“Nothing like that.” Then I tagged on, “That I know of.”
I reviewed my meeting with Andrew. I eased up on the rudderless romantic part and substituted that he was interested in reconnecting with old friends, some fluff about some stage he must have been passing through.
Wayne’s marching orders were to keep it quiet, but I had to be the judge of what to say if he wanted results.
“It’s possible your husband’s death was not accidental.”
She squinted her eyes. “What happened to ‘I’m a friend looking to make up for lost time’?”
“That was your interpretation, not mine.”
“The police told me they weren’t investigating it as premeditated murder. That poor Andrew was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Poor Andrew.
“I’m doing this on my own,” I said.
“Is that the best you can do?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t. Here is the best I can do. I never heard of this Elizabeth Phillips person. Are we done? Oh, wait. I am curious—do you think they did it doggie style?”
“I know nothing that indicates—”
“Save it,” she sneered.
“Are you interested in helping me or not?”
“Don’t be snotty.”
“Don’t be cynical.”
An older couple came through the door. The man used a walker and greeted the young hostess by her first name. They exchanged kind words and smiles before she showed them to a table by a window. I had asked for the table when we came in, but the hostess indicated it was reserved.
Marcy swayed her head side to side. “Whatever. Listen, it’s terrible what happened. I feel so badly for him.” She paused and her eyes fell, as if she were reminding herself that she was a grieving widow but having to consciously dial up that number. “He was a gentle man with a tremendous zest for life, but he harbored a distant element that I could never touch. I’d find him at night, alone in the darkness, making love to his drink, listening to his music—literally, music that he composed. When I questioned him, he’d close down. After years of that,” she flipped up her hand, “I surrendered. There was a part of the man I never knew. It wasn’t the best of marriages. It wasn’t the worst. The great American proclamation.” She folded her napkin and placed it by her plate. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
I pulled out a picture of Elizabeth Walker. “Have you ever seen this woman before?”
She stared at the picture, her face expressionless. She brought her hands up, tented them, and nuzzled her nose into her closed fists.
“Is she your Elizabeth . . . whoever?”
“She is.”
She clenched her fingers.
“Marcy?”
Nothing.
I said, “You know her.”
She put her hands down on the table and her eyes rose to meet mine. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
“You’re lying.”
“That makes two of us.” She bristled. “Your interest in Andrew’s death has about as much a chance of being casual as I do in hitting a one-handed backhand.”
“I need to know.”
She stood. “Pity the world doesn’t revolve around you.”
“How about a little sympathy for the dead.”
“How dare you.” She stormed out of the restaurant.
The old man at the table by the window gave me a scolding glance.
THE NEXT DAY, AS dolphins fished off the seawall across the channel from Dockside, Detective Rambler plopped an envelope on my table, scuttling Harry away.
“Stay for lunch?” I asked. I’d just squirted lemon on a grouper sandwich.
“Some of us have real jobs.”
“I hope to be a fireman when I grow up.”
He ignored my childish retort. “I’ll save you the effort, although I don’t know why. Outside of a zillion business calls, a few to his wife and texts to his golfing buddies, there’s only one number that might pique your interest. It doesn’t seem related to anything else.”
Andrew certainly had a business phone as well. I couldn’t assume that his cell phone was a complete record of his phone calls.
“And that is?”
“Some hoity-toity law firm in Winter Park.”
“Did his company do business with them?”
He snatched a French fry off my plate and stuck it in his mouth. “I should have been a fireman. Everyone thinks their work is dangerous, but all they do is sit around, polish the big red machine, occasionally put out a kitchen fire, and then walk after twenty-five years. High-risk job my ass. How the hell would I know if his firm does business with them? I’m off the case and was never here today. We clear on that?”
“Crystal.”
He stole another fry and his eyes got lost over the water. “You eat here every day?”
“Not always. Sometimes—”
“I wasn’t really asking.” He turned and walked inside. I’d pushed what fragile friendship we had to its limit. It didn’t escape me that I considered Rambler a friend far more than he considered me a friend. That we all have an Andrew Keller in our lives—and we are all an Andrew Keller to someone else.
I tried to think of something I could do to fortify my standing with him but drew a blank. Instead, I punched at my phone until I had the address of Chamberlain, Glanis, Newman and Daniels in Winter Park, Florida. A dropdown menu contained a brief bio accompanied by a picture of each of the partners. Underneath the picture was their direct line. I cross-checked Andrew’s phone calls. Allison Daniels stared at me from my screen. No smile. What were she and Andrew up to?
“What do you think, Harry?” I said, for he’d come back around after my guest departed. But the pigeon didn’t answer, which was probably a good thing.
6
I-4 between Tampa and Orlando is the deadliest stretch of asphalt in the state of Florida. As Winter Park is an oasis in the Orlando nightmare, I had no choice but to battle the tiring traffic. I wondered why Marcy Keller denied recognizing Elizabeth Walker and decided to try my homespun charm on her again. I had trouble picturing her and Andrew together, but perhaps it was the Sofa King of Sarasota who had married her and not Andrew.
I wanted to meet Allison Daniels on neutral ground for fear that if I showed up at her office, I’d sit all day or be escorted out. While rehearsing my opening remarks curbside at her Mediterranean masterpiece on Lake Virginia, the second of four bronze-colored garage doors rolled up. A shiny, deep-blue Beamer backed out. I seemed to possess a knack for arriving when people were leaving. A delicate hand emerged from the window and fluttered at a man trimming bushes. He waved back from underneath a wide hat and then returned to his task. She raced five fast blocks and then swung into a reserved spot on the second level of a parking garage in downtown Winter Park. I took a reserved spot two down from her.
She sprang out of her car, strapped a black leather briefcase across her shoulder, and double-timed it off toward an elevator. Her heels clicked on the concrete and echoed off the low ceiling. Her extended hand held a cup of rocket-fuel coffee—the scepter of the corporate warrior.