Eden Palms Murder

by Dorothy Francis

  I looked where the iguana looked. A man carrying a paper sack was approaching the cottage. It took me a moment to recognize Chet. Grabbing my robe, I hurried to the kitchen door before he had a chance to knock or call out to me.

  “Chet! What are you doing here at this hour?” I opened the door so he could slip inside.

  “It’s not Chet. It’s Mitch, remember?”

  “I’m trying, Mitch. Old habits die hard. And—it’s difficult to remember new stuff when it’s past midnight and I’m half asleep.” I closed the door quickly. “What if someone’s watching?” I hurried to the bedroom to close the window I’d just opened and lower the shade. Thank goodness Courtney didn’t have a view of my back door.

  “Who do you think will be watching at this time of night?”

  “One never knows. Detective Cassidy may have targeted this whole area for surveillance. If the M.E. calls Francine’s death a murder, Zack Shipton thinks he’ll be the prime suspect. Plain-clothes detectives in unmarked cars could be parked nearby watching Eden Palms as we speak.”

  “So I’ve taken a mega-chance coming here in hope of a shower?”

  “What’s wrong with showering at your apartment? No water? Bad plumbing? Behind with your bills?”

  “None of the above, Sis. So far, I’ve never lived in that apartment. Sure, it’s rented in my new name and I’ve pocketed the key. But I’m steering clear of the place until I feel sure no druggie has followed me here from Iowa.”

  “So where are you living?” I held my breath, unwilling to hear the answer I felt sure he’d offer.

  “On the street.”

  The words submerged in the silence like sharks preparing to attack while I tried to think of an appropriate reply.

  “No way can you persuade me to use the apartment, Sis. No way. Be a pal and share your shower. Just this once, okay?”

  “Don’t you stop by the place to pick up your mail? You could bathe then.”

  “What mail? Nobody’s writing to me.”

  “Someone might.”

  “If they do, I’ll stop for it at the post office. I’ve rented a box.”

  Mitch’s mail was unimportant when compared to matters closer at hand—or at nose. “How long’s it been since you had a shower?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Okay, rescind the query. Why don’t you use the restroom shower at Smathers? Beach restrooms aren’t the greatest, but if…”

  “Don’t talk to me about Smathers! I don’t even sleep in the sand around there. Lots of guys do, though, but have you ever grabbed a whiff of that restroom?”

  I didn’t bother to answer. Instead, I turned on a night light, stomped to the linen cupboard, and pulled out a towel and washcloth.

  “Here. Be my guest. But don’t make this a habit.”

  “Thanks, Sis. I knew I could count on you.”

  “This time. This one time. After tonight, use the shower in your apartment. You have Federal Witness Protection. The government’s at hand to help.”

  “Government help.” Mitch laughed. “What an oxymoron!”

  He disappeared into the shower and I lay on my bed again, feeling wide awake in spite of my exhaustion. Mitch splashed a bit before he began to sing.

  Iowa, Iowa, my home. Iowa, the tall corn state.

  “Enough, Mitch! Enough! Someone might hear.”

  He stopped singing. In a few minutes the water stopped flowing, and presently he appeared dressed in fresh jeans and tank top. He patted the sack under his arm. “Got my dirty duds in here. I don’t suppose…”

  “Right. Please don’t suppose I’m into the laundry business. Use the facilities at your apartment.” Mitch had a soulful way of looking at people that made them want to help him. He’d had Mom and me wrapped around his finger for years. I relented—as he’d known I would. “Okay, leave your bag. I’ll do your stuff when I run a load.”

  “You’re a pal, Sis.” Mitch planted a kiss on my cheek and headed toward the door.

  “Wait just one little minute.” I grabbed his arm. “Where are you spending your nights? And who are you spending them with? You could get in big trouble if—”

  “You wouldn’t know the place or the people. They’re just friends I’ve made since I arrived here in Paradise.”

  “What sort of friends?”

  “The sort that like sleeping under the stars. You oughta try it sometime, Bailey. Give me a little notice, and I’d be more than glad to share some prime space with you any night you want to stop by.”

  “You’re more than generous. But don’t hold your breath while you’re waiting for me to show.”

  “You’d be surprised at the sense of freedom you’d get from feeling the sea breeze cooling your face, from feeling the good earth mold to your warm and weary body, from feeling—”

  “Mitch, be real! Most of our family vacations turned into camping trips because you liked to sleep in a tent. I’ve had enough of that scene. I can’t believe you really enjoy sleeping out now—with the homeless derelicts of society.”

  “I don’t always sleep out. If it rains, Wizard shares his tent with me. Princess offers me tent space, too, but I never accept. Doesn’t seem right. She’s a heavyweight. I’d crowd her. But it’s good of her to offer, right?”

  “Wizard? Princess?”

  “Don’t suppose those are their real names, their legal names,” Mitch admitted. “I’m still digging for that info. I’d like to see them reunited with their families.”

  “Doesn’t it occur to you that they may not want to reunite with their families? You can’t take homeless people in. You can’t baby them, treat them like you used to treat stray cats and dogs.”

  “Don’t know why not,” Mitch said. “Sometimes I buy special treats—burgers and fries and donuts to share. They follow me then, just like the tabbies and mongrels used to. My new friends like to have someone take care of them. I got nothing else to do right now.”

  “Maybe their families kicked them out. Maybe they’re drug abusers.”

  “They’re just people down on their luck. Now and then I pay their doctor bills or take them to a dentist. They need family.”

  “Maybe they prefer a bottle to a family. Mitch, it’s dangerous to hang out with these people. You read about that guy on Big Pine? He murdered his mother, his cousin, and his wife before he hanged himself. Who knows how many others he murdered! You never know what strangers might do.”

  “For the most part they’re kind folks. You treat them good, they’ll treat you good.”

  “Well,” I corrected. “You treat them well.”

  “That’s what I said—what I meant. I don’t have a problem with any of them—at least not so far. But I empathize with them and I want to help.”

  “Where’d you sleep last night?”

  Mitch hesitated, pretending he couldn’t remember. Then he cocked his head and replied. “Last night I camped with Wizard on the Bridle Path. It’s an unused path on South Roosevelt where the old timers say people used to pleasure ride their horses. Hasn’t been used for that in years.”

  “When you end up in jail, don’t call me for bail money.”

  “Won’t end up in jail. Police can’t arrest us ’cause the city hasn’t provided us a safe place to sleep. Wizard says sleeping on the Bridle Path isn’t as safe as it used to be. Here lately some tourists have realized that they, too, can camp there without being arrested. Now that’s a scary thing. Nothing worse than a deadbeat tourist.”

  “To each his own.”

  “I’d rather sleep on the ground next to Wizard than next to some cheapskate from Wisconsin.”

  “To each his own.”

  “Cut me a little slack, Bailey. Before your mind hardens against Wizard and Princess, let me introduce you to them. They’re my present projects and I’d like you to meet them.”

  “Present projects?”

  “Right. I know I can’t help all of the homeless that hit on Key West. But, I might be able to help one or two of th
em to a better life united with their families. Will you let me introduce you to Wizard and Princess?”

  “I suppose so. But we’ll have to stage the meeting in some secret place. We don’t have any reason to contact each other, and if people see us together they might ask questions I’d rather avoid.”

  “That’s true. I don’t want anyone to know you’re my sis.”

  “Mitch, what were you doing today? I mean do you have an alibi for late afternoon?”

  “You don’t suspect me of murdering Mrs. Shipton, do you?”

  “Of course not, but I want to know where you were and what you were doing. Think about it. Get that question and your reply set in your mind. And don’t change your response. Sooner or later the cops are going to call you in and demand an in-depth answer.”

  Mitch paused to think. “Hmm…I worked at the mansion in the morning and in the afternoon and early evening, I worked at Two Friends Patio.”

  “Anyone who’ll vouch for that?”

  “Sure. The manager was in and out but Quinn Bahama made sandwiches in the kitchen all the time I washed dishes. She’d vouch for me.”

  “I hope that won’t be necessary, Mitch, but keep it in mind. I’m glad you have a good alibi.”

  Mitch left the cottage as quietly as he had entered, and I returned to bed. It seemed as if only two minutes had passed before the telephone rang.

  In my grogginess, I knocked the phone from my night-stand, and the receiver hit the rattan mat before it skidded onto the parquet floor. I rolled onto my stomach and groped for it, but even before I could pick it up, I heard Zack shouting.

  “Bailey? Bailey? Are you all right? What was that crash?”

  “Good morning, Zack,” my voice croaked through early-morning hoarseness.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. Guess I didn’t hear my alarm. Sorry about that.”

  “That’s okay and understandable. You had quite a day yesterday. Are you still planning to come over this morning?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” I spoke with more enthusiasm than I felt, and I managed to focus my gaze on my watch. A little after seven. “Are people arriving this early?”

  “None so far, but why don’t you come over as soon as you’re dressed and have breakfast? I know you haven’t had time for grocery shopping. Since I didn’t know of your arrival plans…” His voice trailed off, and I wondered if we both were thinking of Francine’s special blueberry coffee cake—a treat she had often shared with friends and neighbors.

  “Thanks, Zack. Except for your snack last night, I can’t even remember the last time I ate anything more substantial than airline pretzels.”

  “Come on then.” He sighed. “I can give you a great choice of cold cereals and some O.J. Don’t feel like cooking today.”

  “Any cereal’s okay. See you.” I hung up, then replaced the phone on the nightstand. Cold cereal and orange juice sounded good, but the thought of sharing breakfast with Zack unnerved me. I wondered how I’d get through the morning—and the next few days.

  My stomach growled in anticipation of food, and I got up and began dressing. What to wear. Now I wished I’d unpacked last night. After slipping into a pair of skimmers, I turned to face the morning.

  I straightened the bed before I began a quick unpacking, and from the mound of clothing I picked up my favorite green shift and shook out the wrinkles. To iron or not to iron. That is the question—a very small question today. I have outfits that offer comfort, and this was one of them. I pulled the shift over my head and then ran a comb through my tangled hair before I pulled it into a ponytail. My keyboard called to me, but I ignored it and left the room.

  My camera still lay on the living room couch where I’d dropped it last night. I picked it up by its strap and held it for a moment before tucking it out of sight in my closet. It was terribly out of date, but I’d kept it because it had been a present from Mom years ago and it still worked well. I had no desire for one of the new digitals.

  On impulse, moments before I left the cottage, I paused and opened the refrigerator for the first time since I’d returned. Francine had stocked the shelves with breakfast necessities—milk, orange juice, eggs, and cereal. Bread? Bread in the refrig? Of course. Francine’s solution to Florida’s ongoing ant problem centered on storing everything in the refrig.

  My inclination to call Zack and regret his breakfast invitation died quickly. So did the idea of inviting him here to share Francine’s bounty.

  Some of the mansion’s coldness dissipated when Zack met me at the door, towering over me and smiling while he led the way to Francine’s state-of-the-art kitchen. He wore his casual khaki pants and handprint shirt that I mentally called his uniform of the day—every day. He could modify the pants into shorts with the flick of a couple zippers. But he never did. At least I’d never seen him in the walking-shorts version. This morning dark circles ringed his eyes and a red chin scrape told me he had nicked himself shaving.

  “Get a good rest?” I asked.

  “Yes, indeed. I thought maybe I couldn’t sleep, but exhaustion kicked in. And you?”

  “I slept fitfully, but I liked hearing wind swishing palm fronds instead of snowflakes.”

  Zack motioned me to a chair at the glass-topped table near the bay window in his breakfast alcove. Although Shipton ancestors had built Eden Palms over a hundred years ago, Francine had remodeled the kitchen. Zack moved quickly and easily between the refrigerator and the sink, which was set in a stainless steel island at room center. In moments we sat enjoying cornflakes, juice, and toast.

  “What are your plans for the day?” Zack asked.

  “That depends on your plans for me. I’ll help however I can. Francine had lots of friends who’ll want to assist, to express their sympathy. If you need to be away to make funeral arrangements, I’ll stay and greet callers. Or, if you want to choose one of Francine’s friends as hostess, I’ll keep in the background.”

  “Don’t know how I could choose one friend without hurting the feelings of a dozen others. Your presence will save me from that angst.”

  “Have you considered funeral arrangements?”

  “I’ve talked briefly with Tucker Tisdale about private services. Under the circumstances we think that’s the way to go. It’ll involve a lot of phone calls and a discreet announcement in the Citizen.”

  “Maybe I can do the telephoning.”

  “Great, but Tucker can’t schedule anything definite yet. The police haven’t released Mother’s body.”

  “Wonder when they’ll do that.”

  “I don’t know, but look.” Zack nodded toward the window. “I see Cassidy and Burgundy pulling up right now. Maybe they’ll have some answers.”

  I studied the detectives as they got out of their unmarked Ford. Cassidy stomped up the sidewalk, his stomach leading his bulk toward the front door. Gray suit. Gray hair. All his gray could mask the Florida sunshine. Burgundy followed him, towering above him. His loose-jointed gait and the spring in his step drew my gaze away from Cassidy. Had they planned it that way? Maybe they did a good cop—bad cop routine, using their looks to enhance their act. If they had big news for Zack, I hoped they’d present it quickly and leave. But it never happened that way.

  TEN

  “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  I heard footsteps in the foyer as Zack greeted the detectives and invited them into the solarium. Intent on eavesdropping, I jumped, startled, when Zack appeared at the kitchen doorway.

  “I told them you were helping me today, Bailey, and they want you to hear what they have to say.”

  Bad news? Good news? I didn’t try to guess. But I could think of nothing good about a suspicious death. It surprised me that they wanted to share information with me. I left my cornflakes and juice and followed Zack to the solarium. After we exchanged greetings and sat rather uneasily in Francine’s easy chairs, Cassidy dove straight to the point of their visit.

  “We have the medical examine
r’s report. He estimates the victim died between three and four yesterday afternoon, and we’re investigating Mrs. Shipton’s death as a homicide. We’re informing you first and withholding that news from the public—at least for the time being. I wish we could spare you the headlines sure to come, but we’ve no control over the media.”

  Someone pushed Francine down those stairs. The thought etched itself into my brain.

  “Someone shoved Mother to her death.” Zack’s voice shook when he verbalized my thoughts.

  “Yes,” Cassidy said. “We believe that’s what happened. But we’re only releasing the information that she died from injuries sustained in a fall.”

  “Why?” Zack asked. “Why delay the truth? There’s bound to be speculation and gossip.”

  “We want to get a feel for public reaction to the news. We have certain people under surveillance. Whoever caused your mother’s fall must be guilt-ridden and insecure right now—perhaps in a ready-to-cut-and-run mode. Out of nervousness and fear, the culprit may do something to incriminate himself—or herself.”

  “A woman?” I blurted.

  “Quite possible. Murder’s an equal-opportunity employer, and it takes little muscle to push an elderly lady down some stairs.”

  “And after that?” Zack asked. “After you’ve issued your bit of misleading information, then what?”

  “Mr. Shipton, we’re here now to release the whole truth of your mother’s death to you and Miss Green. To you two, only.”

  I imagined an anchor line tightening around my stomach. Detective Burgundy watched both Zack and me, but Cassidy looked straight at Zack who met his gaze without flinching.

  “Your mother’s fall broke her neck. She died immediately. Following that fatal fall, the perpetrator coiled a dead blacksnake around her neck and wedged the snake’s head into her mouth and throat. That was the way the murderer wanted someone to discover her body. But she died of a broken neck, not of suffocation, as the killer may have wanted the police to believe.”

  Zack jumped up and color drained from his face. Clearly, he was hearing these horrid details for the first time. My stomach rose into my throat, and I looked toward the door hoping for escape.