Quint Mitchell 01 - Matanzas Bay (11 page)

“Oh, oh. I think Jack was caught thinking with his small head again.

The voice came from over my shoulder and I turned to see the ever-smiling face of Jarrod Watts.

“Hey, Jarrod. What’s up?”

Watts toasted me with his longneck bottle of beer, his face alight with a warm smile. He pointed at the quarreling couple. “That boy’s gonna have to eat a lot of shit if he expects to get on the right side of Tia again.”

“How true,” I said. “How’s Clayton doing?”

“Sound asleep, so I thought I’d come out here and see if could find a little action. How about you?”

“The only action I’m looking for is a cool beer and a few songs to help me get my mind off this nasty business with Poe. At least for a little while.”

Watts scrunched up his lips and made a sucking sound. “That’s bad stuff, man. I can’t believe Dr. Poe had anything to do with Marrano’s murder.”

“He didn’t. I’m trying to help him, but things don’t look too promising right now.”

“Why’d they arrest him?”

“The police have their own theories. I just have to find out what really happened.” I didn’t want to talk about the case with him, so I changed the subject. “Tell me if it’s none of my business, but does Clayton always drink that much?”

Watts gave me a wry smile as he looked from the beer in my hand and back to his own bottle. I caught his not too subtle meaning.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “we all drink, but he seems to be more dedicated to the proposition.”

“Sure, man. I guess I’m not be talking out of school since everyone knows Mr. Henderson isn’t exactly a teetotaler. But he’s been drinking more since his surgery, and he has these scary mood swings.”

Watts glanced away, an almost embarrassed expression on his face. As a physical therapist, he’s probably not legally bound to protect his client’s privacy like a doctor or lawyer, but he probably realized it wasn’t good business to gossip about his patients.

Conversely, my business demands I acquire information from people even when they refused to part with it. So I asked, “Is this something new, or has he been this way all along?”

He hesitated before answering, choosing his words or possibly deciding whether to answer at all. Finally, he said, “I don’t know for sure, but I’d bet the drinking’s been going on for years, and probably the mood swings, too. But there’s something bothering him.”

“What’s that?”

“Couldn’t say. One minute he’s sky high, full of life, bouncing off the walls. Then he falls into a black hole, so depressed it’s hard to get him back on track.”

Henderson must be an alcoholic, but he still seemed mentally sharp. These mood swings were another matter and might indicate a bipolar disorder. “Do you know if he takes lithium or valproate?”

He shook his head. “Not that I’ve seen, and I’ve checked out his medicine cabinet.”

I’d hate to see the old guy hurt himself, but each of us has to choose our own path to destruction. And that’s what I told Watts.

“He’s old enough to make his own choices, but you watch out he doesn’t hurt himself.”

Watts had been staring down at the old water wheel but now twisted his head around to gaze at me, a look of concern on his youthful features. “I’ve only worked for Mr. Henderson a few months, but he’s become very important to me. Like family.” He was speaking softly, then his demeanor abruptly changed and he grinned. “Hell, must be time for another round. I’m buying.”

No argument from me. I let him take the two empty bottles with him back to the bar. I thought about the old poet and our conversation earlier this morning. When we spoke, he made a point of implicating Kurtis Laurance. He wanted me to believe that Laurance was somehow involved in Marrano’s death, but I didn’t buy it. Laurance was a sure bet to be elected Florida’s next governor. If the political pundits were right, he’d use that office as a stepping-stone to the White House. No way would a smart politician get on the wrong side of this mess.

“Here’s to ya.” Watts handed me the beer, and I thanked him.

“Did I miss anything important while I was gone?” He gestured to the couple who had retreated into the shadows next to the water wheel and were wrapped together so tightly I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other started.

“That Jack must have some magic beans in his pocket,” I said.

Watts shifted his attention away from the two lovebirds. He seemed to be an earnest young man, and I had the feeling he wanted to open up to me about something. I didn’t want to talk about Poe’s murder case, but Watts was in a good position to hear some choice tidbits from his gossipy employer.

“Has Clayton said anything about Poe and the Marrano murder?”

Watts looked past me, his eyes drifting away into the darkness. My investigator’s antennae tingled, and told me Watts knew something.

“Listen, Mr. Henderson is good friends with Dr. Poe, and if you know something that will prove his innocence, then he’d want you to tell me.”

“I don’t really know if it’s anything. It’s just …”

“What?”

He took another slug of beer, licked his lips, and stiffened a bit. “You know that guy Denny who was at Poe’s house with us?”

“Denny Grimes.”

“Well, last night Mr. Henderson had a few too many, as he usually does. I was helping him to bed when he started talking about Dr. Poe and how he’d been arrested. ‘Wasn’t right,’ he said. Then he said they should be looking at this Denny guy. That he hated Marrano for getting him fired from his job with the city.”

“Is that right? Anything else?”

“Nah. He was pretty much out of it by then, but I remembered Denny seemed to have a hard-on about Marrano.”

“Certainly worth looking into,” I told him. “Thanks.”

Watts began looking around nervously. “Listen, don’t tell him I told you, huh? He’s probably just a loudmouth, and didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I was always looking for new angles when I worked a case, so I asked him, “Do you think this murder is linked to the Matanzas Bay development.”

He snorted as if he thought it was a ridiculous idea.

“What? You don’t agree?”

“It’s not that, but it’s kind of funny when you think about it.”

“Funny?”

“I don’t see the sense in fighting over a development that everyone seems to want. And what gets me is it’s going to be built on the San Sebastian River but they call it Matanzas Bay. What were they thinking? I mean Matanzas Bay is right behind us.” He stabbed the air behind him with his thumb.

“When you’re right you’re right.”

“But they got the name from the Matanzas Inlet over by the Fort Matanzas National Monument, and that’s fifteen miles away. I don’t get it.”

“One of the mysteries of marketing,” I offered.

“You’ve been there, haven’t you?”

“The Fort Matanzas National Monument? Sure, a couple of years ago.”

“I’ve been there three or four times in the past six months.” Watts took a long swig from his beer before continuing. “I find it restful.”

“It is quiet, but there’s not much to it.”

“Guess it reminds me of a place I hung around in when I was a kid. The river flowed through the woods near our house and formed a huge lake. One day when I was maybe seven or eight years old I followed the riverbank and discovered this little bluff hanging over the water. It was surrounded by trees, and I’d sit there on the bluff pretending I was the last person in the world.” He smiled sheepishly and finished his beer.

Holding up his empty bottle, he said, “Whoa. I’ve either had one too many or not enough.”

“I can take a hint,” I said. “It’s my turn to buy.”

FOURTEEN

Back at home that night, I opened a can of clam chowder, poured the entire contents into a large bowl and popped it into the microwave. I carried the steaming soup out to my balcony. While waiting for it to cool, I watched the darkened surf beyond the restaurants and bars across the street. The surf was usually flat in the mornings; the sun dancing on the water as it crawled ashore, leaving streams of foam like the lace hem on a curtain. But tonight I heard restless waves breaking on the shore, and a moody veil of mist had edged across the water and hung gloomily over the shoreline. For a moment, the mist seemed to envelop me, and I visualized myself under water, unable to breathe.

Despite the muggy heat, I shivered, feeling thorny fingers of anxiety scratching my back, prickles of apprehension warning me things were going to get a lot worse before they improved.

I ate the chowder, trying to focus on the other problem weighing me down, letting my thoughts skip back two weeks to a lunch date with Serena Howard, and the time when our relationship hit the rocks.

Things couldn’t have been going better between us then, or so I thought, and somewhere in the back of my mind I hoped this lunch meeting would be another step binding us closer together. I still recalled every detail of our lunch date at the restaurant called Stuff of Dreams.

***

Stuff of Dreams was a cozy café on Aviles Street sitting between a wine shop and one of the many art galleries lining the block. We hadn’t eaten there before and I glanced around the restaurant, taking in the old brick fireplace dominating one end of the rectangular room before reading my menu. It listed a half-dozen stuffed calzones along with pita-wrap sandwiches and salads. Each description ended with the phrase
stuffed to perfection
, and I understood where the restaurant’s name had originated.

“What a disappointment,” I said to Serena, who had this Vanessa Williams thing going on today. Her hair swirled dramatically across her forehead; her earrings, little gold balls dangling from delicate chains.

“You haven’t even tasted the food yet.”

“No, I’m sure the food is good. I thought it was a tribute to
The Maltese Falcon
.”

“The old Humphrey Bogart movie? What does that have to do with the menu disappointing you?”

“Not the menu, the restaurant’s name,
Stuff of Dreams
. It’s the last line of the film. You know, after Sam Spade has solved the crime, found the missing statue of the falcon, turned the beautiful but murderous Brigid O'Shaughnessy over to the police, he’s asked what’s so valuable about the statue?”

I put on my best Humphrey Bogart face, snatched an imaginary cigarette from my mouth, blowing the imaginary smoke into her face before proclaiming, “It’s the stuff that dreams are made of.”

Serena laughed at my impersonation. “Perfect. So Sam Spade reads Shakespeare?”

“Huh?”

“They stole the line from Shakespeare’s play,
The Tempest
. Actually, what Prospero said was, ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on.’ It worked for him, so I guess it’s a good exit line for a sneaky private detective.”

She gifted me with one of her dazzling smiles, and I laughed. “Touché! I should learn never to get into a game of literary one-upsmanship with an English Lit major. I’m looking forward to discussing Shakespeare’s plays in more detail later tonight, particularly,
All’s Well that Ends Well
.”

“Are you sure it won’t be
Much Ado About Nothing
?” she retorted.

“Ouch. Maybe
Taming of the Shrew
might better suit you.” I had exhausted my knowledge of Shakespeare’s plays, but before I could prove it, my cell phone played its little song in my pocket. Still smiling at Serena, I pulled out the phone, flipped it open and read the Caller ID.

Not him again. I stared at the phone wondering what to do. As much as I hated these calls, dreaded the way they left me drained and guilt-ridden, I’d never failed to answer them before. In a strange way, I considered them cathartic therapy for both of us. But his timing couldn’t be worse. As I started to power off the phone, Serena asked, “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

I shrugged, hesitating, my finger resting on the off button. “No, it can wait. Besides, I don’t want to interrupt our precious time together.”

“Go ahead, we haven’t even ordered lunch yet. It may be important.” Serena spent most of her day on the phone and understood the necessity of keeping in touch.

As the phone continued beating out its urgent tone, she looked at me curiously, picking up on the invisible waves of anxiety radiating out from me. “Well?” she asked.

Despite my misgivings, I depressed the talk button and put the phone to my ear, turning slightly away from her. The sound of his breathing greeted me, rasping and rapid. “Do you know what keeps me going?” He didn’t expect an answer and I didn’t give him one. “Waiting for you to die. If I had the courage, I’d rip your fucking heart out myself, but instead I have to wait.” I heard him sniff and waited along with him. “Wait for God to punish you.”

I felt the familiar blade slicing into my organs, blood rushing from my head. I glanced at Serena hoping to find her still engrossed in the menu, but she watched me with a puzzled expression.

“Are you there?” the voice screamed into my ear.

“Yes, I’m listening,” I managed to say. Serena raised an eyebrow and canted her head toward me.

“You took her away from me. Took away my ….” The sobbing began. “… my little girl.” He lost it at this point, and I struggled to keep control.

I listened to the man’s wracking sobs for another moment before putting an end to it. “I’m sorry,” I said softly and closed the phone. My eyes felt moist and I wiped a hand across my face before looking at Serena.

“Is something wrong?” she asked. “You look terrible.” She leaned forward and touched my face.

I’m actually a very good liar. I’ve found it to be a helpful trait in my line of work, but I have difficulty lying to someone I care about. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it some other time.” I picked up the menu and pretended to examine the calzones.

Serena pulled my menu down. “Who was on the phone?”

I saw clouds of suspicion and doubt slide into her eyes.

“Are you seeing someone else, Quint?”

“No, baby, it’s nothing like that, but—”

“But what? Why can’t you tell me?”

I let out my breath, met her eyes and told her the story. “Three years ago, I was driving home after a party at a client’s house in Jacksonville. It was about one-thirty in the morning, and I went through the green light at an intersection and …” I halted, seeing the intersection in my mind and fearing what came next. Serena remained quiet.