Kody’s museum had been a labor of love for a long time.
She’d left the islands long enough to attend college up in Orlando, but she’d always known that she’d live back in Key West. She had received her degree in fine arts, with dual majors in history and hospitality.
That was what one needed in the Keys.
She spent several years working for various different tour groups and with local inns and bed-and-breakfast establishments; she’d helped Bev and Dan out at the Sea Horse at one time. All of it had been leading to her museum. She’d been lucky, gaining so much community support. With Colleen going through the other rooms, Kody concentrated on the Artist’s Corner, a room of the museum dedicated to those who were performers or creators in the many different arts that were, in Kody’s mind, the finest part of humanity. She had always particularly loved music. It would have been impossible to be her father’s daughter otherwise.
There was one wall and a display case dedicated just to her father.
The wall was adorned with his album covers, concert posters and pictures of Michael McCoy with the Bone Island Boys—his two fellow bandmates in the ’80s. Ben Woodrow, drummer, had died of a sudden heart attack when he’d been very young for such a death, just forty. George Fallow, bassist, had passed away soon after, complications from AIDS.
She knew far too much about her father’s life. Being as successful as he’d been had become a challenge for him. There were people with the strength and will to survive the lifestyle that often came with fame and fortune, those who learned and came out of it okay. If it hadn’t been for her mom, she didn’t think that her father would have been one of them.
He had told her as much.
Her father had been, though, a savvy businessman. He had kept control and owned all of his music—he had created the tunes and written the lyrics himself on the numbers that had been done with the band. Kody was incredibly proud that he had been, no matter what, a humanitarian. His music often called on people to fight for justice, and, always, to be kind to one another.
He’d written more than a few love ballads, too.
She stopped in front of a large poster that featured her father’s face. She’d gotten her eyes from him—a strange yellow-brown-green color that was hazel but also amber. She had his light brown hair. In this particular poster, he’d been a very handsome man.
A total heartthrob in his day, which had, of course, gotten him into a bit of trouble at times.
He stared down at her from the poster, a serious expression on his face, his beloved guitar held in his hands.
“Why?” she whispered softly. “Why? I often feel like I’m walking in Grand Central for the dead, but I don’t get to see you!”
She hoped desperately that there was a heaven.
That he was there, playing away. He had, oddly enough, been a very spiritual guy, though he hadn’t adhered to a particular church.
He’d gone often enough to services with Cliff—and had brought her with him. While Cliff had gone to the Catholic Church and her mother had gone to the Episcopalian, neither of them cared which she went to—or if she attended Temple with Jewish friends or any other house of worship. They believed in the basic tenets of goodness, and her father once told her, “Most religions teach us to be good people. It’s only what men can do with religions that make them bad.”
“Love you so much,” she whispered. “Wish you were here... I think you’d love Brodie. Of course, I don’t know what the future will bring.”
She was still staring at the poster when Colleen found her.
“All is well. Hey, when we close, can I give you a few ideas?”
“You know I always value your opinion,” Kody assured her.
She pointed to one of the display cases. “I like the way you have your dad’s notes displayed. I think it’s really cool to see how a major talent like your dad went about his creations. You know, we still have that box in back that you haven’t gone through yet.”
“I’ll get to that—very soon. I think I’m going to move some of these posters...get them closer together. And then gather the pictures of my father and Cliff and let those segue into a section on Cliff. What do you think?”
“I think it’s great. And we can get another of those cases you have for your dad’s guitar—and put Cliff’s guitar next to it.”
“Well, we’ll have to see. Rosy may want to keep Cliff’s guitar.”
“Oh, well, you’re right...we’ll see. I kind of ran back here—I’m going to run back to the front.”
“I’ll spell you in just a minute. I’m going to go through the Civil War Era room and figure out more on the artifacts and documents from the Victoria Elizabeth,” Kody told her.
Colleen left the room. Kody stared at the picture of her father a moment longer, and then started to turn away when another picture caught her eye.
It was one of more than a dozen that had been set in handsome five-by-seven frames and arranged in what Kody hoped were artistic rows that created the shape of a guitar on the wall.
He was with the Bone Island Boys in several; others featured various top ’80s and ’90s bands he’d sat in with.
Still others featured her father playing with friends, lesser known musicians, those he was trying to help along.
She peered closely at one picture.
There was her father—with a very young Arnold Ferrer.
* * *
Detective Lacy was an older man—one with twenty-seven years of experience with the Monroe County sheriff’s office. He was both laid back and thorough, a man who was more interested in facts than in speculation. He’d brought them to the store where Mathilda Sumner worked.
“Mathilda’s car was parked right in front of her house. She owns a little ranch place off of Mile Marker 54,” he told them. “I’ve been in the house, but as far as I can see, nothing went on there—nothing is in disarray. There are no notes on the kitchen counter, nothing to indicate that she was going out. I’ve talked to her manager already, but he’s promised to gather those who are closest to her so that they can speak with us now.”
Liam thanked him.
“We’ve got to keep it together here, right?” Lacy asked. He eyed Brodie suspiciously.
“Mr. McFadden is a private investigator working with local concerns,” Liam explained.
Brodie was pretty sure Lacy wasn’t about to embrace him fully, but at least Lacy made no protest about his being there.
They went into the grocery store.
It was a local shop, not a big chain. There were two checkout counters. There were signs above some of the refrigerator containers. One read “Fresh dolphin—the fish, not the mammal, for all our northern guests! Caught by Jim Beacon last night!” Another advised, “Yellowtail! Off the boat of Big Pat O’Malley!”
A man approached them. He was of medium height, a bit stout, and in his mid-fifties or so.
He wore an anxious look on his bulldog face.
“Hello, I’m Syd Avila. This is my place. I’m closing the door while you’re here and calling out the staff. Mathilda was one of ours,” he added in a whisper.
Brodie liked the man right away; he obviously really cared. He was willing to shut down his business to help.
“Thank you,” Brodie said.
“Hey, I’m going to do my grocery shopping up here from now on, even if I live in Key West,” Liam told him.
Detective Lacy grunted.
A minute later, the door was locked and they were gathered in the back office and storeroom. Avila’s staff consisted of two stock boys, plus Mrs. Avila, his wife, and another Mrs. Avila, his daughter-in-law.
“Thank you all,” Liam said. “What I need to know is who saw Miss Sumner last. Did any of you have any idea of what she might have been doing?”
“She told me she was going to be fixing up the house,” Mrs. Avila, the owner’s wife, said.
“She left here right about six—we don’t close until eight,” Syd Avila said, “but Mathilda was here until six—she played at night sometimes, so...she’d need to be at the bar for their entertainment hours. But she wasn’t due to work last night—there was a band down from Miami—probably not nearly as good as Mathilda—but the owner’s son wanted to shake everything up a bit.” He made a face. “We don’t need that new hopped-up stuff at our tiki bars. But...Mathilda was glad of a night off. Said her place needed some freshening up.”
“Mathilda was awesome,” one of the stock boys offered.
“She was the best,” the other agreed.
“But did anyone see or hear from her after she left the store?” Brodie asked.
The younger Mrs. Avila spoke up softly. “She drowned, right? She must have gone down to the beach and...”
“Was that her custom—to come down to Key West at night and go to the beach?” Brodie asked.
“No...no one goes to the beach at night,” Syd said.
“She could swim,” younger Mrs. Avila offered. She looked from Detective Lacy to Liam to Brodie. “She was a good swimmer, and a diver, but not by night. She loved the sun. She was so happy to live here, in Marathon. But she said she never wanted to dive at night—or to swim at night. You couldn’t see at night.”
“Was she meeting with any kind of a friend, maybe?” Liam asked hopefully.
They all stared at him blankly.
“She was going home. She was going to clean,” Mrs. Avila—Syd’s wife—said, shaking her head at a total loss. Tears popped into her eyes. “We will miss her so much.”
“None of you knows anything else?” Liam asked. “She just left here—and told you she was heading home to clean.”
They all stared at Liam. Their eyes were big and moist.
Liam thanked them all; Brodie echoed his words. Detective Lacy led the way out, saying, “Syd, you’re the best. You can open back up now.”
Brodie trailed on the way out. He was startled to feel a hand on his upper arm; he turned back.
The younger Mrs. Avila had followed him.
She glanced past him to make sure that Detective Lacy had gone on ahead.
“He thinks it’s a simple drowning—I don’t. Mathilda was such a good friend, we did nails together, movies...times out. And, like my mother-in-law said, it’s true. When she left here, she said she was going home to clean.”
“But?” Brodie asked softly.
“She was excited about something. She told me a great opportunity was coming up, that a friend had called her about putting together a special gig. That was a few days ago. I bugged her, but she wouldn’t say more. She promised I’d be the first to know. I don’t know if that means anything or not, but I wanted to tell you. Without our fine Detective Lacy thinking I’m just a hysterical woman.”
“Thank you,” Brodie told her. “That could mean nothing, or everything.”
Detective Lacy and Liam were staring at him. He smiled and hurried on out—after discreetly handing Mrs. Avila his card.
“On to the bar?” he asked.
Lacy shrugged. “We can, but as they told you, Mathilda was off that night.”
“She still might have talked to a friend there,” Liam pointed out.
Lacy shrugged. “I’ve talked to them. The manager, the bartender, the waiters and waitresses...they all acted as if I was crazy. Said they were far too busy for chitchat or phone calls. But then again, we don’t have anything at all. You are welcome to give it a go.”
Tortoise Cove was just a few miles south, near the Seven Mile Bridge.
It was a small place with a large overhang, a very tiny bandstand, and, as with many such places, a bar in the middle.
An early lunch crowd was seated around the bar; two bartenders were working, and it seemed that there were three girls on the floor. A man sitting at the bar rose when the young bartender pointed out the three men coming toward the bar.
He strode over to meet them. “Detective Lacy,” he said, shaking his hand, and then looking at Liam and Brodie. “I’m Harry Wallace, manager here. Mathilda worked for us here two to three nights a week, depending on what was going on. Great woman. Our locals loved her. Goes to prove, huh, no matter how good a swimmer you think you are, you can always get caught in a current.”
“We’re just trying to figure out who she was with—and how she wound up in Key West,” Liam said. “She didn’t drive down by herself. Her car was parked in front of her house.”
“I talked to the detective already,” Wallace said, indicating Lacy.
“We know. We’d just like to find out if she said anything to anyone else. If she mentioned going out, anyone she intended to meet.”
“My staff are busy,” Wallace said.
“We’ll be discreet, and we’ll split up,” Liam said.
Brodie drew the bartender and two of the girls working the floor. The bartender stopped what he was doing when Brodie approached him; he must have known that he was coming to talk about Mathilda.
“Ah, man. It’s such a bummer. She was the sweetest,” he said.
“Yeah, I know—bummer,” Brodie agreed. “Thing is, we’re trying to find out what happened. We’re hoping she said something to one of you.”
“No, I didn’t see her night before last. She wasn’t working. We had a band in from Miami.”
“I know. But I mean, at any time, in the days before, did she say anything about meeting a friend, going to the beach?”
He started to shake his head. “Oh, well, I don’t know if this means anything, but...a couple of days before she...drowned, she gave me a wink when we were talking and said that she might be involved in something very special.”
“And she didn’t say what?”
“Something special...to Mathilda, that meant music. It might have meant that she was trying to score some great concert tickets—she loved to play, but man, she loved to watch other musicians, too. I...wish I knew more. I’d give a lot to help you.”
Brodie quietly handed him a card. “If by any chance...”
“You bet, man. I’ll call you right way.”
His one waitress was older; she was nice, but harried, and just told him that she never really got to spend much time with Mathilda and didn’t know her very well.
The second waitress, a bone-thin younger girl, was more interested in speaking with him. “Mathilda was a doll. We’d have coffee now and then. I thought she might drive up to Miami with a night off, or, come to think of it—down to Key West. But she was sad, I think—a friend of hers who played down there died. I don’t think she’d still be going...but...maybe in honor.”
“Cliff Bullard. Does that name mean anything to you?”
Balancing plates in her hand, she cocked her head to the side. “Cliff...yes, that might have been it. Clive or Cliff...yes, a C name, I’m certain.”
“Did she tell you about doing something special?”
“Oh, yes, but that was several days ago. She told me to cross my fingers for her. But what it was, I’m so sorry... I don’t know.”
Brodie met up with Liam and Detective Lacy back at the front. They thanked the manager and left.
“How about the neighbors? Were they able to tell you anything?” Brodie asked Lacy.
Lacy shook his head. “Only found one of them. An old, old man living next to her. He had no idea, but told me that a bomb could go off and he wouldn’t know—he’s almost deaf and on medication.”
“Care if we go door to door?” Liam asked him.
“Be my guest,” Lacy told him. He hesitated—as if he really didn’t want to say what he was about to, or maybe that he knew he was about to sound like a completely heartless dick. “Look, she drowned. No defensive wounds or marks. Maybe someone we can’t even think of dropped her at the beach. But probably she just drowned.”
“Were any of her belongings found on any beach here?” Brodie asked.
Lacy shrugged. “Look, we’re not without our problems—and not without our homeless. She might have brought nothing but a few bucks with her and a towel. And if that was the case... Look, I’m sorry. Really sorry. She was probably a good person. But the best I can see, it was an accidental drowning and her body got caught in the currents. God knows, water does strange things. But please feel free to investigate. Even if this is Marathon, Detective Beckett, and you work down in Key West.”
Brodie smiled at him. “I’m a private investigator. Reciprocal privileges,” he said. “I’ll be working this until we discover just what did happen.”
“Knock yourself out,” Lacy said. “Just don’t get in my way.” He turned and walked off, heading for his unmarked car.
“Well, I think you pissed him off pretty good,” Liam noted.
“Sorry.”
“Hell, no, don’t be sorry. He was pissing me off, too. Want to check with the neighbors?”
“You bet. I doubt that everyone in the neighborhood is deaf. And, anyway, what the hell is he talking about? The body showed up in your territory.”
“That’s right. He’d best not get in my way,” Liam said softly.
Brodie hesitated, letting out a sigh.
“We have to get into her house, too, Liam. Wish to hell I’d thought of that before I pissed him off.”
“We’ll get the key. I’ll go in. You stay in the car.”
“Will do,” Brodie promised.
* * *
The museum was very nicely busy.
As Kody talked to people, drew pirates with a few children and talked about the Civil War in Key West and pirates and wreckers in the islands, she struggled with the dilemma of calling Brodie now—or waiting to show him the picture when he returned.
She knew he was busy with Liam. She didn’t want to interrupt him when he was questioning someone or, perhaps, even getting close to the truth.
She didn’t know how long he’d be in Marathon.
Finally, he called her.
“Hey, how’s it going?” she said.
“Like all such things—slowly,” he said.
“Anything solid yet?”
“Not really. I’m waiting for Liam to get a key. Then, we’ll see if we can find notes or anything in Mathilda Sumner’s house, or...anything to suggest how she was found with just a bathing suit on. Anyway, how are you doing?”
She almost asked him if he’d picked up the picture of her and her father that was on the dresser; but in the busy museum, with people all around her, she was beginning to wonder if she wasn’t being a little bit paranoid.
“Things are fine here, but...Brodie, I did find something!”
“What?”
“In the ‘Artist’s Corner,’ I have pictures of my dad on the wall... Arnold Ferrer is in one of them! You know...maybe you don’t know, but my dad was great with fellow musicians—always trying to get them out there, give them a venue for playing. I can’t really tell when...maybe a little more than a decade ago... Arnold Ferrer played with my dad.”
“In Key West?”
“I don’t know—I don’t know when the picture was taken or where. You can see it when you get back.”
“Interesting. You’re sure it was Arnold Ferrer?”
“His picture was in the paper and on the news—yes, I’m sure.”
“All right, thanks, Kody. That does sound very interesting. When you have a chance, see if you can find anything with him and your dad and Cliff. Ask Cliff, if you see him. I’m willing to bet he might remember if he played with Ferrer. Anyway, I’ll be back later. Keep in touch. Call me if anything comes up that might be something that pushes us in the right direction.” He hesitated a minute. “Stay safe,” he said.
“Of course,” she told him, and then added, “You, too.”
“Liam is back, heading to Mathilda’s house. Talk to you soon.”
The call ended.
“Can you help me draw a pirate?”
She looked up; a little boy was standing there, staring at her hopefully.
She realized that she’d sat down at one of the tables they’d set up for children’s activities.
“Of course, I’d be happy to help you draw a pirate,” she assured him.
And when she was done, she’d hurry back to the “Artist’s Corner” and study every picture she had on the wall.
* * *
Mr. Eli Quill was deaf; they knocked on the door for a long time before he answered.
He was old—and a big grouch.
“Hold your horses, hold your horses!” he called out. A minute later, the door opened. His mushy beard and mustache were whiter than snow, as was the hair on his head. He walked with a cane, and he stared at them with serious annoyance.
“Hello, sir, and our pardon,” Brodie said politely. “We’ve come to see if you know anything at all about your neighbor, Mathilda Sumner, and where she might have gone the night before last, or if, by any chance, she said anything at all to you.”
“Cops already came and talked to me,” he snapped. “I didn’t see anything; I didn’t hear anything.”
“Did you know her well?” Liam asked.
“Well enough,” he said gruffly, and then he shook his head, eyes lowered. “Good girl, nice girl. Woman—too old to be a girl, right? She’d come and play for me sometimes.”
“That was nice.”
“Darned tootin’!”
“Then...did she tell you about anything she wanted to do, anything special that was going to happen?” Brodie asked.
He shrugged, and then rubbed his beard. “She was pretty excited the last few days. Something about playing somewhere or doing something with old friends... I don’t know what it was. She wasn’t as happy when that friend of hers died down in Key West, but...she was still up to something.”
“With who, do you know?” Brodie asked.
He shook his head, and then peered at them closely. “Why are you asking? I heard that she went swimming and drowned.”
“Her body was found down in Key West. We don’t know how she got there,” Liam said.
“Oh, she’s a cruel mistress, the sea. Water travels, you know.”
“We do know, of course,” Brodie said. “The way she was washed up, though...she was a good swimmer, I heard. Good swimmers don’t usually go too far out. Especially at night. Especially when they don’t like dark water.”
“I didn’t see her leave the house. I’m sorry.”
They thanked him, and started knocking on other doors. They came upon a young mother who hadn’t really known Mathilda. “Two toddlers. I’m afraid I don’t know anything about anyone anymore.”
The next person they talked to was a construction worker, a man walking home, still in his hard hat and carrying an old lunch pail.
“Mathilda, what a shame,” he said.
“Did you see her leave the other night?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. She drowned, right?”
Liam glanced at Brodie.
“She drowned. We don’t know how.” They would have to answer that question every time they spoke to anyone, it seemed.
Detective Lacy really had put it off as nothing more than an accident.
“Time to try Mathilda’s house?” Liam suggested.
“The house,” Brodie agreed.
The kitchen was spotless except for one coffee cup in her sink. Her bills were neatly kept in a stack on her counter. Her bedroom was just as tidy.
Brodie went through her closet; she had several purses and shoulder bags. As he moved them aside, he realized that one was heavier than the others.
Liam had given him gloves—they didn’t know just what they were dealing with, and, if it should prove to be a crime scene, they didn’t want to contaminate anything. “Not that anything happened here,” Liam mused. “No defensive wounds—she didn’t know she was in trouble when she went into the water.”
Brodie opened the heavy bag; it must have been the one she’d been carrying last.
Her wallet was in it, with her ID. Also her car keys, along with a compact, tissues and a few guitar picks.
“Liam!”
“Yeah?” Liam had been in her den.
“She didn’t bring a purse. Everything is here—license, keys, everything.”
“I think we knew that, but now...”
There was a slip of paper in her purse.
There was nothing but a name written on it, and the word, “Yah!”
The name was Michael McCoy.
* * *
The day was winding down.
Sometimes, people came to the door late—thinking that since it was Key West, everything was open late.
A few people were still walking around in back, but Colleen wasn’t allowing any new visitors in. Kody started to take a walk herself, just to count those who remained in the various rooms.
When she came back to the “Artist’s Corner,” she saw that a woman was standing there—much as she herself had been earlier—staring at the wall. She was a petite brunette and, when she turned, Kody saw that she had huge brown eyes and freckles, and an easy smile.
“Hello,” she said, walking straight toward Kody as if she knew her. “You’re Dakota McCoy, right?”
“Yes, I am. Hi, how do you do? Nice to meet you.” She arched her brows, smiling—the implication, of course, being that she needed to know who she was meeting.
The young woman laughed softly. “Adelaide. Adelaide Firestone. I came down here to... I came down because of Arnie.”
“Oh, Adelaide! I’m so pleased to meet you—and so very sorry! I never did get to meet Arnold. We corresponded through email. I would have met him last week...”
And she hadn’t. The reason was obvious.
Adelaide nodded. “It’s horrible,” she whispered. “No good deed goes unpunished, right?” she asked. “I’m so glad that the police have taken this so seriously. I couldn’t help but wonder at first if it was a hate crime, but I don’t believe that the police think that’s the case. I don’t care what the motive was—this was a horrible crime. People say it all the time, but the world is really a lesser place without Arnie in it.”
“I believe you, from what I know,” Kody said softly. “I wish I could say something.”
“I’m all right, really.” She looked around the room. “Arnie and I were together for a few years. I knew that something wasn’t right and that we weren’t going to make it as a couple, but...”
“I know, Adelaide. I’ve seen that same situation with people before. I had a great friend in college, and I would always be pretending to date him when his dad visited. His dad never did accept that his only son was gay. His loss. I still hear from my friend. He’s actually a police chief up in north Florida now. He tried, like your Arnie, to be what he wasn’t. And he, like your Arnie, too, is one of the best human beings I know.”
She was surprised when the young woman walked over and impulsively hugged her tightly. Kody responded.
“We have a daughter. Haley. I just couldn’t bring her down here for this. She’s turning six soon.”
Adelaide pulled away, wiping her eyes. “I just wanted to come in and speak with you, meet you, and tell you that I intend to honor everything that Arnie wanted to do. And that’s to tell the truth about history. I’m just afraid, sometimes, that there’s someone out there who doesn’t like what we’re doing. Or, they’re afraid of their part in it—oh, not their part, obviously, but you know what I mean—the sins of the fathers and all that.”
“They’ll find the truth,” Kody promised her.
Adelaide smiled. “I was just looking at that picture of your dad and Arnie. It’s so nice that he’s part of your museum! I have another one, by the way. If you’d like it, I’d be happy to get it to you.”
“I’d love to have another picture,” Kody assured her. “I’m going to be redoing the display here.” She paused. “Another friend died...another musician. I’m trying to figure out exactly how best to showcase people. Of course, Arnie will have his place in the Civil War Era room, too. Along with the Victoria Elizabeth.”
“Thank you. One day, I’m going to bring Haley here. She’ll get to understand just how terrific her dad was.” Adelaide looked as if she might start crying again; instead, she turned back to the wall of photos.
“These are just great! You must have pictures of your dad with just about everyone—and still, you put up lesser-known musicians.”
“My dad went through a very bad period—he struggled with drug and alcohol addiction in his younger years. To me, though, the best thing about my dad was that he was always just a man who really loved his music—and he was happy to share with others.”
Kody walked over to stare at the wall again. She found herself looking at one in particular, wondering why something about it drew her attention.
She had always seen it as a picture of her dad, out in front. He was in the Keys, at a tiki bar, and it had been taken maybe two or three years before his death.
Cliff was in the picture, in the background. She’d always known that.
At the bottom of the picture, though, was a hand—as if someone had been speaking emotionally and gesturing with their arms and hands—and the hand had just been caught in the image. Kody hadn’t had any of the pictures retouched; they were her father in his natural element. Like Tom Petty was known to suddenly play in Gainesville coffee houses or bars, her father had often just wound up playing at places in the Keys.
Something in the shot bothered her, and she didn’t know what. What was it about the hand?
Adelaide wandered over to her. “Hey, Arnie’s in that one, too,” she said.
“What? Where? Do you mean—that’s his hand?”
“No. See, back there. Far right corner near the stage. He’s holding the neck of a guitar, and he’s turned away, you can only see a bit of his face. But that is Arnie.”
“So, my dad, Cliff and Arnie. And...”
The hand.
That meant that Cliff had known—or at least met—Arnold. Why hadn’t he said something?
“Anyway, it’s an absolute pleasure to get to know you,” Adelaide said. “I’m going to head back to the house. I’m going through Arnie’s clothing, sorting it for Goodwill or the Salvation Army. That would make him happy.”
“Thank you so much for coming to visit, Adelaide. I’m glad I got to meet you.”
Adelaide smiled, and left the room. Kody turned to stare at the picture again. Then she suddenly knew who belonged to the hand.
Bill Worth. She recognized the ring that he wore on his third figure; it was a gold ring with the initials WW engraved on it, a present from his father.
She felt chilled, but then wondered just what it might mean.
She knew that her father played with other people; her father had been close friends with both Cliff and Bill. It meant nothing that the man was there, in the picture.
Surely, nothing at all.
Except that according to Special Agent Angela Hawkins, Krewe of Hunters, Bill Worth was a descendant of a man named Gonzales, a man who meant to purchase the best slaves possible, and work them until they collapsed beneath the hot Georgia sun. And here was proof he’d been in the same room with a murdered man, the descendant of the owner of the very same slave ship.
“Ridiculous,” she said aloud. She’d known Bill forever. He’d never kill—period. Much less over something that a long-gone ancestor had done.
“Kody?”
She’d been staring with such determination at the wall of pictures that she hadn’t heard Colleen come into the room.
“Shall I help you now?” Colleen asked Kody. “I think I’ve got everyone out.”
Kody smiled, hoping Colleen hadn’t seen how she’d jumped.
“No, not today,” Kody said. “I’m just not ready, I guess. But we will start tomorrow.”
“Want to head out with me?” Colleen asked.
“No, you get home. You’ve gone above and beyond. Get some rest. You know what I’m going to do? Just a bit of reading. Liam sent me email translations of some of the documents that Arnold Ferrer left. I’m going to go over them.”
“Okay.”
“You going out on the town?”
Colleen grinned. “Maybe. For a bit. But hey, I like being home.”
“Your dream ghost, right? And you think that he’s Cliff,” Kody murmured.
“Oh, he’s so sweet. Such a gentleman.”
“He was married,” Kody reminded her.
“Yes, I know. He’s just kind and gentle and makes me feel good. That doesn’t hurt anyone at all.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Kody agreed.
“I’ll lock up. You have your keys, right?”
“I do. Good night.”
Colleen left. Kody kept staring at the wall. Three people dead. Did those deaths have anything to do with one another? The drowned woman... Mathilda Sumner. Did she have anything at all to do with the Victoria Elizabeth?
Only one slim factor joined them all together.
They had been musicians who played guitar.
She moved closer to the wall, searching the images. There were several women in the different pictures. Differing ages, differing years. She hadn’t known Mathilda Sumner, and she didn’t know what she’d looked like. Thus far, her image hadn’t been on the news or in the papers—not that Kody had seen.
She walked to the front, sliding back behind the little counter. She chose not to use the work computer, and drew out the laptop she kept beneath the desk. She pulled it out and keyed in Mathilda Sumner’s name.
All kinds of information on her popped up; Kody went to the musician’s website and looked under “Photos.”
And right there, the very first of the photos, was a duplicate of one picture that Kody had on her wall.
Mathilda Sumner, her eyes expressing awe as she stared up at the man who had an arm around her, grinning at the camera—Michael McCoy.
“I probably met her myself,” Kody muttered. She even recognized the venue in this one—it had been a time when Michael had been playing at Mallory Square. Kody had been about fourteen. It had been billed as “Michael McCoy and Friends.” He had Cliff up that day, and all kinds of performers. She remembered the day because her dad and Cliff had insisted that she showcase Cliff’s song—“Love in the Sun.” It was one of the first times she’d sung in front of such a large crowd.
“So,” she said aloud softly again, “every one of you had a connection to my father. You knew him, played with him. But my dad has been dead for a decade!”
There was no answer, though.
As she scrolled through the rest of Mathilda’s pictures, she heard a noise from the back. She frowned. Colleen had said that the museum was cleared out.
She walked to the hallway. “Anyone there?”
No answer.
She went room by room; no one seemed to be there.
She was uneasy; nervous, even. She tried to tell herself that she was being jumpy—too much had happened too quickly.
She ran her check again.
Finally, she went back to the front, trying to find some kind of logic in what had happened.
She now needed to do what she had told Colleen they would do; read everything she could about the Victoria Elizabeth.
* * *
Ewan Keegan wasn’t home; Brodie figured that he might be out on the Memory, since the Sea Life crew was exploring the wreck again.
They wanted to know what his boat had been doing out on the water the night Ferrer had been killed—and find out if he’d give them his permission to search his boat.
Ewan might also be at the Sea Life offices, and so, while the hour was growing late, they decided to try there.
“There should have been something more,” Brodie murmured, as they walked down the street heading for the Sea Life offices.
Someone, somewhere was warbling out a Journey song. Karaoke, in Key West, always seemed to be a fun thing for people to do—even if they never stood up to sing anywhere else.
Ewan’s sister-in-law had a karaoke place south on Duval—but it was a bit of the lower Duval party route, and O’Hara’s tended to draw more of a local crowd.
“Gotta love Journey,” Liam said dryly. “Actually, I do. I just wish the karaoke crowd would learn a few more numbers.” He grimaced.
“There was nothing,” Brodie said. “Nothing but that bit of chain. And I couldn’t find anyone who even knew anyone who had broken a necklace. Of course, even if we found one of the divers had lost one...there’s no guarantee that it arrived right along with the body of Arnold Ferrer.”
“You’re sure Ewan didn’t break such a chain? He’s the only one who regularly wears one while diving. Sorry to suggest it, I like the man myself.”
Brodie shook his head. “Ewan has always worn one chain. Just one. It’s still around his neck.”
“If he took his boat out, it had to have been late—really late.”
They reached the offices of Sea Life, and Ewan was there.
“Hey,” he said at first, opening the door for them. Then he groaned. “Okay, what did I do now? I know that I must be a ‘person of interest.’ That’s been established. But I told you where I was and when. I know that people can vouch for me.”
“People did vouch for you,” Liam said. “Until about midnight.”
“And what do you think I was doing after midnight? I’m not a twentysomething party guy, and I’ve lived down here far too long to play a drunken tourist.”
“Ewan,” Brodie said, “we have reason to believe your boat was out on the water—near the Victoria Elizabeth.”
Ewan frowned. “My boat is out there most of the time. I let the guys head over there sometimes, and I go over myself. I keep it out there on purpose.”
“But you weren’t on it.”
“If my boat was out there... Oh, I see. You think that I killed Ferrer, and just hailed a water cab to take me and the body out there?”
“Ewan, I know this is hard, but please don’t be defensive. You know as well as I do that we have to check out anything and everything and use that to eliminate potential suspects,” Brodie said.
“Yeah, sure. Dammit, Brodie, you know I didn’t do this,” Ewan said.
“You’re right. I don’t believe you could have done this. We have to check everything.”
Ewan walked around in a circle and then plopped down behind his desk. “My boat was out there. She’s a thirty-five-footer with a master’s cabin and a second bedroom—they’d be fore and aft. Oh, and the galley seats can stand as beds. Sometimes, when we’ve all been worn to hell, some of the divers have crashed there instead of going all the way back in.”
“And they use dinghies from the Memory, right?” Liam asked.
“Right. And sure, I could have motored myself in one of the dinghies from the Memory, and then taken it back to my boat, the Great Escape.”
“Conceivably, you could have,” Brodie said.
Ewan didn’t deny the words; he frowned more deeply.
“The guys would know if one of the dinghies was gone,” he said. Brodie thought that he wasn’t being defensive.
He was worried.
He shook his head. He leaned forward. “Unless you think Ferrer’s murder was perpetrated by my entire crew, that would be about impossible. Unless...”
“What?”
He shook his head.
“Dammit, Ewan, what?” Brodie pressed, leaning toward him on the desk.
Ewan sighed. “You can row a bit...and then turn on a motor. But I’m telling you, everyone on my crew was fascinated with Arnold Ferrer—they couldn’t wait to meet him. They didn’t want him hurt in anyway—he was making our discovery all the more significant.”
“Who else might know about how everyone functions on the Memory?” Ewan asked.
Liam answered for him. “Anyone. When the dive first started, a local journalist did a documentary report on the Memory, Sea Life, and even featured Ewan.”
“We’d like to search your boat,” Brodie said. “Without having to get a warrant. And, of course, the dinghies on the ship.”
“Go for it,” Ewan said. “I’ll sign anything you need.”
“Just need your permission,” Liam said.
Ewan lifted his hands. “You’ve got it. And you already know all of the men... Whatever you need. Do it.”
Liam and Brodie left the office.
“That was easy enough,” Liam said.
“Easy—and hard. Now, we have a whole new list of possibilities.”
“You still can’t rule Ewan out, you know.”
“I don’t—not in the way I work,” Brodie assured him. “But I have to say, I just don’t think it’s possible—and I don’t even believe we’re going in the right direction.”
“Because...”
“Because—I think I told you—Ewan Keegan is just about tone deaf. The man is truly a horrible singer, and he loves to sing the National Anthem. He can’t play an instrument.”
“The music connection. It just...”
“What?”
“This can’t be someone murdering guitarists. It just can’t be. You do know that I don’t think a single behavioral scientist—not just with the FBI, but anywhere—would believe that these murders could possibly be related, right?” Liam asked him.
Brodie nodded. “And you do know that even the very best of the best have never been able to completely solve the human mind or human nature?”
“So, three separate murders. Three separate methods of death. Two that might not have been murders at all, but rather, accidental deaths. Great. Let’s get to it. Let’s find Bill Worth.”
* * *
Senhor Gonzales,
I am delighted to assure you that all my expectations have been fulfilled; the cargo of men—between the years of sixteen and forty—is exceptional. All extremely healthy, and promising hours of work in the hottest sun...
Kody read the words and wondered how there had ever been a world in which people were so callous when it came to others.
She knew that slavery had existed throughout history. She’d attended a great lecture in college given by a visiting Moroccan professor; slavery went back to the times when the first hunter-gatherers had begun to form cities. Babylonia recorded the medical treatment of slaves, and there, too, slaves could own slaves. The first well-recorded history of the process, according to her professor, had been in Ancient Greece.
War tended to be the greatest provider of slaves throughout history.
One tribe decimating another and making slaves of the survivors.
Modern-day slavery existed. It was now referred to as “trafficking in persons,” and her professor had taught them that it still happens around the world—in the free world, men and women of responsibility should watch for the signs and make sure that any suggestion of the trade be reported to the police. He taught them the signs to watch out for.
And still it was hard to imagine.
She read the reply to Senhor Ferrer.
...A dead slave is a worthless slave, as I am sure that you are aware. I will expect a guarantee for a nominal lifetime—a minimum of a decade’s work.
And that had been written by a man who was supposedly one of Bill Worth’s ancestors.
But then again, what had her own ancestors been doing? What had anyone’s ancestors been doing, and could any man, of free mind and will, be blamed for the sins of the past?
She stared at the computer. There was more. A diagram of the ship that showed how human beings were basically stuffed in the hold—like sardines in a can.
Thump!
Kody sat straight, desperately trying to figure if she had heard the sound, if it had come from the back of the museum—or, perhaps, been caused by somebody or something falling near the museum.
It sounded as if it had come from inside.
She stood up and peeked into the hallway. There was nothing there.
“Where the hell is one of my good old ghosts when I need one, huh?” she murmured aloud.
Get out, she told herself.
Whatever was going on, it was beginning to make her think that the strange deaths and occurrences were making her paranoid. She thought people had been in her house, and now she was thinking that people were in her museum.
Get out, idiot, just get out.
But who the hell would be in the museum? Or in her house? She had email that contained translations of documents—she didn’t have any of the artifacts, documents, letters—anything. The police had taken the information that Arnold Ferrer had been bringing. There wasn’t really anything to steal.
She found herself walking down the hallway. Great—she’d turned off most of the lights earlier. The auxiliary floor lights were on, but the rooms were in shadow.
She was an idiot.
She was also angry. Was someone coming in and out her bathroom window? She could swear that she locked the damn thing every day.
She began to stride toward the back; she’d worked really hard for the museum. She’d defend it.
She was just suddenly certain that someone had been breaking into her house and into the museum—and no one had been hurt.
As yet.
She suddenly stopped walking. There was something ahead of her. It was like a dark mist in the air, floating.
It wasn’t the captain. It wasn’t Cliff.
She stood still, swallowing.
The ghosts she had known had all been good...lost. Wanting to help, or to be helped.
And this...
“Get out, get out...”
It seemed that a voice sounded, like the wind, or a wave, gruff and rusty, echoing the thoughts she’d had earlier.
She turned and fled back to the front, not at all sure if the voice had been a warning—or a threat.
She ran the length of the hallway, out into the reception area. She tried to throw the door open, but it was locked. Without missing a beat she turned and grabbed her bag from beneath the counter, opened the door, and flew out into the street.
She flew so hard that she nearly knocked down the man standing there.
Bill Worth.