“Oh my god, I should have known something was terribly wrong,” she said to me. “My mother knew something dreadful had happened, but she didn’t want to pressure her sister. Even as she was dying of cancer, she refused to talk with me about this.”
Now Irena, too, directed her gaze to the floor as she began to tell me the story.
“Carmen says Mr. Markham’s father was on a business trip in Cuba in the early 1960s. It had become clear that for political reasons, the family could not stay in their country, and they approached Markham and begged for his assistance. Carmen was able to get safe passage with Gabriel, who was only two years old, and Maria, her unborn baby. The government wouldn’t allow her husband to leave, but he insisted they go without him. Once they’d made it to Key West, Carmen went to Mr. Markham’s father and begged him for help again.”
Irena took a deep breath and looked at me, her eyes now brimming with tears, too.
“He made her do things, unspeakable things, things she’s never told anyone, in exchange for allowing her husband to leave on the boat he’d been secretly building.
“In spite of his meticulous handiwork, the boat was unsafe for the passage in rough waters. It was simply too small and too light. The weather was terrible that night, and most of the men perished, including her beloved husband. Why did Markham insist that they travel only on that night? My aunt believes he wanted her husband to die so he would not learn what he had done.”
She took her aunt’s hand and pressed it to her cheek.
“But she felt she could do nothing about it. Who would believe such a story? Who would believe that she was anything but a whore? And who would believe that such an important man would behave so badly? Her husband was gone and she was deeply, deeply ashamed about what she’d done.”
Irena glanced up at me again. “You can see why I didn’t know the rest of the story either. Carmen never told a soul, not even my mother. But Gabriel guessed it, when this Cuban conference stirred up his mother’s memories and her grief. He found her weeping over a photo that had been taken in Havana of our current commissioner’s father and her husband in the historical column of the paper. She can only imagine that Gabriel must have offered to work with your mother’s staff for the weekend in order to have access to Turner Markham so he could confront him.”
“Obviously, his plan went terribly wrong,” I said softly. I squatted down and placed my hand on Carmen’s knee. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” How many times could I repeat this? But each time I meant it, felt it a little more deeply. I glanced back up at Irena. “Please tell her it wasn’t her fault; she was doing everything to help her family.”
Irena repeated this to Carmen, who only shook her head and wept. “You’d better go,” Irena said to me. “I’ll stay here with her.”
I exited outside to the bright January day, the contrast with the sickness and grief inside inevitable. So many questions remained. Why in the world would Markham stab Gabriel after he confronted him about his father’s brutal behavior? Wouldn’t he simply laugh that off?
I puttered back to the houseboat, poured a glass of iced tea, added sprigs of mint and a slice of lemon, and went outside to think and to work. Carmen’s story loomed in my head, filling me with sadness and anger. As I sipped, a snippet of gossip about how Turner Markham’s father had been a hack writer niggled in my mind. I did a quick Google search on Markham Sr. and scrolled through the multiple references to his political career and various activities in Key West. A perusal of those left him looking like a local hero.
Finally I came across a little piece that referenced him as a Hemingway wannabe. And the item beneath that mentioned an interview with Markham Sr. in which he proclaimed that he was a better writer than Hemingway. Unlikely. Absurd.
I tapped the number for Joan Higgs—a friend I’d met while getting a flu shot at the health department—into my phone. I’d seen her across the aisle at Gabriel’s funeral. She was a conch, born and raised in Key West, so she would probably have more accurate stories about Markham Sr. than what I could find online. When she answered, I explained what had happened to Maria and how I was helping the family figure out who was behind the violence.
“This may sound odd, but I wondered if you remembered Turner Markham, the father. I’m trying to understand what he was like as a commissioner. And a man.”
“It’s hard to put this politely,” she said. “He was a turd.”
I laughed, though it wasn’t the least bit funny, not when I knew how he’d behaved with Carmen.
Joan continued, “He was a blowhard, very interested in publicity. Always telling people what a winner he was and how many helpful things he’d done for the island. In fact, what he did was drum up publicity opportunities—I’ve never seen anyone before or since who managed to get his photograph in the paper as often as he did. He had some bubba friends on that staff, for sure.”
Bubbas were good old boys, in Key West–speak. “Do you remember anything about him writing fiction?”
She snorted. “He fancied himself as a Hemingway kind of figure, and from the gossip around town, his womanizing was legendary. And his drinking, likewise. So he resembled Hemingway in that way. But his writing was just dreadful. My mother tells me of the night he made the entire city council and everyone in attendance at that meeting listen to a reading. What could they do? They all clapped when he finished, but I suspect more than one citizen was choking his laughter down. She remembers him as a miserable human being. And she was shocked at the way he was verbally abusive to his son.”
I’d never heard Joan speak so bluntly about anyone.
“So I’m not surprised that his son turned out the way he did,” she added.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he turned into a bully, too.”
After a few more minutes of chitchat and my promise that I’d let her know if I learned anything new about Maria, I hung up. Her impressions and memories led me to wonder whether Mr. Markham Sr. would have pined for the gold medal that had been awarded to Hemingway, even convincing himself that he deserved it?
I could imagine that Turner Markham Jr. heard about this miscarriage of justice all his life. And that Turner himself might have seen recovering the medal as a holy grail. From there, it didn’t take a huge leap to imagine that Turner might have stolen it on the first morning of the conference and stashed it somewhere safe to pick up later.
But what came after that? What made sense of the senseless murder?
Suppose Gabriel had seen him hide it and gotten the idea that if he stole it back, he could go to Turner and taunt him as payback for how his mother had been tortured? Or maybe Gabriel, being more of a man of honor, would have suggested that he’d return the medal to Turner if proper apologies and reparations were made to his mother? And in that kind of moment, I could imagine Turner’s heart filling with rage, and then, him lashing out.
Maybe this theory was preposterous, but had any better ideas or solutions been floated? Not that I knew of. The key to solving the murder might lie in finding the medal and using it as bait to reel Turner in and get him to talk. But we had to find it first. If the medal was not at Maria’s house, there was a good chance it had never left the Little White House.
I texted Bill and asked if he could meet me at the White House. It was late enough in the day that tours shouldn’t be a problem. I glanced around to see whether any of my neighbors were out on their decks. GOT A BIG IDEA ABOUT THE MURDER, I texted into the phone. BUT I’D RATHER TELL YOU IN PERSON. I was starting to feel a little paranoid, afraid that somehow Turner Markham would realize I was on to him. Maybe he’d even seen me find Maria on the pier. If my theory was correct, he’d proven himself ruthless and vicious already.
MEET ME AT TLWH, Bill texted back.
* * *
I waited for Bill at the back of the property on the bench where tourists gather to meet their guides. Relieved to see his familiar form materialize, I explained to him what Carmen had finally confess
ed: that Turner Markham’s father had taken advantage of her and then essentially signed a death warrant for her husband.
I explained about the boat and the weather. “Once he was drowned in the Florida Straits, she was emotionally and psychologically ruined.”
“And this relates to Gabriel’s murder?”
I nodded my head in a vigorous yes. “Maybe Gabriel only recently discovered this connection between Markham and his father, or maybe this conference brought it to the front of his mind. Somehow, I think he must have confronted Turner with some evidence of wrongdoing. Like maybe he even saw Turner steal the medal. And Turner, with too much to lose if this story was revealed, killed him on the spot.”
“It sounds bizarre and unbelievable,” Bill said with a sigh. “But no one’s come up with anything better so far, right?”
I nodded.
“What kind of evidence?” Bill asked. “Photos? A letter?”
“Suppose Gabriel took the gold medal from the place where Turner had hidden it and hid it somewhere else, planning to confront Markham later?”
“But I’m sure the authorities have gone over this property with a fine-tooth comb. I know they did. I was here watching them.”
“So we’ll search again,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
“Okay, let’s do it,” he said, leading me up the stairs to the entrance. “We can’t lose anything by looking.”
The inside of the house was cool and dim, and I smelled hints of must and maybe even a whiff of cumin and garlic left over from last night’s dinner. It felt peaceful, not hectic and crazy the way the past few days had been.
“The second floor was roped off that morning,” Bill said. “And Gabriel was working like a fiend for your mother all day. People would have noticed him creeping upstairs. And he wouldn’t have gone into the gift shop, because it was staffed. So I imagine if it’s anywhere, it’s got to be here on the first level.”
“I already searched the storage closet,” I admitted. “The other night, before the dinner started.”
“And I pawed through the director’s office and the kitchen,” Bill added with a guilty smile. “At least we’ve got it narrowed down.”
So we started in the former Secret Service booth and searched side by side, working around the living room, the dining room, the barroom, for over an hour. We picked up every single glass, ashtray, and bauble, felt through every one of Mr. Truman’s desk drawers, examined every book. I felt sweaty and tired and discouraged, and Bill looked just as bad. I leaned against Harry Truman’s bar, looking over the rooms we’d been through, wishing for a little nip of the president’s bourbon.
I couldn’t keep a Cheshire cat smile from creeping onto my face.
“What?” Bill asked.
“I was thinking about Harry Truman’s poker table, and how they took it apart to make the replica that would stand in while the original was refurbished? Gabriel was a master finish carpenter who worked on that table. I imagine there might be nooks and crannies where something, some kind of evidence, could be hidden. He would have known where to stash the medal.”
“Farfetched,” said Bill. “But I’m willing to look.”
We circled the table, tapping all the wood, listening for the hollow sound that might indicate a small space where something could have been left behind. Then I saw, really saw, the cigar ashtrays recycled from brass shell casings inset into each of the card players’ places. My breath caught; this was surely it. But we lifted every metal cup out of the wood and found—nothing.
So I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled underneath the table. I felt around, working my fingers along the joists, feeling for an open crevice. And finally there was a slot, big enough to insert two fingers. And something moved when I stuck my fingers up there, and it made a small thunk, like metal on wood.
“I’ve got it!” I said, so excited that I slammed my head into the underside of the table as I scrambled out. “Ouch! But I think it’s really there.”
Bill got down on all fours and felt the same thing I had. “I’m going to try to work it out. Can you grab a knife from the drawer just left of the stove?”
“Thing is,” I said as I returned from the kitchen and handed him the cutlery, “how do we get Markham to make a move that proves he was looking for the medal?”
Bill grunted and wheezed, now lying on his back underneath the table.
“What if I told him I’d found it and then see if he responds?”
I took out my phone, found Turner Markham’s Facebook page, and tapped out a message.
I’VE FOUND THE MEDAL.
“Wait,” I said, pausing before I hit send. “I think it would be smarter to call Nathan and Steve Torrence. The old me would have texted Turner Markham and told him to come over immediately. The new me believes this is a police job. That way, we can let them extract the medal and avoid contaminating it with our fingerprints.”
Bill grinned as he wormed out from under the table. “The new you is a lot smarter than the old you.”
But as I fumbled to exit from Markham’s page to get to my contacts, I heard the whooshing sound of that message getting sent.
* * *
Three police cars and Nathan Bransford’s SUV were parked on the drive alongside the Little White House less than fifteen minutes after I reached Steve Torrence and explained what Bill and I thought we’d found in the poker table. They gathered in the barroom, and Nathan got down on his hands and knees with a flashlight and an evidence bag. He backed out with a small package wrapped in blue tissue. He set the package on the table, and the other officers clustered around to look. Using a pen, he unfolded the paper to expose the medal.
“I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s the actual gold medal, the one we saw in the case the first day,” said Bill.
“But how did it get here?” Torrence wondered.
“I have a theory,” I said. “If anyone is interested.”
“Go ahead,” he said, and Nathan nodded in agreement.
“I’m thinking that Gabriel might have seen this event as a chance to avenge what happened to his parents.”
“Meaning what?” Nathan asked.
I gulped. It felt wrong to tell a roomful of strangers about Carmen’s history. I looked around the faces at the table. She’d held this as a shameful secret for so long. Nathan noticed my hesitation.
“This is all confidential,” he said gently. “We can’t act if we don’t know the facts.”
So I explained about Turner Markham’s father’s broken promise, and the abuse, and the death at sea. “He would have known they couldn’t reasonably have survived the passage. He was the one who insisted they had clear passage only that night.” I felt tears choke my voice, and I took a minute to calm down.
“Another thing I’m guessing is that the elder Markham felt he deserved that gold medal. And, by extension, our Turner Markham felt that way too. So when our commissioner saw a chance to palm it Friday morning, he took it. Maybe Gabriel caught Turner in the act of stealing the medal, and he threatened to expose him for his father’s sins. Maybe he was holding the knife? Who knows? But more likely Gabriel watched Turner hide it, and later stole the medal back and hid it here.” I tapped the table. “Gabriel used the distraction of the party to confront Turner. And that went badly.”
“The question is, why would a Key West commissioner risk ruin by stealing the Cuban medal?” Torrence asked.
“His father was a blathering narcissist who somehow imagined he deserved the Nobel prize the same year Hemingway won. He was a sour, angry man who expressed his disappointment by making his family pay. I’ve heard he had a tendency to hold a grudge. Turner tried to avenge his father’s failures by writing his own Hemingway-style book. But face it, he’s a hack, too.” I grinned.
Another man detective piped up, directing his question at the others, not me. “Now the question is how we get him to confess, if this is in fact what happened. Which to my ears sounds ridiculous.�
�
Nathan snapped, “We bring him in to the station and we hammer at him until he gives us the truth. Just like any other suspect.”
For a few moments, they argued back and forth. Would Markham ever tell the truth, and did they owe him any different treatment because of his position and his service to the town?
“The answer on that last part is absolutely not,” Torrence said. “A criminal is a criminal, period. And a man in a position of authority, with the trust of his voters, should be held to the standard of any decent human being. Maybe, in fact, that standard should be higher.”
“I have an idea on this, too,” I offered, once it became clear that no one else seemed to have a good approach. “You won’t like it when you first hear it, but”—I shrugged—“might be worth a try.”
Nathan gestured for me to spill. I suggested that I might be the logical person to contact Turner Markham, tell him I had recovered the medal, and offer to meet him here.
“We can’t and won’t put a civilian in the position of sitting duck,” Torrence said. “I like the idea, but a cop has to lure him in. There’s no reason it has to be you.”
Exactly at that moment, a message whooshed into my inbox.
I’M LISTENING.
And I had to explain to them all how I’d thought I could handle this myself, and realized immediately what a lousy idea that was, but then my clumsy thumbs hadn’t gotten the message …
Chapter Twenty-Eight
What you have with a restaurant that you visit once or twice is a transaction. What you have with a restaurant that you visit over and over is a relationship.
—Frank Bruni, “Familiarity Breeds Content,” The New York Times, September 18, 2013
Sweat seeped through my T-shirt and ran down my back as I heard the rumble of Turner Markham’s jeep on the lane in front of the Little White House.
Death on the Menu Page 20