Garden of Evil (25 page)

Inexperienced prosecutors had been blitzed by his flamboyant defense team. They claimed the act was consensual, that she liked rough sex and he had merely accommodated her. The jury acquitted.

“They embarrass me,” Keppie tittered shyly. “I can't hardly bear to look at 'em.” She erupted in a bubbly giggle. Was she blushing?

“Did you know,” he said, demeanor distinguished, mellifluous voice sly, “that the word
orchid
is from the Greek word
orchis,
which means testicle? See the way some of the bulbs are shaped? And see there”—he gestured toward a display—“that bloom resembles a vagina.”

“I thought I was the only one who saw that.” Her shiny lips were wet. “I thought it was me! That I was oversexed.”

The glitter in his eyes matched her own.

I scrutinized a yellow orchid surrounded by beefy dark green leaves. The thing did resemble a pelvis. I'd never noticed that before. Some blossoms were pristine and virginal, others swollen, bloated, and conspicuously sexual.

“Here's a phalaenopsis,” he said, slowly and distinctly shaping each syllable. “It blooms for six weeks.” He leaned forward and spoke intimately in her ear. Her diamond earring, bought with blood money from one of her victims, twinkled and winked under the artificial lights.

“Can't say that ain't stayin' power,” she murmured seductively. She arched her back and brushed against him.

Good grief, I thought. Both predators; they deserved each other.

“Melody, Melody!” She caught my arm with girlish exuberance.

Melody? Did I look like a Melody?

“You hear what he just said?” She pointed to a display of baby plants, naked roots dangling. “Look at 'em, just
look at 'em.” Her cheekbones reddened. “I can't stand it.”

“Hybrids, dendrobium,” he said. “See their little stamens and pistils?”

She gave a delightful little shriek. “Oh, God! I can't take it. I love it when you talk dirty.”

Laughing, he barely glanced at me, so absorbed was he with Keppie.

What if I fled into the crowd, out of the building, and flagged down a patrol car? Would she dare hurt Joey in front of all these people?

Keppie turned, as though hearing my thoughts.

“This is my cousin, Melody,” she told DeWitt, “and her little boy, Joey.”

Joey gazed up, bewildered. He'd been talking less and less. Keppie whispered flirtatiously to DeWitt, her eyes meeting mine over his shoulder, the long fingers of her right hand curling around the nape of the child's neck. Stoic, the little boy blinked but never flinched.

She would do it. Joey would die for nothing, I told myself. We were so close to Miami and what I hoped was freedom. I believed she really was about to let us go.

“Here, this is it,” DeWitt said, “the one that looks the most like the female sex organ.” He steered Keppie toward another booth, his hand at the small of her back. “It's called the Dracula Vampira.”

“Oh, God!” she gasped. “My favorite!”

He stepped away briefly to confer with a matronly woman also wearing a judge's badge. “Do you know who that is?” I muttered to Keppie.

“I read the newspapers,” she murmured. “Ain't it a hoot?” She glowed like a bride as he rejoined us. “I 'member where I've seen you,” she said, gazing up at him. “Yes, you must be a yachtsman. I'm sure I saw you at the marina.”

He nodded, eyes relieved. “I do have a little pleasure craft moored there. You like to cruise?”

“Oh, I'm dangerous out at sea. I feel so free and open, nothin' but sky and water—and the right person, a-course.”

Her eyes shone expectantly.

“What about tomorrow?” she said. “I'd just love to see your…pleasure craft.” The words fell from her lips like an obscene phrase.

A
SWAT
team could have swarmed the convention center, rounded up the usual suspects, and stomped every last obscene pistil and stamen to pulp beneath their boots and he would not have noticed.

“Come hungry,” he said. “My chef will whip up something special.”

“I'm always hungry,” she murmured, licking her lips. He kissed her hand; their eyes locked.

 

“What about dinner?” I asked, as we climbed back into the SUV in the parking lot.

“We'll pick something up,” she said absently and checked the time.

 

I unpacked the take-out chicken as Keppie parked in front of the TV. I had forgotten. Ira Jonas was to die tonight.

Candlelight marchers protested outside prison walls. They held hands and sang “We Shall Overcome.”

“They're almost all relatives, pastors, and loved ones of Death Row inmates, people with an ax to grind,” I commented.

Across the street, kept at a distance by deputies, death penalty supporters shouted insults and carried signs saying
AN EYE FOR AN EYE, JUSTICE!,
and
REMEMBER THE VICTIMS.

“A lot of them are cops, relatives, or victims' rights advocates,” I said.

Keppie didn't answer. Eyes glued to the screen, she sat cross-legged on the bed closer to the door, the gun tucked
between her legs under a pillow she rested her elbows on, the tequila on her nightstand.

Her hits on the bottle became more frequent as a perky girl reporter did a live stand-up outside the prison disclosing the menu for the condemned man's last meal. He would not die hungry. He had ordered a dozen shrimp with cocktail sauce, rare prime rib, baked potato with sour cream, corn on the cob, and a hot fudge sundae.

“Sounds good,” the solemn anchorman said, promising to return later for more live reports from the death watch.

Keppie peeled off her new clothes, carelessly tossing them into a corner, unlike her usual fastidious behavior. She paced the room in panties and a lacy bra, gun in one hand, bottle in the other, drinking, smoking, ignoring the weather and sports reports. Joey and I brushed our teeth and I tried to tell him a bedtime story, but, unnerved by her erratic pacing, I couldn't think of one.

“Tell me.” He touched my cheek as we lay together on the bed.

“It's your turn,” I said. “You tell me a story, sweetheart.”

“Mommy is looking for me and Daddy,” he began, as I cradled him in my arms. “She's crying 'cause she can't find us anywhere. The good angels are crying too. Their wings shine and they live in the blue water. They wanna save all the good boys and girls. But the bad angels hide in the woods. They have blood on 'em and they're strong. If you let 'em see your face, they kill you.” He nodded solemnly. “They're fighting.”

“And who wins in the end?” I asked.

“Nobody knows,” he said.

I didn't remember fairy tales being that grim.

“Gimme your wrist.” Cigarette smoke spiraled around Keppie as she stood over us.

“Do you have to do this?” I pleaded. “I'm not going to give you any problems. I've got enough to write the story now. We're almost finished.”

She snapped the cuff around my wrist without answering, locked me to the grillwork of the ornate headboard, and took her seat for another live report from the prison.

“With no word from the governor,” the anchorman said, “it appears as though the death sentence will be carried out on schedule tonight.”

It was.

The lights dimmed, and a long slow sigh rose from the protesters. Supporters, still relegated to the far side of the street, cheered.

A department of corrections spokeswoman stepped into the TV lights to announce that the execution had proceeded smoothly, without a hitch. Jonas spoke no last words and was pronounced dead three and a half minutes after the first jolt of electricity.

The prison gates swung open minutes later and a white hearse glided into the dark, amid jeers and sweet voices raised in “Amazing Grace.”

A death-chamber witness was interviewed, the victims' grandson, a boy who grew into manhood awaiting justice.

“I looked him right in the eye,” he said. “He knew who I was. Our family finally has closure, tonight.” I hoped they did.

“Why did they kill the man?” Joey asked. I didn't think he had been paying attention.

“Because he was bad,” I said softly.

“Was my daddy bad?”

“No.” I hugged him. “He wasn't bad, sweetheart. Sometimes bad things happen to nice people.”

Keppie shot me a sharp look, pointed the remote, and abruptly turned off the TV, plunging the room into darkness. “Shut up and go to sleep,” she said, words slightly slurred.

This was the first time I had seen her feel the liquor. It worried me that she was still walking around with the gun.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“No. Life is shit, then you die.”

“Other than that?”

“Scattered,” she said, sounding weary. “I'm just scattered tonight.” Her cigarette glowed in the dark. “I'm just fucking pissed.”

“At who?”

“The whole fucking system that screwed me over.”

I heard her take another hit from the bottle. She hadn't touched the food.

“There's chicken left,” I said. “Why don't you eat something?”

“At least he got his goddamn last meal.”

“Why did Jonas upset you?” My free hand groped for my notebook and pen.

“I goddamn guarantee you, I don't give a flying fuck about him.” The cigarette flared. “See DeWitt tonight? Hot to trot, huh? Son of a bitch really raped that girl, didn't he?”

“Probably,” I said quietly. “I believed her.”

“Money and politics. See how fucked the system is? He walks free and my mother's in her grave.”

“How did your mother die, Keppie?”

“I was just a little girl. Nothing I could do. She loved me.”

“I'm sure she did. You must have been a beautiful child.”

“Everybody says I take after her. Look just like her.”

“What was her cause of death?”

“They took her from me.”

“Was it sudden? How did she die?

“The bastards took her.”

“Who?”

“Said terrible things 'bout 'er. Just like all the things they say about me.”

A chill swept my body.

“What did they say about her?” I whispered.

“All kindsa shit!” I heard the bottle. “Then they took her.”

“What killed her?”

“Murdered. Somebody killed her.”

“Oh my God, who?” This explained so much, I thought. The pain of a victim's child.

“They claimed it was one of the others. Nobody knows.”

“What others?”

“They said she killed them; then one of the others killed her.”

“Keppie?” The handcuffs rattled against the headboard as I sat up. “Tell me your mother's name.”

“Rita Lee. Rita Lee Hutton.”

I knew before she said it. “Oh my God,” I said. “I know all about her.”

“Fuck you. All you know is what you read in the damn newspapers.”

I slumped back on my pillow, dizzy, as my head spun in the dark.

E
VERYBODY KNEW ABOUT
R
ITA
L
EE
H
UTTON
. One of the few Florida women sentenced to Death Row, her story was splashed across front pages for years. I remembered the pictures. Her mug shot. The wedding portrait provided by tearful relatives. Tender photos of her and her baby daughter.

Rita Lee Hutton, a prim and pretty Gainesville housewife, dubbed the Black Widow by the press.

Despite the untimely and painful deaths of her husband, her tiny son, her father, an uncle, and her minister, the wholesome beauty was never a suspect until the demise of her new fiancé. She had nursed them all devotedly, slept in their hospital rooms, and kept vigil at their bedsides, hand feeding them her warm homemade soup and smooth egg custard. When the last death was diagnosed as arsenic poisoning, the other bodies were exhumed. All poisoned. She inherited minor amounts from some, but for most no motive existed. Prosecutors attributed it to pure evil. Jurors agreed.

The Black Widow was sentenced to death and relatives adopted her little daughter, changing her name.

Rita Lee Hutton never kept her date with Old Sparky, but she did die on Death Row, apparently strangled by
another inmate. Rumors, never proven, hinted at sexual aggression and perversion.

Dr. Schlatter had actually mentioned the woman in one of our conversations.

“I had no idea she was your mother,” I said, in a hushed tone.

“I'd think you'da figured it out by now,” Keppie said bitterly.

Terror struck me. Was Lottie right? Are some people simply born evil? Is there a genetic propensity for violent behavior, a murder gene? For the first time, I thought it possible. The mother fed poison to males with whom she had relationships. The daughter used bullets.

Keppie's obsession with Old Sparky, which I had thought sprang from her own fears, was that of a little girl spinning fantasies about how she could have rescued the mother taken from her.

What a story! But would I live to write it? What about Joey? My stomach churned with fear for him. The more I understood Keppie, the more frightened I became. Her mother killed her husband, father, child, and lover with no signs of remorse.

What chance did we have?

When Keppie's regular breathing signaled at last that she was sleeping soundly, I took the ballpoint pen apart, removed the cartridge, and tried to pick the lock on the cuffs. Difficult in the dark, impossible when I dropped it. Stretched over the side of the bed, trying not to wake Joey, I groped the carpet for the cartridge. My fingertips brushed it, just out of my reach. When Keppie saw it, she would know.

I never slept. By morning only one thing was certain. Aware of the risks, I had refused good advice from people who cared and placed myself in jeopardy. But Joey was a total innocent swept up in this homicidal madness through no fault of his own. No matter what happened to me, I had to save him.

 

Keppie displayed no signs of a hangover or dulled reflexes; in fact she seemed surprisingly cheerful, given the night before. I found it impossible to look at her without seeing the old mug shots of her mother. They shared the cheekbones that could cut glass, the watercolor eyes, and cheerleader looks. In her daughter's face, Rita Lee Hutton must have seen herself looking back.

Alert as ever, Keppie spotted the twisted ballpoint cartridge on the floor.

“What's this?” She held it up.

I stared innocently. “Must be from my pen.” I snatched up the empty shell from the nightstand, scrutinized it, and looked annoyed. “I thought I told him not to play with that” Joey's eyes widened, mouth opening in protest.

“Let me get him into the bathroom,” I said, and swung my legs over the side of the bed before he could speak.

Keppie unlocked the cuffs and stepped back, barefoot, watching me. I saw her examining the lock for scratch marks as I whisked him into the bathroom.

“I didn't—” he said.

“I know, baby. I know you didn't. You're such an excellent boy, you're so good.” I hugged and kissed him, sat him on the side of the tub, and turned both water taps on full blast. “Now listen to me,” I said softly. “It's very important. Are you listening?”

He nodded, with an apprehensive glance at the door, which stood ajar. “We're going in the car later, and when we get out I'm going to put you on the sidewalk, and then I want you to run, run away as fast you can. Don't stop. Promise me you'll do that?”

He nodded, wide-eyed.

“You look for a policeman. Tell everybody you need a policeman. Tell the policeman you were with Britt, tell him—”

“Wha'chu guys up to in here?” Keppie pushed the door wide and leaned against the frame, cigarette in hand, the gun in her waistband.

“I'm telling Joey we might go for a boat ride today. Think we might?”

“Could be.” She regarded me thoughtfully. “Could be. Wha'chu doin' with the water?” she glanced at the open faucets.

“Running a tub, for a bath.”

“You have to put the plug in first,” she said.

She watched us every moment after that. My only other chance was when she called DeWitt at eleven. She laughed and chatted on the phone, sitting between us and the door, the gun in her lap.

“Remember, Joey,” I whispered. “You run as fast as you can. You promised me.”

“I will,” he said.

“'Bye, handsome,” Keppie cooed to DeWitt. “See you then. Can't wait.”

She didn't want to go out for breakfast, so we used the coffee maker in the room and nibbled rolls and butter left from our chicken dinners the night before.

“With all we talked about last night, I think we've just about wrapped it up.” I tried to sound casual. “The tri-rail runs from here to Miami. Why don't you just put me and Joey on the train? And we'll be out of your hair. Then I can get back to the paper and start putting the story together.”

She cocked her head, as if to say, You think I'm stupid? “Not yet, Britt. Not yet.” She was painting her fingernails a rosy new shade called Pink Pleasure.

“Why not?”

Inspecting her handiwork, she frowned. “You know where I'm gonna be and who I'm gonna be with.”

“You mean DeWitt? I won't say anything.”

“Oh, right.” She flashed me a dark look. “Just like you weren't gonna bring the cops in the first place. Screw me once, it's your fault. Twice, it's mine. Only way I can let you go is to do it when I got me a head start.”

“How can we arrange that?”

“I'll think on it and let you know. Maybe I'm gettin' to like having you and the kid around. You know, breakin' up is hard to do.” She grinned.

She would never let us go. When Joey was publicized as a missing child and no longer an asset, she'd kill him.

Keppie insisted we pack everything for her date with DeWitt.

“I always wanted to cruise the out islands,” she said.

“I don't think that's what he has in mind,” I said.

“We'll see.”

No way could I let her take Joey on that boat, I thought. It is too easy to become lost forever out there, too easy for a body to be swept away in the Gulf Stream, that relentless river that rushes through the sea.

The marina was only minutes away. Keppie stopped in front of a row of newspaper racks as we arrived. I had to act now. Once Joey ran, I would stop her from firing the gun, try to take it away. If I had to shoot her to protect him, I would. She took the keys, as usual. As she fed quarters into the machines, I turned like a madwoman, lifted Joey free from his car seat, opened the door, and thrust him out onto the sidewalk.

“Run, Joey! Run!”

I slipped out and shoved him toward a corner teeming with pedestrians.

“Run!”

He did, for several steps, his Beanie Baby Scottie dog clutched under his arm. Then he stopped and looked around, bewildered. He turned, ran back, and threw his arms around my legs. My heart broke. He was too little, too lost. I was all he had in a world full of evil and sinister strangers. I sat down on the curb, hugging him, then glanced up apprehensively at Keppie.

“See, you are his mama now,” she said cheerfully, her purse held in front of her so I could see the gun. “You best protect your baby.”

 

Sanford DeWitt beamed at Keppie, looked a bit startled to see me, and was downright disheartened at the sight of Joey clinging to me tearfully. But he bounced right back. “My housekeeper will take good care of the boy back at my place while we take our little cruise and dine aboard the
Playtime.
She's great with kids. He'll have fun,” he assured us, lowering his voice, “and be out of the way. My driver can take him.”

“Great,” I said quickly. Joey's life expectancy would be longer with strangers than with us.

“Oh, noooo.” Keppie pouted sweetly. “The poor baby cries and carries on so when we try to leave him. He's been through too much lately. Melody and his daddy just split up. I hoped your boat might be big enough,” she said, wide-eyed, “that we could put him down to sleep and still be alone. It is, isn't it?”

He smiled proudly. “That it is,” he said. “See for yourself, the
Playtime.
” He gestured, the flourish of a man unveiling a work of art.

The magnificent white vessel had to be more than a hundred feet long.

“Nice.” Keppie tossed her hair flirtatiously, eyes meeting his. “We can take a trip around the world in that, can't we?”

“Indeed.” He draped a tanned arm around her shoulder and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Let me take you aboard, show you around. Now, no high heels, right?” He made a point of checking out our legs. “The decks are teak,” he explained. “Just had them redone.”

“Is that a—”

“Yep, a helicopter pad,” he said. “A jet ranger, out being serviced at the moment.”

Keppie flashed me a triumphant look. “We were just talkin' 'bout choppers the other night,” she drawled sweedy.

Keppie's belongings were carried aboard by a crew member and stowed in a handsome stateroom with its own
bath. She told DeWitt we were changing hotels and didn't want to leave them in the car.

The
Playtime
had all the comforts of a rich man's home: gleaming woodwork, highly polished brass, expensive art, antique furniture, a large-screen entertainment center, and softly playing mellow jazz.

“How big is your crew?” I asked.

“Normally seven,” DeWitt said. “But I'm making an exception today. Thought a little privacy might be nice. After some help casting off, only the captain and I will be aboard. We'll putt-putt about a little bit, have dinner, maybe catch a little moonlight later, and who knows?” He gazed into Keppie's eyes, his arm around her slender waist. “When we're ready to come back in, Rudy'll radio ahead so we have crew waiting.”

Rudy, the captain, was ruddy-faced and rugged-looking. Middle-aged, with a German accent and pale eyes and hair, he wore a perpetual frown. How many of these romantic little cruises had he participated in? I wondered.

“Hope you girls brought your bathing suits,” DeWitt said, as the
Playtime
motored away from the dock.

“Bathing suit?” Keppie hooted. A sea breeze lifted her hair as she leaned back against the rail. “I never wear one.” She winked at DeWitt. “Best way to swim in the ocean is just git naked and dive in.”

“Seems like your answer to everything is just get naked,” I murmured.

“Try it sometime,” she said. “You don't know what you're missin'.”

 

The sea was brilliant turquoise, the clear sky a perfect blue. Longingly, I watched the shoreline recede through the porthole of the room with our luggage, where I tried to coax Joey into a nap.

Losing sight of land scared me. Soon there were voices and a rap at the door.

Both held champagne glasses; DeWitt had brought one
for me. They insisted I join them on deck for canapés. A small round table draped in linen had been set with china, napkins, and a tray: Boursin cheese and granulated peanuts with a grape garnish, bay scallops with basil cream cheese, and dried apricots with rum cream cheese and macadamia nuts.

Keppie bounced all over the
Playtime,
bubbly and energetic, flattering, flirting, and curious, as DeWitt and the captain demonstrated the sophisticated navigational, radar, and radio equipment and explained how charts are read.

They didn't see that she was too eager to learn. They loved it. We saw other boaters less frequently as we moved into deep water. Though busy, Rudy seemed less sullen, his sidelong glances hinting that I might be the reason. Were we expected to pair off? A good idea. Alone, I could persuade him to radio for police and the Coast Guard. I returned his looks with a smile. These men had no idea of the company they were keeping, I thought Once they knew, they'd be less arrogant.

The fiery summer sunset painted the water a shimmering gold with blood-red rivulets. Nature's dramatic beauty added to my fears of the dark at sea.

Lights approached from the south and the captain stepped out of the pilot house to inform DeWitt, who used a pair of high-powered binoculars.

“The Coast Guard,” he said, “is paying us a visit.”

A blue strobe light began to spin as the craft drew closer. My heart pounded crazily as we were hailed.

“United States Coast Guard! Stand aside and prepare for boarding!”

“What do they want?” Keppie asked quietly.

“Routine inspection,” DeWitt said. “No problem.”

My spirits soared.

“I'm going down below, to be with Joey,” Keppie said abruptly. “I don't want him alone.”

“No, I'll go,” I said.

“No, Melody. You stay here and rest easy, knowin' I'm
with him.” She drew her index finger across her slender throat as she brushed by, a small gesture that froze me where I stood.