Found: A Matt Royal Mystery (4 page)

“Cracker,” Logan said, “did you ever have a woman who wasn’t married?”

Cracker was quiet for a moment, thinking. “A couple,” he said finally. “But you know, they get all clingy, want to spend all their time with you. It’s smothering. Married women are more appreciative and are not unhappy to see me leave in the morning.”

“So,” I said, “you were having coffee with the old gentlemen.”

“Yeah, and they loved to talk about the old days, back when fishing was a real industry. They were a pretty tight-knit group. One day I stopped by and they weren’t there. I didn’t think much of it until a few days later when I went in again. Their table was empty. I asked the waitress about them, and she said they’d just stopped coming in. She didn’t know why.”

“Did you ever find out why they stopped? Did they start going somewhere else?”

“Never did find out, but there’s no place else nearby for them to have coffee. I think they just gave up their morning ritual.”

“Did you ever see any of the guys again?” I asked.

“Sure. I’d have a drink occasionally with Ken and sometimes Bud would be with him. I asked about the coffee klatches, and they just gave me some vague answer.”

“Did you ever see any of the other men?”

“No. They started dying off. Both of them and they died within a year.”

“Natural causes?”

“I think so, but actually I never heard. Maybe I just assumed they were natural deaths.”

“Do you remember the names of the other two?”

“Not offhand, but I probably wrote them down in my journal.”

I was surprised. “You keep a journal?” I asked.

“Sporadically.”

“I’m not sure I get the significance of keeping a journal sporadically. Isn’t a journal like a diary?”

“Exactly like a diary.”

“Then wouldn’t you want to keep it up on a daily basis?”

“I do that during the times that I keep it.”

“I’m not following you, Cracker.”

“It’s my love journal.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Logan asked. He’d been listening intently.

“It’s like this. When I’m wooing a new woman, I like to keep a record of the relationship. I can go back years later and read about it and enjoy the affair all over again.”

“Got any pictures?” asked Logan.

“You’re a pervert,” said Cracker.

“I’m not the one keeping a record of my conquests,” said Logan.

“If you did, you could have written the whole thing on a napkin,” said Cracker.

“Sadly,” said Logan, “there’s truth in that statement.”

The conversation moved on to island gossip, and I gave in and ordered another beer. There’d be no run on the beach that afternoon. A couple more of the locals came in, ordered drinks, and joined the group. The afternoon wore on, friends enjoying a lazy day of drinking and talking. About the time I finished my third beer, J.D. called.

“Are you at home?” she asked.

“No. I’m at Tiny’s. Are you finished for the day?”

“No. I’ve got to stop by the station and then I’m going over to Cortez to interview one of the victim’s friends.”

“Bud Jamison?”

“Geez,” she said. “Tiny’s telegraph.”

It was an old joke. Tiny’s was the gossip center for the north end of the key. Somebody had once described the place as the north-end clubhouse, and I guess it was. Secrets are hard to keep on a small island, and gossip was the lifeblood of our little community of year-rounders, those of us who did not flee north with the coming of summer’s humidity.

“Yeah,” I said, “Cracker was filling me in a little. He knew the victim.”

“If you’re going to be there for a while, I’ll stop by when I finish up in Cortez.”

“No. I’ve had three beers. Time for me to go. Come on by the house.”

“See you then,” she said.

I paid my tab, said my good-byes, and walked out into the late afternoon. There was a slight chill in the air, a precursor of the cold that would envelope the island during the night. It would be a good evening for a fire in the fireplace, and a bottle of wine with my sweetie. My phone rang. Bill Lester calling to tell me the bridge had been cleared and I could come get my Explorer. I turned around and retraced my steps to the end of the island.

By the time J.D. drove north to Anna Maria Island, the bridge had been cleared and Matt’s Explorer was gone. She turned east onto Cortez Road and crossed the Cortez Bridge. The village of Cortez perches at the eastern end of the bridge, abutting Sarasota Bay. It boasts a Coast Guard station, a couple of working fish houses where the boats sell their catch, and two boatyards that can repair everything from expensive yachts to ancient diesels that power some of the older fishing boats. The narrow streets are paved with crumbling asphalt and bordered by small houses, most of which were built before World War II. The people who live here work hard, take care of their families, and mostly ignore the wealthy people who populate the islands at the other end of the bridge.

J.D. turned off Cortez Road onto 123rd Street, following the directions Bud Jamison had given her on the phone. She found his small house nestled under a stand of trees next to one of the boatyards. A twenty-year-old Chevrolet sedan, with a current sticker attached to the license plate, was parked in a carport abutting the house.

An elderly man met her at the door. He was tall and lean and stood erect. He had a head full of iron-gray hair, clear blue eyes, and a small scar high on his left cheek. His face had the weathered look of a man who had spent years at sea.

“Detective Duncan, I presume. I’m Bud Jamison. Please come in.”

J.D. followed the old man into a living room. He had a noticeable limp, perhaps an injury of some sort to his right leg. He motioned her to a seat on an old leather sofa. He took a chair across from her. “What brings you to this little village?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I’ve brought some bad news. Ken Goodlow was killed today. I’m sorry.”

A look of pain crossed the man’s face. He put his hand to his forehead and sighed, pushing the pain away, J.D. thought. She watched him as he composed himself, mentally shaking off the bad news.

“How did he die?”

“Murdered,” said J.D. “Shot at close range by a man driving a Jaguar.”

Jamison sat quietly for a few moments, as if trying to digest the fact that his friend had been murdered. Finally, he shook his head. “Do you know who the man was?”

“Not yet, but he drove his car off the Longboat Pass Bridge. He’s dead and, as soon as the techies get finished with the car, we’ll get some fingerprints and figure out who he is.”

The old man sighed. “I’ve lived too long, Detective. I’m the last one.”

“Last one of what, Mr. Jamison?” J.D. asked kindly.

“The last of the young men who came back from the war and went to work on the boats. We fished for our living, a hard life, but a good one. The work was honest and it paid the bills. Men could take care of their families, raise their children, love their women. It was a good life.”

“Were you in the war, Mr. Jamison?”

“No. I was Four-F, medically disabled. I’d injured my leg in a motorcycle accident before the war, and the military wouldn’t take me. I came here in 1942 and found a job with old Captain Dan Longstreet. He’s been dead for years now. There weren’t many young men around to do the jobs then. They were all off fighting or training and getting ready to fight.”

“Where did you come here from?”

“Washington, D.C.”

“Why here?”

“No particular reason. My parents had died and the military wouldn’t take me, so I came to Florida. I was the only child and I had sold their house, so I had a little cash. I thought I’d travel a bit and then try college or find a job. I was in Tampa and running low on funds, and somebody told me that there were jobs available in Cortez. I got a job and stayed.”

“How did you come to know Mr. Goodlow?”

“He came back from the war and went to work on Captain Long-street’s boat. We became good friends and that friendship lasted until today. Almost a lifetime. An entire lifetime for him, I guess.”

“Do you know anyone who would want to hurt him?”

“No.” But he said it too quickly or too emphatically or too something. J.D. caught it, even if she didn’t know quite what it was. Something just didn’t ring true. The old man was lying, but she’d let it go for now. Try to figure it out later.

“Does Mr. Goodlow have any family here?”

“No. His wife died some years ago and they never had any children. He had a brother, but he was lost at sea not too long after the war. He had a couple of cousins, but they died years back.”

“What do you know about his work with the historical society?”

“Wasn’t much to it. We both volunteered at the museum, recorded oral histories of some of the older folks around here. Ken and I recorded our own histories.”

“Do you know anything about some photographs he was taking to show Ann Kuehnel?”

“I suppose you’re talking about the old pictures he found in a trunk in his attic. Taken in the late forties. Those the ones?”

“Yes. Mrs. Kuehnel told me that Mr. Goodlow had stopped by her condo to show them to her.”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure those are the same ones he showed me yesterday. He was real excited about the find. They were black-and-white and taken with an old Brownie box camera that somebody had. I remember the day they were taken.”

“Was there any significance to the photos?”

“What do you mean?”

“Anything that would make somebody want to kill Mr. Goodlow?”

“I can’t imagine that to be the case. They were just pictures of a bunch of us at a fish fry here in the village. I think it was a Fourth of July celebration, probably 1948. We were all young, late twenties and early thirties. Just folks having a good time and not even thinking that someday life would end. Now they’re all gone. Except me.”

“When’s the last time you saw Mr. Goodlow?”

“This morning. We had coffee over at the café.”

“Did he say anything about going to Longboat?”

“Yes. He had some business over there and if he had time he was planning to stop by and show Ann the pictures. He wanted them to go to the museum, and Ann was putting together an exhibit of pictures taken here over the years. He thought she could use some of them in the display.”

“What kind of business did he have on Longboat?”

“He was going to try to see a lawyer. A man named Royal.”

“Matt Royal?” J.D. registered surprise.

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“I do. Do you know what that was all about?”

“No. Ken didn’t say.” There it was again. Some shadow passing over the old man’s face or maybe a slight change in his eyes. J.D. couldn’t place it, but she knew she’d just been lied to again.

“Did Mr. Goodlow know Matt Royal?” she asked.

“I don’t think so. Royal was recommended to him by the bartender over at the Seafood Shack. Nick Field.”

“Did Mr. Goodlow have an appointment with Royal?”

“I don’t think so. Ken said he couldn’t talk about anything on the phone, and Nick told him how to get to Royal’s house. I think he was just going to stop in and try to see him.”

“Did he mention to you that he was having trouble with anybody?”

“No. Ken got along with everybody.”

“Would you mind if I asked you a couple of personal questions?”

The old man smiled. “Don’t mind at all. I might not answer them, but you can ask away.”

“Is Bud your real name?”

“No, but I’ve been called that most of my life. My real name is John, no middle name.”

“Have you ever been married?”

“Yes. Once. My wife died many years ago.”

“Any children?”

“A daughter, but she died, too.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

J.D. stood. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Jamison. I’m sorry I had to bring you such bad news.” She handed him a business card. “Would you call me if you think of anything that might help me solve Mr. Goodlow’s murder?”

The old man stood. “I thought you had the guy who did it. The one who went off the bridge.”

“We’ve got him, but this doesn’t feel like just a random shooting. I want to know why someone would want Mr. Goodlow dead. I want to know if anybody else is involved.” She was staring him squarely in the eyes, waiting for a reaction, any reaction, to her statement. There was a slight tightening around Jamison’s mouth, nothing more. Did that mean anything? Probably not, she decided.

As she drove away, J.D. glanced into her rearview mirror. The old man was standing stock-still on his front stoop, staring at her, his face as blank as an overcast sky. A black Toyota Corolla pulled out of a parking space in front of the neighboring boatyard and, unnoticed by J. D., followed her as she drove toward Cortez Road.

J.D. drove across Cortez Road and into the parking lot of the Seafood Shack. She walked down the dock and entered the restaurant overlooking the bay. Nick Field was behind the bar polishing glassware. It was not yet five o’clock and there were no customers.

“J.D.,” said Nick, “long time, no see.”

She took one of the empty stools and said, “You know how Matt is. Hard to get him off the key.”

Nick laughed. “That’s for sure. I spent my whole life trying to figure a way off that island.” Nick had been born and raised on Longboat Key and had spent most of his adulthood there. He knew almost everybody on either side of the bay. He was an affable sort, now in his early fifties. “What can I get you?” he asked.

“Nothing, thanks. I’m still working.”

“That sounds a bit ominous. What brings you across the bridge?”

“Did you know Ken Goodlow?”

“Sure. He’s one of my regulars.”

“I’m sorry to tell you, Nick, but Ken was killed on Longboat earlier this afternoon.”

“Crap. He was a good guy. Been here all his life. He and my dad used to hang out together. I’ve known him ever since I can remember. I tried to get him to give up driving. He wasn’t real steady anymore. Did he hurt anybody?”

“It wasn’t a car wreck, Nick. Somebody shot him.”

“You’re kidding. Who the hell would want to hurt that old man?”