Death in Her Eyes (A Mac Everett Mystery Book 1) (13 page)

“Two hundred fifty a week isn’t bad, if you can stand to be around her,” I replied

“Oh I can stand it. She brings me a couple students now and again, some stock tips and her daughter isn’t too bad to look at either. What can I do for you Everett?” Canning said as he took a stool and offered me another one.

“I’m looking into the Stephanie Hunt murder,” I began. “I hope you can tell me something about Mr. and Mrs. Hunt.”

“Humph- I can tell you a shit load about those two. She was a whore and he was her rich as shit doormat,” he spat out the words. “What else you want to know?”

“Specifics?” I asked.

“I seen the way she treated him and he just took it. You just never know about people. Guess he just had enough.”

“What would you say if I told you he didn’t do it?

“I’d be relieved. I liked the guy, even felt sorry for him. That wife of his flirted and hung on every swinging…”

“I get the picture. Any names you’d care to share?”

“You didn’t get it from me, you understand, but she was stepping out with a couple guys that hang out here. Names -there are a bunch of them, but keep
my
name out of it.”

“The names came to me in a dream.”

He chortled and leaned in close. “I seen her with Howie Neal, he’s the head vet out at the marine park. He was mad as hell when she wouldn’t knock boots with him. More recently I seen her hanging all over Derrick McArthur.”

“The basketball player?”

“Yep. She hung out up at the main club house with her girl friends, but if you ask me it was a cover for the hook up of the week.”

“Anyone else? Anyone get upset when she moved on to the next player?”

“There was some foreign duffer. He was a young guy, but she hung around with him a lot. He’s the son of some former Caribbean dictator. Taylor’s his name. He was real mad when she dumped him. He tore up the clubhouse bar one night. He paid up and apologized. I ain’t seen him since.”

“How about the girlfriends, which of them should I talk to?” I asked. I was getting more than I’d hoped.

“You should check with Rad about her friends. She didn’t play much golf. She was more a tennis slut. Rad’ll have the skinny on that crowd. I just know some of them are as loose as her and you can take that to the bank.” There wasn’t any malice in his voice, but maybe a hint of disappointment. “One of her friends got sued or something. She lost her job, I hear.”

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Greer, Sharon Greer. She’s one of Stephanie’s friends, or I guess was.”

“Know what happened?” I asked.

“Naw, I just heard some of the guests talking about it,” he said.

“What about Cary Hunt? What can you tell me about him?” I asked.

“He seems a good guy. He’s a scratch golfer. He played here, maybe twice a month. Always was polite and quiet, good tipper. He came out to get his wife a few times when she’d had one too many at the bar. He never made a scene.”

He took a sip of his water. The frosty plastic bottle looked pretty damn good. It was hot.

“What have you heard, really?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Mr. Hunt was a nice guy. It’s his wife I could do without.”

“Come on, what have you heard?” I insisted.

“Well, there are some people really pissed with him over some investment advice.”

“I thought he was the golden boy in that area,” I said.

“I thought so too, but what I hear is he was into something new and some people weren’t happy. He was borrowing money and even had his wife “entertaining” the investors, if you know what I mean.”

He gave me a slow motion wink and I got the idea. It fit with what I’d heard about Stephanie Hunt.

“Know how much or what he was doing?” I asked.

“Naw, I just heard some of the guests talking about it,” he said. “He was bugging them about money and they were bitching about it. The Levins even complained to the board.”

“What happened?”

“The general manager told him to stop. I hear he did.”

“Anyone I should talk to about that?”

Canning filled me in on what he knew, which wasn’t much, long on speculation, and smelled like sour grapes. He said I should talk to Max Levin to get the low-down. I left Canning as an older woman, Mrs. Levin no doubt, strolled through the door.

I headed over to tennis shop to find Rad Wozninek. The air blasting in the Tennis Shop, called ‘The Hut’, was a welcome relief from the Central Florida humidity. The only person in the place was a tall pert babe in her twenties. With that hot body, dressed in a tennis skirt and figure-hugging white shirt she could’ve been a model or a call girl. She pretended to look at shoes, but she was really checking me out. When she was sure I was looking her way, she bent over to check out a pair of shoes on the bottom of the display. I gave her a noncommittal smile and went to the counter. I looked around, but no one was in the back.

“If you’re looking for Rad he’s giving a lesson,” the coquette said as she sidled up to me putting her hand on my shoulder. “You’re cute,” she said. “Maybe I can help you. I’m Candi.”

“Of course you are, but I need the tennis pro, not the local talent,” I replied.

I didn’t have time for games and this one was all game.

“You’re funny. I’m Candi Levin. I’m Rad’s next lesson so that’s how I know he’s out on the court.”

She turned her head and bit her lower lip like in a bad ‘40s movie. It might work on the trust fund crowd she apparently ran with, but her charm was pretty much lost on me. As I was about to tell her off, a broad shouldered, tanned guy came through the door. Dressed in white Adidas shirt and shorts he strode confidently up to me, a pair of tennis rackets in his hand.

“Jon at the golf shop said you were looking for me?” he said. It was more a statement than a question.

“Yeah, I left you a message too. I’m…”

Ignoring me, he turned to Candi and said, “Get out on court three and warm up. I’ll be out in fifteen minutes. The ball launcher is set up for you.”

Turning back to me, he smiled as Candi sulked out the door and said, “Sorry about that. Her mother will be watching from the practice green and if she’s not out on the court she’ll accuse me of copping a feel…or worse.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean,” I said.

“Rad Wozninek,” he said as he extended his hand. There was no accompanying smile. “What can I do for you?” he asked. His nondescript accent was only apparent on the letter w.

“I’m looking into the Stephanie Hunt murder for the family. I was hoping you could tell me something about her and fill me in on some of her friends.”

“Why? I thought her husband was arrested,” he snapped.

What passed for a marginal smile quickly disappeared.

“Mr. Hunt has been arrested, but there are always two sides to a story,” I said. “Mind if I ask a few questions?”

The tennis pro crossed his arms, hands in opposite armpits and drew up to his full height. I knew I wouldn’t force anything out of this man without a rubber hose. “I was wondering, could you could tell me who some of her friends were? I saw a lot of pictures in her home of her playing tennis and a number of trophies. She seemed to have won a lot of tournaments. Would some of those pictures have been taken here? Did you coach her?”

Since I hadn’t assaulted him directly, Rad relaxed a little.

“She played here and in tournaments around the state. I coached her.” He puffed up a little. “She did well,” he replied.

Vanity always works. Play to a subject’s vanity and they open like a ripe melon.

“Did you coach her friends as well?” I asked, leading him where I wanted him to go.

“Yes, but they are not as talented. Stephanie was a natural athlete. She might have played the circuit if she’d tried harder.” Rad’s disappointment was evident in his face as well as his voice.

“How about the others, her friends? Are they any good?”

“No, not like her, they party too much. Sharon could be champion, but she’s not interested. All work, that one.”

“Tawni and Libby?”

“Tawni Williams and Libby Davis, and Sharon, those three were always with Stephie.”

“Sharon?”

“Sharon Greer,” he replied.

“Do you think they’d talk to me?” I was going slowly, and he was opening up. His arms had fallen down by his sides as he leaned against the wall. He took out a cigarette and I almost choked. It was a Djarum Black.

“Sure, they talk to you. You a good looking guy,” he said. His accent seemed to fluctuate with the intensity of his words. “Maybe they do more than talk.” He paused to take a puff on the strange butt.

I watched him a moment then said, “I’ve seen never seen a cigarette like that before. It smells good too. What is it?” I asked. The butt smelled like a sweet, burning sock.

“It smells like shit and tastes worse. It’s a Djarum Black. Sharon Greer asked we get them. All these women smoke them. I don’t much like, but I get them cheap,” Rad replied taking another froufrou drag. The odor of cloves nearly choked me, but I had another lead. If it was me, I’d rather give up smoking cold turkey than smoke those things.

“Who would want to kill Mrs. Hunt?” I asked.

“Who knows, she was not a faithful wife. She had many lovers. I was with her myself once. Perhaps...”

“What is it Mr. Wozninek? I asked.

“Mrs. Hunt and her friends... they...”

“What is it Mr. Wozninek?”

“These women, some of their husbands too, they put down bets.”

“Somebody is making book here? Who is it?”

“No not here, I say too much, but…” he looked around, “I hear both Mr. and Mrs. Hunt were both in the red, Ms. Greer too.”

“You know how much they owed?”

“No, but Mrs. Hunt was a real desperado, you know, she bets big then can’t pay. She was off the board.”

The fact the guy was using betting terms made me wonder what kind of country club these guys were running. In the red, desperado, off the board, that was bookie lingo.

“Who is it? Whose laying off bets?” I asked.

“Be careful,” he said. “Two people you should talk to. One of the members here used to play basketball, Mr. McArthur and the other one thinks he’s a player,” he said. “His name is Luck Taylor. People here are not too happy.”

He spat out the words. His anger forced Rad’s accent to become heavier. This was a sure clue he was telling the truth. “Do you know who was most pissed off?” I asked.

“Mr. Levin and Mr. Neal were very angry. Mr. Taylor got in fight at bar here when Stephanie told him his juice was lost.”

Rad given me an important clue, losing your juice is shorthand for giving up a bookmaker’s commission. Taylor was the bookie, but I was sure Rad’s hands weren’t clean.

“I was glad I didn’t have heavy steam,” Rad said.

“What’s the racket?” I asked.

Rad screwed his face into a grimace. “That a tennis joke,” he said. He turned his head to the side.

“Sorry, what’s it about?”

“I was arrested for bookmaking 10 years ago,” Rad said. “These rich people think they can make a killing, but the house always wins. I stay out of it.”

I was about to ask another question when my cell phone rang.

“You take call. I have to start Candi’s lesson,” Rad said.

“OK,” I agreed, “thanks, let’s talk again later.”

I grabbed the phone and saw it was Ward Barber calling. I turned my back to Rad and headed toward the door.

“Everett,” I said into the phone. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to the slimy lawyer.

“Ah, Mr. Everett, I’m glad I reached you. We need to talk,” Ward Barber said.

“Oh, I thought you had your own staff of investigators,” I responded. “I’m busy.”

“Now you aren’t going to be petulant are you? I hear you’re holding out on me.”

I was about to tell him where he could stick it when Rad tapped me on the shoulder. He handed me a business card with his cell phone number written on the back and a note to call him. I nodded, slipped him my business card, and mouthed thank you to him. As I turned my attention back to Ward Barber I watched the most important source I’d yet uncovered walk away, knowing he had more to tell me.

“So, Mr. Everett, what’s this I’m hearing about new evidence? I thought we were working on this together.”

“Well Ward, I’ve been busy doing your job. I don’t report to you, remember and I’m still waiting for that copy of the Sheriff’s Office report. I thought that’s why you were calling. You see, what I actually know about this case wouldn’t fill a thimble, no thanks to you. When I have something to tell you, I’ll call you.”

“Look here Everett…”

I hit end and cut off the dirt bag. I’d had enough of Ward Barber. I walked toward my car contemplating how Barber might have gotten his information, when my phone rang again. I answered and this time it was someone I actually wanted to talk to – Detective Kristin Wagner.

I gave Det. Wagner the low down on who I was and why I wanted to talk to her. She was hesitant, but agreed to meet me at the Sheriff’s Office facility on West Colonial. I told her I’d be there in forty minutes.