TWENTY-TWO

In my darkened bedroom, I pulled the window shade aside and watched Zack walk to Eden Palms and disappear inside. Was he afraid? Did he carry a gun? From my living room window, I peeked out. All looked dark at Courtney’s house. Although I didn’t know what difference that could make in my life, I felt relieved.

Using only the light in the laundry room, I slid Mitch’s gun from my sleeve to my hand and considered a hiding place for it. Under a couch cushion? Under my mattress? In the refrigerator? I liked that idea. I dropped the pistol into a plastic bag and crowded it into the produce drawer beside the iceberg lettuce.

I jumped when the phone rang, wishing I could let it go unanswered. But curiosity outranked apprehension.

“You okay, Sis?” Static crackled around Mitch’s voice.

“I’m fine.” Probably a lot safer than you are. “Thanks for your concern, but don’t worry about me.”

The connection spluttered and broke, and I assumed that already he had started not worrying. I’d slipped into my nightshirt before I remembered Mitch’s clothes in the dryer. After pulling them out, I gave each garment a shake before I folded it. Frayed jeans. Faded tank tops. Tattered boxer shorts that Fruit of the Loom would deny. I stuffed the garments into a plastic bag, all except a sweat suit that still felt damp. I slid it onto a hanger and hung it on the garment rack near the washer. The cuffs dragged on the floor but they’d be dry by morning.

Lights out. ’Fraidy cat. Feeling my way to the bathroom, I snapped on a night light and left the door cracked so the beam shone into my bedroom. Once in bed, my imagination magnified every sound. Was the rustling of palm fronds outside my window nature-made or man-made? Was there a native bird that chirped at night? Rising, I padded to the refrigerator, gave the lettuce ample space, and tucked the pistol under my pillow.

I dialed an all-night station on my radio. Although I thought I wouldn’t sleep, the sunshine pouring through my window forced me from bed to turn on the air conditioner and plug in the coffee pot. Friday. Had nothing on my agenda today and I vowed to settle at my computer and get to work on some lyrics. I’d blot out thoughts about real-life murders, slashed tires, gun under pillow, and relax in a world of music.

My long-ago goal had been to write an eight-measure theme a day, revise those measures, and proceed to the next eight measures. At that pace I could finish the rough draft of a tune in a week or so, if all went well. Then I’d be ready to begin a second revision. That plan worked when I wrote lyrics in Iowa, but it wasn’t working for me in Key West. At least not yet. Lately, I couldn’t move the melody forward no matter how many pictures I looked at, how many people I talked to. This morning the reason was Zack. He called, saying he was coming to talk to me. Not asking, telling. Had he noticed Francine’s bicycle missing? Bailey, think. Think. Have some answers ready if he starts asking questions.

I left my computer on, hoping he would notice the bright screen and cut his visit short. When he arrived I offered him a stool at the snack bar, poured mugs of coffee, and set peanut butter cups, cookies, and, new to my junk-food list, sour-cream-and-onion Pringles.

I needn’t have worried about explanations for the missing bicycle. When I glanced from my coffee, Zack sat staring into the laundry room at Mitch’s sweat suit.

“Who is he? Bailey? It’s none of my business, but I’m concerned about your safety. I’ve seen some guy hanging around the cottage.”

“Oh, he’s a friend. No need to worry.”

“A friend for whom you do laundry?”

His questions unnerved me. Who was he to pry into my private life?

“Doesn’t your friend know about Laundromats?”

“I owed him a favor, Zack. Have another Pringle? An Oreo?” I tried to change the subject, but when I pushed the snack plate toward him, my hand shook so, I hit my cup and sloshed coffee onto the floor. Zack grabbed a paper towel and helped mop up the mess.

“Look, Bailey.” He waited until I met his gaze. “There’s been one murder here and I don’t want there to be another one. This morning the police officially called Mother’s death a homicide.”

“We guessed all along they’d do that, right?”

“Right. Homicide. One death already, and I think you’re in danger.”

I willed my hands to stop shaking, my voice to sound firm. But it didn’t work. My hands shook and my voice wavered. “Who’d want to murder me? And why? What motive—”

“Hold the questions. I don’t have answers. Maybe we’re both in danger. I may sound like your Dutch uncle, but I want to know about this guy you’re seeing, doing favors for. He might be…”

Lying’s a talent I’ve never perfected—especially that of lying to friends. I took a deep breath and faced Zack. “The man is Mitch Mitchell—my brother.”

Zack stood and walked toward the sweat suit as if he might jerk it from the hanger and rip it to shreds. “Bailey Green has a brother named Mitch Mitchell? You expect me to believe that?”

“I expect you to believe it because it’s true. And it’s a long story.”

Zack sat down again at the snack bar, his fists clenched, his gaze boring into mine. “So make it a short story, or this guy’s going to be on my hit list if the police don’t get to him first.”

“I’ll be risking Mitch’s life if I answer your questions.”

“You may be risking his life if you don’t. Once the police learn of his relationship to you, they’ll demand answers. I refuse to protect him unless you give me strong reason.”

“You have to promise to keep what I tell you top secret.”

Zack hesitated, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Okay. I’ll keep it between the two of us as long as I can—legally.”

I knew that was as good an answer as I’d get. I poured Zack another mug of coffee and began my story. When I finished, Zack remained silent for a few moments before he spoke.

“Your brother’s on the hot seat for sure. If the Iowa druggies don’t get him before he testifies in Des Moines, our local police may nab him.”

My throat felt so tight I could hardly speak. “Why?” I slapped the snack bar so hard Zack jumped. “Why would the Key West cops suspect Mitch of being anything but what he says he is—a drifter looking for work to support himself here in Paradise?”

“A drifter who just happened to be inside Mother’s house looking for snakes? Be real, Bailey. Nobody’s going to believe him—or you.”

“If Mitch were guilty, don’t you think he’d have been too smart to mention snakes?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But you needn’t worry that I’ll tell the police anything about him—anything you’ve revealed. Seems dumb that he relocated here where he had a relative. Surprises me that the feds let him get by with that. I’m guessing they don’t know about you.”

“That’s how it is, and I hate being the one who revealed Mitch’s true identity.”

“I’ll keep his secret—and yours—as long as I can. But I’ll need your help.”

“Maybe we need each other, Zack.”

Zack looked at me in a way that told me I’d said too much—or that he’d taken my words the wrong way.

“When the police officially called Mother’s death a homicide, they funneled parts of the truth to the media.”

“They mentioned the…the snake?”

“No. Not yet. They think withholding that information may work in their favor while they continue their investigation. But the snake facts will come out sooner or later. Now that the police have released Mother’s body, I’m concerned with her funeral. You can help me with the arrangements if you will. I want to hold the service this afternoon.”

“Of course, Zack. What can I do?”

“Her body will be cremated. That was her wish. She also wished to have her ashes scattered at sea on a moonlit night. I’ve decided that’s going to happen tonight. Weatherman predicts fair skies and a full moon.”

As if to argue with Zack, the TV announcer’s voice that had been background noise, suddenly caught our attention. “Small craft warnings are now in effect for the rest of the day and evening.”

“Nothing you can do about that, Zack. Can’t the burial wait until tomorrow?”

“Small craft warnings won’t matter. Nobody can depend on good boating weather—especially not in the winter. I’ve hired a pilot and chartered his helicopter. We’ll fly to the waters beyond the reef, scatter the ashes there. Mother always loved fishing and snorkeling near the reef.”

I hid my surprise. “What about the funeral? You expect to have a service today—on this short notice?”

“Yes, of course. It’s been in my thinking all week, but it’ll be a private service. I’ve talked with Tisdale and Reverend Walters and made the arrangements. We’ll hold the service on the mansion grounds.”

“Outdoors?”

“Yes. Near the pool and beneath the palms and sea grapes Mother planted years ago. I think she’d like that setting.”

“Yes, I believe she would. You’ve taken care of everything, Zack. What’s left for me to do?”

“The media will announce her private services, and I’d like you to telephone close friends and associates, invite them and tell them the time and place. Four-thirty this afternoon.”

Zack pulled a list from his pocket and slid it in my direction. “Detectives Cassidy and Burgundy insist on being present. Looking for clues, of course. Can you do the telephoning this morning?”

“Yes, Zack. I’ll start right away.”

“Thank you, Bailey.” He gave my hand a squeeze. “I’m counting on you.”

Zack left the cottage without mentioning the missing bicycle. And of course I never told him about the slashed tires, never hinted that I saw him having dinner with Courtney. It surprised me that he hadn’t asked Courtney to do his telephoning for him.

Then I sighed. Courtney had a work schedule. Nobody believed songwriters worked or considered anything that resembled a work schedule.

Breakfast. Mom’s words replayed in my mind. Start your morning with a good breakfast and the whole day will go well. I hoped she was right. I hid the snacks from myself and downed a bowl of granola and bran flakes doused with skim milk, an English muffin with a dab of butter, a glass of guava juice. Then I contemplated Zack’s calling list.

Courtney Lusk. Winton Gravely. Detective Cassidy. Detective Burgundy. Ben and Quinn Bahama. Mitch’s name appeared, too. No doubt Zack and the detectives wanted to keep him under surveillance. Those were the only familiar names on the list. The rest were Francine’s club members and bridge friends and Zack’s business associates. The list totaled twenty people. I reached many of them quickly. I guessed that Miss Manners would disapprove of funeral invitations left on answering machines, but that’s how I handled some of them. I saw no other way. Since I asked the ones away from their phones to return my call, I had to stick close to home.

I couldn’t get my mind on music and lyrics, so I consoled myself with junk food—soul food—washed it down with a Coke. I expected Mitch to phone his response to my funeral invitation, but instead he appeared in person, unaware that I’d tried to get in touch.

“Don’t like funerals,” Mitch said after I gave him the news.

“Right. How well I remember.”

“Come on, Bailey. You know I wouldn’t have skipped Mom’s funeral if I could have gone without risking my life.”

“Sure, Mitch. Sure.” Now, while I had him on the defensive, I decided to give him the word. “I had to tell Zack you’re my brother.”

Mitch whirled to face me with fire in his eyes. “What do you mean you had to? You may have risked my life! Don’t you realize…?” His face flushed crimson and he pounded on the snack bar with his open palm. “Bailey! How could you!”

“Take it easy, Mitch. Zack said he wouldn’t tell anyone, that he’d keep your identity a secret as long as he could.”

“You’re soft on that guy, aren’t you?” Mitch began pacing. “You got a thing going with him, right?”

“Wrong. He’d seen you skulking around the cottage, and he’s worried about my safety. I had to tell him, Mitch. He was going to check on you. Thought I might be seeing someone dangerous.”

“Which you are—Zack Shipton! I don’t trust that guy, Bailey. Once this funeral’s over, I wish you’d cut out of this place. Move. Get clear away from him.”

“Move to where? You got a spare garret?”

“Matter of fact, I do. You can have my apartment. I’m not living there, as long as my friends will put up with me. And by the way. No sign of Wizard—yet. I may go to the police

“Maybe he’ll turn up today. Have you asked around on Stock Island?”

“Don’t try to change the subject. No sense in my apartment going to waste. I want you out of this cottage—and soon.”

“We’ll talk about it after the funeral, Mitch. Why don’t you take your clothes and go? I don’t know where Zack is right now, but I do know he wouldn’t be happy to see you here. Go.”

Mitch left. I hoped he’d find his gun. I’d tucked it into the pocket of his laundered jeans. I can’t bear the thought of having a gun in the house. Once he was out of sight, I stayed beside the telephone, telling callers of the funeral plans.

Somehow I got through the rest of the day, and then donned my best green silk for Francine’s service. Shortly before four I stood with keys in hand, preparing to leave the cottage, when Zack arrived. I’d never seen him in a white suit. The word debonair flashed to my mind. Yet the suit, along with his black silk shirt and tie, gave him a cramped appearance, as if he needed a larger size to accommodate his broad shoulders.

“I’ll escort you, Bailey. And don’t worry. I’ll be at your side throughout the service.”

I tried not to sigh. “Do you think someone might rise up from that group of twenty souls and shoot me on the spot?”

“No, of course not. I need you by my side this afternoon.”

“I’ll be there, Zack. You can depend on it.”

Zack took my arm as we walked from the cottage to the mansion grounds. The day brought back memories of my mother’s funeral, although there were few similarities between Iowa’s austere First Methodist Church and the lush foliage on the grounds at Eden Palms.

Opposite the swimming pool, someone had set up a white-skirted table that held a portrait of Francine. White tapers in Lalique candlesticks glowed on either side of the picture, wafting jasmine-scent into the air. Waterford vases held bouquets of lavender bougainvillea at either end of the table. Someone had arranged a collage of snapshots of Francine receiving civic awards and prize ribbons. There was no music. I’d never experienced the drabness of a funeral without music. Only a pair of mourning doves cooed into the weak sunshine of late afternoon.

An usher led us to the first of several short rows of rattan chairs with jewel-toned cushions, which were set back a few feet from the table. I sat at the end of the row and Zack sat next to me.

Courtney arrived wearing black, head to toe. Dr. Gravely wore his usual navy blue and white. I supposed the yachting cap was okay for an outdoor service. Mitch. Mitch arrived in jeans, but they were new and he’d topped them with a white shirt that still bore creases from its plastic wrapping. I made sure our glances never met. When the usher seated Quinn Bahama in a row behind us, I swallowed a sigh of relief and averted my gaze. I imagined Quinn doing the same thing as she looked at me.

At first, I thought the service would never start. Then I thought it would never end. The minister’s voice droned on until the final prayer. At last Zack rose, took my hand, then stood beside me. I felt hypnotized until I saw the guests moving forward to shake his hand and then mine and to offer words of consolation before leaving the grounds. Mitch never made eye contact with me, nor did he pause to speak to Zack. Quinn Bahama disappeared into the crowd after offering Zack only the briefest of condolences.

Once the last guest departed, the workers from Tisdale’s began clearing away the accoutrements of the service. I’d turned and started to walk toward the cottage when Zack touched my elbow, leaned toward me, and spoke sotto voce.

“Bailey, I should have asked you earlier. I want you to go with me tonight to scatter Mother’s ashes. You’ll do that for me, won’t you?”

How could I refuse? I couldn’t.

“Of course, Zack. Where? What time?”

“Don’t worry about the details. I’ll pick you up at eight for dinner. Moon won’t be at its brightest until midnight. After a leisurely dinner, we’ll drive to the pilot’s private helicopter pad.”

I felt as if I were being carried along on a tide of activities over which I had no control. What does one wear to dinner that’s also suitable for riding in a helicopter to release ashes? I tried to block my fear of the helicopter flight by thinking of mundane things. But why was I afraid? Zack wouldn’t charter a helicopter that wasn’t safe, and I felt sure, well almost sure, that Zack wasn’t the person who’d been threatening me. Mitch and I had seen him with Courtney at the same time someone else had been slashing our bike tires. Surely I wouldn’t be in danger from a killer tonight.