Holloway’s recorded invitation had said to join “us,” without identifying the others he’d asked along. I had guessed there would be immediate family members. I was greeted by my first positive surprise in four days. Next to Mercer Holloway sat Flo Franklin, the grande dame of Key West. Down-to-earth and elegant, Flo was the sparkly, silver-haired widow of Willy Franklin, for decades kingpin of Key West’s shrimp- and fish-house industries. Flo wore a traditional red shawl over a black bolero vest, a white linen shirt and dark skirt. She held her Bloody Mary aside. We exchanged hugs and air kisses. Expensive old-lady perfume wafted into my eyes.
A small red button on her vest:
CUTER? YOUNGER? PERKY? JUST SAY NO
.
I recalled seeing her one day twenty years ago in the post office. She’d asked how my friend Jimmy Buffett was doing. I told her I thought his career might have staying power, that he’d just recorded
Son of a Son of a Sailor
and bought himself a Porsche 928. Her eyes had lit up. She’d said, “Oh, yes, Alex. I owned a little red Maserati for years. Even when the top’s not down, even going slowly, those cars will make your hair stand on end.” Since then I’d always held a wonderful image of Flo zipping about the provincial island, long before my time, in her exotic Italian sports roadster.
I introduced Teresa and explained her mother’s marriage to Paulie Cottrell.
Flo smiled broadly, perfectly poised, and said in aristocratic tones, “Worse things have happened.” Her smile so captivating, her manner so charming, that no one else caught her drift.
While Flo engaged Teresa, Mercer Holloway took me aside, told me all was forgiven—my delays, my failures to respond to messages. He understood that I’d been stressed
since the weekend, noted that I hadn’t attempted to cash his check. Holloway looked spiffed up in a blue dress shirt with a straight white collar, khaki trousers, expensive loafers with no socks, a tan-colored drink in a rocks glass. His full head of hair, slightly long, an elegant gray, was slicked back. Almost as if he was dolled up for a photo.
He’d asked me to bring a camera. I’d forgotten the request on hearing the message, forgotten on purpose. I handed him the envelope I’d brought along. It held the twenty-five-hundred-dollar check.
“So you’re turning down my offer?”
“No,” I said. “I’m returning your check before we talk here. We resume our talk on level ground.”
“You should have been a lawyer.”
“You should have been a beatnik.”
He said, “Not in a million years.”
“You got my point.”
I heard voices on the porch ladder, checked over the rail. Philip and Julie Kaiser climbed ahead of Donovan and Suzanne Cosgrove. The sisters wore tropical business attire. Donovan looked ten years older than his brother-in-law. Butler Dunwoody and Heidi Norquist appeared, drinks in hand. I hadn’t seen them on the way in. They must have been on the far side of the outside bar. Dunwoody wore an authentic Panama hat. He looked to the balcony, saw me, then stomped up the stairs. In cadence, in a booming mock sea-shanty voice, he sang, “I brought my bimbo to dance the mambo, this island life is for me!” He spilled his Collins-looking drink on his wrist. Damned cheerful for someone who’d lost a primary employee only seventy-two hours ago.
Embarrassed, Heidi tried to defuse it: “Always the social climber.”
I introduced Teresa to those she didn’t know. Not a soul but Mercer and Flo Franklin looked happy to be there. Everyone else smiled, with near-total awkwardness. Chewing on lower lips, checking for bugs in drinks. A server took another drink order. One brought hors d’oeuvres to
the table. A third poured Pellegrino. I knew they cut off breakfast at eleven forty-five. I’d had my mind and stomach set on Seafood Benedict. A jerk chicken sandwich would have to do. Ten places set at the table. We weren’t waiting for anyone else.
Stilted small talk buzzed. Philip Kaiser remarked on the convertible that Dunwoody had parked on Thomas Street. He wondered if it wasn’t a risky spot for an old beauty. “It’ll catch a thief’s eye,” said Kaiser, “in spite of its age.”
“Bad topic.” Heidi’s sunny face went away. She glared at Philip Kaiser.
Kaiser went silent, pulled back, looked to Dunwoody for an explanation. He didn’t understand his gaffe.
Dunwoody explained: “Her Jaguar roadster went bye-bye last night. First time we’ve ever left it outside. We didn’t hear a thing. They must’ve rolled it down the driveway. They had at least five hours before we discovered it. By now it’s on a boat to South America. Or in a chop shop in South Miami.”
Kaiser took the high road: “I’m sorry to hear that. Sorry to have brought up the subject I sure like your old Ford.”
Butler said, “’Bout to get rid of it, anyway. You can tell a car’s getting old when you can’t fit any more fast-food napkins in the glove box.”
Teresa nudged me. Her Pontiac Grand Am’s glove compartment always held mounds of leftover paper napkins.
Mercer was back to me. “You brought a camera?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, forgot”
“I was hoping for a happy family group shot We’re so seldom together anymore. Maybe the restaurant has one we can borrow.”
I didn’t want to create a Holloway family memento. “No chance of asking everyone out to Olan Mills, the Nation’s Studio?”
My humor fell flat Mercer’s hospitality face went to pissed off. Teresa stepped closer. She’d overheard. She tapped Holloway on the arm, opened her small handbag, extracted a silver clamshell point-and-shoot, her “drunk-proof
Olympus Zoom 80. I’d always enjoyed using the small camera. Press the button, decent quality. I still didn’t want to play the game.
Mercer ignored my scowl. He shifted Teresa’s camera from her hand to mine, patted my shoulder. “Ply your trade in the open air, young man. Better for you than sitting in a jail cell. Or rooting around a stuffy tax assessor’s office all morning.”
He turned, began to position his daughters and their husbands.
Cheap Juan knew which side of the butter his bread was on. He’d told on me. And Mercer had a point. He’d sent Donovan Cosgrove to pull my ass out of a sling. I owed him more than just shooting a picture.
Holloway arranged the pose. Vanity ruled. The women complained about their outfits. The brothers-in-law wanted to comb their hair. I took a dozen snaps, got it done. Mercer and Flo looked majestic. Heidi looked saucy. Julie looked classy. Suzanne Cosgrove didn’t smile a single time.
After a minute of seat selection, we settled at the table, passed plates of finger food. The tree above us dripped rainwater, spotted our shoulders. Holloway made a fuss about draping his cotton sweater over Flo Franklin’s shoulders. Philip Kaiser broke the conversational ice. He raised his drink in salute. “This fine atmosphere, the elegant nature,” he said, gazing at the old trees in the yard.
Butler Dunwoody responded, lifted his glass. “Here’s to a picturesque setting. The whole place vibrates with history.”
Kaiser agreed. “You’re absolutely right. It’s not bad for a place that used to be a minority whorehouse.” He turned to Julie and asked pointedly, “Did Daddy Big Dex own this place, or just run it for his white bosses?”
Suzanne Cosgrove said, “Nice question for your wife in public.”
Julie turned to her sister. “You’ll keep your goddamned mouth shut.”
Suzanne leaned forward. “Right, skinny bitch. You worried about secrets in this town?”
Julie put on a cold face. “You haven’t had one since that biker in ninth grade.”
“Because you let me have sloppy seconds.”
Julie turned to her father. “Sissy’s rampaging, Father. She forgot to take her pill today.”
Suzanne forced a laugh. “You’re such a great sister. Your dysfunctions always make me feel better about myself.”
Teresa’s hand moved to mine. She pressed her fingers into my palm and squeezed hard. Our secret code: Let’s head for the door.
“Heidi,” said Butler, “it’s your turn. This looks like fun.”
“I don’t fight in restaurants.” Heidi turned to the waning sisters. “Why don’t you take it outside, you silly preppie hosebags?”
It took less than thirty seconds. The luncheon turned into a free-for-all. A glass of Chardonnay flew, along with a feminine-sounding “Motherfucker,” a loud “Son of a bitch” from Donovan Cosgrove. A plate of Portobello mushrooms sailed. Mercer Holloway stood shouting. Flo Franklin grabbed her drink before losing it, then went under the table. Most drinks and appetizers went airborne. Goblets broke. Several plates shattered on the wood deck.
I’d pushed back from the table, held up my napkin to shield Teresa from debris. Suzanne had taken the first major hit. Philip Kaiser and Donovan Cosgrove had rushed around the table to defend her. It ended as abruptly as it had begun. Action froze at ground level. I half-expected an ovation from a hidden audience. Julie Kaiser, who had not started the words war but had thrown at least three strikes, sat isolated, anger and guilt on her face. Tears and cream-colored sauce and red wine dripped from her chin. Servers rushed up the wood stairs with towels. One carried Dunwoody’s hat. The expensive Panama had been knocked over the railing.
Almost on cue, Suzanne Cosgrove’s phone rang. She
made a production of holding out her hand—”time out” in the ball game—wiping debris from her hands and face, carefully extracting the phone from her purse. We don’t want salad oil on our fine leather. She leaned away from the table, sure we could hear her side of the conversation. “Yes?” she said. “Was anyone hurt? Who saw it happen? Thank you, I’ll tell him.”
She thumbed the
END
button, turned toward her father. “The police are going to the house, Daddy. Someone shot a gun. It made a hole in your door.”
Holloway crouched to help Flo Franklin back into her seat. “Arguments happen,” he said. “Bad manners can be excused. Gunfire in my residence is not acceptable. I am sorry. Our social gathering is over.”
Donovan stood, grabbed the fat set of keys he’d placed on the table. “I’ll take care of it, Mercer.”
Softly, out of the side of his mouth, Holloway muttered, “I doubt it”
Teresa’s cell phone rang. The city was calling.
“Matter of fact,” said Mercer more loudly, “please give the Infiniti keys to Mr. Rutledge. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind seeing Mrs. Franklin to her home. I’ll go with one of you.”
“Happy to help,” I said.
Philip and Donovan, knowing they’d miss lunch, attacked scattered hors d’oeuvres before departing. Teresa had walked down the stairway to take her call. She met me at ground level, offered Flo another escort elbow. Butler and Heidi preceded us to the Petronia gateway. Heidi didn’t care who heard her: “She looks like J. Crew and her stupid sister looks like Land’s End and they both smell like hotel soap.”
I looked right. Flo frowned. Teresa fought back a smile, adjusting her opinion of Heidi. I asked Teresa to walk with us to the Infiniti sedan and to dial my answering machine.
One message. Sheriff’s Detective Bobbi Lewis: “Please call back.”
Teresa hugged Flo good-bye, told me she’d leave my bike chained to the rack.
Flo Franklin and I discussed my photo travels until we reached Johnson Street Finally she mentioned the food fight “Suzanne’s such a spirited gal. I remember the day she was married. It rained and I thought This is a bad sign. For all I know, Alex, her Donovan is a bundle of fun underneath the veneer. But a dullard on the outside. I wonder how she keeps her sanity.”
“No offense, but ever since high school I’ve wondered if she still had it”
“Well, who knows. Maybe they’re good for each other. Maybe he’s a star in their relations. Lord knows my Willy made up for his faults that way.”
On one hand, more than I needed to know about Willy and Flo. On the other hand, talk about a spirited gal . . .
Flo Franklin’s driveway, at the corner of Johnson and Grinnell, opened to both streets. I pulled off Grinnell, stopped under the entrance portico.
“When we went into that restaurant I left my handbag in the trunk,” she said. “I hope it hasn’t spilled.”
I pulled the keys from the ignition, popped the remote button on the key ring. Her purse had spilled onto the trunk-floor carpet. Several items had rolled toward the front of the car. I leaned in to help her scoop them up.
“I need that little ticket stub,” she said. “But I don’t believe that feather is mine.” She pointed to a dark recess. “I thank you for your kindness. Would you like some iced tea?”
I slammed the trunk, shook my head. “Thanks. I’ve got to get going.”
“Alex, dear, what happened to your face?”
“I bumped my nose on a piece of metal.”
“You young people. I was afraid it was the other way around. Send me a postcard from your next exotic port of call.”
I promised I would.
I didn’t want to return the car immediately to Holloway.
If the police were at his house, Southard might be blocked off anyway. I wanted to park it out of the way while I thought about the feather stuck to the trunk carpeting.
I wasn’t an expert on feather shapes or rarity or commonness. I knew nothing about microscopic yarn and fiber identification. I knew only that, to my untrained eyes, I’d found my first solid clue in four days. The feather was identical to one that a murderer had inserted in Richard Engram’s ass.
I unlocked my house to a furious message light and a ringing phone. Bad signs, like the rain at Donovan Cosgrove’s wedding.
I picked up, beat the machine for the grab.
Teresa, from her cell phone: “You’re not going to believe the mess down here. Dexter’s turned into an all-biz, by-the-book dervish. Strict rules and procedures.”
“Why now?”
“Hear him? He’s screaming at a scene tech to stay off the front walk so he won’t foul the grid. He’s tried to call you four or five times. This is my third try.”
“He’ll accuse me of this crime, too.”
“No. The bullet shattered the beveled glass in Holloway’s front door. It went down the hall, across the patio and pool, into the rear neighbor’s house. It hit a carpenter in the ass. The ‘starboard-side gluteus maximus,’ as Marine’s going to print it.”
A perfect opportunity for the city’s ace crime scene photographer. “Ortega’s not there?”