Dying to Retire (19 page)

“What happened?”

“Got hit in the head with an I beam.”

“How awful.”

“The guy operating the crane was some thug Wainscott had brought down from up north. A ‘terrible accident,’ the paper said.” Gabby sneered. “That weren’t no accident.”

“You think the man on the crane hit Denny intentionally?”

“My mother didn’t raise no idiot. The guy disappears right away, too. Wainscott sent him off to another site to get him out of Key West.”

“But what about the police? Did you tell them your suspicions?”

“No way, missy. I ain’t about to put my head in the way of a steel bar.”

“Did you work for Wainscott, too?”

“I did, but not anymore. Went back to fishing. No money, but at least you don’t have to watch your back, like in construction.”

“I’m from Maine,” I said, “and I happen to know fishing isn’t exactly a safe occupation, either. We’ve lost too many men to the sea.”

“True. But if you know the signs, you can anticipate Mother Nature. You got no idea what Wainscott is gonna do.”

Wainscott Manor was on the Atlantic Ocean side of the island, between the airport and the Fort Zachary Taylor State Historic Site. There were supposed to be two buildings on the site, but only one was completed. The other, surrounded by a chain-link fence, was no more than a structural skeleton of steel beams and concrete platforms. Stairways were visible through the plastic tarpaulins that had been hung to shield the open floors from the elements, and to protect the nearby swimming pool from the dust and other debris kicked up by construction. Forklifts and cranes stood abandoned. Piles of lumber, reels of wire, and other materials littered the ground within the fenced-off site. It looked as if there were many months to go before this building would match its neighbor.

Gabby pulled his truck into the broad circular driveway and jammed on the brakes, the crates in the back slamming into the cab, then sliding back against the tailgate. I braced myself against the dashboard, grateful to have arrived in one piece.

He looked at the abandoned site and shook his head. “He ain’t never gonna get that sucker built.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Just a hunch.”

“I can see they haven’t worked on it for a while,” I said. “That wire is beginning to rust. But that doesn’t mean they won’t start again.”

“The wire is the least of it. Between the rain and the sun, the wood will warp, and if the tarps leak, his cement bags’ll be stone.” He cackled, exposing his gold front teeth. “I hope he runs out of money and goes bankrupt,” he said. “That’d serve him.”

I climbed down from the truck, thanked Gabby for the ride, and walked to the entrance. Red, white, and blue pennants, fluttering in the breeze, had been strung across an arched porte cochere. Flanking heavy glass double doors were lush tropical plantings, each with an artificial waterfall, the pleasant sounds accompanied by cool mist. I pulled on each door but they were locked. A sign advising residents to use the back entrance surprised me. I’d thought the open house was to attract buyers, but apparently there were already some people living here.

I cupped my hands over my eyes and leaned close to the glass door to peer inside—a crew was setting up tables in the lobby. I knocked on the glass. Eventually a woman wearing a long apron over black slacks and a white shirt came to the door and gestured with her finger, pointing at her watch. “Come back in an hour. We’re not open yet,” she called out, her voice faint on my side of the glass.

I followed a stone pathway around to the side, down a series of long steps toward a swimming pool nestled between the two buildings. A trail to the left led to the chain-link fence and a padlocked gate. Several people were stretched out on chaises, but it didn’t look as if many residents took advantage of the pool, and I wondered if its proximity to the construction site was a deterrent. From the pool, another patio led to stairs that gave access to the beach. It was tempting to shuck my shoes and walk on the sand. But I was here for a purpose, and looked instead for a rear entrance to the building. As I approached the back door, a woman in overalls and a Florida Marlins baseball cap came out of the building carrying an insulated cooler. She stuck her foot out to hold the door for me.

“Thanks,” I said, grabbing the knob and leaning against the door to keep it open for her.

“No problem,” she said. “Did you see where Gabby went?”

“Gabby?”

“Yeah, you know, the old guy who sells the fish.”

“He just left.”

She set down the cooler and slapped her hands on her hips. “Can you believe it? My neighbor said she just saw him pull into the driveway.”

“Were you expecting him?”

“Well, sure. He’s here every Wednesday and Sunday. I buy all my fish from him. He’s a little pricey, but you know you’re getting the freshest fish, right off the boat.”

I didn’t tell her Gabby was selling leftovers from yesterday’s catch. “Perhaps he’s planning to come back,” I said. “Where does he usually sell his fish when he’s here?”

“Oh, he moves around. The management has chased him off a few times.”

“Really? Why?”

“Someone complained that his tubs left a slimy puddle on the property. What do you want? It’s fish. Fish don’t smell so nice.” She lifted the cap, ran a hand from her forehead across her bright red hair, and snugged the cap down again. “They think they’re so elegant in this place. But they’re going to have to learn to lighten up. This is Key West, not Palm Beach. Us conches are freethinkers. Anyway, when the big boss isn’t around, they don’t usually bother Gabby, but they’re having some sort of do downstairs today.”

“That’s why I’m here,” I said, glancing at my watch. “It doesn’t start until noon.”

“They won’t let you in early, that I know, not if they’ve closed off the lobby. I’m Reena, by the way.” She stuck out her hand. “Thinking of moving in here? We could use some more neighbors.”

“I’m Jessica,” I said. “I thought I’d just see what’s being offered.”

“Well, I hope you like it. I’m afraid the builder’s never going to finish the other one till this one is sold out. Doesn’t make for a pretty view, a half-finished building.”

“I don’t imagine it does. Who’s the builder?” I asked, knowing the answer, but curious as to what she might say about him.

“His name’s DeWitt Wainscott. He’s pretty much a newbie in Key West, but I heard he built stuff up north. He fought tooth and nail with the city over this development, but finally got his way. It’ll be nice if he ever finishes it.”

“What do you think is holding him up?”

“Ran out of money is my guess, although if he doesn’t get moving on the second building, his permit might expire. Then who knows when it’ll get built? The city doesn’t want any more luxury buildings—what we really need is middle-income housing—so it gives these developers a hard time.”

“So you think he doesn’t have the funds to complete the project?”

“Who knows? These guys always find banks to give them more money. It’s just us little people they cold-shoulder. I’ll tell you this: If he’s broke, you’d never know it by the looks of his office. It’s just off the lobby.” She looked around and covered her mouth with one hand, as if to keep from being overheard. “See if you can get a peek in there. A million dollars’ worth of furniture and paintings. My neighbor says he has gold fixtures in the bathroom.”

“My goodness. But you say he fought with the city; it seems he won.”

“Sure, he got the go-ahead, but the city commission made him jump through a lot of hoops. Must’ve cost him a lotta dough to keep fighting.”

“Putting up a building like this is expensive, too,” I said.

“You’re not kidding, but he’ll get it back. The carrying charges are no small change, and these apartments aren’t cheap to begin with. Sorry, I don’t mean to discourage you.”

“You aren’t.”

“I’d better see if I can find Gabby. It was nice to meet you. Look me up if you decide to move in. I’m on the third floor, west corner.”

“I’ll do that.”

The lobby was abuzz with workers from a catering company getting ready for the reception. I leaned against the wall, next to a closed door, and watched as three men unfolded long wooden tables, pushed them against the wall, draped white linens across the tops, and clipped on spring-green skirts that fell to the floor. Two young women in black shorts, white short-sleeved shirts, and bow ties squatted in front of one table, lifted the cloth, and shoved boxes and crates out of sight. Styrofoam coolers were stacked along one wall, waiting to be unloaded onto silver trays standing on their sides in a crate. Insulated bags of chipped ice sat dripping on a rubber mat.

The woman who’d given me instructions to return in an hour hefted a platter covered in pink cellophane onto a table and loosened the ties at the top. She glanced in my direction. I could tell when she recognized me because she put on an annoyed expression, wiped her hands on a towel flung over her shoulder, and steamed in my direction.

“I’m sorry, madam,” she said, scowling and blocking my view of the room. “As you can see, we’re not set up yet, and we only have a short time to finish. I can’t tolerate any distractions. I already told you, you’ll have to come back later.”

“I’m here to see Mr. Wainscott,” I said. “I believe he’s expecting me.”

He would be, that is, if Marina Rodriguez had informed him of my impending visit. Of course, that didn’t mean that he wanted to see me, or even that he would consent to see me. But I was hopeful I could capture his attention, at least for a few moments.

“I beg your pardon,” the caterer said, backing away, her expression now conciliatory. “I didn’t realize. Can I get you anything? Would you like a glass of water?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “But you can tell me where Mr. Wainscott’s office is located?”

“It’s that one, over there.”

She indicated the door I’d been standing near. There was no sign, only the round peephole, doorbell button, and fluted brass knocker I’d seen on the other doors I’d passed as I walked down the hall. A small square below the doorbell read ONE A, spelled out instead of the usual numeral.

I looked at my watch. “I’m a few minutes early,” I said. “I’ll wait here, if you don’t mind.” I didn’t want her to witness my rejection if he declined to talk to me.

“Shall I get you a chair?”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I’m perfectly happy standing and watching your preparations. I’ll try to keep out of the way.”

“You’re not in the way at all. I hope you’ll stay for the reception after your appointment with Mr. Wainscott. He says we’re his favorite caterer. We’re setting up a wonderful buffet.”

She went back to her tasks, and I waited, giving myself a moment to compose what it was I wanted to ask the builder. Suddenly the door was flung open and an enraged DeWitt Wainscott in shirtsleeves, his tie askew, came storming past me, a cell phone pressed to his ear.

“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do,” he yelled at the person on the other end of the line. “Tell them I’ll close the whole damn beach if they continue protesting. I don’t care what the law says. They’ll never set another foot on it again. Go fill the place with alligators. If you can’t do it, I know someone else who can.” He listened for a second to the reply. “The hell with the village. Those weak-kneed hicks cost me money every time they sit down. They always have their hands out. Tell them to take care of those old biddies, or I’ll do it myself.” He snapped the phone closed and descended on the caterer, bellowing, “Marian, why isn’t the food out yet?”

“We’re working as fast as we can, Mr. Wainscott. One of the trucks broke down and—”

“Don’t give me your excuses. I want the food out and I want it out now.”

“Of course, Mr. Wainscott. Here, I’ve just unwrapped the tray of steak sandwiches. Would you like to try one?” She pushed a stack of china plates next to the platter, flattened the pink cellophane on the table, and stepped back.

“The cookies. Where are the cookies?”

“Right here, sir,” said one of the men, holding out a plate of artfully arranged dark- and white-chocolate lace cookies.

Wainscott took a fistful, toppling the design, then dropped the cookies on a dish the caterer thoughtfully handed to him. She took the plate back from him and said, “Let me put together lunch for you,” she said. “I know what you like.”

“Make it snappy,” he growled, and, wheeling around, he stomped back to his office. He banged open the door, and I followed him in, grabbing it and closing it softly behind me.

He whirled to see what had prevented the satisfying crash of the slammed door. “What the . . . ? Who the hell are you?” he said.

“How do you do, Mr. Wainscott?” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. I believe your associate informed you I was coming. I missed seeing you in Foreverglades, and she said you’d be delighted to talk to me down here, since I was coming to visit a friend in the city.” Without being asked, I sat down in the chair across from his desk.

He reached for his suit jacket, which hung from a leather chair, thought better of it, and sat down, buttoning his collar and tightening his tie.

“Well, isn’t this lovely,” I said, looking around.

The office was actually an apartment—or would be, whenever the developer decided to vacate the premises. It was furnished with a startling mixture of elaborately carved French antiques and upholstered modern pieces in dark green leather with hand-painted details. Wainscott had commandeered a gleaming mahogany dining room table to serve as a desk, and added, incongruously, a lateral file cabinet on the wall behind it. Hanging along with oil paintings—fair copies of Impressionist masters—was a row of framed color photographs and newspaper clippings showing Wainscott grinning at the camera with various celebrities.

“You know the governor?” I said, popping up from my seat and examining the pictures on the wall. “Oh, my.”