An Appetite for Murder (25 page)

“I’m not here for lunch,” I stammered, keeping my gaze pinned on the jelly leaking through the top sandwich, staining the thin white bread purple. “I live out on houseboat row and I was talking to a guy, Tony, earlier this morning and he told me that his friend Turtle often visits here about now.” I tapped my watch.

The men around me shrank back and I realized that I probably looked like pure hassle. They’d probably picked up the odor of cops, or something worse.

“He may have seen something that pertains to a case I’m involved with.” Now the nice man looked worried, too. “He’s not in trouble,” I added quickly, “but I am.”

The man pushed his aviator-­shaped glasses up his nose and gave me a nod. “He’s out on the back porch. Follow the walk around the corner. Can’t promise he’ll talk to you, though. He’s always quiet, but today more than usual. I let him sit back there awhile because it
seemed like he needed a quiet space.” His voice dropped lower. “Possible that he ran out of his medication. Or decided he was through taking it.” He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Just be a little careful. Don’t push.”

I skirted around the walk to the back porch and found Turtle smoking at a plastic picnic table, a Styrofoam coffee cup in front of him, his dog at his feet. His dark red hair was long and tangled and his eyes seemed wild, like those of a trapped animal. I stopped still so as not to spook him. The dog uttered a low growl, his snout still resting on crossed paws.

“Turtle, I’m Hayley,” I said gently. “We met a couple days ago at the beach when Henri Stentzel sent me over with a sack of burritos. She cooks awesome food, doesn’t she? I never can make it taste the same at home in my kitchen.” I took one step closer and kept talking. “Tony told me I might find you here. I swear I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t so important. It’s possible that you might have seen something that could keep me out of jail.”

Turtle hunched over his cigarette, sucking in air until it burned hot red down to the filter and then to his fingers. Then he dropped the glowing stub to the deck and ground it out. I swore I could smell the burned flesh.

“Listen,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe you heard about the lady who was poisoned last week? They think I killed her and I can’t find anyone who saw me at home, even though I swear I was right there on the boat the whole morning.”

I inched a little closer and then stopped, trying to imagine I was approaching a feral cat. “I guess I did have reason to hate her, but really I should hate my boyfriend,
right? He’s the one who invited me down here and then cheated on me. I swear I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. I always think I would never cheat on someone because I know what it would feel like and I wouldn’t want to be the cause of that much hurt in someone else. But on the other hand, you fall in love or lust or whatever and it just seems like it’s the only thing that matters in the world. So I guess I’m saying I didn’t think I’d do that to someone else, but I proved I can get swept away with the best of them. After all, I’m here instead of home in New Jersey, right?”

Turtle didn’t say anything, but how would he be expected to answer my nervous jabbering? I edged onto the bench across from him and the dog lifted his head and snarled.

“Easy,” said Turtle, then glanced up and focused on something over my shoulder. His eyes were pale blue with a dark blue rim around the outside and wide dark pupils. In other days, when he maybe hadn’t looked quite so crazy-­fragile, those eyes would have stopped women cold on the streets. He mumbled something I couldn’t understand.

“Excuse me?” I asked, leaning a little closer.

“Don’t want no trouble,” he barked, startling me backward on the bench.

“No trouble,” I echoed, holding crossed fingers up. And thinking just how bad I’d feel if I did have to sic the police on him. If I had to throw him under the bus so I could shake the albatross off my own neck.

“Not too tall, not short either,” he whispered. “Yellow slicker, with a white plastic bag. Squarish shape. Hung
out behind the bushes next to the gate until a man came through walking his dog. That’s how he got in. Big black and white Australian shepherd with a silly haircut.”

A crop of goose bumps covered my arms. Sounded like Turtle had really seen Kristen’s killer.

He made a sound like a low growl, then scrambled to his feet and bolted off the deck and down the path alongside the building, his dog loping behind. I followed him out, but they took off running down Petronia Street, crossing White, dodging a truck and a scooter, and heading toward the cemetery before I’d even reached the bike rack. I returned to the church basement.

“I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I spooked him,” I told the sandwich man.

I drove back to Tarpon Pier and popped the scooter onto its kickstand, just dying to tell someone about what I’d learned. From the parking lot, I spotted Miss Gloria sunning herself on the little deck of her boat. A man in black was poised on the chair beside her, one arm out as if ready to hold her back in case she tried to leave. As I drew closer, I saw he looked hot and sweaty in jeans and a long-­sleeved shirt. And grumpy, as though he’d been on the losing end of a serious conversation.

“Hooray! Miss Gloria’s home!” I called.

“Oh, Hayley, it’s so good to see you,” she said, starting to push out of her chair. But her legs wobbled and she collapsed back down. I hurried over to hug her small frame. She still looked pale and delicate, but a hundred times better than she had in that hospital room.

“Have you met my son Freddy? Thank you for taking
care of Sparky. Could you bring him back over any time that’s convenient? I really miss that little rascal. How did he and Evinrude make out?”

A lump rose in my throat. I couldn’t see the sense in protecting her from my bad news, so I told her how Evinrude had been missing since the day she went into the hospital. Her hazel eyes watered and she reached a hand out to me. I took her fingers and squeezed gently.

“I’m so sorry, Hayley. You can keep my cat a little longer if you like, for company.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, trying to sound cheerful and not shaky like I felt inside. She’d had more pain than one old lady should have to bear over the last few days. And from the glower on her son’s face, it looked like she was headed for more.

I trotted down the dock to Connie’s boat to retrieve Sparky and his belongings. By the time I returned, Miss Gloria had gone inside, leaving only her son on the deck. I handed over the cat, but he scrambled out of Freddy’s arms, ran mewing to the front door, and disappeared inside. Miss Gloria’s sweet voice seeped through the screen, murmuring how much she’d missed her baby.

Freddy clapped his hands off and brushed an imaginary black hair from his black shirt. “My mother tells me you’ve been a good friend. We appreciate that. Thank you,” he said, nodding his head briskly. “We’ll be putting the boat up for sale and moving her to Dearborn by Christmas. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a nursing home that’ll take a cat.” His lips curled down, like he thought that was unlikely. Then he nodded a second
time, as though I must surely agree with his sensible decision.

I was feeling awful about spooking Turtle. And losing Evinrude. And the whole nightmarish week. Month, really. But Miss Gloria’s impending losses trumped all that.

“She’s not my mother, so I hate to be nosy, but I think it’ll just kill her to move away from here.”

It would kill me, and I hadn’t lived here for decades, the way Miss Gloria had. I hadn’t fused my ways to the ways of the island, the turn of the tides, the way life was appreciated—­each day on houseboat row cherished like a piece of polished sea glass.

“It’ll be a shock for her to move to Michigan. We understand that. But for her own good, it has to be done. It’s not responsible to leave an elderly woman alone down here. The health care on the islands is appalling. A million things could go wrong—­that’s already been proven. Thanks again for being a friend.”

He cracked a mirthless smile and ducked into the boat.

“Most bereaved souls crave nourishment more tangible than prayers: they want a steak.”

—­M. F. K. Fisher

There were a lot of things lately I couldn’t do a darned thing about—­Miss Gloria’s situation was only one of them. Turtle’s hard-­knocks life was another. My mind began to work over the bits of information he’d given me about what he might have seen the morning of the murder.

The deliverer of the pie was medium-­sized and wore a yellow slicker. Both of which applied to me. At least on the days I borrowed Connie’s extra raincoat, which was almost every time it rained, as my maroon jacket soaked right through in a downpour. And if you counted five foot four as medium-­sized, which some people might not.

A picture flashed into my mind: Wally Beile slinging
his wet raincoat on the peg next to mine the other day in the
Key Zest
office. As my worthless lawyer might have said: A, he was not a big man. And B, his slicker was yellow. But what could I do about it? Stop by his office and ask if he hated Kristen enough to poison her? A ham-­handed interrogation would not likely produce the information I needed. Nor would it help my job prospects.

I pushed myself to think harder. Someone tried to run me off the road last night and that driver had not meant to only scare me. I was convinced he intended to kill me. He’d emptied enough bullets into the water to turn me into Havarti cheese.

If Wally had been in that car, was it possible that he believed I had died? What if I showed up for a chat? Might his reactions to seeing me alive (though battered) confirm his identity? Of course, I wouldn’t be dumb enough to say anything—­I’d take my suspicions directly to the cops.

I trotted back down the finger to my scooter and fired her up, my stomach gurgling with anxiety and hunger. I glanced at my watch. Twelve thirty. With any luck, the
Key Zest
receptionist would be out to lunch and I could burst in unannounced and get a clear view into Wally’s psyche.

I drove down Southard and parked in the back lot, fluffing my hair on the way to the magazine office. Then I shot up the stairs and paused in the hallway outside the office.

Keep it simple
, I told myself.
Passing by—­just wanted to shout out a big hello and see if you need anything else for my application
.

Then I’d flash a big smile and watch, like a pelican waiting for the shrimpers to dock. I sucked up a lungful of air and stepped into the waiting area. As I’d hoped, the receptionist’s desk was empty, but the light bled through the blinds from Wally’s office. My heart was beating so hard I thought the real estate agents on the first floor might be wondering about the banging.

“Helloooo?” I warbled weakly.

I heard a slight rustling in the back office and then Wally appeared at the door, glasses crooked on his nose and hair standing up as if he’d had a good fright. Annoyance and then confusion flushed his face. “Oh, Hayley. Adrienne didn’t tell you to come over, did she? We’re really not ready to make our decision. I’ve been bombarded with work since Kristen’s funeral.”

“Sorry. So sorry to bother you,” I mumbled, hitching back a step. “I don’t mean to be a pest, but I wondered if there’s anything else I could do to help with my application. I know you said it was complete and all that, and you’d be in touch, but . . .”

But I felt like a fool. He was surprised to see me, yes, indeed. But it was the surprise of a harassed boss with too much on his plate, not the shock of a murderer who hadn’t finished his job.

“I won’t bother you again. I can wait with the rest of the supplicants.”

I grinned and waved and stumbled out of the office as fast as I could. Rolling my shoulders to shake out the cricks of tension, my stomach rumblings ratcheted up to a howl. Next stop: Bad Boy Burrito, where I could kill two birds with one stone—­get lunch and check out
Henri Stentzel’s reactions to the living, breathing me. If she’d been the person hounding me down Route One in the driving rain last night, I thought I might be able to see it on her face.

I drove east on Simonton Street, trying not to think too hard about whether I’d torpedoed my chances for the critic job by irritating Wally. The sun emerged as I parked the scooter in front of the burrito shop. Two blocks down the street, whitecaps glinted cheerfully on the ocean. Hard to feel too down on a day like this.

I pulled open the heavy door to the shop, breathing in the scent of fried onions and chili peppers and maybe a pinch of cumin. As I waited in front of the counter, I spotted Henri at the back of the kitchen. She stood pressed against a tall man, one hand around his waist, the other reaching to caress the streak of silver at his temples. On tiptoes, she stretched up to kiss him. Over her head, he caught sight of me, murmured something to her as he pulled away, and took three quick steps out the back door.

With an audible sigh, Henri squared her shoulders and marched across the kitchen to greet the customers. Her face paled and her welcoming expression turned to a glare when she recognized me. I was too nervous to wait for her to speak.

“I’ll have two fish tacos, all the way, double the verde sauce. And why not double the sour cream while you’re at it. What’s a few extra calories between friends? And let’s see—­what kind of smoothies are you serving today?”

She didn’t pick up her order pad or make any move toward the stove.

“Doug Rodriguez called me late last night,” she said, her voice grinding like tumbling stones in a fast current. “He mentioned that you happened to be in Miami Beach, and just happened to stop by Hola to interrogate him about my relationship with Robert.” Her head dipped almost imperceptibly toward the rear of the restaurant.

And it clicked who the tall guy must have been: The mysterious and exquisitely talented Robert who’d cheated on her to be with Kristen and left her restaurant’s helm for the so-­far nonexistent restaurant on Easter Island. It didn’t take a psychologist to diagnose the strong feelings still lingering between them. I hated to think it, but given all their history, probably hers were deeper than his. As Eric would say, nothing predicts the future better than the past.