“Killer would have to be some strong sonofabitch to haul him up that line,” said Turtle.
“Those boats have electric winches, you moron,” said Derek. “All you have to do is wind a rope around the poor bastard’s neck and then press a button.”
“Yeah, but you’d have to know what button to mash,” Turtle said, adding a shrill cackle of laughter. “And how about wrestling him onto the boat deck to begin with?”
“Why do you suppose he was dressed that way?” I asked, handing the phone back to Derek.
“It’s Key West, man,” said Turtle.
“Yeah, but it’s not Fantasy Fest or New Year’s Eve,” I said.
“That man liked to party,” said Derek. “Ask any of the regulars at his bar.” Then he squirted the deck near Turtle’s feet with the hose, causing him to yelp and hop out of range. “I gotta get my work done here, fellas. You all go yak somewheres else.”
I trotted off in search of my Cuban coffee, unable to get the hideous photograph out of my mind. Why was Rizzoli dressed in those clothes? What was up with the makeup and wig? Once I had my con leche in hand, I walked two blocks south to see if the pirate store might be open. If I was lucky, I could kill two birds with one stone: take some photos of the wedding garb for Connie, and talk to the staff about what I’d seen at the harbor. It was still none of my business, but the question nagged me. What if Toby was right? What if the contest was related to the murder?
A deeply tanned man with a shirt so tight I could see his washboard abs through the fabric unlocked the door to the shop as I arrived. I followed him inside, mesmerized by his bushy head of dreadlocks. My fingers twitched for scissors.
“We’re not open yet,” he said, looking pointedly at his watch. “I came in early to do some paperwork.”
“I’ll make it quick.” I flashed a friendly grin. “My girlfriend’s fiancé is interested in a pirate-themed wedding,” I told him. “I told her I’d stop by and get some information.”
He rustled through the shelves under the counter by the cash register and brought out a brochure listing options and packages.
“Usually the bride and groom wear pirate costumes, and they exchange vows in pirate lingo. The guests come dressed as scallywag crew members.” He hooted out: “Ho, ho, ho…”
“No offense meant to your business, but why? Why would someone want a pirate wedding?”
“Often these are second marriages, or third.” He grimaced and brushed a thick, snarled lock over his shoulder. “They want something different, something fun that reflects our island humor. Gallows humor, that’s what’s needed when you didn’t get the memo after your first divorce. Or second.”
I scribbled a few furious notes, hopeful that these details would deter Connie’s boyfriend. Then I wandered around the shop snapping photos. A lace gown with a lace-up corset on top and a long train, a short red skirt with a black beaded top…Was that meant to be worn by the maid of honor? Then I noticed an outfit hanging on the far wall for the groom—a V-necked shirt, bloomer pants, boots, and a cloak similar to the one Rizzoli had worn.
I returned to the counter. “Thanks so much for your help. I think I’ve gotten what I needed—at least a start.” How to segue into Rizzoli’s costume? I couldn’t think of an easy way so I blundered forward. “The cloak on the back wall…isn’t that what the man who was murdered the other night was wearing?”
“Was he?” The man stared for a minute, his mouth set in an unfriendly line. “You can get a cape like that anywhere.”
“I didn’t mean your store was involved in any way,” I said quickly. “It was so awful—I’m having trouble getting that image out of my mind. And it came back when I saw that costume.”
“It was gruesome,” he said, wagging his head somberly. “One of my customers told me the dead man’s hands were tied in front. That’s how they took care of criminals in the old days—hung the ones convicted of piracy and murder and then displayed their corpses to deter other miscreants from a life of crime. Though obviously Sam Rizzoli wasn’t convicted of anything—except in the mind of his killer.”
“So you knew him?”
“By reputation,” he said. “Rizzoli first, Key West second. Even his own wife didn’t like him much.”
The clerk’s phone rang. He answered, then pointed at the phone and shook his head. So I waved my thanks and headed home.
This information fit in with Bransford’s theories about why Rizzoli was killed: Someone believed he was selling out the town to benefit his own businesses and chose to punish him for it. Which seemed like the simplest explanation, though awfully convenient and generic. Wouldn’t committing a murder like this one take something more personal?