Eden Palms Murder Read online

  “I’m so sorry, Zack. So terribly sorry.” I managed to rise and offer him a belated embrace. In the few moments he held me close, I smelled the familiar lime scent of his aftershave and I fought a temptation to kiss him. We were not lovers, only family friends who had dated now and then. A few years ago, before I met him, his father died and he’d given up his art studies at the university to take over the family business. I admired his selflessness.

  “Mother’s dead.” He repeated the words sotto voce and I still had trouble believing them, refused to believe them. He said no more, but terrible tension separated us. I fought reality. I forced myself to think about anything but Francine. My mind flashed to happier times as we both stood there mute.

  My CD release in Key West. Francine and Mom had been close school-girl friends and she’d visited us in Iowa many times, but I’d never met Zack. In the store where Francine had arranged for me to do a signing, I’d accidentally upset a stack of albums. Zack relieved my embarrassment by picking them up and putting them in order. Then he bought Greentree Blues.

  “Shall I sign it for you?” I asked.

  “Autograph it to Courtney, please.”

  “Ah, you have a lady friend.”

  He smiled and winked. “I live in possibility.”

  My ruse for learning his name failed. But the man was a reader, and perhaps a music lover. He’d quoted my favorite line from Emily Dickinson. So he had a girlfriend. His silver hair, his blue eyes, his sexy smile attracted me, but no man for me right now. My budding music career required my full attention. I forgot about my mother’s belief that people seldom met by accident. Later I wondered what fate had brought Zack and me together. For surely our meeting had been predestined.

  “Mother’s dead.”

  When he repeated the words for the third time I snapped back to the present. I wanted to run, but I forced myself to stand firm and face whatever came next.

  “Tell me what happened, Zack? How… When…” My voice faltered and my stomach churned.

  He pulled me to him, looking into my eyes and drawing me close before he stood back and met my gaze.

  “Zack, what happened to Francine? Can you tell me about it?” My questions flowed in a gushing torrent. “Did she suffer? Had she been ill? Why are the police here? When did it happen? I understand now why nobody met my plane.”

  Zack shook his head and sighed, overwhelmed by so many rapid-fire questions. “Bailey, believe me. I didn’t meet your plane because I didn’t know you were arriving tonight. Had I been aware, I or someone else would have been at the airport to welcome you, to drive you here.”

  His words stunned me. Why hadn’t he known of my arrival? Why hadn’t Francine told him? Why would she have kept my arrival a secret? Maybe he was trying to tell me I was no longer welcome.

  I stepped back from him. “I don’t understand any of this scene, Zack. Not any of it. Recently, your mother…” I hesitated, unwilling to mention Francine’s note or reveal its contents even to her son.

  Maybe I didn’t know Zack as well as I thought I did. What if he had caused the happenings that had made Francine feel threatened? A frisson of fear chilled me.

  “Zack, if I’m no longer welcome here, if you want me to leave, I’ll certainly go—now! Immediately!” I grabbed my parka as if I might depart that very moment. My words held more bravado than I felt. Without Francine I had no job, and I’d be hard put to find another place to stay tonight with the island already overcrowded with tourists demanding lodging.

  “Of course you’re welcome here. Never doubt that. Never.”

  “Then give me a clue as to why Francine kept my arrival a secret.”

  “I don’t know—have no idea. But since she invited you, I’m sure she intended to meet your plane. Her fall—”

  “Where? An accident? How did it happen?” Zack started to say more but stopped when someone knocked. He opened the screen door to a short and stocky man whose pudgy face reminded me of the Pillsbury Doughboy. Red hair. Gray suit. Shirt and tie. He stood as if he were balancing a crown on his head, or perhaps a chip on his shoulder, and I knew from his stance and his clothing that we faced a dignitary. Few locals dressed so formally.

  “Detective Cassidy,” Zack said, “please meet Bailey Green. Bailey’s arrived this evening from Iowa.”

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  Detective Cassidy’s flinty eyes matched his suit and I sensed his level gaze memorizing my appearance.

  “Will you come inside?” Zack stood back making room for Detective Cassidy to enter.

  “No, thank you. I want you to join me at your home for a few minutes. Miss Green will remain here, please.”

  “Of course,” I agreed. Detective Cassidy spoke in a soft, no-nonsense monotone that put me on guard even more than his probing gaze.

  Before leaving, Zack walked through the kitchen to the back door, opened it, then snapped the lock on the screen and turned to tell me goodbye. Air wafted inside, relieving the stuffiness that had collected in the cottage. I watched Zack follow Detective Cassidy from the cottage and turn toward Eden Palms before I locked the front screen door behind them.

  FOUR

  I dropped again onto the couch, and rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. Francine was dead. I waited for the tears to come. I’d lost a true friend, a dear friend, a mentor who’d bonded with me, who’d understood my need to test my wings as both a singer and a songwriter. Surely that’s why she’d offered me a job.

  Not only had I lost Francine, I’d also lost more of my mother. Years ago, when Francine became dependent on a dialysis machine, Mom donated one of her kidneys to her, saving her life. That part of my mother had died with Francine. I felt a hollowness, heavy, cold, and I thought about my interview with Quinn. Anything felt better than thinking about Eden Palms and Mother and Francine—and Zack. I willed my thoughts away from the present.

  “Quinn, did you always get along with your mother?” Quinn scowled before she smiled. “Mom and I have our problems, but tell all, Bailey. Sometimes it empowers people to know celebrities have problems similar to their own.”

  “Celebrities? You flatter me! We both know I’m no celebrity.”

  “I won’t take notes. Just tell me things that are important to you concerning you and your mother.”

  She tucked her notebook and ballpoint away. “Ben’s on a shrimp run—my husband. He’ll be gone a few days, so I have plenty of time right now”

  “And apparently, so do I.” I offered her a peanut butter cup and unwrapped another one for myself “I grew up dirt poor. Dad played dropout when I turned five and my brother, Chet, four. Mom worked at a laundry, scratching to make ends meet. All through Mom’s elementary and high school years, she and Francine had been best friends. Then Francine attended an Ivy League university, married well, and moved to Florida.”

  Quinn grinned. “Money. My favorite thing.”

  I didn’t tell Quinn about the kidney transplant or about Francine’s deep need to repay Mom’s kindness. No point in making such private matters public.

  “Francine’s kept track of us all these years. She knew I was singing on weekends and doing nightclub gigs in Des Moines. She knew I’d clerked in a music store since high school days and had saved my money for an electronic keyboard and a computer with music-writing software.”

  “Very special goals, considering so many people live from moment to moment dodging bills from maxed-out credit cards.”

  “Mom felt so proud of my singing, but she worried about me driving to Des Moines and home late at night to do the club gigs.”

  I didn’t tell Quinn of my own inner fear—fear that I wouldn’t make it as a performer or a songwriter

  “Mom had made many sacrifices for me during my growing-up years, and I appreciated them. But I’d chaffed at the live-at-home restrictions that were necessary if I saved any money. Mom wanted me to continue living at home. So I did and I made the best of it, paying Mom each month for room and boar
d.”

  “Good for you.” Quinn nodded. “And you sold your demo.”

  “Right. And my club gigs in Des Moines went well until cancer entered our lives. I set composing and performing aside and, against Mom’s protests, I stayed home full-time to care for her in her final illness. We lived on her savings that she had wanted to pass on to Chet and me at her death. Tenseness marred our relationship until she told me she wanted to leave her body to science.”

  “You mean to some research hospital or university?” Quinn asked.

  “Right. She felt that the study of her organs might find a cancer cure, felt that others might benefit from the knowledge her body might provide. So I Googled for organ donor information. I e-mailed organizations. Mom and I talked to the bigwigs in charge. The friction between us ended after we both willed our bodies to the University of Iowa’s body donor program.”

  “Any regrets?” Quinn asked.

  “I felt wary at first. I couldn’t imagine my heart pumping someone else’s blood or my kidneys helping some stranger pee. But those feelings passed. I’m pleased to be able to give others a chance for a better life. At the end, Mom and I bonded. She died peacefully.”

  After a time, I forced myself to sit up, forced myself to think about the here and now. What would happen next? The two people I loved and I needed most lay dead. I had no job. I had no place to live. I felt abandoned and afraid. Zack hadn’t called Francine’s death a murder. Who would want to murder Francine Shipton?

  Knowing I needed to unpack sometime, I decided it might as well be now. Zack hadn’t mentioned returning to the cottage tonight. Detective Cassidy hadn’t wanted my presence at the Shipton mansion. In fact, he’d ordered me to stay here. For a few moments, at least, everyone had left me on my own. My nervousness grew and I closed and locked both outside doors.

  The cottage looked the same as I remembered it from my previous visit. Green fiber mats decorated the parquet floors, and jewel-toned cushions covered the rattan couch and chairs. White walls helped give it a typical Florida Keys ambience. Zack had done charcoal caricatures of his acquaintances, and they hung in bamboo frames on the living room wall. The likeness of his mother showed a grand dame wearing a tiara, dressed in a flowing caftan, and sitting on a throne. She held a gold-knobbed scepter in her right hand.

  The charcoal likeness gave a gentle spoof at Francine’s reign as president of the Key West Women’s Club. Only outsiders laughed at this group. Insiders knew the women were devoted to Key West and worked hard to ensure and promote its welfare. They had proved their support many times by their projects to protect and enhance the island. When they wanted something to happen, it happened—amidst fanfare, hoopla, and good times.

  Having brushed against a sketch near the doorway, I stopped to straighten it. Tucker Tisdale and his wife, Sarah. Zack had presented them ensconced on the porch swing where they sat in the early evening, enjoying the trade wind and chatting with neighbors who passed by. Francine had said she could set her watch by their appearance on the porch, knowing they had finished their TV dinners and that Wheel of Fortune had ended.

  I rolled my largest suitcase into the bedroom, pulled a pine rack from the closet and heaved the suitcase onto it. My electronic keyboard had arrived ahead of me, and I guessed Francine had placed it in the corner, but tonight I ignored it. Francine’s death left me with no heart for thinking about music or about unpacking, but I unzipped the lid and opened my suitcase. Maybe the wrinkles would fall from my shirts and shorts by morning and I wouldn’t have to iron. Iron is a four-letter dirty word here in Paradise. Key West is wash-and-wear country.

  I’d learned to protect my clothes by encasing shoes in shower caps before packing them, so now I removed the plastic before placing the shoes on the closet floor. I stopped. Enough. I couldn’t continue this task tonight. Let it wait until morning. Then I heard a noise at the back door. Was it a scratch? Or a true knock? My thoughts hit red alert. Maybe I’d imagined the sound. I held my breath and listened. No. I heard a second scratching.

  I snapped off the light although the window shade had been drawn to the sill and nobody could have peered inside. Feeling my path to the doorway, I reached around the jamb to click off the living room light before I crept through the kitchen toward the back door. The scratching sounded again and my teeth began to chatter.

  “Come on, Bailey, what’s the buzz? Open up.”

  The hissing voice preceded a light knock.

  “Who’s there?” I whispered, although I wondered why I should be frightened with so many policemen prowling the area. To surprise the intruder, I flipped on the outside light. A dark-haired man stood propping a bike on its kickstand.

  “Bailey, let me in.” The man turned and whispered his order again—the young man in jeans and tank top I’d seen near Courtney’s house. Now, I recognized my brother.

  “Chet!” I shouted.

  “Shhh!” he cautioned and stepped inside. “No more Chet Green stuff. My new name’s Mitch Mitchell. That’s the handle the feds gave me, the name people down here call me. The government’s given me a new identity and helped me find a place to live. Hey! They’ve even given me some start-up money.”

  “Oh, Chet.” I hugged him and gave him a kiss. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you.”

  “Don’t let anyone hear you call me Chet. Total secrecy, Sis. That’s the price tag on my existence. I’m Mitch Mitchell. Forget that and you’ll blow my cover.”

  “Come in and sit down. Ch—Mitch.” I made sure all doors were closed and all shades drawn before I turned on the living room lamp. “The black hair’s okay, but the eyebrow ring. Was that really necessary?”

  “I thought it might strengthen my disguise. In Iowa, Chet Green wasn’t a body piercing type.”

  “You must have lost twenty pounds.”

  “A guy tends to drop weight when he stops eating. I did the hair-dye job myself. You can hardly tell it, can you?”

  “Hardly,” I lied.

  “And the tattoo on my arm—a guy on Stock Island did that. My tribute to Iowa. Tattoos or the lack of them are a thing cops down here notice, and Chet Green didn’t have any in Iowa.”

  I eyed the cornstalk tattoo and shook my head. “Realistic. But what are you doing here?”

  Until tonight I hadn’t a clue as to Chet’s whereabouts. He’d disappeared from my life. A death-bed promise to Mom made me responsible for his well-being. I’d given Mom enough problems during my lifetime, and I felt looking out for Chet would help relieve my guilt.

  I’d been the kid who set the whole town searching when I accidentally locked myself in the library over Labor Day weekend, the kid who flunked math tests involving numbers of more than two digits, the kid who study hall teachers caught reading modern novels instead of Shakespeare. All things considered, I thought it only fair that I atone for my former waywardness and my present music-career stubbornness. I’d wanted to make Mom’s last days peaceful, so I’d promised to look after Chet—who had no desire to be looked after.

  I repeated my question. “What are you doing here, Chet?”

  “You should know the answer to that one. I’m keeping a low profile. Only two of the druggies I testified against back home are in prison. Others are still out there somewhere cooking meth. They’ll be gunning for me when I return to testify against them, but I’ll go back when the police say the time’s right. Until then, Key West’s my new home.”

  “Why Key West? Out of the whole world, why here? Why a place you’d never seen before?”

  “I liked your description of the island, the great mix of people. Tolerant people. You made it sound like no matter what lifestyle a guy chooses, he can play it cool, hide out here, and never be noticed.” Chet blushed and looked at the floor. “And I chose Key West because I heard you were coming here. You’re the only family I have left, but we have to make sure nobody knows we’re related.”

  “I missed you at Mom’s funeral.” His mention of family ties fueled my sarcas
m.

  “Gee, Sis, I didn’t dare show up for that, much as I loved Mom. I hated missing that last goodbye, hated leaving you to handle all the grief and sadness alone, all the details of closing the apartment.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “That’s pure truth. If I’d shown my face at the church or the cemetery, Bubba Bronson’s gang would have shot me on sight. Believe that. They’d have tossed my carcass to rot in some hog manure lagoon. That’s where police found Ron Halstead’s remains—when they finally found them.”

  I shuddered. “I understand, Ch—Mitch. We’ll survive this. Somehow. Do you need money?”

  “No. I have a small stipend from the feds and I have a job.”

  “Where are you working?”

  “At Two Friends Patio. I’m a dishwasher. The boss says I can work up to waiter if I show for work on time, reveal some talent for getting along with people.”

  “Sounds good, Mitch.” I said his new name without stuttering. “Where are you living—somewhere nearby?”

  “Yeah. I’m shacking up at a one-room apartment on Caroline Street—sometimes. Sometimes not. Courtney Lusk, your friendly Realtor across the street, handles the rental. Some cool babe. She even gave me part-time work at her place—caring for the lawn, whacking coconuts and dead fronds from the palms. But mostly I hang out here and there with friends.”

  Some kid I’d promised to look out for! “I want to see your apartment. If you don’t have adequate housing in a safe area…”

  “You can come see it. Maybe. Maybe sometime. Don’t want to give anyone reason to associate the two of us.”

  “I suppose that’s the safe way, but…”

  “You’ll see me around now and then. When I’m not washing dishes, I do odd jobs. I made it a point to work for Francine and Courtney in your neighborhood. I may begin to mow lawns for Dr. Gravely and Mr. Tisdale, too. I’ve talked to them. They’re going to let me know soon.”