Death at China Rose (Sunshine State Murders), page 17
“I wanted to see if there was a chance of putting the genie back in the bottle.”
“Genie?”
“The genie is the treasure.”
I swallowed granola, washed it down with a slug of water. “So you do think that Lafitte’s gold is buried at China Ridge.”
Jon’s hearty laugh startled me. “I’m sorry, but you are funny. The only things buried in the Ridge are arrowheads and pottery shards.”
“Arrowheads and shards?” A hell of a letdown after gold and silver.
Jon nodded. “I don’t know why Ancy thought there was something of value in this earth, but he was wrong. Even so, it’s inevitable that the usual collection of kooks and treasure seekers will be out here tearing up the land.”
“You sound like Charlie Ware.”
“All I want to do is to remove any obvious evidence of the dig to discourage looters. What’s the harm in that?”
I wiped my hands free of granola dust. “So there is no treasure.”
“And even if there were treasure, I wouldn’t want it.” Jon put the granola in the backpack. “We should get going—we don’t want to be stuck out here when the rains come, and they are coming.”
“We’ll be at the site in a flash—I’ve got a ride parked in the back.”
Jon followed me to the back of the ramshackle house, pausing at the scraggly rosebushes as I had done. “Not many people grow Old Blush anymore. The cracker settlers liked to plant it in their kitchen gardens for a bit of color.”
“It’s a tough plant.”
“It’s the toughest of the China roses, almost impossible to kill.” He slid into the passenger’s seat and started working his phone.
“What’s that?” I asked, though I had a pretty good idea.
“GPS with a few added bells and whistles,” he said. “The site’s not far.”
When I asked to see, Jon handed it over. The small screen displayed the map with a throbbing red blob. That throbbing red blob disquieted me—too much like X marks the spot for my taste. Then I noticed a number in the lower right corner. “Are those the coordinates?”
“Yep.”
“How’d you get the coordinates to the site?” I asked.
Jon’s jaw worked.
“I imagine that Ancy kept a tight lid on that sort of info.”
“The day after Harry Pitts was murdered, I drove down here. It took me half a day to find the dig. I calculated the coordinates for the location and returned today with my tools so I could obliterate the site.”
The day after Harry’s murder? Now I knew who’d screwed up the evidence at Ancy’s campsite.
“I’m not the enemy, Addie.”
I wasn’t so sure. Minutes later, we arrived at the excavation. I found a partially shaded spot at the edge of the dig, which to my eyes was nothing but a large rectangular patch of bare dirt cordoned off with sticks and string. Jon didn’t seem too impressed either.
“Very sloppy, definitely Prince’s work.” He jumped from the ATV and walked the perimeter of the site, shaking his head and muttering to himself.
“Something wrong?” I asked when he returned to the ATV.
Jon wiped his brow with a sleeve. “It’s a bit more work than I anticipated. I’m going to have to come back with help.”
I started up the ATV. “Hop in. I’ll give you a lift to your car. You’re parked at the campsite, right?”
“No, I mean yes, but I...”
“Get inside, Professor.” I might have been born yesterday, but it wasn’t last night. If I left Jon here, the second I was gone, he’d scamper back to the dig like a fucking jackrabbit and do whatever he had planned to do in the first place.
We returned to Ancy’s campsite in silence. I had questions for Jon, but my instinct told me that it was better to keep a close eye on Jon Monroe for a day or two to see what shook out. Let him marinate in his own juices for a while. Then I’d come at him...hard.
But all this flew away when I saw Jon’s car sparkling in the dappled light—a white Jeep Cherokee. Jon—Juan! Jon Monroe was the man Ancy had argued with on the night of Harry’s murder.
I let Jon drive away even though every fiber of my being wanted to pull my Glock and force the truth out of the little fuck. But my brain was scrambled eggs. I needed to think through this Byzantine mess before I took another step. So I let Jon slip the noose, confident that there was no danger of him running off.
In fact, I was certain that in no time flat he’d return to the Ridge.
Despite his altruistic bullshit, Jon Monroe had come here to dig, and not just for arrowheads or shards. I had put a wrench in his plan, but he’d be back—and sooner rather than later.
What the hell was buried at China Ridge?
Chapter Sixteen:
The Lost Tribe of China Rose
I approached Harry’s house from the rear, parking the ATV in the woods. Against my will, the rambling roads of China Rose had led me back here. I filled my empty bottle from the hose and sat on the concrete bench in the back.
The house was a sad sight. Yellow crime tape sagged around the faded bungalow, having endured several bouts of pounding rain and merciless sun. Grinning gnomes still stood sentry, but there was no whimsy in their smiles. Now they were guardians of the grave.
I considered taking another look inside. I knew damn well that I hadn’t squeezed out all the secrets that lurked inside. But I was beat. Even if something was staring me in the eye, I wouldn’t see it. I turned away, and as I did, I caught furtive movement to the right. The hairs on my neck stood at attention—someone was watching from the woods.
I turned slowly and found intelligent eyes staring into mine.
The small furry figure crouched at the edge of the woods, near the ATV. It was so still that for one moment I thought it was one of Harry’s plastic creatures. I squatted and held out my hand. “Hey there,” I said softly.
At this, more figures appeared behind the first creature—one, then another, then one more. I took a small step forward. The small being in the vanguard jumped up and down once and bared his toothy grin. His less brave companions melted into the woods, hooting and yelping.
“I won’t hurt you.”
The old eyes seemed puzzled. For a moment, I thought he’d come into the mottled light and take my hand. But the creature let out a single cry and followed his brethren into the woods.
I now knew what caused those strange blood smears on the cot cushions.
* * *
Murder was good for business. China Rose’s worn wooden bar was full of elbows.
“Moss around?” I asked Papa, who was behind the bar.
“In the kitchen,” he mumbled.
The kitchen was a steam room, but then all of Florida was a steam room in July. Moss was shoving a tray of mugs into the dishwasher.
“Can we talk?” I asked as Moss started the dishwashing cycle.
“Give me a minute.” Moss slipped into the walk-in.
I pulled several paper towels off of a wall dispenser and wiped my face. I couldn’t wait to get home for a cool shower and a beer. One of these wishes was fulfilled when Moss reappeared with two icy bottles.
I followed Moss out the back door, which as usual was cracked open with a milk crate. Additional milk crates littered the shaded alcove, serving as chairs. Moss and I sat. We drank our beers in silence for several minutes. In the shade the late-afternoon air was almost cool.
“By the way, I like your ride.” I gestured at the cherry-red vintage Caddy.
“That’s my baby girl,” he said, a brief smile flickering across his face. Then he grew somber. “Bambi called—she said she’d been trying to call you.”
I’d been in China Rose’s dead zone most of the afternoon. “Is there trouble?” I regretted the idiotic words immediately. There had been nothing but trouble at China Rose for some time.
Moss shrugged. “Not that she said—I told her I hadn’t seen you today.”
“Good.” I drank my beer and thought again how good a shower would be. “Do you know about the monkeys?”
A smile crossed Moss’s bright face, and he scraped his milk crate closer. “Did you see them?”
“I saw and heard them.” It occurred to me that it had been monkeys at the pool, splashing and frolicking like children on holiday.
“You’re lucky—they usually don’t show themselves to anyone but Harry. He was their daddy.”
“He fed them?” I recalled the banana peels at the murder scene. Another small mystery solved, but did it get me any closer to the big one?
“He sure did,” Moss said. “He loved those monkeys to death.”
“Did they love him back?”
Moss’s spine stiffened, offended. “Say what?”
“Nothing like that,” I said quickly. “It’s just that these aren’t domesticated animals.” I remembered reading about that unfortunate woman with a pet chimp. I was shocked when Moss started laughing.
“This isn’t a story by Poe! Harry’s monkeys are rhesus—not mean apes. They wouldn’t hurt anyone, much less Harry. Monkeys are smart enough not to bite the hand that feeds ‘em.”
People weren’t smart enough for that—I doubted our primate cousins had any better sense. “How’d the monkeys get here anyway?”
“Back in the day some film company made a Tarzan movie out here. After they were done, they just let the monkeys loose. I guess it was cheaper.”
“So they’re feral animals, not pets.”
“Mostly, except for Old Man.”
“Old Man?”
“Yeah, he’s a friendly old soul.” Moss described a gray-bearded rhesus with a wizened face. “Old Man just showed up one day. Harry thought he used to be somebody’s pet. When the owner got tired of him, he just let him loose at China Rose.”
“I saw him. For a second I thought he was going to shake my hand.”
“He will, if he likes you.” Moss drank off his beer, stretched his back. “Anything else I can help you with?”
“Actually there is,” I said. Moss saw something in my face, for he sat back down. “It was an oversight on my part, but I realize that we haven’t really talked about you and Harry.”
“I thought we had,” Moss said, his face an implacable mask.
“First I’d like to know about your business arrangement with Harry.”
Moss’s brows shot up. I saw he wanted to object, but thought better of it. “I’m just a bartender.”
“You and I both know you’re a lot more than that,” I said. “Tell me about the deal you and Harry made.” It was a shot in the dark based on Harry’s habit of wacky business arrangements.
Moss snorted. “Which one? The one we started with or how it ended up?”
“Harry screwed you too.”
“I’ve worked for Harry going on three years. The first six months he paid me minimum wage, plus tips—all of it under the table.”
“So it didn’t interfere with your social security, right?”
“A person’s got to make it any way he can these days,” Moss said, meeting my gaze straight-on.
Maybe Moss was right. Maybe not. Either way, it wasn’t my business. “But the arrangement changed.”
“Last year Harry suggested I move into the upstairs apartment, only I had to take a cut in wages. At the time it seemed like a good deal. Then five months ago, Harry told me Bambi was moving in the place. All of a sudden, I’m out on my ass.” His voice rose with indignation.
“That’s a bitch,” I agreed, though it was understandable that Bambi wanted an apartment of her own. I couldn’t imagine the teenager living in either Charlie’s sloppy trailer or Harry’s tiny bungalow.
“The apartment was a dump when I moved in—I put in a new refrigerator and stove, even painted the cabinets. Now I’m out all that money, plus the cost of moving and finding a new place. And then I have to fight Harry tooth-and-nail to get my regular salary back!”
“I can see why your relationship with Harry was...strained.”
“Goddamned right it was strained.”
“Was there any other friction between you?”
A pause and Moss said, “No, but after he broke our agreement, I never trusted him again. And now, I really got to get to work.”
I asked Moss if I could borrow the small office again.
“Suit yourself.”
As I watched him walk stiffly away, I knew there was more to the story. A wronged man was himself capable of great wrong. He bore watching, but right now I needed a shot of AC.
Settled behind the stately desk, I got my sometime associate Thelma Sky on the line and told her the job I needed. She said she’d take care of it pronto. I thought about calling the hospice to check on Pop, but what was the point? I knew how he was.
“Addie?”
I started slightly. “I didn’t hear you come in.” Obviously I had left the door ajar, but Bambi must be part dormouse.
The teenager shrugged and slumped in the chair across from the desk. She looked a little as she had that day in the hospital, just before she got the news that Harry was dead.
“You look a sight, Addie, like you’ve been traipsing over hell and back.” Bambi’s voice was as flat as roadkill.
“It’s July in Florida,” I said, folding my arms on the desk.
“I want to explain about yesterday, when you asked about my mother.” Bambi bit her lower lip so hard that I expected to see blood.
“Okay,” I said, waiting. This was Bambi’s play, not mine.
“It’s just that I don’t like to talk about Mama.”
“It was a simple question.”
Bambi’s mirthless laughter filled the small room. “Simple? There’s nothing about my life that’s simple.”
“So tell me.”
Bambi studied the floor and sighed. “I try not to think about the past too much. When you asked if Mama had ever contacted me, it brought all those bad memories back.”
“Are they all bad memories?” I asked. Surely there were some happy days in the girl’s short past.
She raised her face, meeting my gaze. “All bad.”
“I’m sorry about that, but I still need an answer.”
“That first year Mama sent me a card for my birthday and then another for Christmas.” It was exactly what Charlie had told me, almost verbatim. I waited for more, but in vain.
“That was all?”
Bambi nodded. “Just the two cards.”
“Do you still have them?” I asked.
“I kept them for the longest time, but a few years ago one of the other foster kids stole the box I kept my special things in.”
I felt the world shifting—had I heard correctly? “What?”
“One of the other kids took my box.” Bambi tried to smile but failed. “I thought for sure you knew about me by now. After Mama ran off, Daddy sent me into foster care. Didn’t anyone tell you?” she asked, the hurt in her face testimony to the truth of her words.
I was stunned. “I...I didn’t know.”
Bambi’s thin shoulders shrugged. “I aged out of care six months ago. I knocked around on my own for a little while but...well, you know.” She took a deep breath. “So I came back home. Gramps welcomed me, but my father...” Her voice trailed off, but she didn’t have to explain anything—I’d seen Charlie’s disinterest in his only child firsthand. “And now all this happened.”
“Do you remember any details about the cards?” I was going to explicate, but Bambi got my meaning.
“They were both mailed from Jacksonville. I remember checking on the library computer and seeing that Jacksonville wasn’t so far away. I kept hoping that Mama would come and get me—but she never did.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, but I was also sorry for myself. Although I still believed Charlie innocent of Harry’s murder, I’d begun to suspect that Charlie might have had a hand in his wife’s disappearance. I’d even gone so far as to consider that Rose Ware was buried at the Ridge, giving Charlie a strong motive to stop the dig at any cost. But if Bambi was telling the truth, Rose had left China Rose alive.
If only Ang would hurry and get back to me with the dirt on Rose—if she was alive, I had to talk to her.
“Are we good, Addie?” Bambi asked, her face so earnest that I wanted to cry.
“We’re good.”
As I watched Bambi walk away, I wondered if this girl fully comprehended how cruelly she’d been cheated—losing mother, then father. Which was worse? Her mother’s abandonment must have seemed like a thunderbolt of doom. But her father’s neglect and ultimate rejection must have been more painful—a lingering hurt, like a wound that wouldn’t heal. Shuffled from pillar to post, the young child had wondered—obsessed—why her father did not take her home. Maybe she still wondered.
I felt a sudden bolt of fear for the girl. Her thorny past conjured a dismal future. Was it possible for father and daughter to settle their differences and live on peaceably at China Rose? I didn’t think so—there was too much feeling on Bambi’s part and not enough on Charlie’s.
It didn’t bode well for either of them.
* * *
At the hospice I had a moment of irrational panic when I found Pop’s room empty. The bedclothes were twisted at the foot of the bed, a faint impression in the sheets where he had lain. Then a smiling volunteer stuck her head in the doorway.
“Stan’s in the TV room.”
“Of course.” I felt foolish. China Rose was getting to me.
“Oh, is that Jinks?” She stepped inside and extended an open hand. The pug sniffed cautiously but lost interest when he realized no food was involved. “Stan will be thrilled to see you, little guy,” she said in a voice usually directed at infants.
