FIVE

Katie helped Diane rinse the teacups and place them in the dishwasher while Beck drove Randy to get Katie’s car and luggage. They talked a bit longer, then once Katie had her suitcase, she climbed the baronial staircase to the second floor. She paused for a moment to adjust the gold frame on an ancestral portrait and smooth the fringe on a French tapestry before she went on up the wide carpeted steps to her third-floor apartment.

Diane admitted feeling guilty about spending so much on antiques, admitted using Katie’s rent payments to support her habit. Katie didn’t mind. She admired Diane for choosing a home and family career and living on Randy’s income. She wondered if everyone felt guilty about something. She also wondered how she could have been so lucky as to have met Diane. They needed each other.

The wind howled under the eaves of the third floor that consisted of one large room where, at the turn of the century, the original owners once held fancy dress balls. Tonight it smelled musty from having been closed, and she opened a window a crack.

A small closet at the end of the room held ladder-like steps leading to a widow’s walk on the roof. There, old-time ship captains had paced, scanning the sea for sailboats wrecked on the reef, knowing that the first captain to offer aid owned salvage rights to the distressed vessel. Sometimes Katie climbed up for a panoramic view of the island. But not tonight. Too cold. Too windy.

In her apartment, Kirman carpet designated the living area with its furniture from Diane’s favorite Napoleon II era. The old rug felt soft under Katie’s feet as she kicked off her shoes and turned on a lamp. Sometimes she felt almost smothered in antiques.

French screens separated the living area from the sleeping area with its burnished brass bed and the ancient dresser that had a top drawer that pulled out to form a desk. Katie unpacked, hanging her clothes in the mirrored armoire before she took a shower and climbed into bed. Then she got up again and stepped onto the bedside scales.

“One hundred twenty-five.” Up a pound. Drat. The morning and night weighing-in had become a ritual. Compulsive behavior, her Miami therapist had said. She had long ago given up trying to break the habit, but she tried not to let the numbers on the scales control her life. Tomorrow she would eat nutritious meals. Fruit. Skim milk. Good low-cal stuff like that. Tomorrow. The promise palliated her conscience and she climbed into bed again. It had been a long day.

Sleep eluded her as she wondered if she could handle a murder investigation. Most of their cases so far had involved searching for missing people or tracking down information in Miami or Tallahassee concerning embezzlements. She hoped the police were right, that some drug-crazed addict had murdered Alexa. What would she do if the culprit turned out to be a respected family member? Would she be putting her own life in danger if her investigation threatened to disclose the murderer?

*

On Sunday Katie slept late, untroubled by the recurring nightmare which sometimes plagued her, the dream in which she relived the classroom-shooting scene. The thought of it made her shudder, but she came to life as her telephone rang. Before answering, she propped herself on one elbow and raised the window shade. The wind no longer howled, but the skies looked like molten lead.

“Hope I didn’t wake you.” Diane’s voice greeted her. “But I know you haven’t had time to grocery shop, and we have a breakfast overload. I’m bringing you a tray.”

“You’re a doll. I’m starving and the cupboard’s bare.”

“Of course my generosity’s also a bribe.”

“Unfair.”

“I’m kidding. But I hope you like French toast with my own special guava syrup, bacon, scrambled eggs, cereal, milk, and orange juice.”

“Really playing the Happy Homemaker to the hilt, aren’t you?” Katie laughed, but her mouth watered. “Did you think any more about taking the case?”

“Yes. I had insomnia from thinking about it. But I still need to talk to Mac before we make a decision.”

“We need you, Katie.”

“Maybe less than you think.”

*

Diane brought the breakfast tray, then hurried off to join Randy and the kids for church. After eating with a gusto that threatened to add pounds, Katie stood before the mirrored armoire, studying her figure. No, she wasn’t fat. She remembered days at the orphanage when food had always been in short supply. The minute she had a job and left there, she indulged herself in fruit, meat, desserts. In a matter of only a few weeks, her weight had soared.

This morning, once she finished eating, she drove to the Winn Dixie and laid in a supply of groceries. It took two trips up the stairs to get them all into her tiny kitchen. Then, as she drove to her office, Bubba appeared from a side street, looking like the inventor of sleaze.

“Hey, Blondie. How about a lift to the beach?”

He had to have been waiting for her, like a frog waiting for a fly. Why walk when good old Katie Hassworth provided free transportation? She pulled to the curb and stopped long enough for him to get in. His greasy hair hung around his shoulders, and the sun peeking through the clouds glinted on his ear stud. Today he wore his shirt tucked into his jeans and secured with a black rope. All that sartorial splendor to celebrate Sunday?

She smiled at the thought as he sniffled.

“I’d like to talk with you,” Katie said with feigned enthusiasm.

“I’m heading for the beach.”

“It’ll only take a minute or two.”

“Money talk?”

“Perhaps.” She drove a bit faster, reluctant to be seen with Bubba any longer than necessary. “Let’s go to my office.”

“Let’s go to the beach. Talk goes better in sunshine and fresh air.”

Katie agreed, but she drove to her office. “Business talk demands a business-like atmosphere.” She parked in the scant driveway, opened the office door, and tried not to wrinkle her nose at the stale cigarette odor. Sitting at her oak desk, she offered Bubba the straight chair.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Alexa Chitting was the `old biddy’ who was bumped off last Monday?”

“I didn’t hear you offering any bread for the info. What gives? I see you got the scoop without my help.”

“She was probably the wealthiest woman in Key West, and I happen to rent an apartment from her daughter. Diane wants me to investigate her mother’s death.”

“And that’s where I come in?” Bubba grinned and jammed his hands more deeply into the pockets of his grimy jeans.

“Perhaps.”

“I hate that word and you use it a lot, Blondie. I’ve noticed that about you.”

“‘Perhaps’ is better than ‘no,’ isn’t it?”

“Not much.”

“Want to forget the whole thing?” She used her schoolteacher voice. “I can do my own footwork, if necessary.”

Bubba sighed. “You’re a hard woman, Blondie. What do you want to know?”

“I haven’t taken the case for sure.”

Bubba stood. “So I’m going to the beach. Once all the clouds scatter, it’s going to be a great day out there. You desk types ought to notice that now and then.”

“Wait. The beach will still be there ten minutes from now.”

Bubba slumped back into the chair as if his spine were made from cooked spaghetti. He sniffled again. “So what do you want to know?”

“Have you heard any talk about the murder?”

“Sure. Everyone’s talking about it. Or at least they were. It’s sort of old stuff by now.”

“What were people saying?”

“Depends on what people you mean. Police call it a drug-related robbery. They see enough of them. They oughta know.”

“And what are others saying?”

“That Mrs. Chitting was a grade-A bitch. That lots of good people out there hated her guts. That even her husband couldn’t stand her. Some suggest he might have offed her. Others guess it might have been her son-in-law. Or even her daughter. Mrs. Chitting must have been a real sweetie face.”

“You paint a lovely picture.”

“She a friend of yours?”

“I didn’t know her.”

“But this daughter, this Diane, she’s going to pay you to investigate, right?”

“Maybe—if I take the case.”

“Money talks.” Bubba smirked. “It can do strange things to people.”

“No doubt you speak from experience.”

Bubba shrugged. “What else do you want to know?”

“Just the street talk about Alexa Chitting’s murder. What Tyler Parish does in his spare time. Any info about the Cayo Hueso housing project.”

“Who’s Tyler Parish?”

“A local artist. He rents space at a Simonton Street Loft.”

“How much info you want?” Bubba wrinkled his forehead as if he were about to undertake a difficult and time-consuming undercover job.

“About twenty dollars’ worth.”

“Let’s see the twenty.”

“When you produce, you’ll see it. I’m no pay-in-advance type.”

“Nice talking with you, Blondie.”

Bubba rose and left. Katie smiled at his departing back. He liked to leave the impression that he had been unfairly treated and was out of her life for good, but she knew he’d be back. His kind always returned to the source of easy money. And he might have some valuable information. He was street smart. He listened, and he managed to stay out of jail. At least he had those things going for him.

After opening the mail that had stacked up, and finding mostly bills, Katie dialed Mac’s cell phone, but no answer.

She decided to take Bubba’s advice and enjoy the outdoors and the day, but she didn’t head for Smathers Beach where she might have to concentrate on avoiding Bubba. Instead she drove back home, donned her swimsuit, and spread a beach towel beside the Dades’ private pool.

She hadn’t intended to fall asleep, and she didn’t know how long she had been dozing, but she came fully awake with a start. She saw no movement and heard no sound, yet she sensed that someone had been watching her.