Dying to Retire (20 page)

“What?”

“Nothing,” I said, taking my seat again.

There was a knock on the door and the caterer came in, placed a plate on his desk, and left. I noticed that she’d given him a much more balanced meal than he’d planned for himself, complete with sandwiches, green vegetables, fruit, and a few cookies. He didn’t bother to thank her.

His cell phone, which he’d placed on the desk, vibrated and danced around the polished surface as if it were a windup toy. He snatched up the phone and walked into the next room. I popped up from my chair to look again at one of the photos on the wall, groping in my bag for my magnifying glass. I thought I recognized a man standing in the crowd behind Wainscott and the governor. The face was familiar. Who was it? I held up the magnifier. It was Tony Colombo. I was sure of it.

In the room next door, Wainscott was talking loudly. “Was anything missing? Dammit, Marina, didn’t you lock up? Call the security people. I want an alarm on that door right away. I don’t care if it’s Sunday. Do it!”

There was a pause, and I scooted back to my seat. “Do you have the letters ready?” I heard him ask. “Good. Deliver them. . . . Put them off. I’m working on the deal now. Johnson is bringing the big-money guys with him today. Oh, yeah? Why didn’t you tell me before? Once I get this out of the way, we can line up the ducks in Foreverglades. I don’t care. Do whatever you have to do.”

I returned the magnifying glass to its pocket in the side of my bag and felt Wainscott looming behind me before he rounded the desk and sat again.

“Mrs. Fletcher, how can I help you?” he said.

“I came to ask you about Wainscott Towers in Foreverglades.”

“Beautiful project,” he said, smiling. “Going to be the start of great things. The area will be the next Boca Raton, if I have anything to do with it. If you buy now, you can get in on the ground floor. Would you like a cookie?” He pushed the plate in my direction, but not before taking one.

I doubted cookies were part of the diet Truman had prescribed for Wainscott.

“Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You didn’t answer. I said we have detailed brochures on the project. Didn’t my girl give them to you?”

My girl?
Marina wasn’t held in as high regard as she supposed.

“Do you mean Mrs. Rodriguez? Yes, she gave me brochures.”

“They should tell you all you want to know. The towers are going to offer everything. Health club. Shopping mall. Restaurant—we have a chef coming over from Tuscany. Full luxury units. You can choose the flooring, paint colors, optional appliances—only the best quality. It’ll even have a spa for facials, massages, that kind of thing.”

“It sounds very extravagant.”

“Not extravagant, Mrs. Fletcher. Reasonable.” He was well into his sales pitch. “After all, don’t you deserve to live in luxurious surroundings at this time of your life? You’ve worked hard. This is your reward.”

“I see. Well, when do you anticipate the towers will be built?”

“We should be breaking ground next month. Once we start, they go up pretty fast. There’s quite a bit of prep work that has to take place, of course, but occupancy could take place within the year.”

“That soon?”

“It could be. You can’t
guarantee
a date. Things come up and cause delays.”

“Is that what happened with the building next door? I noticed it’s only half-finished.”

He leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “Don’t let appearances deceive you, Mrs. Fletcher. That’s coming along right on schedule. We’re just taking a break while we give this building a chance to reach a higher level of occupancy. That’s what today’s reception is all about—attracting buyers. Then we’ll zoom along on the other.”

“You don’t say? I thought it was customary to complete construction from start to finish so you don’t lose your crew to another project, or have your permit lapse.”

“Not always,” he said, running a finger under his collar. “We work in stages. Our crews are very loyal. They’ll be back as soon as I snap my fingers.” He hooked his thumbs under his suspenders.

“How interesting.”

“I wouldn’t expect a little lady like you to know how development works.”

“No, of course not.”

“If you’re interested in seeing what the units will look like, stick around. The model apartments we’re showing here are similar in layout to the plans for Wainscott Towers, and you can see all the amenities we offer for retirement living.” He stood up and came around the desk, obviously ready to escort me out. “Plus, you can have lunch on me.” His eyes twinkled.

“One more thing, Mr. Wainscott,” I said, standing to face him. “I understand there’s some objection to the towers being built on that particular piece of land in Foreverglades.”

“Not a problem. My lawyers are taking care of that.”

“The residents of the development next door say you promised them never to build on that land. Does that mean you’re not a man of your word?”

He continued smiling, but the light went out of his eyes. “Mrs. Fletcher, you wouldn’t understand. I’m a businessman, a builder. A builder of beautiful projects, I might add. My buildings are designed to add architectural presence to an area and stature to the community.”

“Whether the community wants them or not?”

The smile faded. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but just because a few old ladies want to keep a beach to themselves is not a reason to stop progress. Florida is one of the fastest-growing states in the nation, and nothing can stop it. Nor can they stop me.”

“Even if someone dies trying?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Portia Shelby.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Mrs. Shelby had a heart attack,” he said, his voice hard. “You can hardly hold me responsible for that.”

“Denny Carimbolo?”

“Our visit is over. You’re obviously not interested in buying an apartment. If you’re here to make trouble, I’ll have you thrown out.”

“Mr. Wainscott, does someone who opposes you die on every project of yours?”

“Out!” he roared. He grabbed my elbow, dragged me to the door, and flung it open, ready to hurl me outside.

A young man holding a pad and pen was poised to knock. “Hi, Mr. Wainscott. I’m Jared Levin from the Key West
Citizen
. My editor called about an interview.”

Wainscott stopped, nonplussed. He released my elbow, put a hand on my back, and shoved me out. “Come in,” he said to the reporter. “Mrs. Fletcher was just leaving.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wainscott,” I heard the reporter say as the door was shut firmly behind me.

I paused to collect my wits. I’d wanted to raise the topic of the diet pills, to accuse the builder of supplying, if not administering, the ephedra that caused Portia’s death. But without sufficient evidence to prove my suspicions, not to mention treading on Truman’s trust by revealing his indiscreet comments about a patient, I’d remained mum. Wainscott was a ruthless man, but was he ruthless enough to have ordered a murder—or two? I’d taken a chance referring to Denny Carimbolo. I hadn’t had an opportunity to verify Gabby’s accusation. But it was too late now.

I straightened my shirt, patted down the back of my hair, hooked my bag over my shoulder, and looked around. In the time I’d spent with Wainscott, the caterers had finished setting up the buffet in the lobby. They had thrown open the double doors, and a good-size crowd was spilling in, some already lining up for the food. I scanned the faces in the throng, wondering which ones were the “big-money guys.” One face was familiar.

“Jessica, we’ve been looking all over for you.” Maureen came to my side and waved to where Mort was standing in the buffet line. “Honey, I found her.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been here awhile, but I was in the office talking to the builder.”

“That’s nice,” Maureen said, absently tugging on my arm. “Come on. Mort’s holding a place for us. Wait till you see what they’re serving: stone crab claws, shrimp, sushi, and—”

“Steak sandwiches,” I finished her sentence.

“Yes. How did you know?”

Mort had reached the buffet and had already taken three plates, handing one to Maureen and one to me. From the amount and variety of the food, not to mention the ice sculptures and the floral arrangements, I gathered that Wainscott had some very important people coming to the reception, and hadn’t spared any expense. I ate lightly, not entirely certain I wanted to take advantage of the largesse of a man who might have been responsible for Portia’s death.

“After lunch, we’ll take you around to see the model apartments,” Maureen said to me.

“Won’t you be bored? You’ve already seen them,” I said.

“But
you
haven’t, Jessica. Besides, I brought my camera today. I could never describe what they look like to the ladies back home.”

Mort was on his second piece of key lime pie when I thought I saw someone I knew among the attendees. “Isn’t that Mark Rosner?” I said, pointing out a man standing in Wainscott’s doorway.

“Who’s Mark Rosner?” Mort asked.

“He’s the manager of Foreverglades,” I said. “I arranged our apartments at Foreverglades with him. That’s funny.”

“What’s funny, Mrs. F?”

“He never mentioned that he was coming down here when I told him we were driving to Key West.”

“Maybe he decided to come at the last minute. Kind of like us driving down to Boston for the weekend.”

Rosner surveyed the room, looking for someone. When his eyes met mine, he turned back to the door, said something to someone inside, and moved across the room in our direction. At the last moment he swerved away from us and went out the front door. I had the feeling he had something to say to me, but changed his mind when he saw Maureen and Mort.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I want to check on something. I’ll be right back.”

“Do you feel okay, Jessica?” Maureen asked.

“Want me to come with you?”

“No, thanks, Maureen. I’m fine. I just need to talk with someone.”

I walked out the double doors into the broad driveway and looked for Rosner. He was starting down the stairs for the pool. “Mr. Rosner,” I called, waving, hoping to flag him down. But he didn’t hear me. I followed him to the stairs, only to see his back as he disappeared to the left, in the direction of the construction site.

There was a low rumble from above. I looked up. Dark clouds had moved in and were rolling across the sky. I reached the bottom of the stairs, took the path to the construction site, and was surprised to see the gate standing ajar. Up ahead, Rosner lifted a corner of the plastic sheeting and slipped under it, into the ground floor of the half-built structure.

What’s he up to?
I wondered. I picked my way across the construction site, skirting a rusting reel of electrical wire, and careful not to trip on the many bolts, nails, and screws that littered the ground. A large drop of water hit me in the head; another splashed on my shoulder. Then it began to rain in earnest. I sprinted the last few yards to the tarp, pulled it aside, and ducked into the building.

It was the smell that first assaulted me, a combination of damp cement, raw wood, lubricating oil, and the indefinable tang of steel. I stood for a moment in the dim interior and listened, to make out whether I could hear where Mark Rosner might be. On clear days the sun would illuminate the building—at least when the angle of its rays allowed light to pour in. But the dark skies overhead let little light penetrate the gloom. And the pounding of the rain on the equipment outside and the slap of water when the wind blew the drops against the long tarpaulins made hearing difficult.

“Mr. Rosner,” I yelled. “It’s Jessica Fletcher, Mr. Rosner. Are you there? I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Rosner.”

There was no answer, but I thought I detected a muffled sound from somewhere inside.

I fumbled in my bag for the flashlight I always carry and flicked it on. The floors were dusty but clear of debris, other than a scattering of crushed cigarette butts in the corner. The light bounced off the massive steel beams that connected the floors. The workmen had begun framing out the spaces to be enclosed— wooden studs stood every sixteen inches, limiting visibility—but the electrical and plumbing connections had yet to be installed. A box of nails and tendrils of wires had been left lying along a stack of two-by-fours. I moved toward the concrete stairs, swinging the light, hoping to capture some movement in its ray. As I put my foot onto the first step, I heard a scraping sound overhead.

I shone my light up to the second floor, but the beam disappeared into the gray ceiling. There was no railing to steady myself as I climbed slowly, keeping my eyes and the flashlight on the next step to avoid stumbling on some unseen obstacle. Behind me, the wind whipped the edges of the tarps, making them flap against each other and setting up a deafening clamor. A gust blew up the stairs and raised the hair on the back of my head. I whirled to see whether someone or something was there. No one. I was alone.

On the landing I turned, training the light down what would eventually be a hallway, and crept forward. The thicket of studs standing upright on either side cut off what little light filtered in from the outside and shielded the rest of the space from view, except those areas directly to my right and left. I aimed the flashlight at a piece of equipment far down the hall sitting atop a wooden ramp. It was a large rolling trash receptacle—the kind with a hinged front panel that tilts down to make it easier to empty. I walked up the ramp to take a look at it. The cart was too tall for me to peer inside, but two split beams and a crumpled canvas dropcloth were visible poking out the top. It was also too wide to squeeze past, and too heavy to move. I tried pushing against it. It wouldn’t budge.

I retraced my steps, intending to search for Rosner on the other side of the stairwell, when I heard the scraping sound again. It was behind me this time. I turned to see the dump cart rolling slowly in my direction. The weight inside must have shifted when I’d pushed on it. Suddenly the hinged front panel dropped down with a terrible thud, exposing the contents of broken beams, shredded cloth, and shards of metal. As the cart bore down on me, its wheels made an earsplitting squeal.