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Authors: Blaize Clement

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BOOK: Duplicity Dogged the Dachshund
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Exhaustion finally made me pay my tab and drive home. I’d had less than four hours sleep last night, and I needed a nap bad.
Michael and Paco were both gone when I got home. Michael had started his twenty-four-hour shift that morning at eight, and Paco was off making drug busts or something.
As soon as I unlocked the French doors, all the little hairs on my body stood up in alarm. Something was different—a subliminal foreign scent or a rearrangement of the air. I pulled my .38 out of my pocket and held it stiff-armed, ready to blow an intruder away, and moved slowly forward. Nobody in the living room, nobody hiding behind the bar in the kitchen, nobody in the bedroom. I flattened myself against the wall in the hall and then sprang into the doorway of the office-closet. Nobody there. My clothes weren’t tumbled, my desk wasn’t messy. Down the hall to the bathroom, where I repeated the move into the doorway. Nobody in the shower, nobody behind the door. I retraced my steps, still certain somebody had been in my apartment.
In the office-closet, I lifted the loose tile that covers a floor safe and peered inside. The only articles I kept in the
safe were a diamond ring that had been my grandmother’s, and a living trust giving my half of the beachfront property to Michael. They were both there. In the bedroom, I pulled my bed out and opened the drawer on the wall side where I keep the guns. They were all there.
So I was being paranoid. So I was imagining things. Going without sleep will do that.
I dropped my gun back in my pocket, went out to the porch, and fell into the hammock. The world spun and I spun with it, down into a dreamless velvety black sleep.
I woke up groggy and dry-mouthed and went into the kitchen for a bottle of cold water. I drank half of it while I looked hopefully in the refrigerator for a gift from the fruit fairy, like a surprise peach or a fresh bag of oranges. All I found was a dried-up lime and a hard mystery fruit that might have begun life as a succulent apricot but got overlooked and went wrong. I apologized to both the lime and the mystery fruit and tossed them in the kitchen wastebasket. I really needed to go grocery shopping.
I drank more water while I went down the hall to the office-closet, where my answering machine’s little red light was flashing. I hit PLAY and listened to a woman explain in excruciating detail that she’d called to ask about my fees because she and her husband were going to Cleveland to visit their son, but they weren’t sure when they could go because the son was buying a new house and was busy packing, so they would have to wait until—”
The machine cut her off and I gave it a nasty smile of approval.
A new voice clicked on, and I stopped smiling. It was a man’s voice, deep and menacing. He spoke only two words.
“You’re next.”
I set the water bottle on the desk and replayed the message. It still said the same thing. I told myself it was a joke, somebody trying to scare me. I played it again. It was somebody trying to scare me, but it didn’t sound like a joke.
I drank the rest of the water and carried the empty bottle to the kitchen. I stood a minute looking out the kitchen window at the treetops, and then I went down the hall to the bathroom and took a shower. I took extra time with my hair and lipstick. I even put on a slim skirt and heels. I was going to question Ethan Crane, and I wanted to look like the kind of woman who should get answers.
Ethan Crane’s office was jammed into Siesta Key’s business section, otherwise known as the Village, in a stucco building gently crumbling around the edges. I had been there only once before, when he had given me the depressing news that a woman had left a considerable living trust to her cat, with me as trustee. In spite of his crummy office, I remembered him as both surprisingly handsome and surprisingly efficient.
The gilt paint on the glass door was still flaking, still proclaiming ETHAN CRANE ESQ., ATTORNEY AT LAW, even though it had originally been painted for the grandfather of the man who now held the office. Built to withstand flood tides and hurricanes, the building had a flight of worn wooden stairs leading directly from the front door. I took them with what I hoped was a measured tread, letting my heels click on each step to alert the people upstairs that somebody was approaching.
I needn’t have bothered. Nobody was in the secretary’s office. Her desk was bare except for a gooseneck iMac, and her chair had been neatly pushed in as if she were gone for the day. Across the hall, Ethan Crane was asleep, tilted back with his feet on his desk and his mouth open. A herd of elephants wouldn’t have waked him.
I rapped on his open office door, and his eyelids flickered. I rapped again, and he snapped to attention, jerking his feet off the desk and bringing his chair upright so fast he almost launched himself into space.
He yelled, “Jesus!”
Smiling sweetly, I walked forward with my hand out. “Mr. Crane, I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Dixie Hemingway.”
He recovered well, got to his feet in one graceful thrust, and leaned over the desk to shake my hand. Even sleeprumpled, he was still as handsome as I remembered him. Tall, jet black hair brushing the collar of a crisp white shirt, prominent cheekbones, eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate, eyelashes so thick and black they made his eyes look rimmed with kohl, a strong nose and broad jaw, even white teeth. He gave me a politician’s smile as he adjusted his tie and got himself in professional mode.
I
said, “I take care of Conrad Ferrelli’s dog. I suppose you know what happened to Conrad.”
His face sobered. “Oh, God, yes, I’m sick about it. Conrad was a great guy. It’s just inconceivable that somebody would—”
“I know about the retirement home Conrad was funding. Will those plans still go forward now that he’s dead?”
He frowned. “Why would you ask that?”
“People in the circus community think it won’t. They say Conrad’s brother will put a stop to it. Is that true?”
His voice got a frosty edge. “Ms. Hemingway, I don’t see what any of this has to do with pet-sitting.”
Although I hadn’t been invited, I sat down in one of the rump-sprung leather chairs facing his desk.
“I saw Conrad’s killer driving away in Conrad’s car. I thought it was Conrad, so I waved to him. I was only a few feet away, and he could see me clearly. This afternoon somebody left a message on my answering machine that said
You’re next
. I think the killer thinks I can identify him.”
“And you can’t?”
“All I actually saw was Conrad’s dog in the backseat.”
He gave me a look meaning
So?
“Look, everybody says Denton Ferrelli hated the circus and everything connected to it. I think he might have killed Conrad to stop it.”
He sat down behind his desk. “That’s a serious accusation.”
“I’m not asking you to decide if he’s the killer, I’m just asking you to tell me how the Ferrelli money will be used for the circus home.”
He fiddled with a gold-capped pen for a moment and then laid it down decisively.
“Angelo Ferrelli set up several philanthropic trusts. Each is an independent nonprofit with its own charitable focus and its own fiduciary and organizational responsibilities. One makes grants to environmental causes, one to health initiatives, one to education and the arts, one to community enrichment. They’re all under the discretionary trusteeship of a trust company that Angelo headed until his death. Then Conrad took over.”
Being too mathematically challenged to balance a checkbook, most of what he said sailed over my head, but I thought I got the main idea.
I said, “Which one of the trusts is funding the circus retirement home?”
“Actually, none of them. Conrad formed a separate foundation for that. His idea was to have each of the trusts contribute to it as a part of its own philanthropic purpose. The trust devoted to health issues will provide money for the medical care of the residents, the education trust will provide funds for continuing-education classes, and so forth.”
“So what’s Denton’s role in the plan?”
“Denton is chairman of the board of the trust involved in community development. They fund building projects that improve a community’s economy and living standards. Their official statement of purpose is to provide jobs and create good communities.”
He seemed to stop himself from saying what its unofficial purpose was. He got up and went over to a wall of bookshelves where an undercounter refrigerator had been fitted.
“Would you like a cold drink? Water?”
“No, thanks.”
He leaned over and opened the door, giving me an opportunity to see the outline of a butt as toned and shapely as his shoulders. He popped the tab on a Diet Sprite and took a drink as he walked back to his desk.
“Denton’s board of directors is composed of bankers and financiers and politicians. Late last year, they brokered a deal between Sarasota County and some investment realtors for a large tract of gulfside land. The plan was to put a parking lot and dock for a casino boat there. They were going to build an administration building, a ticket office, the whole works. Denton even talked the state engineering department into agreeing to dredge a mooring for the boat. They claimed it would give jobs to a lot of people, plus bring in money people won on the casino boat. To sweeten the whole plan, some state senators and lobbyists in Denton’s pocket were pushing hard to get Indian land casinos declared illegal.”
He took another pull on the Sprite and gave me a half smile. “Like my people might actually get a break now and then.”
“You’re Indian?”
“One-quarter Seminole, just enough to make me pay attention to the fact that the state never recognized Indian nations or made treaties with them.”
I looked at his high cheekbones and square jawline. He was one fine-looking Seminole.
He said, “Anyway, when Conrad got wind of Denton’s casino-ship deal, he went ballistic. It was not only in direct opposition to about a hundred environmental standards of the trusteeship, it smelled in a lot of other ways as well. Casino boats are unlicensed, unregulated, unscrutinized. They operate in international waters where anything goes, including money laundering. Conrad used his power as head of the trusteeship company and put a stop to it. Instead, he directed that the acquired land be used as a site for the circus retirement home. In other words, he pissed on Denton’s parade.”
“And he made you head of the foundation to build the home.”
“Correct.”
“Who will run the discretionary trust now that Conrad’s gone?”
“His successor will be elected by the board. Most likely it will be his wife. She’s closely involved and highly capable.”
“So the circus home will go forward regardless of Conrad’s death.”
“I don’t see how Denton can stop it. He’s furious about it, but the way his father set the whole operation up is set in stone. My guess is he’s busy as a cat covering shit before the trusteeship looks too closely at the way he finagled the land deal.”
I took a deep breath. “I never dreamed that circus clowns made so much money.”
“Angelo was a shrewd investor. He had an uncanny knack for selecting winning companies and becoming a major stockholder. He screened out ones he thought were bad for the environment or for people’s health, and it paid off. All told, the trusts he set up pay out something like fifty million a year in grants.”
“Do you know a man named Brossi?”
“Leo Brossi? Yeah.”
“He went to Conrad with a story about how his father was Angelo’s brother. He said his father had originated the Flutter-By act back in Italy when he and Angelo were boys, and he wanted some of the money Angelo had left.”
He shook his head. “Leo Brossi’s a con artist always one step ahead of a posse, but I can’t see him murdering anybody.”
“You have any idea who did?”
“Believe me, Dixie, if I did, I’d be the first one to tell the police. I liked Conrad a lot.”
I noticed he had switched to calling me Dixie instead of Ms. Hemingway. I stood up and held out my hand.
“Thanks for talking to me, Ethan.”
“Did it help?”
“Not really, but it was informative.”
“Maybe we could get together sometime and talk about something besides murder or trust funds.”
I turned so fast that I almost tripped over my own feet.
This time he couldn’t help but hear my heels clacking on the stairs. I sounded like a drummer beating a fast retreat. Ethan Crane probably thought I found him repulsive. He probably thought I was a rude, ungracious nut. If I hadn’t been so embarrassed, I would have gone back upstairs and explained that I was … what? An untouchable? A cloistered pseudo-nun made virginal again by widowhood? Or maybe truly an ungracious nut.
As I reached toward the downstairs door to push it open, somebody else pulled it from the other side. Guidry stood in the gaping doorway, one linen-sleeved arm holding the door to the side, his eyes taking in my short skirt and high heels, his face registering about a dozen different emotions.
“Dixie.” Flat-voiced, not letting any surprise slip through.
“Guidry.”
Still holding the door open, he stepped aside so I could go through on my stilty heels.
He said, “I think we’d better talk.”
He nodded toward an open-air café across the street. It wasn’t exactly an order he’d given me, but it wasn’t a social invitation either. Wordlessly, we waited for a break in traffic, and then walked over the steaming pavement to a sweaty, dispirited place where plastic tables crouched under a thatched roof and a scattering of wilted patrons were sucking cold drinks through clear straws. Ceiling fans whirred overhead to circulate hot air and scare away flies, and a few black seagulls strutted about picking up microscopic crumbs from the paved floor.
A mustached man’s head appeared in the window where orders were dispensed, and Guidry called, “We’d like a couple of iced teas.”
The head disappeared, and Guidry tapped his slim fingers on the plastic tabletop.
“You mind telling me why you were at Ethan Crane’s office?”
“I wanted to ask him some things.”
“I guess you have a key to his house, and he discusses all his cases with you while you take care of his furry friend.”
“Wrong on both counts, Guidry. I’ve never even met Ethan Crane’s furry friend.”
The mustached man came out carrying two tall paper cups with plastic lids. He plunked them on the table and pulled out two straws and a stack of paper napkins from his apron pocket.
“Anything else?”
Guidry put down a five-dollar bill and shook his head. “That’s all, thanks.”
I peeled the paper off my straw and jammed it in the X-spot on the plastic lid.
I said, “Conrad Ferrelli named Ethan Crane to head the foundation that’s going to build a home for retired circus professionals. The circus people I’ve talked to are afraid it won’t happen now that Conrad’s dead. They think Denton Ferrelli will put a stop to it. I wanted to know if he could, so I went to see Ethan Crane to find out.”
Guidry’s gray eyes looked at me over the top of his paper cup. He didn’t look natural with a plastic straw stuck in his lips. I doubted that he’d sucked through a lot of straws. Probably had a butler do that for him.
He said, “Aside from the fact that a murder investigation is going on and you’re not part of it, I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I don’t have to get your permission to talk to people, Guidry.”
“So what did you find out? Can Denton Ferrelli stop the retirement home from being built?”
I wondered if that was the question Guidry had planned to ask Ethan Crane himself. Maybe he had a point. Maybe I had interfered in a murder investigation. The possibility that I had made my voice a bit defensive.
“It doesn’t sound like he can. Angelo Ferrelli set up
some trust funds that are all under the control of a company that serves as trustee. Conrad was CEO of the trustee company. Denton heads a trust that improves communities, and he brokered a deal that bought a big piece of real estate. The plan was to dock a casino boat there, but Conrad squashed the deal. He took the property for a circus retirement home, and when it’s built all the various trusts will funnel some of their funds into it. Denton is pissed about it, but there’s not much he can do to stop it.”
“So he doesn’t stand to gain from Conrad’s death?”
“Evidently not.”
“You sound disappointed.”
I shrugged. “Everybody who knows Denton Ferrelli says he’s a thoroughly hateful person. He resented Conrad. He hated the way he dressed. He hated his involvement with the circus.”
“Hatred’s a pretty strong motivation for murder.”
“But he’s hated him all his life. Why kill him now, if he’s not going to benefit from it?”
Guidry’s straw made a rude sound at the bottom of his paper cup, and he put the cup down with an annoyed frown.
“You didn’t have any reason except curiosity for wanting to find out about Denton Ferrelli?”
The memory of the voice on my answering machine coiled in my head. I didn’t want to sound like a damsel in distress, but playing tight-lipped martyr could get me knocked off by some psychotic killer.
“A man left a message on my answering machine this afternoon. Just two words:
You’re next
.”
“You thought it was Denton Ferrelli?”
“I don’t know who it was.”
He tilted his head toward the slim leather handbag I’d laid on the edge of the table.
“You carrying?”
“Yes.”
“Got a CCW?”
I rolled my eyes and gave him an
are-you-kidding?
look. Up north, especially in landlocked states, it’s illegal
to carry a concealed handgun. In swamp-ridden Florida, it’s damn near mandatory. The state’s official stance is, Hey, man, we’re sticking out down here like the country’s hind tit, surrounded by oceans and alligators and Commie Cubans, threatened by hurricanes and tidal waves and foreign tourists, and we by God need to be able to shoot something. Over eight million of us consequently have a permit to carry a concealed weapon, otherwise known as a CCW. That’s why so many retired geezers in Florida wear belly packs over their shorts and knit shirts—they’re carrying semiautomatics. It’s a miracle more of them don’t blow their nuts off.
BOOK: Duplicity Dogged the Dachshund
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