THREE

The Victorian mansion loomed above them, its first- and second-story verandas and gingerbread trim gleaming white in the glow from the street light. On sunny days the house reminded Katie of a grand dame decked out in frills and lace, but tonight in the cold, dank wind, the mansion was more like a mausoleum. Katie felt the cold of the black iron handrail and heard the gray painted steps squeak under their weight as Diane peered through the leaded glass window in the door before opening it and stepping inside. Katie sniffed the ever-present fragrance of lemon oil.

As they closed the door, Randy Dade called to Diane from the kitchen.

“Parade over, Hon? The buskers all back in busker-land?”

“We left early. Katie’s here and we need to talk. Where are the kids?”

“In bed sleeping like dead dolphins. Too exhausted to last out the parade.” Randy poked his head through the kitchen doorway to greet Katie. “Can I get you a beer?”

Katie thought Randy’s sleek, muscled frame seemed at odds with the fragile-looking boiserie of the entryway, just as the elegant gold doubloon he wore around his neck seemed at odds with his worn jeans and T-shirt. Before going into business for himself as a backcountry fishing guide, Randy had once worked as a diver for Mel Fisher in his search for the Atocha. He still wore his long blond hair secured by a leather thong at his nape, much as he had worn it while diving for the Spanish galleon.

“No beer, thanks,” Katie said. “But I might go for a cup of strong tea.”

“Gotcha,” Randy said.

“Tea,” Diane agreed. “Fewer calories. Let’s sit in the kitchen.”

As Diane led the way through a front parlor decorated in the French style from the Napoleon II era, Katie admired both the furniture and the ornate display of ginger jars and cut glass in the china cabinet. Diane’s family rated her first attention, but the house with its turn-of-the-century frills and its antiques showed the effects of her scrupulous attention. She spent hours keeping the mansion and its tropical garden in tip-top shape.

“Have a chair, Katie,” Diane said when they reached the kitchen. She laid her purse on the bricked center bar as Randy filled a copper teakettle and set it on a modern stove ensconced on a tiled hearth within the arch that once had housed a much larger wood range.

Randy pulled out chairs for Katie and Diane, then joined them. “I think we need your help, Katie. But I guess Diane’s already hinted at that.”

“Yes. But I need more facts about the…murder. And I also need to know what Mac McCartel told you. Katie said you talked with him.”

“Mac agrees with the police that Alexa was murdered during a robbery. Probably a drug-related robbery. He wasn’t interested in the case—said he was leaving for Tallahassee and that he had more work than he could handle right now.”

Katie wondered about that. The agency was fairly new. They seldom had so much work that they could afford to turn down more. Intuitively she knew Mac must have believed the police were on top of the Chitting murder.

“Diane said there were more things about the murder that I needed to know. Care to tell me about them?”

“I’ll let Diane do that,” Randy said. “Hear her out and then see what you think. McCartel could be right. Maybe the police are doing an adequate job. Maybe we really don’t need a private detective.”

“I think we do.” The teakettle whistled and Diane poured boiling water over the tea bags in their cups, serving the drinks when the brew grew dark. “Sugar?”

“No thanks.” Katie sipped the hot liquid, almost burning her tongue. “So what else is there to know about your mother’s death?”

“The murderer stole money, Katie, but he also left an envelope of cash in the back of the safe. If robbery was his motive, why didn’t he take all the money?”

“Maybe he overlooked it.”

“Could be, I suppose. But I doubt it. Then there’s the murder weapon to consider.”

“Right,” Randy agreed. “I’m with Diane on that one. Wouldn’t a robber go armed with a gun? Surely he wouldn’t depend on finding an appropriate weapon at the scene. Of course, with a druggie, you never know what to expect.”

“Mother was robust,” Diane said. “She had a personal trainer. She also worked out at a gym four times a week. It would have taken a strong person to overpower her.”

“Tell me about the conch shell,” Katie said. “Where did it come from?”

“Mother always kept it on her desk. Lots of people keep conch shells around for their beauty, but this one was more than a decoration. Mother was a fifth-generation Conch—born and raised in Key West. Her family followed old traditions.”

“Meaning?” Katie absently stirred her sugarless tea, waiting for Diane to continue.

“In more bucolic times Key West had no telephones. When a new baby arrived, the family made the announcement by pounding a stick into the ground and suspending a conch shell from it. The conch on Mother’s desk had announced her birth. It was special. At least special to her. She loved telling its story to anyone who asked and would listen.”

“That’s interesting,” Katie said. “And to have the birth shell used as a murder weapon in death is ironic.”

“We’ve told the police about the will,” Diane said, “but they’ve made no comment.”

“What about the will?” Katie asked. “Who stands to inherit?”

“It depends on which will you’re talking about,” Randy said.

“There were two wills?”

“Yes,” Diane said. “Of course only one is legal, but Mother recently had a new will drawn up by her lawyer. She died before she could sign it.”

“So who stood to inherit?” Katie asked.

“Tell her the whole story,” Randy said. “Start at the beginning.”

Diane took a sip of tea, then began. “Mother had recently learned she had cancer. The doctor’s prognosis called it terminal. For a while she denied the bad news. Then she flew into scathing tirades of anger. Temper tantrums. The doctor called her reactions normal. Mother hated everyone—especially her family. To vent her anger, she decided to cut everyone from her will and bequeath her entire estate to the Key West Preservation Group.”

“But she died before she could sign that will,” Katie said. “So that still leaves the question of who will inherit from the original will and how much.”

“I think someone might have killed her who didn’t want to see his inheritance disappear with the enactment of the new will,” Diane said.

“Could be true,” Katie agreed. “Do the police know all this?”

“Yes,” Diane said. “But if they’re taking any action on the knowledge, they’re keeping it to themselves. It’s easier to suspect a stranger who’s disappeared.”

“Diane,” Katie said, “tell me. Just who does inherit under your mother’s present will?”

“All of us. There’s Dad and me. The kids. Randy—indirectly, of course. Tyler Parish, Mother’s…friend. Mary Bethel, her secretary.”

“Anyone else?” Katie asked.

“No,” Diane said. “That’s all.”

“Is there anything else I should know about the case?”

Diane and Randy exchanged glances, then Diane spoke. “Yes. There is. The police found a blood-soaked dockmaster’s uniform and a wasp-like Halloween mask and head cover near Mother’s body.”

“And?” Katie sensed more to come.

“As the police were going over Mother’s office, they also found a blood-stained button on the carpet beside her chair.”

“Could they identify the owner?” Katie asked.

“Yes.” Diane hesitated, took another sip of tea, then looked away. “There’s no denying that the button came from Dad’s suede sport coat.”

“Do the police have any explanation for how the button got there?”

“None that they’re sharing with us,” Diane said. “So far Dad and I are avoiding the subject. Neither of us has mentioned it. Dad went to Mother’s office now and then. He could have lost the button without knowing it.”

“Of course that’s a possibility,” Katie agreed.

“Katie, the problem is that we need someone to really investigate the case and keep us informed as to what’s going on. I think the police have put it on hold and I want to see some action. Someone killed my mother and it’s wrong for a murderer to walk the streets scot-free.”

“Will you take the case?” Randy asked. “I agree with Diane that we need a private detective.”

Katie wanted to say yes. How could she refuse this friend who had opened her home to her, who had given her a place to live in a city were decent rentals were almost impossible to find. She liked both Diane and Randy and she agreed with Diane that a murderer should face justice. But she couldn’t say yes quite yet.

“Let me think about it, please. Before I can make a commitment, I need to talk with Mac. I’m the ancillary member of the agency, and I usually go along with his decisions.”

“Gotcha,” Randy said, nodding.

“Will you be able to talk with him tomorrow?” Diane asked.

“Yes. I can let you know tomorrow. But right now it’s getting late, and I need to go back to the office for my car and my luggage.”

“I’ll drive you,” Diane offered. “There’s a street dance going on, and the crowd may be raucous.”

Katie pushed her teacup aside, but before she could rise to leave, someone knocked on the door.