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

by Christopher Pinto

  “Listen buddy, don’t worry about any of that now. I’m not on vacation anymore. I’m gonna find the creep who did this and bring him in, and don’t worry ’cause I’ll make it stick. The trouble is I got a little mixed up with one of his girls…I didn’t know it at the time…so people are pointing fingers at me. They figure I got a motive on account of this chick.”

  “That’s crazy, you’re a cop.”

  “They have a different way of looking at things down here, kid.”

  “Yeah, true.” I heard the sound of glass tinkling on glass, then the muted gulp of a long swallow. “Listen, Jerry, if you have any idea who I should start with…maybe your brother mentioned a name, someone he was having trouble with?”

  “He didn’t talk about work much, Bill. I think he was afraid someone was listening in.”

  “Well if you think of anyone…”

  “There was one guy, Bill. I think his name was like, Robbins. He mentioned him a few times, that he wished the mug would get lost. Someone he did business with.”

  “Roberts,” I said, and my heart sped up just a little bit as my fingers curled around the phone and pulled so tight I thought it’d break in my hand.

  “Yeah, that’s it. Roberts. Didn’ like the guy one bit. Said he was stupid, and was gonna mess up the whole operation he had going. That help?”

  “It might.” Yeah, it just might.

  “Good. Listen, Bill, let me go. I wanna be alone for a while, all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m hip. Sorry I had to be the one to give you the news but I thought it was better than a call from some jerk deputy who don’t even know you.”

  “Yeah, thanks Bill. It is better coming from you. I’ll catch you later,” he said and hung up before I could answer. A loud static charge busted my ear as another clap of thunder rattled the house.

  Sometimes I hated this vacation.

  +++

  I looked all over the lobby for a familiar face and found none. Now the rain was coming down hard so all the guests were scrambling in here, making it hard to spot anyone through the thick sea of tanned hides. The front desk girl said Melinda was somewhere out on the grounds dealing with a private party that was supposed to happen that afternoon and got moved. She had no idea where the Sheriff was.

  It was really Jackson I wanted to talk to. He wasn’t in the interrogation room, and by now he’d have interviewed all the staff but not all of the guests. He was either taking a break, gave up or moved rooms. I really wanted his sheet on suspects. I had a few of my own that needed to be added. I decided wandering around the whole place was pointless, so I checked the restaurant, the bar, the deck restaurant and all the meeting rooms and gave up.

  I walked into the lobby lounge where the mermaids swam. There were no mermaids in the tank, but there was one at the bar who was well on her way to getting tanked. She sat alone. I sat beside her.

  “Hey, there, aren’t you one of the mermaids?” I asked politely. She gave me the once over with a sort of annoyed look.

  “Yes, I am,” she said quietly and went back to her drink, something brownish in a rocks glass. Whiskey, straight. She finished it in one gulp. This doll could put it away.

  “My name’s Bill. Saw you swimming earlier. Can I buy you another one of those?”

  I got the same annoyed look, then in a breathy, low voice she said, “Please, don’t put the moves on me pal. It’s been a long day and whatever you’re sellin’, I ain’t buyin’.” Her voice wasn’t only low and breathy, it was tinged with a little agony and a side of slur.

  She had a distinct Brooklyn accent, kind of like Bugs Bunny but blonde. I could see she wasn’t in the mood for a pickup, and frankly neither was I.

  “Sorry kid, I didn’t mean to come off that way. Just looking to make some friends while on vacation, that’s all. If you want I’ll leave you alone, but the offer still stands on the drink.”

  She looked up from the glass and stared straight ahead at the back of the bar, eyeing up the bottles stacked on glass shelves, lit from behind with a soft blue glow.

  “Ok, one drink. But don’t think it gives you the right to flip my fins, got it?”

  “I’m hip,” I said, “Order away.”

  “Another double Johnny Black on a glacier, Linda. This one’s on this guy here,” she said to the bartender who was already pouring. “Thanks mister. Today I need all I can get.”

  “Forgive my nosiness, but what troubles can a mermaid who lives in a Tiki bar possibly have?”

  “What else?” she said. “Man troubles. Every guy I meet turns out to be a slime.” She took a long drink of Scotch and continued. “I was supposed to be in Miami tonight. Little vacation. Me and this…jackass I’ve been going around with. Should have known better. He’s skipped without me. Won’t answer his phone, nothin’. So I get to go back to work for a week instead of playin’ it up in the city. And I really thought he was the one, ya know? Jerk. At least he can’t fire me.”

  “Fire you? Who is this guy?”

  She looked at me sideways. “Who do you think? The hotel manager.” She finished the Scotch in a final slug, fast.

  “Bachmann?”

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  Oh Christ, she hadn’t heard yet.

  “I’m sure he’ll turn up,” I said, and finished my drink too. I didn’t want to have to tell another person that Bachman was dead. I didn’t need anyone else’s miseries piling up on top of mine. I had enough of my own, piled up like a house of cards, ready to come down any minute in a gust of wind from that damned storm brewing outside. I decided to make a run for it, quick. Like pulling off a bandaid I said,

  “Well, sorry to hear that doll. Thanks for the company. I gotta run.”

  “Wait a minute, mister,” she said, pulling lightly at my shirt. “You mean…Well, you didn’t even try.”

  “Try what?”

  “To flip my fins. You didn’t even make a pass.”

  “You told me not to.”

  “I tell everyone not to. They always do anyway.”

  “Well then there’s still hope.”

  “Hope for what?”

  “Still hope that not all men are slime,” I said, and made my exit. She watched me leave the bar, and ordered another drink.

  I went back to the lobby and got a newspaper, sat down on a big bench carved out of a tree and buried my face behind the print. The paper was the Sunday evening edition. No Monday paper. Jackson had sealed off the Island before they delivered the paper. I wondered what time he got called in…something I neglected to ask. If Bachman was killed in the early morning hours, and his body was discovered before the paper got delivered that meant there was only a very small window for the murderer to leave the island. I walked over to the front desk again and got the attention of the older yet very pretty girl working it. She smiled as she came over, a sort of half ‘work’ smile and half ‘I really am this pleasant all the time’ smile.

  “Yes Mr. Riggins?”

  “Can you tell me what time the morning edition gets delivered to the Island?”

  “Certainly, it’ always here by five-thirty. A boat comes every morning with fresh fruits and other supplies for the restaurants, and the newspapers come with it. We have a special driver that starts in Fort Lauderdale with the Sentinel, gets them just as they come off the presses at midnight, then runs down to Miami for the Herald, and down to Largo for the Ledger. He usually makes it to the dock just as the boat is ready to shove off.”

  “He always make it?”

  “Hasn’t missed a boat in fifteen years.”

  “So there’s no paper today because –”

  “Because that Sheriff wouldn’t let the boat leave Sugarloaf Key.”

  “Any idea what time the Sheriff got here?”

  “Yes, Mr. Riggins. Around ten-thirty.”

  I was confused. “Ten-thirty? That’s impossible, he was already here when I got here this morning.”

  “No, Mr. Riggins, not ten-thirty this morning. Ten-t
hirty last night. Sheriff Jackson was here overnight, as a guest of Mr. Hawthorn.”

  Damn.

  +++

  It was around four in the afternoon when Melinda confronted Sheriff Jackson and insisted he allow the boat carrying the daily food and supplies to dock and unload. He was adamant not to, but she was more adamant to run her Resort. She allowed complete supervision by his deputies, and when she made it a point that he’d no longer get free meals and rooms he finally obliged.

  But no one was leaving Tiki Island.

  Jackson and his deputies did a room-to-room search and interrogation of every person on the Island. Being a Monday, the Hotel was only at seventy percent capacity, which made things a little easier, but it was still slow going. He finally wrapped things up around five, and that’s when I found him strolling across the lobby from the elevator to the dining room.

  “Hey Sheriff, having dinner?”

  “Yessuh, famished. Care to join me?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  The storm was in full swing now but besides the rattle of occasional thunder we’d never know it. The Hukilau dining room had no windows. It was a darkened cavern in the traditional style of the American Polynesian Pop Tiki Bar, a mysteriously-concocted thatch and bamboo village within a building, shadowed by dark, woven palms, lit by candles and blowfish hanging lamps. Just as the architect intended, we were cut off from the outside world.

  We sat at a small round table with a view of kitchen. I guess I’d gotten so used to the VIP treatment I almost complained, but Jackson was hungry and didn’t mind where we sat. He ordered without looking at the menu. Fried chicken and sides of mashed potatoes and collard greens. I don’t even know what a collard green is, and once I saw them I was even less interested in knowing. I ordered a plank steak medium rare and a Jack and Ginger. The Sheriff drank coffee.

  “That booze will mess with your head, son,” he said as I spun the Tiki Island swizzle stick in the glass.

  “My head would be more messed up without it. Besides, I’m on vacation.”

  “So ya’ll keeps sayin’.”

  “Yeah well maybe today is turning out to be a work day. Who’s on your list of suspects?”

  Jackson looked up from his chicken and said, “Now why should I tell you that?”

  “Well you want me to help you, don’t you?”

  “In case you forgot, Mr. Riggins, you’re still on my list.”

  “No kidding. But I know I didn’t do it, so let me give you a hand. I may have a name or two to add to your list.”

  “You think so?”

  “Maybe. You give me yours and I’ll give you mine.”

  He put down the chicken and carefully wiped his hands on his napkin before taking out his little brown notebook. I took out my little black notebook and between the two of us we looked like a couple of guys comparing notes on the dinner. Nobody would have suspected we were comparing notes on a murder.

  He flipped a few pages and squinted, then took a pair of wire-rimmed glasses out of his pocket and began to read.

  “Ok, Bill, here’s my list in no particular order. You, Mr. Hawthorn, Ms. Hawthorn, Ms. Rutledge, Jason Trembol, and Dustin Marlin.”

  “Who? Wait…Jessica was in Key West when Bachman got iced.”

  “Still, she’s connected to you and the Island and him, and she showed up this morning. She could have had someone do it for her.”

  “Someone like me.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Thanks, pal.”

  “Just business, Bill.”

  “Who are these other two goons?”

  “Jason Trembol works on the loading dock. He also was a sort of gofer for Bachman. They had a falling out a week or so ago, and Bachman cut him off. He’d been making serious green bringing in illegal narcotics and cigarettes without tax stamps for Bachman.”

  “And the other?”

  “His replacement.”

  A crack of thunder shook the hotel and the lights flickered. They came up and after the momentary interruption I looked over at the Sheriff with disappointment. “That’s it, huh? Interrogated everyone in the joint, and all you got is a frail old man, a petite young woman, an out of town cop, a hooker who was an hour away and two guys that worked penny-ante for ’em.”

  Jackson looked hurt. “Well, yeah Bill. What did you expect?”

  “You don’t get a lot of murders down here, do you?”

  Now he looked a little embarrassed. He flipped his book shut and said, “Well honestly when we do, it’s pretty obvious who’s behind it. Drunks in fights, drug pushers tearin’ into each other, cheating spouses. That sort of thing. Never anything too mysterious.”

  I looked down at my Jack and Ginger. The ice was already starting to melt. “Open your book, I’ve got some names for you.”

  I told him all about Penelope first. He checked a list and found out she was still on the Island. She never left last night because after we left her room, Bachman returned and told her to stay put. She said he threatened to fire her if she listened to us, and she stayed in her room all night. No one to back up the story though. Next I told him about Roberts, and how Jerry mentioned Bachman was having problems with the fat man from Key West.

  “Roberts is behind bars, Bill. You know that. You put him there.”

  “Are you sure about that? You sure he didn’t get sprung on bail?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Well we should check.”

  “Ok, fine. I’ll give the prison a call when we’re through.”

  “Find out if he had any visitors or made any calls. He might have had someone do it for him. Someone with connections.”

  “Maybe,” he said, “Although I don’t know why.”

  “Who knows. Revenge maybe. Or to get Bachman out of the way so that one of Roberts’ own men could move up to the number one spot.”

  “That’s not a half bad idea, Bill.”

  “Yeah, well that’s why I make the big lettuce.”

  I gave him the mermaid last. “Her name is Kaliki. I don’t know how deep she was in with Bachman, but she seemed pretty busted up when I saw her at the lounge. And according to Melinda, he chased every skirt on the payroll, so you might want to see if he was getting dirty with any of the girls, and if they had jealous boyfriends.”

  “No one said anything in the interviews.”

  “You thought they would?” I asked, and was honestly getting a little annoyed at the Investigation-101 course I was teaching the Sheriff. “Jackson, you don’t ask a chick if she’s been getting the business from a guy who wound up murdered. You ask her if she knows someone else who’s been getting business, dig?”

  Jackson was getting a little angry now. “Ok, detective, I may not have had the fancy schoolin’ you did, but I know how to interrogate suspects.”

  I was getting hot and sounding condescending. You know, me with my degree in criminal investigation, two years in the military, six years as a cop, three of which were as the youngest detective in New York history... “I’m sorry pal, I didn’t mean it to come out that way. I’m just saying I’ll bet you dimes to donuts that snake was spending more time with the bedding than the maid staff, and there’s gotta be a couple of girls here who would love to dish the dirt on people they don’t like.”

  “Well look Bill, as the law I’ve gone about as far as I can go. While you’re here, you’re not a cop. You’re in another state on leave, and that gives you the same rights as any citizen…meaning you can do some asking around yourself without worrying about it being on the books. Y’all come up with a good lead and my boys will run it down. As for me, my list of suspects stands, along with the hooker and the mermaid as people of interest. As for Roberts…we’ll see where that leads us after that phone call.”

  I finished off the last of my highball and said, “When do I get to see the crime scene?”

  Jackson looked surprised. “Who said you are?”

  “Well either you can show me or I can get old man Haw
thorn to give me the key to Bachman’s suite. Either way.”

  “That’s a crime scene, you can’t just go bargin’ in there like a fox in the henhouse –”

  “Then let’s go for a walk,” I said and got up. The Sheriff huffed and puffed and got up too.

  I found in Bachman’s apartment the usual stuff you’d find in a usual hotel room. No Tiki or Hawaiian décor here. His living room was ultra-modern with fancy black acrylic chairs that looked like you couldn’t possibly sit on them, a sofa made of leather-upholstered black and white circles, and a striped rug that almost gave me vertigo. A glass coffee table with a selection of Playboy and Esquire mags centered the room. The art that hung on the plain white walls was minimalist-modern, made of geometric shapes or colored lines. A few non-tropical indoor plants accented the black and white theme. A hi-fi with a built-in television set lined the wall opposite the windows. The vertical blinds were drawn. No photographs, knick-knacks or anything else that might lend a touch of personality to the place was present.

  Here on the third floor the storm felt the worse. Even with the blinds shut you could tell it was storming from the thick gray light that oozed around the edges of the windows. The rain bashed itself hard against the roof and windows, and when the thunder hit, it sounded like it was cracking right over our heads.

  “Sheriff, should we be worried about this storm? I’d hate to be up here when the roof blows off.”

  “Roof? Aw, don’t be a chicken, Bill. This is only a tropical storm. Never hurt anyone. You just don’t want to be outside in it, that’s all.”

  “Sure,” I said. I wasn’t sure at all.

  Jackson led me through to the bedroom where the body’d been found. Besides the obvious signs of a police investigation, the room seemed neat, orderly, untouched. Bachman died in his king-sized bed under black satin sheets. There were no blood stains. The white walls of his bedroom were accented only by a few more geometric paintings, plus one large aerial photo of the The Keys over his headboard. A minibar sat next to his bed and doubled as a nightstand. An electric clock, modernist lamp and ashtray shaped like a kidney were the only extras in the stark room.