Fatal Reservations (7 page)

“His absence?” I asked.

“He’s not at his home, and he’s not answering our calls.”

I nodded, worried to hear this but not surprised. “I don’t know a thing about that,” I said, which in the technical, narrow context of his question was true.

He frowned. “People are often not what they seem. And they don’t often change for the better. Keep that in mind when you get the overpowering urge to defend your
friend
Lorenzo.”

I just stared at him.

“Evidence doesn’t lie, Hayley. Understood?”

“I know you believe that. I’m not sure I do.” I gave a snappy salute, slipped past him into Torrence’s office, and shut the door behind me, leaving him out in the hall.

“Oh, we’ll both pay for that,” said Torrence, barely suppressing a grin.

I rubbed a hand over my eyes, feeling suddenly like I might cry. “What’s up with that crabby bastard?” I asked, a little more fiercely than I felt.

Torrence sighed and waved me to the chair across from him. “There’s a lot of pressure on this department right now, Hayley. You saw some of it at the meeting last night. People are not feeling all warm and fuzzy about police departments in general. And they’re freaked out by the burglaries of the homes around the cemetery.” He shook his head, frowning. “You can imagine the hysterical calls we’re getting about this latest death. Which is why I need to talk to you about Lorenzo.”

“He wouldn’t kill someone,” I said.

“Hayley—”

“It’s not right for you guys to pin a murder on Lorenzo because the department feels pressured. Without a shred of evidence, as far as I can tell.” I crossed my arms over my chest and glared straight at him.

Torrence looked at me, fingering the dimple on his chin. “I’ll tell you what I can, if you can agree you’ll stay out of it. And share anything that you know or that you hear bearing on the investigation. Deal?”

“Okay.” I collapsed into the chair, dropping the lunch on his desk.

“The dead man, Bart Frontgate, was a juggler at the
Sunset Celebration. He was the only performer to use flaming barbecue forks with actual chunks of meat on them.” He grimaced. “He even fed some of the spectators after the spectacle. Which would not comply with any public health guidelines, I assure you. You’ve seen his act, I’m certain. What did you think?”

“I never stayed through the whole thing.” I paused for a minute, thinking about why. Because lord knows, I’d spent hours watching other performers, including the Cat Man, who worked his felines through their paces across high wires and through flaming hoops. And I loved Snorkel the Pig’s show, too. Not that a Vietnamese potbellied pig has that many tricks up his proverbial sleeve, but the pig bowling act made me laugh every time. So why didn’t I care for Frontgate?

“It bothered me how he bullied the crowd for money,” I finally said. “I know they all have to make a living, but if you put on a good show or have something to offer, people fight to give tips when it’s over. Frontgate made me feel as though I was personally going to cheat him if I didn’t drop money in his bucket. I totally get performers giving the audience a little nudge at the end of the show, but harassing us all the way through? Not cool.”

“I can see that,” said Torrence. “But not everyone agreed. He was one of the biggest draws at Sunset.”

“Maybe it wasn’t only his personality that I disliked,” I added. “Probably anyone juggling on a high wire would make me nervous. Never mind that the utensils he was lobbing around were on fire.”

“Aha! That’s how I feel when you get involved with police work,” said Torrence. “Like you’re on a high wire tossing flaming objects with not one nanosecond
of training or experience.” He reached into the paper bag and took out the sandwiches.

“I got the French dip, too,” I said. “I already ate a big brunch but I thought I might get hungry by the time I got here. Not so much.” I picked up half a sandwich, nibbled, then put it down again. Two meals within twenty-four hours where I’d lost my appetite—not like me. Not like me at all. At least I’d managed to choke down the brunch—I wasn’t in danger of wasting away. “Back to Lorenzo . . .”

“Lorenzo and Frontgate squared off about the problems with the Mallory Square committee, from what we’ve heard,” Torrence said. “People have mentioned a lot of angry exchanges. You know there’s a Webcam on Mallory Square, right? We’re reviewing the tapes for confirmation right now.”

My heart plummeted. Lorenzo had told Eric and me he had no relationship with Frontgate. “Speaking of angry, what was the deal with Louis the palm-hat guy, who attacked Lorenzo? He looked like the sort of character who would kill someone. He tried it last night right in the official business meeting, with a hundred witnesses.”

Torrence huffed a big sigh. “Probably Lorenzo didn’t mean to kill Bart. Probably they had an altercation and Frontgate threatened him and maybe Lorenzo was trying to protect himself and he lost control.” He wiped his lips on a napkin. “But you know the drill—things will go a lot easier if he turns himself in. Then we have a chance to sort out the facts.”

“Sure.” I flashed a compliant but fake smile. The longer we talked, the clearer it became that Lorenzo was in their sights. And that Louis was not. “But you
wouldn’t arrest a guy just because he didn’t like the victim. Even if the victim is irritating as hell, most folks’ default response would not be murder. A lot of people probably couldn’t stand Frontgate. How did he die, anyway?”

Torrence groaned with exasperation. “The autopsy results aren’t in yet, but he had puncture wounds in his chest and his neck, consistent with a fine boning knife. Or even the tines of a big fork.”

I shuddered, trying to shut out a horrible mental picture of Bart’s death. “And this relates to Lorenzo how?”

“You know that Lorenzo brings his table and lamp and all that tarot stuff to the Sunset Celebration? Then he sets up and decorates the table with a special cloth.”

I nodded again, not liking the way this was going. Feeling the contents of my stomach grinding.

“We found one of Frontgate’s forks wrapped up in the tablecloth that your friend uses to cover his table—the dark blue one with the stars and the moon on it,” he added. “It’s very distinctive.”

“Where? Where did you find it? Did you have a search warrant?”

His eyes widened. “Police Procedure 101: We don’t need a warrant to search for a murder weapon with probable cause.”

“But where did you find it? Why did you look there?”

Torrence smiled, regret on his face. He wasn’t going to tell me anything else.

“Anyone could’ve planted a fork in his tablecloth,” I said, but a pit was opening up in my gut.

Torrence said, “People could have, but why would they?”

“The hat guy—he hates Lorenzo. You saw it. He probably tried to set him up.”

“Why, Hayley? What sense does that make?”

“If he’s trying to shift the blame to Lorenzo, it makes perfect sense. He figures the cops would be dumb enough to fall for something that obvious—”

My phone buzzed with the arrival of a text message. I took a quick glance. Lorenzo.
Can u take care of Lola a few days? Won’t come in and I have 2 go. Food etc inside.

I could feel the heat rushing from my neck and flooding across my cheeks—the redheads’ dead-giveaway scourge.

“Something wrong?” Torrence asked, his eyes all wide again.

“Big-time boy troubles,” I stammered as I sprang up, flipping a dismissive wave. “Got to run.”

*   *   *

I left Torrence with the lion’s share of the lunch, including the Oh My God brownie, with its central lake of rich chocolate pudding. It was his problem if he ate the whole thing and spoiled his diet. Out in the parking lot, I texted Lorenzo.
R U ok?

I waited a couple of minutes but heard nothing back. Even though I’d sort of promised Torrence that I’d stay out of the case, how could I not support my friend? Lorenzo had absolutely come through for me every time something in my life looked bleak. He’d offered free readings when I needed them and advice on everything from murder to my love life. Which sometimes felt like the same thing.

So I took a left out of the back entrance of the KWPD parking lot and buzzed over to New Town. Lorenzo’s cottage is a small concrete-block structure about fifty yards from a man-made canal that feeds eventually into the Gulf. This neighborhood had been hit hard by
the double-whammy storm surge of flooding during Hurricane Wilma. Since then, most all of the damage had been repaired, though some folks who’d lived through it retained the high-water markers on their walls and foundations. Badges of courage, I supposed.

Lorenzo had built a Zen garden around his home, with a wash of small white rocks taking the place of grass. The rocks were punctuated by short, spiky palmettos and tropical bushes and trees, including sea grapes, shortleaf figs, and an autograph tree, the totally cool plant I’d seen in the botanical garden with actual autographs inscribed on its smooth green leaves. People scribbled on those leaves as if they were writing on the wall of a public bathroom stall. I knocked on the front door, but no one answered. So I walked around the back of the house to look for signs of activity. In the backyard, gorgeous avocado, mango, and banana trees were bursting with life. But no lights were on, no windows cracked, no air conditioner humming, no evidence of Lorenzo. He was really gone.

I tapped on the back door, then called his cell phone. Nothing. A small white cat with brown patches around her ears and a brown tail crept out of the bushes and began to wind around my legs. She purred and uttered breathy cries like a worried baby. I scooped her up, remembering my friend’s recent joy about adopting a kitten.

“Daddy will come home soon,” I said, and rubbed my nose in her fur.

“Marvin loved that cat,” said a gravelly voice from the next yard over, startling me half out of my mind. A woman with bleached blond hair and black roots leaned over the fence separating her front yard from
Lorenzo’s—hers green and weedy in comparison to his orderly pebbles. Why was she talking in the past tense, as if he was dead—or maybe gone for good?

“He left a while ago in a pink taxi,” she continued. “With a little suitcase and a train case. Remember those? All the fancy ladies would carry their cosmetics and potions in a train case.” She lifted her chin at the white cat. “He called for Miss Kitty but she wouldn’t come. He sounded kind of desperate, but then the cab pulled up and he had to leave without her. I’d take her in but my pit bull would eat her for lunch.”

Who was this woman? At first blush, she struck me as completely annoying, but if she was Lorenzo’s friend . . . “Miss Kitty? That’s not her name, though, is it?”

“He called her Lola, but that seems like a big name for that little bit. I think he liked the idea of singing her all the songs with Lola in them.” She chortled and began to croon “Copacabana”: “‘Her name was Lola. . .’”

“Any idea where he went?” I asked. “Or when he’ll be back?”

She shrugged. And held up two crossed fingers. “We’re not that close.” Her eyes narrowed to watchful slits. “But I can tell you that the cops swarmed all over this block last night. He’s in some kind of hot water—that much is for sure.”

If they weren’t close, why was she calling him by his given name? Most people didn’t know him as Marvin. And changing the name of
his
cat? This seemed like the kind of neighbor who might have snooped in his mailbox. Or even his trash. The kitty rubbed her jowls against my chin. “Tell him if you see him that Hayley
took the cat to her houseboat? Thanks. I’m just going to go in and collect a few supplies.”

Wishing I hadn’t felt as though I had to explain myself to her, I marched over to the back door and went inside. I closed and locked the door behind me and pulled the shade on the window so the nosy neighbor couldn’t spy on me.

Then I scanned the kitchen for signs of cat supplies. If Lola had to move in with strange cats and humans, at least she should be able to eat something familiar. I sorted through the cabinets, looking for her food, and finally opened the door leading into a very neat pantry. Dozens of cans of Fancy Feast were arranged on a shelf to the right. I loaded half a dozen of these and a sack of dry food into a cloth grocery bag, then reached for a couple more cans. Who knew how long he’d be gone? I searched around for a cat carrier, but no luck. But the kitty was sticking close to me, so I didn’t think the transport would be a problem.

I texted Miss Gloria.
Furry company coming. Warn Evinrude and Sparky, they should trot out their best manners.
After hoisting the bag of food over my shoulder, I wrapped the quivering kitty in my jacket and tucked her under the other arm. Then I went back outside, clamping down on the thoughts that were whirling in my mind so I could concentrate on getting my cargo home safely.

6

In the stress-reduction class I learned to go to the cake inside my mind, but these were darker days. To escape the level of stress in my house, I had to go inside a much more literal cake. I had to surround myself with cake, build a foxhole out of cake in which I could hide.

—
Jeanne Ray,
Eat Cake

While Miss Gloria fussed over the white kitten and kept our cats from rushing her, I filled her in on the police findings and Lorenzo’s subsequent disappearance.

“His neighbor said he called for the kitten before he left. And that he looked desperate and took some luggage.”

I pulled out my phone and texted Lorenzo again.
I have Lola. Where r u?

“The cops found a bloody knife in his stuff?” she asked.

“Not a knife, a fork,” I said, realizing after I’d said it
that “fork” sounded almost worse. Who stabbed someone to death with a fork? Someone vicious and angry and possibly crazy—that’s who. Torrence hadn’t said anything about blood, but it surely had been there.

Then my mother phoned, and I explained the situation to her.