Whiskey Tango Foxtrot: An Addison Holmes Mystery (Addison Holmes Mysteries Book 5)

by Liliana Hart

He looked at my card and then nodded. “The police questioned all of us,” he said. “The Hunts were regulars, even in the off-season. It was a terrible thing that happened to him. They never caught who did it?”

  “No, they didn’t,” I said.

  “You should let him rest in peace. It only brings pain to the family. They’re here on the island now. Why would you keep digging?”

  I knew the family was in town, which was one of the reasons I wanted to come and check things out myself. The Hunt family was booked on a flight to Paris tomorrow. It was my only window of opportunity to talk to Mrs. Hunt in person.

  “Because what happened to Mr. Hunt has happened to another man,” I told him. “And it could keep happening. I’ve been hired by a private party to see if I can dig up any more information on the case. Mr. Hunt wasn’t a random target of violence. He wasn’t robbed. He was specifically selected to have his heart taken from him. Just like the other man in Savannah.”

  “And you think you can find out things the police can’t?” he asked, arching a brow skeptically.

  “I’m not tied down by as many rules, and having a private client gives me more freedom. To come across state lines, for example, and connect the two victims.”

  He sighed and said, “Let me put in your order and I’ll sit and talk with you a bit. I like the looks of you. You look honest. Like that actress.”

  “Liza Minnelli?” I asked, thinking of Rosemarie’s earlier comment.

  He looked startled. “No. But one of you smells a little like her. She used to perform over at The Jazz Corner, and she’d stop in here occasionally.”

  Rosemarie stared at me as if waiting for me to claim the Icy Hot smell, but I just stayed silent. All I knew was my body didn’t hurt quite as bad as it probably should have, and my sinuses were really clear.

  We waited a good twenty minutes for him to get things settled with the restaurant, and when he came back over to the table he was carrying Rosemarie’s fried shrimp basket and my crab bisque and salad. Emilio grabbed a chair from another table and pulled it up to ours, seating himself at the end of the table.

  “You were here the day Jonathon disappeared?” I asked. I took a sip of the soup and wanted to roll my eyes back into my head it was so good.

  “I was here, and I spoke to him several times. Like I said, they’re regulars and have been for more than ten years. Their daughter had her graduation party here last year.”

  “He seemed in good spirits that day?”

  “Oh, yes. It was high season and he’d just purchased his first yacht. He was very proud of it. They docked it right out there and all came up to the restaurant laughing,” he said, pointing out to one of the docks. “The oldest daughter had a boyfriend with her, but he was a regular as well. Families on this island tend to stick together.” He shrugged as if it was a given.

  I knew that to be a fact in this part of the country. Money associated with money. It was one of the many reasons Nick’s parents hated me.

  “They came in and sat at one of the round tables in the corner,” he said, pointing to the back. “They’d called ahead and made reservations, so we’d been expecting them. Locals always get priority seating.”

  “Did Mr. Hunt order a drink from the bar?” I asked.

  “He did,” Emilio said, nodding. “He ordered an Old Fashioned, just like always.”

  “The coroner found bourbon in his system along with GHB.”

  “The date rape drug?” he asked, confused.

  “They needed to get him to the bathroom. If he was ill and disoriented it wouldn’t have been difficult to get him out the window. We walked around the building before we came in. The area behind the building is where the dumpsters are. I’m assuming it’s not a high traffic area.”

  Emilio was looking a little sick now. “No. In fact, there are no trespassing signs posted. With more and more tourists on the island, we started having fights back there and a little drug trade, so the police put the signs up.”

  “Do you remember who gave him the drink?” I asked.

  “Actually, I did,” he said, blowing out a breath and leaning back in his chair. “This is my place, and I take that seriously. When things get busy I make myself useful—deliver food, answer the phone, seat guests, deal with troublemakers.” He shrugged a shoulder. “But I also enjoy getting to know my customers and their families. I took the drink to Jonathon so I could visit for a few minutes. This is a family place. My ex-wife and I opened in more than twenty years ago.”

  “Is your ex-wife still part-owner?” Rosemarie asked.

  “Nah, she owns The Salty Oyster on the other side of the island. It turns out we get along better if we never see each other.”

  “Who made the drink?” I asked.

  “Look, my place has an impeccable reputation. Everyone that works here full-time has been with me for years. I hire seasonal help in the summer, but they’re just college kids on break. I don’t want rumors started.”

  “The police didn’t ask you these questions after the murder?” I asked, surprised.

  “Of course not. We’re not suspects. The police here know better than to ask questions like that to some of the families on this island. They’d be out of a job. As far as I know, they were only looking at outsiders.”

  “I don’t believe you or your workers had anything to do with Mr. Hunt’s death, unless you happen to have a waiter that moonlights as a surgeon. Whoever killed Mr. Hunt was skilled. But the fact remains that someone drugged his drink between the time it took the bartender to make the drink and when you brought it to the table.”

  Emilio looked thoughtful for a few minutes, and I wondered if he was going to get up and leave. Rosemarie had been blessedly silent. She was making her way through a mound of fried shrimp and I wasn’t even sure she was listening all that closely to the conversation. I was really starting to feel like I had a handle on things. Maybe I was going to make a good P.I. after all.

  “In high season everything is chaos,” Emilio said. “Especially at the bar. Things get backed up sometimes as orders come in, but they work a pretty efficient system. The trays are lined up along the bar and the ticket is there with the table number and drink order. Jason fills them as he goes.”

  “But the drinks might sit there a few minutes, depending on how long it takes him to fill the order and how busy the wait staff is?” I asked.

  “Exactly,” Emilio said. “But if it’s too long the ice will melt and he’ll have to make a new drink. I’d say no more than ten minutes, tops. But probably less than that for someone like Mr. Hunt. The tickets with local families are marked with a star and given priority.”

  “Is the bar area usually pretty crowded?”

  “Everywhere in here is crowded during high season. People might come to eat, or just for happy hour to cool off after a day on the water. The bar is usually three deep. It’s hard for the wait staff to move in and out of the crowd with the trays. It’s not an easy job.”

  “I waited tables in college,” I said. “I remember those days without fondness.”

  Emilio smiled. “It’s not for everyone.”

  “What about when Mr. Hunt got up to go to the bathroom.”

  “When Jonathon didn’t return from the restroom, Eloise asked if I’d go in and check on him. She said he hadn’t been feeling well. I’d seen that for myself as he’d passed me on the way. I asked if he was all right, but he just nodded and kept going rather quickly. He bumped into a woman coming out of the other restroom, and she seemed a bit perturbed he didn’t apologize.”

  “Did you know the woman?”

  “No, but I’ll never forget her. She’s probably one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. I immediately went to her after Jonathon bumped into her to smooth things over. She looked like she was going to follow him into the bathroom and give him a piece of her mind. I love Southern temper in a woman,” he said with a grin. “Except my ex-wife. I didn’t enjoy it that much with her.”

  �
��Can you describe the woman?” I asked.

  “Of course. The memory of her is etched on my brain. She looked like Wonder Woman.” I’m not sure what the look on my face was, but it must’ve told him he’d said something important. “Not Lynda Carter. The new one,” he said, nodding. “She was probably young enough to be my daughter, maybe twenty-eight or thirty years old, but I would’ve asked her out if I could’ve found her again.”

  “She left right then?” I asked him.

  “I don’t think so. She thanked me for explaining to her about Jonathon and then she said her friends were waiting for her. Someone dropped a drink in the bar at that point and I had to go make sure no one stepped on any glass. By the time I thought to look for her again, she was gone.”

  It wasn’t a lot to go on, since I had no clue who the Wonder Woman lookalike was, but I didn’t believe in coincidences.

  We thanked Emilio for his time and paid our tab, and I tried not to have a panic attack when I saw the total. I needed to stick to takeout Chinese. Island prices were out of my budget.

  Chapter Nine

  We made a quick stop at the Beach Comber Inn, where Jonathon Hunt’s body had been discovered. Unfortunately, the hotel didn’t retain employees like the Shrimp Shack. Almost an entirely new staff had been hired since last summer.

  We did talk to the manager, who was completely unhelpful and didn’t care for the fact that we were talking in his lobby about the body that had been found in one of his hotel rooms. I could kind of see his point, but he was such a dislikable fellow I couldn’t really work up the effort to care.

  Fredrick Hinkle was his name, and he’d looked to be a healthy mix of both Alfred Hitchcock and Don Rickles. It was a face I assumed only his mother could love, which, in turn, was why he was such a hateful little man. His head was bald and shined to mirror-like perfection and he had the body of Humpty Dumpty.

  After speaking with Fredrick Hinkle for five minutes I could understand why there was such a huge staff turnover. We hadn’t gleaned one new piece of information from him, and I might have accidentally stepped on his toe when he asked us if we shopped out of the missionary barrel.

  Things devolved pretty quickly from that point, so we made our leave and headed to our last stop. The good news was Hinkle hadn’t made one comment about the smell of Icy Hot, though as he’d been talking to us he kept pinching the tip of his nose and backing away. The bad news was I was pretty sure I was going to have to have my leather jacket professionally cleaned to get the smell of grandmothers out.

  Hilton Head Island was kind of shaped like a giant incisor, and the Hunts had a home at the bottommost point of the tooth. Thick copses of trees divided property lines of the enormous homes along the coast, and they were bending with the wind as the storm blew closer. We wouldn’t have long with Mrs. Hunt, if she’d talk to us at all, before we needed to get off the island.

  I’d run a background check on Eloise Hunt back at the agency. She’d grown up in Asheville, North Carolina, the oldest of four girls, and the daughter of two teachers. She hadn’t come from money, and from what I could find, she seemed like a very down-to-earth lady.

  Eloise had taught in the public school system when she and Jonathon were first married up until she’d had her first child, then decided to stay home with the children, both of whom seemed to be bright students and non-assholes (which was really the most you could ask for in today’s society). She’d started volunteering once the kids got older, and since her husband’s death she’d created the Jonathon Hunt Education Foundation for underprivileged students who showed promise in the maths and sciences.

  We followed the GPS directions and took a left, splitting away from the other majestic homes, and my eyes nearly fell out of my head when the Hunt’s home came into view. The house looked like a palace. A big white palace. And it was on an inlet, so the front and back both had an ocean view. Palms trees had been planted around the grounds, but they’d also left the natural trees of the area standing, so it looked part rainforest.

  It was three floors of terraces and windows, so any room in the house showed what I was guessing was a spectacular view of the ocean. The yacht Mr. Hunt had been so proud of was tied to the dock, and a tennis court was off to the side. A swimming pool that was almost the length of the house shimmered cerulean between the house and the darker blue-green of the ocean.

  Rosemarie drove the car along the circular drive toward the front of the house, and I saw Eloise Hunt standing on the porch waiting for us. She gave a wave and a motion for us to park under the covered portico. I was guessing Emilio had called to give her a heads-up about our arrival.

  “I tell you what,” Rosemarie said, gaping like a tourist. “I could learn to live like this. How long do you think it takes to acclimate to living the life of luxury? I always wondered what it must be like to be able to afford the organic milk instead of the cheap stuff that makes men develop breasts.”

  “Maybe you should become a broker instead of a choir teacher.”

  “I’ll give it some serious thought. I read that people often make major career moves the closer they get to forty.”

  “I thought you loved teaching,” I said, surprised.

  “Oh, I do. But I find that I’ve started looking forward to summer a lot sooner in the year the longer I teach.”

  “I think that’s normal. I used to do that too.”

  “Probably not on the second day of school though.”

  She parked the car under the portico and turned to look at me, her hand on the door handle. “I can hardly smell that Icy Hot now that the inside of my nostrils are singed from the smell. I’ve never experienced the strength of an aroma like that. I bet if I lit a match we’d both go up in flames. How many of those patches did you put on?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged. “Maybe six or seven. I was working with the old ‘an ounce of prevention’ adage. I’m tired of my body hurting, so I figured I’d stay ahead of the pain.”

  “How’s your head?”

  “I could probably use another dose of painkillers and a nap.”

  “Someone told me an orgasm is as good as a painkiller for a headache. It releases all those endorphins and it makes you sleepy, so you’ll be primed for a nap immediately following.”

  “I’ll stick with the painkillers for the moment. Probably Mrs. Hunt has had enough trauma in her life without finding me with my pants down, curled up asleep like a cat on her bathroom rug.”

  “I guess if you put it that way,” Rosemarie said.

  We got out of the car and Mrs. Hunt walked toward us with her hand outstretched to shake mine. “You must be Addison Holmes. Emilio told me you’d probably stop by.”

  “Thank you so much for seeing us, Mrs. Hunt. We won’t take much of your time.”

  She turned and smiled at Rosemarie and said, “Y’all can call me Eloise. Better come in before the rain starts.”

  She had a charming Southern accent, different from those of us who lived in Georgia, but she immediately made me feel at home. Everything about her was delicate. Not fragile. But whereas some people were painted in bold strokes of color, Eloise was a watercolor. Her hair was a soft blonde and waved around her heart-shaped face, and her eyes were misty blue. She wore a long-sleeved caftan in swirling shades of blue that looked immensely comfortable, and it was belted with a yellow sash.

  I wasn’t going to lie. I wanted that caftan. Which brought up a major concern because I never thought I’d reach the age where I openly coveted a caftan.

  “I made some hot tea and put it out on the veranda,” she continued as we made our way up a sweeping double staircase that led to the second story. “There’s a bitter chill in the air today.”

  “I want that caftan so bad,” Rosemarie whispered.

  “I’m getting one,” I whispered back. “I might never wear anything else. It’s like a fancy bathrobe.”

  The veranda was a covered space and heat lamps lined the perimeter to ward off the cold. It was scr
eened in and the floor was a stained concrete complete with fleur de lis designs in a darker stain. It looked very expensive and so polished it could’ve been wood. White wicker furniture with white cushions made it look like an outdoor living room, and I wondered how hard it was to keep all that white clean.

  “I always enjoy sitting out here and watching the storms roll in,” she said. “And the kids are around and about in the house, and I figure they don’t need to hear what we’re going to talk about. Jon’s death has hit my son especially hard. He just turned sixteen. They were very close.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I told her, taking a seat in one of the chairs. “From everything I’ve read about your husband, he was an incredible man.”

  “Oh, he was,” she agreed, smiling, the lines of grief on her face disappearing for just a moment.

  When she said she’d made tea, what she really meant was that she’d made tea. The service sat on the glass coffee table, complete with brown and white sugar cubes and milk. But next to the tea service was a three-tiered plate with tiny cakes and sandwiches overflowing. I kind of wanted her to adopt me.

  “People were constantly trying to get Jon into politics,” she said. “They’d say he was just the kind of man this country needed. But he was never interested. He always said he could do a lot more good donating money directly to those that needed it rather than spending all his time fundraising with all that money going toward trying to get re-elected.”

  “We don’t want to take up a lot of your time, but I’m sure Emilio told you that what happened to your husband has also happened to another man.”

  “Yes, he did,” she nodded. “That’s why I wanted to see you. I’ll help however I can. That day is still such a blur. Everything happened so fast. One minute he was sitting beside me and the next he was gone. And then I was planning his funeral and trying to figure out how to comfort two grieving children. It took a couple of weeks for it to all catch up with me so I could grieve too.”

  I took a long sip of tea to keep from bursting into tears on the spot. I didn’t do well in situations like this one. I was a sympathetic crier, and I’d already heard Rosemarie sniffle once. Eloise was dry-eyed, but she looked as if the tears might start at any moment.