King Tide

by A. J. Stewart

  With the focus on the hulking weatherman I took the opportunity to drag Ronzoni to the side.

  “I need to show you something.” I patted my pockets and realized I didn’t have my phone, so I got it from Neville, who had stashed it safely in his breast pocket.

  “When we—hell, I mean when I went out to save this idiot weather guy, the corridor was wet.”

  “What corridor?” asked Ronzoni.

  “There’s one that runs behind the kitchen back here. It links with the area near the laundry.”

  “Okay. So a spill?”

  “Don’t think so. There’s another emergency exit there. Goes outside to a walkway along the front of the building. Or is it the back?”

  “Whatever. So you’re saying the water was from outside? ”

  “I don’t know.” I opened the photos on my phone. “I haven’t looked at these yet.”

  I held the phone so Ronzoni could see, and I flicked between shots. The first few were blurred gray. They could have been of anything.

  “Don’t give up your day job there, Jones.”

  “I was taking random shots in near darkness, smart guy.”

  I kept flicking. Most were garbage. Then I hit on one that made sense. The flashlight and the flash on the camera had combined to capture a perfect image of a wet footprint.

  “Interesting,” said Ronzoni. “Make it bigger.”

  I pulled the picture out until the footprint took up the entire screen. Ronzoni took out his own phone and pulled up a shot he had taken in the hot tub hut. A wet footprint with a ruler measure next to it. We held the phones together to compare.

  “They both look like footprints to me,” I said.

  “Both bare feet, both high arches, similar size. Would be better if you had used a scale. Can we go take some more?”

  I shook my head. “It all got pretty messed when we brought these bozos in from outside.” I motioned at the weather guys.

  “Still, it looks like the same print. And this door goes outside on the north end, you say?”

  “North end, but onto the ocean side,” I said. “And the walkway runs all the way along to the south end of the building.”

  “So a perp could run across the pool deck and down the back of the building without being seen?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “So they wouldn’t have had to use the gym corridor to get out there.”

  “Or more importantly back in. Remember the hot tub timer? We might have come close to interrupting them. ”

  Ronzoni looked around the room. Neville had placed fake candles on the tables, and the space glowed romantically.

  “Not close enough,” said Ronzoni, sighing.

  I left him to his thoughts and made for the bar. I needed a drink. But not of the alcoholic kind. I found it strange that in the middle of a hurricane, having been so thoroughly drenched so many times, I could be dehydrated. But my mouth was dry in a way it felt like Palm Beach never would be again. I wandered behind the bar and took a water from the fridge. I could see the chef in the kitchen, slipping some corn chips under the broiler. I took a couple of the little sandwiches off the platter and wandered over to a free club chair. It was in a set of three, one of which was occupied by Sam Venturi. He was wrapped up in a blanket like he was a human burrito.

  I didn’t say anything to him. I nibbled at a sandwich. I felt like my body was shutting down, and I needed the fuel. It tasted like watercress and Swiss cheese. It was decent enough, but I would have killed for pastrami on rye.

  “I can’t believe you can eat,” said Sam. “I feel so terrible.”

  “It’s fuel, kid. Not Thanksgiving.”

  “Still.” He sipped some coffee from a china cup. Apparently drinking fell into a different category. He leaned toward me.

  “Who did it?”

  “Did what?”

  “You know. Carly. The detective said it wasn’t an accident.”

  “Who do you think did it?”

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  “Couldn’t or shouldn’t?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “You have an opinion. I’d like to hear it.”

  Sam glanced around the room as if everyone was listening. No one was .

  “If it were me, I’d look at Anton.”

  “I thought you guys were friends.”

  “We are. But this is different.”

  “What makes you say that? She was his agent. Didn’t they get along?”

  “Oh, they got along.”

  “Meaning?”

  He whispered, “They were having an affair.”

  “You know this how?”

  “It’s just like her.”

  “To have an affair.”

  He nodded and sipped his coffee.

  “She have an affair with you?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  I shrugged and nibbled on another sandwich. It was smoked ham and pretty good. “You said it was just like her.”

  “I was just a kid when she recruited me.”

  “You were sixteen.”

  “Exactly.”

  I thought back to when I was sixteen. It must have been a different sixteen from the one Sam Venturi lived through.

  “So if what you say is true, why would Anton do anything to Carly?”

  “Er, he’s getting married.”

  “But he’s not yet.”

  “You think Shania should be okay with that?”

  I shrugged. I had plenty of opinions on it but I wasn’t going to share with this kid.

  “Seems like a pretty drastic step all the same. Seems Carly had just as much to lose.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe Carly had her eye on a bigger prize.”

  “You mean Shania? ”

  “Wouldn’t have been the first time she’d dumped someone to move up.”

  I said nothing. I didn’t see it.

  “Two birds, two stones,” said Sam.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on. It’s got to make you wonder about Paul, right?”

  “What about Paul?”

  “He was a freeloader. Everyone knew it. He was taking Anton for a ride. And Shania didn’t like it, nor should she. She wanted a clean slate. No freeloaders, no affairs.”

  “You think Anton killed his friend and his manager to placate his fiancé?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not the detective.”

  I wasn’t a detective either, but I didn’t feel like making the point. I didn’t buy the Anton-Carly thing, but add in Paul and it got whole lot murkier.

  “And there’s this manager guy. Mr. Neville.” He said Mr. Neville in a fake English accent.

  “What about him?”

  “There’s something funny about him.”

  “Funny how?”

  Sam looked at his drink for a moment. “I heard him arguing.”

  “With who?”

  “The chef.”

  “Chef Dean?”

  “Aha.”

  “Where?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  “Arguing about what?”

  “The chef smoking weed on the job.”

  “He said that? ”

  “In not so many words. But I think the chef was smoking weed and Mr. Neville smelled it on him.”

  “What happened?”

  “The chef guy said to remember his little French secret.”

  “What secret?”

  Sam shrugged. “No idea. But maybe Mr. Neville has killed before. Maybe that’s why he’s in the US. You thought about that? It’s always the quiet ones.”

  “It’s not a hundred percent certain Carly didn’t drown,” I said.

  “It’s not?”

  “She was drinking a fair bit before.”

  “She always did.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “No.”

  I looked at him. He wasn’t being righteous, he was just that naive.

  “You don’t drink?” I asked.


  “Not often, and never to excess. You can’t be a professional athlete and do that to your body. Athletes have more self-control.”

  He must have hung around a lot of different athletes than I did during my career. Or maybe it was a generational thing.

  “What about Anton? He drinks.”

  Sam nodded. “Yeah. He does.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I noticed Ronzoni at the bar and I was still parched so I drifted in behind the counter and grabbed two more waters and handed one to Ronzoni.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Anton sat down with a flop on the stool next to Ronzoni.

  “The manager will not serve me because you said it was not okay.”

  “I don’t think drinking any more during a hurricane is very smart, Mr. Ribaud,” said Ronzoni.

  “Is this America or Russia?”

  “It’s America. Where if you get drunk and do something stupid in the middle of a hurricane people will disregard their own safety to come to your rescue. I don’t think they should be put in that position.”

  “I will not do anything stupid. I just want a drink. It’s my bachelor party.” He sang the last line, and I wasn’t sure if he was mocking himself or the whole concept.

  “It’s a free country, as you point out,” said Ronzoni. “But if you appear intoxicated it is unlawful for the hotel to serve you.”

  “Do I appear intoxicated? ”

  Ronzoni looked him up and down. “No, sir. You do not.”

  “D’accord.” He got my eye. “Can you pass me that brandy?”

  I looked at Ronzoni, who shrugged, and I passed Anton the bottle. He poured himself a shot. I thought he would gulp it down in some sort of show of defiance, showing us who was boss. But he didn’t. He sipped it.

  “What do you think about Carly?” I asked him.

  He made a face that suggested he didn’t care one way or the other. “I guess I must find a new agent.”

  “You don’t feel sad?”

  “Sure. She was okay. I don’t think she should be dead.”

  “You spoke to her just before she went to the hot tub,” said Ronzoni.

  “I did?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  He looked from Ronzoni to me and back. “Okay.”

  “In the lobby.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  He swirled his drink as if he were recalling the conversation. “She said she had a plan.”

  “A plan? A plan for what?” Ronzoni sipped his water.

  “She did not say.”

  “What did you think she meant by that?”

  “I did not know.”

  “You had no idea and you didn’t think to clarify? To ask her what she meant?”

  He shrugged again. “No.”

  “I find that hard to believe, Mr. Ribaud,” said Ronzoni.

  I said, “Perhaps we should ask Shania?”

  “Okay. ”

  “Perhaps we should ask her about the possibility of you having an affair with your former agent.”

  Anton laughed. Not like he’d heard a great joke. More like he thought I was ridiculous.

  “Look, Carly was ambitious, yes? She worked for a big agency that expected her to grow their business. It was natural that she looked at Shania as a client.”

  “So you think she was interested?”

  “Of course. But there was nothing to do. I told her that there was no point. Shania’s papa looks after her affairs and that was not going to change.”

  “But you think the plan she referred to might have been in relation to getting Shania as a client?” asked Ronzoni.

  “It’s possible.”

  We each sipped our drink. Anton got the best deal on that count.

  “So, Anton. Who do you think killed Carly?”

  “Honestly, I don’t see how anyone could do it.”

  “Really? No motives among the group?”

  He shrugged once more. “Of course Sam had reasons.”

  “What reasons?”

  “She recruited him, she used him to get to me, and when he didn’t make it she dumped him. And he doesn’t get that.”

  “Why should he get it?”

  “It’s not personal. It’s business. But Sam, he is a boy in a man’s body. A small man’s body. He thinks she did this to him. But she did not make him fail to grow. She didn’t make him not be able to compete on the tour. That just happened. But he doesn’t get this. He takes everything too personally. She was his agent. He thought she was his lover.”

  “His lover?” asked Ronzoni. “They had an affair? ”

  “No, Detective. But she was a beautiful woman. I think Sam wanted that to be true.”

  “What about you?” I asked. “Not tempted by beautiful women?”

  “Monsieur, it is French to appreciate the beauty of a woman. And I am many things. But unfaithful is not one of them.”

  I leaned back against the rear of the bar and looked at the guy. He wasn’t a fun guy. He had the personality of an electric eel. But on the faithful thing, he sold me. I believed him. I had nothing to base it on. He and Shania had spent more time sitting apart than together in my presence, and for a bachelor weekend there was a distinct lack of public displays of affection. But it takes all kinds of people. Maybe Cassandra was right. Maybe they would find a way. Or maybe they would crash and burn. But at that moment, I believed in his fidelity.

  And then, as if on cue, Shania appeared at the bar. She put her arm around Anton. It was a strong arm, well defined and powerful. She looked at the drink but said nothing.

  “Join us,” Anton said, and Shania took the stool next to him. “A drink?”

  “Is that okay?” she asked Ronzoni.

  He shrugged like the whole thing was out of his hands.

  Shania looked at me. “Can I have a vodka?”

  I was behind the bar so I played the part. “With tonic?”

  “Neat. So what are you guys talking about?”

  “You, ma chérie ,” said Anton.

  It was the same phrase I had used to Danielle earlier on the phone, but delivered in a French accent it was a whole other thing.

  “Me? What about me?”

  I took it up. “You’re from Miami, right?”

  “Aha. ”

  “And you went to Case Academy, which is in Tampa.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So why have your party in Palm Beach?”

  “Why not?”

  “The Mornington seems a bit stuffy for a young couple like yourselves.”

  “Well, Leon is the best man. He arranged it.”

  “Interesting choice.”

  Shania looked at Anton. “I think he knew someone here, didn’t he? From Paris?”

  Anton nodded a solid maybe.

  “Not too many friends made it,” I said.

  Shania said, “A hurricane will do that.”

  “So you were expecting more?”

  “Yes.” She smiled at Anton. “A few more of my friends.”

  I believed her. I figured Anton had two friends in the world, and one of them had been crushed under a barbell.

  “What did you think of Carly?”

  Shania looked taken aback by the question. “What did I think? She was Anton’s agent. I didn’t really think much more than that.”

  Ronzoni said, “The assistant manager, Miss Taylor, said she couldn’t find you before we found Miss Pastinak. Where were you?”

  “I went up to the ballroom to hit some balls. I was in the lobby when I saw Miss Taylor run back in, saying something had happened to Carly.”

  “Did she want you as a client?” I asked.

  Shania took a deep breath. “I suppose so. That’s what agents do. But my dad looks after me. Always has.”

  “And that works? With your dad? ”

  “Of course. I told you, Miami, he’s not some stereotype crazy tennis dad. I love him as my dad, but I love him as my mentor a
nd manager, too.”

  “Did you think Carly drank a lot?” I asked, glancing at Anton’s brandy.

  “No, I didn’t. She had a drink here and there, I suppose. But that was part of the job. She spent a lot of time doing hospitality.”

  “Does your dad do that?”

  “No. You don’t know my dad. You wouldn’t ask if you did.”

  “So what do you think of the idea that Carly took a bottle of champagne to the hot tub and slipped into a coma?” I asked.

  “Is that what happened? I thought someone . . .”

  “Just asking.”

  “I don’t see it. She was a social drinker. Not over the top. She was too focused for that. Never unprofessional.”

  “What about what she did to Sam?”

  Shania glanced around at Sam, I figured to see if he was within earshot. “Look, I love Sam. He’s like a brother to me. But Carly did nothing to him. He’s a coach at a tennis ranch. He’ll be a great one, too. But he didn’t need an agent anymore.”

  “Did you use the hot tub, either of you?” Ronzoni asked.

  They both shook their heads.

  Shania said, “It’s not really spa weather, is it?”

  I had to wholeheartedly agree with that.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I was standing behind the bar when Andrew Neville came back around to join me. Well, not exactly join me. He didn’t say as much but I got the feeling it offended his sense of duty to have a guest, even a comped guest like me, behind the bar. I made to slip out and as I did I glanced through the porthole in the door to the kitchen. The chef was in there, working with something on a chopping board by camp light. I hadn’t spoken to him but I knew one thing. There are always people who get to float about unseen, hiding in plain sight.

  I backed in through the door and turned into the kitchen. It was one of those spaces that certain folks had dreams about. Lots of stainless steel counters and prep space, large fridges and gas burners and deep fryers, all top-of-the-line stuff. The chef noticed me but didn’t stop slicing open the fish he was working on.

  “Help you, mate?” I hadn’t noticed before but he sounded Scottish.

  “Bored. What are you making there? Fish dip?”

  “Nae, bouillabaisse. Fish stew. ”

  “Someone order that?”