Quint Mitchell 01 - Matanzas Bay

by Francis, Parker

  A faint smile appeared on his face. “Taking a lot of days off,” he said. “I’m tendering my resignation in the morning. Figured I’d go ahead and do it before they fired me.”

  “They wouldn’t fire you. Not after what you’ve been through.”

  “It’s all right. I’ve overstayed my welcome in St. Augustine. It would always be awkward, and I’d rather put this whole mess behind me. This gives me a chance to find someplace where I can do some real research.”

  We sipped our beers, only the clicking of the fan breaking the silence. Poe had taken off his cap, and his fleshy cheeks glowed a cheery pink. “Any idea where you’ll go?” I asked him.

  “I have a lot of friends in the field. Maybe I’ll head southwest. They’re making some intriguing discoveries of the Anasazi people out there. Rewriting the history books.” A glint of excitement flashed in his eyes.

  “Sounds like something you’d really enjoy. Just remember your old pal if you need a volunteer.”

  ***

  Later that afternoon, I sat in my car in the shade of an old oak bearded with Spanish moss. The dark skies and heavy rains of the past few days had evaporated, and the sun had returned in full force. I knew there were more questions needing answers.

  This case began with Elizabeth Henderson’s drowning in Oxford, Mississippi. It erupted again decades later. Most families remain together long enough to learn how to cope with the stress that builds and distorts the bedrock of their lives. Henderson’s decision to abandon his twins created invisible seismic waves in his family, erupting with disastrous consequences generations later.

  I approached the house, knocking on the door with the decorative wreath. Erin Marrano seemed surprised to see me, but she stepped aside and invited me into her home. I followed her to a breakfast nook off the kitchen where several manila folders lay beside a partially empty glass of what looked like iced tea.

  “Sorry to interrupt you,” I said. She’d combed her dark locks of hair into improvised bangs covering most of the bandage on her forehead. Her makeup couldn’t cover the ugly bruise on her cheekbone where Watts had punched her. Otherwise she seemed to be in good spirits.

  “No problem.” She pushed the folders aside. “How about a glass of tea?”

  “Thanks.”

  She busied herself getting a glass from the cabinet and a pitcher of tea from the refrigerator. Considering everything she’d been through over the past week, she carried herself with a surprising grace and confidence.

  She placed the tea on the table and sat down across from me. “How’s your head?” she asked.

  “Healing. It looks a lot worse than it feels.”

  “I’m glad to hear that because it looks terrible.”

  “Yeah, actually it hurts like hell.”

  She laughed loudly, the sound bubbling up from her throat. “An honest man. How refreshing.” Erin waited until I took a drink of my tea before asking, “So, what brings you here today? Delivering my bill for your services?”

  “Actually, there are a couple of things I was wondering about.”

  She picked up her glass and took a dainty sip. A glint of moisture sparkled on her upper lip like a sliver of glass next to the dark red lips. “What’s that?”

  “How long did it take you to put Henderson and Watts together?”

  Surprise danced across her face. Her eyes hardened. No more pretenses of vulnerability. No signs of the affection she’d displayed during my other visits.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I think you know. You sent me Henderson’s codicil, didn’t you?”

  “No, I—”

  “Let’s not play games, Erin. Somewhere along the line, Henderson admitted he was your father. Surely, he confessed everything to you, about your twin brother and how he’d followed you here to St. Augustine. He probably gave you the codicil to his will, which means you were in a position to copy it and send it to me.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and stared while I waited for her reply. A moment later, she relaxed, letting her arms drop.

  “I first met Clayton at a poetry reading at the library a few years ago. He called me several days later and invited me to lunch. He said something about us being kindred spirits living in a cultural desert. That we should get to know one another better. We talked for two hours. Clayton shared stories of his career, people he knew, gossip about the fine citizens of St. Augustine.”

  “Is that when he told you he was your father?”

  “No, it wasn’t until months later. We’d meet for lunch or he’d take me to a concert when Bill had a late night meeting. We enjoyed each other’s company. Bill was gone all the time and I was lonely. Clayton seemed to like me and I appreciated having someone to talk with. I guess he was probably building up his nerve to tell me. When he finally did, I had a hard time believing him.”

  “You knew you were adopted.”

  “Of course, but the idea of finding my birth father in St. Augustine, hundreds of miles from home, seemed too much of a coincidence.”

  “But it wasn’t a coincidence, was it?”

  “No. He said he’d hired a private investigator to find me, and then moved here to be close to me. That he regretted what he’d done and wanted to set things right.”

  “And the will?”

  “The bequest was his way of making amends for my brother’s death, for waiting so long to reenter my life.” She picked up the glass of tea, started to drink, but put it down again.

  “Clayton sent me a letter with the will asking me not to make it public. At least while he was still alive. He was very protective of his reputation, and didn’t want the world to know he’d put his children up for adoption.”

  I compared her words with my own scenario of this bizarre and sad chronicle. She seemed to be telling the truth—up to a point. “When did you figure out Watts was your brother?”

  Her eyes reminded me of blue calcite tumbled and polished by a lapidary’s wheel—beautiful, but cold and unfeeling. “Clayton told me my brother died. You said the same thing. So why would I think he was my brother?”

  “The family resemblance,” I said. “A psychic bond. Maybe he approached you.”

  “After Clayton’s knee operation, Watts appeared out of nowhere. They were always together, more than just a patient and a physical therapist. I thought it strange.” She looked at me with one questioning eyebrow raised. “I’ll admit Jarrod bothered me, but I never had any inkling we were related. And neither did Clayton.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I noticed the way Jarrod always seemed to be hovering around Clayton like a protective hen. After Clayton’s death, I re-read the will and wondered if Watts had anything to do with it. After all, he didn’t have much and if Clayton died he’d inherit a lot of money—at least it was a lot of money for someone in his position.”

  “So you sent me the codicil?”

  She inhaled deeply before answering. “Yes. I thought you might see a connection there and find out if Jarrod was involved.”

  “Of course, it didn’t have anything to do with getting Watts out of the way so you’d be sole beneficiary of Henderson’s estate?”

  “Not at all.” The words erupted from her mouth as harsh pellets of sound. “I didn’t care about Clayton’s money. Bill left me quite comfortable.”

  I studied her for a few seconds, the indignation mirrored on her face, the tilt of her chin, the eyes holding mine for a moment then skidding past my shoulder. I leaned in to get her attention before saying, “You put me on the case to get rid of Watts.”

  “You truly are hallucinating, Mr. Mitchell. That blow to the head must have caused amnesia.”

  “How so?”

  “Have you forgotten Jarrod wanted to kill me? He was the one who wanted to inherit.”

  “Perhaps. Or maybe he came to your house to reconnect with his family and you turned him away.”

  “Jarrod Watts was a sadistic sociopath who murdered my
husband, killed his own father, and, if I hadn’t shot him, would have killed you.” She glared at me, adding, “You haven’t forgotten that, have you?”

  She had a point, but as much as she denied it, I knew the answers to this puzzle were more basic than the emotional attachments of a long lost father and daughter. That’s why I’d asked Jack Fuller to not only check out Christopher Henderson, but his sister, Amelia Faye, and her family background.

  “Your brother may have been a sociopath, but I don’t think he was crazy. There are a lot of reasons why we do the things we do. Jarrod was surely influenced by his horrible childhood. How about you, Mrs. Marrano?”

  “Me? I had a perfectly normal childhood.”

  “Not quite true. I understand your father had an accident when you were quite young.”

  Her eyes narrowed and the brittleness returned to her face. “He fell off the roof of our house and broke his back.”

  “The accident left him crippled, unable to work. In fact, he needed constant medical attention.”

  Erin Marrano remained silent, her clasped hands resting on the table.

  “Your father’s medical bills demolished the family savings, and your mother was forced to sell the house. For several years, your family lived on welfare and you moved from one low rent apartment to the next.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “You were what, eight years old when your adopted father had his accident? Living on welfare, wearing hand-me-downs, seeing your mother humiliated taking money from family members she knew she’d never be able to repay. That sort of thing has an impact on an impressionable child.” I glanced over at the large pretzel container half-filled with pennies.

  “It might even be the reason a young, attractive woman marries a successful man twenty years her senior.”

  “You’re out of your depth, Mr. Mitchell.” She pulled her hands apart and pressed them against the table. “I don’t need any pop psychology lessons from a second-rate private detective.”

  “When Henderson died, you’d inherit the Malaga Street property. And you knew the value would skyrocket once the St. Johns Group began the Matanzas Bay project.”

  “Ridiculous. I didn’t know anything about the property until Henderson showed me the codicil.”

  “No? Your husband had a city employee research that property months ago. He knew who owned it. I’m guessing he told you.”

  She glared at me, one hand gripping the glass so hard her knuckles whitened.

  “And there were a few other things that never added up in this case. Like your husband calling a special meeting to announce he’d changed his mind about supporting the Matanzas Bay project. You said there was nothing to it. Laurance told me the same thing. Yet Henderson seemed convinced the vice mayor had changed his mind. Where would he get such an idea if not from you?”

  “I told you the truth when I said my husband wouldn’t have changed his mind.”

  “You’re right. Your husband hadn’t changed his mind. He called that meeting to push the city into taking Henderson’s property by eminent domain. But you told Henderson your husband had second thoughts about supporting the project and would put it on hold at the special city commission meeting.”

  “Why would I tell him that?”

  “That’s what I wondered. It didn’t seem to make any sense until Kurtis Laurance told me Henderson owned several large pieces of property adjacent to his new development. I finally made the connection between Laurance’s disclosure and the generous gift Henderson left you in his will. The same property.”

  “So what?”

  “Laurance also told me he’d discussed Henderson’s demands with your husband and would be willing to raise his offer for the property to maybe a million dollars. Your husband told you all of this. Of course, he had no way of knowing Henderson was your father or that you’d inherit the property after Henderson’s death.”

  Erin’s nostrils flared and I watched a flush of red spread across her cheeks. “Pure fiction,” she said.

  “Is it? When your husband told you they were going to take the property by eminent domain, you realized you’d lose much of the value of that land and you panicked. Henderson had to die before the city took action.”

  She shook her head in denial.

  “By this time, you and your brother had connected. Watts wasn’t stupid. I’m guessing he figured out why Henderson had been paying so much attention to you. He learned he had a twin sister after he broke into the record center of child services back in Huntsville. Do you remember what Watts said last night? He came to see you again after Henderson showed him the will. Again. And he called you a ‘lying bitch.’ What did he mean by that?”

  “Just a crazy man’s rantings.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m betting he told you about growing up in foster homes, the abuse he suffered, and his plan to kill Henderson.”

  “This is preposterous.”

  “Is it? What kind of deal did you make? Offer Watts half of the money from the sale of the real estate if he moved up his timetable to do away with dear old dad? Maybe you even told him Bill Marrano abused you, hoping—”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that,” she screamed at me.

  “You told Henderson a fairy tale about your husband changing his mind about Matanzas Bay so he’d think Laurance would no longer have any interest in purchasing his property. In the meantime, you waited for Jarrod to do the deed.”

  She started to get up, but I pushed her down. “I’m almost finished,” I said, “so hear me out.” She sat back in her chair and glared at me.

  “The final piece slipped into place for you when poor Clayton committed suicide. Wasn’t it ironic that the city commission met on the same evening to praise your husband instead of asking the city attorney to invoke eminent domain? It was more than you could have hoped for. You knew the city wouldn’t pursue eminent domain against the vice mayor’s widow, and you could work out your own deal with Laurance.”

  I waited to see if she had anything to say before adding, “Of course, you never intended to share the money with Jarrod, and probably told him so last night. Which is when he went ballistic.”

  Instead of erupting at my charges, a cryptic smile appeared on Erin’s face. “Have you seen today’s paper? Front page story about how poor Mrs. Marrano, after losing her husband, and then, sadly, her father, was nearly murdered by a deranged serial killer. Wouldn’t you say I’m the victim here?”

  The tip of her tongue explored her lips as she closely watched my reaction. “Do you actually expect anyone to believe these paranoid delusions of yours, Mr. Mitchell?”

  Erin Marrano abruptly pushed herself away from the table. “I hope that answers all your questions. Now I must get ready for another appointment.” She walked out of the kitchen without waiting to see if I was following her.

  At the front door she, said. “Thank you for your help. I trust you’ll send me your bill.” For a moment, her eyes filled with a mocking exultation, and she gave me a fleeting smile with more than a hint of triumph. In that smile, I recognized a reflection of Jarrod Watts, her ever-grinning tragic twin.

  She closed the door and I retreated to my car. No doubt I’d been a pawn in Erin Marrano’s little game. She was right when she said she would be viewed as the victim. Within one week, her husband murdered, her birth father and twin brother equally dead. This left her as the sole heir of a fortune totaling several million dollars.

  All of us are the product of gene pools contributing more than a sequence of chromosomes. I wondered about the Henderson gene pool. Erin Marrano seemed to be an intelligent and insightful person. Supposedly, she’d been a caring and dedicated teacher. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling any answers would be found deep below the surface. Like my work at archaeological surveys, the deeper we dug, the more soil we turned over and screened, the more likely we were to discover hidden artifacts from the past.

  Clayton Ford Henderson was a complicated man who abandoned his children
and possibly killed his wife. His son used the abuse he suffered as a child as an excuse for murder.

  And Erin Marrano?

  If scientists examined the Henderson genome I wondered what they might find. Perhaps under their electron microscopes, they’d discover Erin Marrano was the smartest, most devious of them all.

  FORTY-FIVE

  A month later, I wangled an invitation to a reception at the University of North Florida’s Young Republican Club. The guest of honor was Kurtis Laurance and he was meeting with his VIP supporters prior to his speech at the University’s Fine Arts Center. Over a hundred people were crowded into the meeting room, and I stood in the back holding a glass of red wine waiting for Florida’s next governor to make his appearance.

  After twenty minutes, he entered through a back door along with his entourage of campaign workers and local politicos. He worked the room like an old pro, shaking hands with everyone, making small talk, cracking jokes. He finally made his way along the perimeter and, while talking with several elderly women, spotted me hovering nearby. Laurance turned away, concentrating instead on the two women and their concerns about homeowner’s insurance.

  One of his aides came over and whispered in Laurance’s ear. The candidate offered apologies to the women and moved to the front of the room. Taking a bottle of water one of his aides handed him, he swallowed a mouthful before addressing the throng of supporters.

  “Friends, I want to thank you for coming out today and helping us eat these hors d’oeurves. I was afraid we’d have to carry them back to our plane with us, and I really don’t need any more calories.” He chuckled and patted his flat stomach while the rest of the room echoed his laughter.

  He spent ten minutes ticking off the major planks in his campaign platform, the same talking points he’d repeated five and six times a day at stump speeches throughout the state for the last two months. When he finished condemning corruption in the previous administration, the need to cut taxes and bring more jobs to Florida, Laurance answered a few questions. Then he thanked everyone again, asking for their vote in Tuesday’s primary election, and said, “Ya’all better hurry and get yourselves a good seat. You don’t want to miss hearing my speech again.”