by Tom Corcoran
“That’s what the island inspires,” I said, thinking Thank goodness.
“It’s partly to accommodate Eileen. She’s a bit of a prodigy, and that’s become a problem. Anya and I try to make sure her visits are true vacations. Her mother, in Sarasota, keeps enrolling her in boutique art schools so she can rocket her through Ringling and specialty schools beyond that. She intends to turn her daughter’s talent into a gold mine. As if we need money. I’m a believer in having a normal childhood.”
“It’s an admirable goal,” I said, wondering why I hadn’t seen Eileen with Beeson and Anya at Saluté. “If any childhood could ever be called normal.”
Beeson took it with the humor I intended. “Too true, Rutledge. Do you still shoot film, 35-millimeter and medium format?”
I shook my head. “My film cameras are packed away with all my VHS tapes and audio cassettes. I don’t even know where to get film developed anymore. My favorite was Kodachrome 64, and Eastman Kodak quit producing it in 2009.”
“Did you buy a supply before it went away?”
“It wouldn’t have done me any good,” I said. “The film required a special process. Dwayne’s, a photo shop in Parsons, Kansas, was the last place that handled that film. They stopped working with it in December 2010. The last time I looked at my old 35mm film gear, I saw mold inside two or three of the lenses.”
Beeson regarded me with mild amazement. “I have to respect a man who knows the history of his profession. What about crime cases that go to court? Aren’t digital pictures easy to manipulate? Wouldn’t you rather have negatives to show judges and juries?”
Anya returned to the patio with our beverages on a small tray. Her robe sash was tied but, as she handed us our drinks, we both enjoyed a view of her lovely breasts.
“Put some clothes on, honey,” said Beeson, unfazed, “and join us.”
“Maybe I will.” She smiled again then left the patio.
Beeson drank from his vodka and tonic, set it aside. “Where did we leave off?”
“You asked about digital photos in court,” I said. “I have a program that runs alongside Photoshop to track changes made to my images. They ensure that anything done to an original enhances rather than modifies. My work has been admitted as evidence in two cases. Plus, so many cameras these days have GPS locators…”
“Fine.” Beeson looked relieved. “I say it again, it’s great to deal with an expert.”
We discussed my day rate and expectations for per diem and incidentals. A?painless negotiation. I told him my calendar was open for the next week or ten days, a true statement more or less.
“We’re going to borrow a friend’s plane and fly up the day after tomorrow,” he said, standing to end the meeting. “We’ll leave at one or one-thirty. You are welcome to join us, and I’ll arrange for you to fly back on Friday. We’ve had great luck with the Sarasota-Miami-Key West commercial route.”
“I’ll be ready by noon. Two bags and a tripod carrying case. Fifty pounds plus one-ninety-five in my traveling shoes.”
He cracked a grin. “The pilot will appreciate having that in advance.”
On our way back through the house I praised the watercolors. Beeson admitted that he had bought most of them at an estate sale. One was signed “Martha Watson.” A painting by Martha Watson Sauer from the 1960s hung in my bedroom. She had been a Works Progress Administration?artist who arrived in the Keys in the 1930s and married a local attorney during World War II. Though she traveled the world, she called the island her home for the rest of her life. I met her a few times before her death in 2005, but I had never seen work created so early that it didn’t include her married name.
One other painting stood out from the rest with finer detail, colors more subtle. It might not have been better than the others, and I was no art critic, but it was equally impressive. I studied the signature in its lower right corner.
“Eileen, my daughter, did that when she visited here last year.”
I paused to look more closely. Its shadows, the perspective of its street scene, the color blending and use of both sharpness and blurring. “Her work is brilliant.”
Beeson said, “Say ‘Thank you,’ Eileen.”
From the top of the oak staircase came, softly, “Thank you, sir.”
I couldn’t see her up there. Allowing her shyness, I didn’t try to look.
“She goes to school in Sarasota,” said Beeson. “She’s taking a short break right now. I’m trying to talk her mother into allowing her down for the summer so she can learn how to fish with light tackle.”
“Book her with my old friend Sam Wheeler,” I said. “He enjoys beginners and inspires proficiency.”
“Good to know,” said Beeson. “So many of the prima donnas on the docks want experts on board.”
“I don’t want them to die,” said the child’s voice from up the stairs.
“You’ll be the best kind of fisherman,” I said. “The expert guides make sure the fish are returned to the water alive.”
“Okay, cool,” said the girl, whom I never did see.
Beeson looked pleased with our blind exchange.
I glanced at the digital thermostat as I walked to the door. Seventy-one degrees indoors. One must protect art from mildew.
Beeson stepped outside to see me off, pointed toward his picket fence. “Can you believe I paid some hot-shit wood artist to build a goddamned enclosure for my trash cans? He disguised it as a gazebo with an access gate through the picket fence. It cost me more than Anya’s SUV over there.”
“I’ve always said the island will belong to the carpenters and exterminators.”
“Hell,” he said. “I owe my soul to the man who cleans my pool. Enjoy the rest of your day, Rutledge.”
So many restorations in Key West over the past thirty years had failed to grasp what Beeson’s home had captured. Setting, history, mood and a sense of the owner’s personality. Except for the aggressive air conditioning, he had nailed it. It would be nice to have that kind of money.
Two minutes into walking home I passed Poorhouse Lane. Too much irony.
Five minutes later Beeson called.
“We had a couple things come up, Alex, a change of plans. We fly out of here at four, less than an hour from now. I would like you to join us if possible, and I would compensate you for this imposition.”
One side of my brain screamed, “Red flag,” while the other argued that he was handing me an excuse to flee the rock, to distance myself from drama I didn’t need. Opting for crisis avoidance, I took a moment to cover my butt for contingencies.
“I can make the flight, Mr. Beeson, but I may have to spend time on the phone this evening and tomorrow morning.”
“I understand and sympathize,” he said. “Can you meet us at Island City at three-fifty?”
I didn’t want to leave my car or motorcycle in the airport lot, or pay tourist rate for a taxi. I asked Beeson if I could share his cab. We agreed that I would meet him in front of the Eden House at three-forty.
5.
I had fifteen minutes to get ready. Pack the duffel for Sarasota, water my porch plants, pull walk-around money from my stash and leave a message for Beth.
Reading my mind, the phone buzzed as I turned onto Dredgers Lane.
“I sounded like a shit,” said Beth. “I’m sorry. Be glad you aren’t here.”
“Accepted,” I said. “I’ve got to…”
“Me too. We’ll talk later.” She ended the call.
I stared at the cell’s window. The phone knew. It vibrated again.
“The syndicate picked me up, thanks to you,” said Marnie. “I get paid for every hit your headline attracts on the web.”
“The murder victim caused the heart attack?”
“Pure genius, Alex. I couldn’t think of anything brilliant and I knew they would change it if they didn’t like it, but they didn’t.”
“The Citizen didn’t go near it, right?”
“They rolled with an off
icial city press release, which left me free to file online. Now the news service wants follow-ups, so I better damn well deliver. If too many people add tags to the story, I could lose my primary byline.”
I stood on the porch, let the breeze cool me. “Did you get an ID on the heart attack victim?”
“He was a Canadian named Emerson Caldwell. The city waited to tell us until a Toronto Victim Services rep located his wife at a ski lodge near Montreal. They took care of the official notification. Did your source find anything worth a damn?”
What could I say? “They confirmed that Greg worked for or was part-owner of a house-sitting business. I asked them to search for an occupational license.”
“Housekeepers must have access to all kinds of personal info,” said Marnie. “Bank statements, letters from relatives, retirement plans, love affairs, drug use, you name it. Should we assume it’s fraud or blackmail?”
“We should keep our minds open,” I said, “and you need to celebrate this moment of high journalism.”
“The first thing I’ll do is nothing, barefoot, on Smathers Beach, Alex. I feel grimy for having been that close to murdered people. I won’t even take my iPod. Will you keep your… what did you say, your ‘sources,’ working? Can you keep them nosing around?”
“Count on it,” I said. “I’ll have them contact you. Don’t be put off by appearances. I’ve got to run.”
…away from my own bullshit.
I called Wiley Fecko’s cell number. It went to voicemail.
“The name for the condo should be Caldwell,” I said. “Disregard all the others unless you find out that Greg and Ocilla were employed in one of them. Or that Mr. Caldwell owns more than one condo in the building. Thanks.”
Every cab on the island drives down Bertha on the way to the airport. Perhaps I was checking my mental list to determine if I had forgotten anything. Or sliding into travel bliss, the calm I felt when a trip began and there was no turning back. But I was as surprised as the van driver when we reached the roadblock. The crime scene remained active, and Deputy Chris Ericson, looking bored and resentful, was still on duty. He scanned the van’s occupants as it turned east on Flagler, noticed me in the front passenger seat. His expression went from passive to puzzled to suspicious. He had to be wondering why the city’s photographer was going to the airport, leaving town so soon after a double murder.
Justin, Anya and Eileen had only jackets and small carry-ons; they kept clothing duplicates in Key West and Sarasota. The pilot stowed my tripod case and duffel, and I kept my camera satchel with me in case I saw anything worth documenting from aloft. It was a quick load-out to the King Air 90 with no wait for take-off. Giving the weight of my luggage to Beeson had been, in retrospect, a useless detail in a plane that size. He had been gracious in thanking me and not bragging about our upscale transport. For starters, the armrest cup holders of each leather seat in the passenger cabin held half-liter bottles of both Evian and San Pellegrino water. A small central bin held bananas and small packets of nuts and dried fruit. Trail mix for the sky.
Leaving Key West by air is less fun than arriving, even in good weather, because it’s difficult to sightsee from an aircraft tilted upward. The northbound turn toward the mainland separated us from island scenery within three minutes. From there on it was clouds, haze and a blue blur of salt water two miles below us. Minding Eileen’s shyness, I hadn’t spoken to her in the taxi van or the waiting room of the fixed base facility. Once we had been seated next to each other on the aircraft, I handed her a booklet of color photographs called “Tropical Trees” that I had owned for years. She eyed it suspiciously, studied its front and rear covers, opened it, then settled back to study. I kept my eyes forward for most of the trip.
When we reached cruising altitude, the pilot, introduced only as Sherwin, gave us a few details on our tailwind, 12,000-foot altitude, 260-mph speed and our estimated time of arrival. That was it for conversation. I couldn’t decide whether the other three had agreed not to chat while in the taxi or the aircraft, or a private chill had set in and I was not to be told why. Perhaps the mood was tied to their reason for leaving Key West two days earlier than planned. It was Beeson’s flight and his rules, but I felt that their silence approached rudeness. My solace was that Anya Timber’s subtle scent filled the cabin instead of words. Her perfume, no doubt, made from roses and gold.
The quiet gave me time to ponder the day’s events, though I knew I was stepping into quicksand. Greg Pulver, housekeeper, Pepe’s server and police informant, had been killed maybe two days ago in Emerson Caldwell’s condo. Caldwell had died too, not necessarily at the same time. Who had discovered and reported the bodies in Condo 302? Had the killer left the apartment door open so that a passerby could see Emerson Caldwell on the floor? Had someone placed an anonymous 911 call?
From there my mind flooded with cop questions. Had the police drawn up a list of suspects, and was Ocilla Ramirez, the other housekeeper, already in custody? Why, exactly, had Sheriff Liska’s people been investigating Ocilla? Were security cameras in use at The Tideline Condominium? If so, where were they installed and who kept an eye on their video? Which agency had responded first? Had either victim received a previous threat?
Damn… My mind spun with questions that Beth Watkins was trained to ask. I felt infected by a weird sleuth virus, and I had to remember that I been hired and fired by Beth within four hours of a tender and damn-near acrobatic belly-to-belly at my house. Then I had to witness Liska’s odd behavior on my porch, an indication that something more personal than police work was bothering him. Odd misbehavior, since he was drinking on duty. If a straight line of logic lay under all that activity, it was hiding from me. But I had escaped it all in a King Air, flown away from the island pleased by the idea that none of it was my problem.
I was off to earn good money, rude company and all.
During our descent alongside Longboat Key, I glanced to my left. Eileen held a small spiral-bound art folio in which she was drawing a tree branch with several blue and green crayons. At one point she chose one blue tone over another and swapped crayons. I’m good with colors because of my photography, yet I saw no difference between the two blues. She checked the open booklet I had given her, added a detail and saw me looking. Her mouth twitched but didn’t smile like her eyes did. She made a fast thumbs-up sign and went back to her details.
Nearer the airport Eileen packed up her art gear and nudged my arm with the trees booklet, giving it back to me. I smiled and made a hand signal that it was hers to keep. I was surprised by her astonished look, especially from a girl surrounded but apparently not spoiled by the trappings of elegant living. As she tucked it into her carry-on pouch, I saw a photo, a head shot of a lovely woman.
Eileen noticed that I had seen it. She looked straight at me and silently mouthed the words, “My mom.”
I smiled, raised my eyebrows in appreciation and, still smiling, looked away.
The pilot whose first or last name was Sherwin had stated shortly after take-off that we would be on the ground at Sarasota-Bradenton at 6:04. He made his arrival to the minute. We went from daylight to sunset to dusk on our descent, from seventy-five to the mid-sixties stepping off the plane.
Beeson signed off some forms while the private terminal’s manager pulled a silver Ford Escape Hybrid to a slot near the office door. Anya and Eileen took the rear seat, while I rode shotgun. We drove a half-mile to another lot. Beeson stopped between two rows of cars.
Facing forward, he said, “Keys?”
I looked to my left.
Anya peered into her small handbag. “Yes. Pasta?”
“Perfect.”
Twilight Zone. Next they will start speaking their own private language.
Anya and Eileen got out with their carry-on bags and walked toward a cream-colored Porsche Boxster.
Beeson waited for the Porsche’s engine to start. Its rumble was deep enough to suggest an exhaust system modification. He then cued his stereo
to an old Marley tune and drove away. He turned right onto the Tamiami Trail, the highway built in the 1920s to connect Tampa with Miami, a project that also launched the long-term annihilation of the Everglades. A minute later we were eastbound on Tallevast Road. After being quiet for over two hours, Beeson began to make up for it.
“I grew up in Bradenton, about six miles from here,” said Beeson, “and worked construction out of high school until my twenty-fifth birthday. I saved a hell of a lot of money by sharing shithole apartments with beer-swilling roommates and by not helping them buy their drugs.”
“I think we all hit a phase like that,” I said.
“That’s when I learned all the tricks I used in remodeling my home in Key West. But one day I stood back and tried to envision my future,” he said. “I knew I couldn’t be pounding nails when I was forty, or even standing out in the weather supervising nail pounders. I would have to master some other skill at a poor time in my life to be learning new ways to get along. So I looked for an alternative to busting my ass, though I didn’t quit my day job.”
We heard a faint doorbell as the music volume dropped. Beeson’s in-car cell.
He pressed a button on his steering wheel. “Yup.”
Anya’s voice came through the car’s speakers: “Morton’s. Eileen wants a slice.”
“Her mother’s decision.”
“No answer from her,” she said. “We’re latchkey again.”
“Okay,” said Beeson. “One is plenty.” He thumbed his phone’s off button and said, “One slice of pizza at Morton’s is more than I ate in a day, growing up.” He thumbed the button again. Bob Marley returned.
“We can look at my building while Anya takes Eileen to her mother’s place,” he said. “By the time we reach the house, our supper will be ready. You can stay in my guest house unless you prefer a hotel.”
He gave me a fraction of a second to respond, then said, “Anyway, I didn’t know what it was called back then, but I was placing venture capital on a local level. A tire outlet, self-storage units, a chain of four ice cream stands. The first few worked on a certain level. I got my money back and some free tires and too much storage and ice cream. Then I bought one more concrete block building out on 301 that was really too big for an ice cream stand. I thought it would be my downfall. But before we got a chance to move in, Hertz came along and offered to lease it for thirty years. Zap, I was golden.”