Eden Palms Murder

by Dorothy Francis

  Laying the magazine aside, I looked more closely at Dr. Gravely’s Conch Republic flags. I liked both the variety of sizes and the variety of frames he had chosen. When he returned to loosen the tourniquet, I forgot the flags for the moment and smiled to see that my leg no longer bled.

  “Let’s wait another few minutes,” he said. “Then if all’s well, I’ll bandage the wound and you can go on your way—resting the remainder of the day, of course.”

  “Yes, of course.” He turned to go, but I called to him. “Dr. Gravely, would you mind if I took some pictures of your flags? You have a variety of unique ones.”

  “No, I’m flattered. Go right ahead. I apologize for our misunderstanding at the marina this morning.”

  “And I owe you an apology for boarding your boat without invitation.”

  “No apology needed. I took my anger at the marina officials out on you. I hate knowing that strangers sometimes have access to my boat.”

  “I understand. And I’m glad your boat wasn’t the one leaking oil.”

  Remaining seated with my leg on the ottoman, I managed to snap flash shots of several of the framed flags. Blue was the regulation background color, but Gravely had framed red flags, yellow flags—even a purple one. I started to slide my camera into its case when I spotted a flag I’d overlooked. It hung unframed and loosely taped to the wall, as if Gravely still felt undecided on the exact spot to hang it. I grabbed a deep breath to steady myself.

  Ignoring my injured leg, I rose and stepped closer to the flag. No doubt about it. I’d bought this flag from the airport vendor last Monday. It’d been my token gift to Wizard on Tuesday when Mitch had introduced us. No mistake. I touched the grease smear on the corner of the fabric. Perhaps Gravely had taped it to the wall until he had a chance to get it cleaned. Snap a picture of it. Now Before it’s too late. No. Don’t. He’ll catch you.

  A chill feathered up my arms. I hurried back to the couch and eased my leg onto the ottoman. What was Wizard’s scarf doing here? I forgot how many days had passed since Mitch told me Wizard was missing.

  Why would a vagrant have business in a private clinic? Gravely’s upscale practice wouldn’t include indigent patients. My mind reeled with questions when Gravely returned to the waiting room. I could hardly sit still while he made a final inspection of my wound, applied some Steri-Strips and a bandage. This might be my last, my only, chance to get a picture of Wizard’s scarf. I hadn’t figured out why that was important, but a gut feeling told me it was. Maybe I could get one after all.

  Standing to leave the office, I delayed.

  “Dr. Gravely, thank you for caring for my leg. I expect to pay you for your services. Will a check be okay?”

  “Let’s not worry about that now,” Gravely said. “My secretary will bill you later.”

  “That’ll be fine, but I have one more favor to ask.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’d like to take your picture along with some of your interesting flags. Would you pose for me?”

  Gravely shrugged and acted embarrassed, but I felt sure my request flattered him. Maybe he remembered my words about using pictures to help me create lyrics. Maybe he imagined himself immortalized in a Bailey Green song.

  “Where shall I stand?” He struck a pose beside the largest of the flags. “How’s this?”

  I pretended to focus the lens, then I stopped and looked up. “The overhead light casts a shadow on your face. Would you mind standing about a foot to your left?”

  “Anywhere you prefer.” He moved to his left. “Okay?”

  Approaching him, I took his arm and pulled him into the exact position I needed, the position that would show him and Wizard’s scarf in the same frame.

  “Now smile and say cheese. People laugh at those instructions, but they work.”

  Dr. Gravely smiled and mouthed the word “cheese” as I snapped the picture. I thanked him again and headed for the door.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “Wait,” Dr. Gravely said. “You mustn’t leave afoot. I want you to pamper that leg for a day or two while the wound heals.”

  “My leg feels fine, and it’s only a few steps to the cottage. I can make it. No problem.”

  “I’d drive you there, but I can’t leave my patient.”

  Before I could protest, Gravely picked up a telephone and keyed in a number. My hands balled into fists when he spoke.

  “Zack, I’ve a friend of yours at the clinic who needs a lift to her cottage. Could you oblige? She’s had an accident, and I don’t want her walking yet. No. No. Nothing life-threatening.”

  I could barely hide my irritation. “Oh, you shouldn’t have bothered Zack. I’m sure he’s busy.”

  “But not too busy.” Gravely’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Not too busy for his favorite lady.” He opened the clinic door and glanced outside. “Here he is already.”

  There was nothing I could do but thank Gravely again for his help. Zack hurried toward us, leaving the car door open in his rush to offer me an arm to lean on.

  “Bailey! What on earth happened?” He helped me into the car, then turned to Gravely. “Win, thanks for taking care of her—for calling me.”

  On the half-block drive to the cottage, I made light of my injury and corked my anger at Zack in my need to tell him about everything I’d seen.

  “Something’s going on in that clinic, Zack. Something—evil. I need to talk to the police.”

  Zack raised an eyebrow. “Evil? That’s strong language, Bailey. What do you intend to tell the police? You’ve no evidence of wrongdoing. Many people know of Winton’s interest in Conch Republic memorabilia.”

  “But that scarf, that special scarf with the stain, may belong to a dead man. Mitch says Wizard has disappeared. Mitch and his friends have been searching for him for several days—with no luck.”

  “Can you prove the scarf belonged to…to this person you call Wizard?”

  “I gave it to him, Zack. It’s as simple as that. I bought the scarf from an airport vendor. It became grease stained when the cabbie caught it in the taxi door. The cabbie may remember the incident, if I need corroboration. I gave the scarf to Wizard, and I took a picture of him wearing it. That scarf, grease stain and all, is hanging on Gravely’s wall, and I have a picture of him standing beside it. If you won’t drive me to police headquarters, I’ll drive there myself.”

  “Easy, Bailey, easy. Remember your injured leg. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

  “Thanks, Zack. Police headquarters. I’ll call Mitch on the way.” I corked my anger at Zack—for the moment—and forced myself to calm down. “Mitch’s tried to get the police to search for Wizard, but no go.”

  “I can understand why.” Zack headed for the police station while I tried to call Mitch. Seven rings. Then he picked up. I breathed again. What if he hadn’t answered?

  “What’s the buzz?” Mitch asked, as if he knew who was calling.

  “Any luck in finding Wizard?”

  “None. He’s gone and nobody’s seen him since Wednesday.”

  “So listen up.” After I told Mitch of my experience at Courtney’s and at Gravely’s clinic, I suggested we stop by for him.

  “You sure your leg’s up to chasing around?”

  “My leg’s fine. No pain.”

  “You’re probably on pain pills. Probably can’t tell if there’s pain.”

  “Mitch!” I used my big-sister voice. “This trip to the police’s top priority. Where can we find you?”

  “Nowhere, Bailey. I’ll ride my bike. Meet you at headquarters. I need my own transportation.” He broke the connection before I could argue. So he didn’t want Zack to see where he’d been living. Couldn’t blame him.

  “He’ll meet us there, Zack.”

  Zack drove to the station and let me out by the entryway fountain while he parked in a visitor’s slot. I checked my bandage. Good. No blood showing. And the pain pills were doing their thing. I only felt a slight numbness in my leg. My opini
on of Dr. Gravely rose when I remembered his careful treatment of my wound, then it ebbed like low tide when I thought about Wizard’s scarf hanging on the clinic wall. Dr. Jekyll? Mr. Hyde?

  When Zack returned we entered the station, sitting on plastic chairs near the elevator while we waited for Mitch. If secondhand smoke causes lung cancer, I wondered why all of Key West’s finest weren’t its victims. I practiced shallow breathing.

  After a few minutes Mitch arrived wearing his uniform of cutoff jeans and tank top. He padlocked his bike in a rack and joined us. We stood, and after curt greetings, Zack punched two on the elevator panel. The second floor was a trifle less smoky than the entryway. Zack approached the desk of a red-haired woman wearing a police uniform and a badge.

  “I’m Officer Alverez, sir. How may I help you?” The phone on her desk rang and she turned to answer.

  “Why didn’t you ask for Cassidy or Burgundy?” I whispered while Officer Alverez played with her phone buttons.

  “We’re under enough suspicion from those two already. Don’t want to alert them to a new problem. If there is a problem. Probably an exercise in craziness.”

  Officer Alverez ended her conversation and turned to us again. Mitch spoke before Zack could say anything.

  “I’d like to speak to Sergeant Dominick, please. I’ve talked to him before concerning my missing friend.”

  I thought Officer Alverez raised an eyebrow, but I wasn’t sure. She pushed a button and announced our presence to Sergeant Dominick.

  “Follow me, please.” She stood and led us to a small cubicle at the end of a long hallway. Opening the door, she announced our presence and then left. Beefy. Barrel chested. Bald. Sergeant Dominick looked like the type who hated working on Saturday afternoons. On his desk, a cigar smoldered in an ashtray that looked as if it hadn’t been emptied any time lately.

  “Have seats, please, and state your business.” His gaze bored into Mitch, and Mitch leaned forward.

  “I’ve come here again to report a missing person.”

  Sergeant Dominick pulled a legal-size pad of yellow paper from his desk drawer and poised a ballpoint over the top line. “Your name, please.”

  “Mitch Mitchell.” Mitch supplied his name and address, and then Dominick requested the same information from Zack and me.

  “Mr. Mitchell, what’s your business here today?”

  Dominick deliberately blew cigar smoke in my direction. Even Zack had to stifle a cough.

  Mitch cleared his throat. “I’m here to report again that my friend’s missing. I know him as Wizard. He’s a good guy, and he has lots of pals in the homeless community. He’s been missing since Wednesday, and I want to know that the police are trying to find him.”

  “Wizard.” Dominick mouthed the name as if it were a dirty word. “Where’s he been missing from? He got an address?”

  “Nothing permanent,” Mitch said. “Few of the homeless have permanent addresses. But he gets mail at a post office box. You might be able to trace him through that.”

  “Maybe.” Dominick shrugged. “Little chance, though. Probably only drops around to collect his social security check.”

  “Then the people at the post office must know his legal name. They won’t tell us—his friends—but surely they’d tell the police, if the police were trying to trace his whereabouts.”

  “Our department’s short on men and money. My guess’s this guy, this Wizard’s probably taken it on the lam of his own accord. Probably doesn’t want to be found.”

  Mitch jumped up, eyes blazing, hands clenched. “My guess’s that he’s missing his friends and that something bad’s happened to him.”

  “Be seated, please.” Dominick waited until Mitch sat. “Now what’s your take on this? Why you think something’s happened to this person?”

  “Wizard and I had plans for this afternoon, sir. Wizard likes kites. They fascinate him. He likes to watch them floating over Smathers beach. He’s seen kites shaped like bats and triangles and boxes, but he wanted one shaped like a pirate’s flag. A Jolly Roger.”

  “Isn’t kite flying rather childish for a grown man?”

  “I’ve seen lots of grown men on the beach flying kites. Tourists. Locals. Anyone who’s interested in kites. It’s a Key West thing. I promised to give Wizard a Jolly Roger this afternoon. Had to order it special from the kite shop in Old Town, and he’d been looking forward all week to flying it—up until Wednesday, that is. That’s the last time anyone saw him.”

  “So because this person missed a kite-flying appointment, you think something bad’s happened to him.”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  Sergeant Dominick turned to eyeball Zack and me, and I spoke up. “I agree with Mr. Mitchell. I think his friend Wizard may be injured—or dead.”

  Sergeant Dominick never batted an eyelid. “On what do you base that belief?”

  Dominick took another pull on his cigar, and I began my story about Gravely and the Conch Republic flag.

  “I can vouch for Wizard’s ownership of that stained flag. An airport cabbie saw me buy it last Monday night. Mitch saw me give it to Wizard on Tuesday.” I tapped my camera. “And I have a snapshot of Dr. Gravely with that same flag that now hangs on his clinic wall.”

  “Sir,” Dominick said, looking at Zack, “are you acquainted with Wizard?”

  “No, sir,” Zack said. “I am not. But I vouch for both Mr. Mitchell and Bailey Green. You can depend on what they say concerning this man.”

  Sergeant Dominick nodded, and he said nothing for a few minutes while he wrote on his legal pad and then held it toward me.

  “Please read this and sign it. It’s your statement of the facts you’ve told me today. It might be enough to prod some officers into searching for—Wizard.”

  I read the statement, making sure all the details were correct before I signed the page. Sergeant Dominick scrutinized my signature before he folded the sheet and slipped it into an envelope.

  “I thank you for taking time to make this report. You may go now. You’ll be hearing from us if we have any news of—Wizard.”

  “And if we don’t hear from you, may we call for further information?” I asked.

  “If you must.” Dominick rose, ran a hand over his bald lead, then left his cigar smoldering in the ashtray.

  Once we were outside the station, I inhaled. What a neat thing to breathe fresh air!

  “You wait here,” Zack said to me. “I’ll get the car and pick you up.”

  I didn’t argue, knowing my words would make no difference.

  “I want to talk to hear more about Gravely and his clinic,” Mitch said. “May I stop by the cottage?”

  “Of course.” I looked at Zack’s Thunderbird. “Why don’t you bike over? We’ll meet you there.”

  When Zack and I reached the cottage, he came inside, helped me to the couch, and pulled up a footstool for my leg. I felt as if I should apologize to him for my anger, for running to Courtney for help. But no. Not now. Plenty of time later for apologies—and making up.

  “Any pain?”

  “No.” I examined the bandage. “No blood, either.”

  Maybe Zack was right. Maybe I was a little jealous of Courtney. But only a little. I’d decided not to let her rush me into searching for an apartment. But that had been my idea, not hers. Hadn’t it? The day’s happenings left me wondering about a lot of things.

  By the time Mitch arrived, Zack had set out a pitcher of iced tea from my refrigerator and added a dish of M&M’s and a plate of chips. Soul food.

  “I want to hear your story again,” Mitch said. “I want to hear everything that happened at Gravely’s clinic. And then I want to tell you something.”

  “You go first,” I said. “As you might say—what’s the buzz?”

  “The buzz from me is that I realize I’ve been wrong about a lot of things. I thought I could help Wizard. I blamed the cops for his plight. I didn’t think they gave a stuffed shrimp about him or about trying to help the hom
eless. Their attitude made me mad. I began trying to bargain with them and with Wizard. I thought that by letting him know he had a true friend, I could change him and help reunite him with his family. Wrong. The whole scene depresses me.”

  “You tried, Mitch. You gave it a good shot.”

  “But Wizard didn’t want to be reunited with anyone, did he? I’ve driven him away. If he’s hurt and in trouble, it’s all my fault. I’m ready to go to social services, to local ministers and their charities, with my apologies and my offer to work with them, to help. They’re the professionals. They’re the ones who understand the homeless and their situation.”

  “I don’t want to hear anymore about any of this,” Zack said. “I’m outta here. Gravely’s my friend. He overlooked Bailey’s trespassing on his boat. He opened his private clinic to her when she needed help. I have no way of explaining his wall hangings. I’ll admit the circumstances surrounding the scarf are unusual, but the police have that info now. It’s out of our hands.”

  Zack had shoved his iced tea aside and headed for the door when Detectives Cassidy and Burgundy arrived, strode toward the cottage, and knocked. Zack let them in and before any of us could say anything, Cassidy spoke.

  “Mr. Mitchell, we’re here to ask you to come with us to headquarters for questioning concerning the Shipton murder.”

  Had I seen a momentary flash of satisfaction cross Zack’s face? Had he tipped the police that they could find Mitch here? I bit my tongue to hold back my anger.

  “I have a choice?” Mitch asked. “I can refuse?”

  “We hope you’ll come with us willingly,” Cassidy said. “If you refuse we can get a court—”

  “This can’t be happening.” I jumped to my feet, forgetting about my injured leg. “You can’t take Mitch away against his will. You have no proof of his guilt. None at all.” Then I turned to Mitch. “You need a lawyer. Don’t say a word to these men without a lawyer present.”

  THIRTY

  “We’ll see that Mr. Mitchell has a lawyer,” Detective Cassidy said, “if he wants one.”