Dead Man's Bluff

by Debbie Burke

  He pulled his phone from his pocket and flashed a confirmation code at the valet for their reservation.

  The man briefly checked the screen but quickly homed in on Tillman’s split knuckles and swollen hands. He sneaked a sideways glance at Tawny, as if looking for corresponding bruises.

  Tears started down her face. She quickly wiped them away but they kept flowing.

  Tillman shoved a five in the valet’s hand. To Tawny, he snapped, “Going to pick up the rental car.” He strode away from the hotel entrance out to the sidewalk, long legs scissoring.

  Tawny hugged herself, struggling to hold back sobs. How could he be so hateful about Dwight? She’d tried to explain but he took everything wrong.

  “Señora?” The young Hispanic valet had come around to her passenger door, brows furrowed in concern. “May I be of service?”

  She shook her head and wiped her eyes again before facing him. “Gracias. It’s all right. The bags are in the trunk.”

  He opened her door and offered his hand. She clasped it and was grateful for the support because her legs felt wobbly.

  He beckoned the bellman who hurried to the trunk. The pair exchanged a few words in Spanish, unsuccessfully trying to hide their curiosity about the tearful woman and her huge, angry boyfriend with bruised knuckles. An older, silver-haired couple stood at the entrance and stared.

  Great, now four strangers were witness to her humiliation.

  She forced herself to stand tall and walked past the couple into the lobby, trailed by the bellman wheeling their bags.

  Chapter 17 – Gentleman Thief

  Tawny lay face down on the horseshoe pillow and moaned as the masseuse dug deep into her painful, knotted muscles. Soft flute music played in the background, belying the confused thoughts twisting in her brain. The fragrant, silk-sheet luxury of the spa would have been delicious if she hadn’t been so upset.

  Tillman’s ultimatum stung. The third anniversary of Dwight’s death a few months before had hit her like a scar freshly torn open. Yet Tillman expected her to simply discard her love and memories.

  His own and his parents’ marriages had both been terrible. He had no frame of reference how to build a relationship that worked for the long haul.

  He was a good man but a bad risk.

  Yet, despite his temper and volatility, he would do anything for her. Anything.

  Except, be patient.

  The expression in his eyes came back to her, the meaning now clear: he was hurt. He’d allowed her inside his hard shell, opening himself to her, but she’d rejected him.

  A further realization unfolded.

  Tillman, the cynical, logical, rational attorney, was jealous.

  Of Dwight.

  Competition from a living rival wouldn’t have fazed Tillman. But he couldn’t obliterate a man whose memories were embedded forever in Tawny’s heart. And that pissed him off.

  The conclusions settled her mind. She couldn’t change Tillman’s feelings but now she understood more what she was dealing with.

  The argument had wrung her out but the two-hour-long massage soothed her spasms and partially calmed her anguish. When it ended, she wanted to drift off to sleep on the padded table but had to rouse herself to dress. She planned to nap in the hotel room until Tillman returned from seeing the attorney. Then, maybe, they could settle their squabble.

  When she left the private massage room and went out to the reception area, she heard a familiar voice coming from the adjacent nail salon.

  Nyala.

  The woman wore tight denim capris and a sleeveless hot pink halter. A wide scarf held her dark curly hair back from her face. She tapped her phone while talking to a manicurist, her fresh nails the same hot pink as her halter. “Two weeks from today,” she said. “But one-thirty works better for me. Are you available then?” She finished setting up her appointment and turned to face Tawny. “Hello.”

  Tawny knew this couldn’t be a coincidence. “What a surprise.”

  Nyala tucked her phone into a straw bag. “Do you have time for a drink?”

  Why? Tawny wondered. Then again, why not? Maybe she could learn more about Smoky and the Panama connection. Not that it mattered now except to satisfy her own curiosity. “All right.”

  “There’s a nice little bar on the beach a few blocks away. We can walk.”

  Tawny noticed the woman wore blue moccasin-style deck shoes instead of high-heeled sandals. “What are you doing here? Besides getting a manicure?”

  “I’m meeting a friend later. His yacht is at a marina not far from here. We’re going to cruise over to Caladesi and Honeymoon Island. Have dinner aboard and enjoy the sunset.”

  Tawny recalled Commodore’s description of trips Smoky had taken with Nyala on yachts that belonged to her friends. Perhaps one of the boat owners was the person Smoky planned to rendezvous with on the night he disappeared. An unexpected opportunity presented itself to question Nyala more. Tawny had to seize the chance.

  She had a strong intuition that Nyala knew more about Smoky’s fate than she’d admitted. Maybe she also knew the person in Panama that Smoky had mailed the package to. But Tawny couldn’t ask without revealing a key detail that might help Gabriel find the missing baseball card. She had to watch what she said to his sister.

  “Nyala, what are you really doing here?”

  The woman’s lovely face remained impassive. “Actually, it’s no accident. I called Raul this morning because he’s been helping me locate a contractor to repair Smoky’s carport. He mentioned you and Mr. Rosenbaum were spending the rest of your vacation at the Hyatt Regency. I have my nails done here anyway so I just waited until you came out of your massage. I wanted to talk to you about Smoky.”

  Tawny’s throat tensed. “He’s dead.”

  Nyala didn’t react. No shock, no surprise. Had Gabriel told her?

  Tawny envied her ability to mask her reactions and feelings, something Tawny could never do.

  They left the hotel and crossed the street to the beachfront promenade. During the several-block walk, Nyala kept up idle chit-chat about the best places to shop and eat. She didn’t say one word about Smoky.

  They entered a waterfront bar that was almost empty. “The town’s pretty quiet since Irma,” Nyala said. “Tourists haven’t come back yet and the locals are still busy digging out from storm damage.”

  She led the way across a concrete deck, enclosed by a railing, elevated about fifteen feet above the beach. Palm trees with basketweave trunks grew through open holes cut in the concrete. Driftwood and Irma’s scraps still littered the sand below.

  Steel drum music played through speakers, Jimmy Buffett lamenting his lost salt shaker. A line of white rocking chairs faced the water. Nyala sat in a rocker and neatly crossed her shapely legs.

  Tawny sat in the next rocker, a table between them, in the shade of an umbrella. The positioning of the chairs was ideal for enjoying the view but awkward for conversation. She couldn’t gauge Nyala’s expression without being obvious about watching her. She wondered if that’s why Nyala had chosen this bar.

  A server took their orders, zinfandel for Nyala and a frozen Margarita for Tawny. One drink only, she decided. No matter how tempting, getting wasted in Margaritaville wouldn’t help her learn more from Nyala.

  The woman gazed far out into the bay and finally asked, “Do you have proof that Smoky’s dead?”

  “Yes,” Tawny answered. “Tillman is meeting an attorney now to have him declared dead because of DNA and other evidence found.”

  “Evidence?”

  “I can’t say more.”

  “I understand.”

  The conversation felt strange, neither of them looking at each other but instead staring at the expanse of turquoise water.

  Their drinks arrived and, for a brief instant, when they clinked glasses, their eyes locked. Nyala’s calm demeanor hid many secrets. If she already knew about Smoky’s death, Tawny wondered how she had found out.

  “You don�
��t seem surprised,” Tawny said.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Nyala reached into her straw bag and withdrew a pair of sunglasses. She put them on and rocked gently in the chair. “Smoky was always full of surprises.”

  The Margarita had a delicious tart tang and the icy glass cooled Tawny’s hand. The lull of rocking soothed her. She was now officially on vacation and should no longer care but Nyala’s strange non-answers bothered her. She decided on a different tack. “You said you first met Smoky in Panama not long after his accident.”

  “Actually, that’s not quite accurate. I’ve known Smoky for a number of years because he worked for my brother. At one point, we were…very close. When he got hurt, he called me to fly down and help him travel back.”

  “Why didn’t you say that before?”

  “I try to be circumspect where Smoky’s concerned. That version best suited his privacy concerns so that’s the one I told.”

  “What about your brother?”

  “He knew Smoky’s past, the debts, and that people were hunting for him. He made sure Smoky earned enough to keep his creditors satisfied. Sometimes he even acted as a go-between, a buffer, to prevent the creditor from—shall we say—collecting an extra penalty. Gabriel was very protective of Smoky.”

  “Until the Honus Wagner card disappeared.”

  Nyala shifted sideways in her chair with a brief glance at Tawny. “That breach of trust deeply hurt Gabriel. Far more than the actual theft.”

  “Why do you think Smoky took it?”

  She lifted one shoulder. “His circumstances changed. He had different priorities.”

  “What priorities?”

  “He was getting older. He looked back on his life and found it full of regrets. He wanted to leave behind a better legacy.”

  “By stealing?”

  “I don’t think he saw it that way.”

  Tawny faced the woman. “What other way is there to see it?”

  Nyala’s head swiveled toward Tawny but the dark lenses obscured her eyes. “As his last chance.” She sipped her wine and re-crossed her legs.

  “So, you knew he’d stolen the card?”

  “He told me, after the fact. He knew Gabriel would be enraged and he didn’t want me stuck in the middle. He was a gentleman that way.”

  A gentleman thief, Tawny thought, but said nothing. “How did he plan to sell the card?”

  “I don’t know. I stay completely detached from that business. I have my investments, my rental properties, all legitimate. I pay taxes. I don’t want trouble.”

  “Gabriel handles his business a little differently than you do?”

  “Some people take risks. I don’t care to.” She smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in her tight capris. “As you know, I was once the registered agent for my brother’s company but I ended that affiliation several years ago.”

  “You were concerned about getting in trouble?”

  “I’ve worked hard to build my portfolio and I protect it. I never want to be beholden to or dependent on anyone’s performance except mine.”

  “You’re your own woman.”

  “Exactly.”

  A slight buzz made Tawny aware of how easily the Margarita was going down, a lime snow cone with a tequila kick on an empty stomach. She needed to be careful how she worded her questions. “What do you think happened the night of the hurricane?”

  “To Smoky? I couldn’t know.”

  “Do you think he wanted to commit suicide?”

  Now Nyala shook her head. “I’m certain he didn’t.

  Smoky’s fishing buddy Commodore thought differently. Tawny wondered which one— Commodore or Nyala—knew the old coach better. “What makes you say that?”

  “He had regrets but he was also full of optimism.”

  “Because he had a three-million-dollar baseball card to give him a fresh start?”

  “Perhaps.” She raked pink fingernails through her curls. “Did you ever see the card?”

  “Only the photo your brother showed us.”

  “Ugly thing. Drab colors. I don’t understand its appeal.”

  The rest of the Margarita slid down Tawny’s throat. She spotted a dolphin lazing in the crystal water. She pointed. “Oh, look.”

  Nyala leaned forward in her rocker and raised the sunglasses to her forehead. “Have you ever swum with dolphins?”

  “No.”

  “You and Mr. Rosenbaum should try it. Lovely experience. So very Florida.” Nyala finished her wine and stood. “I need to go. I have to meet my friend at the marina.” She held out her elegant hand.

  They shook as Nyala added, “Oh, if I might make another recommendation for the true Florida experience. There’s a wonderful seafood place with oysters on the half shell that are so fresh you still taste the ocean. You and Mr. Rosenbaum might like to try it. But you need reservations. Even the hurricane didn’t slow down their business. It’s very popular with locals.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Barnacles. It’s just a quick walk. Down those stairs and across the parking lot and you’re there. You might still be early enough to make reservations for dinner tonight.”

  “OK.” Tawny had nothing better to do while waiting for Tillman to return.

  “What a shame you received such an unfavorable impression of Florida, between the hurricane and Smoky’s death. If you come again, please call me and I’ll arrange my nicest rental for you.” She waved toward their empty glasses. “I’ll settle the bill on the way out. Goodbye.”

  Nyala threaded between empty tables toward an enclosed area of the bar, graceful hips swaying. Inside, she paused to speak to the bartender then disappeared toward the street exit.

  Tawny leaned her elbows on the rail, reviewing the conversation. Nyala played a great Ms. Florida Chamber of Commerce but she had not given a single straight answer about Smoky’s death. Why had she sought out Tawny?

  The server delivered another frozen Margarita. “Compliments of Ms. Obregon.”

  Tawny thanked him, still pondering Nyala’s motives.

  In the shimmering water, the dolphin circled and dipped then moved farther out into the Gulf. Tawny squinted until it disappeared from sight.

  She could stay and enjoy the drink, listening to the cries of seagulls, and watching the sun fall lower into the Gulf. Tempting, but it was almost three-thirty. Tillman should be back or have called by now but she’d left her phone upstairs in the hotel suite during her massage.

  His mood would probably depend on the answers he’d received from the attorney. She wondered if the evidence they had was really enough to declare Smoky dead without a waiting period.

  Most of all, she dreaded a continuation of their fight. After a few hours to cool down, she hoped he might be ready to apologize or at least listen. She took a sip of the second Margarita but set it down. She should return to the hotel. The showdown had to happen eventually. Suck it up, buttercup.

  A soft breeze wafted delicious aromas from the restaurant Nyala had recommended. Tawny’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten all day. No wonder the drink was hitting her. If she walked to the restaurant to make dinner reservations, she could also pick up a quick snack to tide her over.

  She left a tip then clipped down the stairs to the deserted parking lot. The lower level of the building had a roll-up warehouse-style door. An older white delivery van parked near the open door. Two uniformed men in ball caps leaned on hand trucks, facing the delivery entrance and smoking. They had parked close to the bottom of the stairs, forcing Tawny to sidle past.

  “Oh, excuse me, ma’am,” one man said. “Should’ve left more room.”

  She kept up her brisk walk.

  The second man moved out of her sight for an instant.

  Suddenly a cloth hood dropped over her head. From behind, muscular arms gripped her in a bear hug.

  She screamed and stomped at the man’s feet. The attacker’s vise grip on her arms prevented her from jabbing with h
er elbows. She whipped her head straight back, hoping to smash the man’s nose with her skull, but the blow wasn’t solid.

  The second man grabbed her legs. Together, they lifted her off the ground and dragged her inside the van. Despite her desperate kicking, she felt straps tightening around her legs. Then more straps looped around her arms, securing them to her sides.

  She screamed again, hoping against hope that someone would hear her.

  The edge of the hood lifted and a rag was stuffed in her mouth. A chemical smell filled her nostrils.

  She couldn’t see, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  Her last thoughts before she passed out: Nyala set me up and I walked straight into the trap.

  Chapter 18 – Gone

  Tillman slid the key card into the slot and opened the door to the suite. Their two roller bags sat in the entry. Otherwise, empty. “Tawny?”

  He checked the living room, bedroom, and bath. No one. The place was as sterile and undisturbed as if housekeeping had just made up the room. No hint of the citrus fragrance of Tawny’s shampoo.

  He dropped his laptop case on the sofa, pulled out his cell, and tapped her number. A rattling noise from the desk caught his attention. On the wood surface, her phone wobbled on vibrate mode. He picked it up. The only new text was from him, an hour ago, when he left St. Pete.

  She hadn’t read his apology.

  I’m an asshole. Why didn’t you smack me across the mouth? I’ll make it up to you.

  Where was she?

  He used the room phone for a direct connection to the spa. “Is Tawny Lindholm still there?”

  “No, sir. Her massage finished a little after two-thirty.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “No.”

  He left the suite and took the elevator up to the pool area. Not there. Then down to the lobby. He pulled up her photo on his phone to show the bartender and restaurant host but neither had seen her.

  Then to the spa.