by Debbie Burke
“What happened?” Tillman asked.
Gabriel smoothed the leather cover of the album. “I’ve asked myself that question many times. The only explanation I can pin to it is that when he lost his leg, he changed. At first, I thought it was a medical problem. Perhaps when he healed and got used to the prosthesis, he would go back to normal. In many ways, he did. But there was a subtle shift in attitude. I only realized the difference when I reviewed his behavior after the Wagner disappeared out of my safe.”
“When was that?”
“A little over a month ago. He’s been dodging me ever since. I tried to speak reasonably with him but he denied taking the card. He attempted to put me on the defensive—turn the accusation back on me, display outrage that I would question his integrity, feign hurt that I didn’t trust him. In other words, make the whole thing my fault. I’ve been in business too long to fall for those tactics.”
Tawny remembered Smoky’s rationalizations during their conversation before he disappeared. His excuses had reminded her vividly of her father’s arguments. Although she liked Smoky, she could almost understand Gabriel’s anger—she’d felt similar frustration, rage, and betrayal when her dad caused the drunken wreck that killed her mom.
Yet a disabled old man didn’t deserve the beating Gabriel’s strong-arms had inflicted. She wondered how much further they would have gone if she hadn’t stepped in with the shotgun. Would they have killed him? As she studied Gabriel’s mild, smiling face, she glimpsed bitterness in the depths of his green eyes.
Yes, Smoky could have died at his hands.
She knew Tillman suspected Gabriel, also. What did he make of the accusation that Smoky was a thief? He showed no reaction, no hesitancy in facing down the man who was probably armed and whose two bodyguards were likely listening from the back room.
Gabriel replaced the photo album under the showcase. “Thank you for extending this courtesy to me. If the Wagner card is recovered in the course of settling the estate, I hope you will remember who it rightfully belongs to.”
“The probate court will determine disposition. Good afternoon.” Tillman grasped the door knob and stared at Gabriel until he released the lock. When it clicked, he held the door for Tawny as they left.
Back in the van, she asked, “Do you think he killed Smoky?”
Tillman’s jaw was granite. “Not unless he got the card back first. But if his thugs chased Smoky into the storm, Gabriel could be the indirect cause of death.”
“Is that enough to charge him with homicide?”
He pulled away from the curb. “No. Prosecution would have to prove he intentionally forced Smoky into a situation that caused his death. Gabriel wants the Honus Wagner back. He wouldn’t kill Smoke until he recovered the card. Even then, doubtful. He might teach Smoky a lesson but why risk a murder charge if he got what he wanted?”
Tawny reviewed the conversation and had to agree with Tillman’s conclusion. She also recalled what he’d told Gabriel about DNA. “You kind of exaggerated how much evidence we have.”
He gave her the side eye. “I’m not testifying to the whole truth and nothing but the truth. My purpose was to get him off Smoky’s butt in case he’s still alive.”
In case he’s still alive?
Clinging to false hope didn’t sound like Tillman at all. As an attorney, he lived in a world of evidence, hard facts, and harsh reality. Was the stress of losing his friend sending him over the edge?
She sat quiet for several minutes, worrying, but finally asked, “Do you believe Smoky stole the card?”
“Yeah.” He spat the word out like a curse.
“Smoky told me he used to call you Honus Rosenbaum.”
He didn’t answer for a long time. When he spoke at last, the first softness she’d seen in two days crossed his face. “Yeah, he did.”
She caressed his taut thigh. “I’d never heard of the guy until Smoky started talking about how good he was and that you could have matched him. He’s not famous like Babe Ruth or Mantle or DiMaggio. Crazy that his card is worth so much money.” An unexpected, new idea made her jerk up in the seat. “Do you think that’s what Smoky had locked in the freezer?”
“You may be right.” He rubbed his jaw. “Whatever. It’s gone now.”
At a stoplight, she watched bulldozers shoving storm debris into long walls lining the curbs and asked, “Are you disappointed that Smoky stole the card?”
Tilman steered onto Highway 19 heading north. “I gave up being disappointed by people years ago. They’re too damn good at it.”
Twenty quiet minutes later, he turned west. Tawny recognized the causeway leading to the beautiful pink hotel he’d pointed out to her the previous day. When they reached the boulevard in front of the hotel, he slowed down. “Want to check it out?”
She again sensed pressure building from him to get married. He knew she was concerned about him, that she felt bad for his pain. She didn’t want to think he was taking advantage of the vulnerability of her soft heart to push her into marriage. But she couldn’t stop her doubts—she’d been manipulated too many times. “You don’t play fair, Tillman.”
“Never claimed to.” His smirk admitted her suspicion was right.
Dammit, he’d chosen a romantic setting that was hard to resist.
“I want to go for a walk on the beach,” she said.
“It’ll be littered with Irma’s flotsam and jetsam.” Nevertheless, he parked the van. They crossed the street and spotted a front-end loader scraping storm debris from the sand, scooping the trash into its bucket. Farther down the beach, a dump truck waited, its bed already full of palm fronds, driftwood, and broken boat parts.
In front of the hotel, the sand was clean, clear, and white as sugar. As they walked on a pathway amid palm trees, Tillman pointed out the loader and truck. “Hotel probably hired a private contractor to clean up their section of the beach. Not waiting for the city to get around to it.”
Tawny scanned the shoreline in either direction. The stretch of sand before them was indeed the only pristine area.
As long as Tillman had brought her here, she meant to take advantage of the opportunity to enjoy the beach. She leaned against a wall, toed her sneakers off then sank her bare feet into warm sand. It felt soft and fine, not like rocky lake beaches in Montana. As she walked, each step caressed her feet like a massage.
Tillman also ditched his shoes and joined her. She slipped her hand into his and he held on firmly. It felt good after he’d been so distant. They walked in silence that, for once, seemed peaceful instead of tense and strained. It reminded her of the way she and Dwight used to walk, holding hands.
A pair of pelicans waddled in front of them, showing no fear. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying. A white ibis poked its curved beak into the sand, searching for food.
She sighed and leaned into his arm. “This is so beautiful.”
He bent to kiss the top of her head. “Why don’t we check into the hotel without luggage? Pretend we’re sneaking out on our spouses for an afternoon tryst.”
His unexpected change of mood surprised and pleased her. “I wouldn’t know how to act. I never cheated on Dwight.”
“I never cheated on Rochelle either.” His tone turned playful. “How else are we going to know what we missed by being faithful?”
She smiled up at him. “You’re the craziest lawyer I ever met.”
“Well?”
She burrowed her feet deep in the sand. “Let’s go wade in the water first. I’ve never set foot in the ocean.” She pulled him toward the lapping waves.
His cell rang and she released his hand so he could answer. She continued to walk, inhaling the fresh smell, and stepped into the bathtub temperature water. She sloshed up to her knees, feeling like a kid.
She turned to call Tillman to join her but he stood still, listening to the phone. The set of his shoulders alerted her.
She hurried back to him. As she drew close, he said, “We’ll be there soon.” Then disc
onnected. Hardness had again settled over his expression.
“What is it?”
“That was Parrot, the bartender at X-Isles. Smoky’s boat has been found.”
Chapter 14 – Emerald Princess
Late afternoon sun slanted through the cypress trees surrounding X-Isles. The murky water in the channel lapped quietly against the wobbly piers. Parrot, the bartender, squatted at the shoreline where a battered aluminum boat had been pulled up on the mud. Dents in the metal looked as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Elaborate scrolling letters on the stern read: Emerald Princess. Pretty fancy name, Tawny thought, for a fifteen-foot jon boat.
Parrot straightened at their approach, a rag dangling from his hand. “Fishing buddy of Smoky’s found the boat. Towed it back here.” He held up the rag, a ripped, stained towel. “This was wedged under the trolling motor on the transom.”
Tillman took the towel and held it out with both hands to examine it. “Is that rust or blood?”
“Both,” Parrot answered. “Might be fish blood.”
Tillman didn’t look convinced. “Where’s the guy?”
Parrot lifted his chin toward the bar. “Inside, having a beer.”
They moved onto the dock and entered X-Isles. Unlike the night when they’d visited previously, the place was now practically empty, only a few drinkers. The power was back on, lighting up neon beer signs.
At the far end of the bar, a man with a mustache watched “Family Feud” on a TV mounted high on the wall.
Parrot whistled. “Hey, Commodore.”
Commodore, gaze fixed on the TV, called out, “Suspenders!” then waited until his answer flipped up at number one on the lighted game board. With a satisfied grin, he lumbered toward them.
He was a short man, maybe five-six, well into his seventies with a round belly and chicken legs. He wore a captain’s hat with scrambled egg insignia on the visor. A gray braid dangled down his back. “These Smoky’s friends?” he asked Parrot.
Tillman extended his hand. “I’m Tillman and this is Tawny.”
The elderly man craned his neck up at Tillman. “You’re a big ’un, ain’t ya?”
Deadpan, Tillman answered, “Air gets pretty thin up here.”
A harsh, phlegmy laugh erupted from the old salt. “Good one. They call me Commodore because I ran gun boats up the Mekong Delta all the way to Laos, where we weren’t supposed to be.”
Tawny’s breath caught. “My husband was in the Army in Nam.”
Commodore peered at her with watery blue eyes. “Navy, ma’am. But I won’t hold your husband’s bad judgment against you.”
She smiled and shook his calloused hand, knowing the immediate affinity Dwight would have had for a fellow Vietnam veteran. She also remembered the never-ending rivalry between the services. “He’d have said only a real idiot would choose to enlist in that goddamn war.”
“Despite my exalted nickname, I only made lieutenant in the reserves, ma’am.”
“An officer? Even worse. My husband worked for a living—he was a Master Sergeant.”
Commodore chuckled. “Parrot, get the Master Sergeant’s wife a drink.”
They settled at a three-foot-diameter wooden wire spool that had been turned into a table. Tillman’s chair looked like a 1970s-era bucket seat salvaged from a VW Bug. He leaned forward to stop its unsteady rocking. “Tell us about Smoky’s boat.”
Commodore drained his beer and gestured to Parrot for another. “I keep a skiff at a marina in one of the channels on the Anclote. I was headed out fishing in the Gulf when something caught my eye way back in the woods. Irma had knocked down quite a few trees and made some of the little tributaries inaccessible. Had to tie up and hike back through the jungle a ways to get to it but, sure enough, there’s Smoky’s boat hung up about three feet out of the water in the roots of a fallen tree. When the river flooded, must’ve lifted the boat and left it hanging. Sorta like the boat out in front here with that high-water-mark sign.”
Parrot brought another beer plus a Cuba Libre with lots of ice for Tawny and scotch for Tillman.
Commodore went on: “Had a helluva time wrestling it down from the tree. Called back here and a couple guys came to help me. Been tossed around pretty good. Takes some powerful force to dent that aluminum hull.” He sipped beer, foam sticking on his mustache. “Parrot said Smoky’s gone missing.”
“Did you see any sign he’d been on the boat?” Tillman asked.
Commodore shook his head. “All the gear he’d normally carry was gone—cooler, battery, poles, tackle. Only thing left was that raggedy old towel he’d wipe his hands on after cleaning fish. No footprints in the mud. Course, all that rain would’ve washed those away.”
“Can you show us where you found the boat?” Tawny said.
“Figured you’d want to see. Enjoy your drinks then we’ll head out.”
Tillman rose without touching his scotch. “Let’s go now.”
“Impatient, aren’t you?” Commodore said. “Relax, man. The swamp isn’t going anywhere.” He leaned back and slowly sipped beer, in no hurry to accommodate Tillman’s demands.
Tawny’s muscles tightened. Telling Tillman to relax was waving a red flag at a bull. She nudged his foot with hers. He read her message then sat again, almost vibrating. He gripped his shot glass and downed the drink in one swallow.
Tawny leaned across the wood spool table, smiled, and laid her hand on the Commodore’s hairy arm. “Tell me about your skiff.”
His chest puffed. “Suzuki motor, two-hundred-fifty horses, does forty-five knots, stepped hull, faster than the gun boats in Nam and they were pretty damn fast.”
“Your boat sounds amazing.” She squeezed his arm. “I love to go fast.”
He beamed. “Well, Mrs. Master Sergeant, it would be my honor to take you out.” He hitched himself out of the chair and made a sweeping motion with his arm toward the exit.
Tawny led the way outside to the dock, smiling over her shoulder at Commodore. Tillman brought up the rear, glowering.
They boarded the skiff while Commodore untied the lines. Tillman bent to whisper in her ear. “‘I love to go fast?’”
She whispered back, “Worked, didn’t it?”
Commodore sat in the captain’s chair and started the burbling engine. Tawny took the seat beside him as he guided the craft out into the channel. Tillman sat behind.
They motored through branching tributaries to the mouth of the river, out into the open turquoise water of the Gulf. Commodore pushed the throttle to the max. In only seconds, Tawny’s braid whipped her neck and salty spray cooled her face. He swerved through a few breakneck turns, showing off. As the skiff leapt over the frothy wake, Tawny grabbed the armrests to keep from going airborne.
Commodore shot her a grin. “Fast enough?” he called over the engine noise.
She grinned back, even though her stomach felt like a basketball bouncing inside. She glanced over her shoulder to Tillman whose glare should have melted the back of Commodore’s neck. His yellow polo shirt billowed in the wind.
After ten more minutes of showing off, the elderly sailor spun the wheel to port, making a wide circular sweep. At last, he headed toward a different channel and dropped the speed. They entered the tributary which quickly narrowed to twenty feet wide, with vines hanging over the water. Ahead, many trees had snapped in half, blocking the passage.
“Little twister cut a nice swath through here on Irma’s tail,” Commodore said. “Knocked down those trees and tore off a couple of roofs not far from here.”
Tawny asked, “Is this where you found Smoky’s boat?”
He thrust his calloused finger toward a tiny inlet littered with fallen debris. “Over yonder.” He nosed the boat close to shore and tied it to a half-submerged tree trunk. He scrambled out onto the log then extended both hands to help Tawny climb out of the boat. Tillman clambered up without help.
They carefully balanced along the slippery trunk until they reached land and hopped do
wn into spongy dirt. Commodore led them about fifty feet through the storm wreckage to a giant root ball sticking out of the ground, caked with mud. A red bandanna was tied to a protruding stick.
“Marked where I found the boat,” he said. “I checked around but couldn’t find Smoky’s missing gear. Tornado likely carried away whatever wasn’t screwed onto the boat. Kinda surprised the motor didn’t get ripped off the transom, too.”
Tillman explored the area, poking into hollows, climbing over limbs.
Tawny scanned the dense forest. “We really don’t have any idea if Smoky was in the boat. Could it have broken loose from where he usually moored it and the storm carried it here?”
Commodore shook his head. “Two different channels half a mile apart. My best guess is he was heading out in the Gulf but the boat got blown into this inlet.”
“I don’t understand why he’d go out in the middle of a hurricane.”
He regarded her. “You know Smoky very well?”
She shook her head. “Tillman does but I just met him the day he disappeared.”
Commodore folded his arms. “Been out on the water a lot with him. Way the hell and gone where no one’s around, just the sun and the sky and the sea. A man gets to talking about stuff he wouldn’t normally mention.”
“Like?”
His brows drew together in a frown. “Killing himself. He said he’d caught and eaten enough fish. Now it was time for the fish to eat him.”
Tawny had half-suspected suicide but to hear the possibility voiced out loud still gave her a chill despite the mugginess. She checked where Tillman had gone exploring, far out of earshot. “Why now?”