Dakota McCoy’s museum had been planned out extremely well. She had managed to set out history era by era, and add some fun.
Real pirates, of course, were not fun—and the exhibits showed that they lived under harsh and hazardous conditions—and frequently came to a very bad end.
Wrecking had once been king—and for a span of time, had provided the city with one of the highest per capita incomes in the nation. Some made their money very legitimately—some were suspected of having caused wrecks, luring ships to the ripping danger of the reefs.
Brodie moved quickly, seeing that most of the other guests were leaving.
He had been to the Keys many times—Key West, specifically. It was often thought of as a party town—and the bars and establishments on Duval and elsewhere did welcome many a bachelor and bachelorette party, reunion and celebration. But the history of the island was rich; it had always been a melting pot.
He loved the room on the “Conch Republic,” the declaration that had created a little island nation—if only for a matter of hours.
The room that drew him now because of his curiosity regarding Kody featured the arts and artists. She had an exceptionally fine tribute to Hemingway, but in Key West, that was almost mandatory. There was a wonderful dedication to Jimmy Buffett, and to the many other natives and visitors who had given their expertise in some ways to the island.
Of course, he found himself most fascinated with the wall that featured her father, the late Michael McCoy.
He was studying the wall that explored his early days playing in local establishments, and the rise of his band to worldwide recognition.
He felt her walk in as he was reading dates and times and places.
“Your dad,” he said, without turning.
“I was very proud of him. Proud of his music, and then prouder that he turned his life around. He adored my mom, of course, but friends like Bill...and Cliff...really helped him.”
He nodded and turned to her and smiled. “I’m glad you have this here,” he said. “Honest, and in the open. Your father was human, and therefore, like all of us, he had his frailties. You’ve managed to honor the man without putting him on a ridiculous pedestal.”
“Thanks.”
“He was an amazing songwriter and musician. He set the bar high.”
“And for his only child. I loved him, love music and I can carry a tune—but I have different passions. I’m not my father. There have been times in my life when I’ve felt the need to explain that, but that’s not his fault. And even if I weren’t his daughter, I’d have to do a display for him—he was a major contributor to the music scene here.”
He nodded. “I know what you mean.”
“You do?”
“About the influence of famous parents,” he said. “McFadden. Maeve and Hamish McFadden.”
“Oh!” she said, startled. “Wow. I should have made the association. Your folks were so talented—together and apart. You’re one of their sons. They had three—I mean, you have two brothers, right?” She waved a hand in the air. “When I was in my teens, I saw a movie called Strive. They were both in it. Well, I guess you know that. Anyway, I thought they were amazing. A ‘Hollywood’ couple who really made it. I read up on them, and I probably should have known your name, but...”
“That was a few years back. Hey, it’s okay. I always felt a little badly. Three of us—and not an actor among us.”
“What do your brothers do?”
“We are all licensed private investigators. My brothers are in the academy now.”
“The academy?”
“FBI.”
“Oh. Well, good for them. Excellent.” She shrugged awkwardly.
He smiled. “We really don’t act. Trust me—we’d be horrible. But I heard you doing your dad’s song. You, at least, have a talent.”
“I was younger when he died. I did sit in with him now and then. But I love people, places and history. He always understood that. My dad told me that each person had to move in the direction that most beckoned to them. He was... Well, I’m sure he was a total ass for many years of his life. But by the time I came around, he was great.”
“It’s wonderful to hear that.”
“I miss him very much.”
“I—um—miss my parents, too,” he said, looking away and trying to awkwardly smile.
It wasn’t as if he was actually able to miss them. Maeve and Hamish had never left. In actual spirit, they were absolutely determined to remain and watch over their sons.
He remembered after they’d died—it had been a freak accident in a theater—and how neither he nor Bryan nor Bruce had wanted to admit that they could see and hear them, that they were...there!
His mother, still breezing in and out, opinionated, determined; his father, ever patient, kind, smiling over her antics, even in death.
“Well...” Kody murmured. “I think the last of my guests just left. Shall we go?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“Just going to check that I locked up the back.”
“Sure.”
He followed her. There were two restrooms in the rear, he discovered, and a hallway door that led to a staging room. There were desks, boxes and artifacts—some of them old Key West signs, some in boxes marked “art,” and a few old gravestones among other things.
Interesting, but not what drew his attention at the moment.
The back door had two bolts—no one would easily break in that way, certainly.
“You usually keep this locked, right?” he asked her, indicating the back door.
“Yes, always, really. Unless we’re having a delivery of some kind,” she told him.
“Sorry. The PI in me, I guess.”
“Not a problem.”
She headed out then, pausing to lock the front door as they reached the street.
“Where to?” she asked.
“You know that better than me.”
“What are you in the mood for?” she asked him.
He laughed. “We’re in the Keys. Seafood.”
She smiled at that. As they walked down the street, she pointed out things that had changed since she’d been a child—and things that hadn’t.
“The water is always there,” she said, smiling. “I do love the water.”
“You dive?”
She laughed. “I was born here. Yep, I dive.”
They moved on, and she led him to a place not far away and right at the dock. It was a large restaurant; she greeted the hostess and the waiter who came to their table.
“You know everyone,” he said.
“Nope, I’m just friendly. A lot of immigrants come here to work in the restaurants and shops. Cubans, South Americans, Central Americans—and a lot of young people from places like the Czech Republic, Albania, the Ukraine...you name it. Actually, I do get a lot of new friends that way.”
“Nice,” he told her.
They ordered, then she looked at him, growing very serious. “So what is it? What does the rest of the world know that I missed? Should have checked the news on my phone, at least.”
“It might not be world news. We discovered the identity of the dead man. He was Arnold Ferrer. His forefather was Mauricio Ferrer, a Portuguese man who had an interest in—”
“Oh, my God!” she broke in.
“So—you did have an appointment with him?”
“I’d forgotten... Yes. I think I was supposed to see him tomorrow at the museum. Oh, he would have been to see Ewan or someone with Sea Life, too. I only met him over the phone, of course. Oh! I think Ewan—or someone with the company—referred him to me. He had a fantastic notebook filled with his ancestor’s observations and... Oh, no. He sounded like such a wonderful man. He said that he had friends who told him that he should never mention anyone in his past who was so horrible, but he thought the world needed to see how bad, how cruel it had been. This is so, so sad!”
“I’m sorry to add to what you’re already going through.”
She was quiet for a minute.
“He was murdered,” she said.
“Yes. The autopsy showed that he was hit in the back of the head. He tried to fight back, but he was probably dazed—nearly knocked out by the blow. He was then strangled with something like electrical cord.”
“How horrible. How truly horrible.”
Her voice faded. Her face was knit with taut concern.
“Yes. Horrible,” Brodie agreed.
“Why?” she wondered.
“Maybe someone didn’t want the truth out.”
“But...who would go against him on something like that? Especially in the Keys. Here’s a great thing—we tend to accept people for who they are. We don’t care a lot about ethnicity here, or religion, or sexual orientation, or...anyone’s past! It’s a tragic waste...”
“I’m sorry. Wish I could have held off until after we’d eaten,” he said.
“No, no...you had to tell me. Liam wants to talk to me, right?” she asked.
He nodded. “He’s hoping to find a clue somewhere.”
“I have emails we exchanged. I can get them to you.” She hesitated, studying him. “Were you...working with Liam today?” she asked.
He nodded. “Not officially.”
“But...can you investigate things here?”
“Yes, Florida and Virginia offer reciprocal privileges.”
“I see.”
“I’m afraid there’s no way I wouldn’t have an interest.”
“You found the body.”
“Right.”
She exhaled a long sigh. She’d ordered iced tea to drink and she took a long swallow of it.
“No wonder Liam is...”
“Determined?”
“Distracted,” she said. She was silent a minute. “I’m concerned, of course. Horrified. And I totally want the truth to be discovered. But I don’t think that Liam is giving enough attention to...”
“Cliff.”
“You think I’m being ridiculous?” she asked.
“No. But when we left the morgue this morning, Cliff was still awaiting autopsy.” He hesitated. “Why would anyone want to kill Cliff? Our Mr. Ferrer... Maybe his documents would incriminate someone who didn’t want to be known as the descendant of a slave trader—at least, there’s somewhere to follow with that. Cliff—from everything that I’ve seen and heard, from everyone that I’ve met—the guy was great. And loved.”
“I know,” she said softly. “He was loved.”
“Well, we’ll find out more tomorrow.”
“Right.”
“So...”
He paused, and they both thanked the waiter as their dinners arrived.
After the waitress left, Brodie smiled at her and asked, “What made you come up with your ‘haunted’ part of the museum?”
She looked down, pretending great interest in the shrimp dish she had ordered.
Then she looked up. “Well, we have some of the best ghost stories in the world here. Any place this old is bound to be haunted—well, you’re from Virginia. You must know that.”
“We have ‘Washington Slept Here!’ signs all over,” he agreed. “And there’s a charming place—privately owned and opened now and then—that Jefferson had purchased for a relative. People claim that he can be seen sitting by the fire, contemplating, now and then.”
“Nice,” she murmured. “We have poor Elena de Hoyos—a man named Carl Tanzler fell madly in love with her. He was working as an X-ray technician and tried to convince her family he could save her. She had tuberculosis and died, and he bought her a beautiful mausoleum...then stole her corpse and lived with it for seven years, saying it was just fine—he had married her. And we have an old theater where a fire took the lives of many—pirate ghosts, soldier ghosts...you name it.”
“A bevy of activity.”
“Of course.”
“And Robert the doll, of course.”
“Yes, I’ve seen Robert. At the East Martello Museum. Creepy doll.”
“Yes, well, Robert Otto—who grew up in and inherited the Artist House, a beautiful Victorian B and B now—blamed everything on that doll. It is a creepy as hell doll. We have that story in our ‘haunted’ area, as well. But of course, time...time lends to ghost stories.”
“It does.”
“Your house is historic, right?”
“It is. It belonged to a Captain Blake Hunter. He was a Confederate—and on a blockade runner when he was killed. Sad, of course. The thing is, he was a Floridian. Back then, you owed your first loyalty to your state—remember, the US was formed as a union of states. United States. But we didn’t have the internet and constant news and travel and when Florida became part of the Confederacy, he went with the Confederacy.”
She seemed determined that he understand that her house had been owned by a good man.
He smiled. “It’s a nice house.”
“It is. I love it.” She quickly turned the conversation away. “So, how do you like where you’re staying?”
“Love it.”
“And you came to relax. Boy, do you know how to have a vacation,” she murmured, her tone dry and sad.
“So it seems.”
She hesitated, looking at him.
“Will you...will you look into Cliff’s death, too? Please?” she added softly.
He reached across the table, placing his hand on hers.
It had just been a kind gesture. But he found he loved touching her.
He withdrew his hand.
“Of course,” he promised.
She tried to get him to talk; he tried to get her to talk. He listened, realizing that he was often lost in her eyes.
He didn’t touch her again.
He told her about the mountains in Virginia, about living near DC.
She talked about fishing and diving with her parents, and how her mother had recently remarried a remarkable man. And she talked about the festival where they had paired performers with musicians and writers with artists and every mix within.
But in doing so, she came back to Cliff.
At last, they had coffee.
And then it was time to leave.
“You don’t have to walk me home,” she told him.
“I do.”
“No, really, you don’t. I live here. I walk these streets all the time.”
“I had dinner with you. In my family, that makes my walking you home a commandment. Hey, you wouldn’t want me in trouble, would you?”
“With the dead?” she asked. “Lord, no!”
He smiled. No, she really didn’t understand.
They walked on to her house. She paused on the sidewalk before the little stone path that led to her porch.
There were lights on.
He could see a strange silhouette within the house.
She wasn’t going home to a lover, he felt certain. But she wasn’t going to say anything, either.
Neither did he.
“Good night. And thank you.”
“I’m sure I’ll see you.”
“Of course. You promised to investigate...everything.”
“I did, indeed. Hey, I’m not leaving until you’re inside,” he told her.
She stepped back. “Okay, okay.”
She walked up the steps and unlocked her door.
Before she stepped in, Brodie saw him. Tall, wearing a sweeping plumed hat—and dressed in an 1850s frockcoat.
He had been waiting for Kody to come home.
Watching over her?
Captain Blake Hunter?
Had to be.
Brodie watched the door close, and then he headed down the street, making his way to his own bed-and-breakfast.
Kody was right.
He didn’t know how he knew, or how—under the circumstances—he could be so convinced.
There had been two murders in Key West.
And he knew that no matter what, he wouldn’t leave until he knew the truth.
* * *
“You’re all right?” the captain asked Kody as she entered. He sounded anxious.
“Of course, I’m fine. I spent the day with Rosy, but then Emory came and I went to the museum. Brodie McFadden came by and we went to dinner,” Kody assured him. “Why?”
“I don’t like what’s going on,” the captain said.
“Blake, no one likes what happened. But please don’t be worried about me.”
“I have to worry about you,” he said indignantly. “That’s what I do!”
“Well, thank you, but I’m fine. Honestly.”
“Hmm.”
“Were you here all day worrying?”
“Oh, no. I went strolling around town, and I stopped into a bar or two.” He shrugged. “Ah, even for a seaman in the day, I wasn’t much for rum. But it’s good now and then to sit and listen to the music—not that I could imbibe the rum now anyway. Not the point. I listened. And everyone is talking about the murdered man. They know who he is now.”
“Yes, I know.”
“He was involved with the ship.”
“I was supposed to meet with him,” Kody said.
“And there’s the rub!” he announced. “Why I should worry—you’re involved with that cursed ship!”
“I’m not involved with the ship itself—I haven’t—”
“You are planning a display. For the museum.”
“I already have a segment on the Civil War. And slavery,” Kody reminded him.
“Maybe you should take it down.”
“I will not! What—you’d actually want me to take out an era of history?” she asked incredulously.
“No,” he admitted. “It’s just that times are tense. People attack one another over small and imagined slights these days. Over the past. Over any perceived insult.” He hesitated. “Kody, someone murdered that man.”
“They’ll find out who, Captain. They’ll catch him,” she tried to assure him.
For a man who was already dead, Captain Blake Hunter seemed incredibly anxious.
“Hey,” Kody said. “Captain... Blake. You’re worried—so you keep doing what you’re doing. Travel the streets. See what you can, listen to tourists, locals, anyone. There has to be someone out there who knows something.”
He swept off his hat and bowed to her. “I’m off then. I haven’t quite got the qualifications of your newfound friend, but I shall do my gallant best.”
He left her, disappearing through the closed front door.
It was so strange. She could sense him when he was there.
And she could feel it when he was not there, as well.
She glanced at the hands on the grandfather clock in the parlor to the left of the hallway. It was past ten. Not late at all for nightlife in Key West.
She walked down to the stairway and made her way up to her room. Ready for bed, with the lights out and room quiet, she lay down to sleep.
She couldn’t.
The questions kept running through her mind. Why was Arnold Ferrer killed?
Why did Cliff die?
She lay awake a long time. Somewhere in there, she knew that the captain had returned.
He never entered her room, but she knew that he was near.
He had taken up a stance in the hall, just beyond her door. Regardless of whatever he could or couldn’t do, he would be standing guard throughout the night.
* * *
The sun was out, but the water was deep. With flashlights attached to their masks, Brodie and Liam could see an extended view before them and around them. It was a strange feeling being down there.
Brodie’s last dive had been when he’d worked with the police divers to bring up the corpse of Arnold Ferrer. He had waited on the boat with Ewan and Liam while the divers had then searched and searched for anything else that they could find.
There had been nothing.
Just the man. No wallet having fallen elsewhere, no murder weapon. Just a floating dead man.
Today, he was back with Liam. Tomorrow, they would reopen the dive to the Sea Life crew and return it to those searching for history—not clues. Then again, what they would find were clues to history—artifacts that either gave credibility to or disputed the truth that had been assumed.
Under the sweeping glare of both their flashlights, they searched the ship, deck by deck.
Brodie saw tiny pieces of metal in the hold, and he was certain that he was seeing the time and sea-encrusted remnants of chains. He didn’t touch them. He would report to Ewan on anything that he had seen, so the Sea Life crew could follow up.
Brodie moved through the darkly shadowed decks, listening to the sound of his even breathing through his regulator. Parts of the ship were eerily intact—as if a ghost army might move about daily, striding over the deck to take part in daily chores.
Parts were gone completely; time, the sea and the whimsy of the winds and tide had stripped away full pieces of the hull and the inner workings.
A crab, having found a home in a layer of sand on the deck, scurried by. A flash of silver moved before him: a lone barracuda, seeking a meal.
He saw Liam’s light behind him; he turned. Liam beckoned that he was heading one deck up. Brodie gave him the “okay” sign.
When Liam was gone, he stared at the spot where the body had been.
He held still in the water, allowing his buoyancy vest and a slight movement of his flippers now and then to hold him in place.
If you’re here in any way, Mr. Ferrer, help me...
Brodie might have seen the dead many times, but he didn’t really believe that he could communicate telepathically with a ghost that may or may not exist.
The words were to himself.
Dr. Edmond Locard, 1877-1966, had coined the Locard’s Exchange Principle.
Every contact made left a trace...of something. Every criminal brought something to the scene of his crime; he took something away, and he left something behind.
What could a killer have left behind?
Of course, in modern forensics, that often included minute skin cells, tiny drops of blood, little bits of fabric or fluff...
None of which had been found down here. None of which could have remained on a body, drifting deep in the sea for more than twelve hours.
He thought he saw a shadow. Maybe a large fish moving across a shaft of light coming in through a tear in the hull.
But Brodie knew it wasn’t.
He still didn’t think that his thoughts had summoned the remnants of a human soul. But he did believe that Ferrer did somehow remain...a spirit lost in the depth of the sea, not manifesting completely, though not really managing to move on. Perhaps, at some point, he might.
The shadow seemed to shift.
Brodie moved. He thought about the logistics of someone bringing a body down here. If the men on Sea Life’s ship Memory were as innocent as they appeared to be, whoever had brought the body had done so from another boat. There might have been dozens of boats in the surrounding area. The men who’d been onboard the Memory that day couldn’t remember anything specific. But the killer had to be a diver. This was Key West: many people were divers. Many visitors came specifically to dive.
But dragging a buoyant corpse down wouldn’t have been easy. It must have been weighted down.
The shadow flickered.
Brodie saw a glint in the sand. He reached down for the object.