“John, no bull, okay?” Her eyes were plaintive, looking for him to say the right things.
“Sorry, Kate. You’re right. I do owe you an explanation.” He put his wine on the table and took her hand in his. “Here’s what happened. I saw a guy die at a bar that night you couldn’t get in touch with me. Somebody murdered him in the restroom, and I was one of the first people to find him. It was awful.”
“Oh no,” Kate said softly. “That’s horrible.”
“And then this place was burglarized,” he said, “twice—once when I was out and again when I was here. That’s why the sofa is all shot to hell.”
“Why did they do that?”
“Bad aim?”
“Oh my God!” she said. “Who were they?”
“Police said they were just some thugs who thought they had left something behind the first time, so they came back looking for it, and—“
“What?”
“Huh?”
“What did they leave behind?”
“A gun,” he said, picking up his wine.
“Oh. And they shot at you?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And the police caught them?”
“Yes. They aren’t going to be bothering anyone for a long time—if ever,” he said. “I promise you we’re safe.”
She exhaled expansively, as if she had been holding her breath for days. “That’s it then?”
“That’s it,” he said. “Just me and my dumb luck…again.”
She leaned over and kissed him, her eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. “If that’s all there is to it,” she said, kissing him lightly again, “then why don’t I believe you?”
“I told you what happened,” he said.
“Not all of it,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“I don’t—but I know you,” she said, standing. “I’m very tired, John. Let’s talk about this tomorrow.” She padded quietly through the living room to the guest room and closed the door behind her.
Pilate poured her wine into his glass and released an audible “Shit” before he gulped it down.
At breakfast, Trevathan volunteered to take Kara to the aquarium.
“But what about Mom?” Kara asked.
“I’d like to go somewhere with John, honey,” she said. “I’ll go to the aquarium with you another day.”
Kara looked at John, who had his face obscured by a large coffee mug.
“I think they just want to kiss,” Kara said, giggling.
“Kara Jane Nathaniel, that will be quite enough,” Kate said, smiling.
Trevathan and Pilate laughed, and Kara giggled again and ate her scrambled eggs.
Constructed of white coral rock in 1851, the Hemingway Home at 907 Whitehead Street presented an opportunity for Pilate and Kate to take a walk and talk more privately.
Hemingway moved into the home in 1931, and it still contained the furniture that he and his family used. Papa’s writing studio and the dozens of polydactyl-footed cats—descendants of Hemingway’s beloved felines—that had free rein of the estate fascinated Pilate.
“Will you look at this pool?” Kate said.
According to legend, Hemingway had the first in-ground swimming pool on the island, and it cost a pretty penny.
“This pool cost $20,000 in the 1930s,” Pilate said. “Can you imagine?”
“It’s sixty feet long,” Kate said. “Sheesh!”
“Hemingway lore says he left it to his wife Pauline to manage the pool construction, and when it was finished and he learned how much it cost, he said, ‘You’ve spent all but my last penny, so you might as well have that!’ and that’s why this penny is embedded here,” Pilate said, pointing to the penny at pool’s north end.
“What an asshole,” Kate whispered, laughing.
“He was that at times,” Pilate said, “but don’t say that too loud around here. These people idolize the man, deserved or not.”
She nodded and walked toward the bookstore area.
Pilate couldn’t help admiring her as she walked away; Kate looked good in khaki shorts. Hell, she looks good in—or out—of everything. “Hey, let’s go up and look at the studio,” Pilate said.
Hemingway wrote in a detached carriage house converted into a studio. They peered through the window at Hemingway’s book-lined studio, a small table with a portable Royal typewriter comprising the humble centerpiece. A multi-toed cat bathed itself on a chair in the corner.
“Pretty cool,” Kate said.
“Yep,” Pilate said. “He wrote some of his best stuff here.”
“Are you a big fan?”
“Honestly, I like The Old Man and the Sea, but I really enjoyed A Moveable Feast more,” Pilate said.
“That’s interesting,” she said.
“What?”
“Preferring a nonfiction memoir as opposed to the writer’s actual fiction.”
“True. I like Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley too.”
“Well, you’re not a macho man anyway,” she said, pinching his bicep.
“Hey, now. I’ve been shot, just like Hemingway.”
“True,” she said. “I suppose that’s a season pass to the Macho Man Club.”
They walked back to the garden around the pool and sat on a small stone bench.
“There’s the lighthouse,” Pilate said, pointing to the eight-story white structure jutting from the palms.
Kate took his hand. “John, I have to know that you’re going to let go of this Jack Lindstrom business.”
“Kate, come on. I—“
“I’m serious. He’s gone, and you need to let it go and finish the book so you…so we can get on with our lives.”
Pilate shook his head gently. “I don’t know,” he said. “The idea of that guy taking his life with a shotgun is just—“
“John, it happens all the time,” she said, gesturing at the home of a man who had also ended his life with a shotgun.
“Touché’,” he said. He inhaled deeply. “You’re right.”
“Can you let it go? For me? For us?”
“I think so,” he said.
“Good. And what about Samantha?”
“I let go of her when I met you, Kate.”
“I know, John, but what about her baby?”
He shook his head. “Hasn’t been born yet. No idea what it is…or whose.”
Kate looked at the ground, removing her hand from his.
Pilate took her hand back. “Kate, look at me,” he said. “Please.”
She looked at him, her eyes welling.
“If the baby is mine, I will take responsibility, but no matter what happens, you are the most important person in my world. I don’t want to lose you. I’ve done a lot of dumb things, and I’m not saying I won’t do plenty more of them in my lifetime, but I can promise you one thing.”
“What’s that, John?”
“I promise I’m yours if you still want me.”
“That didn’t sound over-rehearsed at all,” she said.
“Thanks. I was trying not to be too daytime drama about it,” he said, laughing. “So what do you say?”
“What do you mean ‘what do I say’?” she said.
“Do you want to be with me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think Kara wants me around?”
“Very much,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye.
“Then why don’t we…well, you know?” he said.
“Right here? On the Hemingway lawn?” she said.
“Yes, Kate. Let’s have sex right here. No, goof. Kate, let’s get married.”
“Oh my God, John!” she said.
“I know, I know.” He looked at a small green lizard crossing the yard. “I don’t have a ring or anything.”
She hugged him hard, and his sunburn and sore muscles ached so much that he groaned, but he returned the embrace. “You just made me very happy,” she said.
“I’m so glad,” he said. “Does t
hat mean yes?”
“It means,” she said, taking his hand and putting it on her belly, “that no matter what happens with Samantha, John Pilate will indeed be somebody’s daddy.”
He looked questioningly at his hand on her belly, then stared at her face in disbelief.
She smiled, tears streaking down her blushing face, nodding her head vigorously.
He kissed her tears and held her.
“I think we need to get you fixed, John.” Simon said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“I love you too,” Pilate said as he slipped the cell phone back in his pocket. He hurried to his friends, who were assembled in a semicircle on Mallory Square. “Honey, can I talk to you a minute?” he asked Kate, smiling at the grinning faces of his congregation.
“Okay,” she said, handing her bouquet to Kara. “Hang on to these, sweetie.”
“Okay, Mama,” she said, her hair done up in ribbons. “Mr. Pilate is my new daddy!”
“That’s right, honey,” Trevathan said.
“Call him Shane,” Taters said.
“What?” Trevathan said.
“Tell you later,” Buster said, laughing.
Jordan rolled her eyes and smiled at her husband.
“As in Shane?” Marlene said. “Great movie, but a sad ending.”
“So how do you think it ended?” Taters said.
“What do you mean?” Marlene asked.
“Wait—there’s a movie called Shane?” Rick said. “Is it any good?”
Pilate and Kate walked through the throng of Mallory Square revelers and stopped ten feet from their group.
“What is it? We’re going to miss it if we don’t hurry up,” she said.
“I just talked to Mom,” he said.
Kate nodded.
“She talked to Samantha,” Pilate said. “You know Mom. She heard Sam had the baby, so she dragged Dad to the hospital. They barged into Sam’s room and made over her and the baby boy—“
“A boy?” Kate interrupted.
“Yeah,” Pilate said. “Anyway, while they were making over the baby and totally flummoxing Dave, Mom got a look at the baby’s ID bracelet.”
“Okay…so?” Impatient, Kate looked back at their group.
“The baby has Type O blood,” he said, taking her by the shoulders. “I’m Type AB, and Sam is Type O.”
Kate looked in his eyes. “Wait. That means—“
“If the baby was mine, Kate, he’d have Type A or B, not O.” Pilate laughed. “I can’t begin to tell you how relieved I am.”
Kate laughed. “You? You’re relieved? Oh my God,” she said, hugging his neck.
“I feel like I just got out of jail,” Pilate said.
“Come on, free man. Enjoy it for the next minute or two,” she said, leading him by the hand.
The pair rejoined the group: Kara, Trevathan, Taters and Jordan, Buster, Marlene, Rick, and a man with extremely long hair named Josie—an ordained minister of the Conch Republic. Everyone wore casual island clothes, and all the men had a carnation pinned to their Hawaiian shirts. Dan, the charming young guitarist, stood a few feet away, strumming idle notes with a beatific smile—as if he alone heard a distant radio station.
“Okay,” Pilate said. “We’re ready.”
Trevathan leaned over. “For a minute there, I thought you were going to back out.”
“No chance,” Pilate whispered. “You have the ring?”
“In my pocket,” he said.
Pilate signaled Dan, who played “Classical Gas” for a few seconds. He laughed and changed it up to “The Wedding March.”
Pilate and Kate walked through a path made by Mallory Square revelers to the edge of the dock. With the sunset blazing behind them, they said their vows, then exchanged rings and a kiss.
As their little group cheered their kiss, the entire square erupted in cheers for the sunset. Pilate and Kate hugged everyone, then met their horse-drawn carriage ride to the hotel.
Dan played Colin Hay’s “Beautiful World” as everyone started to depart.
“All right. Let’s get to the hotel. We’re doing this thing right,” Taters said, rubbing his hands together. “We’ll see you there for your reception.”
The group headed to a small shuttle bus that was waiting on Duval Street to take them to the historic La Concha Hotel, the tallest building and one of the oldest hotels in Key West.
“The horse is beautiful,” Kate said. “Where shall we go?”
“Once around the island sound good?” he said, smiling.
“I’m hungry. How about once around the block?”
“Whatever you say, Mrs. Pilate.”
“Kate Pilate,” she said. “Pi-lot,” she said, as if talking to a stranger. “Not Kate Pill-ot-ees.”
“You might as well get used to it. Your students will think you run an exercise class,” he said. As Pilate helped his bride into the carriage, his cell phone rang.
“Mom again?”
“No. It’s a Key West number. Must be Taters or Trevathan,” he said. “I’m sure they forgot something or whatever.”
“Don’t answer it, John,” Simon said.
Pilate ignored Simon and answered anyway. “Hello?”
“Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping? Brother John?” the familiar yet eerily unfamiliar voice sang into his ear.
“Not funny,” he said, turning his head to the side and whispering.
“Wedding bells are ringing. Wedding bells are ringing. Ding, ding, dong. Ding, ding, dong…”
“John, who is it?” Kate said, clutching her bouquet in the lap of her sundress.
Pilate looked around 360 degrees. Hundreds of people milled about as usual after a postcard-perfect Mallory Square Sunset.
“Where the fuck are you?” Pilate growled, just low enough for Kate not to hear him.
“Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping? Brother John?” the voice was muffled, inhuman, and strangely cruel.
“Wedding bells are ringing. Wedding bells are ringing. Ding, dong, ding. Ding, dong, ding…”
Click.
Pilate turned to Kate and saw that her face was a mask of confusion.
“John?” she coaxed.
Pilate said nothing; his face a rictus of fear.
THE END
John Pilate returns in
PILATE’S GHOST
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AFTERWORD
Thanks to my draft readers: Kristin, Michelle, Lisa and Stephanie. Your critiques made Pilate’s Key a better book.
Thanks to my editor, Autumn C., for her invaluable insights, humor and suggestions.
Special thanks to the talented designer of the new (as of 2019) “John Pilate Mysteries” book series covers, Jason McIntyre. I look forward to many more years of collaboration.
Thank you (and any necessary apologies in advance) to the People of Key West, Florida for giving John Pilate, Simon, Taters and friends a new place to play.
I hope I got most of it right.
J. Alexander Greenwood
Kansas City, Missouri
2019
Suicide not only ends a life, but it can destroy the lives of the victim's family and friends. With help comes hope. Learn more at www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/.
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