Erica Spindler - Dead Run

He followed her to her feet and took her hand. “You’re welcome. I will definitely speak to the teenager’s parents. I suspect you’ll hear from them. They’re good people, Liz. I hope you can help them.”

“Me, too.” She thanked him again, then walked to the door. There, she looked back at him. “How long does that tour last?”

He glanced at his watch. “You should be able to catch the tail end. They’ll be in the walled garden.”

He gave her directions and, sure enough, she found the group in the garden and joined them. The church, parsonage and grounds, she discovered, occupied two full blocks of valuable Key West land. The Catholic archdiocese had sold the church property after the devastating hurricane of 1935 destroyed Henry Flagler’s railroad, and the city of Key West, once the wealthiest city in America, went bankrupt. No doubt they were kicking themselves now.

Liz moved her gaze over the lush garden, awed, a feeling of peace settling over her. Although the church structures had been destroyed twice, the garden had been spared. The ancient banyan trees, with their vertical roots that grew from the branches to the ground, created a kind of organic jail. Liz felt as if she had fallen through the rabbit hole and landed in a surreal fantasy land of bars, flowers and foliage.

The teenage guide discussed various pieces of statuary, one of the Blessed Virgin that dated back to the original days of the church and another of St. Francis. She pointed out the church parsonage, located at the back left of the church grounds and the small cemetery at the right. The burial ground, with its stacked tombs, Liz learned, housed the remains of a number of Key West ’s early, influential citizens and religious leaders.

At the conclusion of the tour, the guide showed the group out, using the entrance that faced Duval Street. As Liz exited, she spied Bikinis & Things across the street and started toward it. She had wanted to stop in and thank the woman again for coming to her aid.

Liz stepped into the shop, realizing quickly that it was one of those trendy little boutiques, the kind that carried the latest and most fashionable. She saw immediately that the store catered to young people and wealthy tourists: the bathing suits were skimpy, the prices outrageous. Other than beachwear, the shop carried the work of Key West artists and artisans, including some beautiful silver and stone jewelry.

The shop was empty save for several teenagers flipping through the Just Arrived rack and exclaiming at what they saw.

“Hi, can I help you?”

Liz turned. Her Good Samaritan stood behind her, mouth curved into a warm smile. Liz returned the smile. “Heather, right?”

“Heather Ferguson. How can I-”

“I’m the woman from the church bench. You brought me a bottle of water.”

Recognition crossed her features. “Of course. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, now. Thanks.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” She glanced over her shoulder at the group of teenagers. “You girls need some help?” They replied that they didn’t, and she turned back to Liz. “Are you looking for anything special today?”

“Actually, no. I just wanted to stop by and thank you again for coming to my aid.”

“I was happy to help.” She glanced at the girls again, then back at Liz. “How long are you in town for?”

“A while, actually.” Her lips lifted. “I know I seem like a tourist, but I’m a new resident.” She held out a hand. “I’m Elizabeth Ames. I opened a family counseling practice just down the street.”

“No kidding?” Heather smiled and shook her hand. “Good to meet you.”

“Go ahead and help them,” Liz murmured. “I’ll wait.”

The other woman murmured her gratitude and scurried off to catch the girls before they entered the dressing room. As Liz watched, Heather carefully counted the bathing suits, then ushered them into a fitting room.

Liz understood the woman’s caution. She had worked with enough teens to know that shoplifting among adolescents had reached epidemic proportions. A number of the teens she had counseled had come her way after having been caught. Only then had their parents realized their children needed help.

A moment later, Heather returned. “Thanks, you can’t turn your back on these kids. You wouldn’t believe the number of suits that walk out of here without being rung up.”

“Actually, I would. In my practice, I’ve worked with quite a number of teens with sticky fingers.”

“Nice way to put it.” Heather laughed. “I use ‘thieving yuppie larvae.’”

Liz shook her head, liking the other woman. She was not only kind, but honest and funny as well. Rachel would have liked her, Liz thought. She wondered if she and Rachel had known each other.

The bell over the shop’s door tinkled as another group of young women entered. “I really have to go, Liz. But let’s have lunch sometime. I’ll fill you in on all the dos and don’ts of Key West.”

Liz laughed. “The island’s so small, surely there can’t be that many.”

“Are you kidding? The smaller the place, the greater the number of rules.”

“Sounds intimidating.”

“Not if you have an old pro like me to help you through. Give me your number and I’ll give you a call.”

Liz gave the woman her card and exited the shop. As she did she glanced toward Paradise Christian. And found Pastor Collins standing in the open doorway, staring her way. When she lifted her hand, he turned and disappeared into the church without returning the greeting.

Wednesday, November 7

9:30 a.m.

Rick strolled into police headquarters, cutting across to the receptionist. Luanne Leoni had occupied the City Hall receptionist seat since well before his time on the force. A sweet-natured grandma with the fashion sense of a teenager and a heart as big as all Key West, she remained one of his favorite people in all the world. Her tears at his son’s funeral had meant more to him than she would ever know.

“Hey there, sweet thing,” he murmured, leaning against the counter and ducking his head to bring it level with hers. “Miss me?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Oh sure. My cat ran off, too. And now I don’t itch no more.”

“You’re breaking my heart, Luanne. You really are.”

“You’re a very bad boy, you know that?”

“Yeah?” He flashed her a quick smile. “But I could be worse, if you’d let me. You still married to that old fart?”

“You know I am. Me and my Sonny, we’re going to the grave together.” She laughed. “Though I don’t know who’s going to kill who first.”

“I’m going up to see Val.” He started toward the stairs, then stopped and glanced back at her. “If you kill Sonny first let me know. I’ll be waiting.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m old enough to be your grandmother, you wicked man. You’d better be gone before I get a notion to take you up on that outrageous offer.”

Rick headed up. He didn’t often visit Val here because it brought back painful memories. And because he invariably ran into his old partner, Carla Chapman.

When he returned to Key West from Miami, Val had partnered him with Carla. Carla had been new to the force as well, an inexperienced cop who hadn’t yet honed her instincts. But she had been energetic and eager to learn. Rick, an experienced, streetwise cop with crackerjack instincts, had been emotionally dazed from his wife’s death and his sudden single-parent status.

They had worked well together, playing to each other’s strengths and shoring up the other’s weaknesses. They had become friends.

And during the terrible time after Sam’s death, she had stuck by him. She had cared for him when he had given up caring for himself; she had bullied him into eating, sleeping, sobering up.