Live and Lime Die: A Key West Culinary Cozy - Book 8 (5 page)

Her
head leaned against the cool pane of glass in the taxi window, Marilyn sat up
as she neared her home. It was dark and deserted, the police had left after
their search for evidence, and her back yard was cordoned off with yellow tape
– not a welcome sight. She paid the driver and trudged up the steps of the
front porch, weary to the bone.

Without
bothering to even snap on the lights, Marilyn went straight from the front door
to the stairs, dragging herself up to bed, barely able to keep her eyes open.
Fluffy, the grey striped cat that Tiara had rescued several months ago, trotted
up faithfully behind her, in anticipation of curling up in her plush kitty bed
underneath the nightstand. The contented feline seemed to sleep most of the
time, but she never actually got into her bed until Marilyn was in hers.
Sliding out of her shoes and slipping into the oldest, baggiest pajamas she
could find, the exhausted mother sunk gratefully into bed, pulling the covers
up under her chin and falling immediately asleep.

"Thunk!”
A sound had Marilyn moving her head restlessly against her pillow. “Thunk!” She
sat bolt upright, heart pounding, adrenalin flooding her veins. Looking around,
trying to figure out what had caused the sound that woke her up, she heard it
again and her head snapped around toward the side window. Slowly pushing the
covers back, she rose from the bed and made her way toward the window, making
certain to stay below the bottom sash so she wouldn’t be seen.

Standing
beside the window, she moved the gauzy curtain slightly to peer out into the
darkness, searching for the source of the sound. Seeing nothing, she grew
bolder, and split the curtains down the middle, her eyes darting left and right
across the yard, looking for any sign of what had caused the sound. She lifted
the window to see if she could hear anything, being careful to not make a
sound. Silence.

Suddenly,
a jarring crash downstairs, and the sound of breaking glass, drew Marilyn away
from the window. Terrified, and not knowing what to do, she grabbed her phone
and quietly opened her bedroom door. She crept down the stairs, heart in her
throat, hands shaking with terror. She had no idea of what…or who…she might
encounter when she made it to the first floor, but she refused to cower in her
room, awaiting her fate. She paused about halfway down, listening. Silence.
Taking two more steps, she nearly fainted when her doorbell rang. Would a
killer ring the bell? There was only one way to find out. Her fear and
adrenalin combining to form a rising anger, she strode to the front door with
trembling determination.

“They
did it and ran. I saw them,” Tim said when Marilyn opened the door.

“Who
did it, Tim? Did you see who it was?” she asked, flipping on the living room
light to discover that some kind of bundle had been thrown through her front
window, shattering it.

“No.
It was too dark. He was short,” her neighbor stared at her intently, pushing
his coke-bottle glasses up his nose.

“It’s
really late…were you awake?” she asked, wondering how he had seen the vandal.

“I
don’t sleep usually. I was watering my ferns,” he replied, blinking at her.

“Oh,”
she was at a loss.

“What
is that?” he asked, raising his arm slowly to point at the bundle that had
flown under the coffee table after shattering her window.

“I
don’t know, but I’m not going to touch it,” Marilyn replied. “The police need
to see this.”

“They’re
here,” he observed, looking over his shoulder as a patrol car pulled up.

“But,
I didn’t call them…did you?” she was glad to see the squad car, but was puzzled.

Tim
mutely shook his head. Just when they thought things couldn’t get any more
surreal, the police car pulled up in front of Tim’s house instead of hers, and
they went to his front door. Her neighbor headed toward his place and,
barefoot, clad in her ratty fleece jammies, Marilyn trailed after him.

“Excuse
me, you’re at the wrong house. The vandalism is over here,” she called out when
they were at the tree line between her house and Tim’s. The officers approached
rapidly.

“I’m
so glad to see you,” Marilyn began. “About five minutes ago…”

One
of the policeman interrupted her, staring hard at Tim. “Are you Timothy
Eckels?” he demanded, stepping closer.

“Yes,”
Tim blinked at the officer, confused.

“You’re
under arrest for the murder of Samuel Freed,” he said, taking the unresisting
man by the wrist and snapping on handcuffs. Marilyn gasped as they read him his
rights and moved him toward the police cruiser.

Horrified,
and finding herself standing alone in the cool, breezy night, Marilyn slowly
headed for home. Careful not to step on any of the multiple shards of glass
scattered over her hand-scraped wood floor and tufted area rug, she peered at
the bundle that had been tossed through her window. It appeared to be a large
rock, with something wrapped around it. Knowing better than to touch it, her
curiosity killing her, she sighed and dialed 9-1-1 for the second time in 24
hours.

“Mr.
Eckels, I don’t think you grasp the gravity of this situation,” the rotund
detective, Donald Ferguson, who was called upon because Cort was in the
hospital, warned.

“Forgive
me for making a mortician’s reference, but I can indeed see that this is a
…grave matter,” the corner of Tim’s mouth quirked, as though he were trying to
stifle a smile.

“You
find the murder of a young man funny?” Ferguson’s eyes narrowed with contempt.

“Of
course not,” Tim replied mildly. “In my line of business one learns to break
tension with a bit of levity. It’s a survival tactic for one involved with such
grim work – you might consider cultivating the habit,” he regarded the
detective innocently.

“Tell
me what happened between you and the victim last night,” he ordered, his sense
of humor absent in the face of what he considered to be the worst kind of evil
– crime without remorse.

Tim
sighed, realizing that there was no chance of civilized conversation with the
dogged detective. “I’m not certain who the victim is,” he stated flatly.

Ferguson
slapped a picture of Sam down on the table in front of the former mortician.
Any other human being might’ve flinched at the photo of a corpse, but Tim was
immune to the sight of death, having dealt with it up close and personal on a
daily basis.

“Oh.
Him,” he said, unaffected.

“Yes,
him,” the detective repeated, with just a tinge of disgust. “Now tell me what
encounters you’ve had with this individual,” he demanded.

“I
don’t believe I’ve ever heard a more vague line of questioning,” Tim mused,
tilting his head to the side. “Are we just passing the time, or are you looking
for something specific?”

Color
flushed from Ferguson’s neck to the tips of his ears as the mild-mannered
psycho got under his skin.

“When
did you first see Samuel Freed? Is that specific enough for you?” the detective
sneered, his face so close to Tim’s that small bits of spittle sprayed the
fussy man’s face.

Calmly
taking a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, the former mortician dabbed
distastefully at the spots of spittle, then tucked the handkerchief back into
its spot before replying.

“A
few days ago,” he answered simply.

“A
few days ago? Where did you see Mr. Freed a few days ago?” the detective asked,
clearly surprised.

“Hiding
in the tree line between my house and the neighbor’s,” Tim blinked, enjoying the
man’s discomfort at not having anticipated his response.

“What
did you do when you saw him allegedly hiding in the trees?”

A
slow half-smile spread across the mortician’s face. “I had a little chat with
him about the inappropriate nature of trespassing, and the inherent danger in
such a practice.”

“Are
you saying that you threatened Mr. Freed at that time?” Ferguson pounced.

“I
didn’t say any such thing. Those are your words.”

The
detective clenched his teeth in irritation. “Did you threaten Mr. Freed at that
time?” he clarified, speaking through his teeth.

“No,
I most certainly did not,” Tim replied calmly.

“When
did you next see the victim?” the frustrated man rubbed a hand across his
forehead, looking as though he had the makings of a headache coming on.

“Last
night.”

“Around
what time?” the detective relaxed a bit, thinking that he might finally be
getting somewhere with this difficult perp.

“8:07
precisely,” Tim gazed at him owlishly from behind his glasses.

“And
how do you know that it was 8:07 precisely?” he looked skeptical, but was
intrigued.

“Because
I’ve learned that whenever I see something that might be of interest to the
authorities, it’s often pertinent to check the time. That sort of information
seems to be helpful,” he shrugged, nonchalant.

Ferguson
asked his next question with a gleam in his eye, thinking he’d finally trapped
his prey into saying something conclusive. “And what made you think that the
encounter might be of interest to the police?” he smirked.

Tim
Eckels regarded the portly little man in front of him with utter contempt for
his ignorance. “Because when one sees a young man hiding in the bushes spying
on a young woman, and then a few days later sees that same young man sitting on
her back patio dumping a packet of powder into her wine glass when she goes
into the house, it gives one cause to think that something worthy of police
attention might be happening,” he explained, as though speaking to a child.

“If
you saw a crime being committed, why didn’t you attempt to intervene, or call
the police?” the detective clearly resented the patronizing tone.

“I
did intervene. I escorted the young man from the premises while the young lady
was inside. The lad was so nervous at being found out, that he accidentally
drank the drugged glass of wine instead of his own unaltered glass,” Tim
snickered, remembering.

“Samuel
Freed’s body was found floating in the marina last night. Any idea how it got
there?” Ferguson asked.

“No
idea.”

“Did
you kill Samuel Freed?”

“No,
I most certainly did not,” he said matter-of-factly.

“There
were things done to his body that only a mortician would know how to do, Mr.
Eckels,” the detective growled.

“Are
you attempting to ask me another question, Detective?”

“Mr.
Eckels, did you glue Samuel Freed’s eyes shut?” he asked, tiring of the game.

“Yes.”

“Was
he alive at the time?”

“Yes.”

“Why
did you do that?” Ferguson was morbidly fascinated.

“Because
he had been looking at her in an inappropriate manner.”

“By
her, you mean Tiara Hayes?”

“Yes.”

“Did
you glue his lips shut as well?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”
the detective was on a roll now, glad that he was finally getting some answers.

“Because
he said some vile things after she went into the house.”

“And
his hands?”

“Yes,
just seemed appropriate.”

“Mr.
Eckels, did you put makeup on Samuel Freed?”

“Yes.”

“What
reason could you possibly have for doing that?” Ferguson demanded.

Tim
giggled, then caught himself and turned it into a slight cough, placing his
fingertips over his mouth for a moment. “That…” he replied, with a sly grin.
“That was just for my amusement.”

The
detective was nonplussed, staring at the seriously strange man in front of him
and not knowing quite what to say.

“How
did Mr. Freed die?” Ferguson finally asked, ready for this interview to be
over.

“One
would hope, that since you recovered the body, you would already know that,”
Tim tilted his head to the side again.

The
detective let that pass. “What happened after you did your gluing and
painting?” he asked, not bothering to conceal his disgust.

“I
gave him a ride to the commercial docks and dropped him off.”

“Dropped
him off a dock?”

“No,
dropped him off as in “let him out of my car,” Tim sighed.

“Then
what?”

“I
went home.”

“When
did you arrive at your home address?” Ferguson persisted.

“8:57.”

“Why
am I not surprised?” the detective shook his head.

“Is
that a rhetorical question?” Tim asked, wondering if the detective knew what
rhetorical meant.

Ferguson
stared at him blankly. “So you’ve confessed to gluing together a man’s eyes,
lips and fingers, as well as putting makeup on him, and you expect me to
believe that you didn’t kill him?”

“No.”

“No?”
The detective was too baffled to hide it. “Are you confessing to this murder,
Mr. Eckels?”

Tim’s
disdain was palpable. “Of course I’m not confessing to the murder, Detective, I
didn’t kill him. You asked me if I expected you to believe me – I don’t. But
then, you don’t have to believe me…I have proof,” he smiled an eerie smile.