Quint Mitchell 01 - Matanzas Bay

by Francis, Parker

  Through an open connecting door, I glimpsed what may have once been a conference room, now packed with shelves and low tables overflowing with boxes of artifacts. Stacked on a workbench were trays of human bones spread out like a butcher’s display. Bowls of bone fragments balanced precariously atop the trays.

  The mess reminded me of his home on Anastasia Island with its spare bedroom storing the growing piles of rubble from earlier civilizations. I knocked on the door jamb and Poe looked up, dark rings evident below his gray-green eyes.

  “Quint, come in. Come in.” He shuffled a box from one of the chairs and gestured for me to sit before closing the door and sitting in the other chair.

  He studied me a moment, a self-conscious look on his tired face. “I have to confess I wasn’t totally honest when you called this morning.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I knew Mrs. Marrano was going to call you. She phoned last night and told me she didn’t believe I killed her husband. A wonderfully supportive thing for her to do. You don’t know how much it lifted my spirits.”

  “And …” I waited for the rest of the story.

  “She wanted to know how she could help. I told her you and I were friends. That you were a private investigator.”

  “I see.”

  “She asked for your phone number and I gave it to her. I’m sorry if I took advantage of our friendship, Quint. You probably didn’t want to get involved in such a messy affair.”

  “Not at all. You know I’ll do whatever I can to help you, and it can’t hurt to have the wife of the murder victim on your side. Hopefully, the police will take that into consideration, although Mrs. Marrano seems convinced they’ve already made up their minds about this case.”

  He hung his head as if it had suddenly become too heavy to hold erect. When he looked up, he stared directly into my eyes. “You’ve got to believe me, Quint. I didn’t kill him. I admit I let my temper get the best of me. Marrano and the St. Johns Group were about to disembowel St. Augustine with that damned Matanzas Bay project. Hot-headed, yes, but that doesn’t make me a murderer.”

  His eyes glistened with emotion as he spoke. I had no doubt he was telling the truth. But what about the bayonet? “Jeffrey, I have to ask you again about the bayonet.”

  He nodded slowly, and I knew he’d been anticipating my question.

  “You must have checked to see if it was still there when you went home last night.” He was still nodding. “Was it?”

  The nodding stopped. “No. It wasn’t there.”

  “You understand what this means? The murder weapon was in your possession, and the police will want to know how it ended up in Marrano’s chest.”

  “I was awake all night asking myself the same question. I honestly haven’t seen it since our dinner two weeks ago. I don’t know what happened to it.”

  “Have you had any visitors lately?”

  He thought a moment before replying. “Had a few neighbors over for coffee and pancakes last Sunday morning.” He hesitated, then added, “Oh, one of the city maintenance workers came by last week with something he’d found in the park by Oyster Creek Marina.”

  “What was that?”

  “A piece of pottery. I brought him back to my storeroom to show him some other examples.”

  “So he was in the room. Did you notice if the bayonet was still there?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “Who else has keys to your house?”

  “Several neighbors, but it’s not like my house is a bank vault. I don’t have any special locks or security. It’s a quiet neighborhood, and sometimes I even forget to lock the door.”

  “Has that happened recently?”

  Poe rubbed a thumb over his chin, giving the question some thought. “As a matter of fact, I noticed the back door was unlocked last Thursday morning. I remember it because I’d gone out and done some weeding in the garden after work Wednesday and assumed I’d forgotten to lock it when I came in.”

  “Was that unusual?”

  “As I said, I’ve left it unlocked before, but …” Poe paused and scratched his head again. “I guess I’m losing it. Turning into the absent-minded professor.”

  “You know sooner or later the police will find out you had the bayonet in your possession. Your prints might even be on it.”

  I saw uncertainty and fear reflected in his eyes. “Do you have a lawyer?” I asked.

  “You think I need one?”

  “Probably a good idea. It would be best if you came forward with the news about the bayonet rather than waiting for the cops to dig it out. They’d think you were trying to hide it from them.”

  “God, I don’t know what to think. None of this makes any sense.”

  “Let’s go back to your run-ins with Marrano. Did you explain to Chief Conover and his detectives why you were fighting the project?”

  “I don’t think they understand or even care.” He shook his head, and pink circles blossomed on his cheeks. “Lord knows I’ve watched them put up all kinds of tacky buildings in this town and kept my mouth shut. But this was too much. This so-called Matanzas Bay was going to be huge, totally out of character for St. Augustine.”

  “But the city commission approved it,” I said, as if that explained everything.

  “Yes, but that was part of the problem. Half of those commissioners ran for reelection last year. Kurtis Laurance funneled tens of thousands of dollars into their campaign accounts with Marrano pulling in twice as much as the others combined. With all that development money in the trough, do you think they’d vote against it?”

  “I suppose they would if they thought it wasn’t right for the community.”

  He gave me the kind of sad smile you might give to a backward child. “Laurance has the commission in his pocket. If he said ‘squat,’ all you’d hear were butts hitting the floor.”

  Laurance again. His name kept cropping up.

  “You think I’m paranoid, don’t you?” Poe asked.

  “You know what they say, ‘Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.’”

  SIX

  I walked the few blocks from Poe’s office to the Casa Monica Hotel at the corner of King and Cordova Streets. While I waited for the light to change, I glanced across the street to admire Flagler College and the statue of Henry Flagler out front. Built in the Spanish Renaissance architectural style, the college began its life as one of Flagler’s luxury resort hotels attracting the rich and beautiful to Florida.

  As I crossed the street, I caught a brief glimpse of a well-muscled man with dark, curly hair duck into the Lightner Museum on the opposite corner. I didn’t get a good look at his face, but my mind filled the void with the snarling visage of Sergeant Buck Marrano.

  Shaking it off as the product of an overactive imagination, I entered the dimly lit restaurant of the grand old hotel. Built in 1888, the Casa Monica changed hands the next year when Flagler bought it to add to his growing hotel empire. It thrived for twenty years, but couldn’t make it through the Great Depression and the hotel closed its doors. Thirty years later the county purchased it and turned it into a courthouse. Today, the castle-like structure has reverted to a hotel and was the only Triple A-Four Diamond Award-winning hotel in St. Augustine.

  I ordered a cup of coffee while I waited for Serena to make her appearance and thought about my conversation with Poe and what he said about the St. Johns Group.

  Depending on how you look at it, developers either fuel Florida’s economic engine—providing jobs, attracting high-income employees, building communities—or they’re responsible for destroying our natural resources and polluting the environment. An argument can be made for both sides. I usually come down in the middle. Let’s face it, hundreds of people a day move to Florida for good reason. No state income tax may be high on their list, but the climate and the state’s natural beauty are hard to beat. The developers are simply helping to meet the needs of this influx.

  Poe
implied Laurance had paid off the commissioners. The last time I checked, campaign contributions were still legal, but I made a mental note to pay Mr. Laurance a visit if I could catch up with him between his campaign trips.

  Serena stepped into the restaurant, cell phone to her ear, nodding vigorously to her cellular companion. For a moment, an image of another girl with a cell phone flared in my mind. Only a single flash of a horrendous memory, but unless I found a way to re-entomb it in my psychic cemetery, one image would soon cascade into a parade of horrors.

  My best tactic for keeping the monsters below the surface was to concentrate on Serena. Without being overly dramatic about it, Serena was one of the most striking women I’ve ever known. The dozen male eyes riveted to her as she walked across the room reinforced my evaluation.

  How many times had I seen men staring at her dark, exotic features, trying to determine her nationality and what fortuitous mixture of genes were responsible for such a stunning woman? The chiseled planes of her face and her tall, shapely figure were like a powerful magnet compelling a man’s attention and fueling their fantasies. Their open lust no longer bothered me. Not much, anyway.

  If I’m honest with myself, something I try to do from time to time, I’d attribute my feelings for Serena to pheromones and plumbing, the blood rushing to extreme parts of my body and away from my brain. But some deeper attraction tugged at me, which is why our impending break-up seemed so painful and sad.

  Seated beside me now, she said goodbye and put away her phone. Without thinking, I leaned over to kiss her, but she adroitly turned her cheek. Serena avoided public displays of affection in the best of circumstances, and our present relationship can’t be described as the best of anything. She looked past me, her honey brown eyes sweeping the room.

  “What a morning. This is the first time I’ve stopped to take a breath,” she said with a small sigh.

  “Breathing is pretty important. You should find time for it whenever possible.”

  Finally, the hint of a smile lit up a face the color of a mocha latte. She has straight brown hair with a trace of auburn, stylishly short and parted in the middle. “I only have a minute, really,” Serena said. “I’m meeting with a representative from an insurance company. They want to hold their next conference here.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “A solid two hundred and fifty room nights, plus meeting rooms and banquets.”

  Serena wore a snug-fitting rose-colored silk suit along with delicate gold filigree hoop earrings and a matching bracelet on her right arm. Her legs were crossed, and I couldn’t help but notice the shortness of her skirt and the expanse of thigh it revealed. Surely, this must be one of the devilishly clever marketing tricks she used on insurance executives.

  “After you add Mr. Insurance-man to your list of corporate conquests, you might feel the need to relax a bit,” I said. “Maybe we can we get together later tonight.” I leaned forward and put a hand on top of hers. “I really think we should talk.”

  She pulled her hand out from under mine. Her eyes seemed to turn darker. “Not tonight, I’m afraid,” she said. “Two honchos from corporate are coming in this afternoon for long-range planning sessions, and we won’t break up until pretty late. Besides, we’re having dinner brought in for us.”

  “How about tomorrow night? Are you free?”

  She took her time before answering. “This week is crazy. Let’s make it Friday night at my place.”

  “Your place? But I wanted to treat you to a nice dinner.”

  “That’s okay. I’d like more privacy so we can talk.” I tried to read the far-away look on her face, but it remained distant and indecipherable.

  SEVEN

  Walking from the hotel to my car, I received a call from Charla telling me the senior vice president of Gulf Breeze Insurance wanted to see me at two o’clock. Today. I’d been pursuing their corporate business for six months. Landing this account would punch up my bottom line in a big way, adding another $100,000 to $150,000 to my gross income. I’d be able to hire another investigator and take a pass on those smarmy infidelity cases that left me feeling like I needed a shower.

  As I slowly made my way along Castillo Drive toward San Marco Avenue, I checked the clock—11:55. Ahead of me, a horse and buggy conveyed a family of tourists at a ferocious five miles per hour while cars stacked up behind it. I simmered along with the other frustrated drivers, waiting for the buggy to turn onto another street. While I waited, I considered my present dilemma. Erin Marrano expected me at her house at 2:00, the same time as the insurance exec. Despite my amazing talents for detection, I’ve yet to locate the secret for being in two places at once.

  I knew I might not get another chance if I blew off this meeting with Gulf Breeze. I told myself Erin Marrano would understand if I rescheduled our meeting, and kept driving. I passed the Mission of Nombre de Dios where Menendez supposedly knelt to kiss a wooden cross after he came ashore back in 1565. The site is marked by a massive stainless steel cross rising over two hundred feet above the marshes.

  I had every intention of continuing north toward Jacksonville, but when I saw Myrtle Street approaching, I whipped the wheel to the right and followed Myrtle to Magnolia Avenue where Erin Marrano lived.

  Magnolia was a curving residential street with a canopy of overhanging oak branches. I found the Marrano house and pulled in behind a silver Lexus parked in the driveway. The split-level stucco had a red-tiled roof. Several terra cotta pots filled with hosta and daisies lined the walkway, and I followed them to a handsome front door with frosted, beveled glass inlays. What looked like a handcrafted wreath hung on the door, grapevines stuffed with evergreens, pinecones, and some dried flowers.

  I stood there studying the wreath as though I’d written my doctoral thesis on the decorative crafts of the South. I had to keep this short to make my appointment with Gulf Breeze Insurance. Knocking loudly, I stepped to one side expecting Mrs. Marrano to open the door. Instead, a woman’s scream jolted me. It came from inside the house and I grabbed the door knob. Locked.

  “Mrs. Marrano, are you okay?” I banged on the door with the flat of my hand. Another scream. I ran around the side of the house to my right until I came to a wooden deck and a set of French doors. One of them hung open.

  Inside, I saw the form of a woman on the floor half curled in a fetal position, one hand holding the side of her head.

  “Help me, please help me.” Her hair was wet and she wore what my mother would have called a housecoat, a thin cotton wrap with a bright flowery print. I knelt by her side.

  “Are you hurt, Mrs. Marrano? Did you fall?” I placed a hand on her arm.

  She jerked at my touch, her eyes wide with terror.

  “It’s all right. I’m Quint Mitchell. Can you sit up?”

  She slowly pushed herself to a sitting position, dropping her hand from her head to grab the robe that gapped open enough for me to see she wasn’t wearing anything beneath it. I managed to redirect my eyes to her face and for the first time noticed the red imprint of a hand on her cheek.

  “Who hit you?”

  She pointed at the open door toward the back yard. “A man … in the house. He hit me and ran away.” Her lower lip trembled, and she touched the side of her face as though feeling the sting of the slap all over again.

  I hurried onto the deck, surveying a yard of flagstone paths curving through flower gardens and beneath shade trees. No intruder in sight. A low picket fence surrounded the yard. Not a problem for someone to climb over and make his get-away.

  “Whoever it was is long gone,” I told her after I returned.

  I helped her to one of a pair of matching Queen Anne chairs in front of a tall bookcase. She thanked me and pulled her wrap around her, crossing her legs primly. A petite woman with finely chiseled cheekbones, Erin Marrano had a straight nose, wide mouth, and long dark hair. By any measure, she was an attractive woman, but her frosty blue eyes gave her an alluring, mysterious quality capable of igniting
sparks in any man with a heartbeat.

  She moved her right arm in a circle and massaged her shoulder.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I think so. Might have twisted something when I fell.”

  “You should get it looked at. But now you need to call the police.”

  “I suppose so, but I’ve seen enough police to last me a lifetime. And they probably feel the same about me.”

  Her half-hearted smile brought a lump to my throat. I wondered what would happen if it had been a no-holds-barred, full-voltage smile.

  “Thank goodness you …” A confused look passed over her face and she glanced at a little gold clock sitting on one of the bookshelves.

  “Yes, I’m early.” I explained why I appeared at her door two hours before our appointment. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “My neighbors have been here most of the morning, and I finally shooed them away so I could shower, have lunch, and get ready for your visit. I’d just finished my shower and was drying myself …”

  She paused and ran her fingers through her still damp hair while an image of a wet, naked widow Marrano snaked into my mind. She must have seen something on my face because she colored and folded her arms across her chest.

  “I thought I heard a noise coming from Bill’s office,” she continued, gesturing at a room to our left. “I called out, ‘Who’s there,’ but no one answered. I put on my robe and went to the office door. And that’s where we collided.”

  “You collided?”

  “He rushed from the office and nearly knocked me over. I grabbed onto him to keep from falling and he carried me a few feet toward the door before pushing … slapping me away. I don’t think he meant to harm me, but I was standing between him and the door.”

  “Did you see what he looked like?”

  She shook her head. “He was wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt and jeans. But it all happened so fast. He was big, in a muscular way, not fat. You’re what—six-one?”