29
The moon was up when Laura drove into Apalachicola. As she came off the curve of the Gorrie Street Bridge into town, she spotted the massive hotel she’d noticed on the way out. The Gibson Inn, blue clapboard with white trim, had wraparound galleries populated with Adirondack chairs. The inn looked like a riverboat all lit up and ready to steam away.
She parked out front and went in. Cigarette smoke lingered with the potted palms and plush Victorian furnishings of the lobby. A tabby cat lounged on the desk, partially covering the bell with her paunch. Laura stroked the cat and asked for a nonsmoking room. She paid with her own money. The woman at the desk led her upstairs to a nautical-themed room with wooden shutters and a king-sized bed.
For a moment she thought about Tom Lightfoot. Felt this overwhelming desire to have him here with her, a pair of lovers on vacation, having fun.
But this wasn’t a vacation. If the photographer, Jimmy, didn’t pan out, she’d go home empty-handed.
Unpacking didn’t take long—putting away her other suit, two sets of casual clothes, a small makeup case, toothbrush, pajamas. Her gun, her protective Kevlar vest, Jessica Parris’s murder book she had compiled so far.
Then she called Jimmy de Seroux. The phone rang ten times, no answering machine.
She had to make another phone call, which couldn’t be put off. She reached the dispatcher at Apalachicola PD and left a short message, asking for an appointment with the chief.
“Just come by tomorrow anytime,” said the dispatcher. She promised to pass on Laura’s message.
Laura did this as a courtesy, although she had mixed feelings about contacting them. Jimmy de Seroux could be a dead end. Still, she didn’t want word to get back that she had been asking questions around town.
Which it surely would. Laura had lots of experience with small towns.
After dinner in town, Laura took a glass of red wine from the bar out onto the porch. The air, which had been so heavy and hot during the day, was leavened by a breeze from Apalachicola Bay. She could smell the fecund richness of the bay, the sea life.
The waitress came out and asked her if she needed anything.
“Have you lived here long?”
“Grew up in Port St. Joe.”
“Do you know a man named Jimmy de Seroux?”
“Dot would know.” She nodded to the bar. “She’s the bartender.”
There were only a few people inside. The middle-aged woman wiping down the bar looked up and smiled.
“Jimmy? Of course I know him. What’s he up to? Haven’t seen him in a coon’s age.”
“I heard he’s a photographer and he lives somewhere around here.”
“I didn’t know that. Photographer, huh? Must be one of those multi-talented people.” She sighed. “Some people get all the talent. The rest of us have to work for a living.” She flicked a dishrag over the polished bar top.
Laura said, “He does something besides photography?”
Dot pointed at a autographed photo above the bar. “Jimmy used to play the piano here. Pretty good, too.”
Laura peered at the photograph. Hard to see in the dim light. She asked Dot if she would take it down, and Dot obliged, handing it to her.
Laura stared at the picture. She felt the skin of her scalp tighten.
She’d seen many photographs like it, mostly in bars: A black-and-white photo in a black frame, typical publicity shot. But this wasn’t any photo.
Looking into that face, Laura had a bad feeling—a visceral reaction rather than anything based on logic.
If she’d glanced at the photo on the wall in a dark bar, she wouldn’t have looked twice. The guy wasn’t attractive. He wasn’t even interesting. Just an average guy, mid-thirties, pale face and narrow mouth. The distance between nose and mouth was long and simian, like Homer Simpson. Wispy hair on the longish side, combed across a domed forehead. A white short-sleeved shirt that would have gone well with a pocket protector. He looked soft, almost effeminate—harmless.
He looked like a lot of people. The kind of person you’ve seen before, but couldn’t place.
But his eyes were dead.
Dot ducked back behind the bar and snapped down a business card on the bar. “I knew I had it somewhere,” she said triumphantly. “People are always leaving their cards with us.”
The card said “JIMMY DE SEROUX * Photographer * Musician * Piano Lessons * Piano Tuning.” An address, a phone number, and an e-mail address.
“He gives piano lessons to kids?”
“Oh yeah. My neighbor’s daughter studied with him for a while. I went to her recital. They had it at the Elks Hall.”
A pedophile who had access to children through his job. A man who could play a wedding or photograph one. A mild, unassuming little guy.
She looked at the eyes again. Dull. As if she were looking at them instead of into them, not even a pinpoint of light to show the way to his soul.
She had seen him somewhere. Maybe in one of the photographs she’d taken on Brewery Gulch near the crime scene.
“Is this address close to here?”
