The Black Palmetto (3 page)

She tried to get him to tell more about why he was searching for Spanner, and Sam told her about the cash.

“And that's it? He stole some money and you're trying to get it back? That doesn't sound much like government work to me.”

She grinned when she said it, and he thought she might be loosening up.

“I never said anything about the government. You did.”

“Yeah, but you led me to believe I was right.”

“Sorry about that, but I really can't say any more about it.”

Lora pushed back from the table and crossed her arms. “I guess that about does it, then.”

Sam didn't want her to leave, telling himself that she might know something else of value. “What keeps a newspaper reporter busy in a town like this?”

After taking a sip of coffee, she said, “There's more going on here than you'd think. We had a murder here a couple of months ago. I wrote four stories on it.”

“What happened?”

“A man’s body was found over on the highway, stabbed in the chest. Nobody could identify him.”

“You seem pretty matter-of-fact about it,” Sam said, “like that sort of thing doesn't bother you.”

She frowned. “Oh, it bothered me at first. It was the biggest thing to happen here in a long time. No one could remember anyone ever being murdered on Iguana Key. They never found the killer.”

They were quiet for a moment. Sam checked his watch. 10:35 p.m. “You have any ideas about who could have killed Jake?”

She gave him a stare. “Not a clue. Maybe it had something to do with what he planned to tell you.”

Maybe it did. “I'd like to see the stories you wrote about the other murder.”

“You think the same person killed Jake?”

Maybe it had nothing to do with Spanner, but two murders so close together in this backwater town seemed suspicious.

“Could be.”

She checked her watch. “It's too late tonight, but I could get the issues for you tomorrow if you drop by the newspaper office.”

Sam smiled. “Don't you keep copies at home?”

Raising an eyebrow, she said, “Yeah, but I don't know you. You think I'm going to take you to my house?”

“It was worth a try.”

A smile teased at the corner of her mouth. She stared for a moment. “Okay, why not. You seem pretty harmless. But you have to tell me something else about this guy you're searching for.”

“Sounds like a good trade.”

****

Sam followed her about a mile down US-1. They turned right and rode another half-mile to a subdivision. In the dark it looked like a development from the 1940's and 50's. Cabana-style homes built with painted cinder blocks. Mature palms dotted the front lawns. No garages or carports.

Lora turned into a driveway, pulled the car behind the house, and stopped. A light inside a screened porch cast a glow on her car and the back yard. They got out, and she went through the screened porch and in the back door. Sam followed her inside past an entrance hall to the kitchen.

“Have a seat and I'll get the stories. How about a drink?”

“Sure, if you have a beer.”

Nodding, she opened the refrigerator and took out two bottles.

“Glass?”

“No, bottle's fine.”

She handed one to him, opened her own, and disappeared down the hall.

Sam twisted off the cap, drank down a third of the bottle and sat. The kitchen had no plaques with homey slogans on the wall, no magnets or photos on the refrigerator, no napkins or salt and pepper shakers on the table. The stovetop and sink had a layer of dust on their surfaces. It all appeared as if she’d just moved in. A coffee pot sat on the counter in the corner. It had some leftover brew in the decanter, so she’d used that.

“Here they are,” she said, stepping back into the kitchen. She sat across from him at the table and laid several news clippings in front of him.

Scanning through them, he learned little more than what she’d told him in the diner. The man had been stabbed with a knife and left in a ditch on a road a hundred yards or so from the Overseas Highway. Lieutenant Lonnie Cates was quoted as saying the man probably had been homeless, unkempt and wearing dirty clothes, and he might have gotten into a squabble with another homeless person. The victim had what looked like jailhouse tattoos on his arms and legs. Nothing in the stories told him anything about who the killer might be.

“The police didn't have any theory about the killer's identity?”

“If they did, they wouldn't tell me about it. I got the impression they didn't know anything, and didn't want to go to the expense of an investigation for a homeless man.”

He sighed, finished his beer, and studied her face. She was even more beautiful now in this light, her hair black as ink, eyes a deep blue, flawless skin.

Her eyebrow inched up. Probably watching the gears turn inside his head.

“Time for you to go. I have to send in my report on Jake's murder and get up early tomorrow.”

Sam smiled and stood. “Yeah, I guess it is time to go.”

“Before you leave, you promised to tell me something else about Sean Spanner.”

Hmmm
. He'd hoped she would forget about that.

“Let's see. The police took the photo I had, but I can give you a description.” He described the man and she wrote it down in her pad.

“Okay, that's good, but I assumed you'd give me something else about why he's here.”

“That's a good question. I don't know why he's here. I just know he left Miami a couple days ago, and I can only assume he came here to see somebody about hiding him.”

Something rattled outside the door.

“You hear that?” Sam asked.

“What?”

“There was a noise on the porch.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Hey, is this a ploy to get me to ask you to stay.”

“No, I heard something.”

He went through the dimly-lit entrance hall and tried to peer through the glass of the back door. The porch lay in darkness. He flipped the light switch, but it didn’t work.

Stepping back to the kitchen, he said, “You have a flashlight?”

Lora reached into a cabinet and pulled one out. Returning to the entry hall with his gun drawn, he opened the door and eased out to the darkness.

He splashed the light on the screen door. It hung ajar. Turning to see what had happened to the porch light, he sensed movement to his right. Someone slapped the flashlight from his hand, and Sam spun and kicked with his right foot. His shoe brushed cloth, but nothing else. A split second later the silhouette of a man burst out the screen door. Sam ran out behind him and up the drive to the street. He couldn't see anything in the dark, and heard only the crunch of his own footfalls on the gravel. A car started somewhere down the block, and when he got to the street it was gone. Back in the house, he told Lora what had happened, his pulse still thumping in his ears.

“You're just trying to scare me. I never heard anything.”

“No, I'm not. Somebody was out there.”

“Okay, I'll call the police.” Frowning, she picked up her phone from the table, dialed 911, and told the operator she thought she had a prowler. She closed the phone and said, “They're coming out, so you can go now.”

The time for friendly conversation had passed. Now she just wanted him gone.

“Okay, but I still want to clear the story before you print it.”

“That's fine. I'll send in a quick write-up about Jake's murder for the morning edition, and save the bigger story for the next day. You can drop by the paper tomorrow afternoon and check it out.”

Chapter Four

Before Sam could use the key, Simone swung the door open. She stood there in the short nightie, the gun hanging down by her side. A pretty sexy pose, but she probably hadn't intended it that way. She seemed oblivious to her attraction on men. He entered and closed the door behind him. The room felt frigid.

“Where've you been? I thought they must've arrested you.”

He didn't want to get into another discussion about Lora Diamond.

“I spoke with a reporter after the police let me go.”

“Why would you do that?”

Laying his gun on the dresser and emptying his pockets, he said, “Another murder happened a couple of months ago, and this reporter covered the stories on it.”

When he turned around, she’d gotten into bed and sat propped up on pillows with the cover pulled up under her arms.

“You think it could be the same guy?”

He sat on the other bed and told her about the similarities of the killings. “A place this size probably doesn't have many homicidal maniacs.”

She stared for a couple of beats. “Well, I'm glad they didn't arrest you. I'd hate to have to put down some policemen getting you out of there.”

The words might have been intended as humor, but he knew her pretty well. She just might do what she'd said.

Sam grinned. “Yeah, me too.”

Simone yawned, turned on her side, facing him, and moved the pillow underneath her head.

“Turn off the light when you go to bed,” she said, her eyes closed, her words already dreamy.

After brushing his teeth and undressing, he sat on the bed and watched her sleep, her body rising ever so slightly with shallow breaths, her lips smiling as if in a nice dream, like an innocent child. Smiling himself, he turned off the light, pitying the poor soul who might think that and try to take advantage of her.

****

The hearse wandered across the center line. Alton Cox dozed at the wheel, head back, mouth open. Harpo Crum peered out the windshield and saw the grill of a semi in their path. His pulse fired in his ears as he grabbed the wheel.

“Watch out, man!”

The semi’s horn blasted as it squeezed by, the driver throwing them the finger.

Alton awoke and coughed, his eyes darting. They’d stopped at a bar along the highway for a few drinks since the body didn’t have to be in Lauderdale until morning. As always, Alton had way too many. He’d spilled whiskey on the guy next to him, and the man got in his face about it. One thing led to another and Alton ended up on the floor, the man kicking him in the face with the pointed toes of his cowboy boots. Harpo finally persuaded the cowboy to stop, and dragged Alton out of the bar.

Harpo drove the first couple of hours after that, Alton sleeping it off in the passenger seat. He awoke when Harpo pulled off the highway to get some malt liquor, and went to the restroom to rinse the blood off his face. When he returned, he insisted on driving. Harpo had been glad to oblige, but now he thought that might have been a mistake. He didn’t want to become road kill pasted onto the grill of a semi. Taking a long pull on the bottle of malt liquor, he felt his nerves begin to smooth out.

“What about my bottle?” Alton asked. He still looked drunk.

“Want me to drive?”

“No, man, just give me my bottle.”

“Sure, buddy, hold on.” Harpo pulled a quart of Colt 45 from the bag at his feet, twisted off the cap, and handed it to him. “You see that car following us? He’s been back there since we left the bar. Even stopped at the store when we got the malt.”

“Don’t worry about it. You just got the heebie jeebies cause of that stiff we got back there. I know a bar up ahead that stays open all night. We'll stop for a couple of shots and maybe you can chill out.”

Harpo shook his head and sighed. Alton should have learned his lesson when the tips of the cowboy’s boots were stuck up his nose.

The hearse felt hot and laden with moisture, windows wide open, the odor of the sea and the moldy casket floating in the air. Within a couple of minutes they rolled onto a bridge that seemed a mile long.

Harpo sighed and fiddled with the little crystal radio he’d bought for a dollar at a flea market. The guy said it was over fifty years old, and Harpo had brought it along because the hearse’s radio had gotten stolen a few months before. Inserting the tiny speaker plug into his ear, he adjusted the antenna and found only one station. A man with a Southern accent preached about sins of the flesh. Another program would probably come on eventually, so he settled back to listen to the preacher for a while. He dropped the radio into his shirt pocket and took a long drink of the malt. The expanding image of the trailing car caught his attention in the mirror outside his window.

Harpo twisted around in his seat until he could eyeball the car. It sped up and cut into the passing lane. “Watch out, man, the car is coming around us.”

“He's the one better watch out,” Alton said.

The sedan sped by, pulled into their path, and braked until its rear bumper banged the front end of the hearse. The driver stuck his arm out the window and motioned for them to pull to the side.

“What’s wrong with that guy?” Alton said, pumping the brakes.

“He wants us to pull over.”

Alton rolled his eyes. “I know that, Sherlock.”

Jamming the brakes again, he slowed to a stop behind the car.

“See what he wants, and make it quick. Give me the high sign if he tries anything.”

Harpo grinned. “Yeah, I’ll do that. Maybe you can take care of him like you did that cowboy.”

The stranger got out of the car and stood there, waiting. He appeared to be holding something behind his back.

Harpo turned up the bottle of malt liquor, draining it, and got out. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he walked on shaky legs in front of the hearse. “What's the problem, dude?”

The man approached, humming a song that sounded like an old television show. Alton hit the high beams, lighting up the guy’s face, and Harpo recognized him.

“Hey, you're that―”

It happened in the blink of an eye. Something exploded, knocking him back. Harpo stumbled against the hood of the hearse, and the guy turned and walked around toward the driver's door. Harpo felt funny, his chest burning, and he realized he’d been shot. He coughed. Fluid came up from his throat.

The man jerked the driver's door open. Alton cursed, but the gun exploded again, and he fell over in the seat. The shooter grabbed his shirt front and pulled him back up behind the wheel. He peered out at Harpo, his eyes shining in the dash lights, begging for help, his mouth stretched wide in a silent scream. Harpo wanted to do something, but then his head went into a spin and he passed out.