“Excuse me, sir.”
Sam looked up at the stewardess who had spoken to him and realized that the plane was almost entirely empty. He apologized and made his way down the aisle.
After picking up his rental car and driving to the motel he’d booked on Siesta Key, Sam checked in, then changed into a pair of lightweight chinos and a light blue short-sleeved polo. It felt good to be temporarily back in tropical weather, the warm air heavy with an impending afternoon storm. He had talked with Cynthia Hopkins, Frank’s older sister, on the phone twice, once to ask her questions, and once to arrange this visit. She had told him during both phone calls that she had hearing issues and wasn’t good on the phone, and that was the reason for Sam making the trip. He knew it was probably a waste of time, but he’d taken the two days off anyway, booking a round-trip flight from Portland to Sarasota that included a stayover. Cynthia was expecting him at four in the afternoon. It was two o’clock now, and the motel he’d booked was within walking distance of Cynthia’s house. He decided to go for a walk down toward the beach.
At exactly four o’clock Sam rang the doorbell of Frank Hopkins’s sister’s house. It was a bungalow with pink stucco siding; the shabby front yard was packed dirt decorated with a few patches of yellow grass. The door opened six inches and Cynthia Hopkins peered out. Her round face was a mass of wrinkles, the skin patchy with sun damage.
Sam, unsure of whether she was going to remember this planned visit, said, “Mrs. Hopkins, I’m Detective Sam Hamilton. We spoke on the phone.”
“I remember,” she said, swinging the door all the way open and inviting him in. “I don’t hear as well as I used to but I’m not forgetful. Not yet, anyway.”
She led him through the overly warm house and to a screened-in patio where she indicated a wicker chair for Sam to sit on. “What can I get you?” she asked.
“Nothing, unless you’re having something yourself.”
“I should have had you come at five because that’s when I like to have a gin and tonic.”
“Don’t let me stop you. We can pretend it’s five o’clock.”
“No. I’ll wait. When you get to be my age it’s important to have set rituals.” She sat down across from him on an identical chair and crossed one leg over another. She was wearing white pants and a flowery blouse under a pink cardigan. She didn’t look much like Frank, Sam thought; for one thing, she was taller than he was, more weather-beaten, her face almost simian with all her wrinkles.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” Sam said.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice gravelly, and Sam imagined that the deep lines on her face had been caused not just by Florida sun but by a lifetime of cocktail hours and cigarettes.
“Were you close?”
“No, we were never very close, but we never fought, or anything like that. I was the quiet, studious child, and he was gregarious, like both our parents. They all loved the hotel business, and I couldn’t think of anything worse. Imagine living somewhere where there are constant houseguests. As soon as I could I moved to Boston and got a job at Houghton Mifflin—it’s a publishing company—and that is where I met my husband. Like me, he was content with a less sociable life. We never had children, but we sure read a lot of books.”
“Your husband is …”
“He died in 2003, just a few years after we’d moved ourselves permanently down here to Siesta Key. Frank made his only visit to see me right after Patrick died. He promised to come for another trip but never had the time, I suppose. That’s what happens when you run a hotel. Have you discovered who killed him, my brother?”
Sam, surprised by the sudden question, said, “No. But whoever did kill your brother is killing other people as well. Their names were all on a list together.”
“That makes some sense, because I struggled through a very hard-to-follow phone conversation with another policeman who asked me a list of names, none of which were remotely familiar to me.”
“Do you mind if I ask you again?” Sam said.
“What? The names? I don’t mind but I doubt any of my answers have changed.”
Sam recited the names—he had them memorized—and she appeared to think about each one, eventually telling him that the names meant nothing to her.
“I hope that’s not all you came down here to do,” she said.
“No, actually. I wanted to ask you about the history of the Windward, to ask you if you remember any scandals happening in its past, anything out of the ordinary.”