In the office-closet, I lifted the loose tile that covers a floor safe and peered inside. The only articles I kept in the safe were a diamond ring that had been my grandmother’s, and a living trust giving my half of the beachfront property to Michael. They were both there. In the bedroom, I pulled my bed out and opened the drawer on the wall side where I keep the guns. They were all there.
So I was being paranoid. So I was imagining things. Going without sleep will do that.
I dropped my gun back in my pocket, went out to the porch, and fell into the hammock. The world spun and I spun with it, down into a dreamless velvety black sleep.
I woke up groggy and dry-mouthed and went into the kitchen for a bottle of cold water. I drank half of it while I looked hopefully in the refrigerator for a gift from the fruit fairy, like a surprise peach or a fresh bag of oranges. All I found was a dried-up lime and a hard mystery fruit that might have begun life as a succulent apricot but got overlooked and went wrong. I apologized to both the lime and the mystery fruit and tossed them in the kitchen wastebasket. I really needed to go grocery shopping.
I drank more water while I went down the hall to the office-closet, where my answering machine’s little red light was flashing. I hit PLAY and listened to a woman explain in excruciating detail that she’d called to ask about my fees because she and her husband were going to Cleveland to visit their son, but they weren’t sure when they could go because the son was buying a new house and was busy packing, so they would have to wait until—”
The machine cut her off and I gave it a nasty smile of approval.
A new voice clicked on, and I stopped smiling. It was a man’s voice, deep and menacing. He spoke only two words.
“You’re next.”
I set the water bottle on the desk and replayed the message. It still said the same thing. I told myself it was a joke, somebody trying to scare me. I played it again. It was somebody trying to scare me, but it didn’t sound like a joke.
I drank the rest of the water and carried the empty bottle to the kitchen. I stood a minute looking out the kitchen window at the treetops, and then I went down the hall to the bathroom and took a shower. I took extra time with my hair and lipstick. I even put on a slim skirt and heels. I was going to question Ethan Crane, and I wanted to look like the kind of woman who should get answers.
Ethan Crane’s office was jammed into Siesta Key’s business section, otherwise known as the Village, in a stucco building gently crumbling around the edges. I had been there only once before, when he had given me the depressing news that a woman had left a considerable living trust to her cat, with me as trustee. In spite of his crummy office, I remembered him as both surprisingly handsome and surprisingly efficient.
The gilt paint on the glass door was still flaking, still proclaiming ETHAN CRANE ESQ., ATTORNEY AT LAW, even though it had originally been painted for the grandfather of the man who now held the office. Built to withstand flood tides and hurricanes, the building had a flight of worn wooden stairs leading directly from the front door. I took them with what I hoped was a measured tread, letting my heels click on each step to alert the people upstairs that somebody was approaching.
I needn’t have bothered. Nobody was in the secretary’s office. Her desk was bare except for a gooseneck iMac, and her chair had been neatly pushed in as if she were gone for the day. Across the hall, Ethan Crane was asleep, tilted back with his feet on his desk and his mouth open. A herd of elephants wouldn’t have waked him.
I rapped on his open office door, and his eyelids flickered. I rapped again, and he snapped to attention, jerking his feet off the desk and bringing his chair upright so fast he almost launched himself into space.
He yelled, “Jesus!”
Smiling sweetly, I walked forward with my hand out. “Mr. Crane, I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Dixie Hemingway.”
He recovered well, got to his feet in one graceful thrust, and leaned over the desk to shake my hand. Even sleeprumpled, he was still as handsome as I remembered him. Tall, jet black hair brushing the collar of a crisp white shirt, prominent cheekbones, eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate, eyelashes so thick and black they made his eyes look rimmed with kohl, a strong nose and broad jaw, even white teeth. He gave me a politician’s smile as he adjusted his tie and got himself in professional mode.
8
I said, “I take care of Conrad Ferrelli’s dog. I suppose you know what happened to Conrad.”
His face sobered. “Oh, God, yes, I’m sick about it. Conrad was a great guy. It’s just inconceivable that somebody would—”
“I know about the retirement home Conrad was funding. Will those plans still go forward now that he’s dead?”
He frowned. “Why would you ask that?”
“People in the circus community think it won’t. They say Conrad’s brother will put a stop to it. Is that true?”
His voice got a frosty edge. “Ms. Hemingway, I don’t see what any of this has to do with pet-sitting.”
Although I hadn’t been invited, I sat down in one of the rump-sprung leather chairs facing his desk.
“I saw Conrad’s killer driving away in Conrad’s car. I thought it was Conrad, so I waved to him. I was only a few feet away, and he could see me clearly. This afternoon somebody left a message on my answering machine that said You’re next. I think the killer thinks I can identify him.”
“And you can’t?”
“All I actually saw was Conrad’s dog in the backseat.”
He gave me a look meaning So?
“Look, everybody says Denton Ferrelli hated the circus and everything connected to it. I think he might have killed Conrad to stop it.”
He sat down behind his desk. “That’s a serious accusation.”
“I’m not asking you to decide if he’s the killer, I’m just asking you to tell me how the Ferrelli money will be used for the circus home.”
He fiddled with a gold-capped pen for a moment and then laid it down decisively.
“Angelo Ferrelli set up several philanthropic trusts. Each is an independent nonprofit with its own charitable focus and its own fiduciary and organizational responsibilities. One makes grants to environmental causes, one to health initiatives, one to education and the arts, one to community enrichment. They’re all under the discretionary trusteeship of a trust company that Angelo headed until his death. Then Conrad took over.”
Being too mathematically challenged to balance a checkbook, most of what he said sailed over my head, but I thought I got the main idea.
I said, “Which one of the trusts is funding the circus retirement home?”
“Actually, none of them. Conrad formed a separate foundation for that. His idea was to have each of the trusts contribute to it as a part of its own philanthropic purpose. The trust devoted to health issues will provide money for the medical care of the residents, the education trust will provide funds for continuing-education classes, and so forth.”
“So what’s Denton’s role in the plan?”
“Denton is chairman of the board of the trust involved in community development. They fund building projects that improve a community’s economy and living standards. Their official statement of purpose is to provide jobs and create good communities.”
He seemed to stop himself from saying what its unofficial purpose was. He got up and went over to a wall of bookshelves where an undercounter refrigerator had been fitted.