Eden Palms Murder

by Dorothy Francis

  “Learn anything?”

  “Nothing important. I asked a few subtle questions and I believe his story. All day Monday he worked in his office, doing inventory—getting ready to prepare his tax forms. He didn’t leave his office on Monday until the call came notifying him of Mother’s death.”

  “Who called him? Gravely or the police?”

  “The police made the official call, but Gravely had phoned him first, not as a funeral director but as a neighbor and friend delivering unpleasant news.”

  “Then I guess I don’t have to think about Tisdale—at least not today.”

  “Right.”

  “Thank goodness, Zack. That man gives me the creeps. Even talking about him gives me a chill. Got no logical reason for my feelings. I just don’t like his looks—don’t like his koi pond. Guess the only thing I do like about him is your mother’s description of his wife—a nice person. Not the sort of woman you’d find watching Wheel of Fortune with a murderer.”

  “Agreed.” Zack turned toward Old Town. “Now let’s hear your suggestions on what to do next.”

  “How about driving to Mallory Square? We could stop in at the hospitality center and ask a volunteer about Courtney and her guests.”

  “Might work.” Zack braked the car, narrowly avoided hitting a bicyclist. “Courtney and friends may have stopped there to pick up brochures.”

  “Right. The sooner we ask about Courtney’s guests, the less time the volunteer will have had to forget them. Those women see dozens of people every day.”

  “But Courtney makes a memorable impression on people.”

  “One way or another.” I corked further comments, not wanting Zack to think I might be jealous.

  I’m convinced Zack has a good-parking karma. Near the Shell Warehouse he found an empty spot at a meter with time left on it—a bit of serendipity that seldom happens in Key West. He plunked in a few more coins. With each quarter good for only fifteen minutes, both locals and tourists consider metered parking a mega-pain. But meters, when you can find one, are better than having to walk to the distant parking ramp.

  Conchs. Scallops. Murex. On a previous visit to Key West, the Shell Warehouse with its rough-planked floor supporting the thousands of seashells piled in wooden bins always made me want to stop and browse. Even the musty smell of the building enticed me. But no time for browsing today.

  Zack led the way along a narrow sidewalk until we reached the whitewashed Hospitality House. While we paused outside, planning our line of questioning, I glanced toward the edge of the dock, where a cruise ship rocked at its mooring and where sturdy dock pilings shaped like pointed crayons discouraged pelicans from perching and leaving their calling cards.

  “What a neat ship,” I commented. “When I’ m rich, I’ m going to take a cruise.”

  “Hospitality House used to be the ticket office for passengers traveling to Cuba. But those days are long past. Maybe gone forever.” The nearby rattle of a Conch Train and the blatant call of its driver yanked us from dreams of travel.

  “We’re delaying the inevitable, Bailey. Let’s go on inside.”

  SEVENTEEN

  We stepped into the air-conditioned building where tourists stood browsing at the wall racks, choosing brochures that advertised events and places of local interest. A bouquet on a countertop near an orange juice dispenser wafted jasmine scent into the room. I approached a silver-haired volunteer behind the counter, feeling it my turn to speak up since Zack had done his bit at Tisdale’s.

  “May I help you, ma’ am?” The volunteer wore a sea-blue smock and a badge bearing the name Lucy.

  “Thank you, Lucy. I hope you can. Were you working here late Monday afternoon?”

  “Yes, I was. Did you lose something?” Her gaze traveled toward a cardboard box labeled “Lost & Found.”

  “No. Nothing like that. I’m wondering if you happened to notice an acquaintance of ours who might have stopped here. She accompanied two friends who were visiting Key West and seeing Mallory for the first time.”

  Lucy laughed. “That description could fit lots of people. Can you be more specific?”

  “Our friend’s a local,” Zack offered. “Pretty lady. Stands about five feet five inches, auburn hair probably worn in an upsweep.”

  Why did it irritate me that Zack could give such a detailed and accurate description?

  “If she’s a local, I may know her,” Lucy said. “What’s her name?”

  “Courtney Lusk,” I said. “If she stopped here, she might have had two guests with her.”

  “Oh, Courtney Lusk. Real estate business, right? I’ve known Courtney for years. But, no. I haven’t seen her lately. And I’d remember. She catches one’s eye, and besides that, she knows me well and would have stopped to say hello. Sorry I can’t help you today.”

  “Thanks, Lucy,” Zack said, turning and steering me toward the door.

  Good. I smiled, thinking Courtney had lied to us. “Maybe Courtney has more to hide than she let on to Detective Cassidy. Why else would a person say she’d been in Hospitality House when she hadn’t?”

  “Did she actually say she came here, Bailey? Or did we surmise that she might have brought her friends here since they were doing the tourist thing?”

  “Oh, my. I wish I’d been able to take notes at that meeting. Do you suppose one of the detectives might have carried a tape recorder in his pocket?”

  “Hard to answer that one.”

  “Now what?” I looked up at Zack. “There were probably a hundred vendors on Mallory on Monday. And the same ones might not be here today. Anyway, it’s early for the vendors to be arriving.”

  “Look. There’s a cruise ship in port. There’ll be vendors.”

  “There’s no way we have time to talk to each of them, but we might question a few.”

  We strolled along the dock, watching cruise passengers board their ship, showing their passes to the guard at the sloping gangplank. The blast of the ship’s whistle startled us and we stopped gawking and walked on, pausing to question an artist sketching a seascape, a vendor selling T-shirts, a man tossing a fire baton. Yes, they had been on the dock on Monday afternoon. No, in the masses of tourists they had not noticed anyone matching Courtney’s description. Time was slipping away and before long the sunset crowd would begin to drift in.

  “Look.” I nodded toward a sagging canvas tent directly ahead. “Someone’s pitched a tent right on the concrete.”

  Zack laughed. “Some guy’s defying the cops—setting up his living quarters in plain view of cruise passengers.”

  A closer look revealed a battered bicycle and the owner of the largess himself. He sat unshaven and in tattered cutoffs, dozing in a canvas chair. A cardboard sign pinned to his tent flap held a warning in dark block printing: “NO CHEATING. PICTURES $1. NO CHEATING. PAY UP.”

  I pulled a dollar from my purse and dropped it into the empty coffee can at his feet, then focused my camera. The man watched me through one half-open eye.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he muttered as we walked away.

  We strolled on past a boy playing jazz licks on a trombone with the instrument’s open case inviting tips. Zack dropped him a dollar, and we strolled on. Fifty feet farther on, I stopped and touched Zack’s arm.

  A shirtless and barefoot man with greasy hair pulled into a pony tail sat on a canvas stool. A green iguana reclined on his bare neck and shoulders. A blacksnake, coiled around his right arm, watched us from yellow eyes. I reached for my camera and started to approach the man in spite of my inner qualms.

  “Wait,” Zack whispered, reaching for my hand and trying to pull me back before he gave in and followed me.

  “You’re very brave,” I said to Reptile Man, trying to hide my apprehension. “Aren’t you afraid of those creatures?”

  “Nothing to be afraid of, lady. Maggie and Nero and me be long-time buddies. I treat ’em well. They treat me well.”

  “Where’d you find the snake?” Zack asked.

&nbs
p; “What’s it to you, buddy?” The man’s demeanor suddenly became guarded, belligerent. His eyes, the color of black onyx, smoldered as he spoke.

  “No offense intended,” Zack said. “I merely wondered where a person would find that kind of snake around here.”

  With slow deliberate movements, the man pulled the iguana from his shoulders and set it under his chair. He uncoiled the snake from his arm before dropping it into a green palm-frond basket and closing the lid. Then he approached Zack with a scowl and a growl.

  “You suggesting I stole Nero?”

  Zack backed off. “Look fellow, I’m not suggesting anything. Nothing at all. My friend and I are interested in all the people on the dock and in their activities. We find a man garbed in reptiles unusual to say the least.”

  “I’m a vocalist and songwriter.” I stepped between Zack and Reptile Man, giving him my best smile. “Always looking for ideas for new compositions. Have a CD out titled Green-tree Blues. A friend’s made it available in most Duval Street gift shops and book stores. Have you heard it?”

  “Don’t care for blues. Country-western’s my thing.”

  “I’m interested in people that I might draw on when I create lyrics. May I take your picture?” I reached into my purse, found a dollar bill, and waved it in his direction.

  “No way, lady. No way.” The man took another step toward us.

  His response surprised me. A few bills protruded from a basket sitting beside his chair. Clearly, he had come to the dock to offer tourists a chance to take his picture—for a price. What was going on here? Zack’s question had made the guy mad. Maybe he’d stolen the snake or the iguana or both. From where? Where in Key West would one go to steal such creatures?

  “The both of you better bug off and leave me alone. Any more of your lip and I call the cops. Tell ’em you’re disturbin’ my peace.”

  We retreated, leaving Reptile Man to cope with his disturbed peace. I snuck only one quick glance over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t following us. Zack looked back, too, and gave an uneasy laugh.

  “Guess we can relax. He’s coiling the snake around his arm.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s getting late, Zack. Maybe we’d better give it up for today.”

  “Suits me. Maybe we’ll have some new ideas by tomorrow.”

  “I suppose we need to go to Kelly’s and check on Dr. Gravely’s story.”

  “That should be easy,” Zack said. “His group probably had a reservation. No doubt the waiters will remember him—might even recall the names of the people in his party.”

  “Sometimes a tip will improve memories.”

  Zack drove us home, finding very little traffic on our side of the street. Cars, bicycles, mopeds, and pedestrians vied for space in the other lane, heading for the sunset celebration.

  Zack stopped in front of my cottage, and it relieved me when he didn’t suggest going out for dinner. I welcomed an evening alone, planning to reread my notebook of lyrics and titles. It’d been weeks since I’d had time to do any song-writing, and I hoped a review would give me the insight I needed to push some new ideas forward.

  Once I finished nuking and eating the last of the chicken casserole, I stacked my dishes in the dishwasher. I’d gone into my bedroom to my work desk when the phone rang. Almost nothing arouses my curiosity more than a ringing telephone. This time Quinn Bahama’s voice greeted me, and she arrowed right to the point.

  “Bailey, may I come over for a few minutes? I have an important matter to discuss with you. Did you see my article on you in the Citizen? I knew I’d get it in soon.”

  “Wonderful, Quinn. Congratulations. Chalk one up for success! I haven’t had time to pick up a paper today, but I’ll take a stroll to the paper box soon.” I squelched a sigh, seeing my quiet evening slipping away. “I’m working tonight, Quinn. But I can give you a few minutes. What time would you like to stop by?”

  “How about right now? I promise I won’t stay long.”

  “Okay. Come ahead. I’ll snap on the porch light. You can park in front of the cottage.”

  “Thanks, Bailey. I appreciate it.”

  I began reviewing CD titles in my notebook, thinking Quinn would arrive shortly, but wanting to get in all the reading I could. Moonlit Bay? Trite. I crossed it out. Starshine Serenade? Only a tad better. I sighed. Almost half an hour passed before Quinn knocked.

  When I held the door open, she slipped inside so quickly I wondered if she was trying to elude someone. Before I could dwell on that thought, I glanced across the street and saw Courtney slide into Zack’s convertible, watched them drive away. Hmm. I squelched my curiosity.

  “What’s up, Quinn?” Again I glanced toward the street. “Where’s your car?”

  “I walked. Didn’t want my car seen at your house. I kept to the shadows. Hope nobody saw me, recognized me coming here.”

  “Why all the secrecy?” As I closed the door behind her, I felt wary. “Tell me, what brings you here surrounded by so much mystery?”

  “I have a favor to ask. A big favor. It has to do with Francine Shipton’s death.”

  EIGHTEEN

  I wanted to shove Quinn outside and lock the door. What right had she to ask for favors concerning Francine’s death? But wait. Maybe she had information to offer, facts that Zack and I needed.

  “Give, Quinn. Come sit down. Tell me what sort of a favor you need.”

  “You know I want a permanent job as staff writer for the Citizen—had my application in for ages.”

  “Right.” I sat beside her on the couch. “Any luck? Have you submitted another article?”

  “Yes. The editor accepted a human-interest piece on the monthly used-book sales our library sponsors. Look for it this coming Sunday. He gave me thumbs-up on my writing style, and before he forgets how much he liked both articles, I want to drop a new one on his desk tomorrow—on spec, of course.”

  “And I can help?”

  “Yes, Bailey. I know you can.”

  “How? What’s your topic?”

  “The inside story on Francine’s death.”

  The words hung between us sizzling, ready to explode. My face flushed, and my hands shook in anger and surprise. When I didn’t reply, she pushed harder.

  “Bailey, you’re an insider. You know the skinny. Why did Francine fall? The police say homicide, so did someone push her? Did someone startle her into hurtling herself down the stairs? The public wants to know the why, who, and how. If I had those answers, maybe even one of them, I could write an article that’d scoop the whole staff.”

  Quinn’s plethora of words revealed her nervousness. I stood to make my position firm and clear. “Ms. Bahama, you’re asking the impossible. I have no answers for you. None.”

  “I’d never reveal my source, Bailey. Never!”

  “I believe you, but I have no intention of being your source.” I walked toward the door, hoping she’d take the hint and follow me. She didn’t.

  “It’d be privileged material, Bailey, protected material. I’d go to jail before I’d talk. I’d be like that writer who interviewed Deep Throat years ago in the Watergate investigation. You remember reading about that guy, don’t you?”

  “Quinn, believe me. I don’t have any answers for you. None. And even if I did, I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?” She rose and approached me.

  “Maybe both. I’d never betray Zack Shipton by revealing information that might skew the police investigation, nor would I risk putting myself in jeopardy, maybe setting myself up for in-depth police queries.”

  “Betray Zack? A slip of the tongue, Bailey? Or does that mean you think Zack knows more than he’s telling about his mother’s death?”

  “Quinn, if you’re—”

  “Put yourself in jeopardy? You’re afraid you’re on the suspect list?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I can build an article around any tidbit of information you’ll tell me. I can turn any fact you’ll give me i
nto a scintillating article. I’m begging, Bailey.”

  “No. Forget it.” I eased her toward the door.

  “I thought we were friends, Bailey. I got you publicity in a paper that thousands of people read. Here’s your chance to return the favor. I’m only asking for a tiny nugget of information.”

  I hated Quinn’s persistence in the face of my refusal. I needed to end this conversation—now. Even so, I felt afraid she might twist my words and write an article that would harm Zack or me—or maybe Mitch.

  “The answer’s no, Quinn. Let’s forget you came here tonight. Let’s forget you questioned me. But please, let’s not let this disagreement spoil our friendship. Okay?”

  Quinn didn’t answer. She turned and almost before I could move aside, she stormed outside, banging the door behind her. I hated to see our meeting end this way, but she had asked the impossible.

  I snapped off the living room light and stood in the open doorway, peering after her. Clouds hid the moon and she melted into the darkness. So much for my plan of working on song lyrics! I couldn’t concentrate tonight. I took a long shower and dropped into bed. My radio tuned to soft music didn’t lull me to sleep. The scene with Quinn replayed in my mind until the scene with Courtney sliding so easily into Zack’s Thunderbird replaced it. I turned restlessly for a long time before I fell asleep.

  The next morning an announcer wakened me with the day’s weather report. Sunshine. Winds at twenty. Small craft warnings. Only a nanosecond later I remembered Quinn’s visit. I must phone Zack. He needed to know her intent, know she’d been nosing around. But that call could wait until I dressed and ate breakfast.

  As soon as I’d downed a piece of toast and a glass of chocolate milk, I opened the door and checked the carport for Zack’s convertible. Yes. Still there. I’d started to turn away when I saw I note taped low onto the screen. Had I missed an early-morning caller? Quinn? Zack? Had I been sleeping that soundly?

  A corner tore from the folded paper when I pulled it from the screen, and I opened the note quickly, thinking Zack might have left a message to avoid wakening me. I didn’t start shaking until I’d read the words.