Peter Robinson - Not Safe After Dark

OK, so Schiller was alone at the pool after the sing-along, or so Ed, Karen and Ginny said. Anyone could have gone there in the dark, killed him and tried to make it look like an accident. And at least three people knew he was there: Ed, Karen and Ginny. Were they telling the truth?

There was some risk – there always is with murder – but it was minimal. Most of the residents are elderly and they’re usually in bed by ten. This isn’t like some of the places where you get kids drinking all night and skinny-dipping; there are no kids at Whispering Palms.

First, I looked over the list of condo owners I had persuaded Mary to print for me.

Schiller’s unit was owned on paper by Gardiner Holdings, registered in Grand Cayman Island. If that didn’t set alarm bells ringing in an old gumshoe’s mind, what would? But I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what it meant.

Ginny Fraser’s unit was a timeshare, though Ginny herself wasn’t listed as owning any time.

Ed Brennan’s unit was registered to a Dr Joseph Brady in Waterloo, Canada, and Karen Lee’s to a travel agency called EscapeItAll , based in Sarasota.

One way or another, these four had all ended up at Whispering Palms, Fort Myers, Florida, and I was damned if I could see any reason other than pure chance.

So which one of them did it? And why? Or was it someone else?

I pushed my glasses back up the bridge of my nose and reached for the telephone. Being a private investigator from Toronto has some advantages in Florida.

When I’d finished on the phone I felt the need to go out for a drive. Not far. Maybe over the skyway to Sanibel and Captiva. Lunch at the Mucky Duck. Seafood and Harp lager. After all, I was on vacation, whatever Al said about gumshoes and the search for truth and justice.

But when I walked out to the car, I saw Karen Lee bent over the front tyre of her red Honda rental just a few parking spots down, white cotton shorts stretched taut over her ass.

I stood and admired the view for a while then walked towards her and asked if she could use any help. Why not? She could only tell me to get lost, that she was perfectly capable of fixing the tyre herself. Or she could accept my offer graciously.

She did the latter.

Turning on her haunches and shielding her eyes from the sun, she smiled and said, ‘Why, thanks, yes. I’d appreciate that.’ She had dimples at each corner of her mouth. Cute.

Then she stood up and brushed the dust off her hands. She was wearing a pink tank top, and a little sweat had darkened the cotton between her breasts.

‘Flat,’ she said.

A facetious reply formed in my mind, but before I could voice it she went on, ‘The tyre. I should have done something about it last night. I thought something was wrong, maybe a slow leak. But I couldn’t be bothered. Then, when I came out just now I saw it was flat.’

‘No problem,’ I said, and in no time we took off the flat and put on the spare.

‘Thanks a lot,’ said Karen, smiling. ‘It’s not that I’m helpless or anything. I mean, I know how to change a tyre. But-’

‘Forget it,’ I told her. ‘My pleasure.’

‘What I was going to say was it was nice to have a bit of company.’ And she smiled again, giving me the full benefit of her dimples and baby blues. The front of her tank top was even damper now and I could see beads of moisture on the tops of her breasts, between the tiny hairs. She had her hair tied back and fixed with barrettes, but a few strands had come loose and stuck to her flushed face. Some ice queen.

‘Hot, isn’t it,’ she said, waving her hand in front of her face. ‘Look, why don’t you come in and clean up? It’s the least I can do.’

I could have gone to my own place, just a few buildings down, but I’m no fool. I followed her up the steps to her second-storey unit. Inside, it was pretty much the same layout as mine: open-plan kitchen and living room, two bedrooms – one with its own bathroom – guest bathroom, and the lanai out front.

‘Sorry about the mess,’ Karen said, picking up a few magazines scattered on the sofa. ‘I wasn’t expecting company. Please go ahead. Use the bathroom.’

The bathroom was full of the mysterious paraphernalia of feminine beauty – potions, eyebrow pencils, little sponges, cotton wool, Q-tips. I washed the sweat and grime off my hands and face and flushed the toilet, using the noise to cover up the sound as I went through the drawers and cupboards. There was nothing out of the ordinary: soap, deodorant, shampoo, talcum, tampons, Advil, Maalox. The only interesting item was a bottle of Prozac. These days it seems half the world’s on Prozac.

When I got back to the living room, Karen had just finished tidying things into neat piles. She smiled. ‘Cold drink?’

‘A Coke would be great.’

‘I’ll just go freshen up.’ She looked down at her body and spread her arms, then seemed embarrassed by the gesture. In fact, now we were inside, her manner had grown much more nervous and I didn’t know how to put her at ease. Too many movies about the nice guy next door turning out to be a psycho, I suppose.

‘I’ll help myself,’ I said. ‘You go wash up.’

‘OK… I’ll… er… It’s in the fridge. I won’t be long. Are you sure you’ll be OK?’

‘I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.’

When she went into her bathroom, the lock clicked behind her. As soon as I heard the shower start up, I began a quick search, not knowing what the hell I was looking for. If Schiller had been murdered, Karen had to be a suspect. Much as I hoped she hadn’t done it, she had been one of the three to know where he was after the sing-along. And how drunk he was.

All I found out was that Karen was halfway through The Concrete Blonde ; that she more than likely slept alone; that she favoured casual clothes but had a couple of expensive dresses; that she didn’t seem to watch videos very much; and that her musical tastes extended from Mozart to Alanis Morissette.

When she came out, she was wearing red shorts and a white shirt. Her hair was still damp from the shower and it hung in long hanks, framing her pale oval face.

‘There,’ she said, hoisting herself onto a stool at the kitchen counter. ‘That’s better. What a start to the day.’

I poured her a Coke. ‘I guess you must still be pretty upset about your friend dying?’ I said.

‘Bud. Yes. How did you…? Of course. I’ve seen you in Chloe’s, haven’t I? Always alone. No wife? Girlfriend?’

A definite hint of flirtation there, I thought. ‘My wife died three years ago. Auto accident.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. That must be terrible.’

I shrugged. ‘There’s good days and bad. Were you very close to Mr Schiller?’

She looked away. ‘Not really.’

‘I don’t mean to pry or anything,’ I said, ‘but were you… I mean, what drew you to him?’

‘I don’t know. We weren’t an item, if that’s what you’re getting at.’ She blushed. ‘I’d just been through a painful divorce. I was depressed. I suppose I came down here to escape… I don’t know… I guess maybe I succeeded. Bud and the others, they were my escape. It was all fun. No demands. Bud was a laugh. He never took anything seriously.’

‘You were one of the last people to see him alive, weren’t you?’

Karen nodded. ‘Yes. With Ed and Ginny.’

‘What happened?’

‘We’d all had a bit too much to drink. When everyone else left after the carols, we started joking around by the pool. I fell in. I wanted to go home and change out of my wet clothes, so the three of us came to my place. Bud said he had a couple of things to do, then he was going to turn in.’

‘Did he say what he had to do?’