Death By Sunken Treasure (A Hayden Kent Mystery Book 2) (18 page)

My finger hovered over the button to activate the phone. Instead, I made another U-turn and drove east again to Mallory’s office. I pulled into her office parking lot and shut down my car. My fingers drummed the steering wheel as I mentally outlined my argument. If I couldn’t convince Mal that Jake was guilty, I wouldn’t convince anyone else. Mental outline in place, I opened the car door and exited. I greeted the receptionist and walked back to Mal’s office. Her door was closed.

At my knock she said, “Come on in, Hayden.”

“Don’t tell me your receptionist announced me.” I was a bit crestfallen. Surprise was part of my game plan.

She pointed out the window to my car. “No, my vision is twenty-twenty. You sat out there long enough. I’m glad it’s not summer. You would have heatstroke.”

“What are you doing?”

Her eye roll should have warned me. She rocked back in her chair and opened her arms wide to embrace the papers on her desk. Then she pushed herself forward and picked up a file.

“Okay, I get the picture. Can you take a break? I want to bounce something off you, oh great guru of litigation.”

She rewarded my joke with a lift of her upper lip.

“You’re fighting a smile. Let it out,” I encouraged her.

“Won’t wait until tonight? Janice and I both agreed to meet with you.” She held up a hand in the universal stop position. “We talk. And you promised pizza. No welshing allowed.”

“Just a few minutes.”

Mallory sighed and shoved her pen behind her ear. She leaned over and upended an egg timer souvenir in the shape of the Key West Southernmost Point Buoy. “Five minutes. Then you are out of here.”

“You still have that thing? From our first trip to Key West in grade school?”

She pointed at the buoy. “Time’s wasting.”

I speed-talked through my meeting with Grant this morning and law enforcement’s suggestion that Dana killed her son. The expression on Mallory’s face told me I had her attention. I slowed my narrative. I pulled out my phone and logged on to my word-processing program. I pulled up the list that tied Jake to the murder and handed the phone to Mallory.

“Impressive.” She handed the phone back to me.

“But?”

“But the same points apply to Dana.” She paused a beat and shook her head. “I don’t think Dana murdered Mike, but you want me to look for holes, right?” I nodded and she continued, “Fine. Jake, motive: kicked out of the bar and the permit, knew about the second will and about the boat, had access to the tanks and the boat keys, conducted an affair with Dana.” Her eyes met mine. “An affair that ended years ago, but somehow became a source of contention again. And Jake was involved with drugs. The same drugs found in Mike’s system when he died. So you have to ask yourself, how do those apply only to him? What about Devon, Lisa…” She paused for a beat. “Dana?”

“Doesn’t work, Mal. Devon was out of town. Do you think Lisa would kill the father of her child and then file a suit to overturn the will? And Dana.” My heartbeat raced. “You didn’t talk to Dana after she found his body. Her devastation was no act. The killer has to be Jake.” I fiddled with the cuff of my shirt for a second. “I talked to him.”

Mallory lifted her face, her surprise obvious. “And?”

“He was weird, his emotions all over the place. I…well, I blurted out that I knew Mike pulled the bar and salvage permit from him. He flew into a rage. No other word for it.”

“You blame him? Why did you tell him that?”

“I didn’t plan to. It just happened.” I chewed my lip for a second. “His reaction though. It wasn’t anger, it was rage. Way over the top. I think he could have snapped. Killed Mike at the thought of losing his share of what he believed was his.”

“I agree. Devon and Lisa are iffy. And I’m sure Jake was angry.” Mallory stood and stretched her back. She walked over to her credenza and popped a coffee pod in the Keurig. She raised an eyebrow in my direction. I nodded. “I would have been angry. You would have been too. But I think you’re missing something.”

She returned carrying two cups and took the chair next to mine. “Dana,” she said in a gentle voice, “needed money. You seem to have blinders about that. Her son wrote her out of the will. He told her. He could change the beneficiary on the insurance. She needed to act before he did. She bought the prescription drugs. She had access to the tanks. She admits to being at the house. She admits she saw the boat. She has intimate knowledge of Jake, who had the strength and knowledge to act on her behalf. Hearing what you told me about the status of an ongoing investigation,” she leaned over and put her cup on the end of her desk, “it’s only a matter of time until…”

Mallory didn’t need to finish her sentence. Until Dana was charged with Mike’s murder. Everything Mallory said made sense. The south Florida sun glinted through the windows. The cheery brightness taunted me. I wanted a storm outside, a raging hurricane, to match the emotions churning in my heart.

“I can’t accept that viewpoint.” My jaw hurt from holding my teeth clenched.

Mallory laid a hand on my arm. “You don’t have to. Just be open to the possibility.”

My foot caught the chair rung as I rose and I stumbled. The remains of my coffee spilled onto the brightly colored handmade rug that decorated the wood floor in Mallory’s office. I knew she cherished it. She’d gotten the rug on a trip to Guatemala and she loved the colors. Tears burned the back of my eyes. My world was falling apart, and I’d ruined Mallory’s treasure. Wordlessly I stared into her face desperately wanting to apologize, but no words came. Instead, I grabbed a fistful of tissues from her desk and blotted the stain.

Mallory’s hand touched my shoulder. “Don’t worry. There is so much going on in that rug the stain won’t show. Go home, let the police take it from here.”

My head believed Mallory’s assessment made perfect sense. My heart rebelled.

I pushed the starter button on my car, backed out of the space, and turned my car towards Dana’s. I couldn’t hide the danger from her. She had to convince me she wasn’t involved in Mike’s death. The ride passed in a blur. I turned onto Dana’s street and parked under her house. Her car sat in its usual spot.

I got out of the car and climbed the stairs. My feet felt as heavy as my heart. I knocked on her door. Dana didn’t answer. I knocked again, harder, and pressed my ear to the panel to listen. Nothing.

A chill touched me and curled in my stomach. I tried the door. The knob didn’t turn. I picked up the dolphin statue. The key was missing. A bead of sweat made its way from my hairline to my chin. My heart raced in my chest. I walked around the wraparound balcony peering into the windows. When I got to her bedroom, I saw Dana. Her body was sprawled on the tile, her arms and legs twisted into strange angles.

I grabbed my phone and dialed 911. I tucked the phone between my shoulder and my chin. While I talked to the dispatcher, I tried all the sliders from the balcony. Sirens sounded in the distance. The sheriff’s substation was at the end of Dana’s street. The dispatcher said help was a few minutes away. I couldn’t wait. I dug my fingernails into the weather-stripping between the two parts of the slider and pulled while I wanted to pound my fists through the glass doors. The slider from the balcony to the guest room gave a little at the pressure. Using all my strength, I forced the glass door open, popping it from the track. I was shaking so badly I was afraid I would drop the panel. I managed to rest it safely against the side of the house resenting every second it delayed me getting to Dana.

I raced into the bedroom and lay my fingers on Dana’s neck. A faint pulse beat beneath my fingers. Relieved, I ran to the bathroom, intending to soak a washcloth in cold water and try to revive her.

The sink and the vanity were awash in pill bottles.

Empty pill bottles.

Thirty

My scream rang in my ears. My hands shook. I swept all the empty pill bottles into Dana’s sink. I didn’t want anyone else to see them. I wanted to hide them. If I had time I would have thrown them out, flushed them, anything.

A neatly folded washcloth hung over the heated towel rack. I yanked the washcloth down, taking the hand towel with it, held them under the spigot in the empty second sink, and let cold water fill the basin. My hands cramped when I squeezed out the excess water and ran back to Dana. Her head recoiled at the shock of the cold cloth. A quick flutter of her eyelashes rewarded my ministrations. My first aid training kicked in, and I turned her on her side in case she got sick.

In the background I heard the sound of feet charging up the concrete stairs. Before I got up to open the door, EMTs began pouring in through the slider opening. One of the men in blue cargo trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt gently steered me away from Dana. He walked me to the dining room, sat me down in a chair, and offered me a glass of water.

“She’s going to be fine.”

A frisson of anger shot through me. He hadn’t examined her. How did he have an opinion? I stood, wanting to force my way back to the bedroom. Make sure they took good care of her. He positioned himself in front of me.

“You can help her best by giving us some information. What happened here?”

His words caused me to drop back in the chair.

“I can’t tell you much.” From my vantage point in the dining room, I used Dana’s living room mirror to keep an eye on the doorway to her room. The rumble of voices rose and fell from the bedroom. The few words I did make out sounded more like a foreign language. Some kind of verbal Morse code. “There’s a pile of pill bottles in the bathroom.” The words cost me a lot. I knew if Dana attempted suicide, she could be Baker Acted. Condemned to stay in the mental health ward for seventy-two hours.

The EMT shouted something down the hall to his fellows and handed me the glass of water he held.

“What happened?” This time, his voice held an impatient edge. Two uniformed sheriff’s deputies entered the hall from the bedroom. I’d been so distracted I hadn’t seen them pass the front windows.

The EMT beckoned them over. The three held a whispered conference and then the EMT turned back to me. This time, I didn’t wait for him to ask.

“I called her earlier. She sounded tired, kind of slurry. Said she drank a glass of wine.”

“There’s an empty wineglass on the counter,” the EMT reported to the deputies. He turned his gaze back to me. “Continue.”

My left foot rubbed my right calf. My fingers laced and unlaced themselves of their own accord. “By the time we got off the phone, she sounded very…slurry.”

“Drunk?”

“No, slurry. Like someone talking around a thick tongue.”

He cut a glance at the deputies and nodded. Side by side, they walked down the hall to the bedroom.

My heart began to pound. Blood roared in my ears. The EMT beside me forced my head between my legs. The room stopped spinning, and I fought the pressure of his hand to straighten back up.

I brushed his hand off my shoulder. “I’m all right.”

He squatted in front of me. His gaze wouldn’t let me go. “She just lost her son, didn’t she?”

I nodded my answer. Dana’s voice cut through the general babble. I wanted to go to her. Figure out what words would prevent her transport to a psychiatric ward.

“Yes. She also found the body.” My voice sounded strange and clipped to my own ears.

The two cops came back around the corner and consulted with the EMT. One of the cops held a bag of empty pill bottles in his hand. I heard the click of a gurney locking into place. They were going to take Dana someplace. I opened my mouth to speak, demand I go with her, when one of the two cops turned and faced me. The same one who’d showed up the night Kristin tried to shoot Dana. I tried, but couldn’t remember his name. His nametag read “Ewing, J.R.” I stifled a smile born of anxiety. My parents loved the show
Dallas
.

J.R. stood respectfully in front of me. In answer to my unasked question, he lifted the bag in his hand. “Most of these are harmless, antacids and such. She emptied her medicine cabinet though. We are taking her in to neutralize the effects.”

That’s a lovely way to refer to a stomach pump. I nodded. “Her son’s memorial service is tomorrow.” I pushed back my hair and stared up at him. “Should I try to cancel it?”

He squatted down to my level. A series of emotions chased themselves across his face. “She’ll be hospitalized for seventy-two hours.”

My heart fell. They were going to Baker Act her. “I’ll do what I can to move the date,” I whispered.

“No. She may need the service to heal. I’ll see she is escorted there if she is able to go, and the doctor agrees.”

While we talked, the distinctive crunch of the pea rock announced the departure of the ambulance on its way to the hospital.

The house seemed lonely after Dana and the cops left. Feeling deflated, I straightened up as much of the disaster as I could, managed to wedge the sliding glass doors back into place, found Dana’s keys, locked up, and went home for the night. Somehow, I managed to remember to call Mallory and Janice and cancel our plans for the night. To compensate, I called Pizza Palace and ordered two pies delivered, one for each of them.

The bed rejected me. I tossed and turned, dreading the funeral service. Sunlight brightened my room when I finally gave up on the concept of sleep. My image reflected in the mirror as I put on my makeup frightened me. Dark rings circled my eyes and my skin had a muddy appearance. At least I didn’t have a giant zit on my nose. That would be the coup de gras.

Grant pulled up in his cherry red Jag to take me to the service. We drove in silence to the church. Grant came around the car to open my door. He helped me from the car and then took my elbow, pausing in the shade of a carambola tree.

“Officer Ewing called me last night. He told me about Dana’s suicide attempt.” The compassion in his eyes brought tears to mine.

“I tried to call her this morning.” I studied the root system of the tree. “They wouldn’t put the call through, but they told me she was okay.” I lifted my head to look fully into his face. “Do you think they’ll let her come?”

Grant took my arm and we headed toward the church. “Don’t be disappointed, but I doubt it.”

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the Episcopal church. Dana sat in the front row, leaning heavily on a plain-clothed Officer Ewing. She looked ravaged. Mourners filled nearly every seat. Mallory was holding seats at the aisle end of a pew two behind Dana. Devon sat at the end of a pew toward the back of the church. He stood and stepped out in front of me as I reached his row. He held out both his hands, palms down. I grasped them.

“I’m so sorry. Please give my sympathy to Dana.” He dropped my hands. “I don’t want to disturb her. Come by the bar tonight around eight. We’ll raise a glass in Mike’s memory.”

The lovely but sad service took a little more than an hour. At the end, everyone remained seated until Dana moved past. She paused at my seat. I gathered her into a hug. She pulled me closer and whispered, “Represent me at the reception.” Tears filled her eyes.

I nodded my assent. Mourners packed the church meeting room to overflowing. Dana had arranged for a private caterer who served Mike’s favorite foods. It seemed all of Marathon turned out to say goodbye. I watched everyone carefully. This was the perfect place to discover the killer. He couldn’t resist showing up. Unfortunately, the only people I saw were friends. Nothing stood out as the least bit suspicious.

Tiredness cascaded over me as Grant drove me home. I rested my head back against the leather headrest. The aroma of well cared for leather filled my nostrils. The next thing I knew, Grant stopped the car in my driveway.

“I’d invite myself in, but you need sleep more than company.” His eyes filled with concern.

I gave a sleepy smile. “Me and Tiger are going to take a nap.” The bad grammar was a joke between us. The skin around his eyes crinkled when he winced.

He leaned over and gave me a quick kiss. “Go. Sleep well. Call me.” He reached over me and opened the car door. I stepped out.

As the door closed behind me, he said, “Don’t go to The Petard. Not alone.”

I dragged my weary self up my front walk and inserted the key in the lock. The last thing I planned to do was go out anywhere. The door opened silently. I rounded the corner, disabled the alarm, and scooped up my cat. “Tiger, it’s naptime.”

He answered me by butting his head against the side of my chin before he nestled in the crook of my neck and shoulder. I kicked off my shoes in front of the alarm and padded barefoot to my bedroom. The hand not holding the cat manipulated the back zipper of my dress. When I reached my bed and lay Tiger down, I slipped the dress down around my hips and fell next to him.

A dusky light filtered through the window when I woke. It took me a second to figure out whether it was dusk or dawn. I stretched, knocking Tiger off my chest. He gave me a disgruntled look and curled into a tight ball where he fell.

Fully refreshed, I got up and headed for the shower. By the time the water did its work, I was restless and remembered Devon’s invitation. I located The Petard phone number in my cell phone browser and called the listed number. Devon answered on the second ring, his voice sounding different, muffled.

“I’m finishing up some paperwork. Come on over. I’ll pour you a beer.”

“Make mine wine and I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Bar’s closed in memory of Mike. Use the kitchen door.”

I yanked a brush through my hair, pulled on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a hoodie and headed out the door. Grant’s words not to go floated in my memory, but I pushed them away. I had questions that needed answering.

The Petard displayed no lights when I arrived. The signs and the parking lot were both shrouded in velvety darkness. I pulled around the side and parked next to Devon’s car. A luxury sedan sat under the banyan tree at the far edge of the lot. Loud music sounded from someplace down the street. Someone must be using the lot for overflow parking.

I keyed the alarm on my car and walked to the kitchen door. It opened at my touch. Emergency night-lights illuminated the large kitchen. The place smelled of deep fryers and fatty meat. A thick layer of grease coated all the surfaces. The door to the bar stood at the other end of the room. A faint light shown through the porthole window in the door. I made my way to the door, my shoes making sucking sounds and sticking to the floor with every step. How did this place pass the health inspection?

The closer I got to the bar, the more a smoky odor tickled my nose. It didn’t seem related to any item on the menu. Puzzled, I opened the door. A blast of heat seared my face. Wispy tendrils of smoke filled the room.

Flames danced in the rear of The Petard’s barroom. The acrid smoke stung my eyes. I backed up into the kitchen and pulled the door handle hard. It shut with a sucking sound. The roaring of the fire deafened me. It dawned on me that the door between the kitchen and bar provided fire and water protection.

In the brief instant I’d stood in the open doorway the kitchen had filled with smoke. It hung everywhere. Tendrils of greyish black swirled in the air. I put a hand out and grasped a counter to stay connected to something to lead me out. My hand touched a towel. Devon. Could he be trapped? He’d asked me to come. I’d spoken to him no more than a half hour ago. My fingers worked the nap of the towel under my hand. I had to try to find him.

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. After three false one-handed tries, my thumb managed to dial 911. The smoke choked me. “Fire in The Petard,” I managed to cough out.

“Emergency services are on the way. The alarm company called us. Are you in a safe place?” the dispatcher asked.

“Yes,” I lied. “Someone is in the building. In the office I think. The owner.”

The professional voice said, “Stay on the line with me and make sure you are safe.”

I responded by disconnecting the call and stuffing the phone in my pocket.

Worried that the firefighters would get to The Petard too late for Devon, I threw the towel over my arm. My hands groped along the rear wall of the counter until I found a spigot, drenched the towel, and wrapped the cloth around my face. My nose burned when I inhaled droplets of water with my first breath.

Concern emptied my head of everything except the floor plan of the bar. Devon and Jake used a little room in the center of the bar as an office. A line of shooting trophies stood on a shelf over the door. Floorplan fixed firmly in my head, I made my way to the door and touched the flat of my hand to it. Not hot yet.

I shoved the door open, and flames fed by the oxygen from the kitchen roared and shot in all directions. It took all my willpower to stay in the restaurant and let the door to freedom close behind me. Once the door shut, the flames tamed.

Black choking smoke filled the air. Flames filled my vision. They licked out from everywhere and leapt in a macabre dance.

Memory told me the bar lay to my left. I put a hand out, fishing around. My fingertips met something solid. I moved toward it, keeping a wary eye on the flames. They appeared closer now, some almost at my feet. Embers lit pathways in the air above me like Fourth of July sparklers run amok. Every breath hurt. I struggled to keep my breathing shallow. I didn’t want to draw the heated air too deep into my lungs.

I sidled closer to the solid object. My hand kept moving over the edge. I put the flat of my hand on the bar. The heat rising from the surface made me jump back. Something sticky instantly covered my palm. Lacquer on the bar melted into a sticky mess. I reached out again and allowed my fingertips to graze the bar top.

Unable to see anything I moved carefully to avoid falling over some unseen obstacle. My fingertips followed the edge of the bar around to an opening. Spreading my arms wide, I flapped my hands trying to grab something on each side to help guide me behind the bar. The knuckles on my left hand hit something that felt like wood. Must be the front of the liquor wall. A slick surface met my questing right hand, the steel of the back bar workspace.