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  "I know Rollie," Zimmer said as he made a note of the name. "Seems like a pretty good guy."

  "Yeah, I thought so, too."

  Zimmer frowned slightly at me. "Even though he had trouble with one of your clients?"

  "Just because they're my clients, Detective, doesn't mean they're automatically right about everything. Walter's attitude rubbed Rollie the wrong way. I can't say that I blame him for that."

  "Okay. Anything else you need to tell me, Ms. Dickinson?"

  I thought back for a moment and said, "Last night at Sloppy Joe's, Walter was talking to a man named Clint Drake."

  That got Zimmer's interest, all right. "Drake," he repeated, obviously familiar with the name. "What in the world did the two of them have to do with each other?"

  "You'd have to ask Mr. Drake," I said. "I got the impression that Walter tried to charter Mr. Drake's boat, but Mr. Drake didn't want the job."

  "Why would Harvick try to charter a boat? Why didn't he arrange that through you?"

  I could only shake my head and say, "I don't have any idea. I actually do have a boat chartered for tomorrow. Some of my clients are going out deep-sea fishing. Walter didn't seem to have any interest in going along on that trip."

  "What boat?" Zimmer asked, but he just sounded curious this time, less like a police detective.

  "The Lightning Bolt."

  He nodded. "Eddie Garcia's boat. I know it."

  I was starting to get the impression that he knew everybody on Key West, all the locals, anyway. Which wouldn't be that surprising. It's a small island, after all, and many of the Conch families have been there for a long time.

  “How about the Mary Lou?” I asked out of curiosity to see if he knew that one.

  “Sure. Jimmy Malone’s the skipper. Why do you ask?”

  “One of my clients chartered it yesterday to go fishing.”

  From the direction of the main house, an older, rawboned man came along the path toward us carrying a black bag. Zimmer half-turned and pointed.

  "The body's out there, Doctor."

  "Thanks," the doctor said. "I probably would have completely overlooked a bloody, headless body lying in the middle of the beach."

  Zimmer smiled and shook his head a little as the man went on past us.

  "The medical examiner?" I asked.

  "That's right. His sarcasm is sharper than his scalpel." Zimmer turned his attention back to me. "What else can you tell me about Walter Harvick? Where's he from? Do you have any next-of-kin info for him?"

  "There should be an emergency contact listed on the paperwork he filled out for my agency, and that'll have his home address on it, too. All that information is back at my office, but I can get it. My daughter runs the office, and all I'd have to do is call her or email her."

  Zimmer took a card from his pocket and held it out to me. "Could you have her just email the form to me at that address?"

  "I could," I said as I took the card from him, "but there are privacy issues, Detective. Shouldn't you have a warrant or a court order for that sort of information?"

  "Technically, I suppose so, but since you seemed willing to cooperate . . ."

  "Oh, I am," I said quickly. "But I think I should talk to my lawyer before I turn over any information Mr. Harvick gave me."

  That answer didn't seem to bother him. He said, "Fine, we probably won't need copies of all that paperwork anyway. We should contact his next of kin as soon as possible, though."

  "I can get that for you," I said.

  "Is there anything else you can tell me about Walter Harvick?"

  I thought about it and shook my head. "Nope. That's it."

  "But it was a lot more than what you claimed you could tell me at first, wasn't it?"

  I didn't have to answer that because the medical examiner came back then. He said, "When can I have the body, Charles?"

  "Any time, Doc," Zimmer replied. "We've already photographed the scene and searched it. Nothing to find, really, beyond the obvious."

  "Yes, that's usually the case, isn't it, when a man blows his head off? There's no doubt about the cause of death, but I'll do a post-mortem anyway." The doctor shook his head and added in a tone of disgust, "Hemingway."

  As he plodded off, I asked Zimmer, "What did he mean by that?"

  "This isn't the first case of suicide by shotgun we've seen," Zimmer said. "It's not that common or anything, but every so often someone obsessed with Hemingway decides to come down here and kill himself."

  "After all this time? That was more than fifty years ago, and it didn't even happen here."

  "I know. Some people are nuts for certain writers, though, and Hemingway makes it easy. The fans can go to Spain and go to the bullfights or run with the bulls in Pamplona, or they can go to Africa and hunt big game, or they can go out on the ocean and try to hook a big fish. I guess when they've done all that . . . what else is left except putting the barrels of a shotgun in their mouth?"

  I didn't have an answer for him. I was still trying not to be sick as I glanced at the beach and saw the ambulance crew zipping something ugly into that body bag.

  Chapter 12

  Detective Zimmer told me I could go back up to the main house. "You're not leaving town until the day after tomorrow, though, right?" he asked.

  "That's right," I said.

  He nodded. "Maybe we won't need you any more by then."

  What he meant was that maybe by then they would have an official determination that Walter Harvick had committed suicide and there was no reason to conduct any further investigation. Tragic though it might be, that was the outcome I was hoping for.

  As I walked through the palm trees, I took the phone from my pocket and thumbed the speed-dial for Melissa's phone. A moment later I heard my daughter's sleepy voice saying, "Mom? What's wrong?"

  "How do you know something's wrong?" I asked her.

  "Well, it's awfully early in the morning. Not quite seven o'clock yet."

  "I'm sorry I woke you."

  "No, no, that's fine," Melissa said. "What is it?"

  "I need you to access the office computer, get an emergency contact number for one of our clients, and email it to my phone." She could do all that without leaving the apartment she shared with Luke.

  "Oh, no," she said. "Somebody's had an accident, haven't they?"

  "You could say that." But it wouldn't really be true, I thought. What had happened wasn't really an accident. "It looks like one of the members of the group has killed himself."

  "No." Melissa's voice was hushed with horror. "Who would do such a thing?"

  She hadn't met any of these clients, so the name wouldn't really mean anything to her, but she'd need it to get his emergency contact number. "Walter Harvick," I told her.

  "I remember the name. I'll look up that information and get it to you right away, Mom. Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," I told her. Shaken up, no doubt about that, but I was holding it together, I thought.

  "You're sure it was suicide? Mr. Harvick wasn't . . ."

  She didn't say it, so I did. "Murdered? There's no indication of that, as far as I know."

  "Well, that's good, anyway, no matter how terrible the rest of it is. I just thought . . ."

  Again she couldn’t finish her sentence. I said, "I know what you thought, honey. The same thing occurred to me. But I'm keepin' my fingers crossed that's not the way it turns out this time. We ought to know later today, or maybe tomorrow."

  "All right. I'll send that information to you as soon as I can."

  "Thanks," I told her.

  "How's Luke?" she asked before I could break the connection.

  The last time I'd seen him, he was hungover and green around the gills from chucking up at the sight of Walter's corpse. But I didn't see any point in telling Melissa about that, so I just said, "He's fine." He could always give her more of the details later on if he wanted to.

  "All right. Let me know if you need anything else."

  I t
old her I would, then said goodbye and ended the call. I had reached the main house. Luke and Tom were waiting on the verandah.

  "Did Charles finish his interrogation?" Tom asked. "He must have, or you wouldn't be here."

  "You and Detective Zimmer know each other?"

  "Of course. Key West is actually a pretty small place," he added, echoing the same thought I'd had earlier.

  "Yeah, he finished asking his questions, and the medical examiner came and took the body. I suppose he'll want to talk to the two of you. Detective Zimmer, I mean."

  "I'll help him any way I can," Tom said, "but I don't know much of anything. Those two ladies who found the body came in really upset. There was already a clerk on duty at the desk, and she came to get me. I hurried down to the beach, had a quick look, and came back up here long enough to tell Luke to find you. Then I headed back down there in case the cops needed me."

  "And I know even less," Luke said.

  I said, "Well, if it turns out to be suicide the way it looks, it won't take long to close the case. Maybe we'll be able to salvage some of the rest of the tour . . . if anybody's still in the mood for it."

  "What else could it be except suicide?" Tom asked. "When you stick a gun in your mouth and pull the trigger, that's pretty much a foregone conclusion."

  "Yeah," I agreed. Given my history, I was still nervous about the whole deal, though.

  I wondered if Detective Zimmer would be curious enough to check into my background and find out that I'd been involved in several murders. Maybe if he did, he would dig deep enough to discover that I was the one who had solved those murders, too.

  My phone chimed in my pocket. I took it out and saw that Melissa had sent me the information I'd asked for. The email contained a name, Alice Samuels, and a telephone number. I wondered who Alice Samuels was. Probably either Walter's mother or sister, I decided.

  While I had the phone out, Detective Zimmer walked up to the verandah. I turned toward him and said, "I've got that name and phone number for you, Detective."

  "Thanks." He took out his notebook and wrote down the information. "Do you know how this person is related to Mr. Harvick?"

  "No idea." I shared my speculation that Alice Samuels might be Walter's mother or sister.

  "Well, I suppose I'll get the job of finding out." Zimmer didn't sound happy about that, and I didn't blame him for feeling that way. Having to notify somebody of a loved one's death had to be a terrible thing to do. Zimmer went on, "I need to ask you a few questions, Tom."

  "Sure. I'm glad to help, you know that."

  Zimmer looked at Luke and me. "The two of you can go. But I'd appreciate it if you'd stay here at the resort until I let you know otherwise."

  "So my group's scheduled activities are cancelled for the day?" I asked.

  "Let's just say they're on hold. It's early yet. We might be able to wrap things up in time for you and your people to go on about your business."

  That was the best I could do for the moment, so I nodded and said, "All right, thanks."

  Luke and I went into the building, leaving Tom and Zimmer on the verandah. I said, "I want to talk to Mrs. Horton and Mrs. Dunn. They must be really upset."

  "Are you sure that detective would want you to do that?" Luke asked with a frown. "They found the body, and he hasn't questioned them yet."

  "He didn't tell me not to," I said. "So he can't get upset with me if I do."

  Luke looked like he wasn't so sure about that, but he didn't object again. We climbed the stairs and went to the room the two ladies were sharing.

  Doris Horton answered my quiet knock. I expected her eyes to be red and puffy from crying, but she looked as calm and composed as could be. She said, "Ms. Dickinson. I suppose you've heard the news."

  "That's right," I told her. "How are you and Mrs. Dunn holding up?"

  Julia came up to look over Doris's shoulder. She was several inches taller than her friend, so that wasn't any trouble. She said, "We're fine," and looked like she meant it. Like Doris, she didn't appear to have been crying, either.

  I began, "I just want you to know that if there's anything I can do – "

  "Don't worry, we're all right," Doris said. "Of course we were upset when it happened, when we saw poor Mr. Harvick lying there – "

  "It was Mr. Harvick, wasn't it?" Julia interrupted.

  I nodded and said, "I'm afraid so."

  "We knew the authorities needed to be notified as soon as possible," Doris went on, "so we hurried right back. But if you thought that seeing him like that would throw us into a tizzy, well, you don't need to worry, Ms. Dickinson. We've seen dead bodies before."

  "Sometimes in worse shape than that one," Julia added.

  "You have?" Luke burst out. He sounded amazed.

  "Oh, yes, certainly," Doris said. "We didn't tell you what our late husbands did for a living, did we?"

  I could only shake my head and wonder if the late Mr. Horton and the late Mr. Dunn had been Mafia assassins or something. I'd heard that a lot of mob people retired to Florida just like everybody else.

  "They were funeral directors," Doris said.

  "Morticians," Julia said.

  "They were partners, and since we both worked in the business, too, death was an everyday affair for us."

  "Death gave us all a good living, they used to say."

  "Funeral director humor."

  I had to suppress the impulse to cringe. I didn't want them to see how I really reacted to their comments. So instead I said, "The police are here investigating. I'm sure the detective in charge of the case will want to talk to you."

  "We've dealt with the police before," Julia said.

  I was glad they had explained about their husbands' business, or else that comment really would've made me suspicious. As it was, I nodded and said, "All right. If I can help you in any way . . ."

  "We'll let you know, dear," Doris promised.

  She shut the door, and Luke and I didn't say anything as we went back down the hall. When we were well out of earshot, Luke said, "Is it just me, Miz D, or do those two little old ladies seem really creepy now?"

  "It's not just you," I told him.

  A door opened ahead of us, and crew-cut Phil Thompson came out of the room where he and his wife Sheila were staying. I was a little surprised to see him. With everything that was going on I hadn't really given the matter any conscious thought, but I suppose I'd assumed he was already out on his fishing charter. Most of them left early, before sunrise.

  Phil smiled and nodded at us. "Good morning, Ms. Dickinson, Mr. Edwards. You ready to herd the rest of the group around the island again today?"

  "There may be a change in plans," I said.

  "Oh?" He frowned. "You're not going on with the tour?"

  I dodged that question for the moment and said, "I thought you were fishing again today."

  "I am. The boat doesn't leave until nine o'clock, though. We're not going as far today, only over to the Dry Tortugas."

  I was familiar with that group of islands seventy miles west of here, although I had never been there. A huge, never really completed fort dating back to before the Civil War stood on one of them. Fort Jefferson was a national monument, partially because it was the southernmost military post on American soil, or at least it had been until it was abandoned in 1874, and partially because Dr. Samuel Mudd, one of the men who'd been convicted of conspiring to assassinate Abraham Lincoln, had been imprisoned there for several years before he was pardoned. The fishing was also supposed to be good around the Dry Tortugas. Hemingway and his Key West friends had gone there frequently to fish, I recalled.

  "I'm not sure you'll be able to go," I told Phil Thompson.

  His frown deepened. "What? I have to."

  "There's been some trouble," I told him with a shake of my head. "The police are here – "

  "The police!"

  I swear, for a second a look flashed through his eyes that made me think he was going to cut and run for some rea
son. But then he calmed down and went on, "What's wrong?"

  "It looks like Walter Harvick committed suicide down on the beach sometime last night."

  "Oh." Phil looked and sounded relieved, but he added quickly, "That's terrible. The poor guy. I don't know why anybody would ever want to do that."

  "Me, either," I agreed.

  "Did the cops find a note or something?"

  As far as I knew, the police hadn't even searched Walter's room yet. If there was a suicide note there, it would certainly simplify matters, I thought.

  "I don't know," I told Phil. "We'll just have to wait and see what happens. The detective doesn't want any of us to leave right now."

  "Well, that's just – " He stopped and shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound unsympathetic, but I didn't really know the guy, and I've been waiting for a year to get back down here and do some real fishing. You can understand why I'm disappointed."

  "Sure," I said, trying to sound sympathetic myself. "Maybe things will be cleared up in time for you to make your trip."

  "I hope so. Guess I'd better go let Sheila know what's going on. Looks like she may be stuck having me around today." He turned toward the door of his room, then stopped. "It's all right with the cops if I tell her, isn't it?"

  "As far as I know. I don't think they're gonna be able to keep it a secret."

  "Not hardly."

  When Phil was back in his room, Luke said caustically, "Poor guy. Might have to miss his fishing trip."

  "Don't be too hard on him. Like he said, he didn't really know Walter."

  But somebody else did, and there was something I was really starting to wonder about, even worry about.

  Where was Ronnie Scanlon?

  Chapter 13

  I had told Detective Zimmer about the little romance going on between Walter and Ronnie, but I hadn't mentioned the fact that Ronnie had been with Walter the last time I saw him. Nor had Zimmer asked about that, probably because despite those detective instincts he had claimed, he wasn't really taking this case seriously as a possible murder. How could he, given the circumstances?