Conch Shell Murder Page 11

  “Of course you didn’t,” Diane said.

  “Alexa offered Diane money to pay tuition for the kids at a private eastern boarding school. I let her know I wasn’t having any of that shit.”

  “And you blurted the threat in anger?” Katie asked.

  “Right. Alexa really riled my plumbing. She had a million ways of letting me know I was trash, that I wasn’t good enough for Diane or the Chitting family, wasn’t good enough or smart enough to raise my own kids.”

  “I won’t deny that,” Diane said. “Mother’s attitude toward Randy was one of the main reasons she and I grew apart.”

  “That must have been hard to take,” Katie said.

  “Right.” Randy scowled. “Alexa steamed me. When Diane and I were first married I made the mistake of borrowing money from her for a down payment on our house. I paid it back on time and with interest as we had agreed. I repaid the money, but I could never repay the debt. Alexa was forever reminding me of the time she helped me out when I was down.”

  “So you didn’t get along with your mother-in-law and her acerbic tongue. That’s understandable.” Katie studied the waves for a few moments, then she looked directly at Randy. “Who do you think might have killed Alexa?”

  “I don’t know. It could have been any of the suspects we discussed the other night. She was a bitch. Don’t know how she could have raised such a great daughter.”

  “That happens sometimes.”

  “Don’t know how Po stood her all those years. Maybe he finally got fed up with being a doormat. Nobody’d blame him. Then there’s Tyler Parish. Maybe he got a belly full of the gigolo scene.”

  “Randy!”

  “I heard his paintings were beginning to rate national acclaim,” Katie said.

  Diane nodded. “Yes. He was developing a distinctive style and becoming more than just another painter of seascapes for the tourists.”

  “Maybe he saw a way of making it on his own,” Randy said. “And maybe she wouldn’t let him go.”

  “I’ve thought of some of those things, too,” Katie said. “I haven’t questioned Parish yet, but I will. And I still need to talk with Elizabeth Wright. Either of you know anything about her?”

  “A career-oriented woman on her way up,” Diane said.

  “At least that’s the talk around town,” Randy agreed. “Rex plays the field, but the two of them seemed pretty close for a while.”

  “What happened?” She tried to keep her tone professional, and she saw Diane lean forward with interest as Randy spoke.

  “Don’t know what cooled them off. Maybe she found someone else. Or maybe he did.” Randy mounted the poling platform once more and scanned the sea. “How about some more fishing? The wind’s coming up and in a few minutes the tide will be right on another flat near Old Man Key. Some big ones usually hang out there.”

  “Then let’s go check it out.”

  “Gotcha.”

  FIFTEEN

  On Wednesday afternoon, Katie talked with Grace Benton, who confirmed Beck Dixon’s presence at Hibiscus House at the time of Alexa’s murder. Next she called Maria Gonzales, and a half-hour later she stood on the porch of Maria’s weathered Conch house across the street from Mary Bethel’s second-floor apartment. Katie looked down at the squat old Cuban. Wiry. Ferret-eyed. Suspicious. She was like a wrinkled crab ready to attack or retreat, depending on situational demands. As she smoothed a spotless white apron over her red gingham dress, a chill afternoon wind tossed her golden hoop earrings. She began twisting her wedding band.

  “Please to meet my friend, Rosa Abresco,” Maria said. “She is here to confirm my true words to you.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Abresco.” Like Maria, Rosa was short. She had a determined set to her jaw, and she wore mourning from her babushka to her flat-heeled shoes that poked from beneath her long skirt. Her doleful costume suited the gloomy day.

  “Buenas tardes, Senorita.” Katie smiled, hoping Maria would invite them inside where it was warmer.

  “Please to sit down.” Seeking a wind-sheltered spot, Maria pulled forward a wicker chair that had lost its battle with dank air and mildew, then she and Rosa sat in similar chairs and faced their guest. “Questions you have?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Gonzales. As I told you over the telephone, I’ve been hired by the Chitting family to investigate Alexa Chitting’s death.”

  “Is too bad, the passing of the grand senora. But I know nothing of it. I am one who minds her own business.”

  “Si,” Rosa said. “Likewise myself.”

  “I’ve come to ask you about Mary Bethel who lives in the apartment across the street. I understand you’ve already talked with the police concerning Mary’s whereabouts on the Monday night of the murder.”

  “Yes,” Maria said. “To the police I tell all I know. And there you have it.”

  “Please repeat your story once more, Mrs. Gonzales. Did you see Mary on that Monday night?”

  “Yes. I am not nosey. But one cannot help seeing what is directly before one’s eyes. Is right?”

  “Of course. And you saw Miss Bethel too, Mrs. Abresco?”

  “Si. Is like Maria says. Si.”

  “You’re both certain you saw Mary the night Mrs. Chitting died?”

  “Because this is my house and I sit here often whether it be hot or whether it be cold. I did see Mary Bethel that night. And I hear her radio playing that night. The sound, it carry clearly on this quiet street.”

  “It carry,” Rosa echoed.

  “I understand the weather had turned cold that Monday. Much like today.” Katie shivered. “You ladies didn’t mind the chill while sitting on your porch?”

  “No,” Rosa said. “I tell you. We no mind.”

  “I am tough old bird.” Pride tinged Maria’s voice. “Twenty years ago I escape to this island on a raft. I survive. Ninety miles of open sea. Now I do not let weather dictate to me. Free country. Not like Cuba. I sit where I want to sit. I sit when I want to sit. If it be cold, I wear a shawl.”

  “I see.” Katie felt admiration for the resolute old lady. “Did Mary usually play her radio at night?”

  “Sometimes yes. Sometimes no. But on that night you speak of, she played it.”

  “Si,” Rosa said.

  “Music?”

  “Usually she play music. But that night, no. No music. What you call a talk show. Man. Woman. Jabbering.”

  “No comprende.” Rosa nodded.

  “I see. And you saw Mary that night?”

  Both women nodded.

  “Yes,” Maria said. “This Mary Bethel, she writes. Her desk, her writing machine sit directly behind first window on the right.”

  Maria pointed. Rosa nodded.

  “That night the window shade was pulled to the sill,” Rosa said. “That was her usual habit.”

  “We see her shadow against the shade,” Maria said. “She sat at her machine all the evening until she turn out light a little after eleven o’clock.”

  “Is correct.” Rosa tightened the knot on her babushka.

  “You’re sure of the time?”

  “Si.”

  “Yes. Eleven o’clock news come on. Light go off.”

  “If the shade was drawn to the sill, how can you be sure it was Mary sitting at the typewriter?”

  Maria Gonzales grinned, revealing a missing tooth and three gold caps. “I know the person is Mary Bethel from shape of head. Mary wears wig.”

  Rosa giggled. “She bald. At night she—what you say relax—take off the wig.”

  “Uncomfortable,” Maria said. “Hot. Itch. Easy to see her head’s melon shadow shape against the window shade.”

  “I see.” Katie smiled and rose, surprised to learn of Mary’s baldness, but never doubting Maria’s words. “Thank you, Mrs. Gonzales, Mrs. Abresco. You’ve been a help and I appreciate your talking with me.”

  “You welcome. Any more you want to know you come to Maria Gonzales.” Both Cuban ladies stood.

  “Thank you aga
in for your time.”

  Katie left the women and drove one block to Fleming Street, parking in front of the library. A wig. She hadn’t guessed, although she had noticed Mary’s every-hair-in-place appearance. Now she remembered Samuel Addison’s words about Mary suffering from a high fever. Mentally she marked Alexa’s secretary off the suspect list. That made four people in the clear—Diane, Beck Dixon, Rex, and Mary. And it narrowed the list to Po, Randy, Elizabeth Wright, and Tyler Parish. Still a long ways to go, but maybe she could cross Randy and Po off the list once she checked their alibis. Maybe Bubba had been wrong about the time he had seen Po on Houseboat Row. How much credibility could she put in a druggie’s word? Or a bartender’s?

  As usual the library felt hot and stuffy. A sign warned patrons that the uniformed guard sitting at the entry had the right to check all bags, but this morning Time magazine held his attention. Katie requested copies of the Key West Citizen dating from the day of the murder to the present, and after a short wait, a page supplied them. As Katie carried the papers to a table for perusal, she guessed that the three street people dozing nearby contributed directly to the room’s gymnasium smell, but she hadn’t the heart to complain and have someone ask them to leave. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be homeless.

  She searched the papers for an article concerning a wreck on the Niles Channel Bridge, but found none. Strange. If Randy had been lying, he was a smooth prevaricator. As she checked all columns again, the rustling of the paper awakened one of the dozers. He glared at her, then nodded off again. Katie rose. Why would a bridge accident have gone unreported? An oversight? A mishap too slight to rate ink? None of the above?

  She returned the papers to the main desk and left the library. The guard never looked up. Cushy job.

  It was three thirty when she drove to the police station, circling the block twice before she was lucky enough to find a parking place. She sat in her car thinking. Afraid? She tried to tell herself she was just nervous. Why was she doing this? Mac had taught her early on that private detectives frequently provided information for the police. But the police seldom reciprocated. Leaving her car reluctantly, she walked slowly, hesitating before the low building that seemed to be crouching, waiting.

  Stepping inside, she saw a gray haze of smoke hanging near the ceiling. Maybe ceiling smoke filled a requirement of all police stations. A slight, blue-uniformed cop stood behind a pine desk, his brown cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and adding to the air pollution. Her shoes scraped against the tile floor and she cleared her throat.

  “May I help you?” The cop sized her up, his dour expression unchanging.

  Sgt. Babcock. She read his nametag. “I’d like to see the officer in charge of the Alexa Chitting murder, please.”

  He picked up a phone, muttered a few words, then looked up. “Lt. Brewer will see you. Down the hall to your left. First door.”

  Katie found the office and paused in the doorway. From behind a gray steel desk, a stocky middle-aged man with porcine features stared up at her without rising. Wrinkles creased his brown suit, a loosened tie hung at his throat, and a wilted collar gave his white shirt the appearance of having been slept in. Even if pungent gray smoke hadn’t been rising from the black cigar clamped between his yellowed teeth, his low forehead would have called attention to his snout-like nose and mouth.

  “Lt. Brewer here,” he grunted. “What do you want?” He laid the cigar aside, letting it smolder.

  “I’m Katie Hassworth.” She opened her billfold and flashed her identification. When he nodded, she continued. “The Chitting family has hired me to investigate Alexa Chitting’s death. They don’t buy the robbery theory.”

  “Too bad. The case’s still open, but we’re not discussing it with the public.”

  “I’m investigating Mrs. Chitting’s close associates and their motives. I’d like to see the murder weapon—the conch shell.”

  His piggy eyes roved over her body. “No doubt you’ve looked over Florida laws regulating the activities of private eyes. Under no circumstances will this department tolerate infringement by private investigators, even blonde types with green eyes and legs as long as the Alaska pipeline. The murder weapon is unavailable to you.”

  She had guessed that the shell would be unavailable. She also knew he was trying to bait her with his sexist remarks and she ignored them. An argument would get her nowhere. “There are several people right in this city who had plenty of motive to kill Alexa Chitting.”

  “I’m aware of that. All cops aren’t dumb, you know. Who’s rating your special attention? Po? Parish? Or Randy Dade? Which one?”

  “I’m here to check on an accident that stopped traffic on Highway One on the night of the murder.”

  “Don’t know of any such accident.”

  She sensed a chink in Brewer’s macho armor, something in the way his voice dropped in volume yet rose in pitch as he quickly picked up his cigar, inhaled deeply, then looked out the window. Porky Pig was lying.

  “Niles Channel Bridge, Lt. Brewer. I understand the traffic snarl lasted about an hour.”

  Brewer rose and crossed to a steel file cabinet, shuffled through some manila folders, then returned to his desk shaking his head. “Got no accident report for that night, but I wouldn’t show it to you if I did have.”

  “An accident on that bridge would have been reported here, wouldn’t it?”

  “It most certainly would. What makes you think someone crashed that night?”

  She hesitated, squelching an urge to tell the police nothing. “Randy Dade says he didn’t get home until well after ten o’clock the night of the murder because a wreck tied up traffic at Niles Channel. He said there were no personal injuries and he also said that a patrolman stopped and helped untangle the mess and get traffic moving again. I looked in the newspaper and found nothing about an accident. Thought maybe the report failed to reach the paper.”

  “No report because no such accident happened at that time or place.”

  Katie felt a twinge of guilt over what she was about to say concerning Diane’s husband, but the words had to be said to help complete her investigation. “Then maybe you’ll want to check on Randy Dade’s alibi yourself. He had motive to kill his mother-in-law. If he wasn’t delayed on the bridge, he had opportunity. And from what you’re telling me, it appears that he’s lied about his movements on that night.”

  “Look lady, we don’t have unlimited manpower here. With the drug situation raging, it takes all the cops we can muster just to keep the streets safe for decent humanity. If I go investigating Randy Dade, or any others of the multitudes I’ve already talked to and who had motive and opportunity to off Alexa Chitting, I’d need to add extra staff and pay the regulars overtime. Got no money for such luxuries. You’ve gotta understand. We’re doing all we can.” He jumped up and stepped around to her side of the desk, dribbling cigar ash down his shirtfront.

  “And no doubt the solving of this case will make your name an eponym in South Florida if not throughout the state.” Katie turned before he could step any closer to her. “Thank you for your time, Lt. Brewer.”

  She left his office and the police station, wondering what it was between the police and private investigators that brought out the worst in both. Egos got in the way. The police hated losing face when someone solved a case outside the department. And private investigators? Brewer was right. She wasn’t working for free. If the ingenious police solved every case, she and Mac would be out of business. She grinned. The threat was minuscule. She consoled herself by remembering that the P.I.’s and the police had one important thing in common. At some time in their lives they both had decided to be on the side of the good guys.

  Katie drove to the beach, parked across from the Key West By the Sea condos and set out on foot, scanning the crowd of afternoon sunbathers. Bubba saw her before she saw him and joined her, approaching from behind.

  “Bubba! You startled me.” She eyed his filthy cutoff
s, the only clothing he wore. Had he sent everything to the laundry? She corked a smile. Today his hair had escaped its leather thong and it straggled heavy and matted around his tanned shoulders.

  “Private eyes startle easy.” He swiped the back of his hand across his nose as he sniffled. “What’s new?”

  “I might ask you the same thing. Anything to report?”

  “No.”

  “Want to work?”

  “No. But I will. Haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

  “That means you’ve skipped brunch, right?”

  “A guy needs breakfast. And lunch. Most important meals of the day. That’s what they told me in reform school.”

  “I can’t imagine that you progressed as far as reform school.”

  “You’re wrong. I got there all right. I had the aptitude for it, but I was a reform school dropout. They may still be looking for me in Rhode Island. What’s the job?”

  “One important thing. I want to know if there was a wreck on the Niles Channel Bridge on the night of Alexa’s murder. I found nothing in the newspaper about it. Police say they have no record of it.”

  “So why do you think it happened?”

  “Randy Dade says it did. I believe him. Anyway, I want to believe him.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  “Nothing else. One thing at a time, please.”

  “Will do. Any advance money?”

  “None. But the minute you produce, I’ll pay.”

  “Friendship means nothing to you?”

  “Friendship means everything to me. That’s why I pay only on receipt of information. Keeps my friendships intact.”

  “You’re a hard woman, Blondie.” Bubba turned on his bare heel, heading in the opposite direction, and she walked on for five minutes before returning to her car.

  Three years ago, had anyone told her she would one day be dealing with the Bubbas of the world, she would have called them crazy.

  SIXTEEN

  Katie gave herself a few more minutes to cool down after talking with Lt. Brewer before she walked to Captain Tony’s in Old Town. A Beatles’ rendition of “Hey Jude” blared from the jukebox in the hole-in-the-wall saloon that opened right on a level with the sidewalk, and she found herself inside its dim interior almost before she realized it. She stood for a moment beside the oval-shaped bar. Once her ears adjusted to the high decibels and her eyes to the low light, she noticed a yellow cat sleeping on the barstool next to her. To her right, a lounge area centered on a smoke-blackened fireplace, and the whole saloon was a perfumery of whiskey, spilled beer, and cigarette smoke.