Meigs sat on a bench for a minute to watch the show. If he was ever worth a couple of million—a billion even—would he moor his ostentatious transportation steps from Mallory Square for every sun-sick passerby to moon over? No, he would not.
Voices floated across the water. “Why don’t they move that stinkin’ tub so we can see the sunset?” asked a handsome man from the rail of the party boat. He stabbed a finger at the enormous cruise ship across the water and frowned.
“Isn’t it illegal to keep a cruise ship at the dock this late?” asked a woman with silver-lacquered nails and matching hair. A flash of sun glinted off the jewels in her belly button.
After the sun set to a smattering of applause, Meigs headed back toward Mallory Square. He stopped at a trolley bar for a Budweiser and leaned against the railing in front of the cruise ship. To his right, the cat man still pranced toe-heel like a misshapen ballerina, calling to the felines in falsetto French, now forcing a yellow tiger to leap over a scrawny black specimen and then through the flaming ring. The tipsy crowd gathered around him howled with appreciation.
Meigs watched the jumpsuited crew of the hulking Disney Magic prepare to launch, spooling enormous hanks of steel off cleats on the pier. Why had they been allowed to partially obscure the sunset—the ostensible excuse for this sideshow? Laurent at Notre Paradis had assured him this was rule number one on Bone Island (aka Key West): no boat shall be allowed to obstruct the tourists’ view as the sun sinks into the harbor. And its corollary: tourists must and shall be encouraged to spot the green flash, said by Jules Verne to confer the power to read minds. Meigs doubted the minds here were worth the effort.
A heavy man with a bad sunburn and a loud flowered shirt tenting his gut paced down the gangway that opened from the belly of the ship, out onto the pier, and back. Meigs stiffened, recognizing him as the man he’d seen arguing on Duval Street earlier this afternoon. Two crew members dressed in cruise ship whites approached him, but he shrugged off the hand of the taller man, who’d reached out to pat his shoulder. The heavy fellow began to shout and wave his hands, but Meigs couldn’t make out the words.
“Looks like one of the passengers forgot when their rig was setting sail,” said a man next to him. Meigs turned to look him over—he seemed normal enough—blue golf shirt, sunglasses, a beer.
“Will they wait?” Meigs asked.
“Not for long,” the man said. “They’re fined for leaving late. And the docking fees for cruise ships are prohibitive to begin with.”
Meigs watched the three men continue their heated discussion until finally the heavyset man disappeared into the hull of the ship. He emerged soon after, a porter tailing him with two suitcases, one brown leather, the other faded red denim with yarn flowers wired to the handle. The porter dumped the luggage on the dock and waited a minute for a tip, which was not forthcoming. The crewmen signaled to the workers manning the ropes, and the gangway was drawn up. The heavy man steamed up the pier with the luggage, sweating and cursing, and disappeared into the crowd.
“There ees a man who has carried few bags in hees life,” said the cat man to Meigs as he packed his animals into small cages. Meigs nodded, surprised to hear him break character.
The Disney Magic pulled away from the dock, and Meigs went off in search of a carryout dinner. He refused to sit alone at a table for two at a café on Duval Street where every tourist who passed could feel sorry for him.
Next morning, Meigs carried his coffee and cereal out to the deck behind his lodging. He skimmed the front page of the Key West Citizen, loaded with typical small-town stuff—a push to recycle, a scooter/delivery truck crash, projected budget cuts in education and the police department. This last bit of prudence, Meigs thought, would be a false and costly economy. A small town populated by more bars per square inch than New York or New Orleans and a slew of transients and tourists made for barely contained chaos. They needed all the police officers they could hire.
He turned the page and perused the weather forecast—nothing but sunshine and super-humidity for the remainder of his stay. Could he possibly get out a day early? His eye caught on a small article in the crime report at the bottom of the page.
“Woman Reported Missing from Cruise Ship,” the headline read. As Meigs studied the photograph accompanying the article, his fingers tingled. The clothes were different—a white shirt instead of the green tube top, the hair and makeup more formally styled—but he recognized the picture of the young woman he’d seen arguing with her friend yesterday. According to the paper, the girl’s mother had reported her missing, and her travel companion confirmed the disappearance.
He took out his cell phone and dialed the police department’s number but got a busy signal. He wondered if their lines were getting flooded with imagined sightings. In the end, rather than being taken for another attention-seeking fruitcake, he rented a ridiculous, souped-up, open-air golf cart to make the short trek to the KWPD. In person, with a badge in hand, he would be taken seriously. Besides, he’d rather kill time shooting the shit with cops than riding the Conch Tour Train or listening to female impersonators at the La Te Da Cabaret, both of which had been earnestly recommended by his lodging host this morning.
The police station was painted in muted pinks and greens and surrounded by a forest of palm trees. Meigs strode in and introduced himself.
“I’m a detective visiting from Connecticut,” he told the officer at the front desk. “I may have some information on the missing person reported in today’s newspaper. I’ll speak to your chief if he’s available.”
Minutes later, an attractive man with a wide grin that showcased his even, white teeth against a deep tan emerged from the back and ushered Meigs into his office.
“I’m Chief Ron Barnes.” He squeezed Meigs’s hand, then sat behind his desk—a lot neater than Meigs kept his—and motioned to the chair in front. “Welcome to Paradise.”
“Thanks. I guess.” Meigs grunted and pulled the newspaper out of his back pocket. He laid it on the polished desktop and tapped the photo. “The paper said you’re looking for this woman?”
“Sort of,” said the chief. “This being Key West, we see more than our share of missing persons. Mostly they surface after they’ve slept off the booze or woken up in some stranger’s pad. But Sheila Brown’s mother wasn’t satisfied with that explanation.” He grimaced. “You have information?”
Meigs explained how he’d seen the woman on Duval Street yesterday, filling in as many details of the argument with her boyfriend as he could remember. “When that monster Disney cruise ship was leaving the dock, it looked as though someone was about to miss the boat. Her boyfriend—I’m assuming it’s the same man—appeared quite distressed, or gave a good show of it, anyway. He ended up taking some luggage off the big boat, and that’s the last I saw of either of them.”
“George Vesper—the boyfriend—is coming in to touch base shortly,” said the chief. “You’re welcome to watch the interview from our observation room if you’re interested.”
Meigs was. A sergeant installed him behind a one-way mirror and, soon after, ushered Vesper into the room with the chief. Dressed in sharply creased khakis, a blue silk shirt, and an expensive-looking watch, Vesper appeared less disheveled than he had yesterday on the dock but even more sour. Chief Barnes asked him to recount the facts of yesterday’s disappearance.
“Sheila wanted to check out the shops on Duval Street,” Vesper said. “And when a gal wants to shop, I stay out of her way.” He shook his head and grinned. “I’m not one of those pantywaist dopes who tags along to sit outside the dressing room and approve every damn purchase. I gave her a couple hundred bucks and told her to knock her lovely self out. This trip with Sheila wasn’t going to be cheap”—he waggled his carefully groomed eyebrows—“but worth it, if you know what I mean.”
“Were you and Ms. Brown experiencing problems with your relationship?”
Meigs noticed the muscles in Vesper’s neck tighten. The thin
hank of hair that had been combed across his sunburned pate trembled. He patted it down and frowned at the chief. “Not at all. She’s a delightful girl, and the trip has been great so far.”
The chief settled his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “What’s your theory about her disappearance, Mr. Vesper?”
Vesper pursed his lips, the overhead fluorescents casting sallow shadows under his eyes. “Maybe she met an old friend and tied one on. I expect she’ll show up later today. Frankly, her mother’s a worrywart—it’s a shame to squander your department’s resources on this.”
“Let’s take down some basic information as long as you’re here,” said Chief Barnes. He opened up the small computer on the table in front of him. “Let’s start with you.”
Vesper reported that he was a businessman from Connecticut, age fifty-four, and this was his first cruise on the Disney line. He had been dating Ms. Brown for five months. They’d met in a local Mexican restaurant on half-price margarita night—she was a server in the cocktail lounge. Vesper owned four furniture stores along the Connecticut shoreline, and no, they did not carry crappy fiberboard pieces like the ones advertised by that buffoon on television. His outfit focused on high-quality wood and styles consistent with old New England fashion. He was divorced, two kids from a previous marriage that he seldom saw, even though he’d paid through the goddamned nose for prep school and college tuition.
“What about Sheila?” said Barnes, looking up from the keyboard. “What’s her background?”
Vesper hesitated, patted his forehead with a neatly folded handkerchief. Despite their relatively short acquaintance, he said, he’d been swept away by both her physical presence and her personality. “A live wire with a very soft spot for a middle-aged man,” was how he described her.
“Maybe she had a daddy complex, and maybe she didn’t,” added Vesper. “I can tell you that what went on between us was not parental.”
Meigs rolled his eyes. What had Ms. Brown seen in this bozo?
Chief Barnes asked for contact information on the missing girl, but Vesper was vague. He hadn’t met any of her relatives, though she had made nightly calls to her mother, often in his presence. And she lived with a roommate—another waitress—when she wasn’t staying with him. Vesper had already called her, but the friend claimed she hadn’t heard from Sheila since they’d left Connecticut. He scrolled through his iPhone and found the friend’s phone number.
“You’re wasting your time, though,” he said after reading it off.
Behind the mirror, Meigs jotted the number on his newspaper.
“Call us if you think of anything else. Were you traveling with friends?”
“Just us.” Vesper refolded the handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket. “I’m staying at the Marquesa Hotel. You can reach me there or on my cell.” He shook hands with Barnes and left the room.
“He’s got some dough,” said Chief Barnes once Meigs was back in the conference room and the door clicked shut behind him. “No one stays at the Marquesa unless they’re rich, famous, or both. What’s your impression?”
“He’s a liar,” said Meigs.
Chief Barnes looked startled.
Meigs repeated how he’d seen Vesper and the girlfriend arguing on Duval Street, how she’d wanted some time alone. “So the trip wasn’t going well, and he is the kind of pantywaist dope who wants to tag along shopping.”
Chief Barnes laughed. “What else?”
“Most of the cruise ship disappearances I’ve heard about ended up with one of the parties murdered,” Meigs added. “Didn’t Vesper sound as though he didn’t want you looking too hard for her?” Meigs tapped his fingers on the table. “But chances are, she got tired of this clown and bailed out. I imagine that cruise ship cabin could have felt awfully small after a few nights entertaining Vesper.”
The chief laughed again. “You’re right about that. I’ll put one of my guys on it, ask around at Sunset tonight to see if anyone else saw her or talked to her. Thanks for stopping in,” he added. “As you probably read in the Citizen this morning, the sailboat races are in town and we’re stretched thin.”
“I’d be happy to do some research,” Meigs offered.
“We’ll be fine,” said the chief, his voice cool now.
Meigs motored back into town and stopped at the pink cement library on Fleming Street. He couldn’t help himself—and what were the options? Alice would have wanted to tour Hemingway’s house, have her picture taken at the Southernmost Point, order piña coladas, and watch the human interest show from a street-side bar on Duval. Dismal prospects without her.
Meigs settled at one of the computers in between a teenage girl with multiple eyebrow piercings and a shabby man whose odor suggested he hadn’t put soap to skin in some time. He started by googling George Vesper. As Vesper had boasted, his four furniture businesses appeared to be doing well. Very well. An article in Fortune Small Business dissected his success and reduced it to customer service, quality manufacturing, and an aggressive marketing campaign that targeted wealthy homeowners along the Connecticut shoreline. For the article, Vesper had been photographed at his own waterfront home in Greenwich, which Meigs figured had to be worth eight or ten million. He also owned a “cottage” on Nantucket and a thirty-five-foot sailboat moored at a fashionable and pricey Cos Cob marina. During his limited downtime, Vesper enjoyed competing in local regattas. He appeared to have plenty of money and no problem flaunting it.
Next Meigs googled Sheila Brown and skimmed dozens of links about Sheila the artist, Sheila the fifth-grade teacher, Sheila the lawyer, Sheila the nature photographer. But nothing about Sheila the waitress.
Meigs then typed the Disney cruise ship’s name into the search bar. The Disney Magic was a midpriced boat offering a standard western Caribbean winter break itinerary, including Key West, Cozumel, Grand Cayman, and Castaway Cay. He sat back in his chair, trying to ignore the homeless man next to him muttering as he rustled through a filthy knapsack. Meigs could definitely imagine Vesper steering by his genitals. But why on earth would a man with his alleged assets and sailing expertise choose a floating Disney city loaded with middle-class folks and their offspring? Disney, for God’s sake. The girlfriend must have chosen it.
He logged out of the computer and returned to his B and B. Back on the deck, Meigs called the number of Sheila Brown’s waitress friend and roommate, Maya Redkin.
“This is Detective Jack Meigs on behalf of the Key West Police Department.” So it was a little stretcher—she’d never check on him. He explained about Sheila’s disappearance and her boyfriend’s worry.
“I haven’t heard a peep since she left,” Maya protested. “Oh, my gosh, did something happen to her?”
“That’s under investigation,” said Meigs, noting that for Sheila’s alleged best friend, not getting involved came before concern. “She left the ship to do some shopping yesterday and didn’t return. How would you characterize her relationship with George Vesper?”
There was a long pause. “He treated her well. Took her out to expensive restaurants and clubs. Bought her some nice stuff and sent some gorgeous flowers. Apparently he’s loaded. What’s not to like about that?”
“Would you say they were serious? In love? Was marriage in their future?”
Maya laughed. “Now that would surprise me, especially since she has another boyfriend.” She stopped and corrected herself: “Had one. And isn’t Vesper a little old for her?”
“That would be her decision,” said Meigs, bristling silently. He was the same age as Vesper without the big belly and the big bucks. Not that he wanted a girlfriend half his age but was he over-the-hill, too? “What about other family members? Friends? Anyone I can call who might know where she is?”
“She kept those numbers on her cell phone,” said Maya.
“Was it Sheila who chose the cruise?”
“He planned everything—he liked to control things, you know? Listen, I have to get to work.”
“Call us if you hear from her,” said Meigs. “Save us a lot of trouble.”
“Wait. What’s the weather like down there?” Maya asked in a wistful voice. “It’s ten degrees here and snowing.”
“Incessantly sunny.”
Meigs signed off and leaned back in his rocker. The roommate was definitely not concerned about Sheila. Nor was she impressed with the solidity of her relationship with Vesper. Both of which pointed to the likelihood that Sheila had fled rather than been taken by force. He let his thoughts wander to Vesper, his business in Connecticut, his flamboyant wealth. And this brought to mind a Connecticut entrepreneur who’d allowed his wealth to taint his judgment: Stew Leonard. Leonard had siphoned off cash from his high-end grocery shops in the 1990s with a sophisticated software scam and then served jail time for tax fraud.
Meigs grabbed his hat and sunglasses and hurried back to the pier at Mallory Square. A Carnival cruise ship had taken the place of the Disney Magic, and the cat man was setting up for the evening’s performance.
“I’d like to buy one of your T-shirts,” said Meigs. He pointed to a light blue shirt with “The cat man and his flying house cats” written across the chest. When he’d paid for the shirt, he showed his badge and handed him the newspaper photo of Sheila. “This woman disappeared yesterday, and I’m wondering if you happened to see her.”
The cat man studied it and gave it back. “I can’t be certain; they pass through here like herds of mutton.”
“But maybe…,” Meigs said.
“Eet was almost dark, but maybe she boarded the beeg yacht at the end of the pier.” He pointed to the empty slip that yesterday had held the Emelina. “After the cruise sheep was gone.”
Mystery Writers of America Presents the Rich and the Dead Page 19