Harmless as Doves (17 page)

They followed Orton, crossing over to the traffic island in the middle of the intersection and on to the far side, and circled around through beach sand behind a peach-colored house set near the water’s edge. Off to the north side of the house, directly in line with the T-intersection the bridge road made with Gulf Coast Drive, stuck in the sand some thirty yards back from the pavement, was a wooden cross painted white, draped with a garland of fresh roses that had been tied to the cross with white ribbon. Hand-painted on the cross, in red capital letters, was the name Ginny Lynn.

Orton toed the side of the cross gently and said, “Conrad Render pays to have a new one of these set every two months or so, and he pays a florist to bring fresh roses every day. He’s been doing that for just over twenty years, since the day Glenn Spiegle killed his teenaged daughter at this intersection. And right there, just half a block south of where we crossed over Gulf Coast, in that parking lot beside the Beach House Restaurant, is where we found Billy Winters’s abandoned truck.”

“So, this is where Billy always parked to watch the sunsets,” Ricky said.

“Right,” Orton said with obvious satisfaction. “And right here is where Jacob Miller was shot. Everything happened right here, going back over twenty years.”

Studying the intersection again, Branden asked, “Do you know why Winters always parked here?”

Orton nodded yes and said, “Because Billy Winters was with Glenn Spiegle the night he killed Ginny Lynn Render. They were both drunk as skunks, and they ran her over at this light. T-boned her little car and cartwheeled it forty yards out onto the sand, where it caught fire and burned.”

* * *

Back at the police station, in the conference room on the lower level, Orton poured three Styrofoam cups of coffee and pulled up a chair across from Niell and Branden. But as soon as he sat down, there was a shout from the booking room at the front end of the building, and Orton pushed up from the table with a groan and went out to help.

Through the open door, Niell and Branden saw a drunk with a serious sunburn take a swing at the booking officer. Orton helped wrestle the angry man into a set of cuffs chained to the wall. The drunk punched the wall and sucked blood off his knuckles, so Orton pulled the chains tighter, and the man settled down and sat still on the bench.

Once Orton was seated again in the conference room, he said, “We have to cuff the angry drunks to the wall. To keep them from hurting themselves. Or punching one of us.”

Ricky sipped his coffee and said, “We get some of that in Holmes County. Not sunburns like that one, though.”

“Anyway,” Orton said, “I’m surprised Spiegle lasted as long as he did. But all we knew is that he spent one day in town after he was released, and then he disappeared.”

“Did anyone look for him?” Branden asked.

“His parole officer, I suppose,” Orton said. “But, you’ve gotta figure that he was just one more guy who skipped out on his parole.”

Ricky asked, “Did anyone pick up Render, to question him about Spiegle’s disappearance?”

“Sure, but he denied that he did anything to Spiegle.”

“He wasn’t dead,” Branden observed. “So, no one could have found a body.”

Orton smiled. “Conrad Render is an Old Salt. He’s fond of knives, and he keeps a couple of fish camps back up the Manatee River. If he had gotten to Spiegle, he would have taken him up there, and he would have made sure Spiegle took a very long time to die. Then he would have fed him to the gators, so we never really did expect to find a body. Spiegle just disappeared, and everybody figured Old Connie had made good on his promise to kill him.”

The drunk in the booking room started shouting obscenities, so Orton got up and closed the door. Sitting back down, he said, “Conrad Render is the worst sort of scum you could meet. He runs drugs into shore, on go-fast boats. Keeps low to the water and travels only at night. We’ve never caught him with any drugs, and with those go-fast boats, he can outrun anything the Coast Guard has on the water.”

Branden asked, “Are those go-fast boats like what we call cigarette boats?”

“They’re long, low, and fast. Make a racket in the water, when they’re out there rippin’ it up. We got him cornered once, at one of the passes, but he’d already off-loaded whatever cargo he was hauling. Out in open water, he can outrun anything but a helicopter. Go-fast boats, cigarette boats, I think they’re the same. And unless you deploy a fleet to box him in, you’re never going to catch Old Connie out on the water.”

Ricky thought, drumming his fingers on the table. “Do you think it was this Render who attacked Billy Winters?”

“That makes sense,” Orton said. “But then, he could have killed Billy any week he wanted.”

“So,” Branden said, “maybe they were running drugs together.”

“But why kill him now?” Ricky asked.

“Don’t know,” Orton said. “But I’ll tell you this. If Conrad Render went after Billy Winters, we’d never find his body.”

“Are you going to hunt him down, now?” Ricky asked. “For killing Jacob Miller?”

“It’ll be the sheriff who tries for him,” Orton said. “The Manatee County sheriff. About all we can do here in Bradenton Beach is put out an arrest warrant, and wait for him to get taken down on some other matter.”

“But,” Ricky asked, “you won’t go out looking?”

Orton laughed. “There has to be about a thousand miles of river to search. And Old Connie knows it all better than anyone else. So, the chances of finding him are pretty slim.”

Branden said, “We still don’t know who killed Glenn Spiegle.”

Orton laughed again. “I’d put my money on Conrad Render. For all three of them. Billy Winters, Glenn Spiegle, and Jacob Miller. It’s the kind of play Render would make.”

“OK,” Ricky said. “He killed Spiegle and Winters because of his daughter. But why kill Miller?”

“Can’t say,” Orton said. “But you can be sure about Spiegle and Winters.”

“That would mean,” Branden said, “that Render found out where Spiegle had gone. So, how’d he find him all the way up in Ohio, hiding out with the Amish? Spiegle wouldn’t even need a driver’s license in Ohio, if he wanted to hide there. You know, disappear.”

“Jacob Miller is the only connection I know of,” Orton said. “He was staying with a Mennonite lady, over in Sarasota’s Pinecraft.”

“How do you know that?” Ricky asked.

“He wrote her phone number in the margin of his plane ticket. We called her—a Mrs. William Laver—and she said he had made half a dozen trips down here, over the last year or so.”

“We should go talk to her,” Branden said.

Orton got up, saying, “I’ll get you a map.”

Niell and Branden followed Orton up the stairs, and Ricky said, “I think we should talk to the driver, too.”

“Stevens Clark,” Orton said over his shoulder. “He’s in Bradenton’s Manatee Memorial. Maybe he can tell you what Miller was doing to get himself shot.”

Orton went into one of the first-floor offices and pulled a folded map out of a desk drawer. When he handed it to Niell back in the hallway, the professor asked, “Is there somewhere else that Miller might typically have gone? You know, a place where Amish people from Pinecraft like to gather? Or a favorite restaurant or beach?”

Orton smiled. “You’re going to be driving right past the north end of Lido Beach, and you ought to stop there and look around before you go see this Mrs. Laver. It’s right on the county’s bus route, and the kids from Pinecraft ride the bus to go swim in the ocean. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

“Do you think our Miller would have gone there?” Branden asked.

“No,” Orton smiled, “but you ought to get a feeling for how Amish live in Florida before you talk to Mrs. Laver. It’ll help you understand the Pinecraft community better.”

“Is it just the kids who swim at Lido Beach,” Niell asked, “or adults, too?”

“Mostly kids. The older people ride farther, to the park at South Lido Beach. There’s a lot of trees there, and they have picnics in the shade.”

Niell shook his head and smiled. “This isn’t anything like what we know about the Amish up in Ohio.”

“That’s my point,” Orton said. “If Jacob Miller stayed with Mrs. Laver in Pinecraft, nobody would have thought it was unusual that he was out running around from time to time. On those county buses, the Amish can go just about anywhere. Lido Beach, Siesta Key, even up here to Bradenton Beach and Coquina Beach. And if they don’t want to wait for a bus, they rent a van and hire a driver to take them to the malls or to Walmart. So, Jacob Miller would have fit right in with the Amish community at Pinecraft. They get around quite handily, all over the Sarasota/Bradenton area, even though none of them owns a car.”

26

Friday October 9

11:30
A.M.

CAL PULLED his truck into Darba’s drive under a gray overhang of clouds, and before he had switched the engine off, his cell phone rang. He put the truck into park, checked the display, answered the call, and said, “Hi, Mike. You in Florida yet?”

“Bradenton Beach,” Branden said. “We just talked to the cop that Rachel has been talking with.”

Branden was standing on the concrete steps at the top level of the police station, waiting for Ricky to retrieve the car from a side lot and turn it around on the narrow, sandy street in front of the building. While he waited, he told Cal what they had learned about Conrad Render’s murdering Jacob Miller, and about Spiegle’s driving drunk with Billy Winters, causing the death of Ginny Lynn Render.

Cal listened and then asked, “Is there anything in that saga that I can tell Jacob Miller’s family? Something to ease their pain?”

“He was shot, Cal. Close range, with a twelve-gauge shotgun, and we don’t yet know why. I’m not sure they need to know the details, right now. Maybe it’s enough for them to know that he was murdered, and save the details until later, once we know more about motive.”

“Leon Shetler is over with the Millers. I can let him decide what to tell them.”

“OK. Your call.”

“How do they know who shot him?” Cal asked.

Branden explained about Stevens Clark’s identifying Conrad Render as the shooter, and then he said, “But I was
wondering. Why would Jacob Miller have been mixed up with this Conrad Render in the first place?”

Cal switched his engine off and climbed out of the warm truck into cold October air. “We can figure Render would have wanted Spiegle dead. Maybe even Billy Winters. But I couldn’t say about Jacob Miller.”

“OK, but there should be records of Conrad Render’s traveling to Ohio to hunt for Spiegle. And what if he made several trips before he found him?”

“That still wouldn’t tell us why Jacob Miller was mixed up in any of this.”

“No.”

Cal thought. “Maybe this is related to why Jacob Miller was so confident he could get Spiegle to marry Vesta.”

“You going to talk to her?”

“After I check on Darba.”

“Caroline said she’s down at Jeremiah Miller’s place,” Branden said.

“I’ll drive down there this afternoon.”

“This could be hardest on Vesta, Cal, if she wasn’t getting along with her father.”

“I know, but maybe she or Crist Burkholder can tell us why her father would be mixed up with your Render guy.”

Branden started down the steps to Ricky’s car. “Is Leon Shetler going to be able to help Miller’s family, so you can go talk with Vesta? Or do you need to help Shetler at the Millers?”

“I think I should talk with Vesta. Let him work with the family.”

“OK, Cal. Maybe he can learn something that we can use, trying to figure out why Render killed Miller. And Billy Winters.”

“Where are you going now?” Cal asked.

“Pinecraft. I want to see if anyone there can tell us why Miller made so many trips down here.”

Standing out under a gray canopy of clouds, Cal said, “Maybe Rachel can help us figure out how many trips he made to Florida.”

“Wouldn’t his wife know that?”

“Jacob Miller was not the kind of man to explain himself to women.”

“Caroline told me he was abusive.”

“I’m sure he was.”

“What could Rachel do?”

“Check on bus tickets. See how many trips Miller made. See how long he stayed.”

“The last time, Cal, he came down here on an airplane.”

“Maybe Rachel can find out if he flew any other times. Or find out where he stayed.”

“He stayed with a Mrs. Laver. In Pinecraft.”

“You’re ahead of me.”

“He had a phone number written on his plane ticket.”

After a pause, Cal asked, “You really going to Pinecraft?”

“Yes, why?”

“I always wanted to visit there. It has got to be quite some place.”

“It’s just Amish and Mennonite, right?”

“Yeah, Mike. Amish who go to the Florida beaches for winter. Lots of Holmes County Amish do that, and maybe that’s all that was involved here with Miller.”

“Now you’re getting ahead of me, Cal.”

“Point is, maybe that’s all Jacob Miller was doing. Falling in love with Florida.”

“Not if he got shot by the same man who wanted Spiegle dead.”

“No, I guess not,” Cal said.

“You going to tell Darba about Billy?”

“Are you sure he’s dead?”

“The cop down here is sure,” Branden said.

“I’ll tell her once Evie Carson gets here, Mike. I can’t risk it before then.”

* * *

While he was still out front at Darba’s house, Cal called Rachel on her cell, and she answered after one ring, with a curt, “What?”

Surprised, Cal asked, “What’s all that frustration, young lady?”

“Sorry, Dad. Busy, is all. Thought you were someone calling from work. Didn’t check my display.”

“You’re not at work?”

“I’m back home, Dad. My office is crawling with DEA agents, and they’ve locked me out.”

“So, you were right about them.”

“Of course. They’re impounding all of my computers. Boxing up all my papers. It’s the same all over the office.”

“So, you probably don’t have much to do,” Cal said, intending it to be lighthearted.

“I’ve got more, Dad! I’ve got to do everything from home, with no files. No documents. No resources. And I’ve got a payroll coming up.”