A song ended, and Kody McCoy smiled. She was satisfied with the past few days, and just glad to be listening to the music.
“That was John Denver, for my fine young friends who might not remember the man—great songwriter and balladeer, gone too soon. A little thing called ‘Annie’s Song.’ And before that, a number by the late great Harry Chapin, and before that, one of my own numbers—I call it ‘Living on the Isle.’ Oh, I see you out there, Marty Madrigal. Fooling around, eh? Oh, wait—sorry! Matilda Madrigal, you’re just looking so good tonight... I thought Marty was with some hot, young chick!”
Laughter followed the musician’s words. Marty and Matilda were regulars; now in their fifties; they’d been together since high school.
Cliff Bullard had broken his string of songs to joke for a minute with the audience, as he often did. He teased his old-timers and new clientele with a gift for saying the right thing to the right people, and he was loved for it. He was a staple on the island of Key West, and many of those who lived there came out especially on the nights he was playing.
“Say goodbye to my wife, guys! She’s off to paint—I guess she’s heard me sing one time too often.”
“Never!” Rosy Bullard, his middle-aged blushing bride of one year, called out, waving. The little bar was a friendly place—everyone there waved back to her. Rosy was slim and attractive, with short blond hair and a quick smile. She was also fierce about caring for her husband; she made him eat well and watch his drinking.
As she left, Cliff began to strum again. He called out, “Hey, Kody, this one is for you.”
He went into a rendition of a song Dakota McCoy loved and seldom heard. It was called “Seminole Wind.” She’d heard it the first time at a powwow in the Everglades, and had it on a CD she’d bought while staying up at the Seminole Hardrock Hotel in Hollywood. It had been written by country artist John Anderson, and it seemed to convey a lot that was beautiful about South Florida with some of the errors of history, all with both a nostalgic and rhythmic sound.
Cliff was doing a great job with the song, and Kody sat back for a minute, just enjoying the tune—and smiling because he had thought to dedicate it to her. Of course, Cliff was a friend, and his wife, Rosy, was a wonderful artist. When the new museum got really underway, Kody intended to feature some of Rosy’s work in the gift shop. Tomorrow would be busy; tail end of closing down the festival, and working out kinks with her staff—consisting of her one assistant. The museum had only been open three weeks now.
Tonight, she was glad of the breeze, the swaying palms and the music.
Live music was one of the best things about Key West. There was always somewhere you could go to watch one or two performers, some doing rock, some country and mostly a mix.
It felt wonderful just to be here tonight—kicking back, as the expression went. The Drunken Pirate was a small bar attached to the Tortuga Shell, a boutique hotel on the water, accessed off Front Street and not far from Sunset Pier. The bar was in the center of the little hut with tables surrounding it, all shaded beneath a roof comprised largely of wood beams and palm fronds, but open to the breeze. Even in summer—when Florida hot became hottest—the little establishment was comfortable. Breezes came in off the water, and when they didn’t, the management had strategically set fans that kept the air moving.
Trees swayed around the hut, from great banyans to kapoks and gumbo limbo—or “tourist” trees—so nicknamed because they had a reddish bark and peeled, as tourists’ skin was known to do. Boats were clearly visible out on the water, and when sunset came, it did so with colorful brilliance that rivaled any other place on the island—or the world, for that matter.
The bar was fairly full that night with locals and lingering Sunday-night tourists. Lots of locals: Kody had greeted Captain James Vick—a dive boat operator—and a few of his dive masters; Bev Atkins and her husband, Dan, owners of the Sea Horse bed-and-breakfast; and Liv Jensen and Truman Abernathy, sales personnel at the Wandering Tourist over on Duval.
“How nice! This place is always just perfect.”
The words were spoken by Sonny Atherton, a friend of Kody’s, down from Miami. Sonny had been one of the team members who had just put together the first History, Mystery, Art and Music Fest to have taken place in Key West. Sonny was an artist, and while she officially lived in Miami, she might as well have lived in the Keys, she was down so often. She did beautiful watercolors of the boats on the water, the sunset, the trees, the old Victorian homes and the many things that made the place so exotic, unique and wonderful. In her late thirties, Sonny was one of the most striking women Kody had ever seen; her parents had come to the states from Brazil, and her heritage included Portuguese, Kenyan, Chinese and Native American. Her coloring was exquisite; her skin was a café au lait color, her eyes were a crystal green and her hair a deep, dark brown.
She was also a bundle of well-focused energy, currently directed into the festival that brought so many artists of so many disciplines together.
Key West was a great place for a fest such as they had created. Kody—who now owned and operated the newly opened Haunts and History Museum right off Front Street—had been one of the locals to come up with the idea, and had been grateful for Sonny’s help. Sonny had recruited songwriters, actors, artists and musicians from the Miami-Dade and Broward County areas, and done much to make the event a success. In the world of the internet, names from the far south had helped draw names from more northern reaches—they even had attendees from England and from as far away as Australia.
Not that it was that hard to coax people to what many considered to be an island paradise—one with a booming nightlife, she thought dryly. And, of course, delightful water that one could enjoy most times of the year. All right, she wasn’t that fond of the water even in Key West in the dead of winter, but Canadians and other northerners always seemed to enjoy it.
But right now it was late summer, almost fall, and the dead heat was slacking off a bit. It was a great time of year in Kody’s mind—a bit before the influx of the winter snowbirds who sensibly left bitterly cold climates for the balmy months that could be found here. Of course, retirement helped with that, but many savvy younger businesspeople had figured out how to love their northern homes and escape snowplows.
“It’s always perfect, especially for a wind-down,” Kody said, looking around the table. Besides Sonny, she had brought Bill Worth, who wrote historical nonfiction, and Emory Clayton, chief administrator of a research facility on the island—and a dabbler in watercolors. Although he wasn’t a scientist, Emory looked like one. He was in his late forties, tall and thin—with a headful of wild pale blond hair that went whichever way the breeze was going.
“And they serve the best margarita in the world,” Emory said, sighing happily. He quickly turned red and apologized to Bill, who didn’t drink at all. “Sorry!”
“No problem—best mock-tail in the world, too,” Bill said. He looked at Kody with a self-deprecating grin. Twenty-odd years her senior, he’d gone to high school with her mom, and been there for her when she’d lost her dad to a sudden heart attack in his sleep when Kody had been eighteen. Bill had spoken honestly to her, and instead of saying that her dad had looked great or at peace in his coffin, he had said, “He was tired, Kody. He went quickly. No pain.”
Michael McCoy had been a 1980s rocker—famous around much of the world for a time. He’d almost destroyed himself, imbibing heavily of all manner of substances. But then he’d met Kody’s mother—who was around twenty years younger than him—and a true love had begun that had saved his life. Sally McCoy had loved him with all her heart—but he was going to have to be clean if he stayed with her, and he became just what she wanted. Their time together had been just two decades, but they had been beautiful decades. Despite her father’s fame, he’d cleaned up and lived quietly in Key West, where he’d been born and raised, and until her father’s death, she’d been blessed to have an amazing down-to-earth childhood.
Bill had once told her that the hardest part about being sober was that people were afraid to ask him places—afraid they couldn’t have a cocktail if he was around. “And there’s the thing—you need friends. And it’s up to me to keep the path and not care what other people do. I order something that looks like a drink wherever I go—then people aren’t awkward.”
She knew and she understood; Bill’s friendship had helped save her dad once, as well. Her father had called him in the midst of a jam—other musicians had been imbibing, and Bill had talked him through his temptation. Her dad had remained clean and sober.
At just over fifty, Bill was fit as the proverbial fiddle, with snow-white close-cropped hair, bright blue eyes, and a clean-shaven and well-tanned complexion. He loved the water.
“We’ve got the best bartender for any kind of mixed drink, one with or without alcohol,” she said, indicating Jojo Paige, the young man behind the bar. Jojo had come down from Canada for spring break when he’d been in college; two years later, with a marketing degree, he’d come back and helped turned the tiki bar into one of the most successful venues on the island.
“Darned good,” Bill agreed.
Sonny smiled suddenly. “To the bartender,” she said, and then added, “I know how you feel—or how any of us feels—when they’re not sure if you may face prejudice or awkwardness. We’re friends here. Emory—enjoy your drink.”
They all laughed. And it was all easy again.
“Kody, how’s your mom doing?” Emory asked. “She wasn’t here for this.”
“I know, and she felt very bad,” Kody said. “But she’s in Tampa with Frank—there was a statewide meeting on the care of sea mammals. They had to attend.”
“And how is Frank as a stepdad?” Emory asked.
“Emory, I’m twenty-seven. A bit too old for a stepdad. But how is he as a person? Remarkable. I love him, and here’s what’s funny—my dad would have loved him, too,” Kody said.
“Not so funny, really—makes sense. We all like a certain kind of person,” Sonny said.
Emory smiled. “Rock star, animal activist,” he said. “Just alike.”
“No,” Bill said. “They were both down-to-earth guys. Hey, Michael McCoy was born a Conch and he took some of that with him, even in his wild years. He was a good man.”
“Do anything for anyone,” Sonny agreed.
“Had integrity,” Bill said. “Like Frank.”
“I’m lucky to have had both good men in my life,” Kody agreed. “I adore Frank—he was very supportive of my dream to open the museum. Obviously, I didn’t do it alone. I was good with the history of the island, but I had a lot of help when combining it with the history of the chain of the Keys. We’re trying to show a picture without politics involved, the truth and all the truth, and where we go from there.”
“What about the discovery of that ship—the Victoria Elizabeth?” Sonny asked.
“I’m already working with the salvage company. It will be in there, too,” Kody assured them. “I can’t think of an uglier period of history than what Europeans and then Americans did as far as slavery and the slave trade went. Well, wait—let’s see. There is the treatment of American Indians. But remembering is how we don’t do horrible things again.”
“We’re always doing something horrible,” Bill muttered.
“Yes, but in remembering, we can point out what we did, and strive to do better in the future,” Kody reminded him.
“From your lips to God’s ear and the world,” another voice muttered.
Cliff had taken a break and was coming over to join them, drink in hand. “Sad, huh?” he asked, lifting his drink. “I guess I’m not a very manly man. I love the fruity things, and these creamy drinks and all that kind of stuff I shouldn’t!”
“You’re a beachy kind of song-fellow almost-manly man,” Sonny assured him.
“And, Sonny, you know I love you, too—hell, can’t think of anything to tease you about, my friend. You are the ultimate lady.”
“Hear, hear!” Emory said, and they all chimed in.
“Love my gang,” he said. “Two-minute break. How y’all doing?”
“Great. Hey, great set tonight, Cliff,” Sonny said.
“Yeah, ya think? I didn’t make Kody go up yet.” He looked at her and grinned. Years ago, her dad would come and sit in with Cliff. He’d worked with him on his first album.
“You loved the old man, right, sweetie?” Cliff asked.
Kody laughed, shaking her head. “You use that all the time. We just finished with—”
“Yeah, yeah, your big arts festival. Do his number-one hit, huh?” Cliff asked. “Come on, make me look good.”
“You don’t need me to look good.”
“I don’t, do I?” Cliff had a great smile. Weathered face, soft blue eyes, and an always genuine grin. He’d known her family forever, too.
“But I’d go for her rendition of ‘Ghosts are Walking Bone Island, Girl,’” Sonny said. “We’re all so proud that your dad was from here.” She beamed. “He’s a claim to fame. Major rock star.”
Kody laughed. “He was in a band. They came out about the same time as Queen, Bon Jovi and Duran Duran. They were good and they made a name for themselves, but they were never that big.”
“The world had heard of them—that’s big enough,” Cliff said. “And your dad, well, he made it past his troubles, and that’s a damned good thing. He had you.”
“Cheers!” Sonny said, and it was echoed.
“He had my mom,” Kody said.
“And he’s in the museum,” Sonny said.
“Of course.”
“Even I knew about Mike McCoy,” Emory said. “As to anything else about the Keys... I’m still just learning. I’ll always be a bit of an outsider, you know.”
Emory was what they called a “freshwater” Conch; he had lived in Key West for ten years now, and a mere seven years gave you freshwater status. Bill was like Kody; he had been born on the island, and that made him a Conch. Cliff was “freshwater,” even after twenty years.
Key West had the rare distinction of having once been a sovereign republic—for a matter of a few hours. On April 23, 1982—protesting a US Border Patrol blockade up on US 1, where it met with the mainland—the mayor had declared that Key West was seceding from the Union. Things had been rectified in a matter of hours—Key West officially surrendered and asked the federal government for a great deal of money to “rebuild.”
Kody knew she was prejudiced about Key West—her many great grandfathers had come down here soon after businessman John Simonton had more or less officially bought the property from Juan Salas (who more or less had officially been granted the island by the king of Spain). Following lines of ownership was dicey at best, but the United States did eventually control the Florida Territory. Though all the details were lost to time—the facts and speculations were available in the first room of the museum—her roots in the island city went back to the early 1800s.
“You change it to ‘Ghosts are Walking Bone Island, Boy,’ right?” Sonny asked.
Kody grinned. “Sometimes, and sometimes not. Did you know the oldest version of the lyrics to ‘House of the Rising Sun,’ by Robert Winslow Gordon, 1925, has the singer as a ‘poor girl’? The song matters. It was one of my dad’s first, and yes, one of his biggest hits. With the Bone Island Boys. Anyway...”
“Isn’t your dad’s song about that ship they just found the wreck of?” Sonny asked. “Everyone knew that it was lost off the coast. Or possibly wrecked on purpose, that kind of a thing?”
“Basically, it’s about man’s ability for cruelty to man. My dad was as far left as they came—when it pertained to social issues and justice for all. Even in his worst days—when he was heavily into alcohol and drugs—he was a huge believer in equality. He was on tour once in Portugal where they had a display of the way slaves were crammed in ships—no room whatsoever. He was naturally horrified. Talked about it for weeks. He visited Auschwitz when he was in Poland on tour, and he was really affected by it. He found it very upsetting, but also was glad the Polish people kept the camp so that we could all learn to never allow such inhumanity again. But he also hated the way we—I say we, generally, meaning European colonists—treated the American indigenous population. Justice and music—they were both passions with him.”
“An incredible man,” Bill said. “And he is always with us.” He raised his glass in salute.
Kody wished that he was.
“I wonder what he would think of the Victoria Elizabeth having been discovered,” Emory said.
“He wouldn’t have whitewashed it,” Kody told him. “Hey, speaking of the ship—there’s Ewan Keegan—finder of said treasure!”
Ewan Keegan was the man Kody had met with earlier about his salvage company and the amazing find of the lost ship.
He wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by Liam Beckett, another old-time friend, and one of Key West’s six police detectives, as well as a tall man with dark hair who Kody didn’t know.
“Hmm. And he’s with Liam. Our good and serious island defender. And who is that he’s with? Most intriguing fellow,” Sonny said.
Cliff leaned in toward Kody with a sparkle in his eyes. “I think she means hot,” he said.
Sonny waved a hand in the air. “Too young for me. Such a thing, however, does not prevent me from enjoying such a striking sight.”
Bill laughed. “I think she means studly.”
Kody thought the man was definitely—as Sonny had said—intriguing. He was probably in his early thirties; the kind of fit that came from being either a gym enthusiast or an outdoorsman. He was tightly muscled without being bulky, bronze from the sun, and with good features that were nicely sculpted with a touch of ruggedness about him.
Intriguing, yes—great word for a description. She didn’t know him; she’d never seen him before. But he was with Liam.
Ewan Keegan had been in the Keys for several years, working with Sea Life. Kody thought he was a nice man, and one clearly dedicated to his work. Liam was a friend Kody had known as long as she could remember, just several years older than she was.
As a member of the small police force on the island, he had his work cut out for him. While Key West offered history, incredible water sports and more, it was also a party destination. Officers had to learn to cope with absolute craziness on many levels—to let go what was youthful folly and deal with what was real crime or situations that could become dangerous. For a while, in the ’80s, with the drug smuggling and everything else going on, Key West had been a strange version of the wild, wild West. Assaults, rape and robbery were higher, she knew, than the national average.
But murder was rare.
Liam visited the bar often enough; seeing him wasn’t at all unusual. But there was something grim in his expression this night.
The stranger also appeared somber—as did Ewan.
Liam saw Kody, and she waved. He looked as if he’d rather find his own table, but then she thought he winced slightly and decided to join them.
“Evening, all,” Liam said, drawing up with the other two men. “You guys have met Ewan. This is Brodie McFadden.”
They rose as a group to greet everyone. “Bill, Emory, Sonny, Kody—and our entertainer, Mr. Cliff Bullard,” Liam told the man.
They shook hands all the way round. The newcomer, Brodie McFadden, had a strong, warm grip.
“I gotta head back up,” Cliff said. “Hope you like the music.”
He left them. Liam brought up another few chairs, and he and Brodie and Ewan sat down.
Seeing he was still frowning, Kody asked Liam, “What’s wrong?”
He hesitated, looking around. “Brodie is a diver. Here on vacation.”
“Nice!” Bill said.
“But as a friend, he’s been working with me,” Ewan said.
“And not so nice, I’m afraid,” Liam said.
“I found a body,” Brodie said quietly, looking around the table.
His eyes were very blue; Kody had the feeling that he was reading them all in some way.
“How horrible,” Sonny murmured. “They say that time and decay work their way on human remains and that...well, the ship was all split up. But I guess remnants of humanity remain.”
“He didn’t find an old body,” Liam said wearily. “He found...”
“A victim. Someone killed in the last day or so,” Brodie said.
“A murder victim? In an old slave ship?” Kody asked incredulously. “But—Sea Life hasn’t opened the ship to divers. How...”
“In the dead of night, I imagine,” Ewan said. “A good diver off a nearby boat... We don’t work the site at night. We use what pale sunlight they get down there.”
Kody felt sick. She stared at Liam, horrified that anyone had been murdered—praying it wasn’t anyone they knew.
Key West could be a small community.
“Who?” she asked.
Liam shook his head. “I have no idea, as of now. The body is up at the coroner’s office in Marathon. It’s not someone I knew...nor did anyone working with Sea Life know him.”
“So,” Emory said, “you went diving down to the Victoria Elizabeth—and found a dead man in the hold?”
“That’s the gist of it,” Liam said.
Brodie McFadden wasn’t talking. He was just watching them all—as if they were suspects and he was waiting for them to make a slip and spit out the words that they were guilty of murder.
“Dear Lord,” Sonny whispered. “But how...how...”
“How did he die?” Bill asked.
“We don’t know yet,” Liam said. “He wasn’t shot or stabbed. The medical examiner will have to answer that question.”
“Well, he didn’t swim down a hundred feet to die in the hold of natural causes,” Brodie said. “Someone did kill the poor bastard and dragged him down to the hold of that wreck.”
“Maybe...maybe he did die of natural causes and whoever was with him panicked and brought him down—afraid that they would be accused of murder,” Kody said.
Brodie McFadden looked at her as if she had said the most ridiculous thing in the world.
Maybe she had.
He leaned forward. “I believe it might have been some kind of a statement, actually. He was left in an old slave ship. There are dozens of good ways to get rid of a body in South Florida. Take it up to the Everglades, sink it in the swamp. Toss it out of a boat and let it float to the surface, or, weigh it down out in the Straits and let it sink until nothing else can be found.”
“Interesting,” Kody murmured, looking at him, “that you...know how to get rid of a body here so...well.”
No one had a chance to reply—or, if they did reply, Kody didn’t get a chance to hear what the reply might be.
Cliff Bullard was calling her name from the stage.
She grimaced but decided not to make a big thing out of it. She wasn’t her father. As a child, she’d been studious—and probably way too quiet. She’d known enough about her father’s younger years and sex, drugs and rock and roll to not want to live them. He’d never cared that she hadn’t wanted to follow in his footsteps—but he had been proud she’d been in the church chorus.
“Sorry! Gotta do this, can’t help it,” Cliff was saying. “You know how I loved your dad—and love you.” He took a sip of a drink and then tossed the contents, and the cup, just behind the stage.
Kody gave him a weak smile. “‘Ghosts are Walking Bone Island, Girl,’” Cliff said.
“Wouldn’t you rather do something you were in on—or maybe your song that dad played with you—‘Love in the Sun’?” she called out as she walked toward Cliff.
“Naw, your dad’s song tonight, Kody!” he said.
“Friends, I’ve a special treat for you all—you regulars know my girl, but for all of you Sunday-night newfound friends, this is Kody McCoy, daughter of the late great Michael McCoy. Welcome her, please, for a rendition of her dad’s first big hit, ‘Ghosts are Walking Bone Island, Girl.’”
There was a burst of applause. The original published version of the song had been enhanced with drums, a violin, a bass and a rhythm guitar. But she knew her dad had written the song on his Fender, and he’d played it that way at home. Cliff had played with her dad often enough; she had to admit that doing the song was as easy to her as reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.
She started the song, with Cliff playing:
Ghosts come down Duval, my friend, listen to their words,
They haunt us for the things we’ve done, and whisper softly
Bone Island, nevermore, and I whisper back, Bone Island,
I have heard, and nevermore...
Nevermore...
Nevermore...
It was on the tail end of that last “nevermore” that Cliff Bullard suddenly stopped playing.
Kody turned to look at him.
He stared at her, eyes alive with confusion, his face constricted, his body taut.
Then he keeled over, falling in a contorted ball on the little platform stage where he’d been playing.
Kody screamed; a man in the audience hopped up.
“Let me through—I’m a doctor!” he cried.
Kody leaped off the platform, giving the man room. She reached in her pocket for her phone, but she didn’t have it. It didn’t matter; she saw Jojo, the bartender, was already calling 911. Then she watched, unaware of anything around her but Cliff and the doctor working so strenuously over him.
Cliff had allergies! He was always so careful, and he usually kept an EpiPen in his jacket pocket. His jacket was lying over a chair near the bandstand. She hurried to it and searched through his pockets.
No EpiPen.
“He has allergies...he may have eaten something, gotten something that...he needs an EpiPen!” she cried.
The doctor nodded to her.
“Allergies? What are his allergies? Anyone carry an EpiPen?”
No one did.
But they heard sirens almost immediately. It was a small island.
The next minutes were a nightmare and a blur. Liam took charge and cleared the area. They left her alone. Moments passed that were endless, so long, and so short.
The EMTs had epinephrine, but it was too late. Then she saw the paramedics and the doctor step back, defeat in their postures.
“No,” she whispered.
Tears instantly sprang to her eyes. It was impossible. But the doctor was checking his watch and conferring with the paramedics. And she knew that they were establishing time of death.
She sank down on her knees, sobbing softly.
Someone was behind her. Liam, she realized. He drew her to her feet. “Come on, Kody, I have to stay here, but I’ll get Brodie to bring you home, or to my house—you shouldn’t be alone.”
“I can go to the hospital with Cliff, until they can reach his wife. I can stay with him—”
“Kody, he’s dead,” Liam said gently.
“No...he was playing, we were singing...”
“Kody, we’re all so sorry. We all loved him. I have to stay. The coroner is coming.”
“I... This can’t be, Liam. It just can’t be. He was fine, Liam. He was just fine. And then—he was dead.”
“His heart must have given out.”
“He didn’t smoke. He seldom drank. This is—”
“Kody, I’ll be here. I’ll be with him.”
She looked around. They had cleared out the tiki hut. She didn’t see Sonny or Bill or Emory—or anyone. Her handbag and phone were no longer on the table; someone had taken them for her.
“He was allergic to nuts, but he knew it. He carried an EpiPen. Liam, it isn’t possible!”
Liam looked at her sadly.
Because it was possible. Cliff was on the floor; dead.
She suddenly felt the touch of strong hands on her shoulders.
“Miss McCoy, I’ll get you home.”
She still just stood there. Her knees were weak. She remained in disbelief.
“Miss McCoy,” Brodie McFadden said softly.
Liam was still watching her. The doctor who had been in the audience moved over to her, looking at her sympathetically. “I can give you a prescription for something.”
She shook her head. “No, no, thank you.”
“Come away, please,” Brodie said quietly. And she didn’t have much choice. His touch was still gentle, but he firmly turned her away, and they left, walking down the little hotel path that led to the public parking lot.
It was extremely courteous and gentle, but he was a stranger. She wasn’t sure where he was taking her, and she didn’t care at that moment.
“It’s not right. There’s something wrong. I know Cliff...knew him. He didn’t just die like that.”
She was surprised when Brodie looked at her. “What do you think happened? You were next to him on the little stage.”
She glanced over at him, wondering if he was speaking just to let her talk, to help and let her say whatever was on her mind.
But his question was serious.
“I—I don’t know,” she said. “We’d been there an hour or so. I remember he did bring a drink to the table... He usually has a beer when the set is over, but before that, it’s usually water. He wasn’t inebriated by any means.”
“Hard life in his earlier years?” Brodie McFadden asked her.
“Like my father?” She couldn’t prevent the bitterness in her voice. “No. Cliff’s always been a moderate man. No hard drugs, ever. Probably smoked some pot in his day. Moderate drinker. He never needed to drink—he always had a soda water with lime when he was out with my dad.”
“Did he—have any enemies?”
The question startled her.
And the way that the man was looking at her...
He wasn’t behaving as if she was crazy or torn by grief, grabbing at straws. “He had a drink—up there?”
“He tossed the drink—and the cup, in the little area behind the stage. The drink in some foliage...he tosses them all the time.”
“I’ll find the cup,” he said. “Can you think of anyone who would want him dead?”
“God, no! Everyone loved him. Everyone loved his music. He was easygoing—the kind of man everyone got along with.” She stared at him. He was a stranger, and that was hammered home by the fact that he didn’t know Cliff Bullard. “Have you ever been to Key West before?”
He gave her a little smile. “Of course. I dive. Who could resist Key West?”
She was surprised that she almost smiled in return.
“I just meant that...you didn’t know him. Everyone loved him. How long have you been friends with Liam?”
“Stay right here. I’m going to tell Liam to look for the cup. It might help the coroner.”
He stepped away, heading back toward the stage to talk to Liam.
Liam looked perplexed. But then he nodded, and Brodie came back to where Kody was waiting.
“Are you—friends with Liam?” she asked.
“I’m friends with Ewan Keegan. And, yes, through him, I’d met Liam before.”
“And you wound up with him here tonight because...?”
“Because of the body on the boat,” he said.
For a moment, she felt an irrational anger. They did have trouble in Key West; for far too many of the criminal ilk, it was a great place to prey on the unwary—and the inebriated.
But it was still a small community. People died, yes. Usually, it was through natural causes. Their average murder rate was one per year.
This man, this tourist, had found a victim on a ship that was over a hundred feet down in the Straits.
And now...
“Cliff was murdered?” she whispered.
“No, no, I’m not saying that,” he said. He opened the passenger door to his car and gestured for her to get in. She seemed to be having trouble moving herself, so he guided her to the seat. “I was here. I saw him. It looked as if he just keeled over. His heart giving out, or, perhaps, somehow, he did die from anaphylactic shock. He ate something he didn’t know was tainted with nuts and therefore didn’t think to use his EpiPen. Miss McCoy, we won’t know until there has been an autopsy.” Brodie shut her door and went around to the driver’s side. He got in and started the car. They drove in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes.
“He didn’t just die!” she said suddenly, passionately. She couldn’t help it; she spoke the words as if death were a choice. “He was smart about life and his allergies. He carried an EpiPen and I couldn’t find it. And he loved his wife!”
“Miss McCoy, Liam will look for the cup. Other than that, there’s nothing I can say right now. We’ll wait.”
“Someone killed him,” she said. “I know it, I know it, I know it!”
“Careful,” he warned her.
“But—”
He pulled off the road; she saw he had brought her home, to her old house on Caroline Street.
“If anyone did try to kill him or make him sick, that someone is out there. So, please, be very careful of what you say. We’ll probably find there was a natural reason for his death. And if not...”
“And if not?”
“Well, then...apparently, he did have an enemy. I guess it would mean that someone out there did want the music to end.”