Killer in Control Read online

  Chapter 3

  Blood stains. Rex’s boat. The words hit my eardrums then ricocheted, hanging suspended in air for a few moments before I allowed them to invade my brain. Even then, I tried to deny their import. Were the police trying to lay Abra Barrie’s murder on Rex’s doorstep?

  “Rex?” I hesitated. “The police were wrong, weren’t they? Or if they found blood on your boat, it must have been fish blood, or maybe blood from an injured gull or pelican. I remember how those birds hang around boats waiting for a handout.”

  “Police have confirmed it’s human blood,” Rex stood. “They called me last night with that news.”

  “Rex!” Janell exclaimed. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “Didn’t want to upset you any more than you already were upset. There has to be a logical explanation for that blood. I know nothing about it or how it might have been smeared on our boat. Haven’t been around Poinsettia Two for a couple of weeks. Haven’t had time to use it.”

  “Poinsettia Two?”

  “Yeah. We named the boat after our B&B. Thought the name painted in red on the boat side would be good advertising.”

  Janell stepped closer to Rex and he curled his arm around her waist, drawing her closer. “We drove to the marina early this morning,” Janell said. “Saw the bloodstains ourselves, saw where the police had scraped samples from the console and the deck. I’m with you, Kitt. I thought it must be animal blood—fish or fowl. Maybe the police made a big mistake in their lab.”

  “I doubt that,” Rex said. “And it’ll only be a matter of time until they do DNA testing.”

  “We’ll all have to undergo tests?” Janell asked.

  “I’m guessing we might,” Rex said. “Or maybe just me. I want to get back to the marina and clean up the mess, but when I asked the police for permission, they refused. They want to snap more pictures. Said I couldn’t do the cleaning until tomorrow morning. You can bet I’ll be at the marina early with a scrub brush and bucket.”

  Janell scowled. “And in the meantime, all the curious sensation seekers on the island can go ogle the boat and take their own pictures to send up north to their relatives and friends.”

  “So everyone connected with your B&B is under scrutiny,” I said. “Not just you and Janell, Rex. Everybody who works here. And then there may be an unknown serial killer to consider. I’ve been reading The Sociopath Next Door. I think it’s a book everyone should read. It concerns a type of person who’s been born without a conscience.”

  “Be real, Kitt,” Janell said. “In college, I studied a lot of psychology books and articles—even wrote a thesis on serial killers. I never read anything about people being born without a conscience.”

  “It’s been quite a few years since you were in school,” I said. “This theory—no the book I read said it was more than a theory, that it’s a fact. Some people are born without a conscience. The serial killer, if there is one at large in Florida, may be a sociopath.”

  “Hmmm,” Rex muttered. “I’m not doubting your word, Kitt, or the book you read, but I can’t imagine a person without a conscience.”

  “That’s because you have a conscience as do Janell and I and most of the people we associate with. It’s hard to imagine something you’ve never been aware of—especially such a basic thing. Some scientists now believe that one person out of twenty-five is born conscience free—that they can do anything they please—lie, cheat, steal—and they feel no guilt or remorse.”

  “At that rate there’d be a serial killer on every corner,” Janell said. “I don’t buy into the ‘no conscience’ theory.”

  “Sociopaths are frequently spotted early on as children who get their kicks from abusing animals. They do horrendous things to defenseless creatures.”

  “But there are laws against that kind of thing,” Janell said.

  “Many times adults overlook such crimes with a kids-will-be-kids attitude.”

  “And later those kids turn to abusing people?” Rex asked.

  “Not always. When the abusers grow up, they may use their lack of conscience in many other ways. They may manage to set themselves up as authority figures to be respected and admired. According to the book I read, they’re the world’s liars, the flatterers who can mesmerize you with a guileless gaze until you tend to believe their words.”

  “We all know people who might fit those categories,” Janell said. “But we don’t call them serial killers.”

  “They don’t always turn to serial killing to express themselves. You probably know friends who’ve experienced rotten situations in their everyday lives. A sociopath could be a dirty-dealing co-worker who steals others’ ideas. Or he/she could be the CEO of a humongous corporation who embezzles the profits and bilks his workers out of their life savings, believing he’s done nothing wrong.”

  “And smiles all the way to the bank—as the saying goes.” Rex laughed. “There’s lots of that going on.”

  “Poke fun if you want to,” I said, “but sometimes my instincts warn me of people to beware of and I give them a wide berth. It’s called self-preservation.” I grinned at them. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t seek my pity. Don’t flatter me. Or I’m likely to put you on my ‘watch-out-for-that-person’ list.”

  Neither Janell nor Rex laughed, but I sensed them humoring me and I changed the subject. “We need to narrow our thoughts to the here and now,” I said. “Can you think of anyone working at the B&B who would have had both the motive and the opportunity to murder Abra Barrie?”

  “No,” Janell said. “Our workers are our friends. Friends we’ve known for years. Hella, for instance. She retired years ago from teaching public school music in Nebraska. Said she’s lived frugally all her life and has come to the Keys for a change of scene. She’s lived in our B&B for five years.”

  “You called her a permanent renter,” I said. “Why’s she permanent?

  “Because she asked to be,” Rex said. “We’ve given her a reduced rate because she pays her rent on time and she even insists on taking care of her own laundry and room cleaning.”

  “We’d hate to lose Hella,” Janell added, “even though some people find her a bit strange.”

  Rex stepped inside, then returned to freshen our iced-tea glasses and grinned, commenting on Janell’s last statement. “More than a bit strange, I’d say.”

  “Strange in what way?” I bit into another cookie.

  Rex thought for a few moments before he tried to explain. “Hella claims to be a clairvoyant—you know one of those gifted people who can read tarot cards and see future happenings before they take place. But hey! Hella’s a kind and honest person and she wouldn’t hurt a soul. If she believes she can see into the future, I say more power to her.”

  “Agreed,” Janell said. “She’s even president of a nationally known clairvoyant’s organization. She gets lots of mail. Guess she’s highly respected in that field.”

  “She sounds very interesting, Janell. An authority figure in her field. I’m eager to meet her.”

  “She has fun with her talent, too,” Janell said. “On some evenings, she goes to Mallory Dock for the sunset celebrations. I’m guessing she reads a few palms to help pay her rent.”

  “She ever read yours?” I asked.

  “No.” Janell laughed. “Nor Rex’s. We’ve never been deeply involved in fortune telling.”

  “Some people really are psychic,” I said. “A psychic from Chicago once helped Chief Gilmore solve a case in Iowa. But you mentioned a person working for you named Phud. The name fascinates me. What sort of a person is he?”

  “Phud’s just a nickname for Ph.D.” Rex grinned. “He’s has a doctorate degree and he’s a professor emeritus from Yale.”

  “He’s a highly respected botanist,” Janell said. “A walking green thumb. We’re lucky to have him as our gardener. He’s a busy person, but he fits us in when he has time. He writes a weekly column on plants and gardening for The Citizen and he lectures once a month for garden club member
s both here at West Martello and in Marathon’s new center. You’ve been to West Martello years ago. Remember?”

  “Of course. A very neat place.”

  “Right. And Phud’s a very neat person. I volunteer at West Martello at least once a week, passing out brochures and showing guests the grounds. I’ll give you a special tour before you leave. The club’s made some changes, added lots of new plantings since you last saw the place.”

  “I’ll look forward to that. But let’s keep our talk on murder suspects. So there’s Hella and Phud, both respected authority figures in their fields. What about the combo musicians? Old friends, too? And how many of them are there?”

  “There are three of them and they’re all old friends.” Rex poured himself yet another glass of tea and offered me another cookie. “There’s Ace our drummer. That’s his trap set on the bandstand. He leaves it here to save having to move it back and forth and also for the advertising it might bring him. You may have noticed his logo on the drum head—THE ACE—Freshest Shrimp in the Keys.”

  “So shrimping’s his real business,” I said.

  “Right.” Janell nodded. “He calls himself a drum bum, but he’s a serious and respected businessman. He’s a happy-go-lucky sort and he often shares some shrimp with us. It’s fun having him around.”

  “When he is around,” Rex added. “Sometimes I think he misses as many gigs as he plays. When his boat, The Ace is on a run, he’s aboard, charting the course, winching in the nets.”

  “So what do you do without a drummer?”

  “Hella fills in for him.”

  “Psychic and drummer. Some combination. That I want to see!”

  Janell pushed her chair under the table, making it clear she was ready to go back inside. “Hella used to teach music and she does okay on the drums. Keeps a steady beat. Says she played in an all-girl dance band for a while after she left college—answered an ad in Downbeat, hired on with an all-girl swing band. Says she went on the road with them, playing one-night-stands.”

  Rex broke in before Janell could say any more about Hella and her drumming. “Then there’s Mama Gomez, Mama G we call her, another old friend and another talented lady.”

  “I remember you mentioned you told Abra Barrie that Mama G might let Abra sit in for a few numbers on Friday night.”

  “Yes,” Janell said. “Of course, Mama Gomez might have had other ideas about that when the time came. She has a mindset of her own. If she wants something to happen, it’ll usually happens. If she wants something not to happen, it usually doesn’t happen.”

  “That’s a kind way of saying she’s opinionated and bossy.” Rex laughed. “Janell gets along with her better than I do.”

  “I like her, but I also need her. In addition to playing the piano, she has secret recipes for the sandwich fillings I serve almost every night at our snack bar. She claims to have smuggled the recipes into Florida from Cuba. I’ve never dared ask for the recipes, but sometimes I can taste capers and black olives and ground conch. In addition to making sandwich fillings and playing piano, she also cleans on some days at the Lighthouse Museum.”

  “A busy bee,” I said.

  “Most service people in Key West hold several jobs,” Rex said. “They have to if they’ve formed the bad habit of eating.”

  Janell nodded. “Mama G has her fingers in lots of pies, but murder isn’t one of them.”

  “So there’s one more musician you’ve not mentioned. Who?”

  “Teach Quinn the bass player.” Janell said. “Everyone calls him Teach because he talks nonstop, spieling facts about Fort Jefferson near the Tortugas. You remember going there, right?”

  “Right. Why’s this guy so interested in Fort Jefferson?”

  “He’s deeply in debt for his seaplane. He makes his living flying tourists to the fort for day trips and he gives them information on the old fort at every opportunity, hoping they’ll pass some of it on to friends and thus give him some word-of-mouth advertising.”

  “Probably tells them more info than they’re interested in.” Rex began stacking our dishes and trays. “Teach’s short and he’s sensitive about it. Really ticks him off if I call him a banty rooster.”

  “That nickname might tick me off, too, Rex, but thank you both for all the mini-intros. I’ll try to remember them when I meet these key people tomorrow—I will be meeting them tomorrow, won’t I?

  “Sure,” Janelle said. “They’ll be hard to avoid.”

  “Then I’ll feel that I almost know them. But I won’t let on that we’ve discussed them. What I want to know now is if you think any of these people had a motive for killing Abra Barrie.”

  “No strong motive that I can see, that’s for sure.” Rex picked up our trays. “The woman came here to talk up the use of off shore wind turbines. She pointed out the nation’s need for renewable energy and she told of other on-the-seaside communities that were using the turbines effectively. That set Ace and Teach on edge immediately.”

  “They’re both very possessive of the sea,” Janell said. “You’d think they owned it, or at least a big share of it.”

  “They thought wind turbines would pollute the sea?” I asked as Janell and I began gathering the rest of our supper things.

  “Ace thought the turbines’ sound—or the vibrations from them might affect water in his shrimping area. Guess you can’t fault a guy for worrying about anything that might interfere with his livelihood.”

  “And Teach?”

  “Teach felt the sight of huge turbines might ruin the tourist business for him as well as for everyone else.” Rex nodded. “Key West depends on tourists. I think Teach also visualized accidentally flying his plane into one of those whirling blades. I saw him arguing with Abra Barrie last Thursday night. I think he was trying to talk her into booking a flight to Fort Jefferson, and I’m guessing her schedule didn’t allow time for that. Either that or she wasn’t interested.”

  “That’s two viewpoints for you.” Janell said. “I know you must be exhausted after your long trip, Kitt. Why don’t we call it a night?” She led the way to the back door while Rex walked to the torches and extinguished them. For a few minutes the odor of lighter fluid hung in the air, before I followed Janell into the kitchen.

  “I’m ready to crash. That’s for sure. But are you saying Ace and Teach are the only two working here who objected to the turbine idea?”

  “Far as I know.” Once inside, Janell gathered the place mats and gave them a shake out the back door. “But I certainly don’t consider their objections as motives for murder. That’d be a far stretch.”

  I agreed and I was ready to retire for the night, I told them goodnight and headed upstairs. Listening to Janell and Rex talk had shifted my mind from my problem to theirs. Until now. Before I showered, I pulled my dad’s medallion from my pocket and tucked it into the velvet bag with his diary. After I showered and slipped between the sheets, I lay awake for a long time wondering if the perp had lived or died. I didn’t know his name. Didn’t want to know his name. Didn’t want to know any more about him—only if he’d lived or died.

  Whenever my thoughts threatened to go to Shelby Cox, I reined them in, refusing to let him remain a part of my life. I tried to tell myself I wouldn’t miss him. Who needed Shelby Cox?

  Chapter 4

  I realized I was having a nightmare. I always know. I tried to fight my way to wakefulness but dark fragments of the dream clung to my mind. I turned face down onto my pillow to muffle my crying as a death-like miasma floated like black fog in the periphery of my conscious mind.

  The snake hangs dangling around his neck. Its skin touches his skin. I shiver in the August heat, imagining what a snake skin would feel like against my neck.

  The snake’s head sways from side to side.

  Donald keeps walking toward me.

  Donald. That’s the boy’s name. Don’t know his last name. It’s long and too hard to remember. Mama doesn’t like for me to play with Donald, but she never says
exactly why.

  “Why not, Mama?”

  “He’s too old to be your playmate, Kitt.”

  “Why does being older make a difference?”

  “He should find boys his own age to play with.”

  Mama makes me curious about Donald.

  Right now I’ve never been so scared, but I stand straight and put on a brave act for Donald—and for me. My dad’s a cop and he says acting brave will help make me brave. I try to believe him. Cops know about stuff like that. But in my heart I doubt. Being tall for my age also helps me act brave. I’m three years old and Donald’s five, but I’m taller than he is.

  I want to run home, but I force myself to stay. He steps carefully from stone to stone, crossing the shallow stream that flows through this meadow on its way to Ott’s pond. Sometimes in the hot weather of summer the stream disappears until the cooler weather of fall. Although the meadow and the pond are only a block from my house, they are off limits for me.

  “Katherine, you’re not to go near Ott’s pond. You hear me?”

  Mama’s voice is loud and clear when it replays inside my head. Mama ties lots of nots into my life. How can I miss hearing her?

  “Yes, Mama, I hear you.”

  “Promise me you won’t go near Ott’s pond. It’s deep this time of year. Over your head. You could fall in and drown. Promise me. I want to hear you say the words.” She stands with her hands on her hips waiting.

  “I won’t go near the pond, Mama.” I promise, but I cross my fingers behind my back. Promises don’t count when you have crossed fingers. That’s what the big girls tell me and I believe them.

  Now Donald reaches my side of the creek, but I don’t back away. And I don’t run. If I run, I can reach Mama and the safety of my back yard quickly. I can probably outrun Donald, especially since my legs are longer than his and he has the snake hanging around his neck. But I stand there waiting. Yesterday he promised to let me watch him feed his snake. He said I didn’t have to touch it. He promised he’d do the touching and I could stand there and watch.