know that Lorenzo brings his table and lamp and all that tarot stuff to the Sunset Celebration? Then he sets up and decorates the table with a special cloth.”
I nodded again, not liking the way this was going. Feeling the contents of my stomach grinding.
“We found one of Frontgate’s forks wrapped up in the tablecloth that your friend uses to cover his table—the dark blue one with the stars and the moon on it,” he added. “It’s very distinctive.”
“Where? Where did you find it? Did you have a search warrant?”
His eyes widened. “Police Procedure 101: We don’t need a warrant to search for a murder weapon with probable cause.”
“But where did you find it? Why did you look there?”
Torrence smiled, regret on his face. He wasn’t going to tell me anything else.
“Anyone could’ve planted a fork in his tablecloth,” I said, but a pit was opening up in my gut.
Torrence said, “People could have, but why would they?”
“The hat guy—he hates Lorenzo. You saw it. He probably tried to set him up.”
“Why, Hayley? What sense does that make?”
“If he’s trying to shift the blame to Lorenzo, it makes perfect sense. He figures the cops would be dumb enough to fall for something that obvious—”
My phone buzzed with the arrival of a text message. I took a quick glance. Lorenzo. Can u take care of Lola a few days? Won’t come in and I have 2 go. Food etc inside.
I could feel the heat rushing from my neck and flooding across my cheeks—the redheads’ dead-giveaway scourge.
“Something wrong?” Torrence asked, his eyes all wide again.
“Big-time boy troubles,” I stammered as I sprang up, flipping a dismissive wave. “Got to run.”
* * *
I left Torrence with the lion’s share of the lunch, including the Oh My God brownie, with its central lake of rich chocolate pudding. It was his problem if he ate the whole thing and spoiled his diet. Out in the parking lot, I texted Lorenzo. R U ok?
I waited a couple of minutes but heard nothing back. Even though I’d sort of promised Torrence that I’d stay out of the case, how could I not support my friend? Lorenzo had absolutely come through for me every time something in my life looked bleak. He’d offered free readings when I needed them and advice on everything from murder to my love life. Which sometimes felt like the same thing.
So I took a left out of the back entrance of the KWPD parking lot and buzzed over to New Town. Lorenzo’s cottage is a small concrete-block structure about fifty yards from a man-made canal that feeds eventually into the Gulf. This neighborhood had been hit hard bythe double-whammy storm surge of flooding during Hurricane Wilma. Since then, most all of the damage had been repaired, though some folks who’d lived through it retained the high-water markers on their walls and foundations. Badges of courage, I supposed.
Lorenzo had built a Zen garden around his home, with a wash of small white rocks taking the place of grass. The rocks were punctuated by short, spiky palmettos and tropical bushes and trees, including sea grapes, shortleaf figs, and an autograph tree, the totally cool plant I’d seen in the botanical garden with actual autographs inscribed on its smooth green leaves. People scribbled on those leaves as if they were writing on the wall of a public bathroom stall. I knocked on the front door, but no one answered. So I walked around the back of the house to look for signs of activity. In the backyard, gorgeous avocado, mango, and banana trees were bursting with life. But no lights were on, no windows cracked, no air conditioner humming, no evidence of Lorenzo. He was really gone.
I tapped on the back door, then called his cell phone. Nothing. A small white cat with brown patches around her ears and a brown tail crept out of the bushes and began to wind around my legs. She purred and uttered breathy cries like a worried baby. I scooped her up, remembering my friend’s recent joy
I nodded again, not liking the way this was going. Feeling the contents of my stomach grinding.
“We found one of Frontgate’s forks wrapped up in the tablecloth that your friend uses to cover his table—the dark blue one with the stars and the moon on it,” he added. “It’s very distinctive.”
“Where? Where did you find it? Did you have a search warrant?”
His eyes widened. “Police Procedure 101: We don’t need a warrant to search for a murder weapon with probable cause.”
“But where did you find it? Why did you look there?”
Torrence smiled, regret on his face. He wasn’t going to tell me anything else.
“Anyone could’ve planted a fork in his tablecloth,” I said, but a pit was opening up in my gut.
Torrence said, “People could have, but why would they?”
“The hat guy—he hates Lorenzo. You saw it. He probably tried to set him up.”
“Why, Hayley? What sense does that make?”
“If he’s trying to shift the blame to Lorenzo, it makes perfect sense. He figures the cops would be dumb enough to fall for something that obvious—”
My phone buzzed with the arrival of a text message. I took a quick glance. Lorenzo. Can u take care of Lola a few days? Won’t come in and I have 2 go. Food etc inside.
I could feel the heat rushing from my neck and flooding across my cheeks—the redheads’ dead-giveaway scourge.
“Something wrong?” Torrence asked, his eyes all wide again.
“Big-time boy troubles,” I stammered as I sprang up, flipping a dismissive wave. “Got to run.”
* * *
I left Torrence with the lion’s share of the lunch, including the Oh My God brownie, with its central lake of rich chocolate pudding. It was his problem if he ate the whole thing and spoiled his diet. Out in the parking lot, I texted Lorenzo. R U ok?
I waited a couple of minutes but heard nothing back. Even though I’d sort of promised Torrence that I’d stay out of the case, how could I not support my friend? Lorenzo had absolutely come through for me every time something in my life looked bleak. He’d offered free readings when I needed them and advice on everything from murder to my love life. Which sometimes felt like the same thing.
So I took a left out of the back entrance of the KWPD parking lot and buzzed over to New Town. Lorenzo’s cottage is a small concrete-block structure about fifty yards from a man-made canal that feeds eventually into the Gulf. This neighborhood had been hit hard bythe double-whammy storm surge of flooding during Hurricane Wilma. Since then, most all of the damage had been repaired, though some folks who’d lived through it retained the high-water markers on their walls and foundations. Badges of courage, I supposed.
Lorenzo had built a Zen garden around his home, with a wash of small white rocks taking the place of grass. The rocks were punctuated by short, spiky palmettos and tropical bushes and trees, including sea grapes, shortleaf figs, and an autograph tree, the totally cool plant I’d seen in the botanical garden with actual autographs inscribed on its smooth green leaves. People scribbled on those leaves as if they were writing on the wall of a public bathroom stall. I knocked on the front door, but no one answered. So I walked around the back of the house to look for signs of activity. In the backyard, gorgeous avocado, mango, and banana trees were bursting with life. But no lights were on, no windows cracked, no air conditioner humming, no evidence of Lorenzo. He was really gone.
I tapped on the back door, then called his cell phone. Nothing. A small white cat with brown patches around her ears and a brown tail crept out of the bushes and began to wind around my legs. She purred and uttered breathy cries like a worried baby. I scooped her up, remembering my friend’s recent joy
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