Blood and Sand

by Michael Lister

  It’s truly amazing to me that one moment these people say that God is love and the next moment they’re saying that he does things like this. And then they don’t even see the contradiction. They don’t even realize how inhumane they are and claim that God is. I don’t know what we would do without Keith’s mom. She has been so supportive of us. Always has been. From the very beginning. Hell, Magdalene’s foster mom has been more supportive than my own mother. Of course our chosen family here has also been amazing, but that’s about it. We really have no one else.

  But by now we’re used to it.

  15

  “I’m gonna be honest with you,” Merrick is saying.

  It’s a little after nine on Monday night. We’re in a booth in the back of the Donut Hole on 98 having coffee and pie. The restaurant/bakery is mostly empty and there is no one in the booths around us. I’m having key lime and he’s having caramel. We’re both having decaf.

  “Wouldn’t expect anything less,” I say.

  I’ve been here a while. This is where Susan was supposed to meet me with Johanna. When she didn’t show, I called her and she told me she wasn’t coming. Vague about why, she only said that she had composed a text to tell me she couldn’t make it but had evidently failed to send it. It wasn’t my week with Johanna, but I had been hoping that Susan would let her join us anyway because of all the fun she would have—and for a while it looked like she was going to, but maybe that was just to set up this classic passive-aggressive move tonight.

  Extremely disappointed I wouldn’t see Johanna tonight—I miss her so much when she’s with her mother that it produces a physical ache inside me—I had called Merrick McKnight, my reporter friend who had recommended me to Keith and Christopher, to see if he had time to meet me. I then spent the next hour waiting for him to drive out here from Panama City. Fortunately, I could access the security camera footage from my phone so I didn’t waste any time.

  I was able to get to the end of the first day. At 9:18 p.m. Derinda Dacosta exits the front door carrying what looks like opened Christmas presents. At 12:37 p.m. Hal Raphael enters the front door.

  “Calling you wasn’t the first thing I suggested Keith and Christopher do,” Merrick is saying.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “First, I tried to solve the damn thing myself. I was like, this would make a great story for the paper, an even greater podcast, and one day a potentially bestselling book.”

  “Even a book,” I say. “Wow. How many different ways did you spend the advance in your mind?”

  “Too many not to be embarrassed about it,” he says. “It’s got everything a great true crime story needs—a seemingly impossible crime, little to no clues, plenty of suspects, sympathetic victims—Magdalene and her parents. I thought if I could solve it . . .”

  “I know you don’t mean it to,” I say, “but it sounds so cynical and cold when you talk about it that way.”

  He nods and frowns. “I know, but I knew you would get that I was just talkin’ about it from a story standpoint.”

  I nod.

  He adds, “Hey, if I didn’t care, I wouldn’t’ve sent them to you. I sincerely hope you can find her—or at least find out what happened to her and who’s responsible. I didn’t get anywhere with it. Not really. And I honestly thought if anyone could it would be you.”

  “That’s nice of you to say.”

  “I’m not being nice. I mean it. And it shows that I care. I’ll help you in any way I can, but . . . I just don’t have much to offer. I have no clue how it was done, let alone who did it. If you go just by the evidence it didn’t even happen.”

  “Mind laying it out for me?”

  “Not at all,” he says. “Won’t take long. The little adopted daughter of a gay couple goes missing on the night of their winter solstice party while only they, a few of their closest friends, and one guest of the B&B are in the house. The house, which is extremely interesting in and of itself—we’ll come back to that later—has great security. Only guests with a room key that has been programmed that same day can enter the front door—and that only gives them access to the B&B part of the house, not the Dacosta’s residence in the back. There are two security cameras—one covering the front door and one covering the back. Neither show anyone coming into or leaving the house after the party people arrived or before the B&B guest came out to catch his Uber early the next morning. And when he and the other party guests did come out none of them had Magdalene.”

  I nod and think about it.

  “What can you tell me about the people at the party that night?” I ask.

  He shrugs and frowns. “Probably nothing helpful. Have you met them?”

  “Most, not all.”

  “To me the least likely to be behind it are Wren Melody and Henrique Arango,” he says. “They’re both pretty old and he has prostate cancer. But who knows . . . Maybe they’re involved in stealing American kids and sending them back home—him to Cuba and her to England. I had the hardest time finding information on Vic Frankford, the guy who owns the little market. And I’m in the finding-information business. Something sketchy there. Brooke Wakefield, the hot young boutique owner, has continuous men and money troubles. Rake Sabin seems to be what he appears to be—a health nut and a confirmed bachelor. No red flags came up for Clarence and Sarah Samuelson. I’m not sure why they work the way they do. Running a restaurant is hard and they have enough money to retire and live large until they are 200, so . . .”

  “Did they have a grandchild get killed a year or two ago?” I ask.

  “They did lose a grandkid, but they led me to believe it was from disease. They lost a kid several years ago too. They still have three, but their oldest died while helping the dad with his boat—drowned in a storm and his body was never recovered. Definitely worth a closer look.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Jodi North, the Sandcastle rep theater director, is flighty and dramatic—or pretends to be. She’s also broke. I think she’s the only one of them who doesn’t actually live in Sandcastle. Can’t afford it. She commutes from . . . somewhere—Panama City or Fort Walton, I think.”

  “Haven’t met her yet,” I say. “Scott Haskew either.”

  “He’s the director of the Sandcastle Foundation. They raise money from all the rich people living in and visiting Sandcastle and put on events and do charity work. I’m sure they’re who brought you in to give the lecture series. I don’t know this for sure, but I think he and Keith were dating when Keith met Christopher. I wasn’t able to confirm that. Wasn’t even able to confirm that Scott is gay. If he is, he’s way, way in the closet.”

  “What about the only stranger in the house?” I say. “Hal Raphael.”

  “Every indication I got was that he was looked at very, very closely for it, but . . . there’s just no evidence he had anything to do with it. He secures lease contracts for cell towers. Travels a lot. Seems like an average family guy. Single. Got a kid that doesn’t live with him. If I’m remembering right he lives in Madison, Wisconsin. Keith and Christopher’s own security cameras place him in the clear.”

  “If you go by that then they do the same for everyone else there that night too,” I say. “And Magdalene never left the house.”

  “True,” he says. “It’s a real mystery. That’s why I told them to call you.”

  “Do you have a theory?” I ask. “Or a sense of what most reporters who covered it believe?”

  “I don’t have any idea what really happened,” he says, “but I can tell you most of the others think that Keith and Christopher did it and the others helped them cover it up. Like it was an accident or something and instead of coming clean they came up with this elaborate story for public sympathy.”

  “What did you mean about the house being interesting?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s interesting that it has such good security and this still happened,” he says, “but I was talking about the other stuff.”

  “The themed
rooms?” I ask.

  “No. Have you heard of these escape room things?” he says.

  I nod.

  “The Florida House has one,” he says. “And not just that but a series of secret passageways and some hidden rooms.”

  “Seriously?”

  “100 percent,” he says. “Keith’s dad and uncles were builders and architects. He used to work construction. He may even have his contractor’s license. I can’t remember. Anyway, he designed the house to have all that stuff. It used to be a big selling feature of their B&B. They’d play games with the guests and . . . I’m not sure what all. I think they had this thing like if you escape from the escape room under the allotted time you get a free night’s stay or something like that. I’m pretty sure they said no one ever beat it. Thing is . . . with all that hidden shit in the house you’d think it was used by the abductor, and maybe it was, but there’s no evidence it had anything do with it. Still, you should get them to show it to you.”

  “I plan to,” I say.

  Day 69

  Day 69

  I can’t. I just can’t come up with something to say today.

  All I can do is cry.

  My little girl is gone and she’s not coming back and nothing else matters. Nothing else has meaning.

  I hate this world. I hate myself and everyone else.

  Fuck everybody.

  16

  As I’m driving back down the dark, mostly empty highway toward 30A and Sandcastle, I think about the case and wonder what I’m not seeing and why I’m not seeing it.

  I’m disappointed that Johanna is not with me, but I’m still hopeful that Susan will let her come later in the week.

  As I’m about to turn onto the road that connects 30A with Highway 98, my phone vibrates and I pull it out of my pocket.

  It’s Merrill.

  Merrill Monroe, an African-American PI and community organizer, has been my closest friend since we were small children, and just seeing his name on my phone screen lifts my spirits.

  “Man, it’s good to hear from you,” I say. “I miss you. There are like no black people over here. None. At all.”

  “It’s expensive as hell to stay out there,” he says. “And it’s the beach. We can’t afford it. We got no need to work on our tans. And we can’t swim for shit.”

  “I also feel guilty for being away when everything is so bad back there.”

  It’s only been a few weeks since Hurricane Michael decimated much of our town and county and region, and I find it difficult not being there to help in the recovery efforts.

  “Be glad you away from this shit show for little while. They be plenty of misery and suffering for your ass when you get back.”

  “How’s it going?” I ask.

  “’Bout like you’d expect. We makin’ progress. It’s just slow as fuck.”

  Talking to Merrill makes me realize I’ve missed him more than I knew, and it hits me that it’s because of how difficult things are with Anna right now. Not only am I not connected to her right now, but by being out here I feel disconnected from everyone.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Huh? Yeah. Sorry, I zoned out there for a minute.”

  “Your ass just solve a crime or something?”

  I laugh. “I wish. Nothing like that.”

  “Well, I called to ask you an important question,” he says. “Think you can zone back in for a minute?”

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  “What you think about Christmas weddings?”

  “I love Christmas and weddings,” I say. “Putting them together is sort of like mixing peanut butter and chocolate for me.”

  “That’s when Za and I plan to do the deed,” he says.

  Zaire Bell is a brilliant and beautiful doctor at Sacred Heart Hospital in Port St. Joe and Merrill’s fiancé.

  “Oh, Merrill, that’s great news. Congratulations. I’m so happy for you.”

  “We were wondering if you’d be willing to do the ceremony,” he says. “Tie the knot. Perform the service. Officiate. Whatever it’s called.”

  “I’d be honored,” I say. “Truly.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “Wouldn’t want anyone else to do it.”

  I wonder if he’d still feel that way if he knew the current state of my own marriage. I’ve already had one marriage fail—twice. If he knew that my second one might also, he might feel differently.

  “You gonna tell me what’s going on?” he says. “I can tell something’s up.”

  I tell him some of it—enough for him to get an idea of what’s happening without making Anna look any worse.

  Even being careful, saying very little, and including very few details, I still feel like I’m betraying Anna, but my guilt is mitigated by how much Merrill loves and cares for and respects her. He’s wise and insightful and supportive—and a very safe place for both of us.

  “You the most caring and careful cat I know,” he says. “You treat her like a queen and couldn’t be any better to your girls. And you treat Taylor like she’s your own. So even if there’s room for minor improvements here and there—maybe especially when you deep down the rabbit hole of an investigation—there’s no merit to what she’s saying, so it’s something else.”

  Hearing him say that does more for me than anything or anyone else could. Merrill is honest and not shy with his opinions—no matter what they are. And he’s closer to me and Anna than anyone else. He’s in a position to know.

  A warm wave of relief and hope washes over me, and I am buoyed up in a way I haven’t been in a very long time.

  “How long we known Anna?” he asks. “Damn near our entire lives. In all that time, you ever known her to act anywhere close to this?”

  “Not even close.”

  “Me either,” he says. “So somethin’s up. Has she seen someone—gotten a checkup or a . . . Sounds like that’d be the best place to start.”

  Talking to him and having him respond in this way does me more good than anything has in weeks. I feel immediately better—just from having him hear me, from being able to share the burden of it with someone. And then to have him respond in care and concern for her.

  “I can’t get her to even acknowledge she has changed or that anything is wrong,” I say. “She refuses to go the doctor.”

  “Then we go to Plan B,” he says.

  “Which is?”

  “We get her and Dr. Za together. See if she can’t subtly diagnose her over dinner or drinks to talk about our Christmas wedding.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “You can’t imagine how much just talking to you about it has helped me.”

  “Why your ass shoulda done it sooner and not make me have to drag this shit out of you.”

  Day 72

  Day 72

  I still feel so guilty about that night.

  I feel guilt AND anger.

  My anger is directed at Keith. I’m mad as hell at him. Sometimes I can’t even bring myself to be civil to him.

  I don’t want him touching me.

  I can’t stand the sight of him.

  How much longer can we go on like this?

  Every day I think, This is the day. He’s going to leave me today. He will leave and I will be devastated and relieved.

  What did I do to deserve any of this? Maybe Mama is right. Maybe it’s just because I’m an abomination.

  I still can’t believe what Keith did, what he wanted to do. In one act he ruined everything. Broke my heart and took my little girl away from me.

  Can I ever forgive him? Can I ever forgive myself? I thought I had, but it didn’t last. Or it comes and goes—like everything else. Everything but the grief. It’s the one constant of my existence.

  17

  Later that night Keith and Christopher give me a tour of the Florida House.

  “It’s a very cool place,” Christopher is saying. “Or it was until Magdalene was snatched from it.”

  We are standing just inside the front door. Before us is
the large wooden staircase against the right wall, the hallway leading to the back of the house beside it, and to our left the parlor/reception area.

  “I’ve always been into architecture and I love old houses,” Keith is saying. “I’m especially fascinated by old mansions and castles with hidden rooms and secret passageways. And since we were building in a place called Sandcastle, I said why not incorporate some of those things in our B&B. So we did.”

  “We used to play it up,” Christopher says. “Tell guests about it. Give them tours. Play games using the hidden rooms and secret passageways. Our Halloween haunted houses were the best. We even have an escape room. But when we lost Magdalene we lost all interest in it. So we don’t even mention it to anyone anymore.”

  “If whoever took Magdalene used any of the rooms or passages I designed to take her . . .” Keith says. “I think I’ll kill myself. I really do.”

  “Honey, we can’t both do it,” Christopher says. “Somebody has to stay around to be here when they find her, and I have dibs.”

  Keith smiles and pats Christopher on the back. “Let’s both hang around and find her together. We ready for the tour?”

  I nod.

  Keith reaches over and pulls on what looks like a cord and tassel that go with the curtain and a moment later the steps of the staircase rise up, revealing another set of steps beneath them that lead down into an elaborately decorated room.

  “Shall we?” Christopher says, and leads the way down into the hidden room.

  I follow and Keith brings up the rear.

  Down a short flight of stairs and we’re in what looks like an old, formal study/library complete with huge wooden desks and tables, brass-studded leather furniture, and floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with leather-bound books.

  Above the stone fireplace, the portrait of a medieval knight hangs in an elaborate and ornate wooden frame, and no matter where we go in the room his gaze seems to follow us.