23
I opened the back door and slipped into the kitchen, hurrying to shut the door behind me and trying to shed the slicker without making a puddle on the floor. The kitchen was steamy from an oversized stainless-steel soup pot on the stove. The pot sent out such a tantalizing aroma that my stomach forgot it had eaten in the last four hours. Let’s face it—my stomach is like a female cat. Let a female cat be mounted by a horny tom and she automatically goes into heat. Let my nose get a whiff of spicy food, and my stomach automatically feels lust.
Two glasses of red wine were already at places set for Michael and me on the wide butcher-block island, and a glass of iced tea waited for Paco. Michael was at the stove stirring whatever was in the pot, and Paco was transferring leafy salad from a big wooden bowl to three small ones.
Michael waggled a long wooden spoon at me. “We’ve got gumbo.”
“New Orleans gumbo?”
“You know any other kind?”
“Can I do something?”
“You can put rice in these bowls.”
I spooned rice from a steamer into three wide bowls stacked by the stovetop. Michael ladled dark gumbo onto the rice and set the bowls on plates. Paco hauled out two crusty loaves of French bread from the wall oven, wrapped them in a clean towel, and tossed them on the butcher block. We all took our seats. By tacit agreement, we would enjoy dinner before we talked about anything that might spoil our pleasure.
The gumbo was in a roux so dark it was almost black, redolent with spice and shrimp and crab and oysters, flavors so exquisitely married that I had to be strict with myself not to make orgasmic whimpers. Nobody in the world can make gumbo like Michael. Well, maybe some New Orleans chef in a little café hidden in a narrow alley known only to the privileged cognoscenti does, but I don’t know him. Guidry might know him, Guidry, who was from New Orleans … Guidry, who was not Italian but something else … Guidry, who was secretive about his first name … Guidry, who had called me a liar in French and told me I needed to finish the howl I’d started three years ago.
Paco cleared his throat and I jerked my mind away from Guidry. My bowl was empty and Michael and Paco were looking at me as if they’d been trying to get my attention for a good while.
Michael said, “I’ve been talking to some people with offshore racers, guys who know who’s who on the water. They say Denton Ferrelli has a really sweet Donzi Thirty-eight ZR that can easily do ninety miles an hour. He docks it at the Longboat Key Moorings next to the Harborside Golf Club.”
“I know. He takes it out for a run in the bay every morning.”
“That’s what I mean. Even watching out for manatees, he could kill his brother in Secret Cove and be back at the Moorings in under twenty minutes. Fifteen maybe.”
I hadn’t realized he could have moved so quickly. If what Michael said was true, Denton could have left Siesta Key as late as six-thirty and still have arrived at the Longboat Key Moorings before seven. From there, all he had to do was stroll next door to the first tee.
I said, “If he did, nobody saw him dock at Siesta Key. It probably wasn’t Denton who actually killed Conrad. The killer used a dart gun filled with a drug used to capture big alligators. A thug named Gabe Marks makes his living capturing poisonous snakes and alligators, and he uses the same drug. He’s the one who tried to run me down with his truck. I met him today, and I think he could kill somebody without batting an eye.”
They were both looking at me with identical expressions of dread.
Michael said, “You don’t think Ferrelli had anything to do with it?”
I thought of the red-lipstick smile slashed on Conrad’s face. Of the mutilated kitten for Conrad to see just before he died. Of the photograph of herself as a man for Stevie to see. Only Denton would have got malicious satisfaction from those acts of psychological sadism.
“I think he was there, but I think it was Gabe who drove Conrad’s car away.”
Paco said, “Denton Ferrelli is a big player. The Feds have been trying to nail him for money laundering for years, but he always manages to wiggle loose.”
I said, “Is that why the guy in the white socks was here?”
He shifted uneasily on his stool. “That was for something else.”
I looked straight at Paco. “Denton Ferrelli and Leo Brossi are connected at the butt, and they’re probably involved with the Mafia. I’ve been told that Brossi’s call center may be a cover for an identity-theft operation.”
Only somebody who knew him well would have noticed the way Paco’s lips got firmer at the corners. Very carefully, he said, “Every investigation has to focus on one crime and one crime only, Dixie.”
Michael stood up and began gathering the plates. “There’s another baguette in the oven, and I have chocolate butter.”
Paco and I went silent and big-eyed. Hell, offer me hot French bread with chocolate butter to smear on it, and I forget all about the possibility that I might be murdered. Michael tossed the hot loaf on the butcher block for us to pull apart with our fingers. He set out a bowl of soft butter mixed with dark melted chocolate. He poured cups of black coffee laced with cinnamon. A west wind howled through the old oaks outside, and rain drummed against the windows and on the roof. But we were inside, safe and dry, and we had bread and chocolate and coffee.
I rinsed our dishes and put them in the dishwasher while Michael transferred leftover gumbo to the freezer containers to take to the firehouse. Paco went upstairs and dressed in his All-Call khakis and dark shirt. He and I left at the same time, charging through the driving rain in two different directions. As I went inside my French doors and lowered the storm shutters, Paco’s headlights swung out of the carport.
I hung my wet slicker over the showerhead to drip into the tub. Rain clattered on the roof and porch in an unrelenting din. I put on a Patsy Cline CD, but it was a tinny sound compared to the storm, and it didn’t calm my twitchy nerves. I tried some mellow jazz, but that didn’t work either. I went into my office-closet and entered my visits for the day in my record book. I wrote up a couple of invoices. I went to the kitchen window and looked through the heart-shaped iron thing at the tossing treetops.
I went in the bathroom and cleaned the sink and toilet and polished the water faucets until they were shiny. I spritzed the mirror over the bathroom sink with Windex and wiped away the mist. My face appeared in the arc made by my paper towel, my eyes looking back at me with a quizzical challenge. Who are you trying to kid?
I looked away and concentrated on cleaning the glass, but I finally had to look at myself again. I couldn’t deny the truth any longer, not even to myself. I was attracted to Lieutenant Guidry. The shock of it was like a blast of arctic air. It was not only damn bad timing, what with a killer after me and all, but I hadn’t expected to ever want another man after Todd. And certainly not another cop. But there it was, and I didn’t know what to do about it.
Feeling trapped by the storm shutters, the driving rain, and my own thoughts, I wandered aimlessly through the apartment. I clicked the TV on and clicked it off. I picked up a book and read a few pages, then put it down. I went in the bedroom where Christy’s Tickle Me Elmo was propped against the pillow on my bed, the only toy of hers that I had kept. I sat on the side of the bed and stroked Elmo’s red fur, hearing Christy’s laughter bubbling, that sound of pure joy that made everybody within earshot smile. On my bedside table, Christy and Todd smiled at me from a photograph taken shortly before they were killed. Christy sat in Todd’s lap, both his arms encircling her like a ring of safety. I picked the photo up and ran my fingertips over the glass.