Fatal Reservations (23 page)

“But then I saw something leaking and some blond hair and so I called the police over. Bransford, of course,
didn’t want to believe me. But it was pretty clear there was something wrong with that crypt. So they pried the cover off and found the woman. I wouldn’t have known her”—I stopped myself from saying she was virtually unrecognizable because of the shape she was in—“because I don’t know her. But Edwin Mastin was there. His family owns the plot where the first tomb was dug up and they needed his permission to open the crypt. This time around, the cops didn’t ask anyone. As you can imagine, Edwin was just sick when he recognized Cheryl Lynn.”

“Cheryl Lynn was his goddaughter?” Eric asked.

Lorenzo nodded. “I don’t think they’re related by blood, but I believe she was a close friend of his daughter years ago, before she died. I think he tried to take her in and look after her a little, as a replacement. The problem is, she had been wild for a number of years.” He looked terribly sad. “There wasn’t anything Mastin could’ve done to save her from herself.”

“And the same goes for you,” I said reaching for his hand again. “We know you feel responsible. You tried to help her—but she wasn’t ready to change.” I exchanged glances with Miss Gloria, and we both looked at Lorenzo. “You need to tell Eric the rest.”

After a moment, Lorenzo told him about Cheryl Lynn’s house, taking the fork, and hiding it back in a drawer. Following a few minutes of dead silence, he looked up from his neatly folded hands to Eric. Eric’s face had changed from sympathetic to angry as Lorenzo told the story.

“Why? Why would you put yourself out there like that for some woman you barely knew?”

Lorenzo said, “I would think that you of all people would understand the power of empathy.”

“But tampering with the evidence was illegal. Why would you threaten your own reputation and a murder investigation?”

Lorenzo looked pained. “First of all, I wasn’t certain it was a murder investigation. Second, surely psychologists have ethical boundaries. You can’t run around spilling what your clients have told you. It’s the same in my profession.”

“But in this case, you were lying to the cops to protect someone who was involved in dangerous, illegal activities. And now she’s dead.”

Lorenzo heaved an agonized sigh. “You have to understand that I have Chiron in my ninth house.”

“What the heck does that mean?” asked Miss Gloria.

“Chiron, also called Pegasus the wounded warrior, is strong in my chart.”

Eric said, “So you can heal others, but not yourself.”

Lorenzo nodded, his eyes unfocused as he looked across the living room to the cats grooming each other on Miss Gloria’s reclining chair. “My emotional work will last a lifetime. My birth mother was an addict. I was taken away from her at one and a half and eventually adopted by the Smiths.”

“Oh,” I said, shocked by this news. Though it answered some questions. Like why he was so desperate to help this troubled woman. And the lack of physical resemblance to his parents. “I wondered why you didn’t look like your dad. Like either one of them, really. Though that can happen in any family. And you have your mom’s sweetness—”

“That’s it!” Lorenzo knocked his fist on the table and sprang up. “I’m going to find the bastard who killed her.”

Eric grabbed his forearm. “You can’t,” he said firmly,
looking him straight in the eyes. “Lieutenant Torrence said you need to stay here with these ladies. That was part of the deal that your lawyer negotiated.”

“I can’t just sit still.” Lorenzo’s face crumpled. “I feel sick about all this. I should have pushed her harder to get help.”

“There’s no one who knows better than our psychologist friend,” said Miss Gloria, “people can’t get help until they’re ready to be helped. You can’t make someone change. Am I not right?” she asked Eric.

He grinned and blew her a kiss. “You are right. So if you can’t go darting around the island looking for clues,” said Eric to Lorenzo, “what you can do is help us think through what might’ve happened. Like who is this Cheryl Lynn? And how was she related to Bart Frontgate, if at all? And who wanted them both dead? Are there two murderers on the loose or did one person kill them both?”

“Two murders by two separate people is too much of a coincidence,” said Lorenzo. He tilted his head and turned to me. “Did you say there was a rope? What did it look like?”

“Yes. It was black.” I shrugged. “Thick.”

“Thick like the ropes they use to mark off performance spaces at Mallory Square?”

“I’d say so.” I glanced at Miss Gloria and she bobbed her head with confirmation.

“Crap,” said Lorenzo, sinking lower into the banquette.

“How long do you suppose she had been dead?” Eric asked.

“At least a day. Probably longer. I’m no expert on body decomposition,” I started, then closed my eyes against the memory of the insects, crawling, creeping, swarming.

“How high above the ground was the crypt?” Eric asked.

I looked at Miss Gloria. “Would you say four or five feet?”

She nodded, touched her hand to her chin. “Four sounds about right. Up to here on me. But why would someone hoist the body up and stuff it into the crypt? They went to a lot of trouble.”

“The cemetery part makes sense to me,” I said. “It’s already full of bodies. So you might imagine no one would be looking for a fresh one. But the murderer didn’t think about how it would smell.”

“It had to be someone strong; Cheryl Lynn was not a small woman,” said Lorenzo. “She was short but solid.”

Eric nodded. “Someone strong. Or more than one person. Or someone made strong by drugs.”

“Maybe it’s too obvious,” I said, “but I think we have to assume that the murderer could be one of the performers at Mallory Square. The thick rope around Cheryl Lynn’s neck—that can’t be a coincidence. And Bart Frontgate—he was the poster child for making trouble at the Sunset Celebration. Somehow he pulled her into something dangerous, and they both died as a result.”

Lorenzo nodded his head vigorously. “I’m the best
bet for talking with folks at the pier. They know me. They’re more likely to tell me the truth about what’s going on. You ladies have already tried and you didn’t get much out of them.”

Eric held both hands open. “That may be so, but you can’t go. Hayley and I will. We’ll talk to Snorkel’s father and anyone else you suggest. But you need to stay here with Miss Gloria.”

Miss Gloria suddenly sat up straighter. “Mrs. Dubisson said something about calling hours at the Smokin’ Tuna Saloon for Bart Frontgate this evening. Maybe you could swing back by after Sunset and talk to his family or friends.”

“If he had any friends,” Lorenzo grumbled.

I changed quickly into a pair of black capri pants, my best sequined sneakers, and a plain white T-shirt. This could pass as suitable garb both for the Sunset Celebration and for a wake at the Smokin’ Tuna. I gave Miss Gloria instructions for defrosting spaghetti sauce with meatballs and told her I would text when we were on the way home so she could put the pasta water on. We hopped into Eric’s hand-painted Mustang and headed down island.

21

The ephemera may include a frozen disc of dashi, intensely marine under tongues of sea urchin imprinted with yuzo kosho, a flare-up of citrus and chile . . . and day-boat scallop with green tomato Cryovaced to amplify its tang, anchoring a shallow whey broth steeped with kombu and bonito flakes.

—Ligaya Mishan, “Small on Space, Big on Flavors,”
The New York Times

As soon as I clicked my seat buckle and leaned back against Eric’s leather seat, the exhaustion struck me. “I feel like a sack of flour,” I said to Eric. “Pounds and pounds of King Arthur whole wheat. Not the white whole wheat, either; the heavy stuff.”

He laughed. “I’m not surprised. You’re doing a lot of worrying. And racing around the island like a crazy woman. And besides that, Lorenzo’s troubles are real.”

“What’s your sense of his future?” I asked him. “Did you get any insight from the lawyer?”

“He couldn’t tell me anything confidential,” said Eric, rubbing the side of his cheek with his thumb. “He had to fight to get him released. His mother mortgaged everything she owned to come up with the bond, including her retirement account. And if he’s charged
with this new murder, no amount of dollars will set him free.”

I groaned. “I can’t wait until this is over. And I mean over in a good way, not Lorenzo back in jail.”

My smartphone chirped and Lorenzo’s name came up on the screen. As if he had sensed that we were talking about him. Which I totally and completely believed. I accepted the call and put him on speakerphone. “I’m driving with Eric so I’ll put you on speaker. What’s up?”

“I remembered something else,” he said. “While I was in jail, I did a few readings because two of the other guests recognized me from Sunset. And they told me some things about Bart Frontgate that I hadn’t known.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like he was feuding with Louis, the hat guy.”

“What, Louis wanted his spot?” Eric asked. “I hadn’t heard that he had any juggling talents.”

“Not juggling,” Lorenzo said. “Louis has been feuding with him for a long, long time.”

I glanced over at Eric and shrugged my shoulders. This new information was too vague to be of much use, as far as I could tell. “Keep thinking,” I told Lorenzo. “We’ll be home soon.”

Once Eric had shimmied into a tiny parking space at the end of Caroline Street, we made a beeline across Mallory Square to the home away from home of Snorkel the Pig. The pig’s father, Rick, was dressed in a white shirt and a plaid vest and what appeared to be a golf cap, and his trim, prickly white beard matched the spiky hair of the pig. We joined the tourists who had gathered around to watch their act. After some
introductory patter about how a fiftysomething man came to be performing with a pig in Key West, he began the show.

“Up, pig!” he shouted, and the pig stood on his hind legs and strutted several feet. The crowd whooped with delight. Then the pig turned in circles as his father sang “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” and ended the show by serpentining through Rick’s legs, a move they had certainly seen the Cat Man do.

Rick and the pig bowed together. “Snorkel and I thank you for your patronage,” Rick said, and then reminded the audience that Snorkel’s well-being relied on the generosity of his patrons.

A number of children rushed forward to stuff dollar bills into a can with the pig’s likeness pasted on the outside. Photos were taken with Snorkel and his dad and the visitors, for which another dollar was charged. When the last of the fans had cleared away, Eric and I moved forward.

“We met two weeks ago,” I reminded Rick. “Hello, Snorkel; hello, Rick. We love your show.” I reached out to stroke the cute dark patch on the pig’s nose, remembering at the last minute that he didn’t like his face touched. I clasped my hands together and managed a smile. “We were wondering if you’ve heard anything more about the death of Bart Frontgate.”

He frowned, looking at me first, then Eric. And I realized my interrogation technique was less than smooth. “I don’t understand why you’re involved. Is this part of the official investigation? Are you deputies or something?”

“We’re friends of Lorenzo Smith—that’s all. And he
suggested we talk with you,” Eric said with a reassuring smile, holding his hand out for the man to shake.

“How is Lorenzo?” Rick asked, setting the diminutive pig down on the pavement and shaking our hands. “It doesn’t seem right without him here. The vibes feel wonky, like something awful is about to happen and we’re all unsafe.” His face looked serious, as though he really meant this.

“He’s out of jail,” said Eric. “So that’s a good thing. But there’s some solid evidence that points to him as the guilty party.”

Rick shook his head. “He’s not a murdering kind of guy. He’s not like most of the guys around here, who wouldn’t hesitate to act on their rage.” He flashed a lopsided grin. “Once he’s mulled things over, he’s able to let his anger go like balloons in the wind. I admire that in him.”

“Has he been especially angry lately?” I asked.

Rick shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t help more, but I really don’t have anything to add.”

My heart sank so hard that I realized how heavily I’d been counting on him knowing something crucial. “There’s been another death,” I said to him. “A woman who may have associated with Bart. Does that sound familiar?”

“What did she look like?” he asked.

The image of the dead woman’s face flashed through my mind, and I clenched my eyes and fists tight to fight a sudden wave of nausea.

“Deep breath,” said Eric, touching my back.

I blew out the air caught in my throat, the way Leigh instructed me to do when I picked up a heavy weight at the gym. “On the short side, with blond hair, wavy.
Dark blue eyes, maybe even violet.” How fast did a dead person’s eyes change color? I shook that horrifying thought off, too. “Maybe a little chunky.” Then another memory hit me. “She had a tattoo circling her upper arm.”

He rubbed his chin, nodding. “Cheryl Lynn. The tattoo was from a song. ‘I used to disregard regret, but there are some things that I can’t forget.’ She was trouble. If you didn’t just tell me she was already dead, I might have said that she killed him. It wasn’t a murder-suicide, was it? Now, that would fit.”

“No.” I shook my head. “No way that could have happened. But you’re saying there was no love lost between them?”

“Sick love,” he said with a grimace.

“Can you tell us more?” Eric asked.

“They were together, but not. Because of his act—you know, the daredevil-on-tightrope routine—he could pretty much have his pick of loose tourist ladies. The ones who came down to the island for a wild adventure. What happens in Key West stays in Key West. Or so these people seem to think,” he added, then reached down to stroke his pig. Snorkel nuzzled him with his enormous pink snout and Rick fed him a treat.

“So what, she’d get jealous and pissed off?” I asked.