Only Make Believe (15 page)

Bertha Williams, night maid and restroom attendant, told me she noticed a white man in woman’s clothes, makeup, wig and crown standing in front of the ladies’ room off the lobby about eleven. The man eventually moved toward the gents lounge, then turned again and rang for the elevator.

Walter Polite, elevator operator and night bellboy, confirmed that a guest of the same description rode back and forth between the fifth floor and the lobby twice on Sunday night, both times alone. Polite swore he let nobody upstairs who didn’t show a room key and he recalled no strangers leaving or trying to enter the elevator before the medics arrived.

And so on through Mrs. Nordeen Simms (“The Ichabod Crane who was three sheets to the wind? Well, he asked that disgusting creature to dance, if you please”); Mrs. EveIyn McCarthy (“I don’t see as well as I used to, you know, but Slim told us all about it”); the bus boy; three cooks; the newly-hired assistant desk clerk and (for an official statement) Phil Chesler, the clerk who phoned for the medics and discovered the illiterate message on the door of room 522, allegedly from a Klanner or the Klan itself.

After an abbreviated security walk-through well before midnight, I called it a day. I drank a beer, took a cold shower and slept alone again.

Late Thursday morning, Asdeck and I were halfway through thirty slow laps when Bud appeared at the pool wearing hibiscus-pattern trunks. He took a running leap and cannon-balled into the deep end, came up spitting water and laughing. “Mind if I join you gents?”

I cut him a splash with my hand. “Good interviews in Bradenton? Guilty bastards nabbed? Case solved?”

He splashed me back. “It can wait. Gimme ten laps. Winner buys lunch.”

The three of us took off. Bud led for a while. I won, but in the water I usually won. A decade earlier, in high school and college, I swam two or three hours a day. Since returning to Florida, I’d worked to get back in form. It wasn’t easy. Schoolboy Dan never faced distractions such as on-the-job free beer or an energetic lover who moonlights as a Marine Corps reservist.

When we hauled up on the pool’s edge, Bud was breathing hard, his hairy chest rising and falling, the waist-to-ear bayonet scar catching light and shadow. We locked eyes. He smiled, nodded. I blinked, caught a breath.
How did I get so lucky? He’s all I want. We got through the war. How much longer can we get away with this?

We settled at an umbrella table some distance from the pool and cabanas. Bud draped a dry towel over his legs, opened his briefcase and pulled out a notebook and pen. Homer brought menus and took drink orders.

Bud looked around and opened the notebook. “Wayne Larue Barfield, Esquire. Age thirty-eight. Lead attorney of Barfield and Barfield. At various times during the evening of Sunday, January seventh, he played cards with Coroner Lemuel Shepherd, Shepherd’s brother-in-law Larry Doolittle, Ambassador Inman Gamble, Jr., Ralph Nype of the
News-Press
and Mr. Elmo Glissen. Barfield claims he didn’t notice DiGennaro. Claims that as a rule he don’t give unattached women a second glance. States he’s happily married to the love of his life and the mother of his children.”

Asdeck patted his muscular chest. “A paragon, a saint on earth, a likely prospect for the circuit court of appeals.” The boss’s chest was almost as sexy as Bud’s.

“He either broke his rule or he’s lying,” I said. “I saw him not only glance at Betty but speak to her.”

Bud threw me a sharp look. “Could be he considers Betty a piece of the furniture. Like the card table.”

“Some card table,” I said, turning to Asdeck. “The poker game’s a regular Sunday night event for Doc Shepherd, Barfield and Nype.”

“What
about
Shepherd and Nype?” Asdeck asked.

“Home and in bed with their wives by midnight,” Bud said. “We already checked.”

“And Barfield?”

“Can’t see him walking back here from his house and climbing four flights of stairs, sir. Much less kicking a man like that. Barfield’s got that artificial leg, courtesy of the Germans. Rolls when he walks. Uses a cane. Needs help to get on and off the toilet.”

“Ah, I forgot that detail. No evidence that a cane was used in the commission of the crime?”

“So that almost definitely lets Barfield out—no, sir, no evidence of that—even without checking with his wife about when he got home and did he actually
stay
there.”

“He doesn’t drive?”

“No, he doesn’t. He had his nephew Albert Fletcher pick him and the wife up out at the beach, bring them into town, and take him to and from the card game. Barfield says he signed Fletcher into the club as a guest but told him to limit himself to one beer. Fletcher drove him home around midnight and kept the Buick. Barfield’s regular driver, Thad Duncan, picked up the Buick early Monday morning at Fletcher’s apartment in Edison Park, turned around and drove Barfield to the Arcade Café for breakfast.”

Asdeck gestured toward Bud’s briefcase. “Is Fletcher on anybody’s list?”

Bud pawed through a sheaf of papers. “Yeah, he is. He’s on Carmen’s. Let’s see, um, dum, dum. Kept to himself at the far end of the bar, nursed a beer, danced with Mrs. Shepherd, went to the men’s room twice.”

“I’ll check him out,” I said.

Bud handed me a slip of paper. “He works at the Edison Estate as a gardener. I looked up his home address in the phone book.”

“What about the grieving widow,” Asdeck prompted. “Suspect number one. You interviewed her in Bradenton?”

“The widow and her mouthpiece, yes, sir. The mouthpiece had a wire recorder running the whole time.”

Homer delivered drinks, lunch baskets and utensils wrapped in napkins. Asdeck sipped iced tea, unrolled his napkin and spread it across one knee. “Did he keep a muzzle on the Mrs.?”

“No, he let her talk. She swears she wants to help find her husband’s killer and has nothing to hide.”

I dipped a morsel of grouper sandwich into a dish of tartar sauce. “Did you believe her?”

“Remains to be seen. She brought her kids with her. They stayed out in the lobby the first thirty minutes.”

“They’re her only alibi? And vice-versa?” The grouper was sensational but had bones. I picked two out of my mouth and set them aside.

“Pretty much. The live-in maid has Thursday and Sunday evenings off. Mrs. DiGennaro says she took the dog for a walk just before dark, fixed her own supper, listened to
Amos ‘n’ Andy
and a musical show with Frank Sinatra. Heard the kids come in around ten—they’d been to a youth group at the Catholic church. Went to bed before eleven. Says she answered the phone when the hospital called. That gibes with what the son told Dan.”

“She didn’t see the kids? They didn’t see her?”

Bud forked up a mouthful of fried potatoes and chewed. “In other words, could she drive down here and back in that time? Yes, she could of, just. I timed it out. Seventy-five miles each way. And no, they didn’t see each other. More likely she hired somebody to do her dirty work. Which is why I said it all remains to be seen.”

“What about any enemies of her husband? People she might suspect, people he’d gotten the best of in some deal or other.”

“The lady claims she doesn’t know zilch about the business. Says the accountant at DiGennaro and Company pays most of the bills—mortgage, power company, department store, gasoline, that sort of thing. She just writes checks for her dresses and household expenses, for cash to pay the maid and give the kids their allowances. Lawyer Dreyer backs her up on that. He’s talked to the accountant and DiGennaro’s secretary. Right now, there’s enough in the bank to keep her afloat at least six months. Lawyer figures she’ll be able to sell the company easy enough.”

“Did she say any more about her husband’s quirk?” I quickly described my interview with the beautician. “DiGennaro started getting a hard-on when Carmen and Mr. Patt dressed him. That seems like some sort of key. We just didn’t know what doors it might unlock, sir.”

“No, the lady just repeated what we already knew, about taking him shopping once—and not liking the taste of it. Still claims she didn’t know he was coming down here to put on a show.”

“What about the kids?”

“I think they’d been coached. Said they was home from ten on. Said they knew their Mommy was in the other wing of the house all night and they was home, too. The girl said she heard her Mom’s radio go off at eleven.”

I sipped my beer. “We may never get a straight story out of the boy. He was lying or making up stories at the hospital. He was drunk, I’m pretty sure, or covering for somebody.”

“Right. Yes. I took Junior for a walk around the block. Lawyer Dreyer didn’t like it but he didn’t stop it. The mother and the boy agreed. Took some persuasion by yours truly but the boy he finally admitted he was like you say, lying at the hospital. Says now he was actually out after curfew. Says he was afraid to bring it up in front of his mother. Says him and his best friend, the friend’s cousin and his sister all went to the church meeting together.” Bud gestured toward his open notebook. “Yeah, I got names and phone numbers all written down. Can call ’em and their parents if need be. Anyhow, the three boys dropped Cissy back home about ten, then joined a couple of Junior’s other buddies from his old Catholic school for some beach and beer. Junior claims he didn’t get home until after three a.m. Admits he was kind of woozy and not thinking too clear. Fell into bed with his bathing suit on and slept through until the phone woke him. Said it was a good thing his mother drove them down to Myers or he might have wrecked the car.”

“On Monday, however,” I said, “he was fit enough to phone the sheriff and fill him in on what he dreams goes on at the Caloosa.”

Asdeck buttered a biscuit. “Junior sounds like an accident waiting to happen.”

“Sir,” I said. “I think he’s better than that. He’s confused and grieving and scared and angry all at once. He had to change schools to suit his father, get separated from his buddies.”

“That’s no help to his mother,” Bud said. “If he wasn’t home all evening, and then came back and passed out, he can’t swear where
she
was, can he?”

“Confused and telling white lies?” I said. “Covering his ass?”

Asdeck waved the biscuit. “What about the girl?”

“Pretty as a picture, of course. Dark and handsome like her mom and brother. Got a little shape to her and no pimples to speak of. But she’s a whiner, a crybaby—fifteen going on two.” Bud held up his hand. “Yeah, I know, the girl’s probably just as confused and grieving and scared as her big brother. She wouldn’t look me in the face, nor the lawyer either. Junior, at least, he takes it like a man. Anyhow, I took Miss Cissy out for a Coke. She confirmed she was dropped off after the prayer meeting, stated that her mother was definitely home the whole night—but said she had no idea her brother went out again. Claimed she didn’t know nothing about any beach party. Sunday’s a school night, she informed me.”

“My daughter was that way,” Asdeck said. “A teenage girl’s universe extends six feet in any direction.”

“Sir, I tried to gentle it up. Was real polite. Asked her just to explain to me why she’s so sure her mother was home—and how her mom’s lawyer and I can be sure
she
was home all night. She stopped right there in the street, stamped her foot, whimpered and said she just
was
and she just
knows
.”

Asdeck pushed his empty salad bowl aside. “Her act was not convincing?”

“No, sir. And that’s all she would say. So the family, they’re all three of ’em big question marks.”

Bud continued his account of the Bradenton trip. After leaving the DiGennaros, he called on his reserve unit officer, Ken Yeomans. The latter took him to see Don Lowery, formerly Manatee County’s leading office and school supplies wholesaler.

“I told Captain Yeomans and Mr. Lowery something about what DiGennaro was wearing. Lowrey’s first thought was the mob connection—that it could be Mafioso vengeance, forcing what the captain called an interloper to dress like a woman and then beat him and leave him to think things over.”

Homer arrived with refills on tea. As soon as he was gone I looked at Bud and said, “Nobody put a gun to DiGennaro’s head to force him to wear a dress. Playing Tosca made him happy—he had tears in his eyes when he finished his set. Wearing panties got his dick hard.”

“Mr. Lowery speculated it could be a little of both. He said it made him feel dirty having been put out of business by that kind of individual—‘like being peed on by a junkyard bitch in heat,’ that was the phrase he used. Said he never would of guessed it. But he also swore DiGennaro depended on New Jersey connections. Said maybe the new Tampa mob boss is retaking lost territory. In other words, that the incident has to do with who sells school supplies in Hillsboro, Pinellas and Manatee counties, and that DiGennaro’s wardrobe and bad sex life could be no more than a useful pretext.”

Asdeck slapped the table. “Pretext, huh? Bastards using my hotel as a bombing range. Like Vieques Island, down off Puerto Rico, where the battleships go.”

“God only knows, sir. But that’s what he told me.”

“If that’s true,” I said, “if there’s a Mafia war starting up on the coast and DiGennaro really had connections, could that let the FBI in on the case?”