Happiness Key (3 page)

Tracy was growing accustomed to finding the world unfair.

The music stopped for the last time, and her renter started toward the door, but Tracy caught up with her.

“Hi. I’m sorry, I can’t remember your first name.”

The young woman looked more resigned than pleased. “Janya.”

“John-ya.” Tracy attempted to commit it to memory. “That’s pretty.”

Janya smiled just enough to reveal strong white teeth, almost perfect, except for one eyetooth that wasn’t quite aligned. Tracy, whose father advertised himself as orthodontist to the stars, recognized a smile that was exactly the way the creator had made it, with no intervention.

Tracy wasted no time getting to the point. “I stopped by your house yesterday, and this morning, too. To collect the rent.”

“It was due yesterday, correct? We were gone in the day, but my husband took it to your house last night.”

Tracy wondered if stiffing the landlord was a worldwide custom. “I don’t think so. It wasn’t in my mailbox.”

“Rishi said that he did not want to leave it where someone might take it. So he slipped it under your door.”

Tracy had left the house by the kitchen door that morning and never thought to look anywhere except in
the mailbox beside the road. The check was probably in her living room right now, and she had missed it.

“Oh, well, that explains it.” From Janya’s expression, she realized more was required. “Thank you, or rather, thank him for me. You’re the only renters I didn’t have to dun.”

“Dun?”

“Harass. Beg. You know, insist.”

“I know insist.” Janya turned away, but Tracy, who felt a stab of guilt for accusing the woman of something she hadn’t done, put her hand on her arm.

“How did you like the class?”

“I think it has been a long time since I have done so much so fast.”

“It was pretty strenuous, wasn’t it?”

“And now I must hurry to the bus stop or I will miss the next bus.”

Janya turned away again, but Tracy stopped her. “You took the bus? If you’re just heading home, why don’t you come with me? I’ll drop you off. It’s not out of my way.”

“Thank you, but that’s not required.”

“Well, right, of course it’s not. But I’m offering. It’s no skin off my nose.”

“Skin off your nose?” Janya wrinkled hers.

“It’s no trouble. Just another way of saying it.” Tracy glanced at her watch. “But I have to leave right now. I can’t seem to find Herb Krause, and I’m hoping he’ll stop home for lunch. You know how these senior citizens are. They swear Social Security doesn’t extend as far as a fast-food hamburger.”

She realized she was leaving Janya in the dust. The woman’s English was excellent, although with hints of the rounded vowels and distinctive rise and fall in pitch
that late-night comedians loved to imitate. But Tracy had been speaking quickly, probably too quickly. She paused.

“So, are you coming?” she asked, after she thought Janya had been given enough time to process everything she’d said.

“Yes, thank you.”

“I’m parked out front.” Tracy circled her, strode through the door and out into the hallway.

In the reception area, Janya paused, then looked chagrined. “I’m sorry, but I forgot my groceries. I must go back. Please go on without me.”

Tracy waved off the suggestion. “I’m not in that much of a hurry.”

Janya disappeared the way they had come, leaving Tracy beside the community bulletin board. Tracy tapped her foot, glancing over the notices while she waited. Somebody wanted a job babysitting for the summer. She shook her head at a copy machine photo of a calico cat with a phone number and “Reward” in bold letters beneath it. Business cards littered the board. She took a pad out of her purse and jotted down numbers for a roofer and plumber. She hoped Wanda Gray had been exaggerating the problems at her cottage, but considering the state of Tracy’s own, she doubted it.

Half of the board was devoted to official notices, county and city. One, in the most prominent spot, stood out. The heading read “Henrietta Claiborne Recreation Center” and below that “Job Openings.”

She scanned the notice, starting at the bottom and working up. The center was looking for weekend maintenance personnel. They needed another swimming instructor for the summer. Keeping a bevy of little kids from drowning was a nightmare. Tracy knew that from experience, having been required to do it in college.

At the top of the notice was the most important job, taking up more than half the space, with “filled” scrawled across it in a felt tip pen. Recreational supervisor. The position was temporary, terminating in the fall when the present supervisor returned from maternity leave. She read the list of duties. She was only halfway through when Janya returned with two plastic bags in hand. But by then she’d figured out that the unfortunate new employee had the task of managing the youth program for the upcoming summer, as well as leading a hefty number of activities. Whoever had taken the position at this late date deserved a CEO’s paycheck.

“All set?” Tracy led the way. In the parking lot, she motioned to what was fast becoming a vintage BMW convertible roadster. “Hop in.”

Janya stroked the silver paint. “I think you must enjoy driving this.”

“I learned to drive in this car.”

“It’s that old?”

Tracy felt the question to the tips of her toes. “Ancient, and so am I.”

Janya smiled. “Neither of you is quite ready for the grave.”

Tracy unlocked Janya’s door. “My ex thought the car was. When we got married, he wanted me to sell it, but I was sentimentally attached, so we squirreled it away in our garage. My father bought it for me, or I guess I ought to say he was there when I bought it. He took me to the dealer the day I got my learner’s permit and told me to pick out anything I wanted, while he sat in his car and talked to his receptionist on the car phone.”

She straightened, realizing how that had sounded. She no longer hung out with people who understood that kind of life. To friends at home, this would have been wryly
funny, particularly those who knew that dear old Dad and Summer, the receptionist, were now married and raising a second family.

“It’s a good thing I hung on to the car,” she said, trying for a more self-deprecating tone. “It’s too old to be valuable.”

She got in the driver’s seat and started the engine. They drove in silence, crossing a low bridge, then turning onto the narrow road that led to Happiness Key. Tracy was about to drop Janya at her house, the first of the five in the “development,” when she had an idea.

“I hate to ask a favor,” she said, although it wasn’t really true. “But would you come with me to Mr. Krause’s? Just for a moment? If he doesn’t answer, I’m going to peek inside and see if he’s still living there. If I’m going to unlock his door, I’d like to have you there, you know, as a witness that nothing was disturbed.”

“You must have a witness?”

“I think so.” Tracy had experienced enough persecution in the days leading up to CJ’s arrest and later during his trial. She didn’t want a repeat.

In the weeks since she had moved to Happiness Key, the one thing Tracy could say about her new “neighborhood” was that everyone, with the exception of Herb Krause, was obsessed with privacy. She appreciated this, since, of course, she had no desire to socialize with her neighbors, either.

Janya’s desire not to get involved made sense to her. But when Janya didn’t answer, she added, “You can stay on the steps. I don’t expect you to come inside. I’m only going to poke my head in.”

“I can do that.”

“You can leave as soon as I know what’s up.” Tracy stopped in front of Herb’s place.

“He has lovely plants, doesn’t he?”

Tracy hadn’t thought about it. But now she saw that Janya was right. Herb Krause was some gardener. There were at least twenty pots placed strategically around the front yard of the little house. Some were huge. Banana trees, palms, even citrus. She wondered if Herb gardened this way so he could cart his plants from place to place when he moved. If so, maybe he was still in residence. The plants sure were.

Both women exited the roadster and started up the path. Janya paused to feel the soil in one of the larger pots, which was home to a blooming double hibiscus in shades of peach.

“Perhaps he is gone,” Janya said. “This is very dry.”

“Well, maybe we can tell.” Tracy pulled out the ring of keys copied from the master set by the Realtor who had rented the properties for CJ. In those days, renters had been more a way to keep vandals from the property than to provide income.

Tracy knocked and called Herb’s name, then pounded with the side of her fist, getting another splinter for her efforts.

“I guess I have no choice.” She picked at the side of her hand, then she looked to Janya for confirmation. Janya shrugged.

Tracy held the key ring up to the light and found the one marked Krause. Unfortunately, it didn’t fit. As Janya watched, she tried another key on the ring, then another. None of them fit.

“Well, that’s a bummer. I guess I’ll have to go find the Realtor and get her to dig out the originals.”

Janya stepped closer and, without a word, turned the knob. The door swung open. “I didn’t think he was a
man to lock out others,” she said, stepping back so Tracy could get inside.

Tracy felt foolish. “Well, I’m surprised. I bought a dead bolt for
my
door.”

“I will wait here.”

Tracy felt even more foolish. She was suddenly apprehensive about walking inside Herb’s house without permission. Technically, maybe, the house belonged to her, but in her weeks here, she had never taken him up on his offer to see the inside. She had been too busy settling in, and she’d been afraid that Herb would rope her into an interminable conversation, complete with a photo display of places he had traveled, pets long gone, and great-grandchildren. Now, as she stepped over the threshold, she had a flash of regret. This didn’t seem like exactly the right moment to accept his warm hospitality.

Cold
hospitality. As she had guessed earlier, the temperature inside the little house was freezing, but this was even worse than she’d imagined.

“Lord, it’s like ice in here,” she told Janya, glancing back at the other woman.

“It is unlikely, then, that he’s left for good. Unless you are paying for his electricity?”

Tracy gave a sharp shake of her head. She had noticed something else. A faint smell, and not a pleasant one. Suddenly she was torn between leaving and going forward. But who would she call to investigate? CJ was behind bars; neither of her parents had any interest in her new life, and to date, she hadn’t made a single friend in Florida.

She felt completely alone. For good reason. She was.

“I think this isn’t going to be good news,” she said, stalling.

“I think we had better make certain.”

Tracy glanced back at Janya once more and saw written on the young woman’s face what she herself now suspected.

Tracy chewed her lip. Then she pressed her lips together, trying not to ask, wanting not to be beholden to a person from a different culture, a woman with whom she had absolutely nothing in common.

“I’ll come with you,” Janya said. “But we must do it quickly, before I change my mind.”

Tracy was relieved, grateful
and
embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m a wuss.”

“Wuss?”

“Coward.”

“We can be cowards together, then.” Janya joined her inside the little living room.

“I’ve never been in here. I guess that’s the bedroom.” Tracy nodded toward a door to the left. “That’s where the air conditioner is.”

“He has worked hard on the house. Everything is fresh and new. And clean.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t smell clean.”

Janya started toward the bedroom. “One peek, then we leave.”

“Mr. Krause?” Tracy called, as they strode across the room. She registered plain furniture in good repair, a glass-topped coffee table with newspapers stacked neatly on top. Several wilting houseplants.

They stopped at the door. Tracy knew this was up to her. She took a breath and held it, then she turned the knob and pushed it open.

Herb Krause was not on vacation, nor had he moved away. He was lying fully dressed in cotton trousers and a dress shirt on a bed he had carefully made before his final nap, one arm outstretched and hand turned up. Hor
rified, Tracy moved a little closer to see what her renter had been holding. A key rested in his palm, fingers loosely trapping it there, but the old man was never going to open a door with this key again.

Herb Krause was blue, stiff, and very, very dead.

“If an autopsy was required, the medical examiner could pinpoint it, but I’d say he’s been dead thirty-six hours, tops. The temperature in here slowed everything and makes it harder to tell.”

The shiny-headed deputy from the sheriff’s department looked up from his clipboard. Judging by his lack of expression, he had faced a lot of dead bodies. “You can be glad he died across from the air-conditioning vents.”

“I’m overwhelmed with gratitude,” Tracy said.

He lifted a spindly brow that made it clear the hairless head wasn’t a fashion statement. “Then while you’re at it, be glad that until you got here, the place was sealed like a tomb. At least the insects didn’t find him first.”

She repressed a shudder. Under the inevitable odor of death’s final moments, Tracy had noted the fragrance of insecticide. Herb Krause had been locked in a war with the insect world. At least he had won the final battle.

Herb’s death was just one more piece of business for the professionals who had been called. The sheriff’s de
partment had arrived, surveyed the scene, then called Herb’s physician, whose name Tracy had discovered from a prescription bottle beside the bed. After that conversation, the doctor had agreed to sign the death certificate, as law required, then he’d checked Herb’s records and told the deputy which funeral home to call. The body was being carted outside by their employees, who had arrived quickly.

The deputy finished his forms, passed the clipboard over to Tracy, then slipped his pen in his shirt pocket after she signed. “If you can stay around a little while, you should air it out some more and get all the bedding to the curb for trash pickup. I’m sure his next of kin will be grateful.”

“The trash truck comes tomorrow or Sunday. A private contractor. Next of kin…” Tracy hadn’t thought that far. Surely Herb had somebody. But how would she know? She had avoided the old man at every turn.

“The funeral home will need addresses if you’ve got them,” he said. “Mr. Krause prepaid his funeral, but the director tells me there’s an annoying lack of information in his file.”

“I’ll have to look around.” Tracy didn’t want to admit she was clueless. That sounded coldhearted, as if she had taken absolutely no interest in her renter. Which happened to be true.

“Oh, he had this in his hand.” The deputy handed Tracy the key she had noted. “Who knows why. I don’t think he was planning to go anywhere. His pockets were empty. Nothing else on him. Just the clothes on his back.”

Tracy touched the man’s arm as he started to move away. “I was over here knocking on his door yesterday. Do you think he, you know, suffered? That he was just lying here for hours, or maybe days, like…dying?”

“No. I think he probably got up yesterday, got dressed, then felt a little strange. The bed was made, so he’d been up at least that long. He probably lay back down, thinking he’d feel better in a minute, had a massive heart attack and went like that.” He snapped his fingers. “We should all go that easy. You saw him. He looked perfectly peaceful. No sign of a struggle.”

“I guess.”

“Call in that information once you get it, okay?” The deputy gave her a business card and left. Tracy was still staring at it when she heard the minivan from the funeral home head down the road with Herb’s body inside. Judging from the diminishing screech of the police radio, the deputy was right behind.

“Well, that’s one rent I won’t collect this month.” She stuffed the card in her pocket.

She didn’t feel as cavalier as she sounded. She had never seen a corpse, except on television, and these days you were more likely to see a decomposing body on the little screen than a commercial for something you really needed.

But the real thing? That was different. On a scale ranging from serene to terrified, Herb Krause might well have looked peaceful, but her first thought after the shock was that Herb looked lonely.

Were people supposed to die alone and undiscovered? Was that going to be her fate, too?

Tracy heard footsteps and turned to see Janya Kapur in the doorway.

“I saw them drive away,” Janya said.

“The deputy said he died fast and easily.”

“He was old. Perhaps he was prepared.”

“Is that possible?”

Janya wrinkled her arrow-straight nose. “I brought incense.”

“Incense?” Tracy wondered if this was a Hindu or Buddhist thing. Was Janya going to scare away evil spirits or send Herb’s soul to his next life on a puff of perfumed smoke?

The other woman seemed to read her mind. “I thought we should open the windows, then light some to make the house smell better.”

Tracy remembered what the paramedic had said. “That’s nice of you.”

“I’ll start with the windows in the living room.”

Once Janya was gone, Tracy crossed the bedroom, flipped the air conditioner to the fan setting and cranked open the only window that was still closed. Being in here, where Herb had so recently drawn his final breath, gave her the creeps, but the fresh air helped.

With distaste, she went into the kitchen and found extralarge plastic garbage bags. She stripped off the sheets and mattress cover, and using the bags like gloves, stuffed everything inside another one, triple-bagged it and fastened it tight. The mattress would have to go to the curb, too, but she was lucky this was the worst of it. Television had taught her that much.

Toting a square floor fan, Janya came back in, searched for and found a plug, and turned it on. The fan began to whir demurely.

“I really do appreciate your help,” Tracy said.

“I feel sad for him. I want to do something.”

Tracy sought out the bathroom, a cramped affair with 1950s tile in shades of pink and gray, and a matching gray sink. Everything was old, and funky enough to be trendy, and she wondered if Herb had found it so or merely outdated, a reminder that the house could not be remod
eled to his tastes. She washed her hands, then washed them again for good measure.

The house was warming quickly, but now fresh air and Janya’s incense scented the air. Herb’s life was over, and by tomorrow, there would be no reminders he had died here.

“I guess I need to get the mattress out to the curb, too,” Tracy told Janya, who was waiting in the living room. “But I’m going to wait until tonight.”

“I think I’ll water his plants. He took such good care of them. I know he would not want them to die.”

“Just because he has.” Tracy immediately realized how the remark must have sounded. “Right. Thanks.” She was glad not to have to worry about them herself. In fact, she probably wouldn’t have thought of it.

“Then I’ll be going,” Janya said. “But first, will you mind if I turn on a lamp in the room where he died? It’s a custom in my country.” She left, then returned quickly.

Tracy had been scanning the living room, which was almost sadly neat. She didn’t know how Herb had passed most of his time, but some portion of it had been spent on the minutiae of daily life.

“Janya, did you know Herb? Better than I did, I mean. I don’t see any photos around. The deputy says the funeral director wants the phone numbers for his next of kin. You don’t happen to know who they are and where they live, do you?”

“We only spoke a few times. He never told me anything about himself.” Janya spoke in a lower tone. “And I never told him anything about my life, either. Although I think he might have liked that.”

Tracy didn’t want to feel guilty. After all, the only connection she and Herb Krause had shared was the upcoming rent check. Still, she couldn’t forget the times
she had made sure he wasn’t outside so she could sneak by his cottage and avoid a conversation.

“I guess if there’s nothing on the rental agreement, I’ll have to go through his things to see what I can find. His family will need to be notified. I’m sure they’ll want some of his stuff.” Although as she said this, Tracy wondered. There was nothing in sight that was anything like an heirloom. The furniture was inexpensive and unremarkable. Knickknacks had obviously never been his passion.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Janya said politely.

Tracy had given up looking for
anything.
But she knew Janya was only talking about Herb.

Ken was gone, but that was no surprise. Wanda’s husband had left the house before she even opened her eyes. She doubted she would see him at all today, even though it was her day off from the restaurant. Most nights he got home after she’d already gone to bed, which was fine with her, since they never did anything interesting on the pillow-top mattress anymore, no way, no how.

She wasn’t sure where her husband went and what he did when work was over. She
was
sure she didn’t care anymore. Ken could be whooping it up with his fellow officers or with some cute young thing who thought hanging out with a cop was some sort of Dirty Harry marathon. Whatever was going on, she had lost interest. A woman was supposed to fight for her man, but what happened if he wasn’t worth so much as a rip in her pantyhose?

Sunlight was pouring through the slits between the bedroom blinds, and she had been sitting on the edge of
the bed long enough. She wished, as she always did, that she had not promised her son she would never smoke again. Then she headed for the bathroom.

One squint in the mirror convinced her she had not, as hoped, indulged in genuine beauty sleep last night. She had been plagued with hot flashes. If she’d slept soundly in between, the evidence was nowhere to be seen. She had bags under her eyes, crow’s-feet at the sides, furrows shooting up between her eyebrows like twin exclamation points. The signs of aging still surprised her.

No wonder Ken didn’t find his way home very often.

After a tepid shower—she really should have put a new hot water heater on the list for that Deloche woman—she changed into shorts and a tank top, and wound her hair on hot rollers. Then she limped into the kitchen to see what she could pull together for a late breakfast.

She was surprised to find Ken was still good for something. He had brewed a pot of coffee, which had cooked down to sludge, but he’d also brought in the newspaper. Armed with her first cup of hazelnut mocha from a fresh pot—sinfully rich with sugar and whipping cream—she turned to her horoscope.

“Aries…” She scanned the column and read out loud. “‘You don’t lack for romantic interests, but playing the field won’t bring you closer to finding your heart’s desire. The time has come to narrow your prospects. Friends can help you find your true love. Remember, others can see what you can’t.’”

A belly laugh erupted. The laughter felt good, cleansing, as if she were getting rid of something poisonous.

She read the paragraph again. Okay, point one was correct. No question she had to narrow her romantic interests. She had reached a saturation point. In fact, there
really
wasn’t
enough free time in her evenings for all the men who were begging for her attentions.

Still, Wanda wasn’t sure playing the field, so to speak, was a bad idea. So far she’d gotten a lot of fun out of it. And that third part? Well, she didn’t have a friend in Palmetto Grove who would care if she found true love or not. The women she worked with at the Dancing Shrimp were all caught up in their own love lives. Most of them were actually young enough to have them. Only Lainie, the waitstaff supervisor, still made Wanda feel like a hot young chick, because Lainie was closing in on seventy. She was the only person, too, who knew that Wanda was one inch from kicking Ken out of the cottage.

More accurately, of course, Wanda was ready to turn over this lease to Ken and buy a place of her own. A condo, something modern and easy to keep clean. Maybe one with a real view of the gulf, and a swimming pool, so the grandkids would fight to visit.

Something lumbered down the road. When she heard the squawk of a two-way radio, she frowned and folded the paper beside her cereal bowl. Nothing ever happened here. Sometimes fishermen drove out to the point near to where the ill-fated marina had been planned, but this time of day anybody who wanted to fish anchored offshore. Spring was the best season for tarpon, but tarpon were fish for a boat, and there was no good place to launch one at this end.

She crossed the cottage, which didn’t take all that long, and opened the door, peering into the sunlight for a glimpse of whatever was taking place. Her eyes took a moment to adjust; then she saw a black minivan with no windows disappearing down the road toward town, followed closely by what looked like a sheriff’s vehicle.

She pondered the possibilities, none of them pretty. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who was likely in trouble. The Indian couple was young, and so was the Deloche woman. They looked healthy, if a little thin for her taste. No, chances were the unfortunate passenger in that van was either Herb Krause or Alice Brooks. Heart attack, most likely. Or maybe pneumonia. Pneumonia could take an old person fast. One minute they had the sniffles, next they were pushing up daisies.

She wondered if she ought to do something. If Alice was in the ambulance, that son-in-law of hers could tell Wanda what was up. But if it was Herb…

She’d seen Herb last week when she made Key lime pie. She’d grown up in the “real” Keys, and she knew what a real pie tasted like. None of those grocery store crusts in tin foil pans. She made her own, like her mama had, crushing the best graham crackers she could buy, mixing the crumbs with melted butter, real butter, not some diet substitute. Then squeezing her own limes—Key limes, of course. What point was there to making a Key lime pie with Persian limes? Who ate Persian lime pie? Nobody who would admit it.

She had her very own secret, also learned from her mama. She grated a fine layer of lime rind on top of the crust before the filling went in; then she garnished the finished product with cream she whipped herself and a few curls of dark chocolate, along with thin slices of lime. When her son got married, he had asked her to make a dozen pies for the wedding reception instead of a cake, and they’d built a special tiered stand to hold them, with a plastic bride and groom at the top in shorts and flowered shirts. Of course the bride wore a veil and the groom a top hat, just so people would understand.