Storm of Suspicion - 8. Chapter 8

A dusty blue 1963 Cadillac convertible turned into the driveway of the Magnolia House Resort, jutting over the curb and barely missing the large Vegas style neon sign in front, before stopping abruptly under the awning connecting the office and motel to the Bar and entertainment complex. “Damned, this place looked better in the brochures”, Misty thought as she surveyed her new surroundings. “Welcome to fucking Orlando, there’s not even a cabana boy here to get my luggage!”, she sputtered as she got out of the car and stood trying to regain feeling in her legs. It was now nearly 3am and Misty had made the drive from Provincetown to Orlando nearly non-stop. She hadn’t even changed clothes yet and wanted first to just get in a room, shower, and pass-out for a few hours. Approaching the glass window to the motels’ reception office, she knocked frantically trying to get the attention of an older lesbian that was watching a small black and white television, seated with her back to the window. “Hello…” Misty called out, again knocking at the window. “I’m your new headliner”, she announced, as if that would make the lesbian move any quicker. “Shit, I wonder if they rent rooms by the hour”, she sputtered taking note of the ‘drive-thru window’ look of the reception area.

From the doorway behind her, a young dark complected looking man emerged wearing a pair of daisy-dukes and a cropped off tank-top. “Gurrrrl, youz looks za fright, yous knows Halloween iz nect mont, right?” he scoffed with an over accentuated Spanish accent.

“Bitch, I’m the new star here, at least I’m supposed to be if this dyke will do her job and get me my room”, Misty elevated her voice turning towards the window, again anticipating getting the woman’s attention.

“Oh you must be Johanna…..”, the man began.

“No that bitch is deader than her career ever was”, Misty replied under her breath. “No, no. I’m Misty. Misty Lane”, she declared extending her hand to the young man. “Johanna ...um… had something come up and couldn’t make it. I spoke with Ron yesterday. He should be expecting me”.

“Wellz, rights now he’z over in de cafe finishing up closing out if youz justs want to….”, he began.

“Oh honey, What I want is to get in a room, shower, and pass out for a week, if that’s possible. As YOU already so eloquently pointed out what a mess I look like right now”, Misty explained.

“Oh ov course, Iz understand comp-letely. I don’ts think anyone expected you to show up at this hour anyway. Herea, letz me see what room Shirley can puts you in tonight and then tomorrow when you’ve rested up some I’ll introduce yous to Ron and we can gets you set up”, he replied. “By the way, I’m Tony Romano. Anything youz need, you just holler”.

“Tony Romano?”, she replied. “That doesn’t sound like a very Spanish name”.

“Actually I’m Italian”, Tony replied, this time with a natural heavy New York accent. “I’m originally from Dyker Heights in Brooklyn but everyone in Florida expects these little Spanish twinks to be running around here so I play the part to fit in”.

“Well thank you, Tony. Nice to meet you, and I bet you’ll make me holler”, Misty replied, winking at the young man who actually looked as though he might be at least half her age, if not more. “So meanwhile”, she continued. “My room?”.

“Heya Shirl”, he bellowed as he entered the door to the office. “Whatcha got available that’s still clean for the night?”

§

Michael laid in the darkness of the room, his face illuminated by the glow of his phone as he scrolled through emails and text messages. “What the hell are you doing?”, Nathan sputtered, obviously irritated by the light.

“It’s still bugging me”, he replied

“What’s bugging you now?”, Nathan asked as he sat up in bed, resolved that sleep right now wasn’t going to be an option.

“Terrence Edwards”, Michael replied. “I know that name is familiar from somewhere but I didn’t recognize seeing him. I’m usually great with faces but suck at names”.

“Maybe because you never get the names of all the tricks you pick-up at pickle park”, Nathan scoffed.

“Bitch”, Michael snarled back. “Like you’re not the patron saint of prostitutes and sluts on 7 continents,'' he bantered back, still continuing to scroll through his phone. “Here it is!” he exclaimed at last.

“What? He was on your ‘to do’ list?”, Nathan commented.

“No bitch, Terrance Edwards was the guy I hired to check up on the club,'' Michael explained. “I hired him through one of my contacts in DC, that’s why I didn’t recognize him, I never actually met him. It was all arranged through emails and text messages”, Michael continued.

“You hired him to kill a drag queen at our bar…?”, Nathan asked, seeming more confused than ever.

“No, no, no….”, Michael interrupted him. “I hired him to check out the club to see how business was, if things seemed to be running well, just kinda...whatever. I know the business looks alright on paper but I wanted to see how things were really going there. With us being bombarded about selling, I wanted to make a better informed decision”.

“Well, what did you find out?”, Nathan began drilling for an answer. “I love Thom too but the decision is basically ours, and you know my take on it.”

“Yeah, I know. You’ve wanted to unload the Griffin for years now. But I never heard anything back from him. Next thing I knew I’m on a plane here because some drag queen had been murdered in the bathroom.”

“You don’t think that Edwards guy had anything to do with it, do you?”, Nathan replied, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “Steven seems convinced he’s the one that rented his room at the Pilgrims Landing, and that he went out that night in drag…”

“No, I don’t think so but I think he may have gotten spooked. He probably saw the murder and tried to skip town before he got whacked, assuming the killer saw him”, Michael speculated.

“So why the drag?”, Nathan continued.

“Dunno… when in Rome?”, he answered decidedly.

“Hmpf, ok.” Nathan replied. “Now can we get some sleep?”.

“I guess we can go down to the station in the morning and ask him about the club and the murder”, Michael replied as he turned off the phone and placed it on the nightstand. “But what about the fire…?” he questioned aloud.

“It was hot, now go to sleep”, Nathan sarcastically demanded.

§

“He’s dead”, the doctor dryly announced almost ‘matter of factly’ as she emerged from side doorway leading down to the holding cell where Terrance Edwards had been placed.

Wallace looked up from the folders he’d been sifting through and groaned, “Great… just what we fucking need”, running his hand down his face to his chin. “Another dead body. They’re starting to pile up here like a friggin genocide. How’d he go Doc?”

“Well it’s hard to say for sure but I can only presume at this point that he died from his injuries of that car wreck. Suffocation from internal bleeding to his lungs maybe, I’d have to autopsy to be sure,” the doctor commented. “Not really bruising though where you’d expect for that kind of death from an accident”, she added.

“So what are you saying? Maybe he was murdered?”, Wallace stormed up.

“Well….” the doctor stammered. “it certainly is odd, I mean it kinda does raise a storm of suspicion, especially with everything else going on lately. His belly isn’t bruised or bloated and his neck and chest all look reasonable. Just his arm severely broken and the bruises from the seatbelt but that's normal and not usually a cause of death. Maybe a cranial hemorrhage, I just can’t say yet.”

Officer Peters stood silently in the doorway listening to the report. As a wave of panic drew over his body, he turned back down the hallway. “Gotta check the prisoner”, he commented over his shoulder, as if or in case anyone was paying any attention to him. At the end of the main hallway was a desk with another officer that kept track of anyone coming or going to the prisoner cells around the corner. “Ralph, has anyone been down here tonight?”

“Just that broad that was here to see Haynes”, he replied, scrolling down the logbook to reconfirm.

“What time?”, Peters quickly asked.

“Um…. “, he mumbled as his fingers found the entry. “She was here from 21:07 to 21:45”, he declared, turning the book around for Peters’ inspection.

“Fuck”, Peters sputtered, as he rushed back towards the exit. “Damned bitch better not have seen me but can’t take that chance”. As he briskly walked towards his cruiser, he began to reach for his phone. “Eh…”, he thought to himself. “I better just take care of things first, no need for Frank to even know there’s a problem until after its been fixed”, he resolved instead reaching for his revolver. “That bitch has been a pain in the ass since she got to town!”, he grumbled.