An Appetite for Murder (16 page)

Our finger of the dock seemed unusually dark. Had we had a power outage? Even Miss Gloria’s houseboat was blacked out. Odd that she didn’t have her Christmas lights on—­she must have gone out this afternoon, I thought as I passed her place. Maybe one of her kids was visiting and had taken her out to supper. Did she have kids? I didn’t remember her ever mentioning her family.

Halfway up the walk to our boat, I noticed a heap on the planks, as though someone had dropped a sack of something right in the middle of the dock where anyone could trip over it. Annoyed, I picked up my pace. When I moved in, Connie had stressed how important it was to the community that everyone pitch in to keep the place clean. Shipshape, she called it.
Don’t worry about
whether you dropped it or not. Just pick it up.

Only five feet away, I realized the heap was Miss Gloria, left in a pile like yesterday’s garbage. My heart began to hammer and my hands felt slippery with sweat. I ran up to her, yanking the phone from my pocket, and punched 911. “It’s Hayley Snow. At the Tarpon Pier Marina. Something’s wrong with my neighbor.” I crouched down next to her, smoothing a strand of white hair from her forehead.

“What kind of trouble is she having?” asked the operator.

I described Miss Gloria’s pallid face and then—­oh my God—­the bloody gash visible through the fine white hair covering the top of her skull.

“Is she breathing?” the dispatcher asked. “Does she have a pulse?”

I held my hand in front of her lips. “I can’t tell,” I moaned. “She’s so frail.”

“Keep her warm and don’t move her. We’ll send someone right over.”

I hung up and screamed for help.

Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside.

—­Mark Twain

Mr. Renhart emerged from the cabin of his boat wearing torn jeans and a tan T-­shirt that read “Habitat for Insanity: Fantasyfest 2011!”

“Jesus, Hayley, what’s all the screeching about?”

“It’s Miss Gloria—­she’s hurt. Can you bring me a blanket?” I crouched beside her, ready to take him on if he insisted we move her somewhere else. I’d overheard enough of his arguments with his wife to know that he always believed he was right.

But he ducked back inside and then sprinted over carrying a brown wool army blanket that smelled of must and fish. Wrinkling my nose, I took it from him and
tucked it around Miss Gloria’s limp little form. Oh dear Lord, what if she died?

“She must have fallen,” said Mr. Renhart. “She’s too old to be living in a place like this all by herself. Wouldn’t you think her kids would care enough to move her into a home?”

“She didn’t fall,” I said, tamping down the urge to snap his head off. “How the heck do you think she’d get a gash on the top of her head from falling? Unless she was leaping or somersaulting. What are the chances of that?”

Probably she
had
fallen. But I hated to think of her being forced to move away from the marina she loved. And it wasn’t fair to lash out at him, but the more minutes went by without seeing the rise and fall of her chest, the more hysterical I felt.

“Did you just get home? Did you hear anything?” My questions came out wobbly and shrill. “What if someone hit her?” I stood up and peered into the darkness, listening for someone running. “What if they’re still around?”

“Don’t you think I would have come out if I’d heard something?” he asked, his voice defensive. “I’m working the night shift this week, so I sleep all day. This is the first I’ve been outside.”

We both perked up as the wail of an emergency vehicle’s siren drew near. Then whirling red lights cut through the darkness and an ambulance pulled into the parking lot followed by a police car, its red and blue lights flashing. Two paramedics and two cops burst out of the vehicles and trotted down the dock
toward us. I stood up, waving, and pointed to Miss Gloria. “Right here.”

“What happened?” asked Officer Torrence. I cringed as a look of recognition crossed his face.

“I was on my way home and I noticed this heap. And it turned out to be Miss Gloria. She’s our neighbor. This is exactly how I found her,” I said. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Step aside and let us take a look.” I backed away and two paramedics, a burly, bald man and a thin guy with a ponytail, knelt down and began to examine her. They conferred in low voices and the big guy trotted back to the ambulance and unloaded a gurney from the back.

“Name and address?” asked Torrence.

“Her name is Miss Gloria. She lives in that first little boat on this finger.” I pointed to her cheerful yellow home.

“Gloria what?” asked Torrence.

“Do you know her last name?” I glanced at Mr. Renhart. He shook his head.

“We can get that from the dockmaster on the way out,” said Torrence to the other cop, a young guy with a white-­blond brush cut. “Does she have a history of falls?”

“I don’t think so. I’m fairly new here, but she’s always seemed sturdy enough to me. Is she breathing?” I asked the men working on her.

“Barely,” said the paramedic with the ponytail, as he slid an oxygen mask over her head. He jostled it into place over her nose and mouth and pulled the elastic snug. Then he fastened a collar around her neck, and the
two men loaded her onto the stretcher. “We’re going to get her to the hospital. Next of kin?”

I shrugged helplessly. “She never mentioned any family. Should I come along?”

“Not necessary. Not unless you’re related. Right now you’d only be in the way. You can call or visit later and find out how she’s doing.”

They transferred her from the dock to the gurney and bumped her away to the ambulance.

“I’ll need your names and contact information,” said Officer Torrence.

“Joshua Renhart.”

“Hayley Snow,” I added, thinking how odd it was that I’d never heard Mr. Renhart’s first name.

Torrence turned to the young man with the crew cut—­Officer Batten—­and muttered in a low voice that I barely caught: “Faulkner murder. POI.” To me he said: “Do you have a key to her place?”

I shook my head. “She’s almost always home. There was never a reason. As I said, we’re acquaintances. New friends. I haven’t lived here very long.”

After the policemen had finished pelting Mr. Renhart and me with more questions we couldn’t answer about Miss Gloria, they left to look over her houseboat. I continued the last yards down the dock to Connie’s place, feeling worried and sad.

Our boat was just as dark as Miss Gloria’s had been. I remembered that Connie and Ray had dinner plans this evening and wouldn’t be home until late. It wasn’t until I stepped onto the deck that I could see well enough
to realize that something was wrong here, too. Connie’s houseplants had been kicked over and the door to the boat was swinging open.

I froze for a moment. Should I go in? What if the intruder was still on board? But Evinrude was in there somewhere. Terrified. And my computer and all of Connie’s things. Sprinting the length of the wooden walkway toward the road, I waved madly at the cruiser, which was still idling in the parking lot. Panting, I rapped on the passenger-­side window and motioned for the cop to lower his window.

“Someone broke into my houseboat!”

The two officers scrambled out of the car, juggling flashlights and guns, and followed me up the finger. Officer Torrence barked into his radio as we jogged.

“Stand back, Miss Snow,” said Officer Batten once we reached Connie’s boat. “You stay on the dock.” Then he yelled “Police!” into the open door. “Come out with your hands up.”

Nothing happened. Pointing their guns into the boat, they exchanged glances, and charged in.

I waited, pacing, nearly sick with worry. The lights went on in my bedroom, and then upstairs in Connie’s room, and the two men emerged from her doorway onto the top deck. They shone flashlights in every corner and went back inside.

Officer Torrence pushed open the front door. “No one’s in here now,” he told me. “But we’re going to look around a little more, so you stay put.”

“Did you find a gray cat?” I asked the cop. “Gray stripes all over except for one white paw.”

“Not so far,” he said. “Let us finish and then you can have a look.”

A second police car screeched into the parking lot and two more cops thudded up the walkway.

“Need some help here?” one of them asked. “Dispatcher said you’d called for backup.”

“We’ve got it,” said Officer Torrence. “Looks like attempted burglary, pure and simple.” He rubbed his chin and grimaced. “Though you could start checking in with the other residents—­see if anyone saw anything. The old lady who lives in the yellow boat was just taken to the hospital. Possible assault.”

The two new cops headed toward the Renharts’ boat. I sat on the edge of the dock, my feet dangling above the water, feeling helpless and distraught. The thought that I’d been pushing away sprang into my mind: Miss Gloria hadn’t fallen at all. She’d been attacked by the same person who’d ransacked our boat. Too antsy to sit, I got up again and jumped back onto the deck of the houseboat. Maybe I could rescue some of Connie’s plants. Somehow, like the other troubles that had accumulated over the last few days, this too was beginning to feel like my fault.

The biggest houseplant, a Norfolk Island pine
that Connie had decked out in tiny white lights and fish-­shaped ornaments made of glass, appeared to be a goner. Its blue ceramic pot was shattered, the trunk had been snapped off at the base, and bits of broken glass were scattered across the deck. The lights still sparkled on the decapitated tree. I managed to stuff the pineapple tree that Connie had been nurturing for two years back into its container and righted three of her orchids, which would probably not survive the shock of having their roots exposed to the night air.

Then I noticed something bobbing in the water beside the boat—­Evinrude? I would just die. Grabbing the large net that we used for picking up trash, I fished for the object. It dove underwater and surfaced a foot to the right. With a sigh of relief, I pulled out Connie’s oversized spider plant. Another total loss, but at least it wasn’t the cat.

Officer Torrence appeared at the front door and frowned when he saw that I was straightening up. “Don’t touch anything else,” he warned. With gloved hands, he fiddled with the door’s latch. “This appears to be broken.”

“It’s been like that since I moved in a couple weeks ago,” I said. “We leave it unlocked,” I added sheepishly. “Everyone looks out for everyone down here.”

“Obviously, not everyone,” he said, eying the mess of plants and pot shards on our deck and then jerking his thumb in the direction of Miss Gloria’s boat. “You need to get this fixed. Key West may look like a small, friendly town, but plenty of troublemakers wash in with the tides.”

“Any sign of the cat?” I asked.

“No.” He turned and went back in. My eyes filled with tears. I’d never forgive myself if Evinrude was gone. Yet one more argument I’d had with my mother: She didn’t think it was fair to drag a pet on my ill-­considered
adventure. But I didn’t think I could live through that much change without him.

Torrence came back to the door and invited me in. “Take a look around and see if anything’s missing,” he said.

I ran directly to my bedroom and crouched down on all fours to look under the bed. “Kitty, kitty,” I called in my most reassuring falsetto. No cat. I returned to the galley, grabbed the half-­eaten package of Whisker Lickin’s from the counter, and shook it. Like me, Evinrude always turned out with enthusiasm for a snack between meals.

“Kitty, kitty.” But he still didn’t show.

Then the wreckage inside the boat came into focus. Our cupboards were flung open, drawers were hanging askew, and stuff was tossed out everywhere.

“Oh my God,” I said, turning slowly to take it all in. “Who did this? What did they want?”

“It has the feel of someone looking for drugs,” said the younger cop, eyes narrow and lips pinched. “And like maybe your little neighbor got in their way.”

“They won’t find any here,” I said, my panic swelling. And guilt along with it, though I kept reminding myself I hadn’t done anything wrong. “Except for a prescription for antibiotics that I didn’t quite finish. I know that’s incorrect—­you’re supposed to take all the pills, but I felt so much better and they were upsetting my stomach so I quit. And my mother gave me a few sleeping pills from her stash when I moved down here. Just in case things got rough in the transition.” I could tell from the stunned
looks on the policemen’s faces that I was babbling nervous nonsense.

Officer Torrence shook his head. “Marijuana? Speed? Coke? Anything like that?”

“Of course not!” I said.

“You can speak for your roommate too?” Torrence pointed up the spiral staircase to Connie’s room.

“Speak for me about what?” Connie asked, as she came onto the boat. “What in the world happened to my plants—” She gasped and blanched as she took in the mess and the cops. “Oh my God, what happened?”

“This is Connie Arp,” I told them. “She lives here too. She’s the owner.” I grabbed a broom and dustpan and began to sweep up the broken glass in front of the sink. Anything to avoid looking at the tears that had started down her cheeks.

“Your home was ransacked. We were telling Miss Snow,” said Torrence, “that the break-­in looks drug-­related. You say there weren’t any drugs here, so any idea what they were after?”

Connie sank into one of the kitchen chairs and pinched the bridge of her nose with two fingers. “I can’t believe this. On top of everything else this week . . .”

“Miss Gloria was attacked too,” I hurried to tell her, hoping to head off hashing through my latest visit to the police station. I told her how I’d mistaken her limp body for a sack of trash. “And Evinrude is gone.” I leaned on the counter and started to cry, feeling nauseated and weak.

“Is anything else missing? Money? Jewelry?” asked Officer Torrence. “Take a look while we’re still here.”

Connie started upstairs to her bedroom and I pulled myself together and went into mine. First I rustled through my small stash of jewelry in the closet. Mom’s gold chain, my grandmother’s pearls, and the sapphire earrings were still there. Then I turned to the desk. In my worry about the cat, I had not noticed that the surface that had held my laptop was now bare.