Unfortunately, Nell Bellamy wasn’t on the other end of a telephone. She was standing intently at the rail of the hospital bed, bracing for what her ace private investigator was about to say.
“Mr. Keyes, I’ve a feeling you found out something important.”
Keyes couldn’t bear to look in her eyes, so he concentrated on the buttons of her crisp blouse. “Mrs. Bellamy, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your husband is dead. I think he was murdered.”
Nell Bellamy sat down, neat and plump, in a chair by the window. “Oh, Teddy,” she said softly.
At that moment Brian Keyes could have murdered Skip Wiley, could have grabbed his wild blond mane and snapped his neck. In his derangement Wiley had come to see his own life as a headline, getting bigger and more sensational each day. Everything El Fuego said and did, or ordered done, was devised with one test: how it would look in print. Sparky Harper gagging on a rubber alligator, for instance—masterful, in a way. For days Keyes had been thinking about Wiley’s macabre front-page reality. Now he thought: Skip ought to be here to watch this woman cry.
“I think it was the same people who stabbed me,” Keyes said. “They’re very dangerous, Mrs. Bellamy. They’re fanatical.”
“The Nachos?” Nell Bellamy asked. “But why would they kill my husband? He’s just a realtor.”
“They’re killing off tourists,” Keyes said.
Nell nodded as if she understood, as if Florida was finally making sense. “Well, the police warned me not to believe the newspaper.”
“The police are wrong, Mrs. Bellamy.”
“A detective told me Teddy must’ve drowned. He said there’s no such thing as The Nachos.”
“They had Teddy’s swimming trunks,” Keyes said.
“Oh no,” Nell said, stricken. “What did they do to him? I mean, how … ?”
Keyes felt terrible. He held out his hand and Nell Bellamy took it. “They told me it was quick and painless,” he said. “I’m very sorry.”
From nowhere Nell produced a handful of pink Kleenexes and dabbed at her eyes. “You’re a brave man, Mr. Keyes. Risking your life the way you did.” She composed herself and took a paisley checkbook from her purse. “How much do I owe you?”
“Put that away,” Keyes said. “Please, Mrs. Bellamy.”
“You’re very kind.”
No, I’m not, Keyes said to himself.
“Is there any chance,” Mrs. Bellamy said, “of finding Teddy’s body?”
“None,” said Keyes, thinking of Pavlov the crocodile.
The door opened and the two beefy Shriners came into the room. They wore business suits and mauve fez hats.
“You’re a popular fellow,” Burt the Shriner said. “Lots of visitors. Mr. Mulcahy from the newspaper was here. So was Detective Keefe. Later there was a Sergeant Garcia, kind of a rude fellow. Also some television types asking for an interview. One of those Live-Eye jobs.”
“We told them to come back another day,” said the Shriner named James, “when you were up to snuff.”
“I asked Burt and James to keep an eye on the door,” Nell Bellamy explained. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Thank you.” Keyes knew what Garcia and the other visitors had wanted: a firsthand account of his noche with Las Noches. Cab Mulcahy doubtlessly had figured out the Wiley connection. Keyes wondered what the old boy would do now.
“We knew it’d be like Grand Central Station up here after that newspaper article,” Burt said. “We thought you’d appreciate a little peace and quiet.” He looked at Mrs. Bellamy and said, “So what’s the verdict, Nellie?”
“Mr. Keyes said the newspaper was right.”
“Slavic murderers! Wearing wigs!”
“No,” Brian Keyes said. “That part was wrong.”
“But the part about Ted being killed, that was true,” Nell told the Shriners. They stole his bathing trunks.”
“Lord God,” Burt said, “those bastards.”
James put a meaty arm around Nell Bellamy’s shoulders and she went for the Kleenex again.
Burt waited a decent interval, than asked: “What are the chances that the police will catch these people?”
“Fifty-fifty,” Keyes replied, without conviction.
“Not good enough,” James said.
“Piss poor,” Burt concurred. Mr. Keyes, what’s your timetable? Are you going to stick with this case?”