“She’s an old-fashioned cook’s cook,” I said, clicking on the link to her blog.
Eric read over my shoulder. “She says she uses cooking to conjure up folks from her past,” said Eric. “Interesting.”
“Here’s the publisher’s description of her memoir: ‘Ms. Davidson absorbed her grief by cooking her way through her husband’s favorite recipes, extruding the sadness into the pot roast with mashed potatoes and gravy, the coq au vin, the beef stew with beer and onions…’”
“You’re making me hungry all over again,” said Miss Gloria. “Although I’m not sure I’d want a sad pot roast.”
“I don’t see a motive for murdering Rizzoli, do you?” I asked Eric.
“Not personal anyway, unless he had something to do with her husband.” The little terrier whined and Eric glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get home. But the question is out there: Are the judges in danger?”
“Or are they dangerous?” added Miss Gloria.
23
The first time you see something that you have never seen before, you almost always know right away if you should eat it or run away from it.
—Scott Adams
I phoned the hospital first thing when I woke, intending to ask about Turtle’s condition. But once the canned “Welcome to the Lower Keys Medical Center” message began to play, I realized that I’d never heard him called anything but Turtle. Not a clue about his real name or his last name. I doubted I’d get any information with what I had, but I clicked through to the guest services line and asked the receptionist to check on a “Turtle Doe.”
“Sorry we don’t have anyone listed by that name,” she said.
I rolled out of bed, fed the cats, and slid into my running clothes, thinking that either Derek or Elsa might know Turtle’s real name. Although based on what Elsa had told me yesterday, I worried that Derek was the one who’d beaten Turtle to a bloody heap. I certainly wouldn’t mention that when I saw him—generally starting out with an accusation did not produce much new information.
I puffed slowly over to Old Town harbor, feeling every repetition of every exercise Leigh the trainer had put me through yesterday—right through my skin to my muscles and then down to the bone. As I reached the water, Derek had finished washing the party boat and begun to coil up his hose.
“Looks like another beautiful day in paradise!” I called out.
He grunted and slung the hose onto a peg at the edge of the dock. I stopped right in front of him so he couldn’t avoid me and watched his face carefully. “You probably heard that Turtle’s in the hospital?”
His gaze flicked up to meet mine. Then he backed away and began to tie up a bag of trash from the boat. “I heard.”
“Tony and I found him, over at the end of Duval.”
“I heard.”
“Any idea what happened?”
“Someone beat the crap out of him,” he said, emphasizing crap. “Knowing Turtle, he probably drove them to it. But don’t ask me a damn thing about it because I don’t know anything.” He scowled and turned his hose on again and began to squirt the dock near the boat. “I got work to do here, if you don’t mind.”
I hopped back to get out of reach of his spray, which came dangerously close to my sneakers. “Do you have any idea what his real name is? I wanted to check on him, but of course he’s not listed at the hospital as Turtle.”
“John Sampson,” he said, and stomped away. He called over his shoulder: “Hope they find who did it before they finish what they started.”
I headed toward the Cuban Coffee Queen, puzzling over his reaction. Honestly, he didn’t look like a guy who’d bludgeoned someone to within an inch of his life. Yes, he was irritable and short-tempered. But he was more likely to drench Turtle with his hose than beat him with it.
With my tall con leche in hand, I walked back to houseboat row. Was Turtle still in danger as Derek implied? I hadn’t consciously considered that, though the possibility would explain why I’d woken up worried. But surely the cops would keep an eye on a victim of that much violence—even if he was one of the throwaway homeless.
Wouldn’t they?
My stomach began to churn as I faced the facts. From the glimpse I’d gotten of Turtle yesterday, the beating wasn’t meant casually—it hadn’t come after a small fracas or minor difference of opinion. They’d meant to finish him off, rather than teach him a lesson.
I punched Eric’s number into my phone. He answered on the third ring, sounding groggy.
“Hope I didn’t wake you,” I said, to try to be polite. Then I told him about what Derek had said about Turtle, and all the details I’d noticed about his body language. “I used to think I was a good judge of character,” I said. “But Chad lied through his teeth and I didn’t pick that up until way too late. So if someone’s lying, what kind of body language would you watch for?”