by Diane Capri
When I got home, I searched until I found Dad in our den alone with the television tuned to a college basketball game. But work is always a more interesting topic to him. It was easy to convince him to compare notes on our respective trips to Miami.
“The newspaper accounts of his suicide described Martin as an internal auditor who stole money from the bank and then committed suicide when the bank examiners found out. He had been there for about two years before Gil Kelley arrived, but the money didn’t start disappearing until Kelley got there,” I told Dad.
He took a swallow of his iced tea. “That sounds promising.”
“I thought so, too. Martin lived a quiet lifestyle until about the time Kelley arrived, though. I didn’t see anything that would suggest he had lived large.”
“Did you find anyone still at the bank in Miami who remembered Martin?” I was already nodding my head before Dad had finished the question. “What did they tell you?” he asked.
“I talked to a couple of old-timers while I was there. They remembered Martin because of the theft. But not much else. They said he was a loner, kept to himself, and then struck up a friendship with Kelley because they were about the same age. They said Martin and Kelley got into some pretty wild living and there was even the idea that they’d gotten on the wrong side of the Mafia somehow, until Martin killed himself. Then, that idea went by the wayside. Other than that, they knew nothing.”
Dad thought for a few minutes and then volunteered, “I can check the employment files, but it’s probably too long ago. They’ve more than likely been destroyed. I already tried to pull up Martin’s old IRS files, but even those have been archived somewhere. The IRS might find the files, but I’m not holding my breath until they do.”
Dad had access to information not easily available to me. I asked him, “What about running the Social Security number?”
“I did that when I checked all this stuff before. David Martin was listed as deceased in 1957. I could contact the bonding company for you, if you want me to. I didn’t look back that far when I called them originally. Since we’re both in the insurance business, they would probably share their files with me,” he said.
“I already asked them, actually. Since the investigation was so old, they didn’t have much on it. But they faxed me what they had. I have their file here somewhere.” I started rifling through the papers piled all over the table and onto the seat next to me. Then, in my briefcase on the floor. Finally, I came up with a thin green folder which, when I opened it, had a few sheets of photocopied microfilm. The pages were dark and blurry. “There’s not much here. The complete file was destroyed long ago.”
I showed him the bottom of the third page, which said “Disposition: Paid.” The first two pages were the rest of the claim form and the comments by the investigator at the time. The claimant was listed as Tampa Bay Bank and the contact was Gilbert Kelley, Senior, now deceased. The description of the claim was “embezzled funds.” The investigator’s comments were equally terse. “Accounting irregularities beginning in 1955 and ending in 1957, equal to a loss of $300,000. Attributable to internal auditor, now deceased.”
“What about the bond company investigator, can we interview him?” Dad was getting as frustrated about this as I was. Now I was shaking my head. “Let me guess,” he said. “Deceased?”
“Yes. About ten years ago. Heart attack.”
“So what you’re saying is that you know the money began to disappear at the time Gil Kelley came to the Miami branch. You also know that he and Martin were friends. Then, the bank examiners found the money missing. Martin committed suicide and the bonding company paid off the debt. Case closed. Unless your other inquiries turn up something else.”
“Except for one thing,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“The money kept disappearing from the bank. For years afterwards.”
We both thought about the facts some more, trying to fit the pieces together to create a complete picture. But critical pieces of the puzzle were still missing and we couldn’t even organize all the pieces of one section of the puzzle board on what we knew now. It was like those jigsaw puzzles where the finished picture is solid black. Only the shapes were important. There were no vivid pictures to match up.
“Did Martin have a wife? Kids? Other family?” Dad asked.
“Apparently not. He lived alone at the rooming house and as far as the old-timers at the bank knew, he had no family.”
“Well, everyone has parents. What about that?” He raked a frustrated hand through his still thick head of salt-and-pepper hair.
“When I get the reports back that I’m looking for, I think I may be able to trace him. At this point, it’s a brick wall. I don’t know where he came from, don’t even have a place and date of birth.”
Dad looked at me quizzically. “I don’t understand that, Willa. I checked his Social Security number. He had one. Didn’t he have to provide a birth certificate to get the number in the first place?”
I shook my head again. “Now. But not back when Martin applied. I’m hoping the fingerprints will check out and compare to some others somewhere. But in those days, people didn’t get fingerprinted in the hospital or for most jobs. If Martin wasn’t arrested somewhere or in some type of law enforcement, the fingerprints are likely to be a dead end, too.” I ran my hands through my hair in frustration now, too. “Can a man just disappear without a trace in this country?”
Dad laughed out loud at this, got up and collected a couple of beers from the small fridge in the bar in our den. “Well, that’s not exactly the question. We’re not talking about him disappearing here.”
“Sure we are. He’s got no history. He just showed up at the Tampa Bay Bank in 1954 and they hired him, the bonding company accepted him, he embezzled money from the bank, and then killed himself. That’s it? That’s the whole story?”
I hadn’t wanted a beer, I was about to say, as Dad twisted the caps off both bottles, clinked the neck of my bottle with his, handed me one and resumed his seat. Oh, what the hell, I thought, and took a big swig out of the longneck bottle. I just love Labatt Blue beer. We started drinking it when we lived in Detroit. Now, George orders it in relatively small quantities because Canadian beer is not a big seller here. But, it’s my beer of choice, when I drink beer. And it’s best fresh, too. I was looking at the bottle, admiring the taste, when an idea occurred to me. “What about Canada?”
“For beer? Can’t beat it.” Dad gave me his biggest grin.
“No. I mean, what about Canada for tracing this guy? Could he have come from Canada? Florida gets thousands of tourists a year from Canada, if not millions. Miami must get them, too. Could he have come to the U.S. from Toronto or Windsor or something?”
“Maybe. But don’t let yourself get distracted. It’s probably unimportant where he came from. Once David Martin died, the link between Gil Kelley and the missing money was severed. And to answer your question, it’s pretty easy to disappear in this country. Even today. Hundreds of people do it every year. All you do is to cut all your ties to your old self by telling no one about your plans, fabricate a new name and history, and pay for everything with cash. It’s fairly easy if you just take on the identity of a dead person. What’s hard is to stay away from your old life. Most people can’t manage it. Even Mafia witnesses who have been granted witness protection and given new identities can’t do it. And those guys are highly motivated.”
Dad and I both laughed at the image of highly motivated Mafia witnesses.
“So, Martin came from somewhere. I think it’s important to find out where that was,” I insisted. “And why he left there. And how.”
“I’ll humor you on this one, Willa. I’ll see what I can find out. But I honestly think it has nothing to do with what you’re investigating. Which is, who killed Ron Wheaton and Armstrong Otter.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tampa, Florida
Saturday 7:00 p.m.
March 3,
2001
GEORGE AND I WERE dressed and waiting for Dad and Suzanne to join us for the Minaret Krewe Coronation Ball at the Tampa Convention Center, where next year’s King and Queen would be crowned at the end of the night. I hadn’t invited them to join us but, apparently, George had. He didn’t tell me because he expected fireworks. I gave him none.
“It doesn’t pay to become too predictable,” Kate always says. Takes the mystery out of marriage.
The ten-minute drive was spent with pleasantries, the only conversation besides work Dad ever has with anyone. We pulled up in front of the Tampa Convention Center to use the valet service that Minaret Krewe had hired for the night. I was busy getting my wrap around the bare-shouldered silver gown I had foolishly decided to wear to this event about six weeks ago, when it was still warm enough for it.
I’d chosen the dress because I planned to wear Aunt Minnie’s jewelry. A spectacular emerald necklace set in platinum, with matching earrings. As I often did when using Aunt Minnie’s things, I wondered what admirer had given her emeralds at a time when emeralds were not “manufactured,” as most of them are now.
Aunt Minnie had lived a colorful life, and I was reaping all of her life’s benefits while paying none of its costs. This was especially true in the case of her jewelry. George had had Aunt Minnie’s pieces appraised. Thankfully, we learned they had not been stolen by Armstrong Otter when George had taken the pieces in for cleaning.
I turned around to speak to Suzanne, just as she shook her head, revealing diamond drop earrings that were hanging from her lobes.
They must have been five carats each. I couldn’t imagine how strong her ears must have been to hold them up. Is it possible to do earlobe exercises?
“What beautiful earrings, Suzanne. They look positively fabulous on you.”
And they did. Suzanne was a beautiful woman.
She looked so much like my mother I almost cried.
Suzanne beamed at Dad, who by now had made his way around the car. As she took his arm, she cooed, “Jimmy bought them for me from that Mr. Otter you introduced us to. Aren’t they just perfect?”
Just perfect, I thought. Probably, just perfect fakes. But why spoil her night? With Otter dead, it wasn’t likely Dad would get his money back. He must know now that the earrings weren’t real.
I gave George a meaningful look as he took my hand. We all walked over to the outdoor escalator and rode to the second floor where Minaret Krewe had rented one of the larger rooms for its grande finale of the season.
A few of the other Krewes were having their balls here at the convention center, too. For tonight, the Krewe members left their pirate costumes at home. All the rooms were filled with women in gowns and fine jewelry and men in tuxedos. Almost everyone we knew in Tampa would be here somewhere.
It was the longest night of the year for me, but the one I most looked forward to. Each of the Krewes would crown its Kings and Queens and then announce the results of its fund-raising for the year. Except for the Gasparilla Festival of the Arts, which was thankfully not related to the Krewes in any way, this would be our last big night of the Gasparilla season.
Next week, we could enjoy the art festival like the rest of the more than 200,000 people who would be there. More importantly, as far as I was concerned, our lives would return to normal beginning tomorrow morning. I almost sighed, I was so happy with anticipation.
Suzanne and Dad were both mesmerized by the splendor of the whole thing. There was more jewelry here than you’d find at all the Tiffany stores in the country. More taffeta, silk, strappy sandals, fine cigars and expensive perfume.
Tonight, there seemed to be an equally large number of furs, something for which the center had hurriedly set up a coat check room to accommodate. Usually, there’s no need to wear coats in Florida so there’s no need to check them. Houses don’t even have coat closets here. But tonight, the mercury promised to dip below the freezing point, and the Tampa ladies took the opportunity to show off what they had.
By midnight, I had been standing for five exhausting hours on four-inch spike heels. We had dinner, but it was heavy hors d’oeuvres passed around by waiters in black tie and tails. We didn’t sit, even when the King and Queen were crowned. I felt like I might soon collapse.
George was talking in a group that included Gilbert Kelley, which I found surprising since he knew as much about Dad’s investigation as I did. I suppose George had no choice. Gil Kelley was the past Minaret Krewe king and George was the Krewe’s main sponsor. They’d have to speak to each other occasionally. It might as well be in a public place.
I was standing there thinking about Gil when Ben Hathaway came up behind me and touched my elbow. “I know where there are a couple of seats out in the lobby. Are you interested?”
“Chief, you do know how to turn a girl’s head,” I told him, mocking the coquet, batting my eyelashes and lowering my gaze. I followed Ben out into the lobby and into a blissfully comfortable upholstered chair. Ben handed me a cup of coffee he’d snagged from the last of the circulating trays.
“You look mighty handsome in that tuxedo, Chief,” I continued with the drawl.
“Thank ’ye, ma’am.” If he’d had on a hat, he’d have tipped it. He smiled back at me as I drank the best coffee I’d had in weeks and actually groaned with pleasure. I was way too old to stand up all night in four-inch heels. What was I thinking?
“It was a good thing you hired Larry Davis for Margaret, Willa,” Ben said, seriously now. “She’s going to need a good lawyer and Larry’s one of the best.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to arrest her tomorrow. For the murders of Ron Wheaton and Armstrong Otter.”
I nearly spit out my coffee, which now tasted like old grounds in my mouth. He’d picked this time and this place to tell me about Margaret’s arrest so I couldn’t protest about it as much as I would have anywhere else.
“I gather you think you’ve got a good reason to do that,” I said, in a quiet but mean-spirited tone.
He had the grace to look troubled. “It isn’t what I want to do, believe me. The evidence has left me no other choice.”
“What evidence? What possible evidence could you have against a little old woman as sweet and gentle as Margaret? What?” I wasn’t letting him off the hook. I set the coffee down and turned my full attention to him. I didn’t want to be overheard any more than he did, but I wanted to know what Margaret was facing.
“I found a disinterested witness who saw Margaret push Armstrong Otter down in a quarrel at the Knight Parade. And, as you know, I got the autopsy and the full tox report back on Ron Wheaton. He died of an overdose of insulin. Margaret’s an insulin-dependent diabetic. I’m sorry, Willa. I didn’t want it to be Margaret, either.” Hathaway looked so much like a basset hound after a bad meal that I believed him. I didn’t like it, but I did believe him.
I was a little relieved. Dad had admitted to pushing Otter down, too. In front of witnesses. If Hathaway had focused on Margaret, he must have discounted Dad as a suspect. It seemed Otter had a knack for inspiring people to violence that ultimately got him killed. If Margaret pushed Otter down, which I doubted, it was because he had asked for it. That didn’t mean I’d let Hathaway arrest Margaret. Because she didn’t kill anyone. I knew it, even if he didn’t.
I thought back to the evening of the Knight Parade. I, too, had seen Margaret on the float with Armstrong Otter. But they were so far toward the back that I never got around there to speak to them. Gil and Sandra Kelley were on the right side of the front of the float, opposite George and me. They could easily have gone back there and pushed Otter off. He could have hit his head then. But that’s not when he died. It was later, on a dark street, off Seventh Avenue.
I remembered sweating and still being freezing cold while I waited for the shuttle bus to take us back to Minaret after the parade. We were standing at the end of the parade route, on 22nd Street. I didn’t see Margaret and Otter there then. In fact
, I’d seen Otter without Margaret. Then, I never saw either of them again. Nor did I see the Kelleys after that until we were all back at Minaret, later that night.
Someone must have argued with Otter, pushed him harder than intended, and Otter, being drunk, fell and hit his head. That’s not really murder. But, leaving Otter alone on the street to die was at least negligence, if not depraved indifference to human life. He wouldn’t have died right away. It would have taken a while for the bleeding inside his skull to kill him.
If the pusher had called for help, Otter might be alive today. Could Margaret have pushed Otter in anger, stalking off and leaving him there to die, not knowing the full extent of his injury? I now had to acknowledge that she could have done that. Anyone could have done that. It wasn’t murder without an intent to kill. But, Otter was dead, just the same.
I continued to replay the scenes of that Saturday evening in my mind. Until I remembered the random thought I’d had when I first went down the stairs from our flat into George’s restaurant lobby. When I saw Margaret standing next to Sandra Kelley.
They had been made up by the same artist, their black eyebrows, brightly rouged cheeks, and strong red mouths, applied with the same heavy hand. Their costumes had been the same colors and they both wore black wigs.
Maybe the “disinterested witness” Hathaway had interviewed didn’t know both Margaret and Sandra. If not, an eyewitness easily could have confused them that night. Had Margaret pushed Armstrong Otter down to the sidewalk in anger? Or was it Sandra Kelley?
I finally got home and was able to change into jeans, leaving George sleeping in the flat. The drive to Margaret’s house at two in the morning took only a few minutes. When I got there, the house was dark and not one small light was burning.
I rang the bell several times, each ring longer and more insistent. Margaret never came to answer it. In freezing frustration, I jogged quickly around to the back of the house where I’d found the door unlocked once before. It was unlocked again and I resolved to tell Margaret that she absolutely had to be more careful.