Murder on Tiki Island: A Noir Paranormal Mystery In The Florida Keys (Detective Bill Riggins Mysteries)

by Christopher Pinto

  A short ride back got us to the dock on Tiki Island.

  Things had changed since we left.

  Something happened.

  There was a boat docked there with the word SHERIFF painted in big white letters across the back. Dozens of people were crowded on the north end of the Island, down by the gardens. Police were turning people away, and erecting barrier tape with signs that read “Crime Scene, Do Not Cross.” My heart sank down into the pit of my stomach.

  How? What? It seemed unthinkable that crime could find its way here, to this paradise, so far detached from the rest of the world. Maybe a little back-room gambling, possibly even some high-class call girl action, but this was no broken-up card game.

  I knew what a scene like this meant.

  It meant murder.

  Damn.

  I walked up to the crowd, not wanting to look too curious, and tried to see what was going on. As luck would have it Melinda was standing off to the side, speaking with one of the officers. She caught my eye; her face lit up and she called me over. I obeyed.

  “Bill,” she said, and that was all, as if she didn’t know what to say next.

  “What happened Melinda?”

  She didn’t answer. “Bill, this is Deputy Curtis, Deputy, this is Bill Riggins.”

  The deputy answered politely in a very deep tone. “Hello Mr. Riggins. Ms. Hawthorn tells me you’re a detective from New York.”

  “Yes,” I said with a slightly annoyed tone, looking at Melinda, “I’m on vacation.”

  “Well sir, when you have a moment, I’d like to introduce y’all to Sheriff Jackson. I’d hate to bother you on your vacation but something’s come up, and I think he’s gonna want to talk to you about it, if you don’t mind sir.”

  “Not at all.” Whatever it was, I really didn’t want to get involved with it. But now that my pal Melinda had let the cat out of the bag, I guess I was stuck. “Do you mind if I have a word with Ms. Hawthorn, Deputy Curtis?”

  “Sure ’nuff,” he answered, “I’ll go let the Sheriff know you’ve done arrived.” He walked off past the crowd, through the crime scene tape and out of view.

  “Ok sugar, spill it,” I said to Melinda. Suddenly my cop demeanor was back.

  “They found a skeleton buried in the garden,” she said flatly. “The landscapers were digging up a section to put in two new totems and some plants, and hit the bones about four feet down. We called the Sheriff immediately.”

  A skeleton? That’s all? Thank the lord, I thought. Even if it was criminal, it was old. “That’s it, huh? Nobody murdered today?”

  “No, thankfully. But it’s extremely unnerving to find an unmarked grave in the middle of our beautiful gardens. We conduct wedding ceremonies there, for heavens sake.”

  “Listen, Melinda, those bones could have been there for years, maybe a century. How long did you say this place has been here?”

  “The resort was built in 1937, 38. Before that, the Hawthorn mansion sat here, in basically the same layout as the main hall. I don’t know what was here before that.”

  “Then it seems to me,” I said while lighting a Camel. It was my last one. “That those bones have been here since at least before the resort was built, right? Pretty unlikely that someone would have planted them there while the place has been in operation twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five.”

  The relief was apparent on her face. She let out a sigh that told me yeah, you’re right, why didn’t I think of that. I moved a little closer and put my hand on her arm. Her skin was warm, warm as copper on a hot day and the same tone. I gave her a little squeeze and she flashed that smile that I’d come to know so well.

  “You’re right, of course,” she said, “I should have realized that. That garden’s been undisturbed as long as I can remember. The body must be at least twenty years old, probably more.”

  “Probably. For all we know it could have been a native from a hundred years ago. I saw something in Key West about Indians living here, and tribes having wars with each other all the time.”

  “That’s true,” she said looking over at the gravesite. “After all, that’s where Key West gets its name.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  She leaned in close. My hand was still on her arm. “When the Spaniards first landed in the Florida Keys, a major war between the native tribes who inhabited the islands had just ended. The beaches…in fact the entire island was covered in the bones of the dead, as one entire tribe had been wiped out and left to rot in the sun. The Conquistadores named the island “Cayo Hueso”, Spanish for ‘Bone Island’. Through poor pronunciation by pirates and English sailors, Cayo Hueso became Key West, so the story goes.”

  “No kidding?” I said. “So the whole damned island of Key West is basically one big graveyard, huh?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Huh, crazy.” I went for a stick. I was dry. “Say, is there someplace I can get a pack of smokes around here?”

  “I’ll have some sent to your room. Camels, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And they sell them in the gift shop too. Here comes the Sheriff,” she said, and I casually dropped my hand from her arm.

  Sheriff Jackson was a big man. I’m six-two, and this man towered over me. He was broad too, a chest like a locomotive and a stomach like a rain barrel. He wore one of those cowboy-looking hats you’d expect to see on a southern Sheriff, a light beige one that matched the color of his uniform. On his hip slung low was a six-shooter about the size of a cannon. An antique .44, I’d guess.

  Melinda introduced us.

  “Pleasure,” he said in a husky, breathless voice, the ‘sure’ in pleasure sounding more like ‘shuh’. “Ms. Hawthorn tells me you’re a detective with the New York City police. Hate to impose, but maybe you’d like to take a look at the scene and render your opinion. We haven’t got a forensics analyst here; we have to wire up to Tallahassee and have a man sent down. Could be a few days. I’d like some experienced eyes before the rain washes everything away.”

  I must say, after seeing how southern lawmen had been portrayed in movies and TV, I was a little surprised he was asking for my help.

  “I don’t mind at all,” I said, “Although forensics isn’t really my gig. I’m on the vice squad, so I don’t know how much help I can be.”

  “Any help would be help, Detective. Sho’ would appreciate it.” He motioned over for us to follow him through the crime tape. Melinda stayed behind. She hadn’t seen the bones yet, and the last thing she wanted was to see something that would change her perception of paradise. I didn’t blame her.

  The Sheriff and I walked through the crowd and over to the grave. The gardeners had dug down into the soft, dark topsoil by hand, exposing the entire skeleton.

  “There she is,” Jackson said as he wiped his face down with a handkerchief.

  “What makes you think it’s a she?” I asked, curious.

  “Found remnants of a lady’s shoe…look down by the left foot.”

  I saw it, a dark mass of rotted leather and a two-inch heel. Definitely a woman’s shoe. I shot my peepers over the rest of her. Remnants of rotted material clung to the bones like dead sails on a ghost ship.

  I said, “Looks like a little of what’s left of a brazier and a dress, too. Looks old.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “probably from the thuhrties, I think. My wife used to wear ’em like that back during the war, when they was hard to come by.” He knelt down and looked closer into the hole. The late afternoon sun was moving across the sky, casting angular shadows over everything including the grave. “Light’s gonna be gone soon. You see anything else here that might help?”

  I knelt down beside him and peered into the rectangular hole. It was almost as if they intentionally dug a grave there, pretty spooky. I wasn’t new to finding bodies, but I usually found them in alleyways or in the trunks of cars. I looked over the remains, noticing the bits of clothing still clinging to the bones. The body had been laid out flat, i
ntentionally, not a hasty burial where the body was thrown in a ditch, indicating it was more likely done with plenty of time, not a rushed murder. I relayed this to the Sheriff.

  “I thought the same. Looks more like a proper burial than a cover-up. Notice anything else?”

  “The skull,” I said as I moved my position closer to the head, “Has been caved in. Could be from years of being underground. Or it could be from a club or other weapon.”

  “Yeah, I thought that too. Anyway to tell without moving it?” he asked.

  “Is there any way I can get down there without disturbing the scene? If I can, I could look for sharp edges on the bones. If it caved in from the weight, the bones would be flattened more than broken. If someone crushed her face with a lead pipe or a baseball bat, the breaks would probably be jagged. Not exact science but it might give us an idea of what you’re dealing with, Sheriff.”

  Jackson thought a minute. He wiped his face again, then took off his hat and wiped down his mostly bald head. Without the hat I could guess his age was around fifty-five, maybe older. He whistled over to the Deputy, and asked him to get a good flashlight, some rope, something called “the rig” and a pair of coveralls from the boat.

  “We have a way to get you down there. I’ve got some coveralls you can wear so you don’t get your fancy duds all muddied up. We’ve got a harness we used to pull people out of the swamps. We can use it in reverse to lower you down there. If your idea of the bones being jagged works out, I’ll section off this area and call Tallahassee right away.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said, and added, “You wouldn’t mind if I have a drink while you set it up, do you? I am still on vacation after all.”

  Jackson laughed and shifted his weight to the right. “Go right ahead, Detective. This’ll take about twenty minutes to get together. Just come on back at five-thuhrty, we’ll be ready.”

  “Groovy,” I said, and walked back to where Melinda was waiting.

  “How bad is it?” She asked, a little shake in her voice.

  “I need a drink, come on and I’ll tell you.”

  We made our way back to the Shipwreck bar in the lobby. No mermaids this time. I ordered a double bourbon on the rocks for me and a Mojito for Melinda. Somehow a fruity tropical cocktail just didn’t seem right just now. Maybe later, but not now. I told Melinda what we saw, and what we were about to do.

  “Do you think it was,” she paused, then dropped her eyes. “Do you think someone was murdered, Bill?”

  “Honestly, no. Not by the way the body was neatly buried, and so deep – four feet down. No one commits a murder then buries the body four feet down. It’s too much trouble.”

  “Not if you have all the time in the world. Remember, this Island was uninhabited from late in thirty-five until construction began on the resort in 1937. If someone wanted to hide a body, this would be the perfect place for it.”

  “True,” I said, and downed half my drink in a single belt. “But even still, why bury her so deep, if no one was around to find the body? They could have just as easily covered her over in a shallow grave.”

  “Maybe they did,” she said, looking into my eyes. “Remember what I told you about Eliot planting over the Island with palms and plants? He instructed the workers to…”

  “Lay down four feet of topsoil,” I finished. Her eyes widened, as did mine. “Sharp thinking , dollface. You might just have something there.”

  “Actually, I hope not. It would be one thing if there were an old cemetery or something here that Eliot never told me about. But if someone were murdered here and the body hidden on the grounds, I don’t think Eliot would ever get over that. He hardly comes out of his room now as it is.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, realizing what she was saying. “You’re telling me that Eliot Hawthorn is here, on the Island?”

  “Why yes, of course. We came here in 1938 to open the resort. We’ve lived here ever since. He used to run the Island until my mother passed away back in 1950. Since then, he’s slowly become a recluse. He hardly leaves his room now, sometimes only to walk the grounds for a short time.”

  “I thought you said he left the Island for good?”

  “That was his plan. Things changed when he heard they were rebuilding the Overseas Railway into the Overseas Highway.”

  1936

  It was just a small blurb on the bottom of page two of the San Francisco Chronicle. Beginning in late 1936 the U.S. Government and the State of Florida would be turning the now defunct Key West Extension of the Florida East Coast Railroad into a passenger car highway, a two-lane stretch that would make use of the existing bridges and causeways once used for railbeds. The project was planned to be completed in less than two years, and the state hoped it would help drive automobile-based tourism to the central and lower Keys.

  Immediately Eliot’s mind started grinding its gears. Already bored of living the quaint family life, he yearned for the parties, the boating and the fun of the Keys. The memory of his lost wife and the events of Labor Day Monday, 1935 faded with each day, and he found himself ready to regain his rightful place as the premier socialite of Monroe County.

  He just wasn’t sure how the hell to do it.

  Then one evening while driving through Oakland, he and his wife Marietta discovered a restaurant with a strange theme. The outside looked like something out of the Hawaiian Islands, with oil-burning torches and mystic voodoo masks (or so they thought). The inside was festooned with fishnets, floats and various sealife on mounted plaques. Palms and tropical flowers accentuated bamboo furniture and rattan wallpaper, and the bar was made of a dark carved wood, decorated with more masks and palm trees. Eliot had stumbled upon an establishment that went by the name of Trader Vic’s, and his outlook would never be quite the same.

  They stayed for dinner and spoke to the proprietor; they stayed for drinks and watched a live show of Polynesian dancers performing with lit torches to exotic jungle drums. They sampled original drinks with such outrageous names Zombies, Scorpion Bowl and Samoan Fogcutter, and were floored by the signature drink, a rum concoction known as the Mai Tai. Eliot was hooked; right there he made a deal with the owner to pay him royalties to use the recipes and décor ideas, and made plans to open his own version of the Tiki-themed restaurant in the Florida Keys.

  At first he planned to buy some property along the highway on Marathon Key, the unofficial half-way point between Florida City and Key West. Then he remembered the Island, with its beautiful beaches and lush landscape. He remembered the Island’s secrets too, but decided to let those secrets fade into history just like the memory of his lost wife Vivian. He contacted an engineering firm, an architect, a master chef and a hotel industry supplier and put his new plan into action.

  As the plans took shape, Eliot and Marietta’s excitement grew, and it rubbed off on their six year-old daughter, Melinda. She was old enough to know what was happening, that they would be moving to an exciting new home with their own private beach and boats and music and laughter every day. Before the blueprints were even drawn up, Eliot had bestowed upon Melinda the title of Entertainment Director, in charge of making sure the guests were always well fed, well entertained and always smiling. She took her new title so seriously that by the time she was fourteen it was evident that she would indeed take over as Entertainment Director in the near future.

  Together Eliot and Marietta oversaw every aspect of the new resort. The idea started out as a restaurant and bar that could only be reached by boat; by the time constructions started it had turned into a sixty-room luxury hotel with several lounges, restaurants, outdoor dining, beach games, boat rentals, a giant salt water pool in the shape of a lagoon and a ballroom with dancing and Polynesian shows, all themed with the Tiki culture that was becoming so popular across America. The décor would be mostly Hawaiian, the food a combination of Asian, American and Caribbean, and the drinks exotic. A special area of the top floor would be sectioned off for Eliot and his family to live in, and Melinda
would be schooled on the Island…in fact, Eliot would erect a school house on the east shore, where twenty children from Sugarloaf Key would come daily by boat to attend classes. It was run by one of the best school teachers in the state, and by the time the children reached ninth grade they were not only reading and solving math problems on a twelfth grade level, they could rig a sailboat, operate a motor boat, spearfish and were experts at Hawaiian culture and the hospitality industry. Melinda even learned to speak Hawaiian, partly from her mother and partly from a tutor.

  On October first, 1938, Eliot, Marietta and Melinda arrived at the west dock (the front entrance) to their recently finished resort. They christened it “Tiki Island,” and officially opened for business at noon. In anticipation of the opening, tourists from all over the country booked the minimum two-week stay…and from opening day until the onset of World War Two, the resort remained booked at full capacity at least four months ahead.

  Eliot was finally happy again.

  He ignored the Island’s secrets. Soon, he forgot all about them.

  But not for long.

  +++

  “Then in 1950 my mother was diagnosed with a failing heart. She was only forty-five when she passed away. Eliot was torn apart, he really loved my mother. Without her, he didn’t seem to want to go on. I tried to become closer to him, and for a while I did, but I’m afraid his mind started to...slip.”

  Melinda finished off her Mojito and ordered another. I said no to a second Bourbon, as I was expected to do some police work in a few minutes. Ugh.

  “What do you mean, started to slip?”

  “Well,” she said hesitantly, as if she’d realized she said too much. “He started…seeing things, mostly at night.”