by Danny Lopez
“Maybe he liked that lifestyle.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” She took a sip of coffee, her big brown eyes looking at me over the cup. “I always felt he was putting up a front.”
“A front for what?”
“I have no idea.”
“Look,” I said and leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “Isn’t that the whole point of being wealthy? That you can live any way you want.”
“Like a bum?”
“Carefree.”
“Not me,” she said. “I’d have a nice place. And I’d travel.”
“You have a nice place.”
“It’s not mine. And the rent’s killing me.”
I had to be careful with my words. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Tessa. I didn’t know her. And a vengeful girlfriend could be lethal. Crimes of passion are more common than crimes of greed.
“Here’s the thing,” I said, letting go of a little information to see where it might take me. “Liam had his own company and was using his father’s money to buy properties on the key. And yet everyone I’ve talked to has told me he hated his father.”
“Like who?”
“Jaybird and Keith. And you.”
“Keith Peterson?”
I nodded.
She rolled her eyes.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“It’s complicated. Liam didn’t hate his father. I don’t think he was capable of hate. But he didn’t like what he stood for.”
“There has to be more to it than that,” I said. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
We were quiet for a moment, our eyes staring at each other. My mind drifted, wondering what Tessa’s life was like, who she saw, what she did. If she was dating someone now.
“Oh, Liam,” she sighed. “What the hell were you up to?”
“You ever heard of Terrence Oliver?”
She shook her head. “No, why?”
“Right now,” I said, “he’s my main suspect.”
“Why?”
“He’s Liam’s business partner. I figure he wanted to take over the company. Those properties have to be worth many millions.”
“That’s Liam in a nutshell.”
“How do you mean?”
“An enigma,” she said. “He hated corporate America. But he had his own corporation. Go figure.”
“Beach City Holdings.”
Tessa recoiled in her seat. “What the hell?”
“What?”
“That’s the company I make my rent check out to.”
CHAPTER 13
I DRANK ANOTHER cup of coffee while I waited for Tessa to get changed. She came out of the room in a flower pattern sarong and a white tank top that showed off her tan shoulders, and a pair of simple black flip-flops. She’d put her hair up in a bun and wore no makeup. We walked the back streets of the Village to Another Broken Egg and sat outside despite the midmorning heat. I had a Nellie’s Delight, balsamic glazed chicken with smoked gouda on fancy bread. Tessa had a huge plate of Shrimp n’ Grits. The waitresses knew her by name and every now and then someone passing by, walking their dog, or on their way to work somewhere in the Village would wave and say hello to her.
A block and a half away, at the end of Beach Boulevard, about half a dozen people still hung around holding signs that read, Keep Beach Road Public. Then a couple of teenagers came by handing out flyers asking people to sign the petition and attend a county commission meeting to voice their opinion against closing the small stretch of road. In big block letters, it read: Tell Sarasota County Commissioner Troy Varnel he’s not a dictator. You’re against his land-grabbing policies and want to keep Beach Road public for everyone to enjoy!
I had seen in the news that the county wanted to make a small stretch of Beach Road private. The road itself had been washed out for more than two decades. All that was left in its place was a bit of asphalt and sand. You could walk directly onto the beach from there. The County Commission, spearheaded by newly elected commissioner Troy Varnel, proposed closing the road. This would give the three homes on the block an extra ten to fifteen feet of property. It would also convert them into beachfront properties, probably doubling their value while closing off a wide swath of beach access to the rest of us.
None of it was new. And none of it was fair. Just a few years ago, after a number of petitions and protests against razing the Summerhouse Restaurant, a Siesta landmark designed by some famous architect, the county commissioners made a backhanded deal with the developer. Instead of destroying the building, the commissioners gave the developer a permit to build a nine-story condominium, going over the height limit for Siesta Key. The company kept the Summerhouse building for use as the condo’s private community center.
“Look there.” Tessa nodded across Avenida Messina. “It’s Cap’n Cody.”
The skinny, scruffy-looking man I’d seen the other day was walking toward Ocean Boulevard.
Tessa waved at him. “Cap’n Cody!”
Cap’n Cody stopped in his tracks and looked around. He stood in front of the Hub Baja Grill, dressed in faded jeans and a colorful Hawaiian shirt. His skin was tan and wrinkled from too much sun, his hair a mop of gray. He had a long gray goatee and a crooked smile that reminded me of Popeye. Another aging hippie, no ponytail. When he spotted Tessa, he nodded and crossed over to us, his flip-flops dragging over the asphalt.
“What’s goin’ on, little Tessa?” he said in a heavy southern accent and leaned over, gave her a kiss on the forehead the way a father might kiss his college-age daughter.
“Nothing,” she said. “We’re just trying to find out who killed Liam.”
Cap’n Cody blinked. “Didn’t they say he drowned?”
“Yeah,” Tessa said and narrowed her eyes, whispered, “that’s what they want us to believe.”
“What who wants us to believe?” he said and shifted his gaze at me.
“The killers,” she said.
Cap’n Cody looked at her and back at me, cracked a wide smile. “Ya’ll pullin’ my leg.”
“Yes, we are,” I said quickly. I couldn’t believe Tessa’s big mouth. I offered my hand. “Dexter Vega.”
He shook it politely.
“Cap’n Cody’s a musician,” Tessa said. “Plays all over the key.”
“Beach songs for the tourists,” he said humbly.
“Come on.” Tessa smacked his thigh with the back of her hand. “He’s a real musician. He even recorded with the Allman Brothers and Mudcrutch.”
“Tom Petty’s early days,” I said.
Cap’n Cody nodded. “That was a long time ago.”
“You going to the protest?” Tessa asked.
Cap’n Cody looked up toward the part of Beach Road that was slated to close. “You think all that hullaballoo’s gonna make any difference?”
“I don’t know,” Tessa said. “I sure hope so.”
Cap’n Cody scratched the bottom of his gray beard, narrowed his blue eyes. “Politicians. They give it all away, don’t they?”
“They say you can’t stop progress,” I said.
He focused on me. Didn’t seem pleased by what I said. “I don’t like it one bit. Been fightin’ this crap all my life. I just ’bout had enough. Gettn’ ready to throw in the towel.”
“Come on,” Tessa said. “Don’t be such a grouchy old man. Sit with us. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
Cap’n Cody smiled. “Thanks, darlin’. But I like being grumpy. It’s my job. I’m an old man.”
“You’re not that old.”
He laughed.
“Coffee?” I said.
“Nah.” He shook his head and nodded to the side. “Gotta meet a friend for lunch. Maybe some other time.”
Before he started off, I said, “You seen Jaybird around?”
“Nope. Can’t say that I have. Everyone keeps asking for him. Little squirt oughta get a damn phone.”
He walked off, making his way on the side of the road, crossing
Avenida Messina and disappearing past The Cottage restaurant.
I looked at Tessa. “He’s a character.”
“There’s one in every beach town.”
“Did he really record with Tom Petty?”
She nodded. “I’ve seen the credit on the album. And he toured with them for a while. He also produced a couple of bands back in the eighties when he lived in Miami.”
“You’d never know it from looking at him.”
“It’s funny,” she said staring past me at the road. “Liam used to say he loved the beach because people were stripped of the accessories that defined who they were.”
“How do you mean?”
“A man or a woman in a bathing suit is just that—a person. They’re human.”
“So you couldn’t tell if they were rich or poor.”
“Exactly.”
“Or a killer.”
She stared at me.
“Quick question,” I said. “Why did you tell Cap’n Cody Liam was murdered?”
She shrugged, glanced at her plate. “I don’t know. It just came out.”
“Was he friends with Liam?”
“Yes, he was friends with Liam,” she said angrily. “And he’s a friend of mine. What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing. I just don’t want it advertised that we’re looking into it.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“First off, I’m not a licensed investigator. Second, I don’t want people talking about it. If it gets to whoever did it, they can cover their tracks, take off. Who knows, maybe even come after us.”
“Gimme a break, Dexter.”
“We don’t know anything, Tessa. Let’s keep our work under the radar. Please.”
“Fine.”
I rolled my eyes and took out my wallet. I folded the flyer and shoved it between my cash. I signaled the waitress for the check.
Tessa ate quietly. Then she tossed her head to the side and apologized. “It’s just, I kind of got excited about the case.”
“It’s not a case,” I said.
“Then what is it?”
“We’re just looking into things. See what we find out.”
“Fine,” Tessa said, her mouth half full of shrimp and grits. “So what’s the plan, Sherlock?”
“I really would like to talk to the neighbor the cops talked to.”
“But we don’t know who it is.”
“We?”
She squinted happily. “Yeah, we.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. But other than Jaybird, she seemed like the only person who could tell me about Liam. Besides, she seemed determined. And I actually enjoyed her company.
“Okay.” I took a long breath. “First we’ll go see if Jaybird’s back at the cottage. Then we can knock on the neighbor’s house.”
“I love it,” Tessa said. “Good, old-fashioned detective work.”
CHAPTER 14
AS WE WALKED to my car, Tessa held her phone in front of her, her fingers clicking away like she was writing a novel. “I just checked in with the manager at The Dog. Jaybird was scheduled for a double today but didn’t show up for the lunch shift.”
“Let’s hope he’s at Liam’s.”
“He could be at the beach.”
“Or at Walmart,” I said sarcastically.
“Fat chance.” Tessa laughed and got in the car. “Jaybird never leaves the island.”
“Some life,” I said and pulled out of my tight parking spot and headed south on Beach Road. “Guy doesn’t have a car or a phone or a home.”
“He’s free.”
“He’s a hobo.”
“Yeah, but think about it. He’s not weighed down the way we are. He doesn’t have to worry about slow internet service, software updates, rent, bills.”
“And you believe in all that?”
She laughed. “You saw my place. I believe in comfort. I like things,” she said and flicked her sandals off and put her feet on the dashboard. “But I won’t deny that in principle, it would be nice.”
“You mean in theory.”
“Exactly.”
“I like the part about no bills,” I said.
Tessa shrugged. “I’m too ambitious. Gotta keep writing.”
“You still believe, huh?”
“I have to.”
“Yeah,” I said sadly as if admitting defeat. “I guess I do, too.”
“I do mostly fluffy pieces, travel and lifestyle and beauty articles. Not big investigative I’m-gonna-change-the-world kind of work.”
“Well, I’m having a hell of a time finding any work that pays.”
“Social media, my friend.”
“What about it?”
“That’s the key. People will give you work if you have a following.”
“Like on Facebook?”
She laughed. “Yeah, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. That’s what they pay for: an audience.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“If you can deliver the clicks, they’ll deliver the cash.”
“So, good writing is irrelevant.”
“No. It matters. But so does the following.”
“I don’t know, maybe I’m old-school,” I said. “I’ll take paper over a screen any day.”
“My God, you sound just like Jaybird.”
We were passing the entrance to the Sanderling Club. I slowed down. A rented go-cart was moving slowly in front of us.
“It’s really not that hard,” she said. “I can teach you.”
“Thanks. But I prefer to experience life face-to-face.”
“Liam used to say the same thing,” she said somberly. “He said the world was changing too fast. He said he was going to beat it at its own game.”
“And what game is that?”
She took a deep breath and stared ahead at the road. The little go-cart turned off at the entrance to Turtle Beach. “Progress, I suppose.”
“Liam Fleming, a fucking enigma.”
She smacked my arm. “Don’t say that. He’s dead.”
“You said it first.”
“That’s different.”
“People usually fit a type,” I said. “You can see the same patterns in them. Like the cliques in high school. Take the jocks. They’ll always be jocks. They’ll grow up, get jobs, maybe become some kind of asshole manager, put their kids in little league, and get into fights with other parents who were also once jocks. Then the cycle will repeat itself.”
“Oh, my God. That is such stereotyping. There’s no way people are that predictable.”
“On the contrary,” I said, “most people are. Jaybird might try to be free, but he’s really just freeloading off of Liam. When that cottage goes, he’s going to have to stay with someone else. But what’s going to happen when he wants to have a family or travel? Or when he gets old and wants to retire?”
“Maybe he’ll never want that. He’ll be happy being a beach bum until he dies.”
“I don’t believe that. At one point everyone wants something tangible, something that’s theirs. Like a legacy. It’s the American way.”
Tessa rolled her eyes. “You are such a square.”
“Square?” I pulled into Liam’s driveway. The VW Golf was still there, the surfboard still tied to the roof rack. “What are we in, the sixties?”
“I’m just saying. People don’t fit into nice little patterns like that. And Jaybird is living his life the way he wants to live it. Give him a break.”
“Okay,” I said. “But I’m not a square.”
Tessa came around to my side of the car. “Maybe not a square,” she said and waved a finger at me. “But you sure seem to have your mind made up about people.”
“Wait ’til you grow up.”
“I am grown up!”
“I can see your future: living in one of those developments in East County,” I said as we walked into the cottage. “A nice three-bedroom two-bath house with a small pool and a two-car garage. A husband, two point five kids. T
he works.”
Everything inside the cottage was the same. Nothing had been disturbed. No sign of life whatsoever.
“What does that even mean, two point five kids?” She picked up a magazine from the top of the cable spool, flipped through it, and tossed it back. “What’s the point five?”
“I don’t know.” I checked the kitchen counter, the fridge. “A baby or a dog.”
“I’m a cat person,” Tessa said and went into the bedroom. I followed. She handled the papers on the desk. “It’s kind of sad,” she said, her eyes scanning the floor, the dresser, the bed. “It’s like it’s frozen in time. I kind of imagine Liam walking in any minute and saying something like, ‘Dude, shoulda been at Turtle, catch the sunset with me.’”
I followed her out. We stood at opposite sides of the living room. I pointed to the corner next to the stereo. “His drum’s here.”
“But no Jaybird.”
An eerie silence came over us. Everything was too still, like a studio set, a place that wasn’t real and had only been created for the purpose of make-believe. Like maybe there was no Liam Fleming and no Jaybird. It had been a play. And the play was over. Time to go home.
“Jaybird,” I said to break the silence. “That guy. You’d think Jimmy Buffet wrote ‘Margaritaville’ about him.”
Tessa blinked like she’d just come out of her own daydream. “Shall we go knock on the neighbor’s door?”
* * *
The property had a long, paved driveway. The garden was neatly trimmed like at the golf course developments out east of I-75. The house was a huge two-story, peach-colored pseudo-Mediterranean with a grand entrance leading to a pair of large French doors with frosted windowpanes and a welcome mat on the floor. I rang the bell.
Someone yelled inside. Twice. Something about getting the door. A moment later the door opened, and a small woman, probably in her mid-fifties, looked out at us from large round plastic glasses.
“Yeah, what is it?”
I smiled. But Tessa beat me to the introductions. “We’re friends of your neighbor, Liam Fleming.”
“Don’t know him,” she said flatly. Her whole demeanor was defensive, the way she stood, how she pursed her lips, the pulsing vein on the side of her neck.