Death of The Old Man

By Karl Tutt

Death of The Old Man is the third book in the Ghostcatcher series. T.K. Fleming is the retired English professor who just can't seem to avoid getting mixed up in murder. His girlfriend Sunny is at his side again along with all of the colorful cast of characters that haunt Key West. Who is the Obi Man and how can the dead speak? Maybe T.K. can find out before an innocent girl dies and they 'steal his shadow' and his life. The mysteries defy conventional logic and the dangers are very real. Its a fast paced read chocked full of adrenalin and a series of baffling events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karl Tutt
• Release date: Apr 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311203939

Karl Tutt

Karl Tutt is a retired English teacher from a dropout prevention program in Florida. He is a veteran cruiser who has published several sailing articles in national publications. His two new offerings, The Children of the Wolf and The House at Hull, continue the mastery of murder and mayhem demonstrated in the Ghostcatcher series with T.K Fleming, and his female sleuth, Dee Rabow, in the Diabla series. Quick, engaging, and satisfying . . . those words describe the approach that has lured thousands of readers to the pages of his murder mysteries.

Book preview

DEATH

of the

OLD MAN

by

Karl Tutt

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Karl Tutt 2014

All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Death of the Old Man

Chapter 1

It was hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. A cliché, I know, but some Key West wag had done it, in fact, three of them, over easy on Duval Street. He ate a few bites and shared the rest with some stray cats and a rooster that had wandered over from one of the back streets. The tourists had mostly gone home, but there were enough crazy locals to watch and cheer or simply shake their heads. Another Key West street scene to join the pantheon of lunacy that permeated the capital of the Conch Republic. Amen, Brother.

Sunny and I were on the way back from Marathon. Steve Wilbur, an old sailing buddy, had bought half interest in the Marathon Marina on the west side of the cut that runs into Boot Key from the south. He had been bugging us all summer to see the improvements he had made. We finally decided it was time to get out of town, if only for a day. The place looked great, new docks, refurbished restrooms, and a fully air conditioned Captain’s Lounge with Wi Fi, computers, and a 60 inch LED TV. We ohhed and ahhed at all the appropriate junctures. I couldn’t help but wonder where he got the money. Last time I had seen him he was a down and out charter captain with an old Luhrs that was barely limping to and from the dock. Anyway, I was too polite to ask.

Sunny hugged Steve. I shook his hand and gave one more rave review. She and I pulled into the Seven Mile Grill on the way home. The fried grouper sandwich was succulent and a couple of frosty drafts slid down mighty easy.

We had the top down on the old Saab and the cassette was blaring Bruce Springsteen. Tramps like us, Baby, we were born to run. A1A was as quiet as it gets. Late August is the hump. It’s too damned hot for human beings. The kids are back in school. The natives are breathing heavy, holed up inside until the humidity eases up. The hurricane season is still in its infancy and the breezes of fall are teasing, promising to wash us back into the land of the living in a couple of months.

Clarence Clemmons was winding up his magnificent sax solo. I was pounding the beat on the dashboard and Sunny’s shoulders were swaying in time. We were just north of Stock Island on a stretch of road that isn’t lined with strip centers and souvenir stands. I saw him at a distance. Sunny has a foot that rivals any NASCAR champ. We were doing at least 75. When he staggered and almost stumbled into the sand, I reached over, touched her arm and pointed. She tapped the brakes, but we still went by in a blur. I turned down the stereo and looked back. Sunny slammed it in reverse and we wove backwards until we were beside him.

He stopped. He was trembling and trying to keep his feet. His skin was waxen, as gray as concrete and papery. It seemed to be melting on his face. Despite the fiery heat, he wasn’t sweating. His moth eaten flannel shirt waved lightly in the breeze.

You okay? I asked.

His eyes didn’t seem to focus, but they jumped out of his head like a giant fish that had been dying on the sun-baked dock. Glassy, pupils the size of pinpricks, no trace of life.

Can we give you a ride? Take you home?

He continued to shake and stare. His bloodless lips moved and whispered.

Dey steal my shadow. Coming soon.

Who? Family, friends?

Obi Man coming.

The dead eyes drilled into mine. Steal his shadow? Obi Man? I shook my head. I reached for the handle to open the door. With a herculean effort, he raised a bloodless palm like a stop sign and punched a spindly finger in the air, waving us down the road.

Okay, if you’re sure? I said. He nodded his head listlessly.

I looked at Sunny and raised my arms helplessly. She eased into the pedal and we were soon screaming toward Key West.

Jesus, he looked like a corpse. Did you notice he wasn’t sweating? Heat stroke, maybe. But he sure wasn’t going to get in the car. I hope his Obi-man shows up soon.

I was troubled, but if you want strange, south Florida is the place and Key West often crosses the border into bizarre. Soon Bruce was blasting again and it was all but forgotten. At least for now.

Chapter 2

We were blowing through the last few miles. Sunny handled the old Saab like Dale Earnhardt. She’d grown very quiet and the usual smile had faded.

Something bothering you? I asked.

"I don’t know. Maybe it’s the old man. He looked half past dead. It just got me thinking. I’m almost