Still speaking as if I might have gone deaf since she last saw me, Hetty gestured me through the kitchen door. The kitchen had a faint aroma of bacon, a smell I love more than perfume. It didn’t take detective skills to guess that Hetty had made breakfast for Jaz.
She said, “Doesn’t Jaz look cute? We went to Wal-Mart last night, all three of us. Ben needed experience in a crowded store and Jaz was nice enough to go with us, and while we were there I saw a bunch of things that were perfect for Jaz. We had a great time.”
In other words, Jaz had returned to Hetty’s house after sundown, and Hetty had hauled her off to Wal-Mart and bought clothes for her. I wondered if Jaz had gone with her stepfather’s permission.
Instead of asking questions, I made female noises about the new clothes. Jaz didn’t exactly smile under my praise, but her face lost some of its tension.
In the kitchen, Winston sat at the table like a judge presiding at court. I scratched the top of his head and turned down Hetty’s offer of coffee and cookies.
I said, “Hetty, how’d you hurt your wrist?”
She made a mock grimace and waggled it in the air. “Oh, I twisted it this morning lifting a bag of puppy food. It’s not hurt bad, just a sprain. Good thing Jaz is here to help me with heavy things.”
Jaz said, “And combing Ben.”
Hetty looked a mite embarrassed. “And combing Ben too. My goodness, if Jaz weren’t doing that, Ben would be a tangled mess.”
I bit back a grin. Ben’s puppy hair did need combing, but he wouldn’t exactly be a tangled mess if he skipped a day. I also suspected that Hetty’s injury was mostly talk, a way of making Jaz feel needed and important. Nothing wrong with that. We all need to feel important.
I said, “Good thing you’re nearby, Jaz. Where did you say you live?”
The girl shrugged. “A few streets over. I don’t know the name.”
She was either a really good actress pretending not to know her own address, or a kid who hadn’t lived in her house long enough to learn it.
Careful as walking on spilled birdseed, I said, “Is your house on stilts? So you go up tall steps to get to your front door?”
She seemed to consider whether it was safe to answer, then nodded. “How’d you know?”
“Just a guess.”
Hetty looked perplexed, wondering how I’d figured out where Jaz lived.
I hadn’t the faintest idea where she lived. I had described Reba Chandler’s house because the boys had come to Reba’s believing it was where they’d find Jaz. It therefore seemed a safe bet that she and her stepfather lived in a house that looked like Reba’s.
I was doing so well with my hunches that I tried another one.
I said, “It’s really nice of you to help out here, Jasmine.” I pronounced it “Jas-min.”
“Jas-meen,” she said, then clapped her hand over her mouth.
I tried not to look as pleased as I felt. “I said it wrong, huh? Sorry.”
Above her covered mouth, her eyes were wide and frightened.
Hetty said, “No matter how you say it, it’s a pretty name.”
The girl lowered her hand, but she looked wary. “I’m not supposed to go by that name now.”
Hetty’s eyes met mine for an instant, both of us keeping our faces still.
I said, “I have a friend named Maureen, but I’ve always called her Mo. I don’t remember why I started calling her that, but Mo fits her better than Maureen. Maureen is sort of formal, don’t you think? Mo is friendlier.”
She said, “I don’t want to be a Rosemary.”
Hetty and I exchanged glances again.
I said, “You seem more like a Jasmine than a Rosemary.” I was careful to pronounce the name Jas-meen.
Stiffly, she said, “That’s because I am a Jasmine. That’s what my mother named me.”
Hetty picked up the empty teakettle and carried it to the sink to fill, and Jaz was quickly beside her.
She said, “I’ll do that! You’ll hurt your wrist!”
Hetty smiled sheepishly and allowed Jaz to fill the pot and carry it to the stove. Jaz looked serious and determined. She and Hetty obviously had a mutual-admiration thing going.
As Jaz settled the pot on the stove, she looked up at the purple clock on the kitchen wall and stiffened. “Oh, my gosh! I didn’t know it was so late! He’ll kill me if he finds me gone!”
With her face anxiously pinched, she turned and ran out the back door, letting it slam shut behind her.
Hetty said, “What—”
I didn’t stick around to hear what she was going to say. Instead, I grabbed my keys and ran to the front door as fast as I could. Unlike Jaz, I pulled it closed behind me before I charged to the Bronco. I was determined to find out where Jaz lived.
15
Jaz was already half a block away, running on the sidewalk like a spooked colt. I started the Bronco, backed out of the driveway like Mario Andretti at the starting line, and then slowed so she wouldn’t know I was there. She ran toward the bay, following the curves of the street, all spindly legs and determined rush. A couple of cars pulled around me to pass, the drivers probably wondering why I was creeping along so slowly.
The closer she got to the bay, the more I wondered where the heck she was running. There are no private homes on that particular stretch of the bay, only the posh Key Royale resort hotel. An acre of wild nature preserve separates the hotel from private homes, and as Jaz neared its edge I saw a khaki-colored Hummer idling at the curb.
Something about that mountainous Hummer sitting on the street made me uneasy, so I sped up to narrow the gap between us. When I was about twenty-five feet behind her, she ran past the Hummer’s right side. As I swerved around the Hummer on the left, Jaz suddenly made a right turn and plunged into the nature preserve. I pulled to the curb in front of the Hummer, but all I caught was a glimpse of her head before she was swallowed by the greenery. Behind me, the Hummer revved its engine and roared toward the bay.
I sat for a few minutes trying to figure out where Jaz was going, but the answer was as obvious as it was unlikely. She could only be headed toward the resort hotel.
Sarasota has almost as many pricey tourist hotels as it has private homes, but the Key Royale caters to the crème de la crème. The Royale’s guests crave privacy and seclusion above all else, and they’re willing and able to pay top dollar for it. No paparazzi, no nosy reporters, just discreet hotel employees.
Jaz and her stepfather were not wealthy. They were not famous actors seeking a respite from continuous press coverage. They were not politicians or world leaders needing time out of the limelight. But if Jaz was trying to get home before her stepfather found her gone, that home had to be at the Key Royale. Which could only mean that her stepfather was an employee there, and they had been given living quarters.
Okay, it was beginning to come together. The stepfather wore a shoulder holster. If he was an employee at the Key Royale, he must be a security guard there. There was no mother, so he had complete responsibility for Jaz. Since the place was the epitome of exclusive, he practically kept her under house arrest to make sure she didn’t spill any secrets about the famous people staying there. He was a first-class jerk, a mean tyrant with no idea how to raise a teenager, a rent-a-cop in a cheap suit, but not a gang leader.
But then why had young men who were gang members in L.A. come to Siesta Key looking for Jaz? And why had her stepfather been so edgy and nervous at Dr. Layton’s office? Maybe he was a gang leader who had got a job at the Key Royale as a cover while he was in Sarasota. Maybe he didn’t have a record, so his background check hadn’t raised any flags when he was hired.