“Your fortune, Miss?” she called. “Your true path through life is written in the stars. I will point it out to you.”
Levanah’s leopard print, zodiac symbol approach seemed even phonier than Fondetta’s satin robe and whispery-to-screaming voice. I started to walk on, still munching on popcorn.
“Only twenty dollars, miss. Your future revealed in full for the small sum of twenty dollars.”
“No thank you, Levanah. Maybe another time.” I walked on.
“Special price for you today, Missy,” Levanah called after me. “Sunset celebration special—fifteen dollars. Just fifteen dollars for a reading to help you find your true path through life—and your true love.”
I hesitated and then walked back toward her. Beanbag Chair Man never took his eyes off of us. “Levanah, were you acquainted with Hella Flusher?”
In one fluid bit of motion, Beanbag Chair Man rose and stepped from the tent, joining us and placing his hands on Levanah’s shoulders. “Why are you questioning my wife about Hella Flusher? We know nothing about her death. Nothing.”
“But you know she’s dead,” I said. “How did you learn that?”
“Radio. And we take care. We watch our backs.”
“Then you knew Hella.” I made it a statement I hoped he wouldn’t deny.
“People in our business know each other,” Levanah said.
Beanbag Man nodded. “We knew Hella Flusher. We respected her.”
“So can you tell me if she had any enemies that you know of?”
“That we do not know,” he said. “We did not know her well. She told us little of her life or her acquaintances.”
“We only saw her at sunset now and then.” Levanah said. “She didn’t come here every night. Maybe she had a day job to help her pay expenses. Who knows?”
“Is she a friend of yours,” the man asked.
“Past tense. She was a friend. Thank you for talking with me.”
“Missy, I tell your fortune. Listen to me. Maybe I see something about Hella Flusher in your future.” The man shook his head, eased back into the tent, and slumped once more onto the beanbag chair.
“Thank you, Levanah, but not tonight.” I turned and walked on.
“Fool!” She spat the word at my back. “Tightwad!”
The sun still hung above the horizon and its fiery globe made an eye-catching backdrop for the sailboats that paraded in front of it. With practiced skill, they tacked to catch the wind, turned to keep their photogenic position. Tourists, with cameras at the ready, pushed and shoved as they vied for an unobstructed view. I wondered if the city paid the sailors to create this send-a-picture-back-home scene. I had to admit that it made me wish I’d brought my camera along.
Today’s sun was not long for today’s world and I wanted to return to The Poinsettia well before dark, so I almost didn’t stop at Faith Brimwell’s space crammed between two eight-foot tables where vendors stood selling tie-dyed t-shirts. I thought those had gone out of fashion with the hippies, but both women were doing business, stuffing shirts in sacks, pocketing bills.
Faith Brimwell’s booth consisted of one tiny table and two three-legged stools. A lace cloth covered her bare table, bare except for a crystal ball and a small stack of business cards. She wore white jeans, golf shirt, and a visor that shielded her eyes from the sun.
“May I help you this evening, Ma’am?” She spoke to me only after I’d picked up one of her cards. “Faith Brimwell,” I read. “Professional Psychic.”
“Yes.” Faith smiled. “May I help you?”
I smiled back at her, really interested in what she might have to say.
“If you think I may be of help to you this afternoon, please sit down and make yourself comfortable and we’ll talk.”
I wondered just how comfortable she thought I could get on a three-legged stool. But at least she wasn’t trying to give me a hard sell on her abilities.
“What is your charge?”
“My charge will not exceed twenty-five dollars. It depends on your questions, of course, but the charge may be less. Never more. However, I do impose a ten-minute limit on my reading.”
“Of course,” I agreed, as if I was quite familiar with all psychic’s penchant to set prices and time limits.
“What is it that you wish to discuss with me this afternoon?” Faith asked.
“I’m concerned about the recent murders here on this island.”
Faith’s gaze met mine and held it. I don’t think I could have looked away, had I wanted to. And I didn’t want to.
“Ma’am, are you in some way connected with these deaths, these horrible murders?”
“Only marginally.” I explained my relationship to Janell and Rex and The Poinsettia. “Have you thought about these murders?”
“Not professionally. But I think everyone in Key West has thought about them to some extent. What is it that you want to ask me?”
“I want to ask if you can visualize, see in your mind’s eye the person who might be guilty?”
“Ha!” She spat the word. “If I could see that so easily, I would have rushed to the police with the information.”
“Hella Flusher, the woman who was murdered last night at The Poinsettia was also a psychic. I knew her. I’ve been a guest at that B&B for a few days. I think Hella might have been able to see, to give information, about the person who murdered Abra Barrie, the murder victim of a week or so ago.”
“And why do you think that?”
I knew I’d said enough. Maybe more than enough. “Miss Brimwell, I’m a police officer from Iowa, from a town where the PD drew on help from a psychic to assist in solving a case. I’ve suggested to Detective Lyon at the Key West PD that he might want to consult a psychic for help with the solving of Hella Flusher’s murder.”
“The police haven’t contacted me,” Faith said. “I’m not eager to become involved in a murder investigation.”
“If the police contacted you, would you try to help them?”
“I might. I don’t know. I’d have to think about it.”
“May I give Detective Lyon your business card?”
“Of course,” Faith pushed the stack of cards toward me and I took another one to add to the one I already held. “If the police get in touch with me, I’ll have plenty of time then to make the decision concerning whether I might be able to help them.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s all I’m asking of you—to hear them out if they come knocking on your door.”
“I’m here every night,” Faith said, “but I live on Big Pine Key—about thirty miles up the highway. It’s a quiet spot, a quiet island. I prefer it to the noise and clamor of Key West. Serenity gives me time and space to think.”
I had started to walk away when she called to me.
“Miss?”
“Yes?” I faced her again
“Were you a personal friend of Hella Flusher?”
I thought for a moment about my relationship to Hella. “I’d known her for about a week. Yes, I was her friend. We had differences of opinion and sometimes we rubbed each other the wrong way. But I’ll always count her as a friend. And I miss her.”
I smiled at Faith Brimwell, tucked her business cards into my fanny pack, and walked again along the pathway, jostling my way through the tourists crowding around the vendors’ booths. I found a quiet spot next to a safety railing between the sunset watchers and the Gulf and held the flat of my hand toward the sun.
Years ago a Girl Scout leader had shown my troop the trick of judging time using the horizon and the sun as guides. Each finger you could hold between the bottom of the sun and the horizon equaled fifteen minutes of time before sunset. This afternoon, I could fit two fingers into that distance. Thirty minutes. I turned and headed toward The Poinsettia. No point in my being out after dark, or even in the twilight preceding dark.
A half hour allowed me ample time to get back home and I strolled along without hurrying. I had turned my back to the dock, wa
lked down the alleyway used by motorists ready to pay their parking fee and drive on to other events. When I stepped onto Front Street a man joined me, strode along beside me. The angel Gabriel? The guy’s skin gleamed with silver paint. He wore a wide belt with a skin-tight leotard that looked as if it had been painted on, too. At first I thought he was the mime I’d seen posing on a pedestal at the dock. But no. A silver yachting cap sat on this man’s head and a silver mask hid his features.
I stopped in front of a t-shirt shop and turned to face him. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Chapter 31
“Just keep walking,” he ordered. “Show no surprise.” The mask muffled his voice, but the tiny silver pistol he pulled from beneath his belt and jabbed into my side fit into his disguise and carried his message loud and clear. Anyone noticing us would think he was a busker who had finished work for the evening and was leaving the dock early. But there were few people around right now to notice us or to speculate about the man or his intentions. The climax of the celebration was at hand. Now that the sun was about to sink into the harbor, everyone was on the dock intent on watching its demise.
“I’m on my way home,” I said. “People are waiting for me, expecting me. Leave me alone. Go before I call a cop.”
The man chuckled. “What cop do you think could hear you above the clamor of the dock? Walk along beside me. Pretend we’re best friends.”
He linked his left arm through my right arm, and as he did that I felt the sharp prick of a needle. I jerked away from him, but too late. He grabbed me back. A pink syringe the size of a thumbnail dropped from my arm and he kicked it into a gutter where it disappeared into a scattering of fast-food cartons, candy wrappers, cigarette stubs that lay caught against a storm drain.
I tried not to imagine what this stranger had injected into my arm, but I knew I had to act fast, act before the substance could take full effect. Already, I could feel my heart pounding. That could be from fright, but my eyes were beginning to burn and my mouth felt so dry I could hardly swallow. I knew I should scream, but his gun would speak faster than my scream that might never be heard.
“What are you trying to do?” I felt as if I were pulling each word from a quagmire of wet sand.
“What does it look like I’m trying to do? I’m using gentle tactics to persuade you to come along with me quietly. You try to call anyone for help, and my tactics may turn less gentle. A lot less gentle. He jabbed me with his gun. Keep moving forward. You won’t be able to walk much longer. Just keep putting one foot ahead of the other.”
I wished I could hear his voice unmuffled by the mask. He wore nothing but the leotard and a pair of silver sandals. And now he tightened his grip, slipping his arm more tightly through mine, making it look as if we were lovers strolling away from the crowd, seeking a quiet place to be alone.
I tried to hold back, dragging my feet as he tried to continue his forward motion, but with one firm jerk he propelled me along beside him, and again I felt the nudge of metal against my ribs.
“Where are you taking me?”
When he spoke, his voice seemed to be coming from a great distance. I blinked and tried to force myself to listen.
“To a wonderful and beautiful spot where we can be together and enjoy the scent of the sea, the pumpkin-like hue of the rising moon before it glows silver. Imagine. Just the two of us melding our bodies cooled by the trade wind and brushed by starlight. I’ll take you to places you’ve never seen before—to a secret niche suitable for our never-to-be-forgotten interlude.”
“Who are you?” I whispered, trying to save my strength and my voice. “Why are you disguised as Gabriel?”
“Gabriel? I like it. I like it. Gabriel! But in reality, I’m no trumpeting angel, only a mere man you’ve met quite casually. A mere man, but a man who’ll claim your heart—in a way you’ll never dream possible, a man you’ll never forget.”
My knees threatened to buckle when my captor paused beside a silver Ford, opened the passenger door, and motioned me inside with a subtle flourish of his gun. I craned my neck, trying to get a glimpse of the license plate. Local? Out of state? I couldn’t focus on the letters or the numbers. They wavered. I felt as if I peered at them through a vat of water.
“Don’t bother squinting at the plate, Kitt. Won’t tell you a thing. The wheels are stolen—from a rental at the airport. I thought a silver vehicle was in keeping with my costume.”
I knew the shot he’d plunged into my arm was curdling my brain. But somewhere in the working gray cells that remained I knew I’d rather be dead on this Key West street than dead at some place of this crazy man’s choosing.
Don’t get in that car. Don’t get in that car. Don’t get in that car!
The words formed a mantra that gave me courage. Mustering what strength I had left, I braced myself against the car door and gave Gabriel a shove that sent him reeling in surprise—and anger. Adrenalin must have kicked in because I took off running and screaming, my Nikes pounding the pavement. Or was that my heart pounding? I expected to feel a bullet in my back at any moment. On any other street in the world, this scene would have attracted someone’s attention, maybe the attention of a crowd. But not in Key West. Not at Sunset Celebration time. Sounds and sights wavered in my waning consciousness.
“Hey, lookie there.” A woman appearing from nowhere pointed at me and shouted to her escort. “I’ll bet those two are actors from Waterfront Playhouse or maybe the Red Barn. You know that theater back on Duval.”
“Some publicity stunt,” her friend replied. “Want to stop at Hospitality House? See if we can still get tickets?”
Was I dreaming this horror? I felt my steps slowing, faltering.
“Help me!” I screamed. The couple looked at me, and smiled, and the guy tossed a bill and a few coins in my direction as they disappeared inside Hospitality House.
My head ached and my whole body throbbed from my sudden exertion. I knew I shouldn’t waste time looking over my shoulder, but the temptation was too great. When I took a quick glance, I saw that my shove had injured my abductor enough to draw blood. A red stream washed away silver paint as it trickled down his arm and side. It must have slowed him down. Maybe he hit an artery. Did arms have arteries? My mind wouldn’t focus. I knew I was moving slowly, barely creeping along.
I could hardly drag one foot ahead of the other.
“Police!” I shouted. “Police!” Blood or no blood, the guy was gaining on me and no policeman or woman came to my rescue. I tried another idea.
“Fire! Fire!” Most people were interested in fires. Someone might respond to that shout. Wishful thinking. I tripped on the rough brick of the street, managed to gain my footing again. But it was too late. I went down.
Now my captor grabbed me, yanked me then half carried me along with him back to the Ford. A man stopped in front of us.
“Got a problem here, buddy?” he asked. “Need some help?”
“No problem,” Gabriel replied. “The broad’s the one with the problem. Can’t hold her liquor worth a damn.”
“Where you headed?” the Good Samaritan asked
All the time, my mind was shouting, ‘help me. I’m not drunk. Please help me.’ But I was the only one who could hear my voice, my addled brain trying to make contact with the outer world. Now Good Samaritan took my arm and Gabriel allowed him to help drag me along between them. This was my chance. Maybe my last chance before I died. Deep inside me, I knew I lived on the threshold of death—on the edge of a deep and endless chasm. I had to make this guy listen to me.
“Not drunk. I’m not drunk. Listen to me. Believe me.” But he didn’t hear me.
“Think she’s trying to say something,” he said to Gabriel.
“Probably asking for another beer.”
“Hey, buddy. You’re bleeding. You know that? You’re hurt. Better let me get you some help.” He dropped my arm and I sagged to the pavement with only Gabriel holding my other arm.
“I’ll be fin
e,” Gabriel said. “It’s just a scratch.”
“You’re dripping blood,” Good Samaritan said. “I’m going for help. City has rules. Law says they have to keep a few first aid kits around here somewhere. I’ll find a cop. He’ll know where they keep them. Think you probably need a couple of bandages and some disinfectant.”
By now we had reached the car and I heard Good Samaritan take off at a run. Gabriel opened the car door and tried to thrust me inside. I couldn’t shout. I couldn’t even whisper. My strength was gone. But in one last effort I tried to kick him.
Didn’t even hit him. Instead hit my leg on the car. Yet I felt no pain. My brain had turned off. Good news? Bad news? I fell into the car and Gabriel hoisted me onto the seat and once he had me in a sitting position, he rammed my head onto a pillow. A pillow? I had to be dreaming, didn’t I?
I lolled against the pillow and the door while Gabriel must have walked around the car. Couldn’t focus on him any longer. Heard the car door slam. Heard the engine start. Was I dying? They say hearing’s the last sense to go. Heard him lay rubber when we wheeled from the curbing. Heard him stop at the gate to the parking lot, pay the attendant.
“Looks like you’ve got a sick one there, fellow,” the attendant said.
“Just a little upset stomach. She’ll be fine when once she gets home and to bed.”
How was he hiding his bloody arm? Maybe the parking guy would call for help. Maybe. I drifted away with only traffic sounds in my mind. For a short distance I tried to keep track of our turns. Crazy thinking. I couldn’t keep track of anything. My brain was a blank. I couldn’t see or think. Or hear.
Chapter 32
No. I’d been wrong. I could still hear what was going on around me. Something must be wrong with the car. I heard water dripping. No. Water flowed somewhere near me and I lay on something very hard and cold. The scent of night-blooming jasmine almost sickened me with its cloying sweetness. Where was I? My head throbbed. My tongue felt glued to the top of my mouth. Every part of my body ached. Someone groaned. In the next moment I felt a foot nudge my ribs and I realized I was the groaner.
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