Key West Heat

“The drink is on the house,” he said and took hold of her wrist before she could pull out her money.

His fingers were warm against the thin skin above her pulse. She felt that pulse quicken as if it might begin at any moment to pump visibly beneath his touch. She pulled her hand away from him before that self-betrayal could happen.

“I prefer to pay my own way,” she said, handing a bill to the waitress, who had watched this exchange with considerable interest.

“Suit yourself,” Maxwell said with a shrug.

“Say, you two, what’s all this sparring about anyway?” Jethro darted halfway up from his seat and yanked the chair opposite Taylor’s away from the table. “Why don’t you sit down and take a load off, Des?”

“What do you say, Ms. Bissett? Should I take a load off, as Jethro puts it, or take a walk?”

Taylor stared straight back at him. She forced herself to be just as cool as he was. “Suit yourself.”

“In that case, I accept your invitation, Jethro,” Maxwell said, sitting. “How’ve you been, anyway?”

“I’ve been super, Des.” Jethro looked bewildered, as if he might be surprised by Maxwell’s acknowledging him at all.

“And how’s Winona?”

“Oh, Ma’s always tip-top.”

“That’s when she isn’t over the top,” Maxwell said almost under his breath.

“Wait a minute,” Taylor interrupted at the sound of the less than common female name. “Is your mother Winona Starling?”

“She sure is,” Jethro said enthusiastically. “That’s who your aunt used to bring you to see when you were a kid, like I told you.”

“I remember that,” Maxwell said.

“Well, I don’t remember any of it.”

Taylor felt her annoyance deflate suddenly. Too many people seemed to know more about her life than she did. Meanwhile, Maxwell was watching her. He appeared more thoughtful than arrogant this time.

“What exactly do you remember?” he asked.

His green-eyed gaze had turned unexpectedly warm as honey, or at least it felt startlingly that way to her.

“I remember almost nothing,” she said.

“Loss of memory can come in handy sometimes.”

The warmth had vanished from his eyes and his voice, as if she might have imagined them there, like one of her visions. Taylor had been about to lower her barriers against him long enough to ask what he might know of her early childhood here in Key West. His renewed coolness put a stop to that.

“Are you accusing me of lying about what I do or do not remember?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I was only making an observation.”

“You really don’t remember anything about being a kid here?” Jethro chimed in.

Taylor didn’t answer him. The fascination in Jethro’s voice and the quizzical way he was looking at her made her feel like a specimen in a jar. Des Maxwell’s smart-aleck detachment had revived the urge to slap him, hard and fast, straight across his sneering face. Taylor wished she had stayed in her room at the guesthouse and taken a bubble bath as April Jane Cooney advised.

Taylor pushed her chair back from the table and stood. “I have to be going.”

Maxwell took a moment to let his smile appear, so slow and wide that she could tell it was insincere. “Don’t let me chase you away.”

Taylor picked up her purse instead of doing what she really wanted to do with her hand to his arrogant smirk.

“I never let anyone chase me anywhere,” she said.

Despite that declaration, Taylor walked fast to the open doorway and out into the street. “Calm down,” she said, then glanced around to see if anybody had noticed her talking to herself. Two young men in T-shirts with beer bottles in their hands turned from lounging against the building to look her up and down in impudent appraisal. She avoided their eyes and would have begun walking back toward Amelia Street, when a recollection of the shuffling bum and his sly laugh kept her riveted where she stood, uncertain for the moment what to do next.

Emotion burned her cheeks. She had kept herself in check through all that had happened these past weeks, so soon after the death of Aunt Netta, Taylor’s last real remaining family. Her sense of loss, the trip down here, her scare outside the guesthouse earlier this evening—each pressure had piled upon the others. She had been closer to her saturation point than she realized when she walked into Maxwell’s bar. Then she saw him, with his brazen attitude, as if he couldn’t care less about any of it. That was the last straw. Tears trembled on Taylor’s lashes. She didn’t want anybody to see her wipe them away or know how upset she was. She wouldn’t give Des Maxwell that satisfaction, even if he didn’t know about it. She willed the tears to dry where they stood and vowed there would be no more.

“Are you all right?”

Taylor whirled around. She half hoped to find Maxwell standing there, so she could deliver the slap she’d resisted giving him in the bar. Instead, it was Jethro Starling.

“You looked so upset when you left. I thought I should come after you.” He seemed pretty agitated himself, with his eyes wide open in a startled expression.

“Thanks,” Taylor said, after a deep breath.

“One reason Des gets to people is that they know they can’t get to him.”

Taylor was surprised to hear such a sober assessment from someone so high-strung he could hardly stand still on the pavement.

“I noticed that.”

“Look. Why don’t you let me give you a ride home? It’s late for you to be out here on your own.”

Taylor hesitated, and that made him fidget more than ever.

“I wouldn’t hurt you or anything like that. I could get you a cab if you don’t want to drive with me.”

Taylor glanced up and down the street. It was late. She didn’t see any taxis, but she could call one as Jethro said. She remembered the creepy guy in the pink cab from the airport, almost as scary as the shuffling bum had been. Her instincts told her Jethro was harmless. Besides, Aunt Netta had known his family.

“I’d like a ride, thank you,” she said.

“Great. My car’s right over there.” He pointed to a red Corvette at the opposite curb.

As they walked across the street, Taylor caught sight of a dark sedan parked farther down the block. She stopped short, but then she saw that the windshield was transparent, not black glass. She continued walking.

“Maxwell really did get to you, didn’t he?” Jethro said as he opened the car door for her.

She didn’t feel like explaining about the sedan. “Maybe,” she said. “Does he ever get to you?”

“As long as I’ve got my good luck going for me, nothing bothers me.”

Taylor couldn’t help smiling as he slammed her car door and hurried around to get in the driver’s side. She would have guessed that there was hardly anything that didn’t bother Jethro. He flipped the car into gear and made a U-turn in the middle of the block, causing a pickup truck to screech to a halt in the opposite lane. The truck honked noisily, and Jethro honked back before taking off southward on Duval Street.

“How did you know my guesthouse was in this direction?” Taylor asked.

“Guesthouse? I thought you’d be staying at your family’s place by the shore.”

“No. I have a room not far from here on Amelia Street.” Aunt Netta might have been able to live with the ghosts of Stormley, but Taylor wasn’t. “Your family must have known mine pretty well.”

“Just about everybody knows my mother.”

“That reminds me,” Taylor said, thinking of the question she’d had earlier, before her encounter with Des Maxwell knocked it out of her mind. “Exactly how old was I when you last saw me?”

“I’d say you were about six or seven.”

Taylor needed a moment to take that in. “I don’t see how that could be possible. I left Key West when I was three years old, and I haven’t been back since.”

“Oh, no. That’s not right. You were six or seven like I said. I remember you used to bring your library book with you sometimes. Three-year-olds don’t read library books. You were old enough to be in school last time I saw you.”

“Maybe you have me mixed up with somebody else,” Taylor said.

“It was you, all right. I wouldn’t get that mixed up. I had kind of a crush on you.” He smiled over at her. He looked embarrassed. “I used to watch you especially.”

Taylor didn’t feel entirely comfortable with Jethro’s infatuation story, whether or not he might be correct in his memory of her as the object of those affections. She was even less comfortable when he took a sudden right turn off Duval Street.

“Where are you going?” she asked. “I told you my guesthouse was off Duval.” She slid her hand onto the door handle and got ready for a fast escape.

“Amelia Street is one-way. I can’t turn onto it from Duval.”

“Oh, I see.”

Taylor relaxed some, but she kept her grip on the door handle. At the end of the block the headlights picked out white letters on a telephone pole. Vertically they read Whitehead Street. Jethro made another turn, to the left this time. It was definitely darker here, with far fewer people around than back on Duval. If Jethro Starling intended to do her harm, she was giving him every opportunity. She could hardly believe she had climbed into a car with a stranger, and a strange-acting stranger at that. She was about to make her move and shove open the door when the car slowed. The pole marker on the corner ahead said Amelia Street, and Jethro was signaling to make a left turn.

Taylor was about to breathe a sigh of relief when she heard sirens. A whirling light reflected in the sports car’s rearview mirror. She turned to see two police cars behind them. Jethro steered to the side of the road. The police cars sped past and around the corner onto Amelia and the block where she was staying. She was surprised by that. This had seemed like such a quiet street, not at all the kind of place she would expect screaming sirens.

Then, Taylor remembered the dark sedan and the certainty that it was stalking her down that same quiet block. A wave of apprehension swept over her even before she saw that the police had stopped in front of the Key Westian and were already headed toward the porch. Jethro turned the Corvette onto the same block and slowed to a stop near the corner.

“Which house are you staying at?” he asked.

Taylor didn’t answer right away.

She lowered the car window to get a clearer view. She didn’t like what she saw. Two policemen had stationed themselves on either side of the guest-house door, and their guns were drawn.

Chapter Three

Des turned out the headlights of his Jeep and coasted to a stop within sight of the scene. Following Jethro’s flashy car had been easy. Des hadn’t really decided to follow them. It just happened. She’d marched out of the place, twitching her hips in that white dress. Was she aware that he could see the outline of her body through the fine material? Had she planned to use her charms to get what she wanted out of him, whatever that might be? Then she saw him and lost control for some reason and went running off before she could put her plan in motion. Was that what happened all those years ago? Did she lose control back then too? That’s what everybody said at the time.

Des let out a deep sigh. For almost as long as he could remember, he’d been pushing the past as far out of his mind as he could get it, especially his memories of that night. The air heavy with smoke, the running, choking, eyes raw and red, his heart screaming with the pain of being left alone again. He had been the beachcomber boy. Desiree had been the lovely lady from the beautiful house who walked the beach alone. He made her laugh sometimes. She gave him a pair of jeans without holes in them and boots made of real leather. She had given him books, too, and helped him learn to read as well as the kids who didn’t have to cut school to do odd jobs for money to live on.

Most important, she taught him things about himself he never knew, such as that he was smart and had courage and could do anything he wanted if he put his mind to it. His Uncle Murph might have done those things himself after Des’s mother died when he was only a baby, but Uncle Murph was generally too drunk to do much of anything but mumble and pass out. Desiree taught Des there was another way to be. It was the most significant lesson of his life. But what had he done for her in return? What if she had known that in the end he would leave her in a burning house to die? He knew the answer. She would say, “Thank you for saving my baby,” with the smile that had always made his heart feel full.

Tonight Desiree’s baby had walked back into his life, and he was trying his best not to care. For the most part, Des had kept himself from caring much about anything after the night of the Stormley fire. Now, he could feel the forces of hurt and memory threatening that resolve, and Taylor Bissett was to blame. Why had she come back here, anyway? What was she after? Anger flared. Des gripped the steering wheel hard, as if to choke the life out of that rage so he could return to the safety of coolness again. He didn’t want any of this to be happening. He wanted to go back to the Beachcomber and joke with the customers and the barmaids as he did every other night. Old tragedies, a beautiful woman with a screwed-up past—he didn’t need any of it.

Unfortunately, at this moment he couldn’t seem to stop wondering whether he would ever get to see Taylor Bissett smile. He forced his temper back under control. His guess was that she wouldn’t be smiling right now. She was too far away for him to make out her face, but he was sure about that all the same. Des had seen the cop cars streak past the Corvette and careen around the corner. He’d pulled over to let them pass. When the ‘Vette turned down the same street as the police cars, he thought Jethro might just be rubbernecking, trying to get a peek at the excitement. He was fool enough to do something like that. Maybe she was a thrill-seeker too.

Des saw the car door open on the passenger side of the Corvette. The police were all out of the two cars now. Two officers were on the path leading to the porch, but off to the side, probably to remain out of range of the front door. Two other officers had assumed break-in positions flanking that door. Des returned his attention to the sports car. Taylor was getting out of her side as Jethro’s door flew open and he jumped out, too. He ran around to her side and appeared to be trying to prevent her from exiting the car.

Through the open window of the Jeep, Des heard the police on the porch shout that they were coming in. He heard the thud of the door being kicked open. Des remembered that his field glasses were in the glove compartment. He pulled them out and peered through the eyepiece. A few adjustments brought the front of the guesthouse into focus. He flashed past the police officers on the walk. Something caught his attention, and he flashed back. There was excitement here, all right. Those cops had pistols in their hands.

Des refocused the glasses to direct his gaze back down the street to the Corvette. Taylor was out of the car now and trying to get to the sidewalk, but Jethro was blocking her way. Her back was to Des. She had managed to move onto the sidewalk, and that put her near a streetlight. She turned to say something to Jethro, and Des saw her face. Her expression was intense. She seemed to be explaining something to Jethro or trying to convince him of something. Des was beginning to doubt that her interest in this situation was limited to idle curiosity over some exciting police action. She looked as if she might be more personally involved than that.

Des saw one of the policemen approach Jethro and Taylor. The magnifying lens showed the policeman talking to them, and her answering. The conversation continued for a few moments, during which she grew increasingly agitated. Jethro was merely listening to the exchange. One of the two cops who had entered the guesthouse came out on the porch and called the other officers to him.

Taylor watched the cop walk away. She had one hand clamped over her mouth, as if to hold back a scream or a sob. Jethro was looking very nervous. He moved toward her and gestured as if he might take her by the shoulders, perhaps to comfort her. Instead, he dropped his arms and began to drum his fingers against the sides of his thighs. Meanwhile, she had started walking slowly toward the guesthouse. Her back was toward Des again, but he could see the tension in her shoulders.

One of the officers had gone down the walk at the side of the guesthouse toward the back of the building. The other officer stationed outside had returned to his patrol car and was speaking into the two-way radio. She climbed the steps, getting close enough to look through the front door into the foyer before one of the policemen from inside came out and backed her off. Des thought he saw her stagger against the cop, but the glasses still didn’t give a good view of her face.

The policeman moved her away from the door and let her sit down on the top step. She put her head in her hands, and could have been crying. Des couldn’t tell. Jethro had kept his distance. Now the policeman beckoned him toward the porch. Jethro hesitated, then shrugged and trudged forward. Des stayed out of sight in the Jeep, despite his sudden impulse to help Taylor. He’d given in to that same impulse twenty-some years ago and lived to regret it. Besides, he wasn’t quite ready to become part of the scene he’d been watching through his field glasses, especially not before he knew exactly what was going on.

He continued watching. Eventually, an ambulance arrived, then the medical examiner’s car. A while later, a stretcher was carried out of the house. The figure on the stretcher was encased in a black bag, completely covered from head to toe.

Des sighed and lowered the field glasses to the passenger seat of the Jeep. “What is it about you, Taylor Bissett?” he asked out loud. “Whenever you’re around, people have a habit of dying.”

* * *

APRIL JANE COONEY had been robbed and murdered. According to one of the uniformed officers who knew her, she never kept much currency in the cashbox. She was too savvy for that. Her assailant had taken whatever little there was, anyway. The metal box had been pried open and left near the body. April Jane must have put up a fight. What was left of the lamp from the registration desk lay in pieces on the floor near the opposite wall. The lamp’s base was shattered, as if it had been thrown very hard. A small dent at about head height on the white wall supported that theory.

One of the policemen had taken Taylor into a sitting room off the guest-house entryway. He had left the lace-curtained double glass doors ajar, so she could hear them discussing what might have happened to April Jane. Taylor heard the words and even put them together into sentences in her mind. Still, they weren’t entirely understandable to her. She guessed that she wasn’t letting herself fully comprehend what she was hearing, because then she would have to believe it. She would have to absorb the very scary fact that a woman she had spoken with less than two hours ago was now on her way to the city morgue, the victim of a senseless, violent crime.

What if Taylor had been here when the thief came in? She felt guilty thinking such a self-centered thought, but she couldn’t help it. What if her uneasiness about walking the trellis path behind the guesthouse had actually been some instinct telling her there was a would-be murderer lurking in the shrubbery? She shuddered at the thought and wished someone would turn off the ceiling fan. The sitting room had turned suddenly chilly.

Taylor had overheard the police saying there was only one guest in the house when the attack happened, an older man on the third floor in the back. He had stayed in tonight and taken a pill to help him sleep off a sunburn. He hadn’t heard a thing. The other guests were out on the town, like most Key West tourists at this time of night. Consequently, there were no witnesses. A neighbor across the street had heard glass shattering and saw the vestibule light go out suddenly. She didn’t see anybody run out of the house, but she suspected something might be wrong and called the police. By the time they arrived, April Jane was dead. Her killer had fled, probably out the back way. The police had already begun canvassing the neighborhood, both on Amelia Street and one block north on Virginia Street, to find out if anyone had seen anything.

Taylor had heard Jethro’s voice out in the entryway shortly after the policeman brought her into this room. Her knees had gone weak, and she had asked to sit down. She couldn’t make out what Jethro was saying. Then she didn’t hear him anymore. Next, she heard a policeman talking to a guest who had returned to the Key Westian and was demanding to know what had happened here. The policeman said that everyone would have to be questioned. He added that the guest-house residents would not be allowed to sleep here tonight because it was a major crime scene and had to be sealed off to all but official visitors.

Taylor was suddenly very tired. A series of adrenaline charges had kept her nerves tingling, through her arrival on this exotic island, her near escape from being run down and her unsettling encounter with Des Maxwell. This most recent jolt—the discovery of a dead body in her hotel—had sapped her final reserves of even that nervous energy. Now, all she wanted was to sleep. The police weren’t about to let her go to her room and lie down there. They might think it bizarre of her to curl up here on this settee, but she was too tired to care much what they thought. She was almost too tired to care where in the devil she might sleep tonight.

“Miss Bissett is a personal acquaintance of mine, and I would like to talk with her.”

The voice from the entryway had obviously been raised for emphasis. That was why Taylor could hear the words so clearly. But it wasn’t the loudness or even the demanding tone, that cut through her head-nodding stupor and snapped her to full attention. She had met very few people on Key West in her few hours here. Yet, she was certain she knew the owner of that deep, resonating voice. One glance at the opening between the double doors confirmed this certainty.

Taylor had no idea why Des Maxwell was here. Nonetheless, the sight of his brown, muscled arm flexing impatiently as he backed the policeman gradually toward the half-open doorway, told Taylor that she was no longer stranded and alone. A wave of relief swept over her, as deep as it was probably irrational. Taylor reminded herself that Des Maxwell was not a likely candidate for friend in need where she was concerned. Still, he was a familiar face in what felt at the moment like very alien territory. She couldn’t help being grateful to him for that.

There was something else about that face besides familiarity, something that struck her with a blow that took her breath away. It had happened when she had first laid eyes on him earlier in the Beachcomber barroom. It happened again now, with even greater force because he didn’t know she was looking at him and she didn’t have to be so careful to hide her reaction. She tried to tell herself she was only tired, otherwise his handsomeness wouldn’t have this effect on her. Still, she couldn’t keep the thought from crossing her mind that the word “manly” had been invented with someone like Des Maxwell in mind. Meanwhile, Des and the officer had walked out of the foyer and through the lace-curtained doors into the sitting room. The two of them appeared to know each other.

“Come on, Tony,” Des was saying. “What do you think I’m going to do? Abscond with your prisoner?”

“She’s not in custody, Des, and you know it. We’re just keeping her here to talk to Detective Santos. He’s on his way.”

“Does he have to talk to her tonight? Can’t it wait till the morning?”

“She may have been the last one to see April Jane alive. Santos will want to question her about that.” Tony glanced over at Taylor on the settee. “There’s something else too,” he added, barely loud enough for her to hear.