Fatal Reservations (13 page)

“I don’t think the boat runs very often,” said my mother. I could hear her keyboard clacking in the background. “Here’s the schedule. The ferry leaves in an hour, with one returning early tomorrow. And another, late tonight. Want me to make you a reservation at a hotel for the night? It might be hard to find something this time of year.”

“No, thanks,” I said. “Can’t stay overnight. I have too much to do. Have to get lunch at Azur tomorrow and then write up my article.”

“Speaking of that,” Mom said. “How did things go last night at Sake? Did you like the food? And how about the date?”

I had to give her credit for holding back on asking about Wally until the end of our conversation. Although I gave myself credit for putting Connie’s news first to distract her from her own daughter’s lackluster romance.

“Well, the food was—how should I say this—interesting. The bento box dishes were kind of weird and a little slimy. I didn’t go wild for either of the specials. When Wally’s lips started to numb up after the first nibble of puffer, we called it a day. Although it’s possible that was all in his head. He’s not much of a foodie.” I laughed. “However, the chef did a couple of tempura dishes, which were fantastic. But how can you go wrong frying Key West pink shrimp? They seated us on cushions at a low table, which I don’t think will be popular with the creaky-knees set.”

“They’ll be cutting out a lot of snowbirds if they don’t have some normal tables,” Mom agreed. “What else?”

“We liked the landlubber specials. The burger reminded me of B.O.’s Fish Wagon—absolutely enormous, and loaded with fried onions and dripping cheese and mustard and mayo, the works.”

“I’m practically drooling,” said my mother. “Is it time for lunch yet? Sam won’t let me cook much because he’s expending so few calories. He’s afraid we’ll turn into chubby little bears. And it’s quite likely, isn’t it?” She sighed with disappointment. “I sure will be happy when he’s on the mend and we can get back to normal.”

“You’re through the worst of it,” I said. “Send me
some links about anything interesting you discovered about Lorenzo, okay? I’m going to pack a little bag just in case I get stuck in Fort Myers.”

“Is there anything new from Lieutenant Torrence?” she asked. “Have you checked in with him?”

“Not today. I was hoping he’d call me if he had anything, but now that you mention it, why would he? I’m like a pesky moth fluttering against his lampshade.”

Mom laughed. “Oh, wait,” she said. “Before you hang up. At the risk of being nosy, you didn’t tell me about Wally. How did that go? How did he like the cake?”

I took the easier question first. “He left without eating any cake.” And then I explained about the goggles that Miss Gloria had found in the bag of cat food. “Wally got mad because he thought I should tell that to Torrence right away. I guess he thinks it implicates Lorenzo somehow and that it shows bad judgment if I protect him.” I couldn’t bear to tell her that I’d overheard Palamina warning Wally about my judgment while we were in the restaurant. That felt lousy enough without sharing it with my mother.

“Implicates him in what?” she asked.

“I don’t know, the cemetery burglaries? The murder? I don’t know.”

My computer dinged and I saw that she had sent me several links relating to Lorenzo and his family. “I gotta run now, Mom,” I said. “I’ll let you know what I find out in Fort Myers.”

“Take a Dramamine before you board the boat, honey,” she warned me. “You know our side of the family is famous for weak stomachs. We’re designed for eating—not for sailing.”

As I hung up, I heard Miss Gloria clatter in from the
dock and greet each of the cats, with a special nugget of affection for little Lola.

“How is Mrs. Dubisson?” I asked as I emerged from the cabin into the bright midday light.

“She’s great. How could things not be great living in paradise in February?” She flung her arms open. “I’m sorry about the business with the goggles,” she said again, and then scooped Lola into her arms. “I’m sorry if I caused trouble with Wally.”

I shrugged, summoning a cheerful smile that didn’t match what I felt. “If that train has left the station, your little show won’t make any difference.”

Miss Gloria bit her lip and then nuzzled the white cat, who leaned into her cheek, rumbling a noisy kitten purr. “Did you call the police department?”

“I’m going to call them,” I said. “But I’m going to ask for information, not hand it over. We don’t know what Lorenzo was doing with those goggles. We don’t know anything about them. He could have owned them for years. They might have been a gift from his father from World War II.”

“Someone might have put the goggles into his cat food and he didn’t know anything about it,” she suggested helpfully.

I nodded, though it all sounded far-fetched. “So why would I make trouble by turning them over? I’d rather wait until I speak to Lorenzo. And I’m hoping that will be tonight.”

Then I told her about my plan to take the high-speed ferry to Fort Myers and track down Mrs. Smith. “If you can, take care of the cats while I’m away? I’m hoping to be back on the late boat.”

“Of course,” she said. “I don’t have any big plans
other than bask in the sun, take a nap, have a simple supper, and watch some TV.”

“A perfect cat day,” I said, and gave her a little hug.

11

You don’t have to give women ice cream to get them to talk, but it helps.

—Elizabeth Bard,
Lunch in Paris

In the end, I didn’t take the Dramamine because we had none in the house, and I didn’t have time to get to the drugstore. I’d have to keep my fingers crossed that sailing would be smooth. I packed clean underwear and socks and a toothbrush and my brand-new copy of
Best Food Writing
in my backpack along with a hunk of the raspberry cake and an apple and a peanut butter and raspberry jam sandwich on whole-grain bread. If I wasn’t sick to my stomach, that should last me the voyage. At the last minute, I packed a piece of cake for Lorenzo’s mother, too.

While I waited to board the ferry, I scrolled through the articles my mother had e-mailed. The first was an obituary for Lorenzo’s father, dated two years earlier:

Marvin H. Smith, formerly of Woodbridge, Connecticut, and recently of Fort Myers, Florida, died late Tuesday. He was born in January 1929 in Danbury, Connecticut, and lived his entire life in that state until recently retiring with his wife to Fort Myers. He was an electrical engineer at the Sikorsky Aircraft Corporation and worked there until his retirement. He was a member of the Woodbridge Country Club, an active member of the Woodbridge exchange committee, and on the local board of the Boy Scouts of America. He served both as a deacon and an elder at the Orange Presbyterian Church. He is survived by Marion, his wife of forty years, and his son, Marvin H. Smith Jr., of Key West, Florida. A memorial service is planned for a later date. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be sent to the Woodbridge hospice.

All in all, a short and bloodless recording of a man’s life. The paragraph did not tell me much about him, though I could read the subtext: Having a son who was a tarot card reader residing in Key West would be foreign to his experience. How had his relationship with Lorenzo changed over the years? His mother would know.

After hearing the first boarding announcement, I walked onto the boat and made the call I’d been dreading. Torrence answered right away.

“Wondering whether you’ve arrested anyone in Frontgate’s murder.”

“Not yet,” Torrence said. “Getting closer, though. Did you have something to add?”

“Don’t you think it’s a little unlikely that Lorenzo would have wrapped up the murder weapon and stuffed it into his own cart? Right where the cops would find it? He’s a smart man. And that would be a dumb move.”

“Who said anything about his cart?” Torrence said. After a short silence, he added, “The weapon was wrapped in his tablecloth and thrown in the Dumpster.
Right down the road from the cemetery and not that far from where the dead man was recovered, as a matter of fact.” It sounded like he was tapping his pen on the phone.

“How did Frontgate’s body get into the water, anyway?” I asked. “Lorenzo certainly doesn’t own a boat.”

“It’s nice you want to stick up for your friend,” Torrence said, “but as usual, there’s a lot you don’t know.”

“You’re beginning to sound a lot like Bransford,” I said, “and that’s not a compliment.” I hung up in a huff.

The ferry pulled away from the dock. In spite of the reruns of
Three’s Company
blasting on the TV in the lounge, I hunkered down inside to keep my mind off the chop of the water and the hours at sea ahead of me. I worked on the review of For Goodness’ Sake, trying to keep my description balanced but accurate. I crafted a paragraph about the ongoing zoning dispute—Palamina could cut it if she didn’t like it, but I refused to be cornered and deflated by her low expectations. Then I jotted down a series of questions that I hoped to ask Lorenzo’s mother, Mrs. Smith. First, assuming she’d let me in. And second, assuming she’d talk at all. My mother was extremely persuasive—if she hadn’t gotten anywhere, I might not, either.

With great relief, I noticed that the shoreline began to twinkle with the lights of Naples and a slew of golf and beach communities that had sprung up to the north and south of the city. There was a line of taxicabs waiting as we disembarked from the ferry at Fort Myers Beach. I managed to snag the fourth one. Once settled in the backseat, I read off the address of Mrs. Smith’s condominium in Seven Lakes.

“According to my map app, it’s right across the road from the Bell Tower mall, and also the Outback restaurant.”

“I know the area,” he said, turning up his sports-talk radio as we wheeled off. It wasn’t even baseball season, but he was listening to a station playing classic-game reruns. If listening to baseball was agony, listening to a baseball game for which you already knew the outcome had to be worse.

The streets of Fort Myers Beach had only a smattering of tourists on them. Nine p.m. The witching hour in South Florida. Different from Key West, where the action would just be getting rolling on Duval Street. After twenty minutes on the road, we pulled off the busy four-lane highway into a driveway that led to a property containing older-looking boxy condos. A small gatehouse with a retractable arm guarded the entrance. The taxi driver pulled up so I could speak with the guard, a uniformed man with a fireplug shape.

“I’m visiting Mrs. Marvin Smith,” I said. “I am her niece.” He nodded and grinned, exposing several missing teeth, and went back into the guardhouse.

“I have a feeling she forgot to let you know that I was coming,” I called after him, flashing my most brilliant smile.

“Not to worry—I’ll phone her,” he said.

“Please don’t call; it’s a big surprise. I’ve been telling her for two years that I’d visit her—ever since I moved down to Key West from Jersey. But this week is her birthday. Seventy-five, can you believe it?” I fished my driver’s license with the Key West address out of my purse and waved it in front of him—as if that proved anything. “I really wanted to surprise her.”

He looked at my license, then peered into the backseat of the cab, studying me, my backpack, my absence of luggage and birthday gifts. The whole time I grinned like a monkey. After a long hesitation, he returned to the booth, raised the bar, and waved us through. “Tell her happy birthday for me!”

The closer we got to the building where Lorenzo’s mother lived, the more anxious I felt. I had yet to see anyone who looked under seventy, which by itself was not a problem. But the scathing and suspicious looks that were thrown at the cab by a few dog walkers worried me.

“Here you go, ma’am,” said the cabbie, turning his baseball game play-by-play down so he could arrange payment.

I hopped out of the cab, paid the driver, adding a little tip, and slammed the door. Nothing to do but forge ahead. Rather than take the elevator, I climbed the set of concrete stairs that wound around the building’s exterior, gathering my thoughts, trying to visualize how to approach the crucial door-answering moment without having it slammed in my face, and hoping in my heart of hearts that Lorenzo would actually answer.

On the third floor, I went down the long outer hallway, which was open to the outdoors. Everything about the place looked as though it would need some serious work in the next few years—the paint on the walls almost ready to peel, the metal fence rusting and wobbly, the screen doors on each apartment hanging just a little bit loose. When I reached number 310, I took a deep breath and tapped on the door.

A small woman with dark curls painted with streaks
of gray cracked the inside door open, leaving the screen latched between us. She had deep violet eyes and high cheekbones. She looked a little frightened, but when she saw me, the fear shifted to a determined expression I’d often seen on Lorenzo’s face. I would have recognized that expression anywhere.

“How can I help you?” she asked, her voice not welcoming. “My husband is just inside watching TV.”

That fib, I was sure, was meant to scare off any frightening accomplices.

I tried a big smile. “I’m sorry that I didn’t warn you ahead of time, but I’m a friend of Lorenzo’s. Is he here?” I tried to peer around her, down the darkened hallway, where the television screen flickered.

Her eyes got wide. “A friend from where?”

“Key West,” I said. “He’s my favorite tarot card reader in all the world. Except for when I get the Tower. I keep drawing that darn card and your unflappable son keeps telling me I have to learn to work with chaos.” I flashed another smile but she did not respond. “I take it he’s not here. I’d really love to talk with you for a minute. We could go out if you’re more comfortable with that.” I dropped my voice lower, so curious neighbors would not overhear. “But I’m very worried about him running from the police. Of course he didn’t kill that man, but it makes him look guilty. You know?”