Those were the words I didn’t want to hear. I guess I was the sucker again . . . not the first time, nor would it be the last. But it still didn’t mean that the girl was a murderer. Maybe after the death of her mother she had to work her way through school . . . and maybe Kim Kardashian was really a man. What I really wanted to do was throw up. Just one question -- where do we go from here?
I didn’t know, but with Sunny’s warm body cradled into my side, I slept like a damned baby.
Chapter 11
Sunny left for campus the next morning and I finally lumbered out of bed. The laptop was on the kitchen table. I fired it up and poured the last of the coffee Sunny had left for me. There was one slightly stale French pastry in a wrinkled white bag. I figured what the hell? Looked like free breakfast to me.
I pulled up Google and typed Mysteria LaCoeur. Nothing. Then I remembered a porn site that Chris used to visit. He had told me it covered everything a serious lover of naked bodies could want, from the sublime to the down-right perverse. He had also mentioned a bevy of has-been celebrities and stars of the grosser genre of the silver screen. It was Boo something. I found it and scrolled through the categories. Twosomes, threesomes, oriental, Russian, Latina, Indian and even some featuring our barnyard friends. Decadent didn’t even describe it. Toward the bottom of the greatest hits was a column of what I figured must be well-known porn actresses. I found her about four rows down. She was there, big breasted and pouty mouth, looking like the answer to every deviant’s fondest dreams.
I clicked on one of the episodes. More of the same as we’d seen in the Academy Award winner, “Putting it In”. Actually you can forget the Academy Award Winning part, but the rest was Mysteria doing things to this giant black dude that would have crippled a normal man for life.
Holly? I didn’t want to think so, but Sunny was probably right. I was still holding out for the “working her way through college” bit, but it wasn’t a fit. I tried a few other search strategies, but nothing came. Holly Adams? Was that even her real name? And how could I find out? Suddenly I had an idea. With Frank’s help, maybe I could strike gold.
Sunny had one of those three day viruses. Sinuses packed up and a constant hack. Too much pollen, I suspected. One of the great things about South Florida is that there is always something blooming. Hibiscus, Oleander, and a variety of tropical foliage that stuns the landscape and leaves copious traces of stuff that’s a curse for anyone with allergies. I had made all of the appropriate sympathetic gestures and filled her with Benadryl. She’d been out by seven the last few nights.
I was sitting on KAMALA watching the sunset. The sky to the west was painted in orange and purple with wisps of gray clouds in brush stokes only a master could create. I couldn’t pin it down, but I had a feeling something was going to happen. I was waiting for a call or whatever form it took. I wasn’t disappointed.
She came down the dock with a bottle in each hand and an envelope tucked into her waistband. The low rise white cotton shorts were pasted on her buttocks. A frilly loose top cut just above her navel swayed as she walked. It was hard not to notice the nipples. They swayed in a perfect rhythm while the straight blond mane danced around her shoulders.
“I got the papers. Can I come aboard?”
I helped her over the lifelines. She sat in the cockpit and shivered slightly.
“Can we go below?” she asked innocently. I nodded.
She stepped down into the salon and set the two bottles on the table. A bottle of J. Lohr Cabernet and a nearly full quart of Jameson. She pointed at it.
“Dad told me it was your favorite. Maybe we can have a drink in his honor.”
I uncorked the Cab and set two wineglasses in front of her.
“I’ll do the Cab, T.K., but you have a hit of the Irish whiskey. It’s what Dad would want.”
She was probably right. I grabbed a tumbler and filled it half-full with the brown nectar. She handed me the papers and we toasted Chris. I thought for a minute she was going to choke up, but she bit her tongue and it passed. The whiskey burned. It didn’t seem to taste quite right, but then nothing had since the day they’d fished him out of the basin.
She slipped her feet out of the sandals and placed them on the edge of the table. The bottoms were pink and supple, no callouses or dead skin, just a fresh glow. Her toenails gleamed beneath a clear polish. She leaned back into the cushion and her knees hit my eye level. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but it was something no self-respecting dirty old man would have missed. I was sure she wasn’t wearing panties. I tried to imagine her with fiery red curls, but it just didn’t quite compute. Still, I couldn’t keep visions of the Mysteria DVD from dancing in and out of my head. The conversation was harmless, or so I thought at first. I sipped the Jameson and listened.
“T.K., you’ve done so much for me and I know how you loved Dad. I almost feel guilty. I’ve taken so much from you and offered so little. I just wanted to say thank you. And I want you to know if there’s anything I can do for you . . . and I mean anything . . . just let me know.”
She put her bare feet on the floor. Then she leaned over the table and picked up the wine glass. One small hand reached across the surface and beckoned to me. I took it and squeezed lightly. She smiled and breathed deeply. Maybe it was my imagination . . . maybe it wasn’t intentional, but she damned sure gave me a full view of two voluptuous breasts, nipples at attention, that Aphrodite would have envied. I felt a bolt go through me. I can’t help it that I’m a man and sometimes weak, but this just wasn’t right. I guess I was ashamed. After all, she was Chris’s daughter, and less than half my age.
I took a deep breath and shuddered a bit. She noticed. She smiled again and said, “Well, one more drink and I oughta go, but if there’s anything . . .”
She picked up the Cab and poured it almost to the rim. Then she made sure the Irish flowed from the green bottle. “A final toast,” she said. I didn’t want a final toast. I wanted her to leave before I did something that I knew I would regret. But she sat and we talked for a few more minutes. Nothing heavy or suggestive, just like two friends rehashing old news. I was getting woozy by the time I reached the bottom of the tumbler. She hugged me a little harder than I might expect, her hand underneath my shirt, kneading my back just at the waistband of my shorts. I backed off a little and bit my tongue. She riveted me with those blue eyes and whispered, “Anything.”
When she left, a part of me was definitely relieved, even glad that I hadn’t done what baser parts of me desired . . . and yet, I had what I wanted. I put her glass in the sink, but I didn’t wash it.
I sat and tried to re-run the scenario. Had Holly come on to me? I damned sure seemed like it . . . no bra, no panties, was there anything she could do? . . . And she meant anything. The show had been a good one. She probably knew Sunny was at home in bed. But why? The will was in probate, we had spread the ashes. Maybe somehow she was aware that I was looking closer at a situation that had too many odd coincidences, one that might involve a murder. I poured one more hit of the Jameson. It almost tasted rancid and things got hazy. I couldn’t think, much less concentrate. I got up and stumbled, but managed to crawl into the v berth. Then it all went to black.
I think I dreamed, but I’m not sure. All I know is I had an ethereal awareness that I was outside my body, hovering over a crowd. I was watching. They were there, standing in a line. No one saying a word. They were waiting, their heads at their chests and a pall over each of the faces. I wasn’t sure, but none of them seemed to be breathing. I struggled to recognize even one of them, but their features were gray and indistinct. It seemed a silent parade of the dead. Suddenly I had joined them. I stood at the end of the line quaking, but silent like the rest. Then I heard the voice. It was weak and distant, but I had to answer.
I woke up. I looked around at the pale lime green walls and inhaled the disinfectant. I heard the tinny clack of a cart go by the door. Then I fingered the tubes injected into my hand.
I felt something pumping. It throbbed and stung, but somehow there was comfort. I was alive. Sunny sat next to my bed. She put a hand to my cheek and sobbed. A hefty nurse in sky blue pants and a flowery top came in. She checked the blood pressure monitor and smiled.
“For a while we didn’t think you’d make it. Push the call button when you feel like you can eat.” She patted me on the shoulder and nodded at Sunny. She dabbed her eyes with a Kleenex.
“How long have I been here?”
“Too damned long. Three days and you look like a refugee from Auschwitz. You gotta eat something as soon as your stomach can handle it.”
I managed a quizzical look and tried to rattle my head all the way into consciousness.
“They think you were poisoned. Maybe ptomaine, but there were traces of something in your system, almost like you’d overdosed on some kind of drug. Not sure . . . could have been bad seafood, something you picked up, or God knows what. The tests of the stuff they found in your gut should be ready today. Might know something for sure then . . . might not.”
I was weak and my mind still wasn’t clear, but I hadn’t eaten any seafood. The only thing I had over done was the Jameson, but that was a punishment I’d known before. This was no simple hangover. It was different . . . and despite my dim powers of concentration, it scared the shit out of me.
“So what the hell happened?” I mumbled.
“I called several times. When you didn’t answer, I decided to check the boat. You were out. Had thrown up all over the place. Getting the shit out of your system is probably what saved your ass. I called 911. The emergency people hauled you out of the marina and they sent you straight to intensive care. You were barely hanging on, severely dehydrated, and your system was in a state of severe shock. These people are good. Now they think you’ll be just dandy in a couple more days, but you have to eat and drink as many fluids as your body will stand. That’s it. You’re safe and I’ve got to get to campus. I’ve been sitting here for 48 hours and now it’s time to get to something a little less life threatening.”
She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.
“It’s okay. You’re with me,” she whispered, “and that’s just where you need to be. Eat, drink, and later we’ll make merry.”
Even in my pallid state, that was the kind of promise that inspired. I pushed the call button and ordered a cheeseburger and fries, but the nurse brought me lemon Jello and a chocolate chip cookie. It actually tasted pretty damned good. What the hell? I’d get there.
Chapter 12
The next couple of days bored the shit out of me. I even watched Jerry Springer. Sometimes the trash can be quite diverting, even though you know you’re gonna have to throw it out sooner or later. I tried to evaluate the free agents and draft choices the Dolphins were weighing, but I’ve never done well with that kind of speculation. They had already signed Suh, a monster defensive tackle and they had given Tannehill a contract extension and acquired some new targets for his passes. That was a good start, but there were still a few holes in the offensive line. I just wanted the schedule to begin, even if it was the shitty preseason games, but there was lots of time before that. My real concern hung with me like a bad case of the flu . . . was this some sort of screw-up or an attempt at murder?
I had plenty of tapes in my head. I played them all in succession, even tried to make some notes. If someone was after me, I wanted to know who and why. When Sunny came by that night, I asked her to retrieve the bottles of Cab and Jameson that should have been on KAMALA. She called later from the dock. Nothing but the two empty glasses, one on the table and one in the sink. I asked her to carefully remove each of them, place them in plastic baggies and deliver them to my friend Frank, Head of the Detectives for the Key West P.D.
It felt good to get back to the boat. After what had happened, maybe I wasn’t as safe as I thought, but the sounds of Land’s End and the smell of salt air gave me comfort I damned sure couldn’t feel in that hospital bed. Several people had been by to check on me . . . Fritz, Louie, Tracy, Whipsaw, and, of course, Sunny. I was about companied out when I heard one more set of footsteps clomping down the dock. I shuddered, but slid the hatch back. It was Frank. Except for the limp, he still looked like a guy who could go one-on-one with Lebron or James Westbrook. His dark skin shone with sweat and damned near glowed. He raised a right hand holding a manila envelope, and waved.
“Got something for you, Buddy,” he said as he stepped on board.
I offered him a cold beer, but I knew he wouldn’t take it while he was on duty. I also knew he wouldn’t consider me rude if I had one. After all, we’d damned near become friends, although you always wonder with a cop.
“You’re no dumb sonovabitch. We got the prints off the wine glass. A little smudged, but we got a match. She ain’t Holly.”
“I don’t want to hear that,” I sighed and waited for what had to be bad news. “So who the hell is she?”
“Get ready. You’re gonna love this. One Miriam Sadowski, the widow of Milton Foreman, the late owner of ForeFirst, manufacturer of electric hand tools, multi-millionaire, and noted philanthropist, most recently of Palm Beach. They were on the guest lists of Donald Trump, Wayne Huizenga, and a number of other notables who love seeing their names in the society section of the Post.”
“I don’t get it,” I said and shook my head.
“Oh, there’s more. She was 27 and he was 66. To put it mildly, his family didn’t approve. He changed his will, left damned near everything to his young bride. They were married for about two years when Milton succumbed to a heart attack. Apparently he had just had his annual checkup and had been certified healthy as a horse. There were rumors, investigations, but nothing more incriminating than dirty words. The two kids, Mercer and Estelle, contested the will, but Miriam’s attorney, Mr. Malcolm Parker, successfully defended her in court. It took about five years, but she ran through every damned dollar.”
“So you’re sure Miriam Sadowski Foreman is Holly Adams?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m just telling you the prints match, and it seems as though the lady has a past. We don’t have a damned thing on her . . . no basis for charges, an arrest, or even a reason to bring her in for questioning.”
“So it all ends here?” I asked.
“Sorry, T.K. . . but it does, unless you can turn up something . . . give us a reason to beat the bushes a little more.”
Frank placed the envelope on the table and left. I stared at it and swallowed the last of the beer. I guessed the Happily Ever After scenario was no longer an option.
I went to the fridge and extracted one more Yuengling. The bottle was icy in my hand. I listened for the reassuring click as I popped the cap. My brain was a miasma of half-finished thoughts and pregnant hunches. I thought about Chris.
He was blood. He was dead. An accident . . . maybe so, but there was more. I had to find out what it was. I wanted some things to connect, but they wouldn’t until I knew more. It was worth one more call.
Chapter 13
No answer, but I left a message. It didn’t take long.
“T.K., it’s Dee. I figured you wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important. Let me guess, Chris?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“So what’s with the Ma’am shit. You trying to make me feel old?”
“Not on your life, but I’m getting older by the minute. This case is getting more and more complicated. I’m not sure, but I think someone tried to poison me. I’m beginning to wonder if Lucrezia Borgia has been reincarnated right here in the good old Conch Republic. I just got out of the hospital. If it hadn’t of been for Sunny, you’d be burying me at sea.”
I gave her as much detail as I had. I could feel her biting her lip even over the phone.
“So what can I do?”
“You got any contacts in Palm Beach? I need the rundown on a Miriam Sadowski Foreman, widow of Milton, the tool guy. ForeFirst.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of h
im . . . I’ve got a buddy up there. Used to be on the force here in Lauderdale. He’s like me, had to go private after a run-in with the powers that be. Name’s Bert Weldon. He’s a bit of a hard ass, but in this business, that’s a definite plus. I’ll call him tonight, give you his number. Let him have a couple of days. He owes me a favor, actually more than one. Also . . . Ev knows some of that crowd from her attorney days and her flirtations with the South Florida social circus. I’ll run it by her, see if she can make any connections.”
“Don’t want to rush you, but I need it.”
“Hey, if it helps nail the bastards who maybe did Chris, I am happy to be rushed.”
I thanked her and hung up. They say patience is virtue, whoever “they” are. Unfortunately it is a virtue I do not possess.
I didn’t have to wait long. It was Dee.
“Bert wants to meet with you for lunch in Key Largo tomorrow. Bay Point around 11:30.”
“I’ll be there.”
I called Sunny and asked to borrow the Miata for the day. When she heard the circumstances, she agreed to get a ride to campus the next morning. I rode my Schwinn over to her apartment around six. She was stacked up with essays. We had a quick glass of Cabernet and she handed me the keys.
The next morning I left the marina at 9:30. The little British Racing Green devil scooted up the highway like a Ferarri’s little sister. I dropped the top and slid some Bob Seger into the CD player. On the road again, that’s where I was -- “Turn the Page”. I was giving it my best effort, and damned if it wasn’t fun. She purred and occasionally attempted a roar like a little lion cub just coming into her own.
I hit the parking lot of Bay Point right on time. A hostess in a tight black mini skirt and a snowy tank top smiled like Helen of Troy and seated me outside near the docks. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen. I fought the dirty old man in me, but he was definitely winning.
I ordered a Bloody Mary and sat. The docks were filled with small, open fishing boats, a couple of offshore monsters, and a few idle sloops. There wasn’t much activity, but it was Thursday. The place probably came alive on the weekends.