He stomped down the sidewalk, steaming.
Which left me wondering: Who was the liar?
20
After reading a lot of overheated puffery about your new cook, you know what I’m craving? A little perspective.
—Ratatouille
I returned to my scooter, thinking it was definitely time to call the police and report on what I’d learned. But the idea of talking to Detective Bransford made me feel sick to my stomach. So I punched in Torrence’s number instead.
“It’s Hayley here,” I said when he answered. “I said I’d call if I heard anything and well, I have a few tidbits.” I told him how I’d run into Mrs. Rizzoli and how angry she seemed. And then how I’d discovered that she and Buddy Higgs had had an affair while her husband was busy with someone else.
“You just ran into Mrs. Rizzoli and she spilled out this story?” Torrence asked, a note of disbelief in his voice.
“At the gym,” I replied, all breezy. “People talk about all kinds of personal things to get their minds off sweating and suffering.”
“Is that right?” he asked after a moment of silence. “And the television show? Anything new there?”
“They’re pretty much all at each other’s throats,” I said. “This afternoon the contestants were accusing each other of spiking the food yesterday to eliminate their rivals.”
“Interesting,” said Torrence, “if a little far-fetched.”
“Just passing it on. For what it’s worth.” I had the feeling I was losing my credibility as a finder of useful tips. “Did you guys happen to bring in a homeless guy named Turtle today? I’m a little worried about him. He gets kind of crazy when he’s off his meds.”
“I know Turtle well,” said Torrence. “He hasn’t turned up on our radar—he hasn’t been arrested and he isn’t in the drunk tank. I would have heard about it. I’ll call you if I hear anything. And thanks.”
Since it was getting near the time for the sunset celebration, I decided to buzz down to Mallory Square and see if Tony was around. Maybe he’d run into Turtle over the course of the day. If so, I’d have one less thing on my mind.
When I reached the square, the crowd was still light, but beginning to build. As I emerged from the alley that runs along the Waterfront Playhouse, Lorenzo waved me down. I wove around the ropes marking off the fire-eater’s territory and stuffed a dollar into a pail beside a woman with long gray hair playing guitar and singing her heart out. She deserved a buck just for having that much nerve.
“You’re okay?” Lorenzo asked when I reached his table. His eyebrows arched almost to his turban. “I had a bad feeling today.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “What kind of bad feeling?” Not sure I wanted to hear.
He tapped his chest with his fist. “Heavy. Something ugly,” he said. “You be careful.”
If he wasn’t about the fourth man who had warned me this week, I could have laughed at his melodrama. “I will.” I ceded my place by his table to a thin woman in a tank top and short shorts. With the sun about to set and the temperature dropping, I felt cold just looking at her.
“I need to know about my boyfriend,” she said, and started to cry.
I slipped away, leaving him to his work, and skirted the edge of the square until I found Tony and his buddies.
“Good evening,” I said. “Has anyone seen Turtle since this morning?” I explained what I’d heard from Elsa about Turtle’s argument and how she hadn’t seen him since. “I checked in with the cops—they haven’t picked him up.”
“She checked in with the friggin’ cops? Who is she, Nancy friggin’ Drew?” muttered one of men seated along the ledge.
“Shut up, man,” Tony told him, and kicked at his sneaker with a worn cowboy boot. To me: “No, haven’t seen him.”
“Do you have any idea where he stays? Where he keeps his stuff?”
Tony rasped a hand over the stubble on his cheek and resettled his cowboy hat. “I think he’s got a little hidey-hole over at the end of Duval.”
“Thanks,” I said, and turned to go. Though how in the world I’d find him with those directions wasn’t at all clear.
He dropped his smoldering cigarette butt to the cement and ground it out. “Let me run over with you.” He doffed his hat at his friends. “Later, you sorry dudes.”
Tony shambled along ahead, me muttering “Sorry to bother you” and “he’s probably fine” in his wake. We passed the Ocean Key Resort and then the Pier House and finally reached the tiny beach at the very tip of Duval Street. Where would someone find a place to hide here? But Tony crashed through a row of palmetto bushes along the side of a building. I pushed in behind him, stung by the snap of a few sharp leaves, until we came to a makeshift lean-to made of cardboard and pieces of castoff wood. Tony got down on hands and knees and crawled into the opening, its dirt floor layered with newspaper. The headline about Toby Davidson’s rescue from the harbor was on top.