Death By Sunken Treasure (A Hayden Kent Mystery Book 2) (21 page)

Thirty-Four

Grant sat beside me on my sofa while I tried to think of some way, short of a face-to-face confrontation with Lisa, to find the truth. The only other person with information was Buddy and he was dead.

Grant rose and went for the brandy bottle. He poured us both a hefty measure. I took the drink from him and rolled the glass between my palms, letting the heat from my hands release the aroma. I sucked in a breath as a thought struck me. He quirked an eyebrow at me.

“You figured the mystery out? I wondered how long the puzzle would take you.”

“Did you call the Florida Bar? Every attorney names someone to take over his files.”

“Full marks, Hayden. I’m surprised you took this long to get the answer.”

The smile on Grant’s face told me he either swallowed the canary or had the answer, and I was going to like it. I tapped him lightly on the arm.

“Bad man. Who is his file closer?”

“No one. He hadn’t been in practice very long this time around. I guess he would have named someone eventually, especially as a sole practitioner, but he hadn’t done it by the time he died.”

I sifted through my knowledge base for an answer. The Florida Bar would appoint someone to notify clients. The glint in Grant’s eyes told me he was way ahead of me. And I don’t like being left in the dust.

“They appointed Rolly Demerest.”

“The guy Buddy rented space from.”

Grant nodded. He rolled the brandy snifter in his hand and said, “And he came back from vacation to handle it. Turned out Buddy only had a few clients. Lisa, Jake, and The Petard.” He allowed himself a satisfied smirk.

I needed time to think and headed for the kitchen. The look on Grant’s face told me he thought I could read between the lines, but all I saw when I tried were blank spaces.

Armed with a platter of cheese and crackers that I put on the coffee table, I resumed my seat next to Grant. The golden liquid in the brandy glass shimmered as I took a tentative sip. It burned a path down my throat as I turned the problem around. “Mike. He’s the missing link. Buddy never represented Mike, only Jake. So when Mike pulled The Petard away, he lost a third of his client base.”

The understanding didn’t open any doors in my head. I lay my head against Grant’s shoulder, intending to think of something brilliant to add. Instead, I fell asleep. Grant woke me by lifting my head away from his shoulder. Either the nap or the movement shook something loose in my thoughts. “Caridad.”

I jumped up from the couch and said the name again. Grant looked at me like I sprouted two heads. I knew I was on to something.

“Caridad said Jake and someone else, a well-dressed, handsome man, saw Mike sign the second will. Jake and the man took the envelope from her. Simple logic. Jake took the will to Buddy.”

“Or the well-dressed man was Buddy.”

That statement pulled me up short. It never crossed my mind that Buddy took the will and lied to me.

Grant picked up the phone and dialed a number. Rolly answered on the fourth ring. He told us he turned all of Buddy’s files over to the sheriff’s office.

I wasn’t sure whether to be crestfallen or elated. We couldn’t see the files, but the cops must have made the connection to ask for all of them.

Grant tapped the speaker button on the phone. He asked if the will file was one of the files turned over. Rolly answered yes. He qualified the statement by saying the file held only a copy of the will and a large white envelope. He turned that over first, before the cops asked for it. He figured it related to the investigation into Mike’s death.

“Take me off speaker, if you don’t mind.”

Grant complied, and turned the phone closer to his ear so I couldn’t hear.

Prickles of excitement chased themselves up and down my arms as I tried and failed to listen to the conversation. My curiosity threatened to kill me.

Grant downed his brandy in one gulp and went to pour himself another. When he came back, he asked me if I preferred wine.

“No. Just straight information. What did Rolly say?” My voice sounded two octaves higher than normal.

Grant sat down and rolled his snifter between his palms. I literally itched for details about the story. Before I asked again, Grant raised one hand. With the other he lifted the glass to his lips and swallowed deeply.

“Buddy left an envelope addressed to me, marked confidential.”

“To you?” That threw me. They’d never been the best of friends.

“Yes. Rolly found it under the blotter on Buddy’s desk after he turned over the files. He opened it and read it to me. Jake brought Buddy the will. Buddy submitted the will to probate because he didn’t know about a will signed in our office. He thought Mike marked up a draft, signed it, and let it go at that.” Grant shrugged. “Buddy got suspicious when we filed our will. Until then, he figured Mike got cold feet about cutting Lisa out.” Grant paused. His throat worked. “Lisa found a copy of the draft and read it. Buddy said Lisa told him Mike left it out on his desk and she saw it. He figured from what she told him that she found it the same day Mike signed both wills. When she learned about a second will from Jake, she wanted her piece. So she went to Buddy.” Grant put the brandy snifter down. “She told him Mike wasn’t the baby’s father, that Devon fathered her child.”

I almost choked on the cheese I’d just put in my mouth. “Devon.” I struggled to get the name out around my mouthful. “How did that happen?”

One look at Grant’s arched eyebrow told me he wasn’t going to answer my question.

“So Jake did kill Mike.”

Grant nearly spit out his brandy.

“How did you get there?”

I realized I hadn’t told him about my meeting with Jake. Too much happened too quickly at the same time. After I shared the story, I said, “It’s simple. Devon is Jake’s stepson. Devon wasn’t at the will signing. No motive, no opportunity.”

Grant picked up the brandy snifter from my hand and took the glass to the kitchen.

“Methinks you need some sleep and less brandy. Your theory makes no sense.”

I opened my mouth then shut it. Grant wanted proof.

I smiled weakly and nodded. The cherry red Jag no sooner pulled away than I pulled up Mallory’s number on my cell phone. I caught her driving home. She agreed to stop by. I waited for her on the back patio. A few minutes later, she came out to the patio holding a large glass of white wine in her hand.

“After today, I need this,” Mallory said, and sipped. “What’s going on?”

“I gotta tell you this. Mal, it has to stay between us.” I waited for her nod then related both Rolly’s tale and Grant’s take on it, adding my own theory about Jake.

“Wrong tree. I am not buying Jake as a murderer in this.”

“Well, who else fits?” I tried to beg her with my expression to agree. She wasn’t having any of it. That was the problem with dealing with professionals. You couldn’t sway them by begging.

“Jake attended the will signing. Lisa gave birth to an illegitimate child she passed off as Mike’s, but you think belonged to Devon. Then this Rutger character turns out to be a former SEAL and Lisa’s uncle. Add into the bargain that Mike’s win bankrupted Rutger, or near about, and Mike’s ex-wife flaunted her affair with him. Are we confused enough yet?” Mallory punctuated her statements by moving her wineglass through the air.

I grasped her point. If the situation were reversed, I would tell her to change her perspective and look at the puzzle again. So that’s what I did.

All the suspects had diving capability. Devon profited from the new will. So did Jake and Lisa. I discounted Dana. She got the insurance policy outside of the will. Rutger. I turned my knowledge of him over a few times, looking for loopholes. His diving skill and relationship with Kristin weren’t enough motives for murder. Kristin came to the Keys to embarrass Mike into giving her a share of the treasure. Rutger was only along for the ride. Legally, it was a long uphill battle to reopen a case after the appeals ran. He had a better chance of recovering his settlement payments with Mike alive.

Jake or Lisa? Logic dictated it had to be one of them.

My heart skipped a beat. It could be both of them. Each had motive, means, and opportunity. Together? An unbeatable death machine. Both saw the shine of doubloon gold and the shimmer of aged emeralds. Both felt like they had a right to the loot.

Entitlement coupled with greed. The perfect combination.

Rutger had a pinky ring with a shiny bright doubloon. But who else had a shadowbox of doubloons curving into a smile? Jake, Devon, Buddy, Mike, and…who? I knew in my gut that each doubloon represented a member of the treasure group.

Thirty-Five

Tuesday dawned hot and bright. Anywhere else, the sky would be winter blue. Here in the Keys, the blue bowl appeared carved from deep blue ice. My upbeat mood startled me as I threw back the covers and got out of bed. The air held a feeling of expectation. For the first time in nearly a month, I was at peace, certain today held something great. I crossed my fingers behind my back and spun left three times chanting, “Make it so. Make it so.” With every turn I hoped a little harder. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and laughed. Some childhood habits never die.

Tiger followed me to the kitchen. “Okay, little guy. Big treat for you.” I placed three different unopened cans of cat food down on the placemat that held his food and water dishes. He sniffed each one in turn and pawed lightly at the one on the far left.

I bent and picked the can up. My eyes squinted to tiny slits. “Ah, trout.” Reading glasses definitely waited in my near future. Even that thought failed to douse my high spirits.

I hummed a bright tune as I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes until the coffee pot turned on, enough time for a shower before the first sip. The aroma of fresh-made coffee filled the air as I pulled a pair of lightweight khaki trousers and a light blue polo-style shirt from my wardrobe. I had a dark jacket at the office. It would suffice if I needed to meet with a client. I stepped into a pair of high-heeled strappy sandals, retrieved my cell phone from the nightstand, and headed for the kitchen.

My phone beeped a message as I tip-tapped on the wood floors to the kitchen. I put the phone on the counter, grabbed the coffee pot, and slid my finger over the message alert while I poured a measure of coffee into my waiting travel mug. Dana. She wanted me to tell Grant she’d called her psychiatrist and was going back to the hospital for a few days. I texted back I would take care of telling Grant and I’d see her tonight. Her response hit my screen almost as soon as I hit send. She didn’t want to see me.

Puzzled at her reaction, I blew a careful breath over the opening of the travel mug and took a tentative sip. It was too hot to drink. I gathered up the rest of my gear, set the alarm, and locked the door.

The drive to work would have been glorious except for Dana’s message. My heart ached for her, but I was relieved that she was seeking help. Her decision to do so added to my feeling that things were looking up. I pulled into the office just in time to spot Grant leaving in his Jag. I tooted my horn and he stopped.

A frown crinkled the space between his brows. Much too serious for such a wonderful day.

“I was just going to call you.” He leaned both hands against the driver’s side window. “Mike’s ashes are back. I’m going to pick them up and talk to Dana.”

The sound of my good mood crumbling almost deafened me. I told him about the text.

The muscle in his jaw jumped a few times. My mind whirled through several different scenarios. Each one ended the same. Dana knew the ashes came back. The inevitable overwhelmed her, so she admitted herself for treatment. Grant’s body tensed as I explained my thoughts to him. He shook his head in response. “Park your car. We’re going to talk to Dana.”

I wasn’t sure if they’d allow her to keep her cell phone now that she was a voluntary guest or if the nurses’ station kept the device. I tapped out a quick message anyway, telling her Grant was on his way, leaving out why and the fact that I would be with him. The phone in my hand stayed silent.

The hospital lobby was much colder than outside. We left our driver’s licenses at the reception desk and took the elevator to the top floor psychiatric ward. I intended to stay in the waiting room lobby. A plump woman dressed in blue scrubs in the nurses’ station that jutted into the waiting room put both hands on her hips. She pulled her mouth into a firm line as she stared at a computer screen.

“Dana,” she said firmly, “does not want visitors.” She arched an eyebrow and watched me take a seat in the cold plastic chairs. “And her doctor agrees with her.”

Grant handed her a Power of Attorney and a Health Care Surrogate form. The nurse glanced at each page of the documents and pointed at a door. She came out from behind the glass-enclosed nurse’s station, walked to the door, punched in a code and stood aside for Grant to enter.

It seemed like hours, but it was only a few minutes later that the door opened and he emerged. We walked side by side to the elevator and the reception area where we retrieved our licenses. His straight spine and clenched fists made his feelings clear. He didn’t want me to intrude on his thoughts. A cauldron of swirling questions filled my mind. Without a word, he handed me an unsealed white envelope. I recognized Dana’s handwriting. He slanted a glance in my direction. “Open it.”

The envelope held one sheet. “I can’t do this any longer,” I read aloud. “The pain is too great. Please scatter his ashes on the treasure site. He gave his life for the treasure. No one can convince me otherwise.” Folded behind the letter was another envelope that held more documents. I frowned as I pulled a set of stapled papers out and pressed the creases to lay them flat. An ice chip lodged in my heart. The paper revealed the results of a DNA test. “Lisa wasn’t lying when she told Buddy that Mike wasn’t the father,” According to the first document, Mike had less than one-eighth of a percent chance of fathering the child. Subsequent pages followed for Devon and Jake. Each had low percentages of paternity. Did Lisa know Devon didn’t father her son? A bit of paper clung to the staple. “Was there another sheet?”

Grant shook his head. “Not that she gave me.”

I wondered whose name was on the last page, and how Dana collected the DNA. I glanced at the date. Dana received the report the day she took the overdose. Dana knew Mike was sterile, but she must have hoped for a miracle until she received the hard evidence.

I pulled my gaze from Grant, folded the sheets, slid them back into the envelope, and handed the little package to him, unable to imagine Dana’s pain. She nurtured and carried Mike for nine months in her body. Gave birth to him. Watched him grow. Kept him safe through the loss of her own husband. Loved him. Felt his pain at the accident. Then found his dead body. She wasn’t only saying goodbye to her child. She was saying goodbye to a part of herself. Now she knew with certainty that no part of her son remained.

“Who was she protecting?”

Grant brushed his fingertips along my cheek. “I don’t know.”

I grabbed his hand, pulled it to my lips, and kissed his palm. I glanced up to find the mortuary was in front of me.

The box was lighter than I expected, the top hinged for scattering. I carried the cremains reverently. I understood Dana entrusted us with a holy relic. Grant and I were taking Mike home to the sea.

We stopped at my house and I changed into a swimsuit and picked up my dive gear. Something inside me said Mike meant he wanted to be on the treasure site, not on top of the water. Grant agreed. We drove to the marina where he housed his boat.

Grant wasn’t ready for a dive this deep. I couldn’t dissuade him from his intention to join me, so I tapped a quick text to Janice and Mallory telling them where we were going.

One of the benefits of owning a boat is having a place to stow your gear and a spare set of trunks. While he went below to the head to change, I set up our tanks and made sure we both had a full air supply. Then I disassembled Grant’s gear. If I couldn’t stop him from doing this dive, I would use it as a teaching experience.

He rounded the Captain’s post and took his place behind the center console. I cut my eyes in the direction of his secured tank. His regulator, mask, fins, and buoyancy compensator lay next to the tank on the cushioned seat that lined the bow of the boat. His eyes snapped a warning at me. His darkened mood was almost tangible.

“You okay?” I asked, wondering if he was having second thoughts about diving with me.

“Yeah.” His clipped response increased my concern.

“I can do this alone. Or we can wait for Mallory or Janice to join us.”

He gave me a sharp glance. “I’m not worried about the dive. In fact, I’m more than ready for it.” His mouth pulled down into a frown. “I wish it was for another reason. Let’s get this done.” He jerked his chin in the direction of his disassembled gear.

I supervised while he put his gear together. He leaned in close to check the o-ring on the tank valve.

“This one has had it. Will you go below and get my o-rings? They should be in the zipper pocket of my dive bag.”

My fingers searched each part of the bag and found nothing. While I was below, I heard the unmistakable sound of one of the deck storage boxes opening. Curious, I poked my head out of the cabin. Grant has recently expressed a desire to buy some dive toys he wasn’t ready to use. I hoped he hadn’t decided to try one out now. I stubbed my toe as I hauled myself up the step and emerged from the cabin.

His expression reminded me of a child caught stealing cookies. Then his lips curled into an easy smile as he shoved something into the pocket of his dive vest. “I remembered I stowed my save a dive kit in the front storage. The o-ring is perfect now.”

I wanted to ask him what he shoved in his pocket, but decided it was none of my business. Instead, I watched him fit the regulator over the tank valve. I turned the air on and listened carefully. No hissing sound that would indicate a leak. He left the air valve turned to the on positon and picked up his regulator to check the airflow. The delicate mouthpiece dropped out of his grasp twice while checking his air supply. I considered forcing him to abort the dive, but decided his clumsiness was due to the stress of the past few days.

Gear assembled and checked, Grant started the boat and adjusted the throttles. I loved the luxury of his boat. The twenty-seven-foot Mako sported a head, shower, dual Mercury Varados motors, and a swim/dive platform. We’d rigged the boat for diving together when he bought it last year. I could live on the vessel. Until I got tired of the cramped spaces.

His long brown fingers punched in a GPS heading and we pulled out of the marina for the dive site. For the most part, we held our silence, each lost in our own thoughts. When his GPS indicated we’d arrived, he tossed out the anchor. The anchor line seemed to spool out forever. Finally, the rope stopped playing out. Grant yanked hard, then went to the console and worked the idling boat back and forth to set the anchor.

The muscle in his jaw jumped again. Behind his sunglasses, the lines around his eyes pulled taut. I went to the head to buy some time and give him a moment to deal with his thoughts. When I returned, he wore full gear with his tank on his back. I took his chin in my hands. “Let’s wait. Do this after Dana has a chance to think about whether she wants to take part. Wait until we can rally more people to honor Mike’s memory.”

He jerked his chin from my grasp. “Mike died alone. You believe one of those so-called friends killed him.” He turned to meet my gaze straight on, his expression resolute. “We owe this to Mike, and to Dana.” He grabbed the box that held Mike’s remains, stuffed it in a dry bag, went to the swim platform, and performed a perfect giant stride into the water.

Fear coursed through me. My gear was still secured into the gunnels of the boat, my wet suit alongside. When Grant didn’t come up immediately, I dove in headfirst without any gear. The instructor in me readied to free dive to his depth, dump his weight belt, and force him to surface with me. I spotted him a few feet below the surface near the bow, checking the anchor line again. If I could have, I would have sighed with relief. Instead, I bobbed to the surface and drew in a huge breath. His head broke the surface next to mine.

“You finally manage to grow gills?” He swam over. With his free hand he lifted my wet hair from my neck and ears and pretended to inspect me.

I slapped his hand. “Use your snorkel, not your tank. Where we’re going, air won’t last long.”

He nodded and bobbed along in the gentle rollers. I returned to the boat, dried off as best I could, and I pulled on an old pair of pantyhose, more runs than fabric. People laughed at me, but I’d learned the trick years ago. The nylon made the neoprene wetsuit glide up over my legs. I struggled mightily and broke out into a sweat getting my arms in the sticky fabric. I almost gave up fishing for the back zipper puller. Grant’s laugh rewarded me for the exaggerated show. Then I flipped myself over from the waist and the puller smacked over my shoulder. Arms raised and hands over my head, I pulled the zipper closed and checked the neck seal.

It took seconds to get my tank and the buoyancy compensation vest divers called a BC out of the keeper. I double-checked that my gas was on full. As usual, I filled my tank with nitrox so I would have longer bottom time; if we had to share air, it wouldn’t be an issue since I would control the depth of our dive.

I shrugged up the tank to settle the weight more comfortably, finished dressing, and walked to the swim platform. Grant possessed the uncanny ability to walk in fins. Said he learned the walk from Mike Nelson on
Sea Hunt
. I never acquired the skill, and I grabbed the engine cowling while I put my fins on and did my own giant stride. As the sea closed over me, I automatically checked my mask and weight belt and took two puffs from my regulator. Then I switched to my second and took two puffs from the mouthpiece before I bobbed to the surface, switched back to my main regulator, and hooked my second near the center of my chest.

The rollers picked up. The surge and surf had no effect on the crystalline visibility. I thought I spied the anchor ninety feet below. I knew that was wishful thinking. Instead I told Grant to use his snorkel and to follow me to the bow until it was time to dive. We would follow the anchor line as a guide on the way down.

The water displayed a gorgeous winter blue hue more aqua than navy. Once on the anchor line, I motioned for Grant to go ahead of me. Neither of us ever had any problem clearing our ears of the pressure that built as we swam deeper so we descended slowly and steadily. Once we passed sixty feet, the bubbles indicated Grant’s breathing changed. He used more air than usual, his exhales coming close together. I swam down to him and checked his air gauge. Just around three quarters, more than enough for a safe dive. My tank gauge read almost full. We got to the bottom. Grant’s fins kicked up a sandstorm in the deep water. I stopped momentarily and got my bearings. Off in the distance I spotted something sticking up out of the sand. The landmark indicated the remains of the ship.

I glanced at his air gauge. Still well within limits for a safe dive and a safety stop or two. I indicated we needed to swim for the wreck. He nodded his agreement. We both took compass headings. The sound of engines overhead caught my attention, and I stared up through the water column. We’d seen a lot of boats on the way over and made sure to put our dive flag up. No one was going to drop a trawling line on us.

Grant had some trouble with his buoyancy at this depth. Thinking it would help balance him, I took possession of the dry bag. We reached the remains of the wreck. As before, I spotted the unmistakable sheen of gold winking at me. I swam a few feet away and picked up a couple of the shiny objects then swam back to where Grant finned. I showed him a doubloon and put the coin in a BC pocket for him. My hand fanned out in a scattering motion. He nodded.

I unrolled, opened the mouth of the dry bag, and handed him the box. He pulled the hinged lid open and found a plastic bag inside filled with what appeared like grey dust. He tried to pull the bag open but couldn’t get a grip. I pointed to his dive knife. He cut a slit in the bag and proceeded to swim in a large circle around the remains of the wreck, scattering ash as he went. The sound of boat motors grew constant. Concerned, I glanced up, but we were too deep. Grant swam off deeper. He held the empty bag in his hand. I hurried to bring him back. I checked his air. His gauge read below half, and we faced at least two safety stops before surfacing.

Gently, I turned him towards the boat. He took a compass heading. I matched his action.

The instructor in me considered moving higher in the water column, but Grant indicated he wanted to stay close to the bottom. Deeper divers used more air. I scanned the numbers on at his air gauge again. The dial displayed sufficient air for the rest of the dive. My gauge hovered at the three quarter full mark. Matching my kicks to his, we followed the landmarks back to the anchor line.

We swam farther back than I remembered swimming out without finding any sign of the anchor. I checked my compass. The course was correct. I turned and glanced back at the remains of the wreck. I could still make it out. I gestured to Grant to get higher in the water column by moving to a shallower depth. I wanted to locate the bottom of our boat and try to catch the glisten of the anchor line. The engine sounds above us stopped.