Fatal Reservations (12 page)

I straightened my shoulders, trying to shrug off my gloominess. It
was
a great day to be alive. And I was luckier than most. And I would not let a silly argument with Wally ruin that truth. After all, hadn’t he stood up for me with Palamina at the restaurant before I got back to our table? Whether our friendship turned into something more serious or not, I could be perfectly happy continuing to live here with Miss Gloria. I had a job I loved, on an island I loved, surrounded by people I cared about, and they cared back. I wasn’t dead like Bart Frontgate or scared to death like Lorenzo.

A text came in from Connie
. I see you out there in your pj’s. Come down for a second coffee?

I dropped my dishes in the kitchen sink, threw on jeans and a T-shirt, and trotted up the finger to join Connie. She was waiting on the upper deck with a full pot of coffee. I felt my eyes filling unexpectedly with tears as I threw my arms around her.

“Congratulations! I am so happy for you.”

After a long hug she pushed me away, her hands still gripping my arms. “I’m sorry you found out about the baby from Ray. I wanted to tell you in the worst way, and I knew you’d want to know. I knew that. But after the miscarriage last fall . . .” Her voice trailed off and she wiped her eyes with a tissue. “I can’t even explain it; it was like losing something so precious, but something that I never quite had in my possession. Does that make sense?”

I nodded. “I think so.”

“It felt like the most piercing pain, but nobody else could really see it. I know it isn’t exactly like losing a child, but it felt like that. I just couldn’t talk about it until we were pretty sure I was past the most dangerous weeks.”

“I understand completely,” I said. “That was awful. And this time must feel so scary, even though you’re bursting with happiness.”

She settled back into her beach chair, a crooked smile on her face. “I know I’m driving Ray crazy with these ups and downs. One day I can’t get enough of a certain food, and the next day it makes me sick to my stomach. One day I’m euphoric and the next, inconsolable.” She grinned wider. “I don’t know whether we’re going to make it through this or not.”

“Of course you will,” I said, sitting down beside her
and pouring another cup of coffee. “You’re an old-fashioned pregnant woman—that’s all.”

“By the way, the raspberry cake was amazing,” said Connie. “I ate my piece and Ray’s, too. He didn’t dare make a fuss once he saw me go after it. So little agrees with me right now.” She put her hand on my knee and squeezed. “Hey, how did it go with Wally last night?”

“He got mad at me and stalked out.”

She groaned. “Mad about what?”

So I explained about the goggles and how Miss Gloria had found them in the cat food, and how the cat food came from Lorenzo’s pantry, and how it looked for all the world like he was hiding them. And if he was hiding them, why? And the only thing we could come up with was something to do with either burglary or murder. And both of them were awful. And he’d run away, which only made him look totally guilty.

“Mr. Moral Fiber, of course, thinks I should run the goggles down to the police department, turn my friend in.”

“This island is in a weird place right now,” said Connie, rubbing the slight swell of her stomach protectively. “And I don’t think it’s only my hormones. From everything I read in the paper, the city government officials are fighting with each other. And the tourists are struggling with the locals. And the locals are snarking at each other and at the homeless. I’m sure there have always been problems, but doesn’t it seem more tense than usual?”

“Maybe too many people crammed into too few square inches,” I said. “Maybe it always feels this way in the high season and we just don’t remember.”

“What does Lorenzo say about what happened?” Connie asked.

I sighed. “The trouble is, he’s disappeared completely. I haven’t talked to him since we had brunch with Eric at Firefly on Friday. And he ran out of there like somebody threatened him. And maybe they have. When I went over to get his kitty, the only thing I really found out was his neighbor said he left in a pink taxicab. Carrying a train case.” I smiled in spite of myself—that luggage was so Lorenzo.

“Oh,” said Connie, her face lighting up. “I know the dispatcher who works the afternoon shift at the pink taxi place. I’m sure he’s not supposed to tell me anything about his customers.”

“Could you try?”

She punched the number into her cell phone and asked to speak to Theo. “Hey, buddy,” she said, “it’s Connie Arp. We have a friend who’s in a spot of trouble. Well, actually it’s more than a spot. We think he’s in physical danger. He was picked up at”—she rattled off Lorenzo’s address as I fed it to her—“sometime Friday afternoon. Could you possibly check and find out where your cabbie dropped him off? It’s really important or I wouldn’t ask you to break the rules.” She listened for a minute, then thanked the man and hung up. “The cabbie took him to the Key West ferry terminal. Right about the time he would’ve been boarding the Vomit Comet en route to Fort Myers.”

“You’re a national treasure,” I said to Connie. Then I sprang up and started for the stairs. “I’ll talk to you later. If you can think of anything you want to eat, anytime, text me, and I’ll make it for you and bring it over.”

“Since you asked, do you have a recipe for baklava?”

“Of course!”

Her thank-you followed me down the dock.

10

Wally flashed a smile, tight as the rubber band around a bouquet of broccoli.

—Lucy Burdette,
Death with
All the Trimmings

The so-called Vomit Comet is a high-speed passenger ferry that travels from Key West to Fort Myers and back twice a day. It was nicknamed for the effects it often has on its customers during cold, dark voyages. I wasn’t looking forward to taking the trip, but I would do it if there was good reason. Like now.

I grabbed my backpack and sprinted down the dock to my scooter. The questions circled wildly in my mind. What would Lorenzo be doing in Fort Myers? And in the bigger picture, what was he running from? Although locals complained about the traffic and angst that came along with the tourist high season, they counted on business being brisk enough to fill their bank accounts and cover the slower times. In other words, Lorenzo wouldn’t give up his slot at the Sunset Celebration for a minor problem.

Which brought me back to the most worrisome question: What was his relationship with Bart Frontgate, if any? And if he had no personal relationship with the dead man, who had one? One lousy enough that it ended in a grisly murder? Murder was not a casual act, as I’d seen too clearly in several deaths over the past few years. It was an extreme end to extreme rage or revenge or conflict over love turned sour.

I buzzed down Southard Street dodging delivery trucks, wobbly tourists on bicycles, and irritable locals. I shouted a quick hello to Kevin McChesney, a carpenter and builder who was unloading stacks of wood and carrying them to a large white Conch house at the corner of Elizabeth. We are pretty much out of land on this little island, so people with enough money focus on snatching up properties that can be rebuilt or refurbished or, very occasionally, when the gods of the Historic Architectural Review Commission smile down on them, knocked flat so they can start from scratch. I took a right into the back parking lot of the pink stucco public library. Along with flying the flag of literacy and literature, the library serves as a gathering place for folks who don’t have access to the Internet. Or sometimes to air-conditioning or even indoor plumbing.

To the right of the circulation desk and down the small hallway, I found the Florida history room, glassed off from the rest of the library. It had a cool, hushed feel. The walls were lined with shelves of old books and binders with hand-lettered labels on them. A lanky white-haired man, his back bent like the gentle sway of a question mark, looked up and blinked behind thick glasses.

“Good morning,” I said. “I’m hoping you can help me with a few questions. I’m writing a piece about the
history of the Sunset Celebration on Mallory Square. I was hoping to get some background from you.”

“Modern history, then,” he said, then included a faint smile. “Not ancient. Suppose I give you the basic outline in a nutshell, and then I can direct you to a few resources for further reading.” One silver eyebrow arched.

“That would be amazing,” I said. “Perfect.”

“In the very old days, there was no formal Sunset Celebration. But in the 1960s, when the so-called hippies came to town, they would congregate on that land to watch the sun go down.” He pursed his lips. “And do whatever they were doing to amplify their enjoyment of the situation. Of course, there was no pier back then. There were no cruise ships.”

“That’s hard to imagine,” I said, just to keep the flow of information coming.

“According to our records, the first ship docked in 1969. But the pier as we know it was not built until 1984. The city wisely at that point decided there needed to be some regulation of the Sunset events. The area had grown into sort of a flea market, with all kinds of people selling all kinds of things. I imagine there was a lot more going on than what is recorded here in my history room.” He chuckled, tipping his chin at the bookshelves. Then he swept his glasses off and began to polish the lenses with a big white handkerchief.

“About the same time that the city was getting concerned, the adjoining businesses were, too. They put a lot of pressure on regulating the activities at Sunset. Some of the performers got together and formed what we recognize now as the Artistic Performance Preservation Society.”

“Which has been in the news a lot lately,” I said. “For
unfortunate reasons. Do you know if any of those first performers are still involved with the Mallory Square events?”

He slid his glasses back on. “Bart Frontgate was one of the earliest. Sadly, though he had enormous potential, he never quite got his life on track.”

“Do you have any idea where Bart Frontgate came from?” I asked.

“Oh, his family has been on the island forever,” said the librarian.

“He was a local?” I asked. “I had no idea.”

“Sure, his family owns a couple of businesses in town, and they have a rather large plot at the cemetery. If you ever get over there, take a look. The stonework is magnificent. I suppose he’ll be buried there. I’m not sure what his relationship with his parents had been like since he changed his name.”

That tidbit perked me up. “He changed his name?”

“The family name was Gates,” he said.

A guilty expression passed over his face; he looked as though he wished he had not mentioned Frontgate. Or his family. A man of history, not gossip.

Then he stood up and shuffled through some papers on his desk. “You feel free to look around. The Key West historical documents are over to your right.” He waved at a shelf across the room and disappeared through a door at the back corner.

I was dismissed. I spent another half an hour perusing the materials in the Key West department, which largely confirmed the short history the librarian had given me. I found multiple mentions of Bart Frontgate’s family, aka the Gateses. His father had run for a position on the city commission as well as the mosquito control board and the school board. Though the
elections were close, he had not won any of them. His mother had performed in productions at various venues over the island and was generally assessed by critics as enthusiastic if not supremely talented. They were frequent contributors to local fund-raising events, as evidenced in many society-page photos. I then Googled their names and made a note of their home address in Casa Marina, while realizing that a few days after their son’s murder might not be the best time for a visit.

The tall librarian had returned to the pile of books and papers on his desk while I read, so I approached his island refuge again. “May I ask one more question? Do you recall whether the tarot card reader, Lorenzo, has been in town for a while?”

“Can’t help with that one,” he said, his expression flat. “I eschew the occult.”

Cased closed, clearly. I thanked him, packed up my stuff, and returned to my scooter.

As soon as I got back to the boat, I parked myself on the living room couch and texted my mother. She phoned me right back.

“I thought you’d never call,” my mother said. I ignored the yearning in her voice. I assumed it had to do with her feeling trapped by the winter weather and Sam’s broken hip—neither of which I could help. The best I could do was try to keep her entertained. And involved.

“I have lots of news to share. First of all, Connie’s pregnant.”

My mother yelped with excitement. “I am thrilled for her. I can’t wait to go shopping! I’ll call her as soon as we hang up. Boy or girl? What names are they considering?”

“I didn’t ask any of that,” I said.

She sighed. “Send a girl to do a woman’s job . . . What else?”

“Connie found out that Lorenzo took the passenger ferry to Fort Myers yesterday. Whatever that means.”

“What it means,” my mother said, her voice electric with the thrill of a dog on the hunt, “is that he went to see his mom.”

“And you know that because . . . ?”

“Because you assigned me to do research about Bart Frontgate. But I actually worked on Lorenzo’s background first, and I discovered that his mother retired there to a little golf neighborhood called Seven Lakes several years ago. I was able to track down her phone number. I called her,” she admitted sheepishly, “but she hung up on me as soon as I mentioned her son. I suspect you’d have better luck talking with her in person.”

“Mom,” I said. “You weren’t supposed to do anything with your information—”

“I know that. I just figured, mother to mother, she might be willing to talk.”

“I wonder if Lorenzo’s there hiding out. He won’t answer my texts or calls or e-mail. I tried again this morning.”