Death By Sunken Treasure (A Hayden Kent Mystery Book 2) (5 page)

“Well, you are a garden of information.” I chuckled. If I could get her to go on
Jeopardy!
she’d be one of those people that never left the show until she cleaned them out. Unfortunately, I’d never been able to persuade her to try out when the clue crew came to Miami.

“Yep, a garden of useless information.” She laughed, then frowned while her hands worked to restore the carton to its prior shape. “But they don’t go back together so well.” She tossed the unfolded cardboard into the garbage.

I pulled the dishes from the beeping microwave and put them on the dining room table. Mallory liberated a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the wine cooler and sat while I brought plates, wineglasses, and cutlery to the table. The more I puttered, the more bits and pieces of the puzzle, both old and new, fell into place in my thoughts. Dana’s worry about her son now made sense. It spilled over into her concern about my meeting Mike.

She’d run the gamut of emotions when he came home. Excited when she learned about his homecoming. Enraged when she learned his wife, Kristin, I congratulated myself for finally remembering her name, divorced him while he underwent physical therapy. I’d written all that off to maternal concern and instinct.

More than once, she expressed a hope he and I would hit it off. When I first met Mike when he came home, he looked awful—pale, gaunt, and shaky. After that first meeting, I barely saw him. At the time, I thought it was because I had another man in my life. Now I wondered if Dana had discovered his addiction and was covering for him. Did addiction contribute to the drawn appearance? Dana never said a word. She loved her son.

I realized she loved me too. That’s why
she’d gone out of her way to keep us apart.

A new thought blossomed as I passed plates and the wine bottle to Mallory. Like the plates from the Chinese carryout, people’s personalities rarely went back together seamlessly once they were broken. Mike had been broken by the unendurable pain of chemical burns, and then by the emotional pain of the breakup of his marriage. Had he ever put himself back together?

Seven

My conversation with Mallory the evening before troubled me so much that I woke at five more tired than when I went to sleep. Grant expected me to stop at Buddy’s this morning. Blackbeard on a bad day with candles burning in his beard would be a more welcome appointment.

The early awakening left me enough time to do a little research about Buddy and his practice. We’d met only a couple of times before he retired. He didn’t make a good impression. I typed “James Smith” into the Florida Bar site. Fourteen names came up. That explained a sixty-plus-year-old going by “Buddy.” He advertised a general practice with a specialty in admiralty law. Did he handle the salvage permits for Mike? Is that why he didn’t call us when he ended up in possession of Mike’s will? Because they had a prior relationship? I thought about that while I listened for the coffeemaker to start.

Two cups of spectacular Backdraft Roast coffee later I decided to dress to impress. I went to my closet and selected a gorgeous plum-colored suit with a pencil skirt and a lavender silk top cut on the bias. After a leisurely shower, I dressed and slid my bare feet into a pair of strappy sandals with heels up to there. Pearl stud earrings finished off the ensemble. I barely recognized myself as I passed the hall mirror on my way to the car.

Traffic was nonexistent, except around the breakfast restaurants. At eight fifteen, I pulled into Buddy’s office parking area. One other car sat in the lot. A burgundy Rolls Royce sedan. The license plate read “Buddy JD.” I didn’t think the JD stood for juvenile delinquent. I flipped down the visor, checked my makeup, slicked on fresh lip gloss, and climbed out of the car.

Buddy, dressed in a grey pinstripe three-piece suit, sat behind the receptionist desk. His look broadcasted unhappiness like a flashing neon sign. Putting on my best smile, I extended my hand over the U-shaped desk.

“You’re Huffman’s paralegal.” He stood as he spoke. The words sounded like an accusation.

I dropped my hand, drew in a deep breath, and said, “Yes. Hayden Kent. It’s been a while, Bu…Mr. Smith,” I salvaged.

He stalked off toward an office, leaving me in mid-sentence. The door stayed open, so I followed him. The chair behind the large mahogany desk squealed in protest as he lowered his bulk into it. He placed both hands flat in front of him on the blotter. The only other pieces of furniture in the room were a round coffee table and a straight-back chair. I took the chair and waited for some acknowledgment.

“I suspect you’re here about our mutual client.” He looked into my eyes. “I heard you filed a will yesterday afternoon.”

Deciding to play his game, I responded with a brief nod of my head.

“I can’t tell you much—”

“Because of client privilege or because you don’t have the answers?” I asked.

His hands curled into fists. “Did you want to conduct both sides of this interview?”

A trickle of sweat tickled my back. Not a hint of moisture marred Buddy’s brow, despite his winter suit.

After much shuffling of paper, Buddy handed me a copy of the will he filed. I skimmed the document. It matched the one the clerk gave me. “When did Mike come here? We’ll need to figure out which will came second, and if someone pressured him into signing it.”

He leaned back and steepled his fingers together, resting the tips against his lips. He held this pose for a few moments while a dictionary of emotions ran across his face. “Yes,
Grant
and I will need to discuss that. There was no duress. Not from us, at any rate. A third party delivered the will.”

His use of the royal “us” grated. A strobing started in the corner of my eye. Harbinger of a migraine. I gave him a wide-eyed look designed to ferret out a lie and held my silence. Buddy’s eyes bored into mine like lasers. No way was I going to lose the staring contest. He broke contact first. Score one for me.

“Someone came here Friday and plunked the document down on the receptionist’s desk while I was speaking with her. I reviewed it. Saw cross-outs and corrections. The delivering person told me Mike signed the document and asked for it to be delivered to me.”

I squirmed in my chair, trying to find a comfortable angle. “The delivering person?”

“A client.” He waved his hand back and forth over his desk. “Grant drafted the will.” He shook a finger at me. “Your firm name is on the paper.”

I bit my tongue. His tone implied we had done a bad drafting job. “Someone came to your office holding someone else’s will in his hands and dropped it on a desk and you filed it.” I hoped it sounded as farfetched to him as it did to me.

His nose pinched, and he gave me a patient look. “It was in an envelope addressed to us.”

There was that damn royal plural again. Buddy was a sole practitioner. “What time of day did this client arrive?”

“Early.”

“No recollection of time?” I felt like I was trapped in a never-ending tennis game. The throbbing in my head escalated with my frustration level. Didn’t this man know how to construct a complete sentence?

His large head shook back and forth. “Maybe one of the girls remembers.”

His expression told me he was baiting me. I wondered what his problem was and why he was so rude. Through clenched teeth I asked, “When will the
girls
be in?”

A brief smile touched his lips.

“End of the month. Rolly gives his staff the last three weeks of January off every year. With pay.”

Score one for him. I kicked myself. Everyone in the business talked about “The Vacation.” Would anyone remember the details of someone dropping off a will after three weeks? I doubted it.

A faint glimmer of hope dangled before me and I grabbed it with both hands. “Who witnessed the will?” Florida law required a certain standard of witnessing for a will. Miss a step and the will could be impeached. 

Buddy answered with a shrug. “Can’t read the names.”

“We’re going to need to speak with your client. Does one of the signatures belong to him?”

“Or her,” he corrected. “Don’t think so. Have Grant call me.” He stood.

My hackles rose at the dismissal. It took all my control not to shoot back a retort. Amusement glinting in his eyes told me he recognized my reaction. I berated myself for being transparent. Game, set, and match. He won. I’d let him rattle me. Worse, he knew it. Zigzags of light flashed before my eyes. All but defeated, I asked my standard end of interview question. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

The same self-satisfied smile played around his mouth. My hand itched to wipe it away. To gain control I pulled my gaze from him and cast it over his shoulder to the wall behind him. A small shadow box backed in what appeared to be black velvet caught my eye. The frame held a display of five doubloons, arranged in the shape of a smile. Did those have an inscription on the back? I couldn’t think of a way to check or ask.

“Not really.” He paused and followed my gaze over his shoulder. “Oh, the salvage permit. In case you’re wondering, Mike legally acquired it when his former partners missed the filing deadlines to renew the search permits.”

That differed a bit from the story Mike told us, but not much. “Are those from the salvage?”

He ignored my question. Instead, he said, “As for his bar, one might say his former partner hoisted himself on his own petard.”

“So Jake Patterson delivered the will? The will of a man who practically considered him a second father?”

Buddy answered by walking toward the door to his office. “Let’s agree your client’s last week was unusual. And fraught with challenges. By the way, you will find I have spoken with the police. I’m sure they will assist you with copies of my statement if you ask.”

“Mr. Smith, if you are trying to tell me something you think I need to know, please just spell it out.”

“Call me Buddy, everyone does.”

He opened the door and all but kicked me out of the office.

After talking to the man, I wanted a long hot shower. If Mike didn’t buy Jake and his stepson Devon out of his bar interest as he told us, but somehow ousted them, and cut them out of a share of the treasure at the same time…I didn’t have to know either man to speculate on their anger. The throbbing in my head increased. I fished a migraine tablet from my wallet and put it under my tongue. Should I stop at the sheriff’s office before I went to work? I didn’t want to. I needed more information to know what questions to ask. My mind raced over everyone I could think of through the pain. A grey Fish and Wildlife Commission pickup driven by an officer I didn’t recognize pulled into the lot and parked.

That was the perfect solution. Janice Kirby, a good friend and an FWC officer. She might be able to offer me a new, more balanced perspective about Mike’s life and death. As a “grouper trooper” she would be following the events closely. Since the death occurred in water, maybe FWC had taken over the investigation.

I slid into the caramel-colored leather seat and hit the ignition button. The motor started silently. I tapped the phone button to call Janice. I shared as much as I could, given confidentiality issues. Then I asked about The Petard and Mike’s death. My breath caught in my throat anticipating her response. Whose version would her story support?

“Hayden,” she started slowly. “Mike’s death is an open investigation with the sheriff’s office. Have you spoken with them? All I know is secondhand information. It’s a strange death for someone with Mike’s experience and skills.” Her voice dropped. It sounded like her fingers rested over the phone speaker. I heard a static jumble that could have been a radio call. The static cleared and she said, “From what I’ve heard, his last week was rather unusual. A lot of…things happened. The investigation has really ramped up.”

What the heck? Why didn’t Diego call me? Or was it still his investigation?
Memories of what I learned about Mike since last Thursday shot through my memory like a pinball game on steroids. My finger gripped the steering wheel. “So much stuff is going on, and Mike’s body only surfaced three days ago. I wanted to get an update, just a gist of what’s happening. Something to help us get a clear path for the estate proceeding.”

“No one from Monroe County has spoken to you yet?”

The police spoke to Buddy. Not to Grant. Why? The answer lurked behind the pain in my head. It was there, I just couldn’t claw it out. “No, no one. Not that I know of. I mean, I spoke to Deputy Diego on Monday. But it was more about Dana.” I paused for a beat, and a clear thought cut a pathway through the pain haze. “We didn’t file our will until late last evening. I did tell Deputy Diego we represented the estate. I expect we’ll have a call from them today.”

Janice cleared her throat. “Most likely. If not, you need to call them again. All the agencies are on alert for more information. There’s a lot of pressure right now to work this investigation. New developments. They’ll call your boss, at least. Last I heard, and that was this morning, there is some suspicion the accident may have been staged.”

Eight

Janice’s words confirmed the sinking feeling I had in the pit of my stomach when I thought of Mike. I put my car in gear and backed out of the space. Bright sunlight shone in my eyes as I headed due east to my office. Heat devils, those mirages that happen on hot Florida Keys roads, imitated my thoughts, shimmering and disappearing when I got closer. Who could have staged the accident? Mike? Someone else? Why? To cover up a murder? Mike’s murder? My brain was full. No wonder it hurt.

My cell phone beeped a reminder tone as I exited the Long Key Bridge. I glanced from the road for a second. “Dinner with Dana, buy wine” popped up on the screen. I cringed inwardly. What was I going to say to Dana? Especially now.

The discomfort embarrassed me so much I considered canceling dinner. I mentally slapped myself. Dana would never abandon me. No way could I let her down. Janice never said murder. I jumped to that conclusion with both feet. My foot pressed harder on the accelerator. I needed to talk to Grant.

A scene of controlled chaos greeted me as I strode into the office lobby. Every seat was filled. The leather loveseat meant for two groaned under the weight of three men squished cheek to jowl. The air held the faint scent of spicy aftershave and tobacco. Ruth answered my questioning expression with a raised eyebrow and mouthed the words “ladies room.” High color marked her cheeks and a faint sheen of perspiration dappled her hairline.

I stepped down the hallway and opened the door marked “Employees Only.” Ruth scooted in right behind me and leaned up against the door. I reached for the small table standing against one wall, plucked up a folded paper towel, ran it under some cold water, and pressed it into her hand.

“That crowd is out for blood. They’re press.” She patted her face as she spoke. “From as far away as Roanoke, Virginia.”

Mike had lived in Roanoke; that was where his injury occurred. “Is all this about Mike Terry?”

Ruth leaned in so close I smelled the scent of her shampoo. We were the only ones in the tiny room, but she spoke so softly I strained to hear her. “His ex-wife filed for a part of his salvage claim the day he died. She’s in the Keys—with his ex-boss.”

Laughter erupted before I could control it. “The ex-wife and the ex-boss. How long has that been going on?” Both of her eyebrows shot up. Her face tightened into a mask of distaste.

“I’m sorry. That was inappropriate. Too many exes in one place. But I don’t see anything to attract the press.”

A soft knock sounded on the hall door. Ruth moved away and the door inched open a few inches. Grant’s face came into view.

“The natives in the lobby are getting restless, Ruth. Did you bring Hayden up to speed?”

Ruth shot me a glance that would strip paint. The skin on my face nearly sizzled. Without a word, she demoted me from a compatriot to persona non grata. “I tried. She thinks it’s funny.” She yanked the door the rest of the way open and almost knocked Grant down as she bustled out to her desk.

I expected Grant to give me some explanation. Instead, he shook his head and reached for my hand. My fingers burned at his touch. I gave a gentle squeeze before I released his hand and followed him into his office

He took his seat behind his desk. “We have a lot going on. And the police called this morning. I’d like it if you could call them back, see if you can help them, and set an appointment for me if you think I need to get involved.” He glanced over at his computer monitor as another email notification dinged. “You might as well continue your conversation with Deputy Diego.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but he lifted a hand to stop me. “Now tell me exactly what Buddy said.”

I handed Grant the second will. “He talked to the police already. Have you heard anything about the suspicion that Mike was murdered?”

Grant’s jaw tightened at my words. “Buddy told you that? The police told him that?”

I sipped cold coffee from my travel mug to buy a bit of time while I considered what to say and how to say it. As much as I wanted to talk to Grant ten minutes ago, now I wasn’t sure how to start, and the noise from the crowd in the lobby was distracting me.

“No.” I recounted my discussions with Buddy and Janice, grateful Grant held his silence. When I finished my monologue, I took a deep breath and rested my hands on the desk. “I’m lost. I don’t know much more than I knew when I talked to Deputy Diego the first time, and I haven’t had a chance to digest the information we’ve just discovered. How do I ask the cops good questions? Worse, I don’t know what to tell Dana.” My fingers played with the hem of my jacket. “I almost don’t want to see her tonight.”

I read understanding in Grant’s expression. “Just let her talk, Hayden. That’s what will help her the most right now.”

“But—”

“No buts. You don’t have enough information to draw any conclusions. Just be there for her.” He paused and straightened some papers on the corner of his desk and picked up the copy of the will I had given him. “As for the police, ask the usual questions. You know what we need to know. Find out what they know.”

As I stood to go back to my office, I said, “Buddy has a set of doubloons framed on his wall. Five of them. In the shape of a smile.”

Grant glanced up from his perusal of the will. “Mel Fisher’s place sells the coins. Lots of people buy them. Since Buddy practices admiralty law, it would make a nice thematic decoration.”

I thought about what he said. As always, he cut through the static and helped me clear my head. The babble of voices in the lobby rose to a crescendo when I opened the door. “Why are you so calm about the mob scene in the lobby? Are you going to talk to them?”

He looked up, a small smile playing around his lips. “That group can hoist themselves by their own petard without my help.”

“Petard. The Petard.” I smacked my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Buddy told me Mike split with his partners at The Petard.”

Grant’s face showed interest.

“Nothing more.” I responded to his unasked question. “But if Jake Patterson, Devon Rutherford, and Mike argued over the salvage permit and Mike ousted them from the bar because of the discord, Jake and Devon had double the reason to want Mike dead. Triple, if they somehow knew about this second will.”

“I don’t know, Hayden,” he said softly. “As inadequate as it sounds, we will have to see what develops. Remember, Jake and Mike had a very close relationship.” His smile lit his eyes. “I wonder how many people know what a petard is.”

“It’s a sailing term, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s a small bomb. Used to blow in doors. Petards were the original gatecrashers.” He held up a hand. “Don’t ask me about the hoist part. Maybe your friend Mallory knows.”

While we talked, he continued to scan the will. “Let’s talk about this for a minute.” I shut the door and returned to my chair. It was still warm. “Draft up a legal notice for the local papers. Hopefully someone will come forward to say they acted as a witness.” Grant tapped the will copy he held in his hand. “That’s the only way we’ll be sure of the execution order of the wills.”

The foot of my crossed leg swung back and forth waiting for him to continue. He made a few notes then looked up at me.

“The gaggle of press out there.” He jabbed his pen in the direction of the lobby. “Mike’s ex, Kristin, brought them down on us. She’s a budding journalist. Has her own exposé column in her hometown paper. Started a series about fraudulent insurance claims and how they drain the system. Made Mike’s accident the focal point of the investigation.”

I wrinkled my nose in confusion. “Ruth said it was about Kristin filing a claim for the treasure. The industrial accident claim was settled, appealed, and paid out long ago.”

“Yeah. But all that seemed to mean to her was try again. Her last column hinted Dana was involved somehow in covering up the information. That she knew he was planning the accident. Supposedly he’d sent Dana emails that Kristin uncovered portions of.”

The words hit me like a blow to the solar plexus. Another off-limits topic for dinner tonight. “Why?”

“Who knows? Kristin’s having an affair with Mike’s ex-boss. Wants to impress him with her truth-seeking prowess. Her second-to-last alimony payment is due next month, the last payment next year. She sees the end of the financial gravy train. Decided that if she embarrassed Mike he’d pay her to go away. She didn’t plan on him dying. That’s when her story took off. Listening to the buzz out there, they want to know if his death is another ploy to scam insurance.”

“But she filed for the salvage claim.” My fingers rubbed the bridge of my nose. Nothing made sense.

Grant rocked back in his chair. “Sure. Probably wanted to,” Grant’s fingers made air quotes, “‘preserve her rights.’ She filed on Friday. Nobody knew he was dead then. Lousy timing on her part.”