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

by Christopher Pinto

  I streak of lightning ripped through the hotel. Thunder crashed all around, rumbling through like a locomotive gone haywire. Then the lights died, and in the sudden darkness Jessica slumped to the floor crazed with terror, afraid of what she might see when the lights came up.

  The lightning flashed again.

  They were there.

  The walking dead, all around her, moving through the hall, hovering over the balconies. Her mind twisted with blood-red winds and black rain. She tried to scream but her throat closed up and wouldn’t allow it. All that came out was a hoarse shriek of air, a broken teakettle in the dark. The lightning flashed again and the entities were practically on top of her, in her face, their vacant eye sockets dripping, their rotten lips mimicking her name, “Jessica”.

  Her heart must have stopped, at least for a second. A pain like a knife blade slashing her chest tore through her. She squirmed and closed her eyes, and when she reopened them the lights had come up and she was alone in the hall. She jumped up and ran to Hawthorn’s suite and pounded on the door like a madwoman fearing for her life.

  +++

  Melinda and I looked at each other as the barrage of knocks continued on the door. Without a word I stepped over and opened it. It was Jessica, her eyes crazy and her knuckles red and swollen from knocking. She screamed my name and spilled into the room, grasping at the rug as she pulled herself along the floor towards Melinda. Then she felt the water, and saw the mud, and started screaming her head off as if the floor were soaked with acid.

  I slammed the door shut and ran to her, at the same time Melinda reached her. Jessica was in hysterics, screaming, kicking, trying to wipe the mud away from her hands. We both grabbed her and pulled her away from the watery rug.

  “Jessica, calm down, JESSICA! Look at me kid, you’re with me now, you’re safe!”

  She didn’t believe me. She kept kicking and screaming and gave Melinda a good shot in the leg that was going to leave a bruise. “Melinda, you got any more of that sedative?”

  “Yeah, I’ll get it,” she said and was gone in a flash, back in an instant with a needle. She half-filled it with a clear liquid and stuck it in Jessica’s arm while I held her down. Within seconds Jessica was settled down, breathing hard in the chair but the screaming had stopped and she wasn’t kicking anymore.

  “Strong stuff. What did you give her?”

  “Phenobarbital with a dash of Demerol.”

  “Jesus. That should keep her calm for a while.”

  Jessica said quietly, slowly, “Calmmmm. Maybeee, on the outside; my head is...racing. I think…I think I’m going to have a heart attack. Hmm.”

  “What happened dollface?” I asked, kneeling in front of her. Melinda crossed her arms.

  “They…they came again,” she said weakly.

  “Who? Who came, kid?”

  She looked at me, then at Melinda, then back at me. “You know who, Billy. She knows too. Them.”

  “You mean the apparitions?” I asked. Melinda looked nervous.

  She rose up and said “YES!” very loudly, then sunk back into the chair. “They were in my room…and the hall…and oh God, they were here too! You saw them, didn’t you! The mud…the mud from their eyes!”

  She covered her face and cried. Melinda froze, her eyes staring wildly at Jessica. She was trembling.

  I asked Melinda, “Do you know what she’s talking about? Give.”

  “Yes, I think I do,” she said softly, hesitantly. “I can’t believe it’s possible, but do you think…do you think she’s seen the same things as Eliot?”

  Under her breath Jessica said, “You know I did.”

  I got up and ran my hand through my hair. I was about to believe anything at this point.

  “What exactly did Eliot see?”

  Jessica answered. “The dead, from the ocean. Walking in on the waves. Bloated, black bodies that had been dead in the water for days or weeks or years. Covered in seaweed and creepy little white crabs. Their eyes are always gone, hollow, their heads filled with nothing but mud and seawater. And it spills out, slimy and wet, out of their eyes and down their faces and out of their black mouths over their black swollen tongues and, oh God! Why are they torturing me?!”

  Melinda was shaking more visibly now. She looked at me and said, “Yes, that’s what Eliot describes. That’s why he drinks, and needs the sedatives. That’s why he’s…” She didn’t finish; she just twisted her face holding back the agony and tears.

  I went to her and held her. I wanted to hold Jessica too. I wanted to save them both from whatever was tormenting them, make them happy again. I couldn’t believe such a beautiful place could be so cruel to such undeserving people. Whatever these things were, whatever it was they wanted had something to do with this Island, and they were trying to get what they wanted through Hawthorn, and Jessica, and Melinda – and now me.

  Me. Why now, after all these years, why me while I’m only here for a couple of weeks? Was it fate? Could something as simple as fate have brought me and Jessica and Melinda and Hawthorn together on this crazy stormy night? Or was it something more, something sinister at work?

  The thunder crashed and a moan came from Eliot’s room. Melinda broke from my arms and ran to him.

  “Come on kid,” I said to Jessica, “I’m not sure what’s going down but I think it’s a bad idea to be separated just now.” I hoisted her up and grabbed her around the waist to hold her up. She smiled at me. “Into the bedroom,” I said.

  “Sure thing, Billy,” she said groggily yet seductively. I rolled my eyes and helped her into the bedroom.

  Melinda was sitting on the bed next to Eliot. I sat Jessica down on the big reclining chair in the corner.

  “What’s this?” she asked, the drug taking its full effect. “Listen, I don’t do,” she paused and seemed to count us, then herself in a very drunk-like manner, “…foursomes. The chick can stay,” she paused again, “But the old guy’s gotta go.” She then tilted her head to the side and passed out. I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?” Melinda asked, half serious and half joking.

  “Well at least she picked you over Eliot.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “How is he?”

  “He was already back asleep when I walked in. Nightmares now. Only nightmares.”

  I walked over and sat next to her on the bed. It was as hard as a rock, and I wondered how the old man got any sleep at all.

  “Melinda, we’ve got to talk. If there really is something…abnormal…”

  “Paranormal, it’s called.”

  “Ok, whatever it is…if something really is going on here, and Bachman was murdered...” I trailed off. I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

  Melinda said it for me. “You think these apparitions have something to do with Bachman’s death?”

  It sounded crazy. It was crazy. I tried to think of a way to make it sound less crazy but there weren’t any. I tried anyway. “All I’m saying is that Bachman was a real person who was really murdered. What’s happening to Eliot and Jessica, no court in the world would believe a word of it. If word gets out that either of them…or you for that matter…are seeing ghosts, Sheriff Jackson will probably consider that a sign of insanity. He could have Eliot put away for that. It won’t look good for you, either.”

  “Or for Jessica,” she said, and for the first time a little jealousy crept into her tone. There was no smile, either.

  “Jessica’s got bigger fish to fry. To be honest, a chick like her shooting dope and boozing it up all the time, I’d be surprised if she didn’t see things. And Eliot, you said it yourself, his mind is slipping. He’s been a recluse for years and he’s putting away a good amount of brandy and barbiturates himself. Again, any jury would say he’s hallucinating.”

  “Are we hallucinating the mud and water on the floor?”

  “No, of course not. But again, any employee who was working outside could have brought in mud and water.”
>
  “But they didn’t.”

  “I know,” I said, getting irritated. “That’s not the point. The point is, no one is going to believe that Hawthorn is being visited by real ghosts. Period.”

  “What about her?” she asked, pointing to Jessica. “Is it just a coincidence that they’re seeing the same things?”

  “Kiddo, you don’t have to convince me. I’ve seen enough crazy stuff on this trip that I’m not dismissing anything anymore. It’s the rest of the world you’d have to convince. Jessica works here. You’re putting her up while she dries out. Obviously you two and Eliot here could have cooked up this whole ghost story thing to throw the cops off the trail.”

  “Off the trail of what?”

  I took out my Camels and shook one out of the deck. I didn’t care anymore that she didn’t like it. Hawthorn smoked cigars and this was his pad. I needed one and that was that. I lit it and blew the smoke away from Melinda. She didn’t say a word.

  “Off the trail of a murderer, kid.”

  She thought a moment. I watched her, noticed how here big brown eyes seemed to reflect every bit of low light from the room, how her dark hair shined, how her breathing seemed to get more intense.

  “So you’re saying you think Eliot or I killed Bachman, is that it?”

  That surprised me.

  “Hell no, I don’t think you did it anymore than I did it. But Jackson might see it that way, and he can make things very difficult for you if he wanted to.”

  Melinda rolled her eyes and got up from the bed with an annoyed groan. She walked over to the mini-bar set up near the window and poured two whiskeys. “Detective Riggins, I’m starting to lose faith in your powers of deduction.” She handed me the juice and drank hers down in one shot. I sipped mine.

  “What gives?” I asked.

  “Don’t you get it? Of course Eliot and I are the prime suspects on this murder, as are you. In fact, it would make plain sense that I wanted Bachman out of the way so I could run the Resort the way I want, and used you as the muscle.”

  “Sure, that’s an angle. Not the best one but it fits.”

  “And why do you think any of us are still free, and not locked up at the county jail?”

  I thought a minute. It hadn’t occurred to me until she said it. Sure, we were trapped on an Island but there was enough circumstantial evidence to at least put me in the hold. There was only one reason why Jackson hadn’t taken any of us back to jail. “Hawthorn’s paying off Jackson, isn’t he,” I said flatly.

  “Of course he is, William. How do you think Bachman’s been able to get away with bringing girls in here? How do you think that little house in Key West is still operating? Money. Eliot’s been throwing his money around since the 1920s. People have just come to expect it. He used to pay off Roberts too…and only recently decided that Roberts was a liability. If not, no matter what Roberts did to you, he’d be out on the street again in a week. The only reason Jackson is able to make the charges stick now is that Eliot told him to, understand?”

  Damn.

  “I hadn’t pegged Jackson for a crooked cop,” I said, deflated. “Not him.”

  “Crooked? He’s not crooked at all. He’s as upstanding as they come. But he knows his place. He knows what he can get away with. Eliot’s money is a formality. An insurance policy. If Jackson didn’t take it, he’d be run out of the Keys and Eliot would find someone to take his place. Instead he plays ball on a couple insignificant issues and gets to serve and protect the way a real Sheriff should.”

  It was hard to swallow, but with what little I’d learned about Florida politics it seemed to fit. Jackson wasn’t running the house or the girls or the other party favors. He turned his back when he had too, and kept them all in line when he had to, but he didn’t have anything to do with the business. Strange politics, I guess, but really none of my business. Like I said, I’m on Va...

  A crack of lightning lit up the room like a summer day, then died. The lights flickered again but held. The storm raged on.

  “Well kid, somebody killed Bachman. And somebody is going to take the fall for it. I can guarantee it won’t be me. I’d sure as hell hate for you it to be either of you.” I finished the Scotch and handed her the glass. “Now, if you’ll answer my previous question. Did Bachman have a safe somewhere?”

  She thought a moment before answering, then shook her head. “No, not that I know of.”

  “Can you give me the keys to his office then? I need to search for one.”

  “Jackson doesn’t want anyone going in there, he said.”

  I took a long drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke out slow. “I’m not worried about Jackson. He’s on the payroll.”

  Melinda stayed with Hawthorn and Jessica while I went down to check out Bachman’s office. The lobby was full of people, mostly drunk, many singing along with a guitarist that was strumming standards. The front desk girl let me back and I opened the lock with Melinda’s key.

  Inside the office had been picked clean by Jackson’s crew. Fingerprint powder was everywhere. Every drawer had been opened and every piece of furniture moved.

  I started moving things myself.

  I checked under the chairs, the couch, the desk. I moved every book off of the bookshelves and checked for loose carpeting everywhere. Again, nothing. Nothing in the walls, nothing in the floor. If Bachman had a safe, it wasn’t in his office or his room.

  I did find something I didn’t expect, though.

  On his desk was a notepad, and on the notepad was written: Hawthorn, 4pm Sunday. I also found his personnel file, left out on the desk no doubt by one of the deputies. I sat on the corner of the desk and thumbed through it. The usual stuff was there, home address, age, copy of his resume, copy of his degree from college. But one thing really stood out from the others: his date of employment.

  It was July, 1953.

  07-19-53.

  A date, and no doubt in my mind now a combination to a safe.

  I put everything back the way I found it and left.

  Sunday, August 30th, 1935

  She slept late in the summer heat, cooled only by a small electric fan and a single open window. She dared not open the other window, the one facing the mansion and the grounds. Hawthorn wouldn’t like that.

  Rose stretched and yawned, naked in the late morning light. A soft breeze lightly rustled the palms, and the only other sounds she heard were of the water gently lapping at the yacht in the boathouse and the far off cry of a pelican. She peaked out the window. The Gulf was smooth and placid.

  “Hard to believe a big storm is comin’,” she said to herself. Rose tossed on a light robe and got herself an apple and bottle of orange juice from the icebox, then settled in at the little booth by the window and gazed out over the Gulf as she ate. Boredom quickly overcame her.

  She decided to explore the yacht. That took all of about fifteen minutes. Then she dropped down into the cool water of the boathouse. It was refreshing but felt oily. She toweled off and found some books on a shelf. One was The Great Gatsby, a book she’d heard about but never read. “Now’s a good a time as any, I suppose,” she said to herself again and settled into the bed with the book and a second apple.

  It was around two o’clock when she heard the roar of boat engines. They started, gunned, then drifted away. She lost interest and went back to her book. She had gotten as far as page twenty-seven when Eliot showed up at the boathouse.

  “Hey sugar! I sure am glad to see you, I’m goin’ out of my cotton-pickin’ mind ’round here.”

  “Well, your worries are over. My wife has left the Island. We are alone.”

  Rose jumped up from the bed, elated. “Really? Does that mean that…”

  “It means you can come up to the mansion, like a proper guest. It means a proper luncheon and a bath, too.”

  Rose was so excited she almost didn’t notice the subtle change in Eliot. But she did notice; he seemed quieter somehow, with an almost imperceptible sadness about him.<
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  “You sure everything’s ok, shug? I mean, you sure no one will know?”

  “I’m sure,” he said, that twinge of sullenness still there. She decided it was nothing, just the stress of dealing with the upcoming storm, and canceling the big party.

  “Well all right then! Let’s go!”

  Eliot opened the door for Rose and she got the first look at Hawthorn Island in the daylight. It was beautiful. A pristine white plantation home with a shiny metal roof and long, tapered columns running up the front. The gardens were beautiful too, with giant, colorful flowers, the likes of which she had never seen before in her life. But once inside the house her heart melted. She had always dreamed of living in a house with a double-circular staircase in the center of the entranceway. This house had just that, white-painted oak with red accents spiraling up to an indoor veranda that overlooked the magnificent marble and stucco room.

  “This is absolutely fabulous!” Rose exclaimed as she whirled through the rooms.

  “Go have a bath, sweetheart. You must be all sticky from the heat.”

  “Hey, wait a sec,” she said, “Am I crazy? Or is this place…cool?”

  “It is quite cool,” Eliot said smiling. “An invention of an old friend. They call it air conditioning. I have it in my Packard, too.”

  “My, my,” she said. “I think I adore air conditioning!”

  Don’t get too used to it, Eliot thought but didn’t say. “Go on up and take a nice, long bath. I’ll have some roast chicken and tangerines ready for you when you’re finished.”

  Rose hugged Eliot around the neck. “Thank you sugar. This is a fine way to spend a Sunday!” she said, and ran up the stairs.

  “It’s on the left,” Eliot yelled up, “Try not to get lost.”

  A half an hour later they were dining on meats and hors d’oeuvres prepared for the party, French wine and imported chocolates. Rose forgot all about the gray, windy death lingering a hundred miles off-coast in the Atlantic. Almost.

  “Eliot, sugar, if you don’t mind my askin’, why did your Mrs. leave the island if you have a safe room here?”