Chapter SEVEN
The next morning was Sunday, and the island slept in. J.D. had dropped Jock off at my cottage shortly after midnight and went home to sleep. She was going to meet us for breakfast at the Blue Dolphin at ten.
As we drove down the key, I spotted two auto carriers parked in stacking lanes on Gulf of Mexico Drive, unloading the cars shipped south by their owners. They were harbingers of the approaching season, serving much the same purpose as the robins of spring in the Midwest, preparing us for the change in weather and putting us on notice that the snowbirds, those northerners who spend every winter on our island, were returning.
The Blue Dolphin was full of locals, many coming from early Mass or getting ready for the morning services at the Protestant churches on the island. Others, like Jock and me, were simply starting another day in the soft sunshine of early November, planning a fishing trip or a beach walk or a round of golf. The murder was the topic of conversation at most of the tables. Both the St. Petersburg and Sarasota papers had put the story on the front page of their Sunday editions, leaving out the details. Murder did not come to our mellow island with any regularity, and the mental image of a body floating in the bay unsettled everyone. The fact that many in the Blue Dolphin that morning knew Nell Alexander made the crime more personal, and thus, more frightening.
Jock and I took an empty table and waited for J.D. She’d called just as we were parking to tell me that she was running a few minutes late. We drank coffee as Jock told me more about his evening at the airport. He planned to call Gene Alexander later in the day to see if there was anything he needed.
J.D. arrived and took a seat. She looked beat, as if she had not slept well. “Sorry to be late,” she said. “I’ve been at the station since eight. The forensics people started at the Alexander home at daybreak. Place was clean. Wherever Nell was killed, it wasn’t inside her house.”
“That should make things a little easier for Gene,” said Jock. “Have you called him?”
“Yes. He’s probably home by now. Another thing. There was no sign of her BMW at the house.”
A server came to the table with a pot of coffee, filled our cups, and poured one for J.D. “I guess you’ve been busy, J.D.,” the server said. “Nell was a fine lady and one of our regulars.”
“We’ll find the guy, Jeanine,” said J.D. We placed our order and Jeanine left for the kitchen.
“Did the newspapers have Nell’s name?” I asked.
“No. Just that an unidentified woman had been found dead near Sister Key. The island grapevine apparently knows about Nell, though.”
“News travels fast on the key,” I said.
J.D. laughed. “I’m still getting used to that. We may have gotten our first break in the case. We got a call early this morning from a delivery captain in Tampa. He read about the murder in the St. Pete paper.”
“Was he any help?” I knew that some people who read stories of murder want to be part of the action and will thrust themselves into it, sometimes making up evidence to enhance their value to law enforcement.
“Actually, he was. He was bringing a yacht up from Naples, heading for Tampa on the Intracoastal. There was no moon and he was moving slowly in the dark, using his spotlight to find the markers. His beam caught a boat pulled into the mangroves near the south end of Sister Key about three o’clock Saturday morning. The same area where we found the body.”
I was skeptical. “Why would an experienced captain be on the inside?” I asked. “He could make much better time out in the Gulf.”
“I asked him about that,” said J.D. “He said there were storms way out that night and the swells were pretty huge. He didn’t want to take any chances on damaging the boat, so he came inside at Boca Grande pass.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “Were there storms in the Gulf Saturday?”
“I checked. He was right about the high seas. We even got a little more erosion up by the North Shore Road beach access.”
“Did he have any details about the boat at Sister Key?” Jock asked.
“He said it was a flats boat, probably a twenty footer with a poling platform. There were no lights showing, which made the captain take a closer look. There was a man in the boat with a fishing rod who waved at the captain, so he figured it was just some fool who didn’t have enough sense to turn on his anchor light.”
“Any description of the man in the boat?” I asked.
“No. Just that he was white. He was wearing a baseball cap, shorts, and a T-shirt. Nothing more definitive.”
“That could be our guy,” said Jock. “Any chance of finding the boat?”
“Needle in a haystack,” said J.D. “A boat generally fitting the description the captain gave me was stolen Friday night from a lift behind a home up on Bimini Bay.”
“Where’s that?” asked Jock.
“North end of Anna Maria Island,” I said. “The killer probably set the boat adrift somewhere when he finished with it. It might turn up.”
Jock said, “If the killer stole the boat from Bimini Bay, he would have had to have some way to get there. Assuming he’s working alone, he could have left his car somewhere nearby, walked in, stolen the boat, and taken off. But how would he get back to his car? Wouldn’t it make sense for him to take the boat back to near where his car was parked?”
“How would he have gotten the body into the boat?” asked J.D.
“Maybe he left the body somewhere near the water where he could bring the boat after he stole it,” said Jock. “Load her up and head for Sister Key.”
J.D. nodded. “That makes some sense, but where could he have left the body so that nobody would find it while he was stealing the boat? Matt, you know this area better than we do. Any ideas?”
“There’re lots of places to put a body for a few hours at night. Most anywhere along the beach, a lot of places on the bay. It’d be impossible to search all of them.”
J.D. frowned. “Well, that’s a dead end, I guess.”
Jeanine brought our breakfast and we ate quietly. I finished my eggs and toast and sat back with a fresh cup of coffee in my hand. “Assuming the boat the delivery captain saw was our bad guy,” I said, “we have a pretty definite time for the body being tied to the tree on Sister Key. If we can find out where she had dinner and when she left the restaurant, we’ll be able to get a window of time for the murder.”
“Yes,” said J.D. “We’ll have officers canvassing the restaurants on the key and the Circle as soon as they open. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Jock looked toward the door and grinned. “Look who’s here. Our man Sammy.”
Sam Lastinger was coming through the door, talking to a couple walking with him. I watched as he came inside, wave to a family sitting in one of the booths, and say something to the couple with him. They both laughed and Sam came our way, splitting off from the couple who moved to a table near the front door.
“Jock, you old bastard. When did you get here?”
Jock stood, hugged Sam, and said, “Couple of days ago. How’ve you been?”
Sam laughed. “Look at me. It doesn’t get any better than this.”
Sam was the bartender at Pattigeorge’s, an upscale restaurant that sat on the bay at mid-key. The bar was always packed with locals and, during the season, snowbirds. Sammy knew them all and introduced the newcomers. His personality made for a friendly bar. He was about forty years old, stood six feet tall, had dark hair, a permanent grin, and an engaging laugh. He was perennially happy.
“Sit down,” I said.
He pulled up a chair and motioned for the waitress. She came and took his order. Coffee and a muffin. “I thought you guys might have been in last night. We had a full bar.”
“J.D. got busy,” I said. “Did you hear about the murder?”
“Terrible thing. Nell was in my bar Friday night. Must have gotten killed right after she left.”
J.D.’s coffee cup stopped midway between the table and her mouth. “What time was she there?”
Sam thought for a minute. “I’d say she came in about nine. Had dinner at the bar. Stayed for a couple of drinks. She probably left around eleven.”
“Who else was there?” asked J.D.
“The bar was packed. Usual crowd, and Miles Leavitt, of course. He’s there every night. Miles closed me up and went with me to the Haye Loft for a drink with Eric.”
“Any strangers? Somebody you didn’t know?” asked J.D.
“Just a couple of tourists Billy Brugger sent down from the Hilton.”
“Did either of them talk to Nell?”
“No. They were at the opposite end of the bar.”
“Who was Nell talking to?”
Sam was quiet for a beat. “Miles mostly. He had a load on and you know how that goes. He was explaining world economics to her, I think. Or maybe it was the South American llama trade. After a lot of Scotch, he becomes an expert on all kinds of things.”
J.D. laughed. Miles was a favorite character on the island and a good friend.
“Wait a minute,” Sam said. “There was a guy who sat next to her after Miles moved down the bar to talk to Mike and Cyndi Seamon.”
“Did you know him?”
“No. But I introduced myself to him when he came in. He told me his name was Craig. No last name.”
“Did he tell you what he was doing on Longboat?”
“No. He wasn’t too friendly. He talked to Nell for a few minutes and left. Didn’t finish his beer. I figured she blew him off.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Pretty standard-issue tourist,” Sam said. “Light-colored shorts, tropical patterned shirt, loafers, no socks.”
“Tall, short, white, black, hair color?”
“He was white and about my height, sandy hair, a little long, kind of hanging over his ears. And he had some ink on his arms. Looked like an amateur had done it. It was faded, like it’d been there a while.”
“Prison tattoos?”
“I don’t know what prison tats look like.”
“Can you describe them?”
“Not really. They were mostly letters, but they didn’t make sense. They weren’t words, but I only saw his arms below the elbow. Could have been better work on his upper arms.”
“What time did he leave?” J.D. asked.
Sam thought for a moment. “It must have been a little before eleven, because Nell left a few minutes later.”
“How did he pay?”
“Cash.”
“How about Nell?”
“Credit card. VISA, I think.”
“Would that have a time stamp on it?”
Sam smiled. “It sure would. The time would be in the register at the bar.”
“Did Nell pay just before she left?”
“She did,” said Sam. “As soon as she signed the receipt, she told me goodbye and walked out the door.”
“Can we get to the register this morning?”
“Sure.”