The Orchid Keeper: A Sean O'Brien Novel

by Tom Lowe

  Her eyes filled with tears. She dropped to her knees. Reaching for her grandfather. Blood on her fingertips. Her mind numb, lips trembling, a stream of saliva falling from her lower lip. “Grandpa … oh dear God no. No! Please, God!” She sobbed, chest heaving, tears rolling down her face and falling onto her grandfather’s beard. She lowered her head to his chest and wept.

  Callie fought back the strong urge to vomit, somehow finding the strength to stand. She stared at the hundreds of orchids, the bright blooms appeared drained of color under the white lights. She almost fell, stepping to the workbench, holding onto the back of her grandfather’s high-back chair. She looked up at the corkboard, her vision blurred by tears. She wiped her eyes with her hands and scanned the dozens of business cards on the board.

  Callie found the one she remembered. “Sean O’Brien …” she whispered, reaching into her purse for her phone. Her hands and fingers trembling so much she could barely touch the correct numbers on the keyboard, stopping when she touched a wrong digit, looking at the card and starting over again. On her third try, she did it. The phone rang.

  And on the third ring, he answered.

  SEVENTY-SIX

  I had just finished a long walk with Max, coming down L dock, when Callie Hogan called and said, “My Grandpa … he’s dead. Please help me.” She continued talking, hysterically, sobbing so loud and hard I couldn’t understand most of what she was trying to say.

  “Callie … stop. Take a deep breath through your nose and release it through your mouth. After that, try to slowly tell me what happened, okay?”

  I heard a muffled, “Okay.” A few seconds later, she told me what she’d just found, her voice raspy, filled with sobs.

  “Here’s what I want you to do, Callie. Call 9-1-1 immediately. Your grandfather’s cabin is in Collier County. They’ll send sheriff’s deputies and detectives. Tell them exactly what you found, okay?

  “Okay.”

  “After that, stay on the line with the dispatcher. Don’t hang up. Turn around and leave the greenhouse immediately. Don’t touch anything. Door knobs. His work place, the body … nothing more than you’ve already touched. When you are out of the greenhouse, don’t enter the cabin. Go to your car. Remember to stay on the phone with the 9-1-1 operator until your car door is locked, and you’ve turned the motor on, okay?”

  “Okay … but can you come, too, please. My Grandpa really liked you, he said he thought you had been a good detective. Please help …”

  “Yes, I will come to you. And I’ll have my good friend, the woman who was with me the last time you saw me, Detective Wynona Osceola, come as well. She’ll be able to get there sooner than I can. Because she’s investigating the death of Joe Thaxton, she’ll want to speak with you, too. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. I’ll call 9-1-1. But please hurry.”

  • • •

  I called Wynona, told her what Callie told me and said, “I’m leaving the marina now. I’ll get there as soon as I can. You might want to arrive when the sheriff’s office is investigating. I know it’s out of your jurisdiction, but this has to be connected to Thaxton’s death. It also will be a comfort to Callie to have you there as you’ll be the only one she’ll recognize.”

  “I’m on my way as we speak. Chester never saw Craig Moffett in the glades that day. Maybe Detective Cory Gilson will see the light and drop his insidious effort, suggesting Thaxton’s death was an accident and pursuing manslaughter charges against Moffett. I’ll see you when you get there, Sean. I know you’re going to ignore what I’m about to say next, but I’ll say it because I care about you. Please don’t drive too fast. Your Jeep is great for the glades, not so great at a hundred miles an hour on two-lane roads.”

  “I’ll be cautious. See you soon.” I disconnected and looked down at Max. “Gotta go. Who do you want to do the sleepover with, Dave or Nick?”

  We walked quickly toward Jupiter. I packed an overnight bag, putting my Glock in the pack. When I walk out to my Jeep, I’ll place the Glock in the special place I have between the front seats, close to where my right hand could reach.

  I locked Jupiter, turned to Max and said, “Let’s go.” Nick was walking across the dock to Gibraltar, an open cooler of stone crab claws on ice.

  “Sean, look at this treasure chest. I’m gonna be steamin’ these puppies later. Sorry, Maxie. Then we put the claws back on ice, let ‘em cool down for the full flavor. Dave says he’ll make some of his German mustard. Why don’t you and Hot Dawg come over? We got plenty. I traded a crabber pal of mine a dozen red snappers for these. I think I got the better end of the deal.”

  “I’d like to, Nick, but I have to go. I’ll walk with you to Dave’s boat and explain what’s happening.”

  On Gibraltar, I told Dave and Nick what Callie had told me. Dave said, “What a damn shame. I’d spent some time reading some of the articles about Chester Miller and his research. From Smithsonian to National Geographic, he’s been there. That gentleman and scholar is taking sixty-plus-years-worth of orchid research to his grave. The deaths of Joe Thaxton and Chester Miller have to be connected.”

  Nick said, “This kinda shit sounds like the mafia, Sean. The old man was the only eyewitness, somebody comes and kills him while he works in his greenhouse. Looks like a contract killer is on the loose. How the hell do you find him without putting your hand into a hornet’s nest?”

  “Best time to hit a hornet’s nest is at night. When they’re not active. Not on guard. I’ll work with Wynona and Detective Gilson. Do whatever I can to help.”

  In the dock lighting, Dave watched a brown pelican alight on the transom of a 61-foot Bertram sports fishing yacht in the slip opposite Gibraltar. He cut his eyes over to me. “I hope you can work within the law enforcement system. You’ve been out quite a while. I know you’re close to Wynona. That could complicate things even more. Like Nick said, it could be a far-reaching hornet’s nest. And, if you get there, you might not have the cover of darkness on your side.”

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  I knew there’d be no access. Rarely do officers at an active crime scene allow a private investigator beyond the yellow tape. A mile before I arrived at Chester Miller’s driveway, I called Wynona. She met me at the entrance. Two TV news trucks were there. The reporters speaking with deputies, trying to gain further access to the crime scene. I saw one taller deputy shaking his head. No admittance, at least not now.

  Another deputy had given Wynona a ride in his car. She thanked him and got in my Jeep, the taller deputy waving me through. As I drove down the driveway, she said, “You got here a lot faster than I thought you would.”

  “Wasn’t much traffic. What’s the situation?”

  “It appears to have happened in the greenhouse. It looks like Chester was shot once in the chest, the round most likely entering his heart. The ME arrived about forty minutes ago. He’s still here. Forensic techs are dusting for prints, pulling every visible sample they can. Maybe they’ll find something.”

  “When did you get here?”

  “Not long after the first responders.”

  “Any chance you saw tire prints that might not be from Chester’s truck, Callie’s car, an ambulance or sheriff’s cruisers?”

  “No. It was dark. As you know, most of the driveway is gravel. It might be hard to find a spot of soft dirt to lift a tire impression. And now that the cavalry’s arrived, it’d be next to impossible.”

  I said nothing, driving around the last twist in the road, blue and white lights pulsating against the old bark of tall cypress trees. I counted six deputy sheriff’s cars, two unmarked vehicles, an ambulance, a coroner’s dark blue van, and the medical examiner’s white van.

  A deputy stepped from the shadows, near the crime scene tape and held up his hand, like a crossing guard. Wynona rolled her window down. “He’s with me. We’ll park next to my car.”

  The deputy looked at me, nodding. “No problem.”

  I parked and asked, “Is Cory Gilson here?” />
  “Yes. He’s examining the scene, and he’s spoken with Callie.”

  “Where is she?”

  Wynona pointed over to the cabin. I could just make out a silhouette sitting in partial darkness, the blue and white lights bouncing off the cabin’s tin roof, the foreign light punching into the knotholes and crevices of the dark exteriors.

  Looking at Callie alone, sitting in one of her grandfather’s antique rocking chairs, I wanted to immediately go to her, her pain and horror palpable even from the short distance. Wynona said, “Before I spoke with Callie, I just held her. She pretty much fell into my arms, crying. After a while, I sat down beside her, and we talked. She called her parents. She told me how she found her grandfather, lying on his back in the greenhouse, blood on his shirt near the heart. She said her mind went blank, remembering nothing until she got you on the phone, Sean. Whatever you told her seemed to help. Deputies found Callie locked in her car, curled up and crying. Her phone in one hand.

  I looked toward the greenhouse, crime scene tape around the perimeter. “Is the body still in there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s take a walk.”

  Wynona nodded, and I followed her past deputies and investigators, the stammer of police radios was a strange language on an island in the stream of nature—a place of blooming flowers and life. We ducked under the yellow tape and entered the greenhouse. I counted seven people near the body. Forensics techs, two deputies, and one woman with letters CID on the back of her shirt.

  I could see Cory Gilson speaking with the ME, an older man with a white beard and ruddy cheeks shining in the warm air, his corduroy pants held up on his beanstalk frame by red suspenders. Cory was taking notes on a pad, the overhead LED lights casting his face in strong shadow.

  Another detective, a taller man who appeared to be Hispanic, spoke with one of the forensics techs, the other taking pictures of the body. I followed Wynona as she walked through the greenhouse, the heavy scent of flowers and pollen mixed with human sweat, floating in the motionless air. Cory looked over at us, nodding once, continuing his conversation with the ME.

  We approached the body, and I felt like I had always sensed when investigating homicides. The deep feeling of loss that stayed behind after a life was taken. It started when I looked into the victim’s eyes. I never thought there was a moral dispatch or message left behind. But there was a death mask of terror.

  The eyes were often the twin portholes to the horror the victim faced at the hands of someone who was intent on killing them. The eyes always drew me to them, forced me to look into them, to try and see what the victim had seen—had suffered at the tragic end of his or her life. It was what stayed with you long after the autopsy, the burial, and the photographs in the news.

  It’s what haunted you during the night when an investigation had stalled. When everyone but the victim’s family had moved on with their lives. When holidays and birthdays came and went. Place settings no longer set. Cards no longer sent or received. It was the silent human misery, the hole in the heart of the victim’s family cut with the dull knife of sorrow that left scars of grief … forever.

  I thought about Callie sequestered up on her grandfather’s front porch, staring through the blue and white lights, watching a murder investigation happen on the hallowed and safe grounds of a home she temporarily shared with a grandfather so dear to her. I knelt down beside the body, looked into the pale blue eyes of Chester Miller and wanted to see what he’d seen. What had he said to the killer? What, if anything, had the killer said to him? I could see how it happened. Why did it happen?

  I saw potting soil under the fingers of his left hand, the same hand that still wore a thin gold band on his left finger. I studied the body down to the bare feet. Among the thick silver beard, I saw a reddish tint to one whisker under his chin. “Do you have gloves?” I asked Wynona.

  She nodded and lifted a pair of plastic gloves from a cardboard container near the metal coroner’s gurney a few feet away. She put the gloves on and knelt down beside me. I pointed to beneath the chin. “There … take a look. Maybe a speck of blood.”

  “Could have happened when he was hit by the round.”

  “I don’t think it came from blood splatter. Can you part the beard in the area?”

  Wynona used both hands to part the thick whiskers. We could see what appeared to be a cut under the chin.” She looked over at me and said, “I wonder how he got that?”

  “Did the perp strike him under the chin, or did he get it from somewhere else?”

  “Good question. I’m sure the ME would have found it during the autopsy, but I’ll mention it to him and Detective Gilson before the body is loaded.”

  I thought about what Chester had said to me the first time I’d stopped in to buy orchids for Wynona. It was after he’d asked for my card. That’s noble, and about all anyone can ask of a person. I have a feeling that you might solve more than you don’t.

  Wynona said, “It was obviously done at close range. Large caliber gun. The ME says the round exited Chester’s back. Forensic techs are searching through all of these orchids, trying to see if the bullet is lodged somewhere in one of them. There’s no indication it went through any of the greenhouse walls.”

  I nodded and stood, studying the immediate area. It looked like the last time I’d seen it. Potting soil scattered in areas up and down the long workbench. Small tools, knives, tweezers and a magnifying glass on the bench. A half-consumed cup of black coffee. Wynona said, “He probably faced his killer at the time of the shooting. God only knows what was said, if anything.”

  A perspiring man wearing a dark blue windbreaker with the word Coroner on the back of it approached and said, “If you folks are done with the body, we’d like to move it at this time.”

  Wynona said, “We’re done. Thanks.”

  He said nothing as he gestured for two other men to help him with a metal gurney and white sheet.

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Two members of the coroner’s staff wheeled a gurney outside. The body was covered with a white sheet. They pushed and pulled around large clay pots filled with orchids. The techs finally collapsing the gurney. They lifted it from the ground and carried it at least seventy-five feet to the waiting van, the emergency lights reflecting from the white sheet, one of Chester’s bare feet partially showing.

  I looked toward the cabin’s front porch. Callie had pulled her feet up and onto the chair, she hugged her knees, her head down. Wynona said, “I mentioned the cut under the chin to the ME. He said he’s doing the autopsy in the morning.”

  “I want to go up on the front porch and talk with Callie, but before we do that, let’s go around to the back.”

  “You mean to the lab?”

  “No, I’m thinking about the big cypress tree where the rare orchid is growing.”

  We walked to the left of the cabin and approached the cypress tree. The ladder was down, the first time I’d seen it on its side. I used my flashlight to examine it.

  “What are you looking for?” Wynona asked.

  “Something I probably won’t find … blood. What if Chester hit his chin on one of the rungs on the ladder? Forced off of it and maybe slipping.”

  “Possibility. But why do you think that might have happened?”

  “Because this ladder is always propped up against the tree. Chester climbs it every day to check on that rare orchid, Persephone, he calls it.” I moved the light to the orchid. “It’s perched up there on the wooden plank that looks like a bird feeder.” I looked at the beach apple tree not far from the ladder. “That tree—it’s a beach apple. Chester called it a manchineel. He said it was derived from the Spanish word manzanilla which means little apple. It’s a little apple with a big punch—one of the most poisonous trees in the world. It’s more like a large bush. It would be a good place for the perp to hide if he snuck up on Chester, marched him into the greenhouse and shot him to death. And, if the perp touched parts of the tree, it may have tou
ched him back—and not in a good way.”

  “That’s a possibility, unless he was already in the greenhouse when the perp got here.”

  “Maybe. I want to talk with Callie. Maybe Cory’s done by now, too.” We walked to the front of the cabin. I could see Cory and another detective talking with the coroner near the blue van. I motioned to the front porch, and we climbed the three wooden steps to the porch.

  Callie looked up from gripping her knees. “Sean, you came.” Her face was stained in tracks of tears. Some dried. Some still wet. She stood, and I gave her a hug. She started crying in soft sobs.

  “I’m so sorry, Callie. We’ll find the person who did this.”

  She said nothing, her tears dampening my shirt. After a moment, she stood straighter, taking a half step backwards, her eyes roaming my face. “Why did Grandpa have to die? He could never hurt anything or anyone. He was a pacifist who loved nature and people.”

  “Did it look like anyone had entered the cabin?” I asked.

  “No. I checked the door when I came up here to sit. It was locked. I unlocked it for the police and detectives.”

  “How about your grandfather’s workshop lab behind the cabin?”

  “I unlocked it for them, too.”

  Wynona said, “Nothing appears to have been stolen or moved out of place. It looks like the perp entered the property and quickly did what he came to do.”

  I looked down the yard toward the greenhouse. “Callie, did your grandfather have any security cameras out here?”

  “No. He was a trusting person. He didn’t feel that people would steal his orchids, even though some are worth a lot of money. He’d give orchids away to people he felt couldn’t afford to pay for them. I saw him do it twice this summer. I’m not sure how Grandpa knew these people didn’t have the money to pay. And the people were always so grateful. Usually retired couples in older cars.” She watched the coroner speak to his staff. “Where are they taking Grandpa?”

  Wynona said, “The medical examiner will do an autopsy. It’s the law in murder cases.”