affect our relationship.”
That senseless offer meant zero to him now—the affair was over. He went to the door and looked back at her. Still enticingly naked, her arms wrapped around her pulled up knees. He felt pity for her. He slowly closed the door and stood at the railing. Fresh air made it easier for him to think beyond the reality of her lying there so easily accessible.
He shouldn’t be seen there. He glanced around the balcony and down below at the pool area. Two maids talked at the foot of the stairs, and two other women were now poolside. He took the opposite direction down the back stairs to the parking lot. He held back and waited while an older couple packed the car next to his and pulled out.
This wasn’t how he had intended to spend his Saturday. Two hours ago, he was going to shop for a lamp, now he was behaving like a fugitive. He’d go along with it for a few hours. If he can’t find Tammy and Norma by three, then he’ll go to the police and then so long Loraine. He could hear the police saying
Chapter 4
Ray switched on the radio as he drove away from the motel. Nothing about a murder, at least not yet. Soon the media would be all over the story: sex gone awry and a revengeful hometown killing—hot story of the year. Police might already be looking for Loraine, maybe that’s why she left her house and went to the motel. When they find her, he knew he’d be next.
She had confessed a murder to him; he couldn’t just walk away as if it never happened. People saw him with her. Better to report it and explain everything before they came looking for him. What if they clear her because of self-defense, and he goes to jail as an accessory?
What he should do is stop worrying about her and drive straight to the police, but he gave her a three o’clock deadline. Waiting a couple of hours shouldn’t hurt. Find this Tammy and convince her to report the rape, then Loraine will have her justification for shooting Barner. That’s all he’s going to do, and then he’s out of it. Goodbye crazy Loraine, you’re only a one-night stand from hell.
He phoned the Tammy Jerrold number given by Loraine. No answer. Good, she had an answering machine. He left a message.
What’s next? Norma Martin was a waitress at the Jardin Cafe, so said Loraine. Maybe she can be Loraine’s excuse for dishing out instant justice at gunpoint. He remembered passing the Jardin Cafe in the sticks on the county’s far western edge. He headed there.
Ray drove from the motel across the Intracoastal Waterway Bridge to the mainland. He looked down at the waterway that divided island living and the mainland, from the Georgia line down to Key West. The waterway ran through the middle of Park Beach, leaving the barrier island and the mostly privileged on one side, and the less fortunate on the other. The Jardin Cafe was far out on the less fortunate side.
He drove west past the charming old section of town and through the unremarkable new neighborhoods on into the countryside. Once spread with shady citrus, the area was almost entirely cleared to make way for progress. He was west of town now, skirting the south county line, driving along a canal. Canals were frequent in this area. Not the picturesque winding boating canals that lead to the ocean from private docks positioned at the foot of vast sloping lawns behind great houses, as in Fort Lauderdale. Up here, they called the roadside drainage ditches canals. Designed to catch rain runoff but sometimes catching a vehicle that got too close to the soft shoulder on a Saturday night. People can drown driving home.
He found the Jardin Cafe sprawling back from the highway on a narrow and deep lot more valuable than the creaky wood structure sitting there. At one time, it was a tolerated boozing hangout named the Jungle Club for the dense woods nearby. The woods were gone now. There never had been a garden near the Jardin Cafe. There was a new roof and fresh paint however, mandated by the last hurricane.
The restaurant wasn’t open, sign said four o’clock. Ray drove around back where a worker was picking up trash around the dirt parking lot. He said of course he knows Norma Martin—she owns the place.
Ray’s phone buzzed, a text message, ‘im at ambasador arms 701 dont tell’.
Very good, he had left a message for Tammy and now he gets a text back. Seems she’s willing to talk.
The Jardin Cafe and Norma could wait. He hurried back into town, asked directions, and found the Ambassador Arms: seven floors of apartments converted to condominiums in an upscale, oak-tree-lined neighborhood. The imposing over-done architecture was now out of style, yet the charm was timeless and now priceless. Tammy must have something going for her to find refuge in this part of town.
The street door was unlocked and the inner lobby door locked as expected. He stood reading the Owner Directory, feeling conspicuous even though no one was in sight. This wasn’t the sort of building to wander around in, knocking on doors, and asking about some woman he had never met. The directory listed #701 to A. Towson. Ray pushed the button, heard the door buzz, and was in.
He stepped off the carpeted elevator onto the gleaming restored wood flooring of a wide hallway with mahogany paneled walls and costly framed mirrors. His first impression was of a renovated mansion. This was the top floor and he noticed just one other unit. Before he could knock, the door to 701 opened and facing him was an older man, tall with broad shoulders like a college athlete. Ray guessed that with the gray hair at the temples he was in his sixties. He wore jeans and a loose dress shirt with rolled up sleeves.
The man said, “I was expecting….”
“Sorry to interrupt your morning.” Ray stood there feeling stupid with no idea who the man was and no idea what to say next. He didn't dare to explain the situation and decided it wasn’t wise to mention Tammy’s name at this point. Perhaps she was inside.
The man’s face relaxed with recognition. “You’re that new guy in town. I was expecting a reporter, come in.”
Expecting a reporter? Perhaps about the rape or the murder? Ray’s mind raced trying to think of where they might have met.
“Let’s go in the kitchen. Still some coffee left. We’ve met remember? I’m Al Towson. Your name again?”
“Ray Reid. Coffee sounds good, thanks.” He followed the man across the living room with its high-coved ceiling, hardwood floors dotted with antique, oriental rugs, and heavy furniture pieces in glowing woods. He glanced around, taking in the elegance. He recognized one of the paintings on the wall, but couldn’t think of the artist’s name.
Towson ushered Ray on into a dining room adorned with splendid silk wallpaper with matching wainscoting and an ornate chandelier. Just before passing into the kitchen, Ray stopped when he noticed a large antique cupboard in the corner. Towson saw him pointing.
“Chinese porcelain,” Ray said with some excitement. “This entire cabinet is filled with Chinese porcelain.”
Towson’s eyes widened, pleased with the observation. “Well, I’m impressed. Yes, that is indeed genuine Export China, rare and expensive. Not one person in a hundred would know that.”
Towson opened the cabinet’s glass-paneled door, and took out a cup and saucer. He held out the lustrous blue and white cup and saucer. Ray folded his arms and stepped back, reluctant to touch them. Towson carried them into the huge kitchen. “The Chinese developed porcelain over two thousand years ago. These aren’t quite that old.” He smiled at his little joke, and set the cup and saucer on a kitchen counter.
Ray said, “No, not two thousand, but easily two or three hundred years old, and you have a cabinet full of them. I’m used to seeing such items behind glass in a museum.” As fascinated as Ray was by the unexpected porcelain find, unless Tammy was hiding in a back room, he was wasting time here. This man couldn’t help him. He had to politely go along and then soon leave.
Ray leaned closer to examine the cup and saucer. “I’ve studied some on seventeenth century history. He
