Fatal Reservations (18 page)

“Either she’s wrapped up in something else, or she’s a renter and not responsible, or she doesn’t care.”

“Or she’s on drugs and doesn’t see it,” I added.

We stepped up onto a small, weathered deck, furnished with one cheap plastic green chair. I held Miss Gloria back and peered through the door’s window. Then I tapped on the glass. After a few minutes, I said, “She’s not here.”

“Or she can’t answer.” Miss Gloria reached around me and rattled the doorknob. The door swung open. “I
consider that an invitation,” she said, a wicked grin on her lips.

“Just don’t touch anything,” I said. “Torrence would kill me if he knew we were in here.”

“We are checking on a friend,” said Miss Gloria as she barged past me into the kitchen.

Once inside, my nose wrinkled up, matching the grimace on Miss Gloria’s face.

“Kind of stinks in here, doesn’t it?” she asked. “Like no one’s emptied the garbage in a long while.”

The air in the house felt hot and close, and I was sure that didn’t help. I grabbed a paper towel from the roll on the counter and opened the cabinet under the sink. Sure enough, the garbage was filled to overflowing. At the top of the bag, I saw onion skins and an empty package of bacon. Without digging any further, I closed the door and checked out the sink. A frying pan shimmered with grease, and on top of that were stacked coffee cups, plastic water glasses, a plate with streaks of egg stuck to it, and dirty silverware. A stream of ants filed from the sink to a crack in the Formica, and then into the silverware drawer, which hung open at an awkward angle. The fork Lorenzo had insisted that he’d placed at the back of the drawer was not there.

“I don’t think she’s been here in a while,” I told Miss Gloria. “Let’s take a quick look around and then go on to Sunset.” Miss Gloria pattered up the stairs to the second floor and I took a sweep around the living room, which appeared messy without being dirty, except for the full ashtray that contained cigarette butts and several marijuana cigarette roaches.

“Come look what I found.” Miss Gloria’s voice reverberated down the wooden stairwell. I trotted up the
stairs and into the bedroom, which took up the entire second-floor space and had probably been recovered from an attic. If it had felt hot downstairs, it was a 450-degree oven up here. Using the sleeve of her sweater, Miss Gloria opened the top drawer of the dresser. It was crammed to the top of the wood with jewelry, men’s watches, and a pile of iPads and iPhones.

“I swear, she
is
the cemetery burglar,” I said. “The question is how to get Torrence and his guys in here to discover this without telling them we made it here first.”

“There’s another question,” said Miss Gloria. “Where’s this girl run off to? And why and why and why?” She pointed to each of the piles of items in turn.

We closed the drawer behind us and returned down the stairs and out the back door, as we had come. Then we slunk through the overgrown bushes and out into the sunlight and my scooter. I buckled on my helmet. “That would certainly explain the goggles. And unfortunately means that Wally was right. The fork is still a mystery.”

“I’ve got a full-blown case of the creeps,” said Miss Gloria.

“And I have just the tonic for that,” I said with a big smile, trying to appear more cheerful than I felt. “Dominique and his flying house cats.”

“Wheeeee!” she said as she vaulted onto the back of the scooter, looking more like eight than eighty years old. “I love that man!”

We buzzed down the island to Mallory Square and parked near the Waterfront Playhouse. At the end of the pier near the water, tourists were streaming onto an
oversized cruise ship that piped calypso music over all of Mallory Square. I wondered how many of them were relieved to climb back on the mother ship and how many wished they could stay on our quirky island. Quite possibly, the ones who’d stayed in the lower Duval Street quadrant were happy to leave. Confining a visit to Key West to those bars and tacky souvenir shops doesn’t give the kindest impression of the city.

A few of the Sunset Celebration performers had begun to stretch out their black ropes to mark off their territory and get ready for the night ahead. We crossed over the tiny bridge, past the aquarium, and then passed the trolley bar, where the bartender was making a big container of mojito mix. A second cruise ship was starting to chug away from the pier. Directly in front of the Westin, in the shade of the departing ship, the Cat Man was unloading his equipment and cages of cats.

“Dominique!” cried Miss Gloria.

He whirled around, poised to launch into his usual wacky routine, consisting of jittery movements, French words, and demonic laughs. But when he saw it was her, he opened his arms and ran over for a hug. He held her at arm’s length.

“How are you, my dear? You look even better than usual.”

She blushed and blinked her eyes and drew me forward. “This is my roommate, Hayley Snow. She’s watched you a million times, but I’m not sure you’ve met.”

I shook his hand, grinning from ear to ear. “We are such big fans of your show and your cats. We’ve tried to teach our own kitties a few tricks, but we don’t have the touch.”

“Are you purrrrfectly in tune with the universe?” he asked with a crazy cackling giggle.

“Working on it,” I said, snickering back. “On a more serious note, we were wondering if you’d heard any news about Bart’s murder.”

He shook his head, eyes narrowing. “That situation is a very sad comment on the status of the island and the Sunset Celebration. We all know who did it, but proving it—that’s the problem.”

“You know who did it?” asked Miss Gloria.

“But of course,” he said brushing his silver curls away from his face. “The demon cocaine.”

I sighed. “But the demon cocaine couldn’t have stabbed Frontgate in the chest.”

“So true. But his dealer could have. Or a dissatisfied customer.” Then he noticed a family studying his display of Cat Man T-shirts, which hung on a rope near the cat cages. “Excuse me? I have zee customers.” And he twirled away, kicking up his heels to show off his yellow cat kneesocks.

Miss Gloria and I rounded the corner back to the main part of Mallory Square, which was starting to bustle with performers and tourists. The cruise ship had pulled away from the pier, leaving only eddies in the water, and probably trash on Duval, to mark its presence. The section of the pavement that had been reserved in earlier days for Bart’s impromptu memorial now housed a father-and-son team of zombie jugglers. I jogged over to flag down the older of the two.

“I take it they’ve released Mr. Frontgate’s plot?”

The man stared at me, one cheek twitching. “It wasn’t doing him any good, now, was it?” he asked. “And it was a downer for the tourists. And we were next on the waiting list.” He jutted out his chin, as if to
say he’d take me on if necessary. “So sad. But for once, the city commission got things right.” He guffawed and turned back to his props. Fifty feet away we noticed Louis, the palm-hat weaver, screaming at another man. Hard not to notice him, really, and a crowd was gathering—some of them probably not sure whether this was a show, and others ready to egg them on, regardless.

Twenty yards or so away from Louis, another familiar figure moved toward the fight, wearing a not-quite-familiar costume. This fellow reminded me of Bransford, though, with the chiseled chin and bulging biceps. But this man was wearing sunglasses and tight jeans and walking a small brown-and-black dog, possibly a combination of miniature pinscher and Italian greyhound. The dog lunged from left to right, jerking his neck each time he darted to the end of his leash. No way that was Bransford.

Then Miss Gloria spotted him. “Isn’t that your detective friend?”

“A forced acquaintance, more like. And that can’t be him—he doesn’t do pets. If he did have a dog, it would be a German shepherd attack dog or a combat-trained pit bull.”

As I finished speaking, the little dog lurched at Louis, the palm-hat weaver. Louis kicked at the animal, yelping, “Get away from me, you nasty little cretin.”

The Bransford look-alike let the leash go and charged at Louis, yanking his hands behind him and dropping him to the cement with a knee to the back. He glanced over and saw us. “Could you get the damn dog, please?” he hollered.

“It
is
the detective!” Miss Gloria cried.

I snatched the little animal up and tried to calm him
as he shivered and quaked. “It’s okay, honey,” I said softly. “Daddy’s just a little bit of a hothead.”

Bransford dragged the weaver to his feet and barked into his ear. “How would you like to be taken to the police station and charged as a public nuisance? Maybe we could add open container in a public area to that. And how about this: suspect in a murder?”

“No way in hell I murdered that butthole,” said Louis. “You ask the fortune-teller who really did it. He’ll tell you it weren’t me. And how would you like an accusation of police brutality, Mr. Thinks He’s a Big Shot detective cop?”

Bransford took a shuddering breath and let the man’s arms go.

There had been lots of noise in the past year—both on this island and off—when police were accused of carrying out their work more vigorously than the public believed was necessary. Even Bransford had to realize this was an ongoing and sensitive issue.

“You touch that dog one more time and I swear”—he bared his teeth—“I swear I will wring your skinny neck. Get out of here. And wipe that smile off your stupid lips. I don’t want to see you back in the square tonight.”

Louis shuffled off, muttering furiously. Bransford straightened his shirt and his sunglasses and came over to me and Miss Gloria to retrieve the dog. He nuzzled
the animal’s neck and whispered something I couldn’t hear.

“Where did you get this guy?” I asked, stroking the dog’s shiny fur. “Are you supposed to be incognito? Did they tell you to carry a pet in order to look more approachable?”

Bransford glared and set the dog back on the pavement.

“I think it’s probably his own pet dog, don’t you?” Miss Gloria said. “They look very close. Very emotionally connected.”

“Thank you, Miss Gloria,” said the detective. “It is my dog. His name is Ziggy Stardust and I got him at the pound. Last benefit I worked.”

“You volunteer at the pound?”

My mind whirled as I watched Bransford tip his chin and stalk off toward the water, the little dog trotting behind him. Did I know who
anyone
really was?

16

Personally, I’d hate to think my last meal was a plate of lettuce.

—Roberta Isleib,
Preaching
to the Corpse

No way we’d be able to gather any more information with Bransford watching our every move. And to be honest, something about Louis really frightened me. Besides, it was close to sunset—time for Lorenzo to come clean with the cops, and then let them mop up the confusion. We forded against the tide of sunscreen-and-beer-smelling crowds who pushed toward the water.

“I need to stop in the restroom again,” Miss Gloria said. “I never did have a camel’s bladder, but now that I’m middle-aged, it’s the size of a thimble.” She cackled at her own joke.

“Fine. I’ll be over looking at the Memorial Sculpture Garden.” I pointed to the garden, close to the road, which was studded with busts of Key West notables and shaded by dignified coconut palms. I walked through the wrought-iron gate and began to browse. Hemingway was here, and Harry Truman, and cigar magnate Eduardo Gato. Bart Frontgate’s family was represented by his grandfather, William Gates, a sailing ship captain. Jackson Mastin, one of the original
shopkeepers on the island, had been sculpted wearing a butcher’s apron and a welcoming smile. I could see the resemblance to Edwin, the owner of For Goodness’ Sake. And this reminded me that the Mastin family had a plot in the cemetery adjoining the Gates family’s. Maybe he’d be a good person to chat with about Bart’s early history on the island.

When Miss Gloria returned, we buzzed on home to the marina. Schnootie began to woof as soon as our sneakers hit the dock; her barking swooped into a crescendo as we got closer. Mrs. Renhart tried to shush her, without effect, then called out from her deck: “I think you have a gentleman in your boat—Schnootie warned me, and then I saw his shadow through your blinds. I almost called the police. I’m a little jumpy after last night. But then I thought, maybe it’s Hayley’s new beau. And wouldn’t that be embarrassing?” Her last words tilted higher, inviting us to spill the dirt.

“That’s my guest,” said Miss Gloria with a regal smile. “Never too old to say never, right?”

We took advantage of Mrs. Renhart’s openmouthed astonishment to retreat into our cabin. Lorenzo was waiting with a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. His hair stuck up at all angles and he had purple-and-yellow half-moons the color of old bruises under his eyes.

“Did you find anything?” he asked. “I’d offer you coffee, but your coffeemaker flummoxed me, so it’s cold and bitter. Not recommended.” He shrugged helplessly, a husk of the man he usually was.

“I’ll make you a fresh cup,” I said, and then put the kettle on to boil. We wouldn’t need a whole pot; I’d make him a nice, strong cup of drip coffee.

We sat at the banquette on either side of him. “We went to her house,” Miss Gloria started. Then stopped.
“Never mind coffee. Anybody for cheese and crackers and a tiny sip of beer?”

“Sounds good to me,” I said. Lorenzo shrugged. While she rummaged through the refrigerator, I told him what we’d seen and found. “Cheryl Lynn obviously hasn’t been there in some days. But we can’t think of any explanation for all the stuff squirreled away except for this: She
is
the cemetery burglar.” I patted his hand because he looked so immediately distraught. “That would explain the night vision goggles, too,” I added softly.

“I was afraid of something like that,” he said. “But I didn’t paw through her bureau drawers.”

Miss Gloria flushed the color of beets.