The Quick Adios (Times Six) (37 page)

“And the chief selling point was seduction.”

“You bet,” said Steffey, “in stereo. They double-teamed both mechanics. Sonya was the creative one, for sure. She taught Edwin how to truss up Amanda to make it look like a sex crime. They all thought it would be an unsolved crime, like the killing of Maria Rodriguez. Anya insisted that Beeson hire you, by the way. She thought your rep as a sleuth would bolster everyone’s alibi.”

“Is anyone in jail?”

“Edwin stayed with us last evening in Manatee, and Sheriff Liska’s team grabbed the other three on Olivia Street first thing this morning. What Key Westers might call ‘the last thing last night.’ They’re being processed into the system right now. Oddly enough, they were not all in the same bed. Nor will they be again for twenty years, minimum.”

“After all that effort,” I said, “was Justin’s world even worth two cents?”

“It would be huge after he and Eileen inherited Amanda’s personal wealth. Her money financed Beeson’s projects, including 23 Beeson Way. That’s why she kept all her cars there. Part of the divorce settlement was that Justin would oversee Eileen’s trust.”

“It sounds like you’re going to overlook the idea that Justin suspected Edwin from the start,” I said.

“Tough to prove in court,” said Steffey, “especially given the relationship, the brothers-in-law thing. Also, the girl needs her father, which brings us to…”

“What’s her status?” I said.

“I spoke with her last night and mentioned that I might come down here to the Keys.” He reached to hand me a small envelope. “She asked me to give this to you, if I saw you.”

I extracted and unfolded a piece of copy paper. The message read:

I guess I will always miss my mommy but I missed her alot when she was alive, too. Writing this note to you feels good so if it’s okay I will send you postcards or whatever. The school called Ringling just said I could start taking college courses next year. I’m not sure, I don’t think I have to pay. If you find any more books like that one you gave me on the airplane, I would like to borrow them, okay? That would be cool. Your friend, Eileen.

Steffey was standing, ready to leave, when I looked up again.

“Amazing resilience,” I said.

“One last thing,” said the detective. “I asked Edwin Torres if he had any reason other than revenge to murder Amanda Beeson. He explained that she didn’t appreciate what she had. He couldn’t get out of his mind the fact that she left the top down on one of her cars during a rainstorm. The dampness shorted out her electric seat warming circuitry, and every time she started the car while wearing shorts, the seat shocked her thighs. He didn’t think that was enough punishment.”

I went inside to drink the last of the coffee and clean out the pot. I was staring downward, studying the grounds when Wiley and Dubbie arrived on their bicycles.

Dubbie was first onto the porch. “Would have been here a half-hour ago,” he said, “but we saw mucho officialdom in the lane. Nice to see you still sitting here. Are we off the hook, too?”

I patted the
Citizen
. “See your names in the paper?”

“I read it twice,” said Wiley, shaking his head. “Didn’t see your name, either.”

“That’s one sign of a successful operation,” I said.

Tanner said, “We continue to blend into scenery like two blades of grass in left field. But we still need camera advice and a couple of favors.”

“And some work,” said Fecko. “To generate a continuing cash flow.”

“Obviously our approach requires credible introductions,” added Tanner. “You know, referrals for word-of-mouth growth. Given the fact that we intend to work more or less undercover, we can’t exactly advertise.”

“We need to start building rep by word-of-mouth,” said Wiley. “We need someone like you to front for us.”

Dubbie grinned. “Put our best monkey on the front of the train.”

“Me?” I said. “Be your agent?”

“That would be great, thank you,” said Dubbie, “though ‘representative’ has a more solid ring to our ears.”

Wiley agreed. “You could say it implies a flexible fee structure.”

“Appreciate your acceptance,” said Tanner. “We need to be at a meeting in ten.”

An unplanned two-hour return to napland was shortened by a knock at the door. A cab driver delivered a tray of chilled seafood from Malcolm Mason identical to the one that had caused me to drool four days earlier. Conch seviche, steamed shrimp, salmon mousse, thin-sliced ahi tuna, smoked fish dip and water crackers plus two chilled bottles of Willamette Valley Pinot gris.

As if on cue, Marnie and Sam approached the porch.

Sam carried a booze-heavy paper sack. “We’re celebrating a transition,” he said, “if that’s the word I want. Marnie got called on the carpet today.”

Looking glum and afraid, Marnie shrugged. “We’re looking, or trying to look, at the positive side of things.”

I did not want to hear this news. If Sam and Marnie were leaving the island, they would create a huge gap in my life. Their friendship would never disappear, but their companionship would take the form of twice-annual road or business trips. Sam had been my primary source of strength and sanity and laughs. He had given direction to my soul-searching, pulled me through a lot of crap. Marnie had tolerated our antics, our ventures to the edge of peril. She and Beth had found a trusting friendship.

I waited for the bomb.

“The best way to describe the change,” said Sam, “is that Marnie’s been asked to cut down on her reporting tasks, as such.”

“Such what?” I said.

“The publisher and my boss sat me down this afternoon,” said Marnie.

“Get to it,” said Sam. “You’ll have to admit this fifty times in the next week.”

Marnie bit her lower lip, radiated worry, then smiled. “I’ve been promoted to assistant managing editor. It’s pretty good. The managing editor gets stuck with a lot of meet-and-greets, club luncheons, that kind of thing. I get to run the newsroom.”

Sam pulled three bottles of Perrier-Jouët champagne from the bag, and I heard Beth’s Ducati roar away from the light at Grinnell, then turn into the lane.

“Perfect time and reason for a celebration,” I proclaimed.

“Time, yes,” said Sam. “The real reason is that Marnie got a book deal and the newspaper okayed it.”

“I thought non-fiction required visual proof of truth and all that,” I said. “How can you sell a book without pictures?”

“Some of yours weren’t bad,” said Marnie, “as you saw on the front page today. I dug up old mug shots on everyone but Christi Caldwell. I’ve been assured a copy of hers, too. All I have to do now is sit on my personal-time ass and write.”

“What about those two small planes over The Tideline?”

“They weren’t shooting stills. They shot video only. One guy had incorrect camera settings, and the other got 14 seconds on TV once an hour for less than one day. That was it. The story wasn’t the building, it was inside.”

We celebrated and ate things that used to swim and raised toasts to Marnie’s new job and Beth’s having scored two major arrests in five minutes. It came down to four full bellies, eight bare feet and eight droopy eyes.

“I haven’t even left my house,” I said, “and today has been a perfect day.”

“What’s on your schedule for this evening?” said Beth.

“A personal investigation of police tactics.”

“Aren’t you supposed to wait an hour after eating?”

Sam looked away to mask a grin while Marnie called a taxi to take them home.

While we cleaned up enough to discourage an infestation of insects, I asked Beth if she had learned anything more from Christi Caldwell.

“Start with this fact. Christi and one of her several lovers, a Canadian post office employee, invented the check scam. Emerson Caldwell was their ‘coordinator,’ as she termed it. They recruited Robert Fonteneau, another of her boyfriends, because he had trucks crossing the U.S.-Canadian border both ways on a regular schedule. It worked for over two years.”

“That FBI man, Max Saunders, said that his crew had seen Emerson and Ocilla Ramirez in a bank parking lot,” I said. “If she was running checks for him, why didn’t they meet in his condo?”

“It was when Emerson and Christi and Fonteneau first discovered that Ocilla and Greg Pulver were starting to steal as much money as possible. The housekeepers had big plans to bolt, leave the country. But they got stupid about small things like not paying the condo rent and cable bill in Emerson’s place. If Marsh hadn’t killed Pulver first, Fonteneau would have done the job.”

“Marsh killed the wrong man and screwed up the larger scam,” I said.

“He blew two scams,” said Beth. “Christi and Fuck No planned to push Emerson out of the check-cashing scam so they could take over everything.”

“Teresa Barga died for screwing around. Harsh penalty.”

“Are you okay?” said Beth. “You knew her quite a while.”

“Her death opened up a few memories,” I said. “There were good moments, certainly a few bad ones. I don’t miss the relationship. Memories are for sharing, but I can’t imagine that she and I would ever have reminisced. Memories for one person are like a slow, bluesy electric guitar melody without even a hint of reverb.”

Beth’s phone buzzed.

“I’ve got to take this call. It’s Chief Salesberry, probably calling to congratulate me.”

“I’m going to go out back for three minutes.”

“Okay,” she said. “I took a shower before I rode over here.”

When I walked back into the house, clean and nearly sobered by the evening air, Beth was off the phone. She was standing in the kitchen in her underwear eating an Entenmann’s raspberry danish twist. A dot of sugar was on her upper lip.

“Plans for the rest of the night?” I said, stealing the sugar with my tongue.

“Have we dated before?”

“I’m Alex. You don’t remember?”

“Yes, but I still need to check your user name and password. Make sure this is a valid approach.”

“How about I show you my love when the towel drops,” I said.

She wagged the danish at me. “You will show me better if it gets snagged and doesn’t fall.”

“When confronted with pastry, I’ve been known to eat the muffin top first.”

Beth said, “Not tonight, mister.”

The End

If you enjoyed this book, you may wish to read the previous Alex Rutledge mystery, “Hawk Channel Chase,” also available as an ebook. Alex’s circle of friends again proves invaluable in dealing with bottom feeders and in sorting out layers of facts and lies.

Also available in ebook form is a collection of three stories titled “Triple in Paradise.” While Alex Rutledge takes a break in these, the action takes place in Key West, Miami and the Upper Keys.

Tom Corcoran is a photographer and former journalist and the author of the Alex Rutledge novels set primarily in Key West. He has created “Key West in Black and White,” a book of retrospective Key West images; and “Key West Point of View,” a collection in DVD format of over 400 recent color photographs of the island. Acoustic guitar and steel pan background music was created for the 40-minute DVD by musicians John Frinzi and John Patti.

A resident of the Florida Keys for fifteen of his thirty-five years in Florida, Corcoran was an early collaborator with Jimmy Buffett, providing photos for seven of his album and CD packages and lyrics for the songs “Fins” and “Cuban Crime of Passion.”

Corcoran’s photographs and articles have appeared in
Rolling Stone, Southern Boating, Cruising World, Car & Driver, Esquire, Look
and
Outside.
For seven years Corcoran edited
Mustang Monthly,
a magazine for restorers of classic Ford Mustangs.

In addition to continuing the Alex Rutledge Series, Corcoran has co-written song lyrics for several recent John Frinzi CD releases.

The Alex Rutledge Series

The Mango Opera

Gumbo Limbo

Bone Island Mambo

Octopus Alibi

Air Dance Iguana

Hawk Channel Chase

The Quick Adiós (Times Six)

OTHER TITLES BY TOM CORCORAN

Key West in Black and White

Jimmy Buffett—The Key West Years

Key West Point of View (Photo DVD)

For Martha Corcoran and Carolyn C. Inglis

For assistance, support, wisdom and time,

I offer my heartfelt thanks to:

Katie Wagner Lockwood, Elsie and Jerry Metcalf,

Marty Corcoran, Carolyn Inglis, Dinah George,

Nan Kitchens, Nancy Harris, Les and Dona Bernier,

Eric Christensen, Peter and Sheila Badal, Cathy Keller,

Richard Badolato, Franette Vaughn, Mike Eden,

John and Laurel Boisonault, Doyle Smith,

Margo and John Frinzi, Alan and Cindy Bickford,

Bob Cruse, Brian Bradley, Ammie Machan,

the Eden House Hotel…

and Stuart Kaminsky.

THE QUICK ADIOS (TIMES SIX). Copyright 2012 by Tom Corcoran. All Rights Reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Dredgers Lane, LLC.