“Would you like a cold drink? Water?”
“No, thanks.”
He leaned over and opened the door, giving me an opportunity to see the outline of a butt as toned and shapely as his shoulders. He popped the tab on a Diet Sprite and took a drink as he walked back to his desk.
“Denton’s board of directors is composed of bankers and financiers and politicians. Late last year, they brokered a deal between Sarasota County and some investment realtors for a large tract of gulfside land. The plan was to put a parking lot and dock for a casino boat there. They were going to build an administration building, a ticket office, the whole works. Denton even talked the state engineering department into agreeing to dredge a mooring for the boat. They claimed it would give jobs to a lot of people, plus bring in money people won on the casino boat. To sweeten the whole plan, some state senators and lobbyists in Denton’s pocket were pushing hard to get Indian land casinos declared illegal.”
He took another pull on the Sprite and gave me a half smile. “Like my people might actually get a break now and then.”
“You’re Indian?”
“One-quarter Seminole, just enough to make me pay attention to the fact that the state never recognized Indian nations or made treaties with them.”
I looked at his high cheekbones and square jawline. He was one fine-looking Seminole.
He said, “Anyway, when Conrad got wind of Denton’s casino-ship deal, he went ballistic. It was not only in direct opposition to about a hundred environmental standards of the trusteeship, it smelled in a lot of other ways as well. Casino boats are unlicensed, unregulated, unscrutinized. They operate in international waters where anything goes, including money laundering. Conrad used his power as head of the trusteeship company and put a stop to it. Instead, he directed that the acquired land be used as a site for the circus retirement home. In other words, he pissed on Denton’s parade.”
“And he made you head of the foundation to build the home.”
“Correct.”
“Who will run the discretionary trust now that Conrad’s gone?”
“His successor will be elected by the board. Most likely it will be his wife. She’s closely involved and highly capable.”
“So the circus home will go forward regardless of Conrad’s death.”
“I don’t see how Denton can stop it. He’s furious about it, but the way his father set the whole operation up is set in stone. My guess is he’s busy as a cat covering shit before the trusteeship looks too closely at the way he finagled the land deal.”
I took a deep breath. “I never dreamed that circus clowns made so much money.”
“Angelo was a shrewd investor. He had an uncanny knack for selecting winning companies and becoming a major stockholder. He screened out ones he thought were bad for the environment or for people’s health, and it paid off. All told, the trusts he set up pay out something like fifty million a year in grants.”
“Do you know a man named Brossi?”
“Leo Brossi? Yeah.”
“He went to Conrad with a story about how his father was Angelo’s brother. He said his father had originated the Flutter-By act back in Italy when he and Angelo were boys, and he wanted some of the money Angelo had left.”
He shook his head. “Leo Brossi’s a con artist always one step ahead of a posse, but I can’t see him murdering anybody.”
“You have any idea who did?”
“Believe me, Dixie, if I did, I’d be the first one to tell the police. I liked Conrad a lot.”
I noticed he had switched to calling me Dixie instead of Ms. Hemingway. I stood up and held out my hand.
“Thanks for talking to me, Ethan.”
“Did it help?”
“Not really, but it was informative.”
“Maybe we could get together sometime and talk about something besides murder or trust funds.”
I turned so fast that I almost tripped over my own feet.
This time he couldn’t help but hear my heels clacking on the stairs. I sounded like a drummer beating a fast retreat. Ethan Crane probably thought I found him repulsive. He probably thought I was a rude, ungracious nut. If I hadn’t been so embarrassed, I would have gone back upstairs and explained that I was … what? An untouchable? A cloistered pseudo-nun made virginal again by widowhood? Or maybe truly an ungracious nut.
As I reached toward the downstairs door to push it open, somebody else pulled it from the other side. Guidry stood in the gaping doorway, one linen-sleeved arm holding the door to the side, his eyes taking in my short skirt and high heels, his face registering about a dozen different emotions.
“Dixie.” Flat-voiced, not letting any surprise slip through.
“Guidry.”
Still holding the door open, he stepped aside so I could go through on my stilty heels.
He said, “I think we’d better talk.”
He nodded toward an open-air café across the street. It wasn’t exactly an order he’d given me, but it wasn’t a social invitation either. Wordlessly, we waited for a break in traffic, and then walked over the steaming pavement to a sweaty, dispirited place where plastic tables crouched under a thatched roof and a scattering of wilted patrons were sucking cold drinks through clear straws. Ceiling fans whirred overhead to circulate hot air and scare away flies, and a few black seagulls strutted about picking up microscopic crumbs from the paved floor.
A mustached man’s head appeared in the window where orders were dispensed, and Guidry called, “We’d like a couple of iced teas.”
The head disappeared, and Guidry tapped his slim fingers on the plastic tabletop.
“You mind telling me why you were at Ethan Crane’s office?”
“I wanted to ask him some things.”
“I guess you have a key to his house, and he discusses all his cases with you while you take care of his furry friend.”
“Wrong on both counts, Guidry. I’ve never even met Ethan Crane’s furry friend.”
The mustached man came out carrying two tall paper cups with plastic lids. He plunked them on the table and pulled out two straws and a stack of paper napkins from his apron pocket.
“Anything else?”
Guidry put down a five-dollar bill and shook his head. “That’s all, thanks.”
I peeled the paper off my straw and jammed it in the X-spot on the plastic lid.
I said, “Conrad Ferrelli named Ethan Crane to head the foundation that’s going to build a home for retired circus professionals. The circus people I’ve talked to are afraid it won’t happen now that Conrad’s dead. They think Denton Ferrelli will put a stop to it. I wanted to know if he could, so I went to see Ethan Crane to find out.”
Guidry’s gray eyes looked at me over the top of his paper cup. He didn’t look natural with a plastic straw stuck in his lips. I doubted that he’d sucked through a lot of straws. Probably had a butler do that for him.
He said, “Aside from the fact that a murder investigation is going on and you’re not part of it, I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I don’t have to get your permission to talk to people, Guidry.”
“So what did you find out? Can Denton Ferrelli stop the retirement home from being built?”
I wondered if that was the question Guidry had planned to ask Ethan Crane himself. Maybe he had a point. Maybe I had interfered in a murder investigation. The possibility that I had made my voice a bit defensive.
“It doesn’t sound like he can. Angelo Ferrelli set up some trust funds that are all under the control of a company that serves as trustee. Conrad was CEO of the trustee company. Denton heads a trust that improves communities, and he brokered a deal that bought a big piece of real estate. The plan was to dock a casino boat there, but Conrad squashed the deal. He took the property for a circus retirement home, and when it’s built all the various trusts will funnel some of their funds into it. Denton is pissed about it, but there’s not much he can do to stop it.”