Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island (15 page)

"We didn't. Whoever Charlie talked to said she was walking down
Benefit Street. We went over there and saw her just as she ducked into
the bar."

"What happened?"

"She went out the back door and we caught her just down the alley. Charlie put her in his car and took off. I had to hitch a ride back to the
Mango to get my car."

"Did you hurt her?"

"No. She scratched the shit out of Charlie's face, though."

Good for her, I thought.

"Did you get your hundred?" I asked.

"He said he'd give it to me the next time he saw me."

I put a round into the floor between his feet. The gun made a popping sound, not loud at all. I doubted anyone in this neighborhood was
likely to call the police because of a random gunshot. He jumped back,
yelling in surprise. "What the hell?"

"Oops. I missed," I said, taking aim again.

"Hold on, mister. I'm telling you the truth." His voice had taken on
a plaintive quality, begging, not the big man who chased a scared teenaged
girl down an alley.

"I believe you," I said. "I'm going to ask you some more questions
and if you lie to me I'll know it. I damn sure won't miss next time."

"Okay, okay."

"Who does Charlie work for?"

"I don't know his name. He's got a lot of money and lives out on
Blood Island. He owns a massage parlor here."

"Where is Blood Island?"

"Down in the Mule Keys. He owns the whole island."

"Tell me about his massage parlor."

"It's over off Simonton. Near the Key West Bight. It's called The
Heaven Can't Wait Spa."

"Crill, we never had this conversation. When I find Charlie, I'll know
if you told him I was looking for him. If you do, I'll find you and kill you.
Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes."

"Just forget about this evening and you'll have a longer life."

"I hear you. I never saw you."

I turned and walked out into the night.

I had to cross the island and then head west to reach Simonton Street.
Another two-mile trek. I started walking at a pace that would get me to my
destination in thirty minutes. I was sweating in the evening heat, but at
least I was wearing my walking shoes.

I was on Caroline Street approaching Simonton, when I noticed
three men standing on the corner. One was elderly, and he seemed to be
pleading with two young men, one black and the other white, who were
standing on either side of him. As I got closer, I saw that the white man was
one of the guys who backed up the thug with the pool cue at the Sharkstooth earlier that afternoon.

"What's going on?" I said.

"None of your business," said the black guy. "Move on."

The white guy stared at me for a moment. "Shit, that's the dude what
kicked the shit out of Big Rick today. He's got a gun."

They turned and ran. I looked more closely at the shaken victim. It
was Austin Dwyer, my seatmate on the bus from Marathon.

"Mr. Joyce," he said. "You're just in time."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, thank you. Another minute or two and I might not have been."

"Glad I could help." I turned to leave.

"Ben," Dwyer said. "I was on my way to the Seaport Boardwalk for
dinner. Will you join me?"

I looked at my watch. Nine o'clock. I hadn't eaten since Tampa
Airport. Dwyer seemed anxious over his encounter with the thugs, and I
decided to keep him company.

"Sure," I said. "I could use something."

Austin Dwyer was probably in his late seventies. He was a small man,
about five eight and couldn't have weighed more than one sixty. His ruddy
face reminded me of a happy leprechaun, a grin lighting up his features.
His head was covered in gray hair, and I could still see strands of the brown
that had been there in his youth. His accent was pure New England.

We walked the couple of blocks back to the boardwalk along the Key
West Bight, and took a table on the deck of the Turtle Kraals Bar and Grill.
Dwyer told me that he had been a history professor at a small college in
New Hampshire. When he retired, he moved to Key West, but when his
wife died, he moved back north, to Connecticut, to be closer to family. He
had taken the seniors' tour on a whim. It was sponsored by his alma mater,
the University of Rhode Island, and he thought it would be entertaining
as well as educational.

When our server came, I ordered conch chowder and blackened
grouper along with a Miller Lite. Dwyer asked for a salad and Chilean sea
bass.

"Did you ever hear of Blood Island?" I asked.

"Sure. It's down in the Mule Keys."

"Where is that?"

"Just a few miles west of here. They're part of the Key West National
Wildlife Refuge."

"Does anybody live there?"

"A couple of park rangers on Mule Key. That's about it."

"I heard that somebody lives on Blood Island."

"Maybe so. That's a private island that's not part of the refuge. I used
to fish out that way."

"What can you tell me about it?"

"Back in the Teddy Roosevelt administration the government decided that all the islands between here and the Dry Tortugas would be
part of a wildlife refuge. That includes the Marquesas Keys, which lie
between the Mule Keys and the Dry Tortugas. But, as often happens,
politics got involved. It seems that one of old Teddy's big financial supporters owned Blood Island on the western edge of the Mule Keys, out
past Boca Grande Key. It's about twelve miles from here, not far.

"A deal was struck, and the supporter was able to hold on to Blood Island. It's the only island west of here that's not part of the Refuge,"
Dwyer said.

"That's an odd name for an island."

"Like everything down here, there's a story attached to it. Do you
know about the Nuestra Senora de Atocha?"

"Sure. That's the Spanish treasure ship that Mel Fisher found."

"Right. But he wasn't the first to find it. She went down in a hurricane
in September of 1622, near the Marquesas. Of the two hundred sixty-five
passengers and crew aboard, only five survived, three crewmembers and
two black slaves. Another ship, the Santa Margarita, grounded on a sandbar about three miles away, and a large number of her crew and passengers
were rescued. The surviving fleet returned to Havana.

"A Spanish captain named Gaspar de Vargas found the Atocha within
about three weeks of her sinking. Unfortunately for de Vargas, another
hurricane hit in early October, and completely hid the wrecks of the Atocha
and the Santa Margarita. He spent months looking for them and finally
gave up.

"Four years later, a Spaniard named Melian found the Santa Margarita. He and his crew salvaged a great deal of its treasure and thought
they knew where the Atocha lay. They set up camp on one of the Marquesas and worked for four years on the salvage operation. They never found
the Atocha.

"Indians lived in the Marquesas in those days, and they sometimes
helped the Spaniards and sometimes fought them. A crew in one of the
small boats used in the salvage operation was blown east during a major
thunderstorm in the summer of 1627. They ended up on the eastern side
of what today is called Boca Grande Channel, and the sailors took shelter
on a small island.

"A few days later, a search party located the beached boat and went
ashore. They found the twelve men dead, their throats cut. They were
lying on the beach, and their blood had soaked into the sand. They called
the little island Isla de Sangre, Blood Island."

"That's quite a story."

"The Keys are full of grand and bloody stories," he said.

Over dinner, he regaled me with tales of bad men and good who had made the Keys what they are today. We finished our meal, and he thanked
me again for helping him out of a bad situation. He stood to leave. I told
him I'd stay for one more beer.

"Let me know if I can ever return the favor," he said, as we shook
hands. "I'll be here another couple of days. We head north the day after
tomorrow." He walked out the door with a group of people headed his
way.

I sat quietly for a while, thinking about my day. My fear for Laura was
escalating. I had to control that. I couldn't let my love for Laura and my fear
for her safety cloud my judgment. This was just another battle in another
war. I had to take charge of my emotions. I knew Laura wouldn't do anything foolish. She knew I was looking for Peggy. If she'd decided to take
steps on her own, she would have let me know. She would never have left
Jeff and Gwen alone and worried. Something bad had happened to her.
Maybe Peggy was the key to Laura. I grabbed desperately onto that
thought and banished the fear. For now.

I looked at my watch. It was nearing ten o'clock, and I still had to
check out the massage parlor. I needed to find out who lived on Blood
Island, and I thought I knew how to do that.

I walked back toward Old Town, and on a little side street off Simonton,
I found the Heaven Can't Wait Spa. It was housed in a Victorian mansion,
its white paint gleaming in the reflected glow from the nearby streetlights.
This was a more upscale part of town than where Crill lived, and the city
had provided illumination more fitting to its wealthy citizens.

I walked up the wide front steps to the veranda that ran the width of
the house. A porch swing hung from its chains attached to the ceiling. A
discreet sign was fastened to the wall next to the door that announced the
establishment's name and hours of operation. HEAVEN CAN'T WAIT SPA.
OPEN UNTIL. MIDNIGHT. Beneath the words was a logo of some sort, a
Greek cross encircled by flowers.

I looked at my watch. Almost eleven. I could hear traffic a half block
away on Simonton, not heavy this time of night, but steady. Cicadas
hummed in the shrubs on either side of the porch steps. Otherwise, there
was quiet. No noise escaped from the house.

I opened the door and stepped into a large foyer. The hardwood
floors gleamed with fresh wax. Expensive Oriental carpets broke up the
space. A wide curving stairway rose to the second floor. Off to my right I
could see through open double doors to what must have been the parlor
when rich people lived here. On my left was a formal dining room with a
crystal chandelier hanging low over a long table surrounded by chairs with
carved backs.

The foyer extended past the stairway into the back of the house.
There was a Queen Anne desk sitting on a large Oriental carpet next to the
stairs. A young blonde woman rose from behind the desk as I entered.

She was wearing a white gown of some light material. It covered her from neck to ankles. Her hair fell straight to her shoulders. She wore no
makeup that I could see. Eyes of deep blue. Her smile was perfect. A typical white bread girl from the Midwest.

"Can I help you?" she asked in an accent of the Deep South. Alabama maybe, or Georgia. Certainly not the Midwest.

"I was told I could get a massage here," I said.

She wrinkled her pretty nose at me, assessing my shoddy attire and
perhaps my less than optimal body odor. "Yes, but it's three hundred dollars for an hour," she said, her smile displaying less wattage than before.

I pulled three one hundred dollar bills from my pocket and lay them
on the desk. "Okay."

She smiled again, a little less dubiously, I thought, and pointed toward the parlor. "Have a seat in there," she said, "and someone will be
right with you."

"I've never been here before."

"I didn't think so."

"Is this the only place you have like this?"

"No, sir. We have branches all over the Southeast."

"What other cities?"

"Many of them. Please have a seat, sir," she said, pointing again to
the parlor.

I sat. I was tired. It had been a long day, and the beers I had drunk
over dinner were making me sleepy. My eyelids were drooping, and I
startled myself awake. It wouldn't do to crash here.

In a few minutes another young lady came into the parlor. She was
wearing the same gown as the receptionist, and looked so much like her
they could have been sisters.