Florida Is Murder (Due Justice and Surface Tension Mystery Double Feature) (Florida Mystery Double Feature) (47 page)

“I was wondering if I could talk to the director about her. I’d like to know what arrangements are being made, and I have some questions about her actions last night.”

“Well, Mr. Long is a very busy man. He’s in a staff meeting this afternoon.”

“Minerva, this is very important to me.” I was not about to give up easily. “Ely was like a sister to me. She told me
everything
about her life.” I tried to look very knowing, though I hadn’t a clue what it was I was pretending to know. But someone in this place was lying and had made me look like both a fool and a liar. I was determined to find out why.

“Well.” She sighed loudly. “I’ll see what I can do.” She picked up the phone and dialed an extension. I wandered across the lobby and gazed at the photos, press clippings, and posters on the far wall. Across the lobby, Minerva turned her back to me and spoke in hushed tones. I couldn’t understand much, but I did hear Elysia’s name.

There was a framed clipping on the wall from the Fort Lauderdale
Sun-Sentinel
with the headline “Runaways Find a Safe Harbor.” A large color photo showed three girls clustered around a tall black man outside the building, standing next to a wood sign that read Harbor House. They were gazing up adoringly at him, and it was understandable; he had the high cheekbones, strong jaw, and cleft chin of a professional model.

He appeared again in the next photo, a color glossy taken the night of a fund-raising ball. There were three couples in the picture, and it almost looked like a put-up job to demonstrate the multiethnic South Florida population: a black couple, a white couple, and a Hispanic couple. The handsome black man stood next to a woman with a gracefully long neck and big dark exotic eyes. The white couple looked like the typical old Florida monied socialites, big hair and a bad toupee, whose pictures always grace the society pages. The Hispanic man was just plain ugly. With a big nose, small eyes, and bad skin, he was several inches shorter than the brassily beautiful Cuban on his arm. The bronze plate at the bottom of the glass read Harbor House Gala 1997.

At that moment, the door leading to the inner sanctum opened, and the tall black man I had been admiring in the photos walked through the door.

“Good afternoon,” he said, extending his hand to shake mine. He bowed his head a bit to get his eyes closer to mine. I gauged his height at somewhere near six foot four. “My name is James Long.” His hair was cut very short, accentuating the shape of his head and his long jawline. In his left ear he wore a fine gold wire hoop, and his voice carried the musical lilt of Caribbean roots. As he spoke, his eyes darted down for an instant in an assessing glance.

“Seychelle Sullivan.” He continued to hold my hand several seconds longer than was usual. Then he gave my hand an extra squeeze, and it felt almost as though electricity coursed up my arm and through my body. Whoa! Whatever it was this guy had, he had lots of it.

“Let’s go find a more private place to talk.”

He used a plastic card key to open the locked door. I followed him down a long hallway lined with closed doors. Tall and slender, he was wearing black pleated slacks and a coral-colored short-sleeved shirt that complemented his light brown skin. The legs in those soft black slacks seemed to go on forever. He was very high-waisted, and the view from behind as we walked down that corridor was memorable, to say the least.

Halfway down the corridor, one of the side doors opened and a blond teenage girl flounced out and ran into Mr. Long. She was wearing little pink running shorts and a midriff-showing, spaghetti-strapped knit camisole that did little to contain her considerable bust. A huge grin spread over her face when she recognized James, and she looked like she was about to launch herself into his arms, “Ja—,” she started, then she looked up at his face. From behind, I couldn’t see his expression, but she immediately backed down and looked at me. She crossed her arms in front of her body and her eyes went blank.

“Sunny, this is Ms. Sullivan. I’m giving her a tour of our facility.”

She nodded at me, mumbled something that sounded like “Excuse me,” and disappeared back into the room.

James turned to me. “Some of the girls here teeter on the edge of holding things together. They feel secure at Harbor House, but outsiders frighten them.”

As we continued down the corridor, I thought about what Ely had been saying just before we got jumped. There were things going on here at Harbor House, things I wouldn’t understand.

At the end of the hall we passed through a living room where a couple of girls sat watching Oprah. James pointed to a corridor leading off the far side of the TV room.

“We take in boys as well as girls. The boys’ dorms are down that hall.”

The girls ignored us as James slid open a glass door and led me out into the courtyard. He pulled out a white wrought-iron chair for me beneath the canopy of a large royal poinciana tree that was just beginning to bloom. James sat down on the opposite side and folded his hands on the table. His eyes slid all over me like little feathery flicks of a tongue. So this is what they mean when they talk about animal magnetism, I said to myself. I can’t say that it was all that unpleasant. My feminine ego had taken a bit of a blow at B.J.’s last night, and it was reassuring to know someone found me interesting.

James squeezed his lips together and looked up at the lacy green overhead. “Elysia,” he said, then paused. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.” He shook his head.

“I know.”

“Did you know she’d lived here more than two years?”

“Yeah.” I’d get into that later. “Have you tried to contact her family?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, and blew out his breath in an expression of disgust. “I called this morning. Do you know what her stepfather said? He said he didn’t have a daughter.”

“You’re kidding. What about the mother?”

“He wouldn’t let me talk to her.”

“I’ve never understood how a woman could side with a man and decide to leave her own daughter out on the streets. Did you ask them about funeral arrangements?”

“I didn’t have time to. The man hung up on me.” He flexed his fingers. “Normally, I don’t consider myself a combative person, but I would like just a few minutes alone with that man. For Ely’s sake.” He sat for several seconds staring at his fist, then suddenly looked up. “Anyway, if the family doesn’t claim the body, I think I could talk the board here into giving her a modest funeral.”

“Let me know, please.” We sat in silence for several long minutes.

The house and royal poinciana tree shaded the cool courtyard where we sat. It was obvious a great deal of money had been spent on the landscaping surrounding us. There were dozens of varieties of orchids, heliconias, bromeliads. So much effort to cultivate such a lovely appearance, such a genteel surface. It was amazing in this little jungly enclave to think of the traffic and the crime of the city just outside the walls.

“I was the one who brought her here.”

“Really? I didn’t know that,” he said. There was in his voice a quality that made you want to tell him more.

“I’d heard about this place, but this is the first time I’ve been beyond the lobby. It’s lovely.” I waved my hand at our surroundings. “And you seem to do good things for the girls. She seemed to be happy here.”

He smiled. “Oh, yes. She was one I often used as an example when I’d go out begging for money. You see, fund-raising’s my primary job around here. Minerva really runs the place. I don’t get to spend as much time here as I would like because trying to keep these doors open is a full-time job. Yes, Elysia Daggett. Our great success story.” He pressed his fist against his lips. I could certainly see how he could be very successful convincing rich widows to donate to the cause.

“Are there many who don’t succeed?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, yes, there are. They come in here as runaways, and then they run away from here. They seem to be doing so well, and then poof—they just vanish.” He noticed a piece of lint on his slacks, and he picked it off and flicked it at the underbrush.

“Had you seen any indication at all that Ely was back on drugs?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. Nothing.” The denial was not as vehement as it should have been. He sat up straighter in his chair and rested his forearms on the table. “So you and Elysia were quite good friends.”

“Yes, I suppose you could say that. She was younger by quite a bit, and she used to laughingly call me her guardian angel. You know, I tried to look out for her. In the end, I guess I didn’t do so well.”

“I suppose she confided in you, then.”

From every bit of body language James Long was giving off, one would assume this was still a casual conversation, but whether it was just my vivid imagination or not, I sensed we had suddenly moved onto slippery ground.

“Yes, you could say that.” I flicked my eyes at him quickly, then away. My palms felt cold and damp. Even as my face began to feel flushed, I was determined not to let him be the one to gain the upper hand here. “Especially when we first met a couple of years ago. But you know how it is—when you don’t have much to complain about, there’s not much to say. Whatever you do here, it was working out for her.”

He smiled. “Did she ever talk to you about what we do here?”

I paused and made a showy pretense of trying to remember. “Let’s see. No, not really. Nothing specific.” I smiled at him. “Oh, sometimes she sort of complained about curfews and security measures around here. She was a teenager after all. But, you know, Mr. Long, there is something that doesn’t make any sense to me. I’ve dropped Ely off here lots of times before, and it’s always been the same. I wait until she gets buzzed in before I leave. I’ve always appreciated that part of your security. It was the same last night. My friend and I dropped her off right outside the front door at around eight o’clock, but this morning your people told the police that Ely never came home last night. I saw her go in. Something doesn’t fit.”

His face registered surprise, the brown eyes wide, the eyebrows lifted. I watched closely for any signs that he was faking it. It was hard to tell. “I checked the logs myself,” he said. “She never signed in. We have residents who work the door at night, as a sort of job training. Sonya was on the door last night. She’s a friend of Elysia’s, as a matter of fact, so she would remember.”

“Then how do you explain it? I know I saw her go inside.”

He didn’t say anything for quite a long time. He just gazed into the distance with unfocused eyes. “Perhaps,” he said finally, “perhaps Sonya took a break. They do that sometimes and have a friend sit in for them for a few minutes. I’ll ask Sonya.”

“Could you do that now?”

“I’m afraid not, Ms. Sullivan. She’s at work.” Those high cheekbones, full lips, jutting chin. It was so difficult not to be taken by his looks.

“Just call me Seychelle,” I said. “I hate Ms. Sullivan.”

He smiled then, and turned on about ten thousand watts of dazzle. You could not not smile back. “And I’m James, okay?”

“That’s a deal,” I said, grinning like an idiot.

***

By the time I left Harbor House I had agreed that James Long would pick me up for dinner at seven. He was so smooth, the date was set before I really had time to think about it.

I was on the verge of losing my business, I seemed to have screwed up the friendship I valued with B.J., and people were dying all around me. So what was I doing? Going on a date with some gorgeous guy I’d just met, a smooth operator who either played very fast and loose with the truth or was unaware of what was going on in the establishment he managed. James Long didn’t seem unaware of anything. I didn’t completely understand why I’d said yes, except that I hadn’t found any real information to explain what had happened last night after we’d dropped off Ely. Maybe, relaxing over a drink or two, James Long would tell me a little more about those things that went on here, those things that Ely had insisted I would never understand. And maybe, given the sting of a certain recent rejection, I’d feel what it was like to be out in public on the arm of an incredibly handsome man.

And, of course, given my financial state, a free meal wasn’t a bad deal, either.

That left me with at least an hour to kill before trying to put on a “girl suit.” Red used to say that whenever he saw me get dressed up. Working as a lifeguard or helping him out on the
Gorda
, I lived in shorts and T-shirts, so he had always been surprised to see me looking like a woman.

When I turned into the Larsens’ drive and there was no sign of B.J.’s El Camino, I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved or disappointed. I hopped out of the Jeep and walked out to the street to get the mail. Bills, bills, and more bills. The only stuff for the Larsens was some third-class junk the post office wouldn’t forward. There was also a note from FedEx that they’d left a package under the mat at the Larsens’ front door. I collected the package and walked around to their back door took the key from under the rock and left the package on their kitchen table along with the rest of their mail. Since we were heading into summer, I didn’t expect them to show up anytime soon, but it was so typical of rich people like the Larsens, having their stuff sent FedEx just because they could afford to.

I showered and sorted through my clothes, trying to find something appropriate. Judging from appearances, James would choose a formal dining spot, and my wardrobe was sorely lacking in that department. I finally decided that since I wasn’t big on chiffon, I’d have to be original. I took a hand-painted silk pareu I’d once bought on a lark and tied it as a sort of off-the-shoulder sarong. I blow-dried my hair and pulled back one side with a small barrette, then rubbed vanilla-scented lotion on my freshly shaved legs and put on some low-heeled leather sandals. That was it. I stood in front of the mirror turning to look at my profile. No, braless was not the way to go when one was nearly thirty. I dug around in my underwear drawer and found an old strapless swimsuit top with an underwire. Presto—cleavage. I checked the mirror again. Good enough. I wasn’t about to trowel on makeup just because I had a date with a guy who looked like he belonged in a café on South Beach surrounded by gorgeous models.