Nobody Knows (15 page)

“Tell me what you think about a hurricane coming.”

“I think it’s really neat. I’ve never been in a hurricane before.”

“You’re not afraid?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you know what you’ll do if a hurricane comes?”

Vincent stopped to consider the question. “I guess I’ll stay inside and watch out the window.”

“They are talking about evacuations. Do you know what that means?”

“Of course I do. I’m not stupid.”

“Sorry. Well, do you know where your nearest hurricane shelter is?”

Vincent bit at the corner of his mouth. His younger brother was beginning to look frightened. Cassie had the feeling she should stop with the questions. “I’m sure your mother knows where to go,” she said hastily. “I think we have enough now, Vincent.”

“Will I be on television again tonight?” The hope on his freckled face was visible.

“I’m not sure. It depends if the people who run our news show in New York decide that this story is important enough for all the people around the United States to see.”

Fearing that he hadn’t come across as well as he’d hoped to, Vincent wanted to redeem himself in the reporter’s eyes. “Hey, want to see where I found the hand yesterday? It’s right up there.” He pointed to the seawall.

While Felix packed up the camera gear, Cassie allowed herself to be dragged to the scene of the washed-up hand.

“Weren’t you scared?” she asked, looking at the spot in the sand that Vincent indicated.

“No. Man, I wasn’t scared. When I saw that ring, I was excited!” The proud expression on his face changed the moment he realized what he had let slip.

“A ring, huh? So that’s what made the detector go off.”

Vincent grabbed Mark’s hand. “We gotta go. My mother will be mad if we’re not back when she gets home.”

He left the car motor running because the thick humidity made air-conditioning a must. From the curbside vantage point across the street from Sebastien Jewelers, he watched and waited, listening to the radio. “Nobody Knows” played. It sure was catchy. He tapped his palm against the steering wheel. The music from the rock station was interrupted by a weather report. Giselle was gathering speed.

He caressed the scraggly beard he had glued on his chin as he watched a few well-heeled shoppers stroll by, carrying their purchases in brightly colored bags. Some customers loitered on the sidewalk in front of the closed jewelry store, pointing and whispering among themselves and shaking their heads before moving along.

A glance into the rearview mirror revealed that some of the powder he had combed through his hair had sprinkled onto his shoulder. He brushed it away.

A few minutes past five o’clock, he watched the old man with the shock of white hair pull at Sebastien’s
door. When it didn’t budge, the codger pressed his cupped hands against the plate glass, his eyes peering into the dimness within.

A patrolman making his rounds about St. Armands Circle stopped to talk to the old guy, probably explaining why the jewelry store hadn’t opened that day. The geezer pulled at the ends of his white mustache as he listened. The old man turned, walked to his tired automobile, and maneuvered it out of its parking space.

Music blared in the shiny late-model car, with windows rolled up tight against the thick summer air, that followed the old Plymouth back over the causeway.

Leslie Sebastien’s throat had been slit, thought Gideon, like the gullet of one of the fish from the Gulf. Maybe it was just a coincidence that the jeweler had been murdered hours after Gideon had talked to him about the ring, but Gideon didn’t like the feeling he had about the whole deal. He was going to talk to Vincent and convince the boy that the ring had to be turned over to the cops. In the meantime, he had to find a safe place to stash it.

Gideon pulled his old Plymouth into the sandy driveway and switched off the ignition. He got out of the car and walked to the back porch of his small, weather-beaten ranch, the screen door creaking as he opened it.

His tacklebox lay on the stone floor. A nice little safety deposit box.

Gideon tucked the ring beneath his favorite lures but left the tackle case where it lay. If he brought it inside, it would look out of place, defeating the whole idea of hiding in plain sight.

The door from the kitchen to the back porch opened. Vincent stood with an excited expression on his face.
“I’ve been looking for you all day. Did you get it, Gideon? Did you get the money for the ring?”

“I see you let yourself in again,” Gideon observed. “No, boy, I didn’t get the money.”

“Why not?”

The ashen look on the fisherman’s face told the boy something was wrong.

“I didn’t get the money because the man who owned the jewelry store wasn’t there to buy the ring from me.”

“Oh,” said Vincent, momentarily crestfallen. “Well, you can go back tomorrow, right?”

“No, Vincent, I won’t be going back tomorrow.”

“Why not?”

“Because the man who owns the store is dead. He was killed last night up at some party at the Ringling estate.”

Vincent quickly put together the crime scene excitement he had witnessed that morning and the report he had seen on the news while he was waiting for Gideon to come home. The guy who had been murdered was the guy who owned the jewelry store Gideon was using as a fence for the ruby ring! For the moment, the anticipation of the windfall from the ring was forgotten, replaced with the nervous thrill of putting two and two together in a real murder case.

“Yeah! I wanted to find you today and tell you, Gideon. I wanted to tell you about the murder up at Ringling. I saw the cops up there this morning, investigating. I even saw the blood on the ground!”

“You did, did you?”

Vincent’s head bobbed, his mind running ahead. It was too bad the jewelry guy was killed, but there were other jewelers who would want to buy the ring.

Gideon sat down at the kitchen table and beckoned Vincent to take the wooden chair across from him. “Listen, son, I should have told you this sooner. I think we have to turn the ring over to the police.”

The boy’s face fell. “No way.”

“Yes,” the old man said firmly. “You have to give it to the cops, Vincent. It could help them figure out who that hand belongs to.”

“But they already know who it belongs to,” Vincent announced triumphantly. “I saw it on the news just now. It was some lady’s hand who lived right here in Sarasota.”

“Since when do you watch the news so much?” Gideon asked skeptically.

“Since yesterday. I wanted to see if they used my picture again. And they did, Gideon. They showed me again. And they had a picture of the lady. So you see? The police don’t need the ring. They already know whose hand it was.”

Gideon got up from the table and opened the refrigerator, considering what Vincent had told him as he poured himself a glass of iced tea from a plastic pitcher. “Want one?” he offered.

The boy’s face scrunched up. “Yuck. Besides, I got to get home. I have to watch my brother and my mom’s going to kill me. I’m late.”

Vincent wiggled uncomfortably in his chair. He knew he wouldn’t be able to wait until he got home. “I have to hit the can before I go.”

HE HAD
parked the car a couple of doors down from the driveway that the Plymouth had pulled into and
waited a few minutes while he considered how to go about what he needed to do. The old coot looked strong for someone his age, but he could definitely take him on. He patted the bulge in his pants pocket.

It was still daylight, but he didn’t think he had to wait until dark. Though the surrounding houses were relatively close together, there was lots of overgrown vegetation between them. He got out of the car and walked toward the house, turning with confidence into the driveway. If anyone was watching, it would only arouse suspicion if he looked like he was skulking.

A bike was propped against the side of the ranch, but he didn’t think anything of it. Through the screen door, he could see the old man sitting at the table with his back to the porch.

WHAT EXCUSE
was he going to give his mother this time? Vincent wondered as he sat in the bathroom. He dreaded going home. He didn’t want to face his mother’s wrath and he didn’t want to spend another night with Mark and that awful pounding treatment. It wasn’t fair. Mom had already worked the lunch shift, and now she had to cover the evening shift, too. So he got stuck.

Resigned to facing his destiny, Vincent pulled at the roll of toilet paper. He was reaching for the toilet handle when he heard voices from the other side of the closed door.

“
WHO ARE
you? And what the hell do you want?” Gideon demanded, deliberately raising his voice, hoping
that Vincent would hear him, praying the boy wouldn’t come out of the bathroom.

“Where is it? I want that ring.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the crap, old man. You have the ring and I want it. Now.”

Gideon stared at the cold steel blade that was pointed in his direction. He should turn over the ring. It wasn’t worth getting killed for. He wanted to get this guy out of the house before Vincent came back. Gideon rose from his chair, cringing as he thought he heard the bathroom door open.

The intruder heard it, too.

In the split second that the intruder turned to look in the direction of the noise, Gideon lunged.

VINCENT SLAMMED
and locked the bathroom door.

His heart pounding against his chest wall, he climbed into the bathtub and yanked desperately at the small window. The frame was stuck, swollen by the humidity.

Violent banging reverberated from the other side of the bathroom door.

With all his might, Vincent pushed at the window. It gave slightly.

Another push, and then another, as the pounding on the door grew louder.

FINALLY, THE
door gave, crashing into the tiny bathroom.

The intruder pulled back the plastic shower curtain.

The window was open. But only enough for a child or a midget to slip through.

In her room at the hotel, Cassie caught the local news broadcast.
Quite a hopping city, Sarasota
, she thought as she watched the opening story about the murder of the jeweler Leslie Sebastien.

“And we have a follow-up on the story we reported about the hand that was found on Siesta Beach yesterday,” continued the local anchorman. “Sheriff’s Department officials say that a fingerprint identifies the hand as that of twenty-five-year-old Merilee Quiñones of Sarasota. There are reports that Ms. Quiñones was a performer in adult entertainment videos. Police are continuing their investigation.”

Cassie’s mind instantly snapped back to the overheard conversation at the Ringling party. Merilee was not a common name. Was it possible that the missing Merilee those three at the bar were talking about last night, the Merilee who was claimed to have written the song being played by one of the biggest boy bands in the country, was the same woman whose hand had washed up on the beach? Now this was a story New
York might be interested in. The porno angle was also intriguing. It was worth checking out. And what, if anything, did Merilee Quiñones and the murdered jeweler have to do with each other?

She listened to the rest of the local news, paying special attention to the weather report, followed by the half-hour network broadcast, watching with frustration as the closing credits of the
KEY Evening Headlines
finally rolled.

A full day of shooting and all that aired on the program was twenty seconds of video showing shoppers pulling bottled water and supplies off the grocery store shelves. The anchorwoman, Eliza Blake, voiced over the footage, explaining to the audience only that Floridians in the western part of the state were preparing for Giselle.
What a waste of a day’s work
.

She dialed her home in Virginia and got Jim’s voice on the answering machine.

“Hi, it’s me. Just checking in to see how you are up there. Love and miss you, Hannah.” With a melancholy feeling, she hung up the phone. Where were they? Out for a little dinner with Mrs. Cox?

Cassie pulled back the drapes from the windowed wall and looked over to the marina. There were at least two hours until the sun set, yet the sky was darkening ominously over the Gulf. The leaves of the palm trees rustled in the stiffening breeze. Boats were rocking in the water.

Leroy had blown off her suggestion to shoot at the marina today, but tomorrow she was going to insist they go and interview Jerry Dean and any owners that were over there worrying about their boats. She had to
get more assertive and, yes, demanding with Leroy. She was the correspondent, after all. It was her face and name that went on the product, not his. But Cassie had felt so beaten down over these past months that she hadn’t had the energy or the inclination to set him straight. In fact, she had been relieved to let him call the shots. That couldn’t go on.

Resolved, Cassie turned from the window to call her producer, but the phone rang before she could pick up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Miss Sheridan?”

“Speaking.”

“There’s a young man down here in the lobby who would like to speak with you. His name is Vincent Bayler.”

Cassie’s interest was piqued. He was a little devil, that one. What did he want?

“Tell him I’ll be right down.” It was safer to meet him in the lobby than run the risk of someone calling foul if she had the boy come up to her room.

Charles and Etta Chambers wanted to be prepared, and they were doing everything the manual told them to do. Charles had packed up all their important papers and wrapped Etta’s jewelry, storing it in the empty oven. He had moved the lounge chairs from the lanai into the living room while Etta packed a duffel bag with dry clothes and covered the computer and lamps with plastic bags. They would wait until the evacuation order actually came before covering the television. Until then the TV was their lifeline.

“Honey, you should be taking it easy after your surgery. I can do this,” said Charles.