“What boys are you talking about?” I tried not to sound too urgent. “Bo and Jace?”
She took a dainty sip of her sherry and savored it before she nodded her head.
“She was disgusted with both and that young girl. She didn’t like Mr. Jace and Miss Julie moving into her home. The daddy ignored the girl, and she spent too much time with Mr. Bo,” said Miss Bonnie.
After another sip, she said, “I’m thinking my Sue uncovered something, and the burden was too much for her to bear.”
“What kind of something, Miss Bonnie?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “My baby tried to love on the girl, but she wouldn’t have none of it. Not healthy having a young girl running around the house dressed like they do now days.”
“Ever see Mr. Hines do anything inappropriate?”
She shook her head. “I don’t spend that much time in their house anymore. Mostly my Sue would stop by here every now and then.”
“What do you know about Celeste Daniel?” I asked.
“White girl that died when them boys were in high school?”
It was my turn to nod.
“Oh. That was a bad time. Jace went off to live with some relative for the summer before he started college. Bo went to Europe with his grandparents. Germany, France, Spain, and other places I can’t remember. Nobody ever wanted to talk about the Daniels girl.”
Miss Bonnie finished her sherry. “It’s time for me to sleep. The keys are by the back door. Don’t race the engine. My fool nephew did that and flooded it. It’s an old girl too, you know.”
And with that, Miss Bonnie shut her eyes. I’d been dismissed.
When I got to O’Riley’s Pub, Navy and Marine pilots packed the place, attracting an assortment of women trying to attract their attention. Half a dozen or so University of West Florida coeds were celebrating a friend’s acceptance into graduate school. Their designated driver, a freshman in their sorority, sipped a coke through a straw. Two Marines were begging them to try Fireball shots.
A few older women, most likely nurses from nearby West Florida Hospital, were dressed in jeans and tight tops and drank bourbon and cokes at the bar. They toasted their babysitters and shouted to the Marines that they liked Fireballs.
It was karaoke night and a DJ was passing out black binders to the tables. I already knew what to expect. Most of the guys would pick country songs because they could kind of talk their way through them. I knew I would hear Garth Brooks’ “The Dance” at least seven times in the next two hours if I hung around the place. The women would choose Pink or Miranda Lambert. When they got really drunk, it would be “Wild Thang.”
I ordered a Bud Light to be sociable, kept an eye on the door, and fought off the urge to drive my pen through my eardrums. While nursing my beer and listening to a sailor do Johnny Cash’s “I Walked the Line,” a text came across my phone: “This is Pandora. Come out to the parking lot.”
She must have been spooked. Either that or she hated Garth Brooks. When I walked out, a set of car lights flashed near the edge of the parking lot. I saw her silhouette in the front seat. This was getting a little ridiculous, I thought as I headed her way.
My cell vibrated again. This time Jim Harden texted, “Childs found dead this morning in Tenn. Condo owned by Hines.”
I felt a thud on my skull. As I passed out, I thought, There went my stitches.
32
Slap. “Wake up.”
Slap. “Wake up.”
Slap.
A male voice crept into my head, vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t focus enough to connect a name to it. Each hit was a little harder. Trying to will my eyes open, I braced myself for the big one. He didn’t disappoint me.
Shaking my head, I opened my eyes to find Jace Wittman looming over me, all sixty-six inches. He didn’t put his weight behind the slaps, thank God. To him, they were light taps, but my head begged to differ. I caught a whiff of diesel fuel. The room swayed as it came into focus. I was on a boat.
Ropes bound me to a metal chair in the middle of a cabin on Hines’ Sea Ray Sundancer 400, on which we had celebrated his Patron of Florida Culture award six months earlier. My chest, arms, and legs were strapped tightly. My ribs screamed for relief. I couldn’t clear my head.
A small female form sat on a white row of cushions to my left near the glass door that opened to the stern. By her sat a man with a tall glass in his right hand and his left arm around the girl.
“Please, that’s enough, Daddy,” said a young voice coming from the couch. Julie Wittman’s bright red hair came into focus. Neither alarmed or frightened, she sounded very unemotional. Was she medicated or drunk?
“Yeah, Jace, I think you have Mr. Holmes attention,” said Bo.
The boat rocked, forcing me to swallow Five Sisters’ red beans and rice that wanted desperately to reappear. The bile burned my throat.
“You don’t look so good,” said Jace chuckling. With his face inches from mine, I smelled bourbon on his breath. Fighting the urge to vomit and still trying to clear my head, I assessed my predicament. The boat was drifting. We were the only four people on it. Hines had a pistol on his lap. I steeled myself and looked into Wittman’s eyes.
I smiled and said, “Beep.”
He backhanded me, toppling the chair. I hadn’t moved my head quick enough to dodge the blow. I felt his ring rip my cheek and saw stars and maybe a few planets. He said, “You think this is funny, you son of a bitch?”
Blood ran down my cheek. My eyes teared from the pain. I didn’t say a word, not sure how my voice would sound.
Bo handed Julie the handgun and helped his
