Castle Cay (12 page)

“Yeah. So?” said Martino.

I knew it. The deal isn’t done.

“And you are both the listing and selling
agent, right?” said Julie.

“So what?” said Martino.

So that gives you a lot of motive to see this
deal done…one way or another.

“Oh, nothing, really,” said Julie, smiling.
“Good for you! I know how tough the real estate business can be. So
how did Avram Solomon come to list it with you, anyway?”

“Um, I don’t know. Somebody referred him, I
guess,” said Martino.

He’s looking away from me. Besides, any real
estate agent would remember who referred a client with a property
like this.

“How long was it on the market?”

“About a year, I guess,” said Martino,
getting agitated. “Look, if you’re really an agent, Ms. O’Hara, you
can forget it. This is an exclusive listing and Castle Cay is under
contract.”

“I’m not a real estate agent, but aren’t you
forgetting something? The man who signed your deal is dead.”

“That doesn’t change a thing. I mean, I’m
sorry about your friend, but Avram Solomon has authority to sell
Castle Cay on behalf of the trust.”

No doubt. But why is it so important to him?
What does Avram have to gain?

It seemed that every time Julie learned
something, she came away with more questions. The timing of the
sale of Castle Cay was disturbing, certainly not a coincidence. She
concealed her frustration and smiled at the agent.

“Well, Frank, I guess that covers it. I wish
you luck with the sale, I hope it all goes well. It doesn’t appear
to have any connection to Marc Solomon’s death.”

Martino relaxed a little. He wrapped up his
sandwich and stood.

“Well, I’ve got to get back to work. Sorry
about your friend,” he said.

“Thank you, and thanks for your help,” said
Julie.

“Yeah, sure,” said Martino as he headed out
the door.

Julie walked slowly to the end of the strip
mall. The cabbie was punctual, and dropped her off in plenty of
time to get a sandwich before boarding the small commuter plane.
She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.

Before long, she was in the air, headed for
Key West.

* * * * *

“
W
hat did you tell her?” demanded
Avram, as he held the cell phone to his ear, pacing furiously back
and forth in the living room of his townhouse in Boston.

“Nothing,” said Frank Martino. “She already
knew the basic facts.”

“Like what?” he snarled.

“Public record stuff, like the listing price
and the amount Holiday offered. I think she was wondering how your
brother’s death affected the sale,” said Frank, quickly adding,
“but don’t worry! I told her that you had full authority to accept
the offer. Oh, I told her it was an exclusive listing, too,” said
Frank.

You didn’t need to tell her anything, you
fool,
thought Avram.

“What else?”

“That’s all. Oh, yeah, she wanted to know how
you got my name, but I told her I didn’t know. Really, that was it!
She was only here five minutes and she was gone. I just thought you
should know.”

“All right. Thank you for calling to tell me.
Listen, why is this deal taking so long, Frank?” asked Avram.

“Holiday Cruise Line is a big outfit,” said
Frank. “Their attorneys want to make sure that everything is in
order. There won’t be any problem, I assure you. We should have a
closing date in Miami sometime next week.”

“All right, then. Let me know as soon as you
know when,” said Avram. “Goodbye.”

“Of course,” said Frank, “goodbye.”

Avram snapped the phone shut.

Well at least he wasn’t stupid enough to
mention Guy Tambini.

I could have given this to anyone! I don’t
need this connection! I should have hung up on this asshole when he
called me looking for the listing.

Right.

Tell Guy Tambini’s nephew to go screw
himself. That would have gone over big!
thought Avram.
It’s
a pain in the ass dealing with these hoodlums.

Profitable, though…

A slight smile left Avram’s face as rapidly
as it appeared.

I hope Guy doesn’t give me any shit when it’s
time to get out. A couple more years, that’s all I need. Ten
million. A nice round number. I don’t know; I may not be able to
use the stores that long.

I need this mess over Marc to go away. It’s
fucking Murphy’s Law.

His cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

Avram smiled, the mask automatically taking
over his features.

“Oh, hi!” he said, cheerfully.

As he listened to the caller, the smile froze
into a hard line.

“You know how important this is to me,” he
said. “I know you don’t understand…but you
promised
me!”

* * * * *

D
avid was waiting for her at the Key
West Airport. They hugged, happy to see one another, and loaded
Julie’s bag into the trunk of David’s lime-green Volkswagen
convertible. Julie refrained, once again, from asking about the
big, yellow sunflower attached to the dashboard in a bud vase. Did
it come with the car? Or was his personal bit of élan?

“Oh, God! I’m
so
glad you’re here at
last, Julie.
No one
wants to come to the house because of
all the reporters. You know we
always
had company. I’m not
used to being alone like this! I miss Marc
so-o
terribly.
And people
stared
at me in the Fresh Market this morning,”
he said, tears brimming.

Poor David. At some point in your life, you
stepped out of the closet and directly onto the stage.

David’s over-the-top despair was actually
reassuring. Julie knew it was part of his persona. He was
distraught and sad…and that was hard to fake.

“It won’t last forever, David,” she said,
squeezing his hand. “Why were you shopping? Are you cooking
tonight, I hope?”

“Veal chops and polenta with leeks”, he
sniffled. ”With strawberry shortcake for dessert.” More
sniffles.

“I love strawberry shortcake!” she said.

Julie continued to steer the conversation to
more soothing subjects, the warm weather, new and interesting
restaurants that had opened. She asked David about some recent
decorating he and Marc had done. Before long, his mood had lifted,
the short ride was over, and they were pulling into the driveway
behind Marc’s old Volkswagen van. David was relieved to see that
there were no reporters in sight.

“Thank you, God!” he said.

A few royal palms and a couple of short,
bushy sego palms graced the front yard and swished in the warm
breeze as they retrieved Julie’s bag from the trunk of the car.

Twelve Gulf Wind Drive was a sturdy looking,
white brick ranch with a circular drive and a neat lawn. Nobody
expected what they saw when they stepped into the unassuming house.
The view across the open floor plan was a stunning surprise. Floor
to ceiling windows and two sets of clear French doors opened out
onto a beautifully landscaped pool and patio. Beyond that, there
was a wide canal…and usually one or two spectacular
mega-yachts.

Marc and David had pooled their money and
bought the house roughly ten years ago for a half million, if
Julie’s memory served.
Joe said it’s worth over two million
now,
she recalled.

The house sat one lot away from the Gulf of
Mexico, and that lot was the side yard of an estate worth
fourteen
million. Essentially, nothing stood between Marc
and David’s house and the Gulf but an expanse of green lawn, dotted
with palm trees and their neighbor’s sprawling free-form pool.

It was originally an ordinary three bedroom
with the master at the left rear of the house opening onto the
pool, and the other two bedrooms on the right end of the house, the
living areas in between.

Julie remembered what it had looked like back
then and how hard the boys had worked on it.

They had extended and updated the kitchen, as
well as adding a pool bathroom with a shower on the gulf-side of
the property. A second-floor loft over the extension was built to
serve as Marc’s studio. It had its own small deck and stairs
leading down to the pool

Julie usually felt queasy looking out on
large expanses of water, but the view from Marc’s studio didn’t
bother her…perhaps because of the lot in between. With its
magnificent light and panorama, the loft had enabled and inspired
Marc to paint a whole series of glorious sunsets.

All the decorating of the house had been left
to David’s artistic touch.

The kitchen, of course, was a chef’s delight
with the latest stainless steel appliances and gadgets. A low
granite bar, surrounded by comfortable chairs, separated the
cooking and dining areas. Rich teak leant its warmth to both the
kitchen cabinets and the dining room table. Clean, white woodwork
framed the windows and doors. In the living room, an exquisite
oriental rug covered the stone-tiled floor, where tan suede couches
beckoned, red pillows scattered here and there.

The neutral colors provided a perfect
background for Marc’s riotously colorful paintings, artfully placed
around the house with gallery lighting.

Julie’s gaze automatically went to the
artwork, entranced by Marc’s genius.

David spoke, snapping her out of it.

“Why don’t you get yourself settled in,
Julie, while I get us some refreshments. What would you like to
drink? A nice, cold Chardonnay?”

“I’d love some, David. Thank you.”

Julie pulled the carry-on bag behind her into
the first bedroom on her left, where she usually stayed. She
noticed that the big bed in the room at the end of the hallway was
stripped of linens and personal things. Since Marc’s diagnosis,
David had been sleeping there.
He must have moved into Marc’s
room,
she thought.

The master bedroom and the studio loft were
on the other end of the house. Julie recalled the times when Marc,
in the grip of his muse, would climb the stairs and paint all
through the night.

She closed her eyes tight, his presence
palpable. It was hard to be in this room, in this house!

Sorely in need of comfort, Julie suddenly
missed Joe Garrett.

The thought took her by surprise.

* * * * *

J
ulie sat in a comfortable swivel
chair at the kitchen bar, admiring David’s expertise as he prepared
dinner. They were sharing some Brie and crackers and sipping
Chardonnay, when she commented on the wine. David sat down next to
her, took a sip, and began explaining the process that produced
such a smooth, buttery taste.

Julie had no doubts about David but, now that
he was sitting down instead of moving confidently around the
kitchen, she couldn’t help noticing some classic signs of
concealment.

David’s ankles were locked tight, even though
he was passionate about wine and loved talking about it. He was
markedly less animated …except for one odd gesture: He kept raising
his hand to his mouth, like someone plagued with dental problems or
shyness…neither of which applied.

Julie decided that he was literally “holding
his tongue”. There was something he was afraid to talk about.

“David, why didn’t you tell me about Holiday
Cruise Lines offer to buy the island?” she asked.

“Castle Cay? Why?” A puzzled frown settled on
his face. “I don’t have anything to do with the island. I’ve never
even been there. What does that have to do with me? Especially
now?”

We
ll,
that’s not his big
secret,
thought Julie. She couldn’t help smiling.
I hope you
don’t play poker, David.

I don’t know,” she said, her mind returning
to the sale. “It’s just a lot of money…and because the sale
coincides with Marc’s death. Didn’t you think it was odd?”

“No, I didn’t, really,” he said. “Marc wanted
to sell it. He said that no one ever used it.” His expression
turned sympathetic.

“Marc told me what happened to you there,
Julie. I felt so bad when I heard it; that was a horrible
thing.”

“Yes. It was,” she said, pausing. “Neither of
us had any reason to like the place. I was surprised when I heard
the two of you were planning a trip there.

“So…you didn’t go.”

“No. Marc wanted to see the island again
before it was sold. He wanted me to see it, too, but we never had
the chance.”

“I’m sorry, David. I know how terribly you
miss him. I do, too.”

David set down his wine glass, leaned over
and hugged her.

“It’s hard to be alone,” he said. “I’m so
glad you’re here.”

He was a sweet man. Julie wished he would
confide in her.

The doorbell rang.

“That must be Rolly. I invited him for
dinner.”

“I’ll get it,” said Julie, going to the
door.

Rolly Archer was a handsome guy with brown
hair that brushed his collar, a little taller and more muscular
than David. He wore a rose-colored silk shirt, pale linen slacks
and boat shoes. He looked like a model, the clothes hanging
comfortably on his frame.

“Hi, Rolly. C’mon in,” she said. “David’s up
to his old tricks in the kitchen.”

But David was out of the kitchen. He met
Rolly halfway there and tearfully hugged him tight.

David’s eyes briefly caught hers.

“Come sit down, I’ll get you a glass of
wine,” he said quickly to Rolly, leading the way over to the
bar.

The three of them stayed seated there for an
informal dinner. In tacit agreement, they didn’t mention Marc’s
death during their meal. Instead, they talked about the breezy
weather, the local art scene and the Sandpiper Gallery, which was
owned by Marc and his agent, Susan Dwyer.

Julie noted that the guarded behavior David
had displayed earlier had disappeared in Rolly’s company. Instead,
he was subtly preening: tugging at his collar one minute and
running his hands through his hair the next.