Bitter Legacy: A Matt Royal Mystery (Matt Royal Mysteries) (25 page)

A pontoon boat chugged along the serpentine channel leading from the Intracoastal to the pier. Captain Kim was returning from a tour of the bay with a boatload of satisfied tourists. She took our visitors out to see the dolphins, manatees, birds and other animals, and the flora that make our part of the world so special.

She was a jolly lady, the mother of two teenagers who often helped on
the tours. She had once been a commercial fisher, like her mother before her and her grandparents before that. Kim had been raised in Cortez, and knew all the secrets and lore of a little village that had seen its share of loss. The sea plucked the fisher folk from this life at random intervals, in bad storms and inexplicable wrecks at sea. Sometimes the men went out and just never came back. Sometimes wreckage from their boats would wash up on a strange shore, the only clue that the sea had claimed another complement of Cortez men.

She laid the boat against the floating dock and held it steady while her passengers disembarked. She loosed her line and moved toward the little dock adjoining the office. She slipped the boat into a space on the end of the dock, fixed the lines, and cut the engine. She saw me sitting at the table, waved, and walked over. “Hey Matt. Haven’t seen you in a while. Where you been?”

“Hey, Cap. I’m around. Just don’t get over the bridge as often as I’d like. How’ve you been?”

“I’m good. Heard you haven’t been doing too well, though.”

“Well enough, under the circumstances.”

Kim took a seat at my table and ordered a diet cola and a grouper sandwich. “I don’t know if this has anything to do with your problems, but I thought I ought to pass it on anyway.”

“What’s up?”

“Do you know a guy named Morton? I don’t know if that’s a first name or a last name.”

“I’ve heard the name.” I didn’t want to give away anything. Kim was tight lipped, not prone to gossip, but now I’d heard the same name from two different sources within a few minutes. I couldn’t see any sense in adding to Kim’s worries.

“On Monday, a couple of men, walk-ups, joined my afternoon tour of the bay. I always go around the northern tip of Jewfish Key and over by the sandbar between Jewfish and Longboat. Sometimes we’ll see manatees in the area. Then I take them up into the bayou that runs into the Whitney Beach condos.

“When we went by your house, one of the men pointed it out and said something like, ‘Morton says that’s where Royal lives.’”

“Could have been somebody I met somewhere.”

“I would’ve thought the same thing, but then I heard that one of the dead guys in the go-fast that came after you was big and completely bald. That pretty much fit the description of one of the men on my boat that day.”

“Have you told anybody else about this?”

“No. I just heard the description last night and it made me think there might be a connection.”

“I appreciate it, Kim. I’ll pass this along to Bill Lester. See if anything develops.”

I sat with her while she finished her meal, talking idly about the changes we were seeing on the islands. None of us old-timers liked it very much, but there was little we could do about it. We’d all lost friends who had moved to the Carolinas, driven out of paradise by the high taxes, the local government restrictions on anything that smacked of business, and the bureaucratic nonsense incurred by anybody who dealt with city hall. Pretty soon, the only people left on the islands would be the retirees who moved there and wanted things to stay the same as when they arrived. Not as things had been when working people could afford to live there, the people who fished for a living or worked the trades or waited tables in the restaurants, who were despairing of making a living under the stifling rules of the bureaucrats. The newcomers, those complaining about crowding, wanted the islands to be pristine and pure and sterile. Sort of a Disney World Magic Kingdom where trash is not allowed on the streets and the sun is always shining. They came in droves, settled into their condos, and complained about too many people spoiling the ambience of island living. To paraphrase that old philosopher Pogo, they’d met the enemy and it was them.

I parked the rental in the shade of the Banyan tree in my front yard. The house was quiet when I entered. Jock and Logan hadn’t returned. I called J.D. to fill her in on my conversations with Colleen and Kim. Her voice mail answered and I left a detailed message.

I decided to walk over to Mar Vista where my friends were having lunch with Bill Lester. I needed to catch up with the chief and it was probably better to do it face-to-face. I was walking at a leisurely pace, enjoying the spring flowers and the peacocks foraging on the lawns. I was thinking about my predicament, trying to find the key that would unlock the mystery of who was trying to kill me and why.

My cell phone rang, startling me. I laughed at myself. I needed to get a grip. I answered.

“Matt,” said Debbie, “where are you?”

Debbie was the blonde bartender at Moore’s Stone Crab restaurant, which hugged the shoreline of the bay next door to the Mar Vista. She’d worked there for years and knew just about everybody on the key and seemed to be privy to everything that went on in our little world.

“Hey, babe,” I said. “Welcome back. How was the vacation?” Deb had left the island a few days before Jessica and I had started our cruise. She had driven to Ohio to visit the many cousins that made up her clan.

“It was wonderful. Great to get away for a while, but I’m glad to be back. I need to see you.”

“What’s up?”

“You know those little cubbyholes we have in the kitchen where Alan can leave us notes or whatever? When I got in today there was an envelope in my cubby addressed to you.”

“To me?”

“Yeah. It said, ‘Matt Royal, in care of Debbie at the bar.’”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah, but there’s something chunky in the envelope.”

“Chunky?”

“Yes, Royal. Chunky. Small, I don’t know. Why don’t you come by and find out what it is?”

“Are you at Moore’s?”

“Yeah. I’m working a double today. Payback for all the vacation time, I guess.”

“I’m a block from you. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

The lounge at Moore’s is separated from the restaurant by a wall, but you can order lunch or dinner at the U-shaped bar. The south wall is glass, giving a view twelve miles down the bay to the condo towers of the city of Sarasota. The west wall is home to a huge stuffed Tarpon, mouth open with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey poked spout-first into it. Two television sets take up the corners on the north wall, usually tuned to one of the sports channels. I’d spent many an evening there, whiling away the time with good conversation with Debbie and other friends.

I was beginning to work up a slight sweat as I came through the front door, shook hands with Alan Moore, one of the owners, and passed through to the bar. Cracker Dix was at his usual place at one of the corners, sipping a glass of white wine. Debbie was not there, probably in the back making a drink for one of the late lunch crowd in the main dining room.

“Hey, Matt,” said Cracker. “How are you?”

Cracker Dix was an expatriate Englishman who had lived in the village for thirty years. He was in his mid-fifties, bald, about five feet ten inches tall, and very tan. He wore a single strand gold necklace, a gold stud in one ear, a Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and boat shoes. His speech had retained the memory of his native land, the accent as pronounced as it was on the first day he’d set foot in America. He was a favorite of the islanders and made his living waiting tables in the various restaurants on the key.

“I’m good, Cracker. Glad to see you.” I pulled up a stool, sitting on the corner at right angles to him.

“I heard you’ve been having some trouble.”

“Yeah, but Jock and Logan have my back.”

“I heard Jock was here. How’s he doing?”

“About the same as always. Drinks too much nonalcoholic beer.”

“Yeah, that stuff can give you the runs. Look, I’ve been meaning to call you about something I heard the other night.”

“What’s that?”

“You know I ride my bicycle over to Cortez sometimes to Hutch’s. Well, they call it Lil’s now. The owner is a friend of mine, Lil Minor.” He paused.

“Yes?” I said. Sometimes you have to jump-start Cracker.

“You know how it is with me. If I see a wife who looks a little lonely, I’m there for her.”

“Cracker, that usually means you’re in bed with her.”

“If that’s what they want. I’m only trying to cheer them up.”

“I understand. Who’s the unhappy wife in this story?”

“Lil, didn’t I say that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, I implied it.”

“I guess you did.”

“Her husband is not a nice man.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure, but somehow he’s involved with some really bad guys.”

“Are you in danger?”

“Why would I be in danger?”

“You’re schtuping a bad guy’s wife.”

“He doesn’t know that.”

“What if he finds out?”

He looked puzzled. “I haven’t really given much thought to that.”

“So why were you going to call me?”

“These guys Lil’s husband hangs around with aren’t, well, quite as pleasant as I am.”

“Nobody is, Cracker.”

“You’ve got a point there.”

“So what about these bad guys?”

“Lil told me the other night that some guy was in the bar with her husband. They were talking about a man named Morton who wanted some lawyer on Longboat killed. Then I heard that somebody tried to take you out, so I thought there might be a connection.”

“There might be. Do you know who this guy Morton is?”

“I don’t know him, but Lil says he owns a bar up in Gibsonton called the Snake Dance Inn. She thinks he’s pretty big in the drug business.”

That was an interesting tidbit. The feds had told us that the biker leader James Baggett owned the bar. I thought they’d know better than Lil. Debbie came out of the back. “Royal,” she said. “I’ve missed you. Miller Lite?”

“Sure. You want one, Cracker?”

“No thanks. I’ve got to go.”

“I don’t remember you ever turning down a beer.”

“Lil’s waiting for me over at my house.”

I laughed. “I guess some things are more important than others.”

“Yes they are, my friend. Take care.” Cracker left some cash on the bar and made his way out through the dining room.

Debbie came back with my beer and a chilled glass. “Who’s Lil?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Probably not.” She handed me a standard number ten envelope. “Before you ask, I don’t know who left it. One of the girls found it on the hostess’s desk after closing one night while I was gone on vacation.”

I opened the envelope, reached inside, and pulled out a single sheet of paper and a key. The key wasn’t a normal one. It looked like those you find in airport lockers, and had a number on it. The handwriting on the sheet of paper was familiar. It read:

Matthew,

I’m leaving this because I know Debbie is a friend of yours. I didn’t want to take a chance on it getting lost in the mail or purloined from your mailbox at home. I’ll come see Debbie if I’m able. If not, I’ll probably be dead when you get this. The key is to the locker where you’ll find a document that will answer
any questions you may have and provide untold wealth to my people in Red Bays. Thank you my friend.

Abraham Osceola

“What is it, Matt?” Debbie asked.

“Another piece of the riddle I’ve been stuck in for the past week. Abraham must have been in a hurry. He didn’t say where the locker is located. Did you hear about somebody trying to kill me?”

“No, but I just got back. It’s probably some bartender who got tired of your cheesy tips.”

I laughed. “Not this time. Besides, I always tip commensurate with the service. You should be happy with the quarter I leave.”

“I might be the one trying to kill you next. Seriously, what’s going on?”

I told her the whole story, everything that I knew, including the information we got from Turk. “I don’t know how this letter from Abraham fits into it, but I guess I’ll find out at the airport.” I held up the key.

“I doubt the key is from the airport. They don’t have lockers there anymore.”

“You’re sure?”

“I was looking for one at the airport in Cleveland a couple of years ago and a cop told me that no airport in the country had those anymore. Something to do with security.”

I thought about that for a moment. “What about bus stations?”

“Got me. Guess you could check.”

“I’ll do that this afternoon.”

“What did you find on the Web site the guy down south gave you?”

“Huh. Turk is smarter than I thought or I’m dumber. I got the Web address off his e-mail, but the damn thing is password protected. I had his e-mail password, but I didn’t think to ask him about the Web site.”

“Okay, I know what’s coming. You want me to check it out.”

Debbie had become quite the hacker over the past few years. She could pretty much crack anything on the Web. “Well, now that you mention it. You could see what you can find out about this Web site.” I wrote it on the back of a napkin, handed it to her.

“I won’t be able to do anything until I get home tonight.”

“No sweat. I’ve got to find Abraham’s locker and then meet a guy in a bar in Gibsonton tonight.” I gave her Turk’s e-mail address and password. “The site changes daily, so you probably won’t be able to get it before midnight.”

“Be careful, Matt. We’d miss you around here.”

I grinned at her, put a ten-dollar tip on the bar, and walked out the door.

The frigging birds were singing in the trees, a cacophonous song that was driving the Hacker crazy. Why the hell couldn’t they sing in harmony? Or better yet, shut the fuck up? His head hurt from the booze the night before and his back was sore from leaning over the keyboard of his computer. Something wasn’t adding up. A car had been blown up in Belleville the previous evening. The
Naples Daily News
online edition told the story, but it didn’t give any details.