3 A Brewski for the Old Man (13 page)

“No,” I said. “There’s cheesecake for dessert.” Always hide the truth behind the cheesecake. “Running a restaurant can be dangerous for your waistline.” “You look okay to me.”

Did Styles know something about Tully he wasn’t telling me? Tully had been out to the Preserves that morning. Maybe the police took license plate numbers. Not a good thing. Maybe Tully even called up Ray John and left a threatening message on his answering service. That was more likely. Or maybe Tully, after a few drinks, had got big-mouthed and told someone he was going to kill Ray John Leenders. Even more likely. Tully did some mighty stupid things when he was drinking. Like the time he rode a horse into the Presbyterian Church on a Sunday morning. I don’t know why, maybe he was still drunk from Saturday night and it seemed like a good idea.

When I was a kid and people heard my last name they’d say, “Was your daddy the guy who rode a horse into Jacaranda Presbyterian?” Tully stories abounded. Unexpected and strange things were done by my father and people were going to be bringing up adventures of my daddy long after Tully was gone.

The cops would have lots of notes on Tully, starting with stealing a car when he was fourteen, so I didn’t like any policeman asking about Tully even if I didn’t think he was involved in Ray John’s death. They just might uncover some other little escapade better kept hidden. Oh no, he wasn’t out of the woods yet. There were still lots of things out there to rise up out of the mud and bite us on the ass.

But not for a minute did I think Tully was lying to me. He just wouldn’t. Well, not about this anyway. Then what about Uncle Zig? Did he go out to the Preserves and shoot Ray John? Loved him madly but the man was no genius. Sneaking into a gated community and shooting someone wasn’t his style. He was more likely to go to Ray John’s home with a bulldozer and run over him. Flatten his house first and then run over him. But he’d never lie about it or try to hide it. Nope, if Uncle Zig murdered Ray John it would be perfectly obvious. Besides, he would have told us.

What about Rena? You mess with my kid, I’m going to have your balls for breakfast, but Rena hadn’t believed Lacey or hadn’t wanted to. She wanted Lacey to go back home as if nothing had happened. But what if Ray John had said he was leaving? She was madly, passionately in love with him. Would she rather see him dead than lose him?

Lacey could have done it, but like me she’d been tucked up in my apartment sound asleep.

I didn’t like any of the candidates. There had to be someone else, someone from Ray John’s past, someone with a long memory and a reason to get even.

I knew a woman who lived in the Preserves. Sheila Dressal and I played against each other in amateur golf tournaments all over the state of Florida, not close friends, nevertheless we’d connected and shared some laughs. She often came into the Sunset for dinner. I called her and was told to come right over. I was guessing the unnatural enthusiasm at hearing from me was induced by a liquid substance.

The Preserves, a gated community on the mainland about three miles east of the intra-coastal waterway, had seven-foot-high white plaster walls covered in scarlet bougainvillea full of thorns to keep out the riff-raff. At the entrance, tall ornate black wrought-iron gates, with an eagle in the center, stood open. It was impossible to tell if the gates were just for show or if they closed at night. Being locked in behind gates would be like living in a prison, more claustrophobic than safe. I’ll take my chances with the folks on the outside.

Beyond the gates a small white kiosk with hanging baskets of red geraniums sat in the middle of the divided road. A guard came out with a clipboard in his hand. I checked out his name tag. The guard was R. Brandt, not Mark Cummings. He checked off my name on his list, gave me directions and went back to his hut to put up the zebra arm that barred my way.

The community center was just to my right on the edge of the compound, its parking lot up against the high wall facing the street. Yellow police tape blocked off the drive to the parking at the back of the building.

No way was anyone going to be allowed in the building, so I pulled up out front. The largest jacaranda tree I’d ever seen grew in front of the building. The base was encased by a low stone wall, lifting it about three feet from the ground. Come April the tree would be covered with pale blue flowers and alive with the hum of bees. Sheltering beneath the tree on the stone patio were a dozen round glass tables with black wrought-iron chairs tilted up against them to keep falling leaves off the seats.

I got out of the truck. A mockingbird sang and somewhere in the distance a dog barked and a child laughed, while off to the right of the recreation hall came the thunk of balls from the tennis courts. Life was going on as normal even though there was trouble in paradise.

In front of the community center was a small lake with a fountain of water arching into the air. On the left, the road curved along the edge of a walking path bordering the lake. To the right of the lake were houses, with caged pools and lanais, facing the water but with another walking path between the houses and the lake. Pedestrians had access to the whole lake as well as to the recreation hall. At night it would be easy enough to go down that tree-lined path to the hall without being seen.

I walked along the left side of the water towards the excited squeals coming from a children’s playground. A little boy, shrieking in delight and looking back over his shoulder at a young black woman, crashed into me. I reached down to steady him and he wrapped his arms around my leg and raised big blue eyes to me, not at all alarmed. “Sorry,” the young woman said, taking the boy by the shoulders and turning him back to the play area. He immediately ran away from her again.

A white swan on the lake flapped its wings and raised itself up off the water before settling down and sailing gracefully on to join its mate that was dipping down beneath the surface for food.

I walked on towards a small gingerbread gazebo connected to a dock. Four hanging baskets, overflowing with scarlet begonias, hung around the outside of the gazebo. The inside was lined with seats. A white sign at the entrance identified this as Swan Lake dock. A half-dozen white pedal boats were tied to a rustic wooden dock. As I stepped onto the planking a duck squawked and flopped into the water ahead of me.

This was heaven. Never mind penis envy, I had property envy big-time. What had I done so wrong in life not to get a piece of this? I gave up on the greed and headed back. A jogger, a man wearing a tee-shirt and very short shorts, ran by me and that wasn’t bad either. Clay better get home soon or I was going to get arrested for something besides murder.

The sound of voices made me turn back from admiring the retreating jogger to the clubhouse where a line of men were pulling on wetsuits. I watched them enter the water and then I watched the two men in business suits waiting for the divers to do their thing. The police were searching the lake, but for what? The answer came close on the heels of the question; they were searching for the gun.

Sheila lived at the back of the development, down twisting and turning roads with small cul-de-sacs running off them. The guard had explained to me that Signet Creek emptied into Swan Lake and divided the community. He’d given me exact directions on how to find the only bridge over the creek to Egret Way, but in the spaghetti-looping roads it was easy to get disoriented. If Sheila asked why it took so long to get to her house from the gate, I could honestly tell her I’d gotten lost.

But the question of when I’d entered the Preserves never came up. Perhaps the security guard didn’t call to tell her I’d entered the Preserves — a small chink in the security web I’d file for future use.

Brick is a rare building material here in Florida. Mostly it is stucco over concrete block, so I figured the brick made Sheila’s house even more valuable. Set on about half an acre, everything about it said money, but the two sandhill cranes walking delicately across the lawn and pecking at insects were unimpressed with the price of real estate. They raised their red-capped heads as I pulled in the drive but had little concern beyond that and by the time I walked up the flagstone path they had gone back to pecking at the manicured lawn.

Sheila, tall and thin and in her early forties, about ten years older than me, opened the door squealing in delight at seeing me there. She held an oversized goblet of wine in her left hand, explaining the warm welcome. She leaned forward to air-kiss me. When she pulled away she overbalanced and nearly went on her can. I caught her and helped her right herself.

“Oops,” she giggled and gave me a silly little smile as she sagged back against the door. “How’s life?” I asked.

“It got a whole lot better today. And you?”

“Drugs, sex and rock and roll, baby.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,
Prilosec
,
Desperate Housewives
and the radio.” She took me through to the back of the house past a dark gothic dining room; then we entered a great room, coldly modern and full of bright-colored glass objects. This house had more than just brick; it had everything, well everything except taste. There was just too much happening, too many styles and way too much stuff. She must have bought it by the truckload and hired a psychotic decorator.

But the best part was the family room. Decorated in French Country with pale furniture and blue toile, it overlooked a wild area. Truly stunning, the view was of tall pines surrounding a marshy area of wild grasses.

Sheila followed me to the windows. “The Preserves is named for this spot.” She pointed towards a tall slash pine. “See that tree? That’s where the eagles’ nest is. There used to be another on the far side but the hurricane blew it away. Don’t know where the eagles went.” “Probably blew them all the way to Georgia.” As we watched, a large eagle flew in and settled itself down into its broad nest of twigs. “Wow,” I said, “that’s awesome.”

She smiled at me, delighted at both my response and the eagle. “I’ll get us some wine.”

I was about to turn her offer down but Miss Emma was whispering in my ear. “Secrets and confession go better with booze, girl. Remember that.” I smiled. “Fine,” I told her. “That would be nice.”

She seemed to have forgotten the glass she’d left on the coffee table and came back with a bottle of white wine and two enormous etched wineglasses. She filled the glasses to the top.

We talked. Excited and happy, she giggled outrageously at my jokes. Finally, she confided, “I’ve met the most wonderful man, a heart specialist. He just moved down here from Boston. I think this is the one.”

“Congratulations! You’ve been on your own for a long time, haven’t you?”

“Four years.” She waggled her hand back and forth. “A few mistakes in there.” She giggled some more. “A few mistakes and a couple of big disasters.”

“We’ve all had those,” I assured her. “I hope this guy is everything you deserve.”

“God no, don’t wish that on me.” She doubled up with laughter. “I so don’t deserve this guy, but if you don’t tell, I won’t.” An echo sounded through the room. Hadn’t both Marley and I said this about David and Clay? Rena even said the same thing about RJ. Did every woman feel this way?

She leaned forward to replenish her wine, looked at my glass and frowned before flopping back against the cushions.

“Did you know the security guard who was killed last night?” I asked.

The laughter left Sheila’s face. “Ray John?” Cautious, and suddenly more sober. “What about him?”

“You knew him?”

“Everyone knew him.” Her nose curled up in distaste.

“This was his little fiefdom. At least he thought it was. He hassled the teenagers, flirted with the old women and agreed with the old men that the country was going to hell in a handcar. Snuck around and spied on us, knew every dirty little secret.

Good riddance, I say.” “You didn’t like him?”

She snorted. “How can you tell?” “Why not? Why didn’t you like him?”

“He was a pain in the butt. Thought he owned the place and we were just here to do his bidding.”

“Like what?”

She shrugged. “Graffiti freaked him out. He caught a kid writing naughty words on the security wall last year and really worked him over. The board nearly fired Ray John’s ass for that. They would have too except for Quinton Beckley.”

“Who’s he?”

“Chairman of the board of directors.”

“Were they buddies?”

“God no. It was just sex.”

“You mean they were…” I tilted a hand back and forth. She curled her feet up under her on the sofa, settling down with relish to the topic of other people’s sins. “Naw. It’s just that Quint is always on the make.” She started to tell me something else but stopped herself. “I’ve heard rumors about some of the parties at his place. Ray John probably was creeping around and saw more than Quint would have liked.”

I was pretty sure this was a sanitized copy of what she’d been going to say.

“And one night I saw RJ bringing him home. The next morning I was out jogging and Ray John was delivering Quint’s car from the rec hall. RJ had a security guard in his SUV behind him. Ray John didn’t walk anywhere.” “Control, Ray John had control over Quinton.”

“Yup, I bet old Quinton paid big-time for that, bet he voted just the way RJ wanted him too.”

Ray John had always been about control, telling my mother who she could see, what she could wear and even telling her where she could work. He didn’t want his girlfriend working in a bar, so Ruth Ann gave up her job. She had to take two cleaning jobs to replace it and make up for the lost tips. “Any idea how we could find out what he used to manage Quinton?”

Her face went white with shock. But then a smile returned and she giggled, “Well, I don’t think Quinton is going to tell and sure as hell old RJ can’t.” A hoot of laughter exploded out of her and she pounded her feet on the floor in delight. “What kinds of things would Ray John hold over people?” Suddenly she went from amused to angry. “Why you want to talk about that? It’s none of your business.”

“Curiosity. I’ve never lived in a gated community.”

“Lucky you.”

“How did he hassle people?”

She gave an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t know.” But in a second she added, “If someone was driving drunk he’d follow them home and talk to them.” She screwed up her nose and made a moue of disgust. “More than that, he even thought he had the right to pull you over, cut you right off with that SUV the board bought him. He never let anyone forget he’d been with the sheriff’s office. He still acted like he was the police.” “That would be a good thing, wouldn’t it?” I prodded. She looked confused. “What?”

“Stopping people from driving under the influence.”

“You’d think so but not with RJ. Big on not driving after one little drink.” She leaned forward and set her glass down, hard. “There was always a veiled threat in his warnings. If he pulled you over he threatened to call the cops. You don’t know what it took to stop him.”

“Money?”

“He really wasn’t into money.”

“Yeah, power was his thing, wasn’t it?” She pulled out a pillow from behind her. “That and sex.” She pounded the pillow and tucked it in behind her lower back. “Well, he isn’t going to bother us anymore.”

“Did Ray John have favorites in the community?

“He did favors for people.”

“Like?”

“Like driving them home after a party.” She picked up the bottle and poured herself another drink. The wine that slopped over onto the wood table didn’t seem to worry her. “You’re right about the power trip. He liked having power over people.” She turned her head to look out the window. “He was always showing up at weird times of the day and night. He always seemed to be drifting around, watching.” She gave a shudder and turned to me. “Like, if you were saying goodnight to people on the doorstep he’d be drifting by, watching. Then he’d pull over to the curb and stop until they pulled out and then he’d follow them to the gate.”

“I thought you had to take them to the gate and let them out.”

“Naw, you just give them the code.”

So, pretty much anyone that had ever visited the Preserves would know the code was the date and be able to get in and out.

Sheila’s mind was on something besides security. “People would call the next morning to thank me and tell me he really creeped them out.”

“So, there’s a price to be paid for feeling safe?”

“Yeah, about twenty-five hundred bucks a year per household.”

“More than money, playing it safe can be dangerous if you let a man like Ray John into your life.”

“Yeah. Imagine paying to have that Nazi around.”

“And was there lots of stuff for him to find out?”

“Sure. He knew about every affair and every bad habit. Lots of secrets, but did you ever live in a neighborhood that was any different?”

I laughed. “They were mostly worse. I guess you can’t hide from evil although we sure like to try. Evil is always there, it just hides and adapts to suit the environment.”

Sheila looked away from me, out to the small piece of wilderness. “And he was evil. I couldn’t hide from him.”

“Did you kill him?”

My question surprised us both. She swung round, her jaw clamped tight and with a small muscle twitching in her cheek. Finally she said, “What kind of a question is that?”

“One that the police are going to ask everyone, so the sooner they find the person who killed him, the safer all our secrets will be.”

“They have no reason to question me. If they do I’ll know who set them on me.” The steely tone contained a threat.

“If Ray John knew your secrets, others might. Maybe he told someone or wrote it down. I’m guessing he had something you wouldn’t want made public.”

“Oh god.” Her hands went to her mouth, her eyes closed and her face froze with pain and fear as she thought it through. Slowly her body melted. Her shoulders rounded and her back bent as she slumped over into an attitude of defeat, her head in her hands.

“How bad is it?” I asked. She didn’t answer.

“Talk to me, maybe I can help.”

Sheila gave a harsh bark of disgust. “Sure, I tell you my secrets so you can take over where RJ left off.”

“No, so we can find a way of making things better. You’re a smart girl and I’ve seen you under stress, you’re not easily rattled. I know because I’ve tried. Out there on the course, you never give it away, you have to be beaten. You’re a survivor, Sheila, start thinking like one.”

She raised her head. “In a place like this your survival instincts get blunted. On the surface everything seems so easy and charmed. You forget to pay attention. And by the time you get here you have more to lose. One little slip and you can lose everything.” Her blue eyes held mine. “How did you know him?”

“Ray John lived with my mother. He was a bully and liked power. And he sexually molested me. One day he tried to rape me. He was gone the next day.”

“Shit. I guess you’re as glad as I am he’s dead.”

“I’m not shedding any tears but I’m concerned who’s going to get hurt in the fallout.”

She jabbed a finger at me. “We all have to stick together and keep our mouths shut. The cops will just put it down as a burglary or something. Someone from outside did it.” Her hands gripped her knees and she nodded firmly.

“I’m from outside and the thing is, well, this is a pretty secure area. How could an outsider get in?”

She thought for a moment. “The north gate. It isn’t manned. There’s just a big iron gate that slides back with our remotes. Maybe someone came in that way.”

“He’d still need a remote.”

“Naw, just walk in and then walk out. No one would ever know he was here.”

“It would have to be someone who knew the Preserves.” She didn’t like that idea. “Why? And why does anyone care? There are lots of crimes that are never solved.”

“The police aren’t going to walk away from this. No way. They’re going to find out who did it. Turn over every rock and ask a whole lot of questions.” “But they can’t know anything.”

“If Ray John knew stuff, the cops can find it out.” I felt like a rat, feeding on the insecurities of a drunken woman, but once she sobered up, she’d shut up.

Her face collapsed into despair and her wine happiness spiraled down into depression. “I thought it was over,” she whispered. She straightened. “But I’m still glad he’s dead. He was a monster.”

“The quicker the cops catch his murderer, the better. The less they’ll be poking into other people’s lives.”

She tilted her head. “Yes,” she said with a nod of agreement. “Yes. I just want it to end.”

“Ray John liked young girls. Have you heard any rumors, know anyone he might have been messing with?”

Her eyes did a funny thing, like they weren’t seeing me or anything around her but looking at a list deep inside her head. Then she gave a little nod and said a name. “Charters, Thia Charters. I was playing bridge at the clubhouse, when I went to the john and I saw them together. He was leaning in really close, holding onto her arm and whispering down into her face. Something was going on. I started to make a joke but he shot me a look that made me want to pee even more. Thia looked upset but I wasn’t getting involved.”

“I’d like to meet Thia.”

“What’s with you?” she protested. Even drunk, her brain worked. Up until now she’d just been celebrating Ray John’s death and then she’d been shocked into fear, but now she was asking the right questions.