When Bobbie Sang the Blues (19 page)

She opened her purse and scrambled for the notepad where she kept numbers. A horn beeped, and someone yelled. She was drifting into the oncoming lane of traffic.

“Sorry,” she mouthed as the irritated driver weaved past her. She pulled into a parking lot and cut the engine. She didn’t need to kill herself or someone else over a hunch.

She opened her cell and dialed Roseann Cole’s cell.

“Hello.”

“Roseann, it’s Christy Castleman. I need to tell you something. I found out those guys in the black Mercedes have left town and are headed back to Memphis.”

There was no reply from the other end.

“I don’t know if this concerns you, but I just thought you should keep an eye out, in case a black Mercedes with two guys in it starts following you around.”

“You mean…” Roseann began to breathe rapidly. “Momma just told me she saw danger in my path. Between you and her, I’m getting the shakes.”

“I don’t want to upset you, Roseann. I’m just trying to cover every base here. I still think they’re involved in Eddie’s death.”

“You’re just trying to get your aunt off,” she snapped.

Christy suspected she needed to vent her fear. “Well, you can think whatever you like. I meant well by calling you.”

“I can take care of myself,” Roseann said. “I may not hang around Memphis anyway.”

“Where would you go?” Christy asked, watching an elderly couple walk down the street holding hands.
Does love really last that long?
she wondered, trying not to think of Dan. She realized Roseann had replied. “I’m sorry. I’m in traffic. What did you say?”

“I said I always wanted to live in California, and now I can.”

An older woman’s voice yapped loudly in the background, and Roseann yelled, “Momma, hush! I gotta go,” she said to Christy and hung up.

With a sigh, Christy dropped her cell phone in her purse. What did Roseann mean,
And now I can
? Eddie must have had a life insurance policy, and Roseann must be the beneficiary. Christy wondered how much he had left her. The poor woman probably deserved it after all she’d been through with Eddie Bodine.

Christy concentrated on driving. The snowbirds were out
walking, people her age were running, and the rest of the population was in automobiles heading in one direction or another.

Christy left Front Beach Road at the first cut-through and weaved slowly down several blocks. She had memorized Panada’s address, and now she checked the beach map in the passenger seat. She saw she’d reached his neighborhood, and she found his street, so it was just a matter of searching for number 1201.

Midway down the block of impressive homes, she found it. Her gaze scanned the sprawling house and immaculate grounds. Not even a blade of the gardener’s perfect grass quivered. The sweeping driveway was lined with decorative urns filled with harsh-looking plants. Cactus? Tony was obviously not a flower man. The door of the double garage on the front of the house stood open, and Christy spotted a white Rolls-Royce. Did Tony Panada skip work on Mondays?

Taking a deep breath, she turned into the driveway. She put her cell phone in her pocket and tugged at her cap again, in the unlikely event he might have seen her around Hornsby’s units. She left her purse and all her identification in the car.

Getting into character, she opened the door, swung her legs around, and stood gracefully, in case anyone watched from a window. She planted a wedge heel on each of the three wide steps of his porch and faced the door with false confidence.

A narrow pane of glass flanked each side of the imposing door, which looked as though it had been imported from London. The beveled panes surprised her. She had assumed Mr. Panada wanted
complete privacy. But then, the glass served a dual purpose, affording him the opportunity to choose the visitors he admitted to his domain.

She drew a breath and pressed the doorbell.

Somewhere in the depths of the cavernous house, she heard a dog barking. A deep bark that meant business. Soon the wedge-shaped head of a Doberman pinscher appeared in one of the glass panes. His square, muscular body filled the window as he growled at her with rage in his eyes, his lips pulled back to reveal long, sharp teeth.

Christy took a step back, feeling her heightened resolve and false confidence pierced by aggressive teeth. Footsteps resounded on a tile floor, and a man in a lounging jacket appeared from behind the Doberman, his head tilted curiously.

Christy smiled. “Hi, I just need to talk to you for a minute,” she called, hoping he could hear her through the door. “I was headed to your office when I saw your car and decided to speak to you personally. We’re having a big party.” A typical, self-centered airhead—that’s how she sounded. He’d probably give her a withering look and walk away.

The lock turned, and the door opened just enough for her to feel the deep penetration of cold, gray eyes on her skin. Flat, expressionless eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He had probably been checking his stock in the
New York Times
while sipping a martini.

“You want to speak to me about invitations?” His long nose twitched slightly.

Christy nodded, feeling her nerves wind into a square knot in the pit of her stomach. “I know it’s rude to show up at your house like
this. I mean, I should have called. But I saw your address in the phone book, and…well…I just have one little question to ask.” She was the prize airhead, but that was the way she had decided to play it.

His lips were as gray as his face. This was not a guy who sunbathed. “Can’t you call my shop and ask the people who handle that sort of thing?”

No, Tony Panada, I cannot.

She decided to stick with the story she’d given his receptionist, although Panada looked anything but gullible. She swallowed. “Daddy’s throwing a party at the club for my engagement, and I just need to know the largest number of invitations you can print in the shortest amount of time. And how quickly can we get the invitations? He said I should talk with the owner. I’d be more likely to get the job done.”

The Doberman continued to snarl, and Panada looked down in irritation. “Let me take William to the kitchen so we can speak in a calmer atmosphere.” His manner seemed to have changed slightly. Christy had found the subject of money to be the quickest and easiest door opener in most circumstances, and this proved no exception.

If Panada invited her inside, should she go? She stuck her hand in her pocket, gripping her cell. Her plans hadn’t gone beyond this moment, but she had inched too far out on the tightrope to crawl backward now.

S
he stood on his stoop for five minutes, long enough for her nerves to start pricking at her skin like mosquitoes. Panada was back, minus the lounging jacket. He wore a chartreuse polo shirt she didn’t care for and startlingly white Dockers with European loafers.

“Won’t you come in?” he asked. “It must be awfully hot out there.”

“My parents are expecting me for lunch,” she replied, thinking fast, “but since you’re nice enough to answer my questions, I can stay for a few minutes.”

Cautiously, she stepped inside the foyer, aware he was looking her over. Just as Eve had faced the snake and regretted biting into the apple, the same apprehension touched Christy now. She swung her head around to look him in the eye.

He stared at her body the way she’d seen men survey an assortment of steaks in the meat department. There was something very sinister about him, so she said nothing. She just waited for him to speak.

“Won’t you come into the den?” he asked, motioning to his right.

Said the spider to the fly
, she thought, gathering her wits. “Am I disturbing you?” she asked. “Are you and your wife having lunch?”

He sneered at that. “I’ve never been married. I suppose I enjoy looking around too much to be tied down to one woman.”

“Interesting,” she said coolly, cautiously approaching his den, a room that would make a
House Beautiful
living room look shabby. She noticed an open scrapbook on the coffee table. Obscene photographs assaulted her vision, and with a gasp she looked away.

Panada moved around her like a cheetah, grabbing the book and placing it in a drawer and waving absently for her to take a seat. She gritted her teeth and sank into the nearest sofa. Her fingers slid over the smooth leather, soft as a baby’s skin. She pretended an interest in the sofa so he would think she hadn’t seen his photographs.

Watching him move around the room, she could see his thinness was deceptive. Like his Doberman, he could spring with power and rage, if necessary. How unattractive he was, with his big ears and nose and the sneering smile and offensive eyes. He didn’t even bother to conceal his open stares. Every nerve and instinct silently screamed,
Run!

Instead, she reached deep inside herself for the iron will and competitive nature that had served her in sports, as a star on her high school track team. Her determination had propelled her to the end of the event, even though she sometimes passed out when she crossed the finish line. But she always won.

Recalling those days reinforced her resolve, and she directed her gaze to a grouping of black-and-white photographs on the opposite wall. Other groupings were scattered about, and a painting she immediately recognized as valuable hung above the fireplace.

“Those are wonderful,” she said, looking again at the black-and-whites. They were portraits of girls—young girls dressed in skimpy bathing suits, innocently frolicking on the beach below his house.
What a creep
. He must have passed his time sitting in a comfortable lounge chair on a shaded patio, clicking away with his telephoto lens.

“My passion is photography,” Panada said, his voice warming to the subject. “My printing business merely supports my passion.”

“Oh.” She faced him, plunging into another act. “I’d like to take a course in photography. I’m not very good,” she said, reminding herself to be Daddy’s little girl, out to get her invitations done in record time.

“I have hundreds of phots in my studio, with different people and poses. May I offer you a tour?”

“I don’t have time today,” she said, standing. “And I’ve already imposed on you.” She watched his eyes narrow, and in her mind, she counted steps to the front door. “What kind of camera do you like?” she asked, hoping to divert his thoughts.

“I have several.” He described his favorite, special ordered from New York, where he visited the galleries every year. “Of course, I also have the new digital cameras with all the fancy trappings.”

“Do you use a telephoto lens for some of your shots? I’ve tried to capture the surf rolling in at sunset but can never get in the right position.”

“Telephoto lenses are a must if you’re trying to pull an object closer.” He looked her over. “Do you ever pose?” he asked. “I would love to photograph you.”

“Under a sun umbrella?” she asked innocently, knowing that wasn’t at all what he meant.

“I see you lying near the surf, having the water spray over you, wearing a tiny bikini or—”

“Oh, look at the time!” she said, indicating the clock. “I’m afraid we’ve strayed from my reason for bothering you. Daddy’s waiting for me to call him. He says your shop does the best work in town, so naturally I want to get my invitations done there. But how many and how long?” she asked, pulling out her cell phone.

His eyes grew cold as he looked at the cell phone in her hand. Then he peered at her, his eyes boring into her, as if trying to read her mind.

She smiled. “Do you think two hundred invitations could be done in, say, three days?”

“Depends on the type of invitation you want,” he replied coolly. “You’ll need to talk with my office manager about that.” His hard exterior cracked a bit, his lips curling at the corners in the semblance of a grin. “But I could tell her I’m photographing you.”

She snapped her fingers. “What a great idea! Would you consider—I mean, would it insult you—if I asked you to photograph some of the people at our party?”

The fake grin disappeared. “I don’t do parties. I do photographs for my own pleasure.”

She nodded. “I understand. Well, may I say again that I think
you have extraordinary talent.” Thank goodness he wasn’t in her path to the door. “Since I’ve intruded, do you think I can call Daddy and tell him we can depend on your company doing our invitations? I’ll keep the design simple. In fact, maybe I’ll meet with your office manager and ask for her suggestions.”

He shrugged. “That would be best.” He followed her to the door. “Her name is Isabella. She knows more about party invitations than I do. But I can assure you that our work will be to your satisfaction.”

She reached the door, and with her hand on the golden handle, she looked over her shoulder. “I have no doubt of that,” she said. “By the way, where did you study photography? You sound like you’re from the East.”

“I’ve lived all over the world,” he said, his manner distinctly condescending.

“Then you must have some wonderful photographs. Have you ever been to Italy? I understand the colors are spectacular.”

He nodded and seemed to relax for a moment. “Yes, the mellow light in Tuscany is exquisite. Someday, when you have more time, you can visit my studio and see my photographs. My best ones are back there.”

I’ll bet
, she thought.

“Great,” she said, pushing the door open. “Thanks so much for reassuring me about the invitations. Now I can tell Daddy to get his money together.”

Christy could feel him watching her all the way to her car. She whirled, remembering the reason she had come before becoming
totally distracted by the possibility of pornography. “By the way, are you related to Joe Panada? We just met him a few days ago.”

“Joe Panada,” he repeated, then shook his head. “Afraid not, although it’s not a name you hear in Summer Breeze every day.”

“He isn’t from Summer Breeze,” she said and waited.

He shook his head. “Don’t know him.”

“Just a coincidence, I guess.” She hopped in her car and started the engine, then backed into the street. When she glanced at the house, he was still standing in the door, staring after her.

The minute she got home, Christy rushed into the office, powered up the computer, and opened her criminal database. She had to find out if Tony Panada had been in trouble over pornography. If he hadn’t, it was only a matter of time. The scrapbook of obscene photographs had left her sick to her stomach. It had taken an iron will to remain in his house a second longer, but she knew if she rushed out, it would signal that the scrapbook had bothered her.

She tried three different background approaches, even rearranging his name. Nothing came up.

Leaning back, she slammed her palm against the arm of the chair. Somewhere in the dark caverns of crime, Tony Panada lurked like a black spider.

Joey Panada. Houston Downey. The guys in the black Mercedes from Memphis. Remembering she had their addresses in her pants pocket, she ran checks on both men.

Joey had been arrested in the nineties for assault and battery She looked at the photo and saw the face of the tall man in the restaurant.

She found nothing on Houston Downey.

She printed out the information on Joe Panada and reached in the bottom drawer of her desk for a file folder. Then she dialed Big Bobs home phone.

A voice she didn’t recognize answered. When she asked to speak with Deputy Arnold, the woman introduced herself as Bob’s mother. “I’m here from Mobile to housesit for them. Bob needed a few days off after all he’s been through with this murder case. Now that an arrest has been made, he took the family down to Disney World for a few days.”

“Oh.” Christy’s hopes sank. She was tired of hitting dead ends everywhere she turned. “Well, thank you very much. Have a nice stay.”

Joe Panada’s face still filled the computer screen. This Panada didn’t resemble the one she’d just left. Was it possible they weren’t related after all?

Nah
, she said to herself. She wouldn’t believe a word Tony Panada said. She did believe the signs she’d read on his face and in his fancy house.

Before she shut down the program, her eyes landed on another heading: “FBI Most Wanted.” She double-clicked the link and viewed the list of men and the terrible things they had done. Her eyes inched down the mug shots. Halfway down the screen, a man with a thick, red-brown beard and shaggy brown hair faced her. She
frowned and tilted her head, studying the large nose. Then the eyes. She didn’t remember the color of Tony Panada’s eyes, but they were cold and calculating like the eyes in this man’s face. Did he have big ears? She couldn’t see his ears through all the shaggy brown hair.

The phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID. A blocked number. She let it ring, but no one spoke on the answering machine. Probably telemarketing.

She read the man’s profile. His name was Searcy Jance. The rap sheet listed numerous arrests for child pornography. Born into a wealthy family, he used his money to buy children from poor families. The hideous charges included rape, molestation, and on and on. Considered brilliant, he had escaped prison with two other inmates in September of 1995. The others were shot in the process, but Jance was never caught.

The phone rang again. She read the blocked number and decided to answer. Heavy breathing filled her ears, followed by an obscene comment.

Christy slammed the phone down. The voice sounded like Tony Panada.
Don’t jump to conclusions
, she thought.
He didn’t know who I was
.

Turning back to the screen, she reread the information about Jance. September 1995. For eleven years this sicko had been on the loose.

The house was too quiet, too still. She jumped at every sound. Christy got up and looked through her kitchen window. Her backyard was deserted. She went into her living room and lifted
the curtain. Aside from the usual traffic, nothing appeared out of order. She dropped the curtain and returned to her computer.

She printed out Jance’s information and leaned over to remove the paper from the printer tray. A thud sounded at her front door. She frowned and got up again. She didn’t see anyone when she peered out the curtain, so she went to the peephole and looked out. No one in sight.

Resisting the urge to unlock the door, she hurried through the house, looking out every window. No breeze stirred the trees, so the sound hadn’t been the wind. When she looked through the pane of her back door, her screen door stood ajar. Hadn’t she locked it?

Fear shot through her like an electric shock. Someone was trying to scare her. Panada?

She went to the bedroom and packed an overnight bag. She turned on the fluorescent light over the kitchen sink and grabbed her purse and keys. Then she hesitated. Was someone waiting for her outside?