Eden Palms Murder

by Dorothy Francis

  I hid my surprise. “What about the funeral? You expect to have a service today—on this short notice?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s been in my thinking all week, but it’ll be a private service. I’ve talked with Tisdale and Reverend Walters and made the arrangements. We’ll hold the service on the mansion grounds.”

  “Outdoors?”

  “Yes. Near the pool and beneath the palms and sea grapes Mother planted years ago. I think she’d like that setting.”

  “Yes, I believe she would. You’ve taken care of everything, Zack. What’s left for me to do?”

  “The media will announce her private services, and I’d like you to telephone close friends and associates, invite them and tell them the time and place. Four-thirty this afternoon.”

  Zack pulled a list from his pocket and slid it in my direction. “Detectives Cassidy and Burgundy insist on being present. Looking for clues, of course. Can you do the telephoning this morning?”

  “Yes, Zack. I’ll start right away.”

  “Thank you, Bailey.” He gave my hand a squeeze. “I’m counting on you.”

  Zack left the cottage without mentioning the missing bicycle. And of course I never told him about the slashed tires, never hinted that I saw him having dinner with Courtney. It surprised me that he hadn’t asked Courtney to do his telephoning for him.

  Then I sighed. Courtney had a work schedule. Nobody believed songwriters worked or considered anything that resembled a work schedule.

  Breakfast. Mom’s words replayed in my mind. Start your morning with a good breakfast and the whole day will go well. I hoped she was right. I hid the snacks from myself and downed a bowl of granola and bran flakes doused with skim milk, an English muffin with a dab of butter, a glass of guava juice. Then I contemplated Zack’s calling list.

  Courtney Lusk. Winton Gravely. Detective Cassidy. Detective Burgundy. Ben and Quinn Bahama. Mitch’s name appeared, too. No doubt Zack and the detectives wanted to keep him under surveillance. Those were the only familiar names on the list. The rest were Francine’s club members and bridge friends and Zack’s business associates. The list totaled twenty people. I reached many of them quickly. I guessed that Miss Manners would disapprove of funeral invitations left on answering machines, but that’s how I handled some of them. I saw no other way. Since I asked the ones away from their phones to return my call, I had to stick close to home.

  I couldn’t get my mind on music and lyrics, so I consoled myself with junk food—soul food—washed it down with a Coke. I expected Mitch to phone his response to my funeral invitation, but instead he appeared in person, unaware that I’d tried to get in touch.

  “Don’t like funerals,” Mitch said after I gave him the news.

  “Right. How well I remember.”

  “Come on, Bailey. You know I wouldn’t have skipped Mom’s funeral if I could have gone without risking my life.”

  “Sure, Mitch. Sure.” Now, while I had him on the defensive, I decided to give him the word. “I had to tell Zack you’re my brother.”

  Mitch whirled to face me with fire in his eyes. “What do you mean you had to? You may have risked my life! Don’t you realize…?” His face flushed crimson and he pounded on the snack bar with his open palm. “Bailey! How could you!”

  “Take it easy, Mitch. Zack said he wouldn’t tell anyone, that he’d keep your identity a secret as long as he could.”

  “You’re soft on that guy, aren’t you?” Mitch began pacing. “You got a thing going with him, right?”

  “Wrong. He’d seen you skulking around the cottage, and he’s worried about my safety. I had to tell him, Mitch. He was going to check on you. Thought I might be seeing someone dangerous.”

  “Which you are—Zack Shipton! I don’t trust that guy, Bailey. Once this funeral’s over, I wish you’d cut out of this place. Move. Get clear away from him.”

  “Move to where? You got a spare garret?”

  “Matter of fact, I do. You can have my apartment. I’m not living there, as long as my friends will put up with me. And by the way. No sign of Wizard—yet. I may go to the police

  “Maybe he’ll turn up today. Have you asked around on Stock Island?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject. No sense in my apartment going to waste. I want you out of this cottage—and soon.”

  “We’ll talk about it after the funeral, Mitch. Why don’t you take your clothes and go? I don’t know where Zack is right now, but I do know he wouldn’t be happy to see you here. Go.”

  Mitch left. I hoped he’d find his gun. I’d tucked it into the pocket of his laundered jeans. I can’t bear the thought of having a gun in the house. Once he was out of sight, I stayed beside the telephone, telling callers of the funeral plans.

  Somehow I got through the rest of the day, and then donned my best green silk for Francine’s service. Shortly before four I stood with keys in hand, preparing to leave the cottage, when Zack arrived. I’d never seen him in a white suit. The word debonair flashed to my mind. Yet the suit, along with his black silk shirt and tie, gave him a cramped appearance, as if he needed a larger size to accommodate his broad shoulders.

  “I’ll escort you, Bailey. And don’t worry. I’ll be at your side throughout the service.”

  I tried not to sigh. “Do you think someone might rise up from that group of twenty souls and shoot me on the spot?”

  “No, of course not. I need you by my side this afternoon.”

  “I’ll be there, Zack. You can depend on it.”

  Zack took my arm as we walked from the cottage to the mansion grounds. The day brought back memories of my mother’s funeral, although there were few similarities between Iowa’s austere First Methodist Church and the lush foliage on the grounds at Eden Palms.

  Opposite the swimming pool, someone had set up a white-skirted table that held a portrait of Francine. White tapers in Lalique candlesticks glowed on either side of the picture, wafting jasmine-scent into the air. Waterford vases held bouquets of lavender bougainvillea at either end of the table. Someone had arranged a collage of snapshots of Francine receiving civic awards and prize ribbons. There was no music. I’d never experienced the drabness of a funeral without music. Only a pair of mourning doves cooed into the weak sunshine of late afternoon.

  An usher led us to the first of several short rows of rattan chairs with jewel-toned cushions, which were set back a few feet from the table. I sat at the end of the row and Zack sat next to me.

  Courtney arrived wearing black, head to toe. Dr. Gravely wore his usual navy blue and white. I supposed the yachting cap was okay for an outdoor service. Mitch. Mitch arrived in jeans, but they were new and he’d topped them with a white shirt that still bore creases from its plastic wrapping. I made sure our glances never met. When the usher seated Quinn Bahama in a row behind us, I swallowed a sigh of relief and averted my gaze. I imagined Quinn doing the same thing as she looked at me.

  At first, I thought the service would never start. Then I thought it would never end. The minister’s voice droned on until the final prayer. At last Zack rose, took my hand, then stood beside me. I felt hypnotized until I saw the guests moving forward to shake his hand and then mine and to offer words of consolation before leaving the grounds. Mitch never made eye contact with me, nor did he pause to speak to Zack. Quinn Bahama disappeared into the crowd after offering Zack only the briefest of condolences.

  Once the last guest departed, the workers from Tisdale’s began clearing away the accoutrements of the service. I’d turned and started to walk toward the cottage when Zack touched my elbow, leaned toward me, and spoke sotto voce.

  “Bailey, I should have asked you earlier. I want you to go with me tonight to scatter Mother’s ashes. You’ll do that for me, won’t you?”

  How could I refuse? I couldn’t.

  “Of course, Zack. Where? What time?”

  “Don’t worry about the details. I’ll pick you up at eight for dinner. Moon won’t be at its brightest until mid
night. After a leisurely dinner, we’ll drive to the pilot’s private helicopter pad.”

  I felt as if I were being carried along on a tide of activities over which I had no control. What does one wear to dinner that’s also suitable for riding in a helicopter to release ashes? I tried to block my fear of the helicopter flight by thinking of mundane things. But why was I afraid? Zack wouldn’t charter a helicopter that wasn’t safe, and I felt sure, well almost sure, that Zack wasn’t the person who’d been threatening me. Mitch and I had seen him with Courtney at the same time someone else had been slashing our bike tires. Surely I wouldn’t be in danger from a killer tonight.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I had a couple of hours of free time—enough to do some in-depth thinking about my lyrics-in-progress. Before I warmed up my computer, I thought again about what I should wear this evening. I couldn’t keep my mind on composing. What did one wear to a post-funeral dinner followed by a helicopter ride? Dress? Slacks? Skirt and shirt? I laid a white jumpsuit and a green cardigan on my bed along with green skimmers and a green clutch. Relax, Bailey. Forget the fashion police.

  After all the decision making and closet searching, I’d lost interest in composing lyrics. I refused to admit that I suffered from a writer’s block. I’d get going on the lyrics tomorrow. I tried to relax and listen to the TV news. Bad decision. Radio? I found a station playing favorites from some past I didn’t remember. “Willow Weep for Me.” “My Funny Valentine.” “Stardust.” I gave up listening and dressed for the evening before I strolled to a paper box, fed it quarters, and picked up the Miami Herald. I was back at the cottage perusing Burdine’s sale ad without really seeing it when Zack arrived.

  “Where would you like to eat?” he asked.

  “Your choice. Anywhere’s fine with me.”

  “Then let’s get off the rock. We’ve plenty of time.” He held my hand on the way to the convertible, and I didn’t draw away. Where were Francine’s ashes? I wondered. In the car with us? Pick them up from the funeral home later?

  “Let’s try the Square Grouper on Cudjoe, okay? I hear good things about the food there.”

  “The Square Grouper? Another joke?”

  “No, it’s a real restaurant—a good one, too.”

  “Sounds okay to me, but I’m not hungry.” With Francine’s funeral behind him and the releasing of her ashes ahead of him, I wondered how Zack could bear thinking of food.

  We drove a few miles up Highway One to the restaurant. Traffic flowed lightly in our lane, but cars sped bumper-to-bumper in the Key West-or-Bust lane. So what else was new! Every night was bumper-to-bumper night in the Keys. Since so few cars followed us, Zack drove slowly and we arrived at the restaurant after most diners had finished eating and departed. A few customers hunched over a bar near the entryway. A waitress led us to the left, until we reached a table for two covered in white butcher paper.

  “My name’s Elaine and I’ll be your waitress tonight.” She grinned and picked up a blue crayon from a crystal bowl. With a flourish, she scrawled her name on the table cover. “Elaine. That’s me. What may I bring you to drink?”

  “Iced tea, okay?” Zack asked, and I nodded. He didn’t open his menu or give Elaine opportunity to spiel her list of the day’s specials. “Fondue sound good to you, Bailey?”

  I nodded, and he placed our order for cheese fondue and sourdough bread cubes. My mind wasn’t on food, and I guessed his wasn’t either. While we waited, we studied the decor. Life-size fish replicas decorated the walls—shark, barracuda, manta rays. I’d never been in a restaurant where one could look up and, instead of seeing a ceiling, see exposed ductwork and electric wiring. Must make power outages and repairs easy to deal with. We dawdled over the tea and the fondue, then Zack stopped pretending we were here to enjoy ourselves.

  “Let’s cut out of here, Bailey. Let’s get on with the evening.” And that’s what we did. Zack slid into the bumper-to-bumper scene and drove to Key West, taking a left onto South Roosevelt. When he turned onto gravel, scrub palm brushed against the car’s sides, and weeds thudded against the undercarriage until we reached an unpainted A-frame set on a clearing.

  “Who lives here, Zack?”

  “Ben Bahama—and Quinn.”

  “Zack! Quinn’s probably still in a snit because I wouldn’t—”

  “No problem. Quinn’s working in Old Town tonight. Ben came in from a shrimp run earlier this evening. That’s why he missed Mother’s service. Flying the helicopter’s his hobby.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Don’t worry. He’s good. Hasn’t crashed yet.”

  A pole light flashed on and Ben stepped outside, a barrel-chested guy wearing cutoffs and tank top that displayed muscular biceps and thighs. He could have modeled as Atlas toting the world on his shoulders.

  “Been waiting for you, Zack.” The thatch palm encroaching on the clearing muted Ben’s stentorian voice. I could imagine him shouting orders to his shrimp boat crew. Zack introduced us, and if Ben recognized my name, he hid the fact. Performers notice stuff like that. It was clear that the Bahamas didn’t spend their evenings discussing or listening to blues singers.

  I glanced away from Ben and studied the helicopter parked beside the house, trying not to shudder. It looked like a giant insect from outer space. Its propellers and windows gleamed in the moonlight. Ben led us to the machine, and I put on a brave front as I followed him.

  “Everything’s ready, Zack.” He looked toward the car. “Where’re the…the ashes?”

  “I’ll get them.” Zack strolled to the convertible, popped the trunk, and removed a box—small, white, gold handle on top. It might have been a designer hat box, but it wasn’t. Ben took the box and stowed it on the floor inside the ’copter before he boarded and turned to offer me a hand.

  “Have a seat.” Ben nodded toward two folding chairs behind the pilot’s wheel.

  I took the nearest chair and Zack sat beside me. I felt the cracked leather of the seat cushion and tried to sit motionless and avoid snagging my jumpsuit. Twinges of guilt pricked my mind. How petty can you get, Bailey Green! I smelled gasoline and oil and chocolate. Of all things—chocolate. Was Ben a chocaholic? Did he have a secret stash of Hershey’s Kisses hidden aboard? I didn’t ask, but the fragrance comforted me.

  After Ben slid the door shut and revved the motor, I grabbed for a seatbelt and clutched air. No seatbelts. Then I heard the roar of the engine, the whir of the propeller, and felt us rising straight up. I had questions for Zack, but helicopter noise made talk impossible unless I wanted to shout. Didn’t want to shout. Only wanted to live to see tomorrow.

  Did Ben have official clearance to make this trip? Was he a legally qualified and certified helicopter pilot? Was he sure of the route to the reef? My palms began to sweat. My feet tingled from floorboard vibration. I tasted copper on my tongue. Fear? No. Terror. Then I sucked it up and tried to put a positive spin on the situation. Maybe I could write a song about this experience later, if I survived. Were there words that rhymed with moonlight? Or ashes? Or helicopter? I could think of none.

  What if we crashed into the sea? What would it feel like to drown? What if nobody found our bodies? What if the shore patrol arrested Zack for littering?

  “The box is biodegradable,” Zack shouted.

  “Good,” I shouted back, wondering if he could read my thoughts.

  At last, I tried to relax and enjoy the panoramic scene around me. Moonlight shimmered on the ever-moving sea. Light flashes from Key West were like bright pinpricks fading into the distance. After a few minutes, Ben lowered the helicopter to a few feet above the water. Were we going to crash? I grabbed Zack’s hand and we both stood and looked down. We hovered above two red and white buoys where boaters could moor their crafts instead of dropping an anchor directly onto the coral reef. Ben flew beyond the buoys before he nodded to Zack.

  When Zack reached for the box of ashes, Ben slid the helicopter door open. The salt air engulfing us surprised me for a moment, th
en Zack bowed his head and mouthed a whispered prayer before he leaned forward and released the box into the waves. Now I joined him at the open door, clinging to a safety strap. The box floated until drawers in all four sides opened, releasing rose petals into the sea as the container disappeared from sight. I brushed away tears, and then Ben closed the door and we sat again. Zack took my hand, and I squeezed his fingers. While we headed toward the lights of Key West I thought of Francine.

  This evening would have pleased her.

  Zack and I peered at the water, when Ben increased our altitude. With moonlight glinting on the water, the ocean looked like an unending sheet of aluminum foil. It irritated me that I couldn’t think of a more romantic simile.

  After a few moments, Zack touched my elbow and pointed below. I looked down and saw it. A speedboat with no running lights looked like a black knife cutting through the brine. Bad news. Holding my hand in a steel grip, Zack leaned forward to tap Ben’s shoulder and again point downward. Ben circled and studied the sea.

  “Let’s follow that guy,” Ben shouted.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Zack and I held our positions at the window. Ben trailed the fast-moving boat for a few minutes before he dropped closer to it. The boat’s poling platform aft told me the owner might be a flats fisherman and perhaps a fishing guide, but this boat would be as efficient knifing through deep water as easing into backcountry flats. Painted on the floor near the bow, a likeness of a sun surrounding a conch shell caught the moonlight. Ben dropped another notch lower. Someone had blacked out the boat’s name and I.D. number, but we could see the captain. He couldn’t help knowing we were following him. His hooded slicker concealed his head and face, and he didn’t look up.

  Zack grabbed my hand. Moonlight glinted on a gun in the captain’s hand.