play.”
“I’ll go as requested, of course. Why don’t you sit and relax were while we wait to be called?” Where was Mitch? I hoped he’d managed to leave the area unnoticed.
Zack glanced at his watch before he stepped farther into the living room. Through the open doorway we watched the activities at the mansion. One cop tugged the crime scene tape off the palms, the hibiscus, the crotons that surrounded the house, then another cop arrived to help. They stuffed the tape into a plastic bag.
“Guess they can’t reuse the stuff.” We left the doorway and sat together on the couch. “At least that’s what Cassidy said. It’s too wrinkled and stretched. They burn it later to keep it out of the hands of Dumpster divers.”
I nodded. “Kids love to use it instead of toilet tissue when they decorate a home of their choice.”
I sensed Zack thinking discussion on crime scene tape would prevent our discussing Francine. But questions tortured me, and so far he was the only person who might have answers.
“Zack, you said Francine fell. Exactly what happened? Where did she fall?”
“She fell from the second floor foyer down the curving staircase to the front hall entryway. Twenty-three steps. Twenty-three! The M.E.’s doing an autopsy, but he said from all appearances, she died from a broken neck. He’ll have a full report ready—maybe tomorrow.”
Why did I sense Zack withholding information? Surely I deserved to know what had happened. In a reflex motion, I rubbed my neck. When I noticed Zack watching, I dropped my hand to my side. “A broken neck. How awful. How terrible.”
“The M.E. thinks Mother died instantly—if that’s a comfort to anybody.”
No comment. I remembered my mother’s lengthy bout with cancer and how she’d suffered for months. But who could say a quick goodbye was less painful than a slow farewell. Not I. Certainly, not I. I didn’t ask Zack’s opinion.
“Evidently, the police don’t believe Francine fell by accident,” I said. “But what do you think? I mean, she’d climbed up and down those curving steps several times a day for years. She was aware of places where the treads narrowed—knew them well, but anyone can make a misstep.”
“I’m hoping the police call her fall an accident, nothing more sinister. But maybe something or somebody rushed her. She’d been preparing for a meeting tonight. I know she had her cleaning lady here yesterday, but today maybe some last-minute detail caused Mother to hurry. Her fall certainly could have been an accident. That would be an easy answer, maybe too easy.”
Again, I sensed Zack withholding information. Was he privy to some esoteric secret he was withholding from me? I thought of Francine’s note, but I refused to share it. Clearly, Zack and I felt wary of each other.
“Zack…do you believe Francine might have taken her own life?”
Zack stood and paced. “Think about that, Bailey. No. I don’t believe she had an accident. And no, I don’t think she committed suicide. Would you consider killing yourself by throwing yourself down a flight of stairs?”
He gave me no chance to answer.
“No, of course you wouldn’t. Never in this world. Nor would I. Nor would Mother. She was too gung-ho on life, too caught up in the day-by-day excitement of Key West to want to exit at age sixty.”
He’d given his take on the accident and suicide questions. Now my voice dropped to a whisper as I faced the only alternative. “Murder? You think someone entered the mansion and murdered your mother?”
Zack’s steady gaze bored into mine. “The police haven’t said murder, but that’s my thinking. You’re the only one I’ve told, Bailey. Please don’t let my words go any farther until we know what happened.”
“Of course.” I sighed in relief, felt as if someone had hacked through the anchor line constricting my lungs. Had Zack been involved in Francine’s fall, he’d promote the accident theory, wouldn’t he? Or the suicide theory. A killer wouldn’t suggest the possibility of murder. He wouldn’t express an opinion that would be tantamount to asking for an in-depth police investigation. Would he?
It bothered me that I worried about Zack’s role in this death scene. He’d never given me reason to be afraid of him, and I wasn’t afraid of him now. Or was I? No. I argued with myself. No. It was only normal that I worried about him. Nobody wanted to see a friend involved in a police investigation.
Zack meant no more to me than any other good friend. Francine had told me about his teenage engagement and his devastation when his bride-to-be got cold feet and fled the church, leaving him at the altar to face several hundred guests. It hadn’t surprised me that Zack kept women at a distance. But he’d been a good friend to me, and I tried to erase thoughts of his involvement in Francine’s death from my mind. The police hadn’t said murder—yet.
“Why would anyone murder your mother, Zack? I can’t imagine her having a mortal enemy. Oh, we all may have people who dislike us, but few of us have enemies who want us dead.”
Zack hesitated so long that I thought he might ignore my question. When he did clear his throat to reply, I dreaded his answer.
“Incidents have taken place in Key West that you’re unaware of—political things, civic matters that surfaced since your previous visit.”
“What sort of things? I tried to keep up with Key’s news. I read the Citizen on the Internet, but I’ll admit I missed many days. Caring for Mom took most of my time. What headlines did I miss?”
“There’s been a lot of flack lately about the plight of the homeless in the city.”
“That’s new? According to articles I’ve read, the homeless pose mega problems in cities throughout the nation as well as in Key West.”
“Key West is home to more vagrants during the winter than at other times. They drift here seeking sunshine and warmth. They find it. They settle in and stay.”
I shrugged. “Good thinking. If I were homeless, I might do the same thing.”
“A recent estimate said almost two thousand vagrants live in the Keys between here and Florida City, and that eight hundred of them live in Key West.”
For a moment I forgot why we were discussing the homeless. I glanced again at the cop tugging on the crime scene tape. “What does the plight of the homeless have to do with Francine’s death? I see no connection.”
“There is one. I feel sure of it, but you’ll have to hear me out if you want the whole story as I see it.”
“I want the whole story. Tell all.”
“A while back the cops rounded up some vagrants on Mallory Dock at the time a cruise ship began unloading passengers. Cops prodded t
he vagrants into a squad car, took them to jail, tried to arrest them and toss them into a cell. But the judge came to their rescue, calling such an arrest illegal.”
“I suppose the city fathers thought a lawyer on the prowl might talk some jailed vagrant into suing the city.”
“Right. And the guy might win his case along with megabucks of city money. According to present law, the jailing of vagrants is illegal unless the city provides a safe shelter where they can spend the night. The judge said everyone has an inalienable right to a good and safe night’s rest.”
“And Key West can’t guarantee that?”
“Right. It can’t.”
“What about our churches? What about social services? Don’t they provide the homeless with bed and meals?”
“Some do, but not enough of them. So the city decided to fix the problem by building an official safe shelter on Stock Island. The project’s under way—a huge tent with enough beds for those seeking nighttime safety. Plenty of security guards.”
“So what’s the problem? If the cops nab a vagrant, he’ll have a choice—the safe tent or the jail.”
“Turns out the Stock Island tent’s too small.” Zack sighed. “That’s where Mother entered the picture. She’s always had compassion for the homeless. But she also felt that seeing panhandlers on our streets was a turnoff to the tourists whose dollars keep our cash registers tinkling. And, are you ready for this?”
Again, Zack didn’t give me time to answer.
“Mother’s solution to help involved turning Eden Palms into a safe house, an annex for the homeless when the Stock Island shelter overflowed.”
It took me several moments to digest that news. Francine giving up her home? Unbelievable! And what about the rental cottage? It rattled me to think about living only a snail’s throw from the uncouth and the unwashed.
“I can’t imagine Francine giving up Eden Palms.”
“Neither could I or any of our neighbors. Neither could anyone living in Old Town. People blasted negative letters to the Citizen. Residents demanded extra city council meetings where they could protest at length and air their personal views. Everyone thinks a homeless shelter’s a great idea as long as it isn’t in their backyard.”
I wondered why Francine hadn’t mentioned this turmoil in her letters. But then, she probably hated to add her problems and Key West’s problems to the ones I faced in Iowa. Then I remembered the note in my purse. Did her helping-the-indigent-plan that she’d hired me to help her with involve turning Eden Palms into a homeless shelter? I could hardly believe it!
“Francine wanted to remodel Eden Palms into a safe house for the homeless?”
“She not only wanted to, but she had the bucks to do it. I argued, but although the mansion’s my home, too, she wouldn’t listen. She forged ahead, discussing blueprints with building contractors, architects, plumbers, electricians. Of course, in their greedy, those businessmen were eager to line their pockets with Shipton money.”
“I can see she might have made enemies.”
Zack nodded. “Right. Whatever Mother wants, Mother gets—one way or another. You know that. She enticed you here against her long-time friend’s wishes—your mother’s. She ignores those who disagree with her. She uses protestors’ toes as stepping-stones to her goals. I’m sure she saw her idea as a noble cause, her contribution to humanity.”
“From what I hear, some of the homeless hate the idea of living in a shelter. They prefer their wild-blue-yonder zip code.”
“Here comes Detective Cassidy now. Please don’t mention anything we’ve discussed unless you’re asked direct questions, okay?”
“Okay,” I agreed, but before Detective Cassidy reached the cottage, he veered in another direction and left us waiting again.
“I don’t understand how Francine could believe that her disrupting this neighborhood would help anyone.”
“It wouldn’t.” Zack shook his head. “You’re right. Many vagrants don’t want help. It’d mean no more alcohol. No more drugs. Some of ’em are on the lam. Fleeing from the cops? Maybe. Or perhaps from their families. They may be tired of paying child support or alimony. They can think of worse things than being homeless in Paradise.”
“So you’re thinking someone in the area may have murdered Francine to put an end to her homeless shelter project?”
“It’s a possibility. In fact it’s the only motive I can think of. A safe house here would make neighbors feel endangered. It’d lower their property values—and don’t think the people living on this cul-de-sac would stand still for that.”
“What’ll happen to Eden Palms now that Francine is…gone? Had she already signed papers donating the property to Key West?”
“No, but she had her lawyer working on it. As things stand now, I’ll inherit the property. I’m her only son and heir.”
“Oh.” I tried to cut off the fears tugging at my mind. How well did I know Zack Shipton? Sometimes he startled me, reminding me of the aloe cream I used for sunburn—smooth but with a sudden burning coolness.
“Oh.” I couldn’t manage more than the one syllable.
“Yes, oh, indeed. If the police cry murder, I’m sure I’ll be number one on their suspect list. I’ve been vocal in my disapproval of Mother’s plans. And anyone who inherits a fortune from a murder victim is bound to face scrutiny.”
“Here comes Cassidy again.” I nodded in his direction, glad now to have his company—his protection. After we left the cottage, I turned to lock the door.
SIX
One by one, cars headed to the mouth of the cul-de-sac and turned onto Eaton Street. I recognized the medical examiner who had given me information for some dark and down song lyrics. I also recognized a police photographer who had given me tips on taking pictures. Those men probably didn’t remember me, but I remembered them and all the help they offered.
Someone moved through Eden Palms, snapping off the lights. First the third floor blacked out. Then the second floor. Even without crime scene tape marking a disaster area, the Shipton mansion loomed cold and formidable. When I climbed the coral-rock steps I realized it had been Francine’s personality and charm that had given the mansion warmth.
White pillared columns on the veranda supported a second-floor balcony where a pine railing enclosed its perimeter. Francine told me the railing’s spindles had been hand-carved in the 1800s. Sailors whiled away hours at sea by carving decorations for their future homes. I didn’t try to look up at the small third-floor roof and its widow’s walk. The head-back position would make me dizzy, and that, coupled with my inner fears, could make me fall.
Once inside the mansion, I vowed to avoid looking at the staircase, but I failed. The curving steps magnetized my gaze. I tried not to imagine Francine’s body crumpled in the foyer, and I jumped, startled, when Zack touched my elbow and nodded toward the solarium. The sunroom with its bay windows facing the south still held the day’s warmth along with the fragrance of damp earth and jasmine. Water from an ornamental fountain almost hidden beneath an elephant ear plant dripped like a monotonous threnody.
“Take seats, please,” Detective Cassidy ordered. “I believe I’ve enough chairs for everyone. If not, we’ll bring in more.”
True. He or some ancillary officer had arranged a semicircle of Francine’s bridge-table chairs in front of the plethora of tropical plants she tended daily. Huge terra-cotta ollas held an assortment of ivies, miniature hibiscus, aloes—even small trees. I couldn’t come close to naming all the varieties. Francine had been a walking green thumb. How could she have thought of removing lush foliage from this sanctuary and replacing it with beds for the often-raucous homeless?
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Detective Cassidy began, “please make yourselves comfortable. This’s an informal meeting, and I intend to talk to each of you. It will take time.”
“Do we need a lawyer?” Courtney blurted the question and yanked her yellow sweater more closely around her shoulders.
Her throat
y voice and pragmatic question startled me. I scrutinized the group, wondering if anyone else might question the detectives. Dr. Gravely? Zack? How had Tucker Tisdale and his wife escaped this gathering?
“Ms. Lusk, if you’d feel more comfortable with a lawyer at your side, feel free to summon one. The telephone’s at your disposal. Let me make it clear that nobody’s under arrest. The cause of Francine Shipton’s death is yet to be established. This’s an informal questioning to help me ascertain what went down here tonight.”
“Then we’re all under suspicion?” Dr. Gravely rubbed his cheek where a nervous tic pulled at the flesh under his right eye. “Correct?”
“Of course not,” Detective Cassidy said.
“I feel that everyone here’s under close scrutiny,” Courtney said. “I don’t like this one bit.”
“There’s a telephone on the kitchen wall, ma’am,” the detective said. “You’re free to make a call or calls, or you’re free to leave.”
At that point a strange man entered the solarium from the kitchen hallway, paused, and then stood near the doorway behind Detective Cassidy. I wondered who he was. Did he plan to grab anyone who tried to escape?
Cassidy turned toward the stranger. “Please let me introduce Detective Joe Burgundy. Detective Burgundy and I are partners, and we’ll be working together on this case.”
I liked Detective Burgundy on sight. He stood tall and when he smiled a greeting, his smile lit his whole face. Although he stood at attention for Cassidy’s intro, he relaxed when he entered the solarium, moving as if his bones were strung on elastic. I wondered if he’d worked a murder case before. In his casual suit and crew-neck shirt, he looked like a poster boy for Banana Republic. I wished I could snap his picture for future reference. But then, I guessed I’d be seeing him often enough if a police investigation developed.
“Are all the neighbors here?” Cassidy directed his question to Zack.
“Tucker and Sarah Tisdale are absent,” Zack answered. “He’s at his funeral home, and his wife’s off-island—up North Carolina way visiting her sister.”
Eden Palms Murder Page 4