Ghosts Like it Hot, page 7
Life-size doll? Yep. Creepy.
“After his marriage to Anne, he returned home and built a special room with furniture for Robert.”
“What the hell?” Jake said. “That’s not weird at all. Just you, your wife, and your straw doll.”
“Shh,” I said, because I wanted to hear what happened next. Even though Jake was totally right. Despite the heat, I had goose bumps on my arms.
“Gene spent most of his days painting in the turret room with Robert, who sat in the window. It was reported by passersby that Robert would move in the window and frequently giggle. It’s also rumored that Gene continued to blame Robert for his misconduct, even as an adult. Anne hated the doll and tossed it in a cedar closet after his death, where it was eventually found years later. You can see the doll today at the East Martello Museum.”
“They still have the doll? Holy cow.” I felt compelled to see it. “We should go to the museum.”
Jake didn’t look thrilled by that idea.
The train started moving again and the girls behind us started talking. It was amazing they’d lasted in silence as long as they had.
They were discussing a guy and his less than impressive assets before moving on to an extensive debate on lip injections.
When we stopped at the station, Jake couldn’t get off the train fast enough. “I lost brain cells listening to that.”
“I don’t mind the topic.” Those issues needed to be raised, let’s be honest. “I just wanted to hear the tour.”
“I need to go hear a band and scrub that out of my head with music.”
“We can do that.”
There was music at multiple different bars but Jake was drawn to one that was primarily outside (I mean, duh, right?) and had a guy covering Jimmy Buffet songs. I was totally fine with it because it wasn’t heavy metal, Jake’s other musical love. Not that I could picture that being the sound of choice in Key West, but you never know. He can sniff out metal from a hundred miles.
Jake ordered his usual beer and I decided to get wild and order a mojito. I am a total lightweight, so I wasn’t sure how wise that was, but it just looked refreshing and appropriate for the setting.
Which might explain why after drinking it and listening to a song being sung about a father and his daughter (that I knew by heart from repeatedly hearing it over twenty years but never could have told you who sung it), I started to tear up at the table.
Jake glanced over at me and started. “What the hell? Are you okay?”
I swallowed hard. “I’m fine. It’s just a sad song. I just started to thinking about my father and how I feel like there’s a rift between us since my mom’s heart attack and their separation.”
Jake covered my hand with his and squeezed. “I’m sure once they both find their new normal, your relationship with him will be normal again too.”
I smiled a little. “I can’t believe you just used an expression like ‘new normal.’”
He shrugged. “I’ve watched Dr. Phil.”
“You do have a point, but I don’t know. He never even reaches out to me. I have to call or text him. He’s having his midlife crisis twenty years after he should have.” I sipped the last of my mojito and plunked the glass down with more force than I’d intended. I wiped my eyes.
“Would it have been better if he’d had it then?”
“No. That would have sucked. I would have been eight.”
“Silver lining? At least you’re an adult now. You know it has nothing to do with you.”
“I know that. But it still sucks. Ironically though, I feel like my mother is happier now.” I did.
The waiter put another mojito down in front of me, and just like that, I felt better. “I’m fine now.” I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t know what that was all about.”
“Change? Deaths lately? Booze?”
“All of the above most likely.” On that note, I pushed the mojito away from me. Time to go easy. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to the restroom.”
“I’ll be here.”
Except that he wasn’t.
Seven
When I went in the restroom, I changed my mind about using it given the state of the facilities. I did wash my hands, standing next to a woman who was attempting to put on her lipstick but had consumed too much alcohol to achieve the task easily. It was like watching a two-year-old using mommy’s lipstick. The color cut a rim far wider than her actual lip.
Or maybe that was a fashion choice. At any rate, I figured she was enjoying the heck out of her day since she was tearing it up by two in the afternoon. When we made eye contact in the mirror, I smiled at her. She smiled back.
“I just love your hair color,” she said. “Your stylist did an amazing job.”
“It’s natural, actually.”
“Shut up. You’re one lucky bitch.”
I laughed. “Thank you. I needed to hear that today. Have a great afternoon.”
“Oh, I intend to.”
Leaving the restroom on a much happier note than I had entered it, I was smiling as I exited and walked down a couple of stairs. Then I drew up short when a man walked across my path about ten feet ahead of me.
I did an actual Scooby Doo moment. I totally stopped and jerked backward so I was in a bar area peeking around the doorframe for a better look.
Because, if I was not mistaken, that was Captain Mark just strolling across a bar floor on Duvall Street. Nowhere near the Dry Tortugas, or the marina.
Not even dead.
So not dead that he was actually carrying a cocktail.
I bit my lip and watched him as he went and sat down at a table with a woman. He put his arm around her. Beyond a shadow of a doubt I did not want him to see me. Whatever or whoever he was, he was shady at the least, a murderer at the most. It didn’t matter that I was in a very public setting, I was not confronting him without Jake by my side.
From my vantage point I couldn’t see Jake. Given that I had no phone, I couldn’t text or call him and let him know I had spotted Mark. My only option was to either dash past Mark or wait a few minutes and see if he left. I decided to wait a minute or two.
A bulky guy bumped into me. “Sorry,” he murmured as he had to turn sideways to go past me in the doorway.
Probably hovering in the door was not the most discreet option anyway. “It’s okay, sorry,” I said back to him automatically.
I eased back into the interior bar, leaning against the bartop while keeping an eagle eye on the door. I glanced up at the TV, took in the people in the bar around me. Nothing out of the ordinary.
The minutes ticked by and I decided I could take a look outside again.
Damn it. Mark was still sitting there. Just all casual. Like no one was missing or dead. That was next-level sociopath. So much so that I started to question if it actually was Mark. I’d only seen him for a quick second, in profile. Now I was seeing the back of his head. It wasn’t like I had spent a lot of time with him, and a portion of that had been traumatic given we’d been hauling Austin’s body out of the gulf.
Shoot. I was going to have to get a closer look.
Inching forward, I realized I was still channeling Shaggy and being a scaredy-cat. An obvious scaredy-cat. My sunglasses were on my head and I slipped them down over my eyes.
“Excuse me, are you supposed to be in here?”
I whipped around and saw the bartender eyeing me with suspicion. “This is twenty-one and over. I need to see your ID.”
Great. “My ID got stolen. Actually, my whole purse got stolen.”
The guy was probably in his fifties, with a lot of bulk and height. He was intimidating, which he was probably forced to use frequently in a Key West bar. “Your purse is on your shoulder,” he pointed out.
Frustrated, I tried to explain. “I know. This is a new purse I was forced to buy because my purse was stolen.” I threw it open. “See? There’s nothing in here.” Then I realized that my wallet was actually in there. It had been in my beach bag and thus had been saved from the theft and subsequent burning.
“I see a wallet,” he said. “Let me see your ID.”
Shoving my glasses back up on my head, I said, “I’m twenty-eight years old. Look, I have crow’s feet starting to appear because I played it fast and loose with my skin care in my teens and I’m Irish. Fair skin that burns easily.” I dug my wallet out and popped it open. “Here’s my license. I forgot I had it. It wasn’t in my phone that got stolen.”
He took the license and studied it. “This doesn’t look like you.”
“Thank God, because that’s a horrible picture.” It was. With a blank stare and dark circles under my eyes, I looked like a member of the Manson family. All that was missing was an x on my forehead. “Unfortunately, it’s me. My boyfriend is outside at the bar. He’s a homicide detective in Cleveland. We’re here on vacation. He’s twenty-nine.”
I was talking too much. The more I said, the narrower the bartender’s eyes got. “You need to go,” he told me.
“Wait, what?” Was I seriously being kicked out? I had never been kicked out of a bar, ever, because when I was underage, I didn’t have the balls to try to get in, and as an adult, I was a model citizen. Or I had been prior to being forced by ghosts to solve murders. It was possible since then, I may have done things that weren’t entirely legal in every sense of the word.
But in a bar? Nope, no brawls, no fights with boyfriends, no sloppy drunken behavior. Definitely no dancing on tables or flashing. Not even stiffing the bartender on the tip. Though “stiff” probably was the wrong term to use in my life now.
“I’m kicking you out.”
My jaw dropped. “But you’re looking at my license! You can see it’s me and it’s legit.”
“I don’t think this is you.”
“Quiz me on it! Ask my boyfriend. I’ll show you where he is.”
“Fine. But if I quiz him on you and he’s wrong about your birthday or anything, you’re out of here. I’m not asking you. I’m sure you’ve memorized all the license details.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Jake was brilliant at remembering that kind of stuff. He would pass easily, plus he had his badge. That always worked with men.
“Great. Thank you.” I dashed down the stairs, taking a frantic glance in the direction of Mark. He wasn’t there.
Which was good.
Neither was Jake.
Which was bad.
My boyfriend wasn’t at the bar where I had left him. “Um…” I did a full circle, now starting to panic. Where the hell was Jake? “He was right here five minutes ago.”
“Okay, kid, you need to hit the bricks.” The bartender jerked his thumb toward the entrance to the sidewalk. “Go find your parents.”
Under other circumstances, I would be thrilled that someone would think I was young enough to be using a fake ID and that I was on vacation with my parents. But this was highly inconvenient given that I had no phone and my boyfriend was missing. Jake wouldn’t just leave. He had to be in the restroom and he was going to come out and find me missing.
Then again, I had been hovering around the restrooms the entire time. Was there a different restroom?
Had Jake seen Mark and followed him? That was very possible. Jake was pissed about the money and the inconvenience of being ditched at Dry Tortugas. He would confront Mark.
I was still hovering indecisively on the patio but the bartender took my elbow and very firmly led me outside to the sidewalk.
“Okay, geez, get your hands off of me,” I said out of indignation. It was seriously mortifying to be kicked out. People were staring at me.
And I know they weren’t dumb enough to think I was twenty trying to sneak in. No one save a ninety-five-year-old and this bartender could possibly think I was that young. They had to think I’d done something like skip out on my bill or caused some kind of scene. So embarrassing.
“I didn’t do anything,” I said to a couple in their forties eyeing me like I might go rogue at any second. “Just a little misunderstanding.”
“That’s what they all say,” the guy said.
It occurred to me that I’d had a brand-new mojito delivered right before I’d gone to the restroom. There was ten bucks down the drain. That hurt.
Where the hell was Jake? Hovering just out of sight of the bar’s patio entrance, I looked around the street. I saw a lot of people, but none of them a cute homicide detective. Sorry. A manly, brawny homicide detective. Rubbing my hands nervously down the front of my sundress, I debated what to do.
The most logical plan seemed to stay put. At some point if Jake was still inside the bar, he would search the place and conclude I was missing. He would then leave by this door and see me. If I left and went back to the hotel it would be hours before he might think to look there.
Then again, I could go to the hotel and call him. I honestly didn’t remember noticing if our room had a landline, but surely the front desk would help me out and let me make a call.
Except I didn’t know Jake’s number. Curses on modern technology. I had never memorized his number. I just hit ‘Jake.’
Did I know anyone’s number by heart? My mother’s. She had Jake’s number in her phone. I could call her and get Jake’s number and call him.
Relieved, I decided I would wait thirty minutes and if Jake didn’t appear by then, I would head back to the hotel and call Jake. I had a plan. It felt like progress. I applauded myself for thinking logically and not panicking. At twenty, I would have panicked. I was a grown-ass woman, Mr. Bartender.
Trying to stay as close to the door as possible without hovering and getting in further trouble, I paced a little, biting my bottom lip. Being without a phone was hell. Pure hell. If I survived this day I was going online and getting one Fed Ex’d to me overnight. I couldn’t do five more days without a phone. It was like being Amish.
While I was indulging in my first world problems a man walked by, giving a loud laugh at something his female companion had said.
Captain Mark. It was him.
He’d removed his beard beads and had trimmed the hair to a more subdued length, but it was him. I swallowed hard, heart racing. Now what did I do? Taking a risk, I took two feet into the bar, whipping my head around to take in all the bar-goers. Still no Jake.
I decided to follow Captain Mark.
Then go to the hotel and call Jake.
I would look less strange walking down the street anyway. I was starting to attract the attention of the kiosk shopkeeper ten feet away from me. She kept giving me looks like she was worried I might try to steal her bargain sunglasses.
Mark was twenty feet ahead of me so I decided it was safe to start to follow him. They seemed to have a destination in mind because they didn’t window shop or stroll leisurely. They didn’t seem rushed either, just as if they both knew where they were going.
We walked for a good twenty minutes, to the very end of Duvall Street. Finally, Mark pulled open a door and allowed his companion to enter first. It was a bank. What the hell? All that so he could grab a hundred bucks for dinner or whatever?
I debated following him into the bank. If Mark turned, he would see me and I am easily recognizable. You can’t really hide red hair.
My curiosity got the best of me. It was mid-afternoon and there were three tellers and several other customers so it wasn’t like I could be attacked by Mark. Besides, he’d gone into the glass-wall office of a bank associate. I marched up to the teller and told her I needed to see a personal banker.
“Of course, miss. I’ll get Dante to assist you.”
My plan was actually working. Dante was in the office next to the one Mark was sitting in. As I was ushered into the space, I could hear Mark speaking. Dante was on the phone and gave me a big smile and a “one minute” gesture. I smiled back. Good. Stay on the phone so I could hear what Mark was saying next door.
“Of course we can withdraw that amount for you, Mr. Williams. Is there anything else we can assist you with? Are you making a large purchase or in need of a loan? If you’re moving your assets to another bank, allow us the opportunity to give you a better value.”
Oh, the hard sell. He must be taking out a serious chunk of change. Interesting.
“No, I’m not moving it to another bank. I’m moving to Mexico and buying a place with cash.”
Mexico? Captain Mark was on the run.
I had been right all along. He was a serial killer. Or at least a killer.
Where had the money come from? Was it really just his and he was ditching now that he had killed Austin and maybe Jamie? Or was there theft somewhere involved?
“Understood,” the banker said. “How would you like to receive that one hundred thousand dollars?”
A hundred grand? He wasn’t playing around.
“How may I help you?” Dante hung up the phone and addressed me. He stuck his hand out. “Dante Jacobs, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Bailey Burke,” I said automatically, straining to hear Mark’s response. “I’d like to open a checking account.”
Why I said that, I have no idea. What on earth was I going to do with a South Florida checking account? But I needed a cover.
“Sure, we can do that easily. Can I have your social security number?”
I jumped up out of my chair. “I’ve changed my mind. I apologize for wasting your time.”
I had to get out of there before Mark. Dante Jacobs looked at me like I was a few fries short of a Happy Meal, but managed to slap a polite smile back on his face. He handed me his business card and suggested I reconsider. I took the card and bolted like a criminal.
Mark was still in the other glass cubicle.
Going outside into the heat I turned left and sat down on the brick planter lining the sidewalk. Why would Mark, whose boat had been found burned, be chilling on Duvall Street like nothing was wrong and then, with an unknown woman, be withdrawing a hundred thousand dollars?
