Blood Orchid (2 page)

“Yep,” Holly said, “you have to train your bartender to do it right.”

The bartender set two frosted martini glasses on the bar, shook the cocktail shaker for half a minute, then strained the pale, green liquid into the two glasses, decorating each with a slice of lime. “Try that,” he said.

Holly and the man raised their glasses to each other and sipped.

“You’ve earned your tip,” the man said to the bartender.

“You certainly have,” Holly echoed.

The man stuck out his hand. “I’m Ed Shine,” he said, “like the shine on your shoes.”

Holly took the hand. “Holly Barker.”

“From Vero?”

Holly shook her head. “Orchid Beach, up the road.”

“Really? Me too, for the past four months.”

“I haven’t seen you around,” Holly said.

“Oh? Do you get around all that much?”

“I sure do,” Holly replied. “I work for the city. What do you do, Mr. Shine?”

“Ed, please. I’m retired from the property development business, in New York. Now all I do is grow orchids and play golf.”

“What sort of orchids?” Not that she knew much about them.

“Lots of sorts. I develop hybrids. You know anything about them?”

“Not really.”

“I was attracted to Orchid Beach first because of the name. Saw it on a map and thought I’d have a look.”

“And you liked the town?”

“Orchid Beach is the way Florida should have turned out but didn’t,” he said. “No high-rises on the beach, beautiful neighborhoods, very manicured.”

“I agree,” Holly said.

Ham stepped up to the bar. “One of those,” he said to the bartender, pointing at Holly’s drink. He gave his daughter a kiss on the cheek.

“Ed, this is my father, Hamilton Barker, known as Ham. Ham, this is Ed Shine, a recent arrival in Orchid.”

The two men shook hands. “Move over here, Ed,” Ham said, pointing at the stool next to Holly. “We’ll bracket her.” He took the stool on the other side of her.

“Ed grows orchids,” Holly said.

“Well, I guess Orchid Beach is the place for it. They grow wild everywhere, you know; that’s how the place got its name.”

They chatted on for a few minutes, then the headwaitress showed up to say their table was ready.

“Join us, Ed, if you’re alone.”

Shine stood up. “Thanks, I’d like that.”

“Can you squeeze in another chair?” Ham asked the headwaitress.

“Sure we can.”

They were shown to their table.

“Let me order some wine for us,” Shine said, picking up the list. “I assume we’re all here for the seafood.”

Ham and Holly nodded.

Two hours later, they finished their coffee. Ed Shine had been an excellent companion—intelligent, amusing, and full of stories, and he had chosen a superior wine.

“Why don’t the two of you stop by my place for a nightcap on the way home?” Shine asked. “I’ll show you some orchids.”

Ham and Holly consulted each other with a glance. “Sure,” Ham said for both of them.

They followed Shine back up A1A, the highway that joins the barrier islands up and down the Florida coast. He took a few turns, and they wound up at a low, nicely designed house on the Indian River, which doubled as the Intercoastal Waterway. Shine led them inside and switched on some lights, revealing a beautifully decorated living room with good pictures on the walls. He poured them each a brandy, then waved them to follow him.

“Come on,” he said, “I’ll show you my orchids.” He led the way through the house, opened a door, and switched on the lights.

They found themselves in a greenhouse some forty feet long, filled with tropical plants and many orchids.

“These are my babies,” Shine said, waving a hand. “One in particular.” He held up a pot containing a plant with a single, deeply red bloom. “This is my own creation, after a great deal of work: She’s called the Blood Orchid.”

Then there was the sound of shattering glass, and the pot in Shine’s hand exploded. Holly hit the deck, along with Ham, pulling Shine down beside them.

“What was that?” Shine asked. “And why are we on the floor?”

“That,” Ham said, “was the sound of a bullet fired into your greenhouse by a small-caliber rifle equipped with a silencer.”

“And how the hell would you know that?” Shine asked.

“Believe me,” Holly said, “he knows.”

“Army,” Ham said. “Thirty years of small-weapons use.”

Holly crawled over to the door, reached up, and switched off the lights. “He missed you by inches, Ed. I think we should get back into the house,” she said.

The three of them crawled out of the greenhouse and closed the door behind them. They sat on the floor and looked at one another.

“You carrying, Holly?” Ham asked.

“I’m afraid not,” she replied. “I carry all the time in Orchid, but not when I go to Vero.”

“Maybe you ought to carry all the time, period.”

“It makes a handbag heavy,” Holly said.

Then they heard a car start, and the spinning of tires on gravel.

“He’s gone,” Ham said.

“Jesus, I hope so,” Shine replied. “I guess we’d better call the police.”

“I
am
the police,” Holly said.

3

T
wo patrol cars arrived in under two minutes, and Holly was proud. She sent the two cops outside to look for tracks while she sat in the living room and talked to Ed Shine.

“I’m going to take some notes,” she said, digging a notebook out of her handbag.

“Sure,” Shine said.

“Spell your name for me again?”

“S-h-i-n-e. It’s German-Jewish, was originally spelled S-c-h-e-i-n, but the folks at Ellis Island screwed it up. My grandfather thought it was more American, so he kept it that way.”

“Born?”

“New York City, seventy years ago.”

She was surprised; he looked a lot younger.

“And you’ve been in Orchid four months, you said?”

“That’s right. I sold my development company to my partner earlier this year, and I wanted to get out of New York, for tax reasons.”

“Ed, can you think of anyone who would want to harm you?”

“Not a soul,” Shine said. “That’s why this is so
baffling. Why would anybody want to shoot a retired developer?”

“Are you married?”

“I’m a widower for eight years.”

“Have you been seeing anyone in Orchid since your arrival?”

“A woman? Now and then, when I get lucky. Why do you ask?”

“No jealous husbands in the picture?”

Shine laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment, but no.”

“You have any kids?”

“None; my wife and I tried, but it didn’t work, and we didn’t want to adopt.”

“Any nephews or nieces?”

“None; I was an only child.”

“May I ask, who are your heirs?”

“A number of charities, mostly. I’ve mentioned a few friends in my will, but they don’t know about it.”

“What about your business dealings? Have you made any enemies over the years? Somebody who might have felt hard dealt with?”

“Not a soul; I always wanted both sides to like any deal. I’m considered something of a soft touch in the business.”

“Any problems with the unions?”

“Always,” Shine said, “but I worked hard at being fair with them; they think I’m soft, too. Anyway, it’s been a long time since we had
that
sort of problem with the unions. The feds have pretty much cleaned them up.”

“How about your neighbors? Any problems with them?”

“No, they’re all very nice. I made a point of having them over for a drink after I moved in, and they’ve
since had me over for dinner, the people on both sides of me.”

“Once more: can you think of
anybody
who might wish you ill?”

Shine shook his head vehemently. “I’ve tried to live my life in such a way as not to make enemies. You know what I think? I think this is some kid, some vandal, who just wanted to break some glass, that’s all.”

The two cops came into the house, careful to wipe their feet. “Chief,” one of them said, “we found where the shooter parked his car and stood, right over there about thirty yards away. But the ground is too dry from the drought for there to be any footprints or tire tracks.”

“Then how do you know you’ve found the spot?” Holly asked.

A cop held up a shell casing, hanging on a pencil. “Twenty-two long rifle, magnum load.”

Ham spoke for the first time. “With a silencer, that’s an assassin’s weapon,” he said. “Teenaged vandals don’t employ silencers. You can’t even buy the things, legally; you have to make them.”

Holly nodded. “Ed, I think you have to accept that this was an intentional act and behave accordingly. I’m going to leave a squad car here tonight, with one officer, but tomorrow morning I think you ought to consider moving to a hotel, at least for a while. And you really need to think about who might have been behind this. It seems likely that the shooter was hired, and you’re the best one to tell us who among the people you know might be capable of that.”

“I’ll certainly think about it very hard,” Shine said, “but I’m not leaving my home. I’m going to buy a gun.”

“You can do that in Florida,” Holly said, “but I
wouldn’t advise it. You’re more likely to hurt yourself than an intruder, and guns are a favorite target of burglars.”

“Thanks for your advice,” Shine said, but he seemed determined.

Holly stood up. “Well, I think we can wrap up this stage of our investigation,” she said. “Tomorrow morning I’ll assign a detective to the case, and he’ll want to interview you again.”

Shine took a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “I’ll be at his disposal.”

Holly shook his hand. “Thanks for a wonderful bottle of wine at dinner. Ham and I enjoyed your company.”

“I hope to see you both again soon,” Shine said. “Do you two play golf?”

“Yes, we do.”

“Want to play sometime?”

“Sure, give us a call,” Holly said. “You can always reach me at police headquarters.”

Holly and Ham walked out into the cool night and stood by their cars. “What do you think?” she asked.

“Mistaken identity?”

“I don’t think a pro would make that kind of mistake. Maybe Ed will come up with something when he’s had time to think about it.” She kissed her father on the cheek. “Good night, Ham; drive safely.”

“You too.”

Over breakfast the following morning, Holly leafed through the local paper and the
New York Times,
which were delivered to her door. Her Doberman pinscher, Daisy, lay at her feet, having already breakfasted and been for her run in the dunes. Holly and Daisy lived in
the beach house that had been left to Holly by her fiancé, Jackson Oxenhandler, who had been killed the year before while a bystander in a bank robbery, an hour before they were supposed to have been married.

There was nothing in the local papers about the previous night’s attempt on Ed Shine’s life, but the
Times
had something that interested her: The day before, in Miami, two property developers had been shot dead, in different locations, by apparent assassins—one in the garage of an office building, one on a golf course. The investigating detective was quoted in the news article.

It didn’t take long to get him on the phone.

“Jim Connor,” a man’s voice said.

“Detective Connor, my name is Holly Barker. I’m chief of police in Orchid Beach, a hundred and fifty miles north of you.”

“What can I do for you, Chief?”

“I read a news report of the two property developers who were homicides yesterday. Are you handling both cases?”

“I am. You got something to tell me about them?”

“No, but last night we had something similar up here. Somebody took a shot at a local man who is a retired developer from New York. The weapon was a twenty-two rifle, magnum cartridge.”

“Hollow point?”

“We couldn’t tell from the casing, but a silencer was used, so we assume a hired killer. He’d probably use a hollow-point slug.”

“That’s what killed my golfer yesterday; made a real mess of him. You have any reason to think there’s a connection between my killings and your attempt?”

“Only that they’re all three property developers,”
she said. “The intended victim swears he has no enemies, but you never know about a thing like that.”

“Both my victims’ wives said the same thing. They can’t think of anybody who’d want to hurt their husbands. Closest I could come to an enemy was the golfer’s playing partner, who thought he was being hustled by the victim. But he’s not a suspect.”

“I’d be very interested to know what your two developers had in common.”

“Same business, is all,” the detective replied. “They didn’t even know each other, best we can tell.”

“Were they direct competitors?”

“We’re still working on that. Why don’t you send me your shell casing, and I’ll compare it to the one we found.”

He hadn’t mentioned a shell casing before. “After we’ve had a look at it,” she replied. She took note of his mailing address. “Would you let me know if you come up with a connection between the two victims? I’d like to see if it relates to my case.”

“Sure, I’ll give you a call.” He hung up before she could give him her number.

4

H
oward Singleton, head of the Miami office of the federal government’s General Services Administration, went through the papers on his desk slowly, then he looked up at one of his people, Willard Smith, who was sitting across the desk from him. “Is this all we got?” he asked.

“Three bids,” Smith replied.

“I don’t get it, Smitty,” Singleton said. “This is prime real estate.”

“Well, it’s not exactly Palm Beach,” the man replied. “Orchid Beach is just some backwater. I looked into it; it’s pretty, but there’s no big-league shopping, only a few decent restaurants, and none of the other stuff you’d expect to find where there’s high-end construction going on—very few interior decorators, upscale furniture stores, and all that. Not much in the way of entertainment, either.”

“But still, this property has three golf courses, fifty houses already built, a clubhouse.”