Life's a Beach Then You Die

by Falafel Jones

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ed left the Kenwood home to move Sheila into his house on the river and I drove over to the EFH offices. They were on the mainland north of S.R. 44 in a corporate park between a golf course and the New Smyrna Beach Municipal Airport, Jack Bolt Field. I was feeling put out after my attempt to get through on the phone so I imagined the airport proximity a snooty convenience to suit the ipsy-pipsy family members. With Jack Bolt Field so close, they wouldn’t have to travel to the Daytona Beach airport and mingle with the NASCAR fans, Bikers, Spring Breakers and me.

  On the way to the airport, I saw a sign for Stevie’s Sky Lounge boasting, “Just a short walk from aircraft parking”. I had never been there but it was lunchtime and when I arrived, it didn’t look crowded. I went inside.

  A hostess seated me alone at a table for four just outside the bar with a view of the runways. The outside walls were almost entirely windows and inside walls lacked the tacky props sometimes appearing in places like this.

  Although the bar crowd was small, it was noisy. Several bursts of deep male laughter accompanied a single, higher pitched feminine giggle. I ignored them and read the menu.

  In case the view didn’t make it clear you were dining near an airport, the menu titles did. Appetizers were “Preparing for Takeoff”, dinners “Maximum Altitude” and desserts “Landings”. Despite the cutesy listings, it was a very nice upscale restaurant.

  Being a vegetarian, I scanned to see what, if anything, I could eat. They had so many attractive items I was having a hard time choosing. The Pesto Bruschetta tempted me. It was thin and crispy flat bread with spinach pesto, melted mozzarella and a blend of fresh basil, diced tomatoes, garlic and olive oil.

  As tasty as that sounded, I decided my interview with Corky might go better without garlic on my breath. Instead, I ordered the Caprese Salad, fresh Buffalo mozzarella and tomato fresca over baby spinach. Drizzled with a balsamic reduction and homemade spinach pesto. Served with warm Italian bread. Mmmm. It sounded good.

  While waiting for my food, I heard a cell phone ring in the bar, silencing the crowd. Then I heard a female voice speaking something I couldn’t make out, a click of a phone closing, the same woman speaking louder, and then an outburst of laughter from the men at the bar.

  Curious to see what was going on in there, I decided this would be a good time to go wash my hands. As I passed the bar, I saw what I heard. Three men and one blonde. She wore a brown suit with a micro mini skirt and a low cut blouse. Surrounded by three men, she was brassier than the bar rail. She was Ed’s ex-wife, Sheila. The ex-wife Ed had gone to move into his river view home, just about now.

  I felt terrible for Ed, he’d be disappointed and hurt. It was sad to witness it, but telling him about it would serve no purpose. By now, he’d know that Sheila stood him up. She wasn’t going to move in with him after all.

  I washed and went back to my seat and while I sat, trying to decide how to handle this new dilemma, the waitress brought my food. I had a leisurely lunch with great service and I was still done in time to be early for my 2:00 with Corky. I paid my check and drove the short distance to my meeting.

  I got there about 15 minutes early so I parked and went inside. Lunch was good but I felt bad for Ed. I was also annoyed about the way EFH treated my request for an interview with Corky. The more I thought about that, the more I began to get in a pissy mood. I figured they would keep me waiting anyway so I might as well get started. I entered the five story, red brick and smoked glass building through the double doors in the glassed in lobby. The ceiling was two stories high and contained almost as many trees inside as there were outside on the lawn. I had to admit, the place looked nice.

  As I walked toward the elevator bank in the lobby one of two men at a horseshoe shaped reception desk stood and smiled at me. Both were good-looking kids in their late twenties with nice teeth. They looked like they worked out and both wore navy blue blazers with an emblem over the pocket and a two-way radio on their belts. As I neared the elevator, one of them said, “Sir?”

  I wondered how far I would get if I ignored him and kept on going. I was tempted to do so, but it would have been childish and counter productive. I had no idea where Corky’s office was, so I said, “Hi, I’ve got a 2:00 with Corky Eastwood.”

  “Mr. Fried?” he asked without consulting any computer or paper.

  “Yes.” I was impressed they were expecting me. He also got my name right. Maybe these people weren’t so bad after all.

  “This way, please.” He bowed his head slightly, gestured to an empty elevator and removed a key from his pocket. I entered the car. He followed me in, placed the key into a panel on the wall and turned it. He smiled at me.

  I smiled at him.

  He smiled at me.

  I smiled at him.

  The elevator stopped at “P” and the door opened. I knew “P” usually stood for “Parking” or “Penthouse”. This was the first time I got off at “P” when there weren’t cars all over the place.

  The young man gestured towards the elevator door and I exited. There was no receptionist. I stood in a large open area. It looked like a hotel lobby or a room in a private club. It gradually dawned on me that this floor contained private living quarters instead of offices.

  Several plush chairs, sofas, coffee tables and end tables sat in small groups on thick tasteful carpeting. I noticed a woman in her 40s, tall and thin with straight, blond, shoulder length, hair woman. She put down a glass and stand up from one of the chairs.

  Her beige suit included a tailored jacket and a straight cut, tight fitting skirt that came to just below her knees. A light yellow blouse, open at the collar, showed off a simple strand of pearls that matched her earrings.

  “Mr. Fried,” she showed me perfect teeth and offered her hand. I took it.

  “Please sit.” She said.

  I gave her back her hand and we sat in a pair of matching, red, cloth, club chairs. They bordered a low redwood coffee table bordered by redwood end tables bearing green plants. A man approached wearing a black suit, thin black tie and a white shirt.

  Without acknowledging his arrival, she asked, “Mr. Fried, would you like anything to drink?” It was as if she just knew he would be there in time to hear my reply to her question.

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.” The man in the suit nodded and left. She didn't acknowledge his departure either, so I continued. “I’d like to thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

  She suppressed a grin and made a dismissive wave with her hand. “Uncle Ed tells me you have some questions for me.”

  “Uncle Ed?”

  She laughed. “When I was about ten years old, Ed McCarthy did so much work for my father that he practically lived at our house. He spent so much time with us I began to call him Uncle Ed. That went on for about five years until the end of Daddy’s real estate acquisition phase. Though he claimed otherwise, I think all of that work may have lead to the end of Uncle Ed’s second marriage, or was it his third? Then, when Daddy turned his investments in other directions, I didn’t see Uncle Ed much after that until he started handling my own real estate a few years later. Now, he occasionally helps our corporate legal team.” She placed her hands together in her lap and leaned forward towards me. “So, what do you want to know?”

  “Well, I’m working with ah, Uncle Ed on a case. During the course of our investigation, we came across someone whose interests conflict with those of Ed’s client. The reason I’m here is you seem to have a connection to the person with the conflict.”

  “You beat around the bush, very well, Mr. Fried, but I’m not that easily offended. Who are we not talking about here?”

  “You appear to be a part owner of PC Gadgets. You’re listed as Vice President of the corporation. Ben Horton, the President, may have interests that conflict with Ed’s client. We’d like to sort this out.”

  “I know Ben Horton. Who’s the client?”

  “The estate of Ray Kenwood.”


  “Ray’s dead? And Ben has conflicting interests?”

  “Yes. You knew Ray too?”

  “Yes. I was about 16. Daddy had a sailboat, a beautiful custom yacht… two masts … four cabins… a full time crew. I used to dream about sailing away and never returning. Daddy kept it here in New Smyrna Beach, but he’d sail it back and forth to Key West. On his first trip to the Keys, Daddy captained the boat and hired Ben and Ray as crew. They were local boys who worked summers at the marina. Daddy met the Skipper when we docked in the Keys. He was from around here and looking for work, so Daddy hired him. The Skipper was a few years older than the boys were and he had a lot of blue water experience. That summer, I spent two weeks on that boat. I loved it. I still love the water.”

  When she started talking, the billionaire heiress disappeared and I saw the teenager who loved the sea. For some reason, this made me feel more comfortable with her. I sat back in my chair. “When did you last see Ray and Ben?”

  She leaned forward and in a soft voice said, “Ed said this conversation would be confidential.”

  I leaned forward and in a soft voice, responded, “Yes, it is.”

  She nodded, “OK. I saw them last on the day they were arrested.”

  “Arrested?” I already knew Ben Horton's version of this story. Now, I wanted to see if Corky corroborated it.

  “Yes. Daddy felt awful. You see, when he wasn’t using the boat, Daddy let the crew go where they wanted. They worked full time crew and lived onboard. Sometimes, they went to Cuba and brought back cigars. Daddy and his friends loved those cigars and the crew was able to supplement their income. No one really cared or thought it was a big deal.”

  She paused. I got the impression that she was deciding whether to tell me more, so I sat there quietly, while she thought it over. She pressed her lips together and then continued.

  “That is, until officers arrested Ray and Ben. I was on the boat with them on their last trip to Cuba but Ray and Ben told the officers that I wasn’t. They said I was just some girl they met that day in Key West. I was wearing a bikini and the folks at the Yacht Club vouched for me so they just let me go.”

  “You got lucky.”

  “Yes. The Feds also investigated Daddy, but since he wasn’t there and the boys claimed Daddy was ignorant, no one arrested him. The next day, Daddy had a crew tow the Leviathan back here to New Smyrna Beach. The day after it arrived, Daddy died on it. I loved that boat and I hated that boat.”

  “What became of the Leviathan?”

  “I sealed it up and put it in storage the day Daddy died. I couldn’t bear to use it, but I couldn’t bear to part with it either.”

  “What about the Captain? Did he get arrested too?”

  “No, he disappeared. The police were looking for him but they didn’t find him. I’d guess he saw the police and went over the side. He was a great swimmer. He could probably have swum quite a distance underwater. We never saw him again. He didn’t even come back for his things. He was lucky, because we later found out the police wanted him for a previous incident on another boat. They showed me his picture… said his name was Dan, no… maybe David, I don’t know. It was a name I never heard him use. Anyway, they claimed he smuggled Cubans. This time, I mean people not cigars. I heard one of the police say something about wanting to talk to him about a death in Miami.”

  “Did the Police have the Captain’s name correct?”

  “Gee, Mr. Fried. I was 16. The crew seemed like old men. We really didn’t socialize. All I remember is Ben, Ray and Skipper. Everyone, even Daddy, called him nothing but “Skipper”.

  “Do you remember what he looked like?”

  “Vaguely. I remember he had long wavy blond hair and a Fu Manchu style moustache. Do you remember those?” She laughed.

  “Yes. I remember many bad styles and I wore most of them. They all seemed like a good idea at the time. I’d really like to track down this captain. Any chance his name might be on some payroll or personnel record?”

  “Possibly, I’ll have Amanda check into that and call you.”

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate it. You’ve know Horton for a long time. Did you know about his food allergy?”

  “You mean that peanut thing? Oh, yes. He was constantly interrogating people who prepared his food about what ingredients they used. It got to the point that when Skipper and Ray had kitchen duty, they refused to make Ben’s food. He ended up making all of his own meals. Why do you want to know about that?”

  “Just background information. One last question, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure.”

  “So, how did you end up as vice president on the PC Gadgets corporate papers?”

  “Well, a little while ago, I got this call from Ben. I hadn’t heard from him in years. He needed to borrow some money because he was having some trouble with his company. He said he had a new design he wanted to bring to market but he needed cash. I was surprised to hear from him after so long, but I wanted to help him because he helped me avoid arrest. I agreed to the loan, handed him over to our financing staff. They made him put me on the board to protect my investment.”

  “I guess I lied. Now, I have an additional question. Do you know what this new product is?”

  “No, but it doesn’t matter.” She broke eye contact and looked over my shoulder. “I owed him.” She was watching something while she spoke. “I would have financed anything he…”

  I looked behind me and saw the elevator door closing. Detectives Torres and Fitzpatrick stood in front of it scanning the room, their gold badges and guns prominent on their belts. Torres caught my eye and the detectives started towards me with two of the EFH security men trailing behind. I turned back to Corky and saw her assistant, Amanda Finch, had materialized by her side. I wondered what was going on.