I stood up. “What do I do now?”
He rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Whatever you want to do. That’s the beauty of a living trust. You’re the trustee, and that’s that. Get a death certificate from the Sheriff’s Department, and then all you need is the power of attorney in that folder.”
His hand felt so warm that I knew my own must be frigid. I tucked the folder under my arm and walked out of his office like a condemned woman on her way to the execution chamber. I could feel him watching me, and for a humiliating moment I hoped my butt looked good.
In a bemused daze, I drove home. Michael’s car was still gone, but Paco’s Harley was under the carport. More than likely, he was in bed catching up on lost sleep from whatever job he’d been doing—a job that had involved a drug sting at Crescent Beach. I might never know what had been in the canvas bag I’d seen a woman pick up, because Paco’s life could depend on my not knowing. I accepted that the same way I had accepted department secrets that Todd hadn’t told me. It comes with having detectives and undercover cops in the family.
What I didn’t accept was what I’d just learned from Ethan Crane.
I kicked off the heels and changed clothes again, pulling on a clean pair of shorts and a sleeveless T. My brain was screaming for sleep, but I was too disturbed to lie down and shut my eyes. I stripped my bed and threw the sheets in the washer with some towels and dirty clothes. While the washer chugged away my body’s cells and scents, I attacked the bathroom like an avenging Fury until every square inch sparkled and smelled of bleach. I love the smell of chlorine bleach. Breathing it makes me feel I’m cleaning my brain of old gunk while I’m destroying germs and stains. By the time I put the last polishing rub on the sink’s water spigot, I felt cleaner inside, as if all the images of violence and ugliness of the last few days had been polished away.
I padded barefoot to the office–closet and read the living trust again. It still said the same thing. I was now Ghost’s legal keeper, and I had complete control over Marilee’s house, her car, and everything in her house.
Boy-howdy.
Whoop-de-do.
Shit.
My office phone rang and I froze, waiting for the answering machine to click on. It was a man, and not a voice I recognized. This one was sure to be a reporter. He said, “I called before. I’d like to talk to you, Miss Hemingway.”
I made a face at the phone and said, “I’ll just bet you would!”
Then he said, “I got your name from Ray at the Crab House,” and I snagged the phone before he could hang up.
“Hello, this is Dixie.”
“I’m calling about Phil. Do you know how he is?”
“He’s going to be all right, I think. He has some broken ribs and a broken nose, but he’s not terribly hurt.”
“His hands?”
“His hands weren’t hurt. I think he must have tucked them under his arms to protect them.”
“Oh God.”
“Yeah. His head was totally uncovered. But it could have been a lot worse. A dog started barking and the attacker ran away.”
“I’ve called the hospital several times, but they wouldn’t tell me anything.”
I said, “Did you drive Phil home yesterday morning?”
I could hear a quick intake of air, and for a moment I was afraid he wasn’t going to answer.
He said, “Phil told me about you. He likes you. He said you weren’t going to out him to his folks.”
“I wouldn’t have either.”
“Do they know yet?”
“I really don’t know what they know. Look, could we meet and talk someplace?”
There was another long pause and then he sighed. “Do you think it would help Phil?”
“I don’t know. It might, and it certainly won’t hurt him.”
“Where would you like to meet?”
“How about Bayfront Park in twenty minutes?”
“How will I know you?”
“I’ll be the blonde sitting on a bench facing the waterfront. You can’t miss me.”
“Okay.”
Almost exactly twenty minutes later, I drove under the arched entrance to Bayfront Park, a hiccup of land jutting into Sarasota Bay. I parked in a space facing the bay and followed the sidewalk that curves around the park. Bayfront Park had been Christy’s favorite place in the whole world. She and I had spent a lot of time at the Steigerwaldt–Jockey Children’s Fountain, her favorite, and we’d both loved the wonderful flying dolphins on the Dolphin Fountain.
Benches line the walkway, and on any day people are sitting on them, mesmerized by the view of Sarasota Bay. I found an empty one and plunked myself down and waited. A thin young man in chinos and a white knit shirt turned from where he’d been standing looking out at the moored boats, then looked around to see if anybody was with me. After a minute or two, he walked toward me. He was younger than I’d expected, twenty-two maybe, and had pale skin that wasn’t well acquainted with sunshine. His hair was sandy brown above dark sunglasses that I suspected were worn more to hide his eyes than to shield them from the sun.
He stopped in front of me and said, “Miss Hemingway?”
“It’s Dixie,” I said, and put out my hand.
He had a nice handshake, firm and dry. He sat down beside me and said, “I’m Greg.”
I nodded, wondering if it was his real name.
“Greg, I appreciate your meeting with me. I’m just trying to help find out who hurt Phil.”
He took a deep breath, the way people do when they’ve been holding their breath, and gave a shaky laugh. “I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”
“You don’t know me from Adam,” I said. “Of course you’re nervous.”
He grinned and nodded. “I guess you’d like to know how I know Phil.”
“If you don’t mind telling me.”
“We met at summer music camp a couple of years ago. I was a counselor, and Phil and I just hit it off. When I graduated from Juilliard, I got a job with the Sarasota Symphony Orchestra and looked Phil up. I’m a violist.”
“Do all you musicians go to Juilliard?”
He smiled. “No, just some of us.”
“Juilliard’s very important to Phillip’s mother.”
“I know. I think that’s the main reason he’s going there. He says she’s had her heart set on Juilliard for him since he first started playing piano.”
“You think he’s just going to please her?”
“Not completely. But he’d like to do something that would make her happier. He feels protective toward her. From what he says, she’s pretty depressed. Phil’s her whole life.”
“I’d been thinking you two might have met at the Crab House.”
He laughed. “No, that place is too noisy for me.”
“But you do go there and pick Phillip up when he’s through playing?”
He colored. “We have a late supper and spend some time together, then I take him home. Well, not home exactly. I take him to that spot where you found him there on Midnight Pass Road. He walks the rest of the way home.”
“Had you ever noticed anybody there at that time? An early jogger maybe, or somebody walking a dog?”
“Never. There’s never a soul out at that hour.”
“Somebody was there yesterday. Did you see anybody then?”
He shook his head. “He must have been hiding in the trees and grabbed Phil after I left.”
“Did you see a car parked on the side of the street? Anything?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“Greg, do you know anybody who drives a black Miata?”
“I don’t think so.”
“When you go to pick Phil up at the Crab House, have you ever seen a bald-headed man hanging out in the parking lot?”