Killer Summer

CHAPTER 4   

             I hung up the phone and continued to the Sheriff’s office to deliver my bundle of letters to the forensic people.  Commissioner Adelbert Fry was dead.  He had been a little guy, standing five foot six and weighing in at about 120 pounds.  He had long since been saddled with the sobriquet “Small” and was a beloved figure on the island.

            Small Fry didn’t do much in the way of running the town.  He mostly liked going to the hurricane conferences in Hawaii, and as long as he stayed on the good side of the town manager, he knew he would be one of the twelve dozen or so town employees invited on the chartered jet to Maui each year.  So, like all the other commissioners, he did the town manager’s bidding and tried hard not to develop any ideas of his own.

            The one time he deviated from his oblivious approach to government and actually took a stand on something, he struck a chord in the hearts of Longboaters, and became forever enshrined in their esteem.  Small had come up with an idea to keep poor people off our island. 

            There are no poor people living on Longboat Key, but occasionally they slip onto the island, mostly driving from one end to the other, using Gulf of Mexico Drive as a shortcut between Bradenton and Sarasota.  They drive Chevrolets and Fords, and sometimes Toyotas, and many Longboaters think this gives the island a bad image.  The police regularly stop the shortcutters for such violations as having a non-radial tire visible, or perhaps a spot of mud on a fender.  But, the poor keep coming.

            Small’s idea was to put toll booths at each end of the island and charge $200 to use the road.  Residents of Longboat would be exempt from the toll, and upon completing the proper forms, two of their guests per year would also be exempt, as long as the guests drove an automobile no older than two years, and no less expensive than a Cadillac.  There was some opposition to the Cadillacs, with many Longboaters arguing that Cadillacs are so passe that only the newly rich drove them, and if these people were newly rich, then they were recently poor, and shouldn’t be allowed to mix indiscriminately with the old rich; that is people who had had money for at least five years.   An ordinance was fashioned that would keep the plebians off Longboat Key, and it was presented to the Town Commission for first reading.  Small was given the honor of reading the whole thing to the admiring audience that had packed the commission chambers and stood outside listening to the meeting on loud speakers.         

            When Small finished reading the proposed ordinance a cheer arose from the assembled citizenry.  Small was feeling big, and then he noticed a familiar face in the crowd.  It was the Florida Secretary of Transportation, whom Small had met several times in Hawaii.  The Secretary raised his hand to speak, and Small, expecting one more accolade for his perspicacity, invited the man to the podium.

            “Gulf of Mexico Drive is a state road,” the Secretary intoned, “and we will not allow you to put toll booths on it.”  A hush fell over the room as the Secretary strode up the aisle and out the door.  Then came wails of disappointment from the islanders gathered in the chamber and on the sidewalks.  It was over.  There would be no toll booths, but Small Fry forever after loomed large in the minds and hearts of his constituents.

            Recently, Small had been the point man for the town manager’s plan to put in rock groins on the beach to save it from erosion.  Many people thought they were ugly and ineffective.  A group of islanders was pushing for a smaller semi-permeable groin that looked like a pier and didn’t have a rock anywhere near it.

            As I neared the Sheriff’s forensic lab my phone rang.

            “Rocks that size don’t just roll off a groin.”  It was Charley Goins.  “The terrorists knew Small lay on that beach every day working on his tan so he wouldn’t get sunburned in Maui.  All they had to do was put a little C-4 under the rock and set it off with a remote controller when Small spread his towel.”

            “Charley,” I said, “there was no explosive residue found out there.  Or at least the chief didn’t tell me about it.”

            “You’ll see.  It’ll be there.  You just watch.”  He hung up.

            I parked and went into the forensics lab and identified myself to the receptionist.

            “That was fast,” she said.

            “What do you mean?”

            “You brought in that stuff they found on the groin, didn’t you?”

            “What stuff?  I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I brought you some stuff for fingerprints.”

            “Your chief just called and said he was sending over some residue found on the rocks that he thinks may have been left over from an explosion.”

            I stepped outside and called the chief.  “What’s going on out there, Joe?”

            “We found evidence that the rock that killed Commissioner Fry was loosened by an explosive device.”

            “Good lord.  Any other evidence?”

            “Well, Logan was visiting a friend who lives at the Islander and had stepped out onto the balcony to smoke a cigarette and saw the whole thing.  Immediately after the explosion he saw a big haired blond lady drive off in a Lexus.”

              “Every real estate sales person on the island drives a Lexus, and most of the women have big blond hair.  This could be a lead.”

            “Well, so could Logan, you know.  He keeps showing up,” said the chief.

            I drove into downtown Sarasota.  My stomach was growling at me to get it some food.  I pulled into the parking lot at Marina Jack and headed for the restaurant, thinking that a few conch fritters would do the trick.     

            Sitting on the patio overlooking Sarasota Bay,  I nibbled at the fritters and thought about the conundrum facing us.  Someone was killing off the elected and appointed leaders of Longboat Key.  It was becoming apparent that somebody with knowledge of explosives had to be involved.  Was the letter writing “Realtor” doing all this? 

            Witnesses were telling us about a woman that had been seen at or near each crime scene.  But those witnesses were contradicted by other witnesses.  Was the driver of the jet ski that killed Commissioner Dwyer a woman or a man in a kafiyah?  Was the driver of the SUV that killed Commissioner Humboldt a woman or a man hiding behind the Katherine Harris mask?  Did the driver of the Lexus have anything to do with the death of Commissioner Fry, or was she just riding by?   Were the witnesses seeing the same woman?  Each one had been described differently, but she could have used disguises.

              My cell phone’s rendition of Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” broke into my thoughts.   It was the chief.

            “You’re not going to believe this,” he said.  “The town manager just got killed.  A buttonwood tree in front of

 O’Sullivans fell on him.”