Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,2
police chief, Jerry Crosby, who assured her that no resources would be spared in the effort to solve the case.
“We’ve already issued a Missing Persons bulletin to the media,” the chief said. “I asked the state to do a Silver Alert, but—”
“Anybody can get a Silver Alert, even on the mainland,” Fay Alex sniffed. “Isn’t there a premium version for people like us? A Platinum Alert, something like that?”
“Silver is the highest priority, Mrs. Riptoad. However, it’s only for seniors who go missing in vehicles.” Crosby had learned the hard way never to use the term “elderly” when speaking with the Palm Beach citizenry. “Since Mrs. Fitzsimmons wasn’t driving the other night, the best they can do is a Missing Persons bulletin.”
Fay Alex said, “You didn’t give out her real age to the media, did you? There’s no call for that. And which picture of her did you post?”
“We’re required to list the age provided by her family. One of her sons sent us a photo from a family gathering on Christmas Day.”
“A morning picture? Oh, dear God.” Fay Alex groaned; noon was the absolute earliest that Kiki Pew allowed herself to be seen by civilians.
When the police chief inquired if Mrs. Fitzsimmons was known to use psychoactive drugs, Fay Alex threatened to have him sacked.
“How can you even ask such a vicious question?” she cried.
“A pill was found among your friend’s belongings, next to the fish pond. Actually, part of a pill. Our expert says it was bitten in half.”
“For heaven’s sake, Kiki was on blood-pressure meds. Who isn’t! She kept hers in a cute little Altoids tin.”
The chief said, “The fragment we found wasn’t high-blood pressure medicine. It was MDMA.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“On the street they call it Ecstasy, Mrs. Riptoad.”
“Ecstasy!” she yipped. “That’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard. Kiki Pew, of all the girls, wouldn’t have a clue where to get something like that.”
In fact, Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons knew exactly where to get something like that—from her tennis pro, with whom she had resumed bi-weekly lessons soon after Mott passed away. Kiki enjoyed the MDMA high, which lasted for hours and kept her energized even after too many drinks. She had come to believe that the pill gave her a strategic edge at posh island functions, where most attendees began to fade and ramble by nine-thirty, ten at the latest.
“One bad side effect of the drug,” Jerry Crosby explained to Fay Alex Riptoad, “is a sensation of overheating. Users tend to feel hot and sweaty even when it’s chilly outdoors. That might explain why Mrs. Fitzsimmons went into the water—to cool off.”
“Then where’s the body? I seriously doubt the koi ate her.”
“The pond is very murky. It’s possible our divers couldn’t see her under the surface. We’ll know for sure in a day or two, when…well, we’ll know.”
“Kiki Pew is not a druggie,” Fay Alex re-asserted, “and I won’t listen to another word of this insulting rubbish. Here’s a radical idea, Jerry: Just do your fucking job. Find her!”
That evening, the Potussies gamely dressed up and gathered at Casa Bellicosa. They left an empty chair where Kiki Pew Fitzsimmons usually sat, and ordered a round of Tito’s martinis in her honor. Other club members stopped by the table to express support and seek updates.
“Oh, I’ll bet our little Keek is just fine,” one man said to Fay Alex. “She probably got confused and wandered off somewhere. My dear Ellie does that from time to time.”
“Your dear Ellie has Stage 5 dementia. Kiki Pew does not.”
“The onset can be subtle.”
Fay Alex said, “Let’s all stay positive, shall we?”
“But I am,” the man replied, canting an eyebrow. “Being mixed-up and lost is positively better than being dead at the bottom of a fish pond, no?”
* * *
—
During the yard crew’s lunch break, Mauricio noticed that one of the large standing mowers had been abandoned, its throaty motor idling, on the Lipid House croquet lawn.
“Where the hell is Jesús?” Mauricio shouted to the others. “He knows he can’t leave the Hoosker there!”
Hoosker was the crew’s nickname for the big Husqvarna stand-on, twenty kick-ass horses and the sweetest turning radius in the trade.
“Jesús he gone,” said one of the men.
“What do you mean gone? He just quit and walked off?”
“Not walk. He run.”
“What the fuck,” Mauricio said. “Which way did he go?”
The man pointed.
Mauricio stared. “What are you saying—he climbed the damn wall?”
“He just jump from Hoosker and haul ass,” the man said.