Killer in Control

by Dorothy Francis

  “Good. We can hurry on back to Key West and maybe Rex can sneak the painting inside the house before Janell gets home.”

  “That’s a plan.” I hoped Phud couldn’t see my hands shaking on the steering wheel when a biker honked at me as I backed from the parking slot. I gave him the right-of-way and then paused while a rust-colored rooster crowed and took his time crossing our path.

  Phud chuckled. “Even on Big Pine the chickens are trying to take over. Wonder if that one flew up from Key West.”

  I didn’t speculate on the why and where of the rooster. I pointed us back to Highway One and tried to calm down.

  It irritated me that Phud had the ability to get me so rattled. He was a liar. I remembered his phony story about Janell’s plant fertilizer being his idea. I remembered his story about the topic of his speech for the Marathon garden club. And now this tangled tale about a special book he needed to see at the library. White lies? Unimportant stuff? Perhaps. Maybe Phud was the erudite PhD Janell and Rex said he was, maybe he was everything they thought him to be. But I was striking him off my list.

  Now Phud had grown talkative. He pointed to a street sign just before we crossed the bridge leading away from Big Pine. “Ship’s Way. All the streets opening to the left off Ship’s Way are named after great American battleships. Constitution. Ranger. Independence. Flying Cloud. Every one is a dead-end street running right into the Gulf of Mexico.”

  I made no response.

  “Pine Channel Estates. That’s the name of the area. Some guy got rich developing that land. It’s historical, too. A friend of mine says the abstract to his home dates back to King Philip of Spain.”

  “Interesting, Phud.” I forced myself to respond. “Didn’t know you were hooked on history. Thought that was Teach’s thing.”

  “History must be everyone’s thing if we’re to survive on this planet.”

  Again, I didn’t comment.

  We crossed Niles Channel Bridge. “See all those scruffy boats out there?” He leaned forward for a better view. “Some have people living on them. Some of them belong to Cuban spongers—seamen who hook sponges from the ocean bottom for resale to gift shops.”

  “Oh.” I peered beyond the cruddy-looking boats and enjoyed the lime-green waters flowing from the Gulf to the ocean. An osprey flew from its huge tangled nest atop a light pole, dived into the waves, returned with a fish in its talons which it carried to the nest. I wondered how many mouths it had to feed.

  “The osprey mates and nests for life,” Phud said, following my gaze. “Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “The nest grows larger every year.”

  I didn’t respond. It was well past mid-afternoon and I wanted to get home. These lower keys on each side of the highway looked dark and wooded. Secretive. Eccentric. On each key, narrow side roads wind for only a short distance before they disappear into the distance. Who lived on them? Hermits? Druggies? As far as I was concerned, such roads were better left unexplored.

  “Ever seen the bat tower?” Phud asked.

  “No.”

  “I’d like to show it to you. It’s a short distance off the highway.”

  “No time today. We need to get on home.”

  “I think you can reach it if you turn at the road where a pilot has his sign advertising sight-seeing trips. The tower’s significant because it’s a place all tour guides talk about and take the tourists to see.”

  I didn’t comment, but Phud continued his chatter. “The Keys used to have mosquitoes so large they called them flying teeth but a visiting doctor, a Doctor Campbell, had an idea. He knew that bats ate mosquitoes so he built a bat tower to make a home for bats, hoping to rid the lower keys of mosquitoes. Big problem. No bats showed up to live in his tower.” Phud glanced at his watch. “I think I could spare the minutes to show it to you today.”

  “Another time. The tower sounds fascinating, but not today.” I wasn’t about to let him get me even slightly off this highway, and it surprised him when, a few miles later, I turned right and parked in front of Sugarloaf Lodge. Pulling the keys from the ignition, I left Phud and the car and hurried into the lodge.

  “May I use your telephone, please?” I asked the desk clerk.

  He pointed to a pay phone near the door. “Be my guest. Of course there are phones in every room, if you’re planning to book lodging for the night.” When he looked out the window and saw my car, his eyes widened, but he didn’t comment. I guessed he would like to have the Prius parked here overnight.

  “It’s a beautiful lodge in a beautiful setting, but I need to call my family and let them know I’m in the vicinity and getting close to Key West.”

  The clerk smiled. “Here, use the desk phone. It’s handier.” He pulled a telephone book from a drawer. “What’s the family’s name? I’ll key in the number for you.”

  “Rex and Janell Cummings. I have the number right here. You’re very kind and I appreciate your offer.” It amazed me how the Prius opened doors that had been firmly closed.

  “They operate The Poinsettia, don’t they?”

  “Right. You’ve been there?”

  “Only once. Running this lodge doesn’t leave me much time for enjoying Key West or checking out other lodges.”

  I talked briefly to Rex, then returned to the car, glad Rex knew my whereabouts, glad the lodge owner would recognize the Cummings name if he heard it again. The Prius, he’d remember my car, too—should that be necessary.

  When I returned to the car, Phud was still ready to chatter. I let him know that I’d talked to Rex, that the lodge owner knew my name. That didn’t seem to bother him, but he said no more about driving off-highway to see the bat house.

  When we arrived at The Poinsettia, Rex was standing at the outdoor grill preparing cobia steaks for our supper. The scent of charcoal and fish made my mouth water. Their car wasn’t in the carport, so I knew Janell hadn’t returned from West Martello yet.

  Phud left the Prius, thanked me for the ride, and then picked up his purchase and walked toward the front gate.

  “Got the painting,” I called to Rex before I remembered about his summons to the police station. “What did the police want this time?”

  “Just another verification of my former statements.” He grabbed the painting, tore the wrapper, and grinned, admiring it while I gave a brief account of my being able to get it without driving to Marathon

  “Good work, Kitt. I’ll hide it in the front closet, and when I get a chance I’ll hang it in the living room and see how long it takes Janell to notice it. I’ve already measured the spot.”

  Rex was so pleased to have the painting that it almost made me forget my scary ride with Phud. I shoved the memory to the back of my mind, determined not to bad-mouth him to Rex and Janell. They respected him, and the fact that I’d crossed him off my list of associates would remain my secret.

  Chapter 20

  Right after Janell returned from West Martello, my cell phone rang. I answered, at the same time stepping into the kitchen and then heading upstairs, hoping for privacy. Few people had my cell number. Few people back home knew I was visiting family in Florida.

  “Kitt Morgan here.”

  “It’s Hank, Kitt. More news for you.”

  My hand grew slippery on the phone as my grip tightened. “Give, Hank. Give. I hope the news is good.”

  “Rasty Raymore died early this morning. Today his doctors are releasing his body to his family for burial. Consider this good news, Kitt. Another scofflaw with a gun off the streets.”

  For a few moments I couldn’t respond to Hank. Good news? How could he be so callous? Didn’t he realize I’d killed a man? I was a murderer. The perp was dead. Rasty Raymore. Now he had a name I’d never forget.

  “I really appreciate your calling me, Hank. That’s all I can say for now.”

  “I wanted you to hear it from me before you heard it from someone else. A little lead time helps a guy plan a careful response.”

&
nbsp; “And I will certainly need a carefully planned response. Fate plays a big part in our lives, doesn’t it? I’ll be better prepared to respond when I receive official notice from the chief—and/or the review committee.” I heard myself rattling on and on until Hank broke in.

  “Look for the positive side of this situation, Kitt. I’m wagering you’ll be reinstated on the force soon. Of course, I wouldn’t mind changing places with you for a week or so right now. It’s been below zero in Iowa for over a month with no warming trend in sight.”

  “I’m not interested in a weather report, Hank. Weather comes and goes. Killing another person is something that will live with me, something that will stay in my mind forever.”

  “Try to believe that life is going to go your way, Kitt. Believe it. You shot in self defense. Make peace with yourself.”

  “I’ll try.” The words hung in the airwaves between us. I knew Hank wanted to hear me say I’d welcome my job back, that I was ready to come home, but I couldn’t lie to him. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Maybe Rasty Raymore’s death was a warning for me—a warning that I lacked the emotional stability to handle a police job or any job involving a lethal weapon. It might be very easy to stay here in South Florida close to my family, stay here and avoid facing anyone who’d ever known me in another life, first as a failed singer, and now as a failed cop.

  Wherever you are, God put you there. Wherever you’re going, God is sending you there for a purpose. Those words had been favorites of my minister’s at First Methodist on Cherry Street anytime either Dad or I faced big decisions in our lives. And he’d also said, people don’t meet accidentally. They meet when they need each other. Had there been a need for Rasty and me to meet on a cold night in an Iowa pet shop?

  The connection between Hank and me hummed then the line began to crackle with static.

  “Kitt? Kitt? You still there? Can you hear me?”

  “Still here, Hank. And thanks again for calling.” I broke the connection.

  After I hung up, I revealed nothing about the nature of Hank’s call to Rex or Janell. And they didn’t pry. They both were in light-hearted moods. No point in my spoiling that. A night’s work ahead of them in the beautiful Florida Keys. I welcomed the routine of supper, the clean up.

  “Holla,” Mama G called to Rex and me when we stepped outside to light the patio torches. Their glow flickering in the warm tradewind turned the world into an exotic wonderland, a wonderland where I could forget a police force in Iowa.

  “Holla!” Rex and I shouted to Mama G in unison. I held my breath to avoid the odor of the lighter fluid.

  “Hella!” Mama G shouted when she saw Hella approaching from the B&B. “Get your bones on the bandstand if you intend to sit in on the first number. Ace! Teach! Get those music fronts in place. Pull the first three charts.” She tapped her wristwatch. “Pronto!”

  Hella was the only one of the three who hurried to obey. I looked at Rex and rolled my eyes. “How do you and Janell stand that woman? I’m surprised the guys put up with her.”

  “Where else could Teach or Ace find a steady moonlighting job?” Janell asked, joining us. “Where else would I find exotic and delicious sandwich recipes? We at The Poinsettia need Mama G.”

  While Hella sat in on the first number, Ace brushed strands of wayward hair from his forehead and strolled across the patio to ask me to dance. It surprised me to realize I’d been hoping he would. As usual he looked at me with a smile and a sparkle in his eyes that bordered on amusement. I smiled back. I felt comfortable and protected in his arms and I tried to forget how vulnerable I’d felt on the ride with Phud that afternoon and during the phone conversation with Hank. My phone conversation with Hank lay close to the surface of my mind, but I didn’t have to face its implications right now.

  “You got big plans for tomorrow morning?” Ace asked after we’d danced in a comfortable silence for a few minutes.

  “Nothing big. Just the usual activities.”

  “Then how about doing a bit of sight-seeing with me? Janell and Rex are too busy to spare much time for sight-seeing, and my boat’s in dry dock for repairs tomorrow. I’d like to show you more of the island.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I’d suggest a ride on the Conch Train, but you’ve probably done that many times.”

  “Yes, a long time ago, but surely you’ve viewed the Conch Train scenes many times. Janell says that’s what the locals do when visitors come—take them, or, better yet, send them, on a Conch Train tour.”

  Ace laughed and guided us farther from the combo. “Yeah, I’ve had a few Conch Train rides. Any place specific that you’d like to see? Maybe one you haven’t seen before?”

  “Your choice. You know the most interesting sites, maybe places overlooked by a lot of visitors.”

  Ace thought for a few moments. “How about the Military Lighthouse Museum? It’s right on Duval Street. But lots of people bypass it—especially women. I think the word ‘military’ turns them off. They see the Hemingway house across the street, and by the time they finish the tour of that house and count the six toes on one of the cats, they’re ready for a break. They forget about the lighthouse.”

  “Too tired to climb lighthouse steps, right?”

  “Right. Think you’d like to do that? Think you feel up to the climb? You’ll get a great overview of Key West from the top. Of course, I suppose it won’t compare to the view from Teach’s plane.”

  “Maybe not, but Teach focused his trip on the sea between here and Fort Jefferson. Gave us no chatter about Key West.”

  “So if you’d like to visit the lighthouse, I’ll stop by for you tomorrow morning. No parking problems. I’ll bike over from The Ace, and we can do the Duval crawl—walking to the lighthouse from here.”

  “Do you really live aboard The Ace?”

  “Sure do. I’m a low maintenance sort of guy. Why pay rent when I own a floating bunk and a galley?”

  “No reason. No reason at all.” It sounded like a fancy-free life to me, a life to envy.

  “About tomorrow, Kitt. A visit to the lighthouse. Sound like a plan?”

  “Let’s go for it. But right now, Hella’s vacated your drum seat. You’d better go for the bandstand before Mama G explodes with wrath.”

  “That woman!” Ace gave my hand a squeeze before he left me near the snack bar and strolled to join the combo.

  * * *

  The next morning I dressed in tourist’s uniform of white pants and flowered shirt and dropped my cell phone into my pocket before I went downstairs to help Janell serve our poolside breakfast. Watermelon balls. Guava juice. Orange marmalade pastries. Who cared about such Iowa fare as bran flakes or oatmeal soaked in soy milk? Hella and Rex, that’s who. They both ate hearty breakfasts that sometimes included bacon and eggs. I was content with a glass of juice as I watched a gentle tradewind sprinkle bougainvillea blossoms into the pool where they floated on the surface like pink confetti. Why would anyone in their right mind give this up for the snows of Iowa?

  A paper carrier delivered The Citizen, and Rex shared it, keeping the sports section, giving Janell the front page, and letting Hella and me peruse the want ads and the crime report. I found nothing of interest in either section. I saw no news about Abra Barrie’s murder and I had little interest in who had been picked up last night for petty theft, for disturbing the peace, or for drug and alcohol violations.

  Ace arrived around nine.

  “Okay if I leave the bike in your carport?” he called to Rex.

  “A good plan unless you want it stolen.” Rex turned toward me as he opened the gate for Ace. “Kids pick up bikes, ride them to their chosen destination, then abandon them for the next kid needing a ride to somewhere else. It’s a vicious circle. Last month I lost mine three times and each time I’d left it locked to a light pole.”

  “How’d you find it again?” I asked.

  “Went to the police station. They store the unclaim
ed bikes there. Identify it, and it’s yours. Kitt, if you want to, you can borrow a bike from us and ride with Ace to the lighthouse.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I think we’d be safer walking.”

  “Agreed,” Janell said. “And in a collision between flesh and concrete, concrete always wins. You two have a good time. Rex will be here if you should happen to want a ride home, but I’ll be at West Martello pinch-hitting for one of the subs who has to be out of town today.”

  Ace and I walked along Whitehead Street, passing Kelly’s, The Banyon, Truman Annex. We turned a corner and strolled toward Duval. Bells from St. Paul’s tower pealed pigeons into the sky. Ace’s chatter kept me from concentrating on window displays at Chico’s and Fast Buck Freddie’s.

  “Has Janell taken you to the gazebo at the top of the hill at West Martello?”

  “Yes. Beautiful spot. You’ve been there, too, I suppose. Or do the locals bother to seek out the tourist attractions?”

  “Been to West Martello only once. I’d heard there was a Lignum Vitae tree growing at the top of the hill there. I wanted to see it up close and personal.”

  “Right. I saw it among some thatch palms. Gnarled. Bent. Recognized it from a picture I saw in a tourist brochure. The one at West Martello looked like it was on its last legs. Or should I say its last roots?”

  “The tree’s old, that’s for sure. But those in the know say the wood’s still strong. Guess that’s why it’s called Ironwood.”

  “Strong, I suppose, but it’s no tree of great beauty.”

  “Agreed. But I wanted to see it because there aren’t many left on Key West—or on any of the Keys. Tour guides like to point out the one at West Martello. My drumsticks are made of Lignum Vitae. I told you that, didn’t I?”

  “I suppose so, but I’d sort of forgotten the connection between your sticks and the tree.”

  Ace laughed. “Whenever I hear the words Lignum Vitae, I think of that hilltop tree and of my two hundred dollar drumsticks.”

  We stopped as a Conch Train turned the corner in front of us. Tourists waved to us and we waved back.