“Yeah, I will. Actually, I do have some questions for you,” David said.
“Like, where was I the night of the twelfth?” Sam asked.
“Sure. That would be good to know. Did you see your sister that night? I’m trying to trace her footsteps.”
“Trace them until they walk you right up to a killer?” Sam asked.
David nodded. “So?”
“So?”
“So where were you that night?”
“That night? You found her in the morning… Oh, right. The police said that she was killed sometime between seven and nine on the twelfth, the night before. The museum was open until midnight, so sometime after midnight, the killer brought her body into the museum for you to find during the first tour the next morning.”
“Everyone thought she had left for Ohio,” David said. “Your parents thought that she had left for Ohio, and I think they were just angry at first that she had gone without her final goodbye. I wasn’t expecting to see her, so I wouldn’t have looked for her. The killer held her-somewhere, and then brought her into the museum after closing.”
“I was on Duval Street the night she was killed, drinking it up with a bunch of friends. Did I see my sister? Yes. I yelled at her for drinking.”
“Drinking on Duval? How bizarre,” David said dryly.
“Hey, those of us who live in paradise know that you can’t drink yourself silly every night. You know what she told me?” Sam asked.
“What?”
“Just what I was trying to explain to you. She wanted some liquid courage. She wanted to be strong when she saw you. She wasn’t sure anymore. She’d seen you from a distance, and she felt as if the years had all gone away. She needed courage, but not to tell you goodbye. She needed courage because she was afraid she wanted to ask if she could come back, instead of telling you goodbye, and she was afraid of what you would have to say to her.”
He’d heard it before. Somehow, that information, coming from Sam especially, still hurt.
He didn’t know if it was true or not.
He just knew that it hurt.
5
Dying Love, Dead Loss was the name of the most popular book that had been written on the subject of Tanya Barnard’s murder. Naturally, there had been dozens of newspaper reports and the sensationalism of the way she had been left had drawn coverage from across the country.
Katie had never purchased the book. She didn’t feel that anyone should make a profit off such a contemporary tragedy.
That day, however, on her way back from the cemetery, she stopped by a store to purchase the book. She bought it in one of the tourist shops on Duval that sold sandals, clothing, souvenirs and about ten titles that were pertinent to the Keys. Two of the books held maps and histories, two were on water sports on the island, another was on housing styles. There was a book on Carl Tanzler, one on Key West ghost stories and one on the murder of Tanya Barnard. The shop was owned and operated by Eastern Europeans new to the area, but it was still a small world. It wouldn’t be any secret that she had bought the book.
She picked up a tuna croissant sandwich from one of her favorite restaurants and headed home with her book. She had several hours before she had to return to work.
Saturday night.
It was going to be busy.
Friday nights started the craziness of weekend revelers, bachelor parties, bachelorette parties and general let’s-drive-down-to-Key-West-and-get-plastered celebrations. Also, Fantasy Fest would be starting the next week, so many people who intended to enjoy that week of bacchanalia would start filtering in.
As she walked to her house, lunch and reading material in hand, she suddenly felt an odd sense of apprehension.
It was broad daylight. Tourists were everywhere, walking, on bikes, in rental minicars. Music was blaring from a dozen clubs. She wondered at first if she was being followed by a ghost who had suddenly discovered the need to talk.
Tanya. Maybe Tanya Barnard was walking around Key West, and she had seen her brother and her onetime fiancé again, and discovered the need to try to help them find the truth.
But looking around, she saw no one, not even the usual crowd she sometimes saw, all from their different eras, sometimes seeing one another and sometimes not. There were a few Spanish conquistadors who hung out near the wharf fairly frequently, and many of the seafarers seemed to see one another and gather near the docks, almost as if they could taste the beer and grog being served by the waterside restaurants now. An early-nineteenth-century pirate seemed to look around Captain Tony’s now and then, and rumor had it that he’d been seen by a number of people.
But the dead were quiet this afternoon. She had no idea why she’d felt the chilling sensation, as if she had been watched.
She felt it again when she reached her house and turned the key in the lock, so much so that she turned around to assure herself that she hadn’t been followed. “Bartholomew?” she muttered, turning one last time before releasing the knob. Her ethereal houseguest might be feeling that she needed to be more careful than she was. But, apparently, Bartholomew was still hanging around the cemetery. Every now and then, he got a kick out of trying to breathe down someone’s neck and give them a chill or a scare. He could also make leaves rustle, and sometimes, tap on glass or some other hard surface. He loved seeing pretty young women squeal with fear.
Sometimes, he followed the ghost tours around. He’d stand next to the guides, and blow out their lanterns now and then. She didn’t really blame him. Surely, after nearly two hundred years of hanging around, he needed a form of entertainment. But Bartholomew didn’t seem to be playing jokes-not on her-at the moment.
She stepped inside and quickly closed the door behind her, locking it. Once inside, she felt somewhat silly, but she still checked the locks anyway. With her sandwich, a cold glass of tea and the book, she curled up on the sofa in the parlor and started to read.
The author first painted a picture of Key West at the time of the murder; then she told the Carl Tanzler story, and gave a history of the Beckett family. Their history was similar to that of her own family. David Beckett-the original David Beckett-had been a pirate who had claimed that he had actually been a privateer, attacking only Spanish ships in the name of Great Britain. The Becketts purchased lands, probably with ill-gotten gains, became wreckers and salvage divers, supported sponging and, by the eighteen hundreds, had become rich. They were able to shift with the winds of time, owning tourist businesses as the days of wrecking became bygone, investing in a number of different ventures. Into the mid-nineteen hundreds, the family was still hanging on, but with their worth more in property than bank accounts. Few families were more respected. Her own family was named along with the Barnards. They weren’t the earliest, like the Whiteheads and Simontons, but they had family members who had remained through the decades.
Then-the murder.
Everyone involved with the museum had been questioned. Pete Dryer, a uniformed cop at the time, had been at the museum during the discovery, and he had perfectly preserved the crime scene-except that the murder hadn’t taken place in the museum, according to the medical examiner’s report. Where she met her fate, no one knew. No one had broken into the museum, and there were no security cameras at the time. Crime-scene units had not been able to find hairs, fibers or any other microcosm of evidence. David Beckett had naturally fallen under suspicion; Key West was a small place. Though extremely improbable, it was possible that he had slipped out-and come upon Tanya.
Katie scrambled over to the kitchen counter for a notepad. The police were convinced that the murderer was someone who had lived on the island and knew their way around. They also thought that the murderer was probably a very strong man. She listed the people who had been on the tour: four female college students; Molly and Turk Kenward from Portland, Oregon; Pete Dryer; his sister, Sally; her husband, Gerry Matthews; and the Matthewses’ children, Suzie and Whelan.