SIXTEEN

When we returned to the parking lot, we counted three cars in addition to Zack’s convertible. Detective Cassidy’s gray Ford? No.

“That looked like Cassidy to me,” I said. “Maybe he owns a second car. Maybe taxpayers raise a storm if they see Key West’s finest driving a city vehicle while off duty.”

“Possible and probable,” Zack said. “But we only caught a glimpse of the guy in the window. It might have been someone else. We’re thirty miles from Key West, and it’s past the dinner hour for most people.”

“You’re right. Cassidy doesn’t seem the type to be enjoying a late dinner at such a romantic spot.”

Zack sighed. “Probably spends his evenings at home sucking on a beer and watching reruns of Court TV.”

Zack took my hand while we approached his car. The evening had grown chill, and he pushed a button that raised the top and then settled it in place. Good plan. I felt less exposed in the closed car, but it irritated me that Cassidy had the power to make me nervous. Zack held my hand while we drove to Eden Palms. I didn’t pull away.

When we turned into the cul-de-sac, Courtney’s house loomed before us, stark and dark. In case she stood beside some curtained window watching, I didn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me look in her direction. A dim light glowed from deep in the interior of Winton Gravely’s home—maybe a night light for his patients. Zack stopped in front of the cottage, walked me to the porch, held his hand out for my key. I waited while he unlocked the door and entered, uninvited. I held my breath. Was I afraid of an intruder? Or of Zack? After making a thorough inspection of the interior, he stepped outside.

“Bailey, you call me if anything frightens you.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m not afraid, and I’ll be fine.”

“I have business on Stock Island tomorrow morning, but if you’ll be free in the afternoon I’d like to begin checking on some of the stories we’ve heard.”

“Fine with me. Any ideas on where to start?”

He paused for a moment. “Maybe with Tucker Tisdale.”

My mind recoiled from my mental image of Tisdale, his falsetto voice, his flaky skin. “Why him first? Any special reason?”

Zack stepped back, ready to return to his car. “No special reason except that he seems elusive. His absence Monday night when Cassidy called everyone in for questioning makes me wonder. Remember? Burgundy had to go get him, bring him to the solarium.”

“I didn’t think that strange at the time. The man’s in the funeral business. There’d been a death of a friend and neighbor. Wouldn’t it be normal for him to be at his funeral home overseeing his staff?”

“Could be, but I didn’t call Tucker. I didn’t ask for his services. At that time, nobody had told me his services were needed. Someone may have tried. I may have been on the road between offices. Mother’s body had been removed from the house by the time I arrived home. I thought that strange. I resented it.”

“So who called Tisdale? I remember Gravely saying he called nine-one-one, but I don’t think he mentioned phoning Tisdale.”

“I’ll check on that tomorrow. Maybe the medical examiner made the call. Since the police were dealing with a suspicious death, the M.E., under Cassidy’s orders, may have called the shots. Since Tucker and his wife are long-time friends and neighbors of ours, the Tisdale Funeral Home would have been my choice. And Mother’s. She prepaid her funeral arrangements years ago—wanted to spare me having to make those decisions later.”

“How like her. How thoughtful.” I paused before closing the door. “Have you decided on the time of the funeral?”

“No. The police haven’t released her body yet. Until they do, the service will be on hold.”

“The indecision makes it hard on everyone.”

“Funerals are never easy. What do you think, Bailey? If you object to starting our investigation with Tisdale, we’ll choose someone else.”

“No. Your idea’s good. I’ll begin thinking about him, his words, his actions. Maybe I’ll remember some little thing that might make a deeper look-see in his direction interesting.”

“Okay, I’ll call you as soon as I get home from Stock Island—probably shortly after noon. We can go somewhere for lunch and fine-tune our plans.”

“I’ll be ready, Zack. And thank you for a wonderful dinner.”

“My pleasure.” He brushed a kiss on my cheek then waited until I closed and locked the door before he strode to his car. I heard him turn into his driveway and park in the carport.

Once he’d left, I double-checked all door and window locks and lowered all shades to the sills before I drew the draperies. Thinking of snooping into Tucker Tisdale’s activities left me too wired for sleep, so I tried to count my blessings. At least Zack hadn’t suggested starting our investigation with Mitch. How easy it might have been for him to try to blame the yardman, the stranger, instead of one of his longtime neighbors and friends.

I set up my keyboard and laptop, never an easy job for me. My mind balks at dealing with cables, three-pronged electrical plugs, and power packs. And in the Keys a surge protector’s a must. I think a competent serviceman or perhaps Bill Gates himself should be included as basic equipment with every laptop when it leaves the factory.

I played a few melody lines and tried to fit words to them, but nothing seemed to work so I went to bed. Even with my head on the pillow, I couldn’t close my eyes. I lay staring at the ceiling and thinking of Tucker Tisdale. Had he known his koi pond attracted snakes? Had he seen snakes there? Had he dealt with so much death in his business that one more body meant little to him?

Then I thought of Tucker’s wife away visiting her sister. Francine had told me Mrs. Tisdale was friendly and outgoing and that she doted on their koi pond. Zack told me he had sketched some of the colorful fish while she coaxed them to the surface with food. His sketches turned out well but I’d never seen them hanging at Eden Palms. Maybe he had given them to her.

Had Tucker chosen this time of his wife’s absence to murder Francine? Perhaps he was depending on her absence to give him extra time to foolproof an alibi. Surely the need to hide an evil deed from a spouse and from the police-would add to any culprit’s angst. I’d read where the wife of the serial killer on Big Pine had suspected his blood-covered clothes were a result of more than a successful night of fishing. Why hadn’t she told the police her suspicions? Why had she waited—and let him take her life, too? Could I be playing the same kind of deadly waiting game? No. Impossible. I had no firm reason to suspect anyone of Francine’s murder.

I slept fitfully, turning my pillow from side to side, waking only when a cock crowed under my window. Still drugged with sleep, I rose to open the drapery, raise the shade. Sunshine had dried the morning dew, and its rays glinted on a rooster’s black and russet feathers, its red comb, while it chased a hen across the yard. I smiled.

Francine had written to Mom that when the state passed laws forbidding cock fighting, some irate bird owners released their gamecocks to roam the city. Now, years later, many tourists think roaming chickens lend quaintness to the island. Residents have mixed emotions—depending upon whose window the cocks choose to crow under.

When I answered the telephone, Zack’s voice flowed across the line.

“Everything okay at the cottage? It looked quiet there when I left earlier.”

“Everything’s fine. I overslept.”

“Can you be ready if I pick you up around two?”

“Fine. I’ll be expecting you.”

Zack broke the connection, and I sighed as I poured a glass of chocolate milk and made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Flying into Key West on Monday, I’d looked forward to getting to work on a new song. That plan had gone down the tubes—at least for one more day. I needed time to rethink some options. I like to work in the early morning when I can blot the world out and live for a few hours with my melodies and their variations. And then there are titles to consider. Titles are always hard for me. I’d been unable to come up with any good ideas. But my computer sat at the ready in case free moments and ideas presented themselves.

When Zack stopped the convertible in front of the cottage, I hurried out and slid onto the passenger seat.

“The neighborhood’s deserted,” I said. “Except for a few chickens. No cars in the carports. Of course we can’t tell for sure about Dr. Gravely’s.”

“I’ve already stopped at the funeral home,” Zack said, turning toward Eaton. “I called earlier and learned Tisdale’s in Miami for the day, so I stopped by his business before I called you. Thought it’d be a good time to talk to his staff.”

“Learn anything?”

“Nothing important. I asked a few subtle questions and I believe his story. All day Monday he worked in his office, doing inventory—getting ready to prepare his tax forms. He didn’t leave his office on Monday until the call came notifying him of Mother’s death.”

“Who called him? Gravely or the police?”

“The police made the official call, but Gravely had phoned him first, not as a funeral director but as a neighbor and friend delivering unpleasant news.”

“Then I guess I don’t have to think about Tisdale—at least not today.”

“Right.”

“Thank goodness, Zack. That man gives me the creeps. Even talking about him gives me a chill. Got no logical reason for my feelings. I just don’t like his looks—don’t like his koi pond. Guess the only thing I do like about him is your mother’s description of his wife—a nice person. Not the sort of woman you’d find watching Wheel of Fortune with a murderer.”

“Agreed.” Zack turned toward Old Town. “Now let’s hear your suggestions on what to do next.”

“How about driving to Mallory Square? We could stop in at the hospitality center and ask a volunteer about Courtney and her guests.”

“Might work.” Zack braked the car, narrowly avoided hitting a bicyclist. “Courtney and friends may have stopped there to pick up brochures.”

“Right. The sooner we ask about Courtney’s guests, the less time the volunteer will have had to forget them. Those women see dozens of people every day.”

“But Courtney makes a memorable impression on people.”

“One way or another.” I corked further comments, not wanting Zack to think I might be jealous.

I’m convinced Zack has a good-parking karma. Near the Shell Warehouse he found an empty spot at a meter with time left on it—a bit of serendipity that seldom happens in Key West. He plunked in a few more coins. With each quarter good for only fifteen minutes, both locals and tourists consider metered parking a mega-pain. But meters, when you can find one, are better than having to walk to the distant parking ramp.

Conchs. Scallops. Murex. On a previous visit to Key West, the Shell Warehouse with its rough-planked floor supporting the thousands of seashells piled in wooden bins always made me want to stop and browse. Even the musty smell of the building enticed me. But no time for browsing today.

Zack led the way along a narrow sidewalk until we reached the whitewashed Hospitality House. While we paused outside, planning our line of questioning, I glanced toward the edge of the dock, where a cruise ship rocked at its mooring and where sturdy dock pilings shaped like pointed crayons discouraged pelicans from perching and leaving their calling cards.

“What a neat ship,” I commented. “When I’ m rich, I’ m going to take a cruise.”

“Hospitality House used to be the ticket office for passengers traveling to Cuba. But those days are long past. Maybe gone forever.” The nearby rattle of a Conch Train and the blatant call of its driver yanked us from dreams of travel.

“We’re delaying the inevitable, Bailey. Let’s go on inside.”