Southernmost Murder

by C. S. Poe

  “Where is he?”

  “Home. Why are you here, Bob?” I stood.

  Bob took a step closer, crowding me in ways I didn’t like. I had a flash of imagery—one hard shove to my chest, falling into the pond, held down, water in my lungs….

  I stubbornly held my ground. “Here to breathe down my neck? Why’d you come in last night?”

  “What?” he asked, taken aback.

  “Staying the night at Turtle Bay? Why?” I prodded. “Adam’s naïve enough to believe whatever excuse you gave him—wanting to avoid morning traffic, maybe? Spending the weekend in the Keys after dealing with me? Why’d you really come down last night?”

  “I’m not here to play twenty questions with you,” Bob growled.

  “What’s your relation to Peg Hart?” I asked, hoping saying the name would give me something—a hesitation, a crack in his angry expression—anything.

  Instead, all I got was “Who?”

  “Where were you last night? Say, around three?” I kept going.

  “That’s none of your—”

  Somewhere in the recesses of my caffeinated, exhausted mind, I remembered Smith stumbling as he ran away from Jun. That’s right, Jun had shot him! It clearly hadn’t done more than graze Smith, but a nick was a nick. I grabbed Bob’s huge beefy arm, yanked it toward me, and shoved the sleeve of his polo shirt up.

  “Nothing,” I whispered. Maybe it had been the other arm? I grabbed his right arm and did the same. No evidence of a bullet wound, and I didn’t think Bob would have healed overnight, no matter how many green juices he drank a day.

  “Get the hell off me, you creep!” Bob shouted, shoving.

  And I lost my footing.

  I think I screamed something—probably “Fuck you, Bob!”—but I was too busy flailing my arms and trying to regain my balance to pay much attention. I toppled back and became submerged in cool, fishy water. I immediately panicked and thrashed violently as I fought to right myself. I don’t do oceans, pools—fuck, not even tubs. Because all it would take was one sudden sleep attack or cataplexy episode for me to drown.

  I’d inhaled a mouthful of water going down, and the treads of my worn-out Cons lost traction on the slippery pond ground while I attempted to shove up and break through the surface. A fist grabbed my shirt, and oh God—this was it. Bob was going to kill me. He was stopping his last obstacle before absconding with the treasure and retiring to some no-name island in the Bahamas, never to be seen again. Meanwhile, I’d be dead in a pond full of fat fish, leaving it up to Jun to identify me.

  In the last bit of frenzied life I had, I grabbed the hand holding my shirt and fought violently to tear free. But I had no air, and I could feel the strength in my arms leaving me. This just wasn’t fair….

  My head came up suddenly and I choked, spitting water and gasping for air. The hand let go on my shirt, and I immediately toppled back underneath the surface before it hoisted me up again. Sputtering once more, I looked up through the wet hair in my eyes at Bob, leaning over the edge, keeping me upright.

  “You stupid fuck!” he roared.

  “Y-you pushed me!” I said, gagging on the taste in my mouth and spitting again.

  Bob hoisted me up more, grabbed my hands, and pulled me to the ledge. “Get up.”

  “I can’t,” I protested, still breathing hard. “Just—hang on.”

  “Oh, come on with that narcoleptic crock,” he said.

  I looked up, slamming my fist weakly on the bricks that circled the pond. “You think I wear this medical alert bracelet because it’s pretty?” I protested. My legs were completely Jell-O, and I was barely hanging on to the side with what upper body strength I had at the moment. I was so scared that I wasn’t actually afraid, if that made sense. Just skipped it and went right on to rage. I was going to kill Bob, as soon as I could climb out of the pond.

  Bob swore enough in that moment to make a sailor blush before grabbing underneath my armpits and yanking me out of the water with admittedly impressive strength. He set me on my feet, then held me when I wobbled forward. With a look of disdain, he kept one hand on my chest and the other under my arm, before shuffling back so he didn’t get wetter than he already was.

  I didn’t say anything, just stared at my sad state and focused on regaining my breathing.

  “Bobby!” a high-pitched female voice called suddenly. “Bobby, you said it’d only be a minute!”

  I knew that voice.

  Looking up, I saw Liz Blake, the receptionist for the board’s Marathon office, coming around the corner. She was wearing sunglasses, a big hat, bikini top, and shorts that could probably be referred to as bootyshorts. Wow—I’d never seen her in anything but office attire.

  “Bobby?” I echoed. “Bobby?”

  Bob swallowed and glanced over his shoulder. “Hang on, Lizzie.”

  “Lizzie,” I said expectantly.

  Liz’s mouth made an O in surprise. “Mr. Grant! Yikes… you okay?”

  “Sure, Liz,” I responded in a near comical tone as Bob hesitantly released me, and I remained standing. “Just took a dip, is all.”

  She glanced at the koi pond and raised her glasses up. “In there? I don’t think it’s for swimming, Mr. Grant.”

  I managed to not say anything bitchy and instead wiped water from my face and pushed my hair back.

  “I won’t tell Price about the destructive acts you’ve made to the house,” Bob murmured. “If you… keep quiet about this.”

  “Destructive acts?” I asked. “You’re kidding, right? You won’t tell Price to fire me for doing my job if I don’t tell her that you nearly drowned me and that you two are having an affair behind Horner’s back?”

  Liz’s eyes widened, and she put the sunglasses back down to hide her expression.

  “Now see here—” Bob started.

  “Yeah, I don’t think you’re in a position to ‘see here’ with me, Bob. How about you two just go.”

  “It was an accident,” Bob insisted.

  “Don’t piss me off more than I already am,” I warned. “Just leave. Enjoy your weekend tryst.”

  Bob’s glare was so intense, he could have raised the dead by sheer force of will alone, but it wasn’t going to work on me this time. He wasn’t involved in the murders and lost treasure; he really was nothing more than a raging cock who I now had copious amounts of dirt on. So as I stood there dripping wet, soaked underwear riding up my ass and shoes making squishy fart sounds as I shifted back and forth, I put my hands on my hips and gave Bob my best “I dare you” face. And you know, the jerk finally backed down. In fact, he didn’t say a word, just turned, took Liz’s hand, and the two made a quick escape through the garden.

  Once I heard the door to the gift shop slam shut behind them, I started to follow. Unfortunately, Adam was now our number-one suspect, because while Bob had been in Key West last night, had the means of getting into the Smith Home, and could have easily given Jun a run for his money—there was no wound on his arm, and I know I saw Ghost Smith get hit. If there was a way I could check Adam’s arm… but without… manhandling…. Uuugggh.

  I opened the door and walked into the shop, ignoring the few tourists who eyed me curiously while I shloped, shloped across the linoleum and into the back. At least I kept a change of clothes in the filing cabinet alongside my pillow. Mostly they were ratty things I wore when there was dirty work to be done around the property, but anything was better than my current state.

  “Why are you soaking wet and smell like fish?” Adam asked, hovering in the doorway, watching me drip at my desk as I took out the clothes.

  “I went swimming.”

  “What’s going on, Aubs? Why was Bob here?”

  “It’s nothing—don’t worry about it.”

  “I wouldn’t, except that you’re my friend. I care about you.”

  I turned, staring at Adam.

  He cleared his throat. “As a friend,” he said again. “Plus, you look like a hot mess. No offense.”


  “That assessment is true enough. I’m supposed to be on freaking vacation.”

  “So go home,” Adam replied. “Herb’s in the house doing tours, and I can man the shop, no problem.”

  I narrowed my eyes, studying him warily. Was he trying to get me out of here so—

  “I know how excited you’ve been for Jun’s visit,” he said, voice barely a whisper. He looked behind him into the shop briefly before turning back to me. “And I’m sorry about what I said on the phone. I want you to be happy, so you should go.”

  God, I felt awful for doubting his sincerity. Because what if it was a ploy to get me off the property? What if Adam’s crush was the only thing keeping my head on my shoulders and this was his way of trying to keep me alive while also getting what he wanted?

  “Soon,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound like I was wary of him. Excusing myself, I went to the bathroom and stripped. I dried myself as best as I could with a handful of disposable paper towels, then washed my hair in the sink for good measure. Leaving my dripping-wet clothes hanging across the curtain bar, I put on the paint-covered, albeit dry, garments. My Band-Aids were gross now, so I had to peel all those off and toss them. There weren’t many left in the kit under the sink, and on the off chance I got tossed into another body of water, I decided to not bother wasting them.

  Adam was at the counter again after I grabbed my phone from my desk and came out of the back. He handed a group their tickets, directed them to the side door, and gave a brief explanation of reaching the house through the garden before wishing them a pleasant visit. I had nearly slipped out behind the tourists when he stopped me.

  “Aubs, hold up.”

  I paused, holding the door open. “What?”

  He put his hand out, offering something. “I forgot. I found this when I was helping Herb open the house.” He dropped a button onto my palm. “I didn’t think we had buttons on display, but maybe a cop moved it by accident.”

  I looked down at the button. It was fairly large, black, with the initials TJS scrolled into it with green. “Where was this?”

  “Parlor.”

  “Why were you in the parlor?”

  Adam looked taken aback. “I—Herb and I were sweeping. He takes forever, you know that. He’d still be sweeping if I didn’t help.” He pointed at the button. “It was on the floor.”

  I looked at it again.

  TJS.

  Thomas John Smith.

  “Thanks,” I said quickly, walking out the door.

  “Wait!” He grabbed the door before it banged shut. “Did I piss you off or something? I’m sorry if—”

  “No, it’s okay,” I called over my shoulder, already walking into the garden. I waited until I heard the door quietly close before I took my cell out and loaded my Skype app. I rang Sebastian and hoped like hell he was around to answer.

  My bespectacled friend appeared on the screen a moment later. “Aren’t you on vacation?” was the first thing he asked.

  “What do you know about buttons?” I blurted out.

  “Buttons? Can you move somewhere where the light isn’t making you glow like an alien?”

  I looked around and ducked under a sapodilla. “Better?”

  “Yes.” Sebastian pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Buttons keep your pants from falling down.”

  “You dick.”

  “I thought I was your cutie?” he countered.

  “Monogram buttons,” I replied, holding up the one in my hand. “See it?”

  Sebastian leaned close to his screen, squinting. I felt kind of bad for asking him to decipher what he probably couldn’t see very well, since his eyesight was pretty poor, but random button knowledge was him, not me. At least I hoped.

  “What’re the initials?” he asked.

  “TJS.”

  Sebastian sat back, shrugging. “Does that mean something to you?” He picked up a cup from the desk and took a sip.

  “It does,” I replied.

  “What’s the condition?”

  I stared at the button. “I’d guess it was a replica.”

  “Then what’s it matter?”

  “My skeleton fiasco hangs in the balance of this button,” I said, sounding way too snippy. “I’m having a hell of a day. I just need your help.”

  “Where’s Jun?”

  “Long story.”

  “Are you two—”

  “We’re okay, I swear,” I interrupted.

  Sebastian hesitated for a beat. “Monogram buttons were popular on men’s suits and outer coats. Usually black with the initials in color.”

  “Period?”

  Sebastian rubbed at his bristly chin. “1870s?”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Positive?”

  “Mostly. It’s not like I’ve read every book there is on nineteenth century fashion. I can look into it further if you wanted me to.”

  “No, it’s not necessary. You’ve made me very happy,” I said, finally smiling that morning.

  “You won’t be after receiving my consultation bill.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I STOOD at the back of the property, stared up at the house, and shielded my eyes from the late-afternoon sun. There were no windows on the third-floor study. Not on this end. The front, sure. Every room had at least one window that overlooked Whitehead Street. But back here, there was no window in the study with a view of the garden.

  I raised an old photograph high, holding the snapshot dated 1854 up against the current home. There used to be a window in the study. One year before Smith met Roberts. I swiped through the pile of pictures in my hand to 1855, the same year the two met through wrecking. There was severe damage to the third floor, and the scrawled handwriting on the photo said hurricane season.

  After the house was repaired, the window disappeared.

  And I’d never thought anything of it until now.

  Turning, I set the pile down on the nearby bench and picked up a large sheet of paper that had been rolled tight for too many years. I got down on the ground and flattened a copy of the original construction prints on the walkway. I ran my finger along the perimeter that became the study. Twenty-four feet in length. And the closet on the third floor, according to the 1853 draft, never existed.

  Son of a bitch, amirite?

  It was added to the house after the hurricane damage, and it wasn’t because the Smith family could use some extra storage for linens. I stood with the plan, letting it roll itself back up. I grabbed the photos and ran across the grounds, then up the porch steps to the back door. Inside, Herb was talking to a woman maybe a few years older than myself.

  “There he is,” Herb stated.

  I paused midstep in the foyer. “There’s—me?”

  “Aubrey Grant?” the guest asked, giving me a once-over, like “oh this train wreck of a kid can’t be the manager.”

  “Depends on who’s asking,” I answered, sounding extremely paranoid.

  And she caught that, laughed a bit uncomfortably, and raised both eyebrows. “Lucrecia Kennedy. We spoke on the phone yesterday about Captain Rogers?”

  “Oh. Oh! Ms. Kennedy! I’m so sorry.” I moved forward, fumbled the photos and papers to one hand, and shook hers. “It’s been a long day. What on earth are you doing down here?”

  “I researched what you asked for last night,” she began. “And I found something that I simply couldn’t explain over the phone.”

  “Really?”

  She looked around the house. “This is quite beautiful. You’ve done a wonderful job with the property. Our little museum is nothing like this, you understand. Our staff… none of us are on-site historians.” Lucrecia looked down at the large bag in her hand. “But even I know this is important.”

  Crap.

  “Sure, come with me,” I said but didn’t move. “Anyone in the house, Herb?”

  He perked up and shook his head. “Nope. Last tour left about ten minutes ago.”

  “Good. Follow me,” I said to Lucrecia. I
hurried to the stairs and took them two at a time to the second floor.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting something important,” she called from behind, trying to keep up.

  I reached the second floor and did a little gross, gross, oh my God don’t think about it jump across an area rug that had been situated over the blood staining the wooden floor where Cassidy had died. “Nothing that can’t wait a few moments,” I called. “Sorry, we’re going up to the third floor. My office is rather nonexistent, and there’s nowhere else we won’t be immediately bothered.” I hustled up the next set of steps.

  At the third-floor landing, I walked to the corner where the closet was situated. I set my piles down alongside some sheets of paper I’d been doing math on, a measuring tape, cloth gloves, and the printout of the missing topographical map.

  “Reorganizing displays?” Lucrecia asked upon reaching the landing and looking over my shoulder.

  “Something like that.”

  She hiked up her skirt a bit and got down on her knees, opening the bag she’d brought. “Edward Rogers died in August of 1880. We have newspaper clippings verifying his passing. I never thought anything of it until you mentioned you wanted 1871 diaries.”

  “Did he keep one?”

  “Yes. We had it in storage. Tourists see one diary, they’ve seen them all, you know? But it’s empty.”

  “Empty?”

  “He signed the front page but never made a single entry,” Lucrecia clarified. She carefully removed a packaged leather booklet, exactly the same as its 1867 counterpart, which Cassidy had stolen. “And it doesn’t appear that he kept any others after that year—until this one: 1880.”

  I grabbed my gloves to put them on. “Any mentions of Smith or Jack?”

  “Smith,” Lucrecia answered. She handed it over.

  I opened it up and gently flipped through the pages. “They’re all blank.”

  “Yes,” she said again, and I caught her chewing her bottom lip. “Until July seventh.”

  I thumbed deeper into the journal to reach the entry in question. All it said was I’ve found him.

  Smith had been dead nearly ten years by then. Rogers, that poor bastard. He never gave up looking for Smith’s body after its mysterious vanishing and he was officially declared dead.