“Because she wasn’t killed at the museum?”
He nodded. “She had been killed and lain somewhere long enough for lividity to set in-and the way her blood had settled, she’d been on her side for a while after she was killed.” He winced. “You’re thinking that I shouldn’t be able to talk about her this way?”
She looked at him. “No! Actually, I wasn’t thinking that at all,” she said. “I was just wondering how on earth you could begin to go back to find out what did happen.”
He stood. “Well, it’s quite a challenge. I may fail. I have to try.”
She stood, as well. It was obvious that he was leaving.
“What if you find out the truth?” she asked him.
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Say you manage to lay all your ghosts to rest. Will you leave again?”
“Probably.”
“Then, if all was solved, you just might feel differently about the museum.”
She shouldn’t have spoken; she saw a spark of anger in his eyes. “I see where your sympathy for my plight lies, Miss O’Hara,” he said, his words pleasant enough.
“I didn’t mean-”
“Yes, actually, yes, you did.”
“If that’s how you wish to feel, fine. There’s little I can do,” she said with a shrug.
He started toward the door but stopped and turned back. “Thank you for the coffee.” He hesitated. “Do you manage to suck everyone in like this-then irritate them beyond measure?”
“I-I, no! I wasn’t sucking you in. I was listening. And I would dearly love to see the murder solved. It was an injustice all the way around. A killer got away with murder. Lives were ruined. I-and surely everyone else-would like to see that rectified. In fact, and seriously, with no side benefit, I’m more than willing to help you in any way. I just can’t begin to see how.”
He walked back to her. He loomed tall, and she felt a slight tremor touch her, but it wasn’t fear. He was simply a charismatic man, whether talking thoughtfully, or staring at her the way he was now.
Even wagging a finger at her.
“Don’t! No, I mean, don’t! Don’t help me, don’t look into this, don’t be involved in any way. Please, and I mean it. Do you understand me-don’t help, don’t ask questions-just don’t!”
“Hey! All right!” Katie flared. “What-do you have this problem with everyone who attempts to be nice to you?”
He let out a breath. His eyes were an intense blue as he stared at her, and yet they seemed to spark with a different emotion, as well.
“No, I just don’t want anyone involved in any way, all right?”
She lifted her hands. “Hey, you’re on your own. I won’t darken your door, I won’t even speak on your behalf!”
He nodded, turned and headed to the door. Once more, he turned back. “Seriously, thanks for the coffee.” He lingered for a moment. She was surprised to see something of a nostalgic smile on his face.
“What?”
“I don’t know. Remembering times…before, I guess.” He looked at her a long moment. “You don’t remember. I came here one day to see your brother and you were mad at him. You opened the door for me, and then slammed it in my face.”
“I did not!”
“You did.”
She flushed. “Hey, he was quite a bit older, and very superior at times.”
“It’s all right. I knocked again, and Sean came down. He threatened to lock you in your dollhouse.”
“I never had a dollhouse.”
“Then he must not have been all that mad.”
He stepped outside, the door closed and he was gone.
“Well,” Bartholomew exclaimed. “Well, well-well. How touching.”
“Don’t be-a jerk,” Katie said.
“Excuse me,” Bartholomew said indignantly. “I wasn’t being a jerk. I meant it. How touching. I think I do like this fellow after all.”
Katie was thoughtful. “If he is able to find out the truth…”
“Stop right there,” Bartholomew said.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you hear him? He doesn’t want you involved. And, hey-it’s never been proved that he was guilty, but it’s never been proved that he was innocent.”
Katie looked solidly at Bartholomew. “I don’t intend to do anything, seriously. I’m going to hope for the best for him. But if he does find out the truth, he may change his mind, and I may get the museum.”
Bartholomew appeared to shudder. “Katie, if he’s right, the situation is dangerous. Oh, yes, there’s so much more that can be discovered these days than when I was walking the shoreline. DNA, RNA, whichever is which and what. Skin cells, even fingerprints, footprints…genetic markers. Whatever. The thing is, the killer was never caught. David Beckett thinks that it wasn’t a random act or the act of a psycho who moved on. If he’s trying to discover the truth and it was someone from around here who still lives here, that person isn’t going to want anyone knowing the truth.”
“What we want isn’t always what we get-it’s time for a murderer to come to justice,” Katie said.
“Right. Great sentiment,” Bartholomew agreed. “But this person killed once, very cleverly, so it seems. If he’s threatened, he’ll certainly kill again. Katie, look at me-this guy will kill again. Like Beckett said, young woman, you stay the hell out of it. You wouldn’t want to wind up being a tableau in the museum yourself now, would you, Miss Katherine O’Hara?”
4
Danny Zigler seemed the right place to start. He knew Key West like the back of his hand. He had been here then-and he’d remained to sometimes tell stories about the night, along with other bits and pieces of Key West myth and legend. He had been something of a friend. He was a legend in his own peculiar way.
At the moment, Danny worked part-time for one of the ghost-tour companies and part-time for an ice-cream parlor on Duval. He had always been a nice guy with an easygoing personality-and not a bit of ambition. Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing, David didn’t know. Sometimes Danny was unemployed, and that would be fine with Danny until he was dead broke, then he’d make the effort to become employed again. He was a fixture in Key West.
It was still early, and not much on or just off Duval Street opened early, except for the chain drugstore, coffee shops and an Internet café. But David knew that the ice-cream shop would be getting ready to open, and it might be the best time to talk to Danny.
When he reached the shop, David could see Danny inside, wiping down one of the milk-shake machines. He rapped on the glass. Danny looked up and over at him, and a broad smile lit up his face. He hurried to the door. David heard the locks being sprung, and then the door opened.
“David Beckett! I heard you were headed back into town. Man, how are you! It’s so damned cool to see you!” Danny declared. His enthusiasm seemed real, and he gave David a hug and stepped back. “Damn, man, and you are looking good!”
Danny was eternally thin. His brown hair, long and worn in a queue at his nape, was now beginning to show threads of gray. His face was pockmarked from a now preventable childhood illness and his features were lean. His eyes, however, were a warm brown, and he did well with people. He excelled at telling stories, and he’d been a wonderful guide years ago, when he had worked at the museum. David wondered if Danny’s life hadn’t been altered by the events at the museum, as well.
“Thanks, Danny,” David said. “So how are you doing?”
Danny shrugged, wiping his hands on the white apron he wore over his jeans and a Metallica tee. “I can’t complain, can’t complain. They’re getting more and more letters on what a great ‘ghost host’ I am for the weekend tours and, hey-I can have all the free ice cream I want. I have a sunset every night, and saltwater and sand between my toes.” He frowned. “Hey, there’s a rumor that you’re refusing to sell the museum to Katie O’Hara. Is that true?”