Dead in the Water (4 page)

“
Could you hear what he said?”

“
No. He usually went outside to make the calls, but then that's normal around my place. Cell reception is better out front of my house.”

“
We haven't found his cell. Do you know where it is?”

“
No. The last time I saw him use it was at my house, but I know he took it with him. He had it in the car.”

“
We'll look there.” She signaled one of her men to check out my car. He returned with a cell in his hand.

“
And his girlfriend?” Frida asked.

“
Don't know her.”

Frida caught something in my tone of voice. “What you do know you don't like. Right?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “I think he was lonely. Who knows why men pick the mates they do? I do know he cared for her. He didn't have any family, just Grandy and me.” The words stuck in my throat. Just the two of us and I hadn't been in contact for years. It was as much my fault as his for not keeping in touch. Now he was gone forever.

I watched Frida drive off in her cruiser with her questions about Winston still in my mind. The truth was, I didn't know him at all. All I had were my childhood memories and a few days' experience squiring him and Darlene to local events. The conversation we'd had about family kept running through my mind.

I had two things on my agenda. First, I wanted to see what Frida had seen, revisit the place where Winston walked onto the island and take a closer look at the spot where the shooter had taken the shot. The second item was a call to Grandy—my grandmother, who knew more about our family than anyone. She'd tell me about Winston, about the Winston I hadn't seen for two decades. What had happened in that period of time?

Madeleine and I walked back up the dusty path toward the parking area. As we got into my convertible, I spotted Detective Tooney questioning the airboat pilot and weasel man. They did not look like happy entrepreneurs. A horrific thought, but I could have told them what I knew from experience: murder could be good for business. The one in Madeleine's and my shop last year brought customers in for a time, but when the macabre curiosity roused by the event wore off, it was business as usual. Noting the angry looks they both shot at Madeleine and me, I decided not to play business advisor.

I remained quiet in the car as I drove home.

“
I suppose we should check on Darlene,” Madeleine said, not sounding the least bit enthusiastic about her Good Samaritan instincts.

“
Uh-huh. Right. I guess so.” My gaze was glued to the road but I drove on autopilot.

“
Eve, you are a million light years away. I hope you're not thinking what I know you're thinking.”

“
Of course not.” When I lied to Madeleine I always kept it simple. Yes or no. Once I opened my mouth with anything more, the truth was likely to spill out like,
Yes, my dear friend, I'm totally wrapped up in this crime, and I'm working on a plan to solve it, one certain to get me into trouble.

We continued to drive in silence.

“
Pizza?” I said. I hated pizza, but it was easy. And fast. That I wanted to unload her so I could begin my quest did not sit well, but I could handle the guilt. For now.

“
But first we should go visit Darlene.” Madeleine may have disliked the woman, but she sympathized with Darlene's loss of my uncle.

“
Oh, do we have to?” I knew Madeleine was right, but I groaned at dealing with Darlene again. She was a reminder of my uncle. “Okay.” I took the left to head into town and north to the hospital.

Darlene was in a curtained-off area in the emergency room.

“
What kind of joint is this?” She lay on the bed, cranked into a sitting position.

“
I see you're recovering from the shock. You should be able to get out of here soon and go home.” And I did mean her home, not mine.

“
You should tell the police what you said about Winston's death,” I said.

“
You have something you want to tell me?” Frida shoved aside the curtain and leaned over Darlene's bed. “Sorry it took me so long to get here.”

Darlene shot a look of anger at me, then settled back onto her pillows. In a flash her expression changed.

“
I'm sorry, dearie. I don't blame you. Really, I feel a little sorry for you when I think of it. Winston led you to believe he was coming here to visit you.”

“
Wasn't he?” I asked.

“
Well, sure, but he had another reason why he wanted to be in these parts.” She wiggled around in the bed, then sank back, a look of exhaustion on her face. “This is going to be hard for you to hear, Eve, but Winston was a bag man for the mob. He was here to make a drop-off.”

“
Not to see me?” I stared at her for a long time.

“
To see you, of course, but for business purposes also.”

“
Winston was a bag man?” I couldn't believe it. My uncle had mob connections. Of course I had mob connections, too, but they were not job-related. They were ex-husband related, I guess you'd say. I met Nappi Napolitani—purported to be a mob boss from Connecticut—through Jerry Taylor, my former squeeze by law, now no squeeze at all. But I didn't work for Mr. Napolitani. In fact, he sometimes did work in the form of favors for me. It was a complicated relationship.

Darlene leaned forward and reached out for me. I didn't take her hand. “Honey, this was going to be his last job. He was retiring.”

“
He was dropping off money. Well, now his walk in the swamp makes sense.” Frida looked almost joyful. Her case must have appeared a lot easier to crack.

“
So he leaves the money in the swamp and then they kill him.” Frida flipped her notebook closed.

“
Maybe they found out he intended to retire. I don't think anybody gets out of the mob. I warned him there might be trouble.” Darlene fidgeted around in the bed. “Where's my purse?”

“
It's here on the floor by the bed.” Madeleine reached down and picked it up. “Wow. This thing weighs a ton. You rob a bank or something? It feels like gold bullion in here.”

“
Gimme that, Maddy.” Darlene yanked it out of Madeleine's hand.

Madeleine shot her a look of contempt.

“
If you girls don't mind, I have a few more questions to ask Mrs. Banks. About the mob connection.”

Frida had given us our cue to leave. I don't think either of us minded. Another “Maddy” out of Darlene and Madeleine would have tossed the bedpan at her.

Madeleine and I waited to talk until we had left the hospital. “Do you believe your uncle was mob-connected?” she asked.

I didn't answer her.

“
Eve, are you there?”

“
Winston had two satchels with him. Do you think both of them contained money?”

“
Why?”

“
Because if the money for the drop-off was in one, what was in the other?”

“
More money?”

“
They both looked heavy. That would be a lot of money. And I think it unlikely the mob shoots their bag men for doing the job right. That's what Winston did. He dropped one or both of the duffels off in the swamp and marked the spot. A perfect location for the money. Frida didn't bring back the satchels. Did he do his last job right? And if so, why kill him?”

I needed to confer with someone who was more conversant with the mob rulebook than I. Was it true a man never left the mob, or did he have a retirement plan? Make that three things on my to-do list: visit the drop-off and shooting spots, call Grandy, and get in touch with Nappi. My current boyfriend and PI, Alex Montgomery, wouldn't like me hobnobbing yet again with my mob friend, Nappi. Neither would Madeleine. That was a problem only if I told them.

T
here was no way I would use our old buddy, the airboat pilot, to visit the place where Winston took his walk. I didn't trust the alligator agitator on general principle. Too much loose testosterone in that one. I'd have to find another airboat company.

There weren't a lot of tours around here. Most operated farther south and explored the larger area that fed into the Everglades. After dropping Madeleine off with a promise to keep out of this investigation—I had my fingers crossed so it did not count—I pulled off the road to think. To be honest, tears filled my eyes and blurred my vision. I found Winston's death so hard. How could I not be involved? This was my uncle, my favorite uncle. And he was killed visiting me. I didn't care if that wasn't the primary reason for his trip here. If he was dropping off money, I was certain he chose this place to make contact because of me; that made it my problem to solve. Also, he was family, and I had so few relatives still alive.

I wiped my eyes and punched a query for airboats into my cell. It came back with one listing for “The Hardy Brothers Deluxe Airboat Rides”. So our airboat pilot and his weasel companion were brothers, or called themselves brothers. I gave a cackle at the name, then tears welled up again. I sopped them up with my soggy tissue. Hmm. I thought I remembered another place several miles beyond the Kissimmee River and north off the highway. I needed to take the trip back to that spot today before all the clues were gone.
What clues?
I asked myself. I was no crime scene investigator. What did I think I might see?

I pulled back onto the road and flipped a U-turn. On the way I called Grandy. It rang eight times and went to voice mail. I didn't want to leave a message about Winston. I'd get back to her later. Getting in touch with Nappi Napolitani would be more difficult. He'd always contacted
me
. I had no number for him and a search of West Palm and Hartford, Connecticut directories provided no listing for him. That meant I'd have to get in touch with my ex-husband Jerry, who worked for Nappi. I hated the thought of talking with Jerry. I'd leave that task for later.

I crossed the bridge over the Kissimmee River, drove on past the park entrance and into a small community beyond the river. I was certain I saw an airboat business just past the Legion. Ah! There it was. A small, hand-lettered sign nailed to a fence post announced, “Airboat Rides. Here.” An arrow pointed toward a large chickee, a thatched roof building supported by wooden cypress posts. These were common structures in this part of Florida, built by the native Americans in the area. Beyond it I could see a small vessel parked in the grassy water. It looked as if it had seen some rough days in the swamp. The camouflage paint had worn off and the metal hull was dented. A flap, flap, flap caught my ear. The leather on the pilot's seat hung off in strips which the wind caught, blowing them against the framing around the engine.
Maybe I should rethink taking this ride.

A tall man with massive shoulders leaned against the center support of the chickee. He had long black hair, which fell loosely down his back. His jeans looked as if they had been laundered so often the once blue color had faded to white. His cotton shirt was of a pattern I'd seen often in the shirts, blouses, skirts, and dresses worn by Florida Indians. But his eyes were what made me stop short. They were the eyes of a bird of prey—sharp, intense, missing nothing. They seemed to change color from the gold of the setting sun to the brown of the water of the Big Lake. They almost snapped with electricity as he watched me approach.

“
You need something?”

“
A ride on your boat. How much?” Why else would I be here? Not for the polite conversation.

He uncrossed his arms and stepped forward. “It's kind of late in the day. And it's cold. You sure you wouldn't want to come back another time?” He looked me up and down, then settled his gaze on my boots. His surly attitude swept my hesitation to one side. I was determined to have a trip on that boat today.

“
I need to go now.”

His sweeping visual assessment of me made me feel as if my clothes hid nothing.

He nodded. “Emu?”

“
I'm sorry. I don't understand the Seminole language.”

“
I'm Miccosukee. I wondered if your boots were made of emu.”

“
Oh.” I gave a nervous laugh. “Ostrich.”

“
Well, we were both wrong then, I guess. That'll be twenty bucks.” He held out his hand for the money.

I extracted the bill from my jeans pocket. When he took it, he held onto my hand just a moment too long. The touch was electric. When he let go, I felt as if my hand had been branded. The heat of his touch remained. He gestured to follow him to the boat.

I walked behind him, marveling at his height. He had to be at least six feet six. I'd never seen a native this tall. Most were shorter, rounder.

As if he could read my thoughts, he turned and stopped. “My mother was white. Tall like you, but she had more up top.” He then continued down the path.

“
Listen, you—” I began.

“
What?” He stopped and walked back toward me. “You want to go someplace in particular.” It was a statement, not a question.

How did he know that?

If the first airboat was like being on a carnival ride, this smaller boat slipped and slid over the surface of the water like a toboggan on ice. I hung onto the side of the boat as if expecting to be thrown into the water at any moment. Just when I told myself I had adjusted to the swaying motion and could move with it, the boat made a sudden jerk to the left. I gripped the side with both hands. I could almost feel the pilot smirking at my fear.