Key West

by Stella Cameron

  “Good ol’ Chris is going to help you. You’ve got to be patient with a fella like him. Give him time to convince himself it was his idea to work with you all along. You two will be just dandy together. You heard a door slam up here?”

  Good ol’ Talon had spilled all the beans. She bit back what she’d like to say about confidentiality and told Roy, “I’m sure the wind blew it shut.”

  “I didn’t notice if there’s a floor above this.” He studied the domed skylight with a chandelier suspended from its center, and the high walls that rose on all sides of the second story.

  “Just the attic. I’d considered raising the roof to build more rooms—” She stopped. She’d wanted it converted to more rooms for the children she’d hoped to have. “Don’t worry about me, Roy. The daylight makes everything look very normal.” White on white paint glistened. Plaster medallions at the centers of beaded panels bore yellow roses.

  “Night always follows day, kid. That’s one of those absolutes. It’ll come around again. Just let me put my mind to rest. I’ll take the tour—if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind. I think you’re just about the nicest man I ever met.”

  “You don’t know Chris well enough yet.”

  She wouldn’t tell him she thought his arrogant, rather nasty brother was emotionally crippled and she didn’t much care why. She also wouldn’t discuss her problems with Roy again. The idea of Chris Talon being coerced into helping her made her ill.

  “Chris hasn’t had an easy time of it. But he wouldn’t appreciate my mouthing off about his personal stuff.”

  “He didn’t mind mouthing off about mine to you.” Her tongue could be too quick, and too undisciplined.

  “All he said was that you’re stretched too thin. And he doesn’t think you’re well enough to cope—physically well enough. These doors are all shut. Sοnnie. Were they shut when you left the house last night?”

  Talon thought she wasn’t physically fit? She wasn’t, but how would he know? Α limp, sometimes with both legs, and a few visible scars didn’t mean you were an invalid.

  “Were they shut, Sonnie?”

  She held a banister to steady herself. “They were shut when I was last up here.” She took a breath and admitted, “I’ve been sleeping on a pullout sofa in the parlor. I do need to get properly moved in.”

  Their eyes met, but Roy was too diplomatic to comment. “So the doors couldn’t…Well, they probably couldn’t have slammed shut, could they?”

  “No.”

  She and Roy looked at each other again and didn’t have to say that they both wondered how a door could slam if it hadn’t been opened by someone.

  “You felt someone in the house?”

  Talon again. “Stupid, I know. Just that weird sensation. I’m too touchy.”

  “You’ve been through a lot. The accident. The recovery had to be hard. Then finding out your husband had been grabbed like that.”

  She took a moment too long to say “Yes,” and knew by the quizzical expression in Roy’s eyes that he had noted the hesitation. “What else did your brother say? About my stupid visit? And about what he found out on his wonderful computer?”

  “He didn’t say your visit was stupid. He only said you needed a place to stay for the night.”

  “But he told you about my accident, and—”

  “This isn’t such a big place. I didn’t need Chris to tell me your history. Your husband is a celebrity. That makes you a celebrity. The whole island talked about your accident and how you were airlifted to Miami. Then there was the story about what had happened to Frank Giacano. A lot of stuff gets talked about in a bar. Liquor does that.”

  “I guess it does.” Sonnie regarded him somberly. “I didn’t…I didn’t think people would remember anything about me. I suppose there are lots of theories about Frank.”

  “Open the flowers.”

  In other words, there were a lot of theories about the Giacanos. Sonnie untied a green ribbon from the shiny white box and slid off the lid. The heavy scent of white calla lilies swelled forth. Sonnie hadn’t eaten and the aroma sickened her.

  “Hmm,” was Roy’s reaction.

  She picked up the enclosed envelope and opened it. Typed on the card inside was: Lilies, as velvet white as a baby’s skin-as white as the satin in her only bed. Take care, Sonnie. She bowed over the box and struggled to catch her breath. “Your favorite flowers?” said Roy.

  She shook her head. “I hate them.” White satin in her only bed. Jacqueline’s tiny casket. Who would do this? Who hated Sonnie enough to torture her—and why?

  “Υοu’d better let your admirer know you don’t like them,” Roy said, and laughed self-consciously. They both knew he wondered who had sent the bouquet.

  “The card isn’t signed.”

  He settled his thumbs into the waist of his jeans and frowned. “Florist must have left the name off. Call and ask ‘em to check.”

  “I will,” Sonnie said. “Later.” She crammed the lid back onto the box and quelled an impulse to throw the whole thing in the garbage. The horribly obvious message terrified her.

  Roy proceeded to open the nearest door and walk into a bedroom draped with sheets. Sonnie looked past him at blue-flowered paper above white wainscoting, and sheer white draperies closed over French doors with a clear fanlight above. She had fallen in love with this house the day she’d found it. In disrepair then, it had swiftly become as beautiful as it was meant to be.

  “Leave the doors open,” she told Roy. “Please.”

  “You’ve got it.” Following Sonnie, he went from room to room.

  The only times Sonnie hesitated were when Roy went into the nursery next to the master bedroom, and into the storeroom where she thought she’d caught sight of a light the night before. She stayed out of the nursery. Nothing looked out of place in the storeroom.

  Back on the ground floor, they went into the kitchen. “Can I make you some coffee?” Sonnie asked.

  Roy shook his head. “I do need to get back. But I’ll check on you later. You’ll be at work tonight?”

  “Oh, yes,” Sonnie said. The idea of spending an entire evening there overwhelmed her. But she had to ask, “If you knew all about me, why did you offer me a job?”

  “I didn’t know who you were when we met, Sonnie. You were a pretty woman drinkin’ tea alone each afternoon. You looked sad, and I’ve always been real good at makin’ it my business to cheer people up. I thought you could use company.”

  She rubbed his arm and smiled up at him. “You were right—about everything. You are one nice guy, Roy Talon. And so’s that Bo. Are you sure I don’t put off customers, though?”

  He frowned at her. “Put off customers? How would you do that?”

  “I don’t remember jokes and I’m not…Roy, I’m not a real asset to the Nail.”

  “You’re a great asset. Some of those assholes—shit, I mean…Don’t listen too close, please. Some of our fine clientele are even starting to ask when you’ll be in. I’ve even heard it said that you bring class to the joint. Can’t imagine anyone thinkin’ it didn’t already have enough class, can you?”

  “No, Roy,” Sonnie said. He was absolutely one of the best.

  The phone rang and they looked at each other. When Sonnie made no move to answer, Roy picked it up. “Hello? Uh-huh, you’re in luck, bro.”

  Sonnie slid the flowers onto the counter and backed away. Roy signaled for her to stay in the kitchen.

  “A-OK,” he said. “Nope. Looks fine. Nothing unusual unless you count bouquets from anonymous admirers.”

  Sonnie’s stomach made a leap. The only people who knew where she was were Billy, their Dad, and Sonnie’s Mom. They weren’t likely to send flowers with notes that weren’t signed, and they knew she’d detested calla lilies since her grandmother’s funeral when she was a young teenager.

  “That fancy florist on Whitehead Street. Moss Corner? Okay, I’m on my way now.” Roy covered the mouthpiece and said, “You su
re you’re okay, Sonnie? On your own, I mean?”

  “I’m fine.” She would be fine.

  The instant Roy left, and without giving herself time to think, she started pulling drapes from the downstairs furniture. Dust flew and swirled in sunlight through the windows she opened.

  Already the day was heating up.

  By noon every grimy sheet was piled in the laundry room or already taking its turn in the washer or dryer. The familiar domestic sounds made Sonnie feel almost carefree.

  Twice she’d caught sight of Just Ena, or her lodger, on the opposite side of the shrubbery fence, and waved. Then she’d turned purposefully away. These people meant well, but Sonnie wasn’t in the mood to make small talk. And she didn’t like knowing she was being watched.

  The crunch of wheels on the gravel driveway stopped her. Her body tensed and her scalp felt too small.

  People—normal people—had visitors for a variety of completely harmless reasons.

  A car door slammed.

  Roy was back to check on her. She quelled a giggle. Before she could reach the front door, a key turned in the lock and Romano Giacano walked in.

  Five

  “Chris? Do I know a Chris? Νο, I don’t know him anymore, but would that be ace schmuck and deserter Christian J. Talon, formerly of NYPD.”

  “Save it, Flynn,” Chris said into his cell phone. “I need a favor. And fast.”

  “A favor? Fast? I’m about to hang up this friggin’ phone.”

  “Thanks for all the understanding you’ve always given—”

  “Υοu quit the force and left town. You didn’t give me a chance to be understanding. I haven’t heard a friggin’ word from you in two years. I don’t even know where you are.”

  “Yeah,” Chris said, keeping his eyes on Sonnie Giacano’s pretty and very expensive house. “Sorry about that. I always intended to make contact. I thought I’d do it when I finally got my shit together. When I do, I will. I’m looking at a New York plate. I need to know who owns the car. Will you fix that for me, Flynn?”

  “I’ m a cop—you’re not. Cops don’t run makes for civilians. Against the law. Gimme the plate. And a number where I can reach you. Someone in Traffic owes me a big one. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

  Chris grinned and recited his cell phone number, and the particulars from the back license plate on a white Jag ΧΚ8 parked in Sonnie’s driveway. He doubted it was hers because he’d seen her driving the rented tan Camry parked to the left of the house and covered with poinciana petals. The Jag’s windows were tinted his least favorite color—as close to black as they came. There was no reason Sonnie shouldn’t have a visitor with New York plates, but everything she’d told him had made him think she didn’t have a whole lot of friends.

  And he had a feeling, the kind of feeling he’d forgotten about, but which he recognized the instant it hit. When he and Aiden Flynn had been partners, Flynn would know Chris was “visiting dark places” just from his still silence.

  Sonnie was frightened. Her supposedly funny comment about showing up dead in the morning hadn’t been all joke. She’d already said she thought someone might have tried to kill her.

  In the past half hour Chris had ridden his Harley slowly past Sonnie’s house—twice—trying to convince himself he was doing so to please Roy. Roy was worried about his latest good cause, and Chris ought to want to help his brother.

  The Jag had shown up in the last few minutes—while Chris was too far away to witness the arrival.

  What help would it be to Roy to have Chris cruising back and forth on Truman Avenue and looking at Sonnie’s house? He didn’t like the Jag.

  He didn’t like the feeling he was having. Someone sent Sonnie calla lilies with an unsigned card inside the box. And she not only disliked them, but, according to Roy, she had turned pale and looked as if she might collapse.

  Calla lilies were funereal, weren’t they?

  His phone rang and he clicked it on. “Yeah?”

  “You there, schmuck?”

  Chris ignored the bait. “What you got?”

  “Leased to Giacano Enterprises. They buy surplus goods and ship ‘em overseas. Mostly Russia.”

  “Damn, you’re still quick, Flynn.” He frowned. There had been nothing in the research he’d done that mentioned Giacano Enterprises, at least not in relation to either Sonnie or Frank Giacano. But he’d obviously lost his touch for significant feelings. Sonnie had a family visitor, nothing more.

  “You still there, schmuck?”

  “Yeah. It’s good to hear your voice.”

  There was a pause before Flynn said, “Likewise. What’re you doing in Key West?”

  Chris laughed. “What makes you think I’m in Key West?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  “Good hunch. We’ll talk about the meaning of my life one of these days,” he said, “when you need something to put you to sleep.”

  ‘‘It’s still the woman, isn’t—”

  “One of these days we’ll talk about it,” Chris repeated, but the muscles across his shoulders had already clenched.

  “Sure you will,” Flynn said. “Ι’ll expect to hear from you in a year or so—or when you need information I’m not supposed to give you. You remember the sixty-seven pink pony I bought?”

  Chris looked at Sonnie’s house again. This wasn’t a good time for a buddy chat. “The Barbiemobile, you mean?” he said. “Who could forget? A rusty pink heap of Mustang junk with a missing seat. Let me guess—you’ve finally accepted that it’s tasteless, too tasteless even to live in your warehouse with the rest of those useless junk Mustangs. Congratulations.”

  “It’s mint now, perfect,” Flynn said. “And it was only the third exception to all the other Dusk Rose vehicles. Guess why?”

  Chris figured he was paying for the infοrmation Flynn had given him. I don’t have a clue,” he said. “Why?”

  Flynn chuckled like the proud father of a brilliant child. “They all had black seats, unless they were custom. I know of two οthers with parchment seats. This baby’s got a histοry.”

  “Congratulations. You’ll hear from me.” Chris hung up. He meant what he said. But just not too soon.

  He lifted his helmet from his lap. It could be that Frank Giacano had chosen today to reemerge from the void.

  Sonnie was an odd little bird. An odd, wounded little bird. He doubted she’d ever been real substantial, but she must have had more body than she did now. He almost laughed. Maybe he ought to rephrase that thought.

  Feeling negative at the prospect of Frank Giacano’s return was way out of line.

  Chris eased on his helmet. Sometimes he missed the days when he’d worn a regulation brain bucket and ridden with the wind raking his then-shoulder-length hair. On more than one occasion his chief had accused him of enjoying his job too much. Chris had never protested because, dirty as Narcotics might be, it was a duty that really counted. Sometimes really counted, unless the perp mattered enough to the money men. In that case, he or she would be back on the streets before the ink dried on the warrant. After Narcotics, he’d moved to Homicide—the beginning of his end.

  He looked over his shoulder and prepared to start his engine. Sonnie’s front door opened.

  Chris rolled his booted feet from toe to heel, eased the bike backward and onto the sidewalk until a vine-draped telephone pole gave him some cover.

  Sonnie herself stood in the doorway, her arms crossed. She faced straight out, but from her stance, Chris doubted she was looking at anything in particular.

  A man came to stand behind her. Sonnie stepped onto the veranda that ran around the house, and she turned aside as if she refused to look at her visitor.

  Chris looked at him. The distance between them was too great to allow more than a general impression. Average height, dark curly hair, tanned. Chris thought the guy looked fit.

  The man touched Sonnie’s arm. She hunched her shoulders and walked away, to the corner at the right side of the h
ouse. Her visitor followed and Sonnie broke into an uneven run out of sight toward the back of the house.

  The man was chasing her.

  Tearing off his helmet, Chris hauled the Harley back onto its stand. He took off across the street and sprinted along a crushed coral path that skirted the veranda. He didn’t slow down until he’d almost reached a trellis loaded with shocking purple bougainvillea. Built between a veranda pole and a high

  hedge at the east edge of the property, the trellis divided the front garden from the back.

  Chris had put a foot on the veranda decking and made to swing a leg over the rail when the man’s voice, raised but not angry, reached him. Caution finally kicked in and Chris finished climbing—very quietly—over the railing.

  “Listen to me, please,” the man said with a heavy Italian accent. He sounded shaken. “Listen, Sonnie. You and I are friends. We were friends before you met Frank. I wanted—”

  “Stop. Please stop.” Sonnie was harder to hear. “You’ve been a good friend to me, the best.”

  “And I always will be. I will watch over you as long as I live. This is a promise I have made to myself, a promise my brother would expect me to make.”

  “Romano, I’m grateful for your kindness, but I can’t allow you to tell me what I must or must not do. And I don’t expect you to be angry because I choose to live my own life. You are a busy man. Don’t worry about me, please.”

  Chris stood close to the house and waited.

  “You have been through a great deal,” Giacano said. “Too much. You need someone to care for you at all times. You are an attractive woman, and—”

  “I’m an insignificant, married woman,” Sonnie said, her voice sharper. “No, don’t argue with me. I’m used to the truth. I’ve lived with it for months. I’m grateful for the recovery I’ve made, but I know what I look like.”

  Chris breathed in slowly. She had a lousy opinion of herself and she was dead wrong. She limped and had scars. Big deal. She was interesting, damn it. She interested him…

  “What is inside you shines out, my dear,” said Sonnie’s subtle brother-in-law. “That is what matters. But an opportunist who discovers what a wealthy woman you are could flatter you, take advantage of you. There already is someone, isn’t there? That’s why you came here alone. Who is he? Give me a name and I’ll find out about him.”