Matanzas Bay

by Parker Francis

  “Are you saying Henderson was involved in Mr. Marrano’s death?”

  “You’re obviously hard of hearing. I said that he’s not the noble creature everyone seems to think he is. If that means he also has blood on his hands …” He let the sentence trail off, holding up both hands as though weighing the implications of his statement. “Maybe the police will get around to questioning him, but since you’re a detective, why don’t you do your job.”

  He glared at me a moment before standing. I guessed our meeting was over.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to get back to work now.” Taking a few steps toward the office door, he called, “Lem.”

  Tallabois entered immediately, and I wondered if he had his ear pressed against the door, waiting to be summoned. The security chief’s right hand hung in the air mid-way toward his holster as though expecting trouble, his moray eel eyes searching the room.

  “Mr. Mitchell is finished here. Will you be kind enough to see him out?”

  Laurance returned to his desk, and Tallabois gripped my upper arm, pushing me toward the door. I spun around, yanking my arm from his grip and stared into the ruined face of Lemuel Tallabois.

  “Thanks, but I think I can find my own way out.”

  Tallabois sneered and whispered hoarsely, “Watch your ass, pretty boy. I’d hate to see anything happen to it.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Eighteen minutes later I turned off Ponce de Leon Boulevard into the parking lot of the downtown branch of the St. Johns County Public Library. During the ride, I reviewed my interview with Laurance, searching for any clues or discrepancies in his story. He had raised a lot of new questions, but now my head returned to the county jail and Jeffrey Poe.

  Wannaker’s news about Eleanor Lawson remembering the Saturday night raccoon incident had pulled Poe out of his gloomy mood. I had my doubts the old woman’s testimony would offset the grisly evidence the police found in Poe’s storage shed. I wondered what the State Attorney had told Wannaker this morning, which was why I asked the elderly Asian woman behind the reference desk for a St. Augustine telephone directory.

  Wannaker struck me as one of those attorneys who not only had a full page ad in the yellow pages, but probably advertised on TV as much as the beer companies. I flipped to the section marked Attorneys and wasn’t disappointed to find a full page ad with the bold headline, Your Hometown Criminal Defense Attorney and Wannaker’s stern visage below it. I noted the phone number and address in my notebook and started to leave when the book stacks caught my eye.

  Among compilations of the works of James Dickey, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Sylvia Plath, and Nikki Giovanni, I found four volumes by Clayton Ford Henderson—Trembling Vision, A Flash of Silence, Waiting for the Other Shoe, and Dusty Autumn Daydreams.

  A friend who wrote poetry when she wasn’t earning a living as a freelance journalist, once told me very few poets made any money selling books of poetry. Henderson must be the rare exception since he purchased a residence in St. Augustine’s historic district and remodeled it top to bottom.

  I pulled A Flash of Silence from the shelf and studied the slim book wrapped in a muted teal dust jacket. On the back cover, Henderson stared out at me in a three-quarter page black and white photograph probably taken twenty-five years ago. I thumbed through the pages until I came across the title poem and read the first stanza.

  A Flash of Silence

  Last night’s Bordeaux was a teasing

  pinch on our tongues,

  candles a veil of light that dulled

  truth we knew would come.

  In the hearth fire rose, a wall

  of flames that kindled longing.

  Hope drifted away like ashes.

  I left Mr. Henderson and his ashes on the shelf and returned to my car, arriving at Wannaker’s office in time to see him striding toward a black Cadillac Escalade, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie askew. He carried a folded newspaper instead of his expensive brief case.

  “Mr. Wannaker, may I speak to you for a minute?”

  He gave me a baleful look. “You’re like a bad penny, Mitchell. If you weren’t Jeffrey’s friend, I’d tell you to make an appointment like everyone else, but …” He shrugged and I interpreted it to mean he’d break his rigid policies and condescend to a minute’s unbilled conversation.

  “What’s happening with Poe’s case? Have you spoken to the State Attorney yet?”

  Shaking his head, he said, “Not good news. I was just going down the street for a bite to eat. Come along and I’ll fill you in.”

  During the five minutes it took to reach the sandwich shop, Wannaker remained remarkably quiet. He admitted he’d spoken with the State Attorney, but said he’d tell me more after he had something in his stomach.

  Only three bites into my cheese steak sandwich, I watched Wannaker swallow the last of his turkey and ham combo. The man ate faster than anyone I’d ever seen, inhaling great gulps of food seemingly without chewing. Finally, he sucked a long swallow of Dr. Pepper through his straw, wiped his mouth and looked at me.

  “Up front, I have to tell you things look rather bleak for Dr. Poe,” Wannaker said.

  “What about Mrs. Lawson’s deposition?”

  “I spoke to the State Attorney first thing this morning. He was polite, and said he’d have the SAPD check into Mrs. Lawson’s story and get back to me.”

  “Did he?”

  “Oh yes. In fact, he called me back ninety minutes later. Apparently, Chief Conover sent one of his detectives out almost immediately.” Wannaker picked up his drink and loudly slurped the last few drops.

  “And?”

  “It didn’t take them long to determine Poe didn’t have much of an alibi. By the time the detective finished talking with Mrs. Lawson, she was so confused she couldn’t be sure when she saw Poe. Not even what day it was.”

  I was afraid of that. Even the best witnesses are known to make mistakes, and Mrs. Lawson was a seventy-something woman who admitted her memory wasn’t what it once had been. Not exactly a scenario designed to strike fear in the heart of the prosecuting attorney.

  “Did you verify this with the witness?”

  “Of course I did.” He looked at me as though I’d hurt his feelings, picked up a few slivers of turkey remaining on his wrapper and chewed them slowly. “She apologized several times, saying how bad she felt for Poe, and that she’d let him down. At her age, she has trouble keeping track of things and it could have been any day last week. But she did remember seeing him and would be happy to testify if it would help.”

  I nodded, knowing Mrs. Lawson would never see the witness stand on this case. “What about Jeffrey? Did you tell him?”

  “I drove out to the lock-up right away. I thought I should be the one to tell him the bad news.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “Jeffrey said you were his friend. How well do you really know him?”

  “I’ve known him from before his wife died. We’re pretty tight.”

  “Then you won’t be surprised when I tell you he fell apart.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He went ballistic, cursing the police, Mrs. Lawson. When I tried to calm him, tell him it was only a temporary setback, he turned on me. Finally, he shut down.”

  “This has been an emotional roller coaster for him,” I said. “First you tell him Mrs. Lawson was his ticket out of jail. Then he hears this. I’m sure it hit him hard.”

  “In my business I deal with a lot of emotional types, but this was something else.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “It was like he’d given up all hope. I don’t know, he collapsed into himself. Checked out. Gave up.” Wannaker took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m not a psychiatrist, Mr. Mitchell, but I’d say my client, your friend, is a manic depressive who might be very close to a nervous breakdown.”

  I thought back to Poe’s behavior following the death of his wife. About how he cut off contact with everyone and fell int
o a morass of self-pity and depression.

  “What can I do to help?”

  He appeared to give my question some thought for a moment, using the time to pry the top off his drink cup, and prod the ice into his mouth. After a few crunches, he said, “This is going to be a very short trial if we don’t come up with something to offset the county’s case. They have the murder weapon with his fingerprints on it. They have motive and opportunity. And they found pieces of the victim in Poe’s shed.” He reinforced each point by tapping the table, each tap louder than the one before.

  “Yes, but—”

  He cut me off. “Any first-year assistant prosecutor can sleepwalk through this case and be guaranteed a guilty verdict, but State Attorney Thomas is taking the lead on this one himself.”

  I looked down at my uneaten cheese steak sandwich, the smell of grilled onions and peppers suddenly rank and sour. “I repeat my question, Mr. Wannaker. What can I do to help?”

  “Simple. Find Marrano’s killer or your friend is headed to Death Row.”

  “Is that all?” I said with false bravado. Unbidden, the last line of Henderson’s poem flitted across my mind.

  Hope drifted away like ashes.

  EIGHTEEN

  Wannaker dropped me off at his office after our lunch. I climbed into my car and rolled down the windows to let some of the heat out. I sat there sweating and worrying over what the attorney had told me. All the evidence pointed to Poe. No reasonable jury would see it any other way. Hell, if I were on the jury I’d have to vote to convict based on the evidence.

  Whoever framed him had done a damn good job, but Wannaker laid it all on my shoulders—unless I found Marrano’s murderer, Poe had a one-way ticket to Death Row. Quint Mitchell, super detective and savior of lost and hopeless cases.

  I rolled up the windows and turned on the air conditioning. Letting it wash over me, I considered the very real possibility that Jeffrey Poe would be convicted Sure, I had no doubt someone else killed Marrano and framed Poe, but I needed more than gut feelings to convince Conover and Horgan they had the wrong man. Someone knew why Marrano was murdered, and unless I discovered the reason this case would drift away like ashes, again thinking of Henderson’s poem.

  The flash of Henderson’s poem reminded me of Kurtis Laurance’s insinuation that Henderson might somehow be involved. What had he said? He’s not the noble creature everyone seems to think he is.

  Henderson and Laurance obviously shared an antipathy for one another, but I chalked it up to a clash of giant egos. Still, a small inner voice whispered to me not to ignore what Laurance said.

  I pulled out of the parking lot onto US 1, and for the second time that day visited the downtown library. I found a vacant computer station and Googled Clayton Ford Henderson. As expected, the search engine pulled up hundreds of references, including a fan site with photographs, biography, and snippets of his poetry. I scrolled through pages of old news stories on his appearances, honors won, book reviews, and his appointment as Poet Laureate by former Governor Lawton Chiles.

  He was born in Oxford, Mississippi, moved to Huntsville for a brief time and then to Tuscaloosa where he taught at the University of Alabama. While there, he published his second book of poetry and picked up a PhD. He later accepted a position as professor at the University of Florida’s Department of English.

  Once in Florida, he established himself as one of the nation’s foremost poets, winning fellowships and publishing four more books of poetry, including A Flash of Silence. Five years ago, he retired and moved to St. Augustine.

  I clicked through to more listings of interviews and articles until on the sixth page, near the bottom, I spotted an intriguing item titled Poet of Death? The descriptive line beneath the title read Clayton Ford Henderson’s rise to the stratosphere of the poetry heavens began with the mysterious death of …

  When I clicked on the cached article an old piece from a defunct magazine appeared on the screen. The article’s by-line credited Perry Roberts, a name I recognized as belonging to a sleazy shock journalist who’d written four or five controversial and unauthorized biographies of celebrities and presidents. Roberts hadn’t built his reputation on unassailable journalism, but he knew how to get headlines.

  A black and white photograph, reminding me of a still from an old noir movie, accompanied the article. In it, two uniformed police stared into a swimming pool while another talked with a man obviously in a state of shock. The photograph captured a look of disbelief on the man’s face. His dark hair was in disarray, a shirt half buttoned as though he’d just woken and hadn’t had time to finish dressing. The picture evoked a sense that something monstrous had happened in this tranquil neighborhood.

  I recognized the man in the old photo as Clayton Ford Henderson, perhaps forty or forty-five years ago. His grief reached out to touch me. Looking closer at the photograph, I saw the reason for his grief. There, in the pool, floated a woman’s body. I began reading the article.

  Poet of Death

  By Perry Roberts

  Clayton Ford Henderson’s rise to the stratosphere of the poetry heavens began with the mysterious death of his wife in Oxford, Mississippi in 1970. My investigation into her death shows that the hometown of William Faulkner, one of America’s great storytellers, may have been the setting of another literary figure’s most deadly creation.

  Henderson attended the University of Mississippi where he met and later married Elizabeth Swinton, the only child of Mr. and Mrs. Clyde Swinton. Mr. Swinton, a multi-millionaire industrialist, perished along with his wife when their private plane crashed during a thunderstorm. This left Elizabeth sole heir to an enormous fortune.

  The courtship and marriage had all the trappings of a storybook romance for the Henderson’s. But the story didn’t have a happy ending for Mrs. Henderson who was found floating in the couple’s backyard swimming pool sixteen months later.

  The drowning caused more than a few to raise their eyebrows since, as a student, Elizabeth Swinton had set several Southeast Conference records as captain of the women’s swim team. While the Oxford police wouldn’t admit Henderson was a suspect, my sources tell me he was questioned for days and remained under constant surveillance until the case was officially closed and labeled an accident.

  This fit the pattern of Roberts’ smear jobs. He dug into a person’s background looking for any peccadillo or weakness, hacked away at it, weaving rumors and gossip in such a way even the pope would be hard-pressed to defend himself. I made a few notes and continued reading.

  The poet told police he had stayed up late working on his new book of poetry and had fallen asleep at his desk. When he awoke it was nearly 6:00 a.m. and he went to the kitchen to make coffee. At that point, according to Henderson, the children began crying and he went to check on them. He called for his wife to help him, but she didn’t answer. Not finding her in bed, he began searching the house, calling her name.

  Eventually, he went outside and found his wife’s body in the pool. Elizabeth Henderson had a cut on her forehead, and the medical examiner testified it might have come from her falling and hitting her head against the side of the pool. After his wife’s death was officially declared an accident, Henderson became the sole recipient of the Swinton millions.

  A year later he sold the Oxford house and moved to Huntsville, Alabama with his two children.

  Questions still remain about the drowning death of a swimming champion, and the poet who inherited $8 million. Could it be that Clayton Ford Henderson planned and carried out the perfect crime? He certainly had the rhyme and reason for it.

  The story continued with two more pages of wild speculation, but I didn’t have the stomach to finish it. It seemed to me that Henderson had grounds for a solid libel suit. Still, something didn’t feel right, and tiny lights began to flash in my head.

  NINETEEN

  Leaving the cool, tranquil atmosphere of the library, I walked to my car through a series of lengthening afternoon shadows. Sergeant
Buck Marrano fell into step beside me.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do than follow me around town?” Counting our initial confrontation at the church, this was the third time Marrano had surprised me in a parking lot. Our first encounter left me doubled over, sucking wind, and the last time he shocked me with his racist tirade. Even considering the impact of his brother’s murder, Buck Marrano struck me as a bully with a vicious streak. Certainly not the kind of person who should be carrying a badge for the City of St. Augustine.

  “Ah, man, you better be careful or you’ll hurt my feelings.” Marrano’s face broke into a surprisingly engaging lopsided grin, his sunglasses glinting in the sunlight. “I thought you’d be happy to see a member of the criminal justice system since we’re sworn to serve and protect.”

  “Are you telling me it’s a coincidence you bumped into me? Maybe you’re here to pay an overdue fine on your coloring book?”

  “Funny guy. No, it’s not a coincidence. The Chief sent me to give you a message about your friend Poe.”

  I doubted Chief Conover would ask Buck to deliver messages for him since he’s not supposed to be working the case. Horgan probably told his Detective Commander about Eleanor Lawson changing her story, and now Buck wanted to rub my nose in it.

  I ignored him, walking the last few steps to my car. The sergeant silently tagged along like one of the shadows dappling the parking lot.

  “Okay, let me have it,” I said, hoping to rid myself of the gloating detective as quickly as possible. “You want me to know Poe’s alibi didn’t hold up, and poor Mrs. Lawson was dazed and confused.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Mitchell. It sounds like you’re the one who’s dazed and confused.” He turned his head away and spit on the ground.

  “Then what’s your message?”

  Marrano removed his sunglasses and made a show of taking out a handkerchief and wiping the lenses. Holding them up to the light, he spent another half a minute inspecting them while I fumed, my internal temperature rising by the second.