Chapter One

Day One

It was 4 p.m. Three years later. Since getting in the car I’d been going over my life with Will. I’d been behind the steering wheel since six that morning. It took me two long days of driving and one overnight in a cheap motel to get to my destination—a small fishing village in Southwest Florida where I planned to surprise my treasure hunting boyfriend.

Smiling, I patted the head of my plaster of Paris gargoyle that substituted for a pet I couldn’t afford. "Oh, Gar, I can’t wait to see Will’s face," I said, chuckling as we passed a giant blown-up snowman swaying between two Royal Palms. I hadn’t done a spur of the moment act in way too long. This was going to be fun.

I swerved onto Island Avenue, doing a dance move with my upper torso. I tapped on the brake pedal, took a right on May Street and pulled into a gravel driveway. "Whoa! Looks like there’s trouble in par…e…dise." I eyed the crime scene tape.

Patting my breast pocket, I searched for the slip of paper I had written Will’s addressed on, but I must have left it at the last gas station I’d stopped at—it wasn’t there. I was sure the house number was 12. The tape was on door 10. I relaxed. "Come on, Gar. Will can fill us in." I unstrapped Gar and holding him under my left arm, smiled. "Okay be quiet, we don’t want to alert him."

I tiptoed toward the one-story building, hoping Will was home. I knocked, but no one came, so I knocked louder.

"Go away," a woman called. "We don’t want any!"

I frowned. The hair at the base of my skull itched. "Will! It’s Jessie," I said in a loud voice.

Glancing again at the house number, I looked to the right at the crisscrossed yellow tape and tightened my grip on Gar. It was 12 May Street, wasn’t it?

The door swung inward. A sleepy-eyed woman looked at me. Her hand went to her throat. She stepped back. "Honey, you come on in. Oh, dear, it doesn’t sound like you’ve heard."

"Heard what?" I stepped around her.

"You take a seat in that arm chair and I’ll get you some water."

My heart tripped over itself. "What haven’t I heard?" My feet were lead.

The woman came closer. "Why, about..." She jerked her head to the left, indicating the next duplex. "That poor fella`. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he was found, oh dear, there’s no easy way to say this—dead—six days ago. They say he killed himself."

"Ohmigod!" I sank to the floor.

After allowing me to cry myself out, the woman helped me stand, and with an arm around my shoulder, walked me to her sofa.

"Do you know how he did it?" I blew my nose with a tissue she'd handed me.

She bit her lower lip. "I guess, well, I guess he shot himself."

I gazed at her in horror. "Shot himself? You mean with a gun?"

The woman nodded.

"No. No. No!" I stood and looked around me, then asked for a phone book. Running the back of my hand over my runny nose, I shook my head like a wet dog. I asked if she knew the phone number of the local sheriff. She did. I took my cellphone out of my pocket and made two phone calls--one to the county sheriff, the other to Will's sister.

Less than an hour later, I parked in front of the green and white, one-story government building holding the Lee County Florida Sheriff’s Office in Fort Myers on Six Mile Cypress. A white pelican landed on the flag pole. The bird gazed down at me. I rested my head on the back of the car seat, my attention on the bird. I counted my heartbeats. "Oh, Will." I leaned over and

released Gar from his seatbelt. "Thanks for coming with me. I really couldn’t do this without you." I tucked him under my arm and left the car.

Chunks of seashell crunched under my flip flops. The blacktop, heated by the late afternoon sun, gave off a petroleum smell. A series of sharp whistles told me an osprey was nearby. I looked up and made out a white body and streaked brown breast at the top of a parking lot light. Yewk, yewk, the bird called.

I entered the terrazzo-floored room, slid my sunglasses over my auburn bangs and introduced myself to the uniformed dispatcher who sat at a metal desk behind a glass window. Her perfume was so strong, I grimaced. George Washington and President Obama’s portraits hung on the cream-colored wall. A calendar decorated with an imposing Pilated Woodpecker feeding on the trunk of a palm reminded me it was December 26th, my mother’s birthday.

Looking at me, then at Gar, with skepticism written all over her face, the perfume-doused dispatcher came out of her enclosed room, holding a scanner. "I’ll have to check that." She pointed at Gar. I refrained from informing her that Gar was not a ‘that’. But it wasn't easy.

"Set it on the floor," she commanded. When she was through scanning Gar, she looked at me, asked me to raise my arms and ran the machine along my body. "His office is through that door, third one on the left. I’ll buzz you in."

I thanked her, picked up Gar and walked the windowless narrow corridor lined with photos of officers in uniform. A brass door plate was embossed with: Mark Schilling: Sheriff. Straightening my shoulders, hugging Gar, I knocked.

A gruff voice invited me in. Picturing Will’s face, I opened the door and was taken aback by a cold blast. I stepped forward. "Ouch!" With my free hand, I grabbed for the door jam. Steadying myself, I glared at the offending obstacle, a metal doormat. Embarrassed and slightly pissed, I bent to rub my throbbing, reddened big toe.

Without looking up, I felt the sheriff at my side. "Are you okay?"

I pursed my lips, nodded and stood erect. He smiled and extended his hand. I shifted Gar to my other arm. The sheriff wrapped his thick fingers around my palm, glanced at Gar, then at me. Grunting inaudible words, he motioned for me to take a seat. I settled into a chair and set Gar on the floor to my right.

The oak desk was littered with paperwork. A bronze deer paperweight sat to the left of the sheriff’s imposing upper torso with a machine to his right. His uniform was crisp. A photograph of a woman and two kids hung on the tan wall above his head and was flanked by two plaques.

I focused on the teenage girl and was struck by how much she looked like the sheriff: The same pointed, straight nose, identical curl of the lips and eye shape. I only hoped she didn’t have his

super-sized wing nut ears. The girl had on a navy blue shirt that matched her dad’s shirt. I wondered if she intentionally created this resemblance to the sheriff or if it was an unconscious act. Except for the fact that his hair was streaked with gray, their hair was the same dark brown. "Nice family shot," I said, crossing my legs. I suppressed a groan when the sheriff’s gaze affixed on them. Not impressed, I put my shoes squarely on the floor.

The sheriff picked up a cigar from the antlers of the deer. He shot another look toward my legs and then concentrated on something to the left of my ear.

I turned and looked behind me, but no one had come in.

"Yeah, cute kids. Too bad they’ve grown up to be such a disappointment. My daughter won’t even admit I’m her dad," he said.

I looked again at the sheriff. His attention had shifted to Gar.

He continued. "After our phone conversation, I really thought you wouldn’t come. How can I help you?"

My hand rested on Gar’s head. "I’ll get right to the point, Sheriff. I know your time is valuable. As you know, I’ve come in reference to my boyfriend’s death."

I couldn’t help but notice that his right eye fluttered as he took in my "I’m-not-going-to-take-no" for an answer expression. I hoped this meant he understood my conviction to get information. Schilling made a tower with his fingers.

I dipped my head and softened my tone. "I was wondering if there was any indication, any evidence at all, that this was a homicide rather than a suicide."

There, I’d said it.

As if he was suddenly ready to fend off an attacking hammerhead shark, Schilling set straighter in his chair. The cigar was pointed at my heart.

I picked up Gar and held him in my left arm, pressing him against my left breast.

The sheriff glared at Gar, then at me. "We talked about that on the phone. As I told you, if there was any chance it was a homicide, the case would still be open. The case, Ms. Murphy, is closed. The scene was investigated and people who knew Rolins were interviewed. The investigative detective determined that there was no foul play and that the scene was consistent to suicide."

Forcing my tears back, I placed my elbows on the arms of the chair and held Gar tighter against me. "But neither I nor his sister think he would have killed himself with a…a gun." This was a lie. Will’s embittered sister expressed no such belief. As far as she was concerned, Will had done what their father had done—ended his own life to shame the family name. Using our father’s gun, she’d spit out, was so like him.

"Will hated guns," I added.

The sheriff’s facial muscles relaxed. "As I remember, it was his sister who identified him in the morgue. Poor dear, she was so distraught."

I leaned forward. "Is there any way I can read the police report?" I blurted out, instantly regretting my abruptness.

He bristled. "Excuse me! You’re way too…How old are you, anyway?"

"That’s none of your business, but if you have to know, I’m twenty-six." I folded my hands in my lap.

"If you’re a P.I…" He didn’t finish the sentence. His mustache twitched. He reminded me of a bomb ready to explode. "Our police reports are not public, Ms. Murphy."

Yeah, right. "No, I’m not a private investigator. It’s just so hard for me to believe he killed himself in such a way," I said. I was sure I knew someone who could either get the detailed report for me, or tell me how to do it—Hawk, my oh so sweet, helpful and smart former boss.

My best friend had died in a tragic car accident only two months before. A month before that my beloved grandma had passed away. The past months, my emotional state had been like a fragile stem of a coneflower whipped to and fro by a strong wind, and now this.

The sheriff was talking. "It’s always hard to understand when a loved one, well, does what he did." He readjusted his broad shoulders in the black leather arm chair. His tone was mellow and controlled. "But, my dear, I assure you, Will Rolins shot himself." With the last words, beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. He touched a button on the machine on his desk. "Mary, turn up the damn air-conditioning."

My eyes narrowed as I settled back in the chair. Hot in here, my left foot. It’s freezing. I’m making this guy nervous. I intertwined my fingers. "In the last letter I received from him there was absolutely no indication he was depressed."

The sheriff replaced the unlit cigar across the deer antlers. "These things are hard to figure out. I had a school chum who called all his old buddies, including me, and invited us to go hunting on his place." He swiped his forehead. "It was as if he were taking care of us, wanting his pals to get together again. He killed himself the day before we arrived. It was a shocker." He cleared his throat. "One never knows. What I can tell you, is this: The man we found definitely ended his own life. It wasn’t a pretty sight. You don’t need the gory details, but there is no doubt at all about the cause of Will Rolins death. He shot himself." He wiped his brow again. "This heat is killin` me!"

"Can I see the…" Oh! "body."

He looked at my hands. "I’m sorry my dear. His sister had the body cremated. Under the circumstances, I couldn’t blame her." His eyebrows furrowed. "Didn’t she phone you?"

At the news, the blood had rushed from my head. Cremated? I would never see Will again? I moaned.

"Oh dear, you mean you didn’t hear about this until now? Goodness, I’m so sorry," the sheriff shuffled in his seat.

I raised my hand to fend off more sympathy and closed my eyes. A motor kicked in. The room’s temperature dropped two more degrees.

Fist over mouth, I fought for control.

When I dared to open my eyes again, the sheriff was writing. With a quiver in my voice that I couldn’t suppress, I thanked him, apologizing for questioning his authority.

The sheriff’s attitude changed. "Well, that’s all right, my dear. You’re in shock. I understand."

Fearing the sheriff was going to lean over the desk and pat me on my tan cap, I stood and backed toward the door, cradling Gar. "Thanks so much for your time. You’ve been very kind."

Behind the steering wheel again, my hand shook as I reached for the stick shift. Nothing the sheriff had said changed my mind.

I reversed, then pulled over to the curb and drew my I-Phone from my breast pocket and clicked on a contact. Too bad Hawk still refused to text. Texting him would be so much easier.

"Hey!"

"Jessie, is that you? Where the hell are you? I’m standing at the foot of your steps. They’re covered in snow."

"I’m in Florida."

"What?"

"Yeah, I, ah, changed my mind and decided to join…" I paused before saying, "Will."

"Ah, well, cool. I’m sure that will make him a very happy man. Did you take your art tools?"

It took me several seconds to answer. "Hawk."

"Why the tone of gloom? Are you regretting the decision already?"

I couldn’ keep myself from sobbing.

"Jessie! Jesus. What’s wrong?"

Between gasps I told Hawk the news.

"My, God. Listen, I’ll come down there to get you. You can’t drive back by yourself. Holy Christ."

I cleared my throat. "No. I’m not coming back yet."

"Are they having the funeral down there? Surely his…"

I interrupted him. "Hawk, Will didn’t kill himself, not with a gun."

"Jessie, please! You do know you’re in mourning, don’t you? People don’t make wise decisions after getting such a shock."

"I know. But I can’t leave, not yet. I got a letter from Will the day he died. He asked me to come help him dig. He was excited, not depressed. It only took the letter two days to get to Iowa. Even if he went off his medication, it would have taken longer than that for him to go that low. The facts don’t add up. He was murdered."

"Good, God, what a bitch. Murdered?" There was a long pause, and then he said: "Okay, okay, what is it you need?"

I informed him that Will had been cremated and that his sister hadn’t bothered to call me about his death or funeral services. "I just have one question."

"Sure, what?" His voice was mellowed by grief.

"I want a copy of the police report. How do I get it?"

He sighed. "It’s simple, just file a FOIA. That’s a Freedom of Information Act request. You can do it online. But be sure and make up some good excuse for requesting the report or you won’t get it."

"That’s all? But the sheriff said they weren’t public."

"Ah, you know how it is, some people in power like others to think their world is so important the rest of world can’t be privy to it. It’s really simple. Hey, I’ll do it for you. That’s the least I can do. I’ll call you once I get it." The phone went dead.

I kept it in my palm until I heard my laughing monkey ringtone.

"You take care of yourself, hear me? And Jessie, I am so very sorry for…for…this..." Hawk disconnected again and with a shaking hand I pocketed my phone.

Tonight I’d use Will’s letters to create a list of people to question. It didn't take me long to decide that I’d present myself as the grieving girlfriend trying to gather information to help me understand why Will killed himself.

"So, Gar, what if I find out I’m wrong?"

But Gar was the silent type. He said nothing.

Looking straight ahead, I pressed down on the gas pedal and let the tears stream down my face.

******

The motel I checked into on West Island, like many of the other commercial buildings, was painted royal blue, red and yellow. The one-story building was surrounded by Matlacha Pass on

three sides. A wrap-around dock was fitted with Adirondack chairs painted in brilliant yellow, green, purple, and blue. Each chair back had been sawn into a fish shape.

My efficiency was the farthest one from the county road and included a small refrigerator and a hotplate. I had only one suitcase and a cooler to unpack. It wasn’t like I’d planned to spend the winter months.

Emptying the thawed ice from the cooler into the sink, I set three Guinness bottles and a carton of water in the refrigerator and set the cooler upright to dry. My clothes fitted into the dresser with room to spare. To keep out all things evil, I placed Gar on the nightstand facing the door. It took no more than ten minutes to be at home. Now, to the business at hand--finding the killer without anyone knowing I was investigating.

I unscrewed the top off a beer, took a long drink and picked up the first letter I’d received from Will. Like a burrowing owl entering her underground den, I sunk into two pillows and read the salutation aloud "Dear Weiner." I stopped and looked up at the ceiling, then read it aloud again. I skimmed over a description of a sculptor named Jay Mann, and some unnamed woman who reminded Will of me that he said I should meet.

At the last page I spoke to Gar. "Listen to this: I’ve signed several documents with property owners getting permission to search their land. Bokeelia, at the northern tip of Pine Island, is where Bru Baker, the famous pirate I told you about, lived. This is the time, Weiner, I can taste success.

So, please, little stubborn one, come to the islands with Gar. He’ll bring me luck. It will be good for you. Find someone else to manage those apartments for a month. Put down your plumbing tools and pack your paints and canvas. This place is an artist’s dream come true. I miss you. You can paint to your heart’s desire and in your spare time be my digging partner. Just imagine what it would be like to pull a chest out of the sand, dust it off, open it and see GOLD coins that haven’t been touched for centuries!! Think of what the historic society would say when we presented it to them? You could paint a picture of our find and we’d hang it over the couch—our couch—the one with all the stains. Much love, Your Butternut."

I put the back of my fist to my mouth and paced. "So, let’s see. He found treasure and someone killed him for it. Someone smart enough to make the crime scene pass as a suicide." I swirled on Gar. "Possible, right? I know, I know, I need to prove it."

I crossed the room two more times, stopping again in front of Gar. "I know, I know, I should never have let him come here alone. If I’d been with him, I could have watched his gullible, too-easy-to-be-fooled back. You don’t need to remind me."

The letter was dated November 10th -- one week after his arrival on the island. What had happened after that? I folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. "Okay, I need a plan."

Making plans was one of my weaker traits. I preferred to fly by the seat of my tattered, thrift store jeans, but circumstances dictated actions. A plan it would be. I needed to find out what his time in Matlacha was like.

I finished the Guinness before pulling the cellophane off a stack of four by six note cards. On the first one I wrote: People to talk to. The list was short and dictated by the letter: 1. Jay Mann, the sculptor. 2. The unnamed woman. 3. Unknown property owners. 4. Others who knew Will.

I chewed on the pencil eraser and then wrote on another card: 1. Ask around the local watering hole, Bert’s about Will, his friends, what they know about him and the day he died. 2. Go to Will’s apartment to search for the papers he signed with property owners, his log and map. 3. Talk to his neighbors 4. Talk with Jay Mann.

I glanced down at Gar. "Stop looking at me!" I switched off the light.

Like, I’m not perfect. Okay?