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on a bright spring day, we sat in a bar overlooking the water, and remembered Connie. We told funny stories about her, some larger than the reality, and mourned her in our way. We said goodbye to a woman we all liked, knowing that soon she would begin to fade into the evermore dimming recesses of our memories.

Chapter 5 
    Summer comes quickly in Southwest Florida. One day the humidity drops in like an unwelcome guest, bringing wet air that causes people to sweat as soon as they leave the air conditioning. The sea breezes cross the coasts on both sides of the peninsula driving the thunderstorms that bring the daily rain that, for a time, cools the afternoons.
    That year, Summer arrived in mid-May. There had been no rain, and over in the middle of the state forest fires raged. There was turmoil in the middle east, the Democrats and Republicans were fighting over tax cuts in Washington, and a young Midwestern governor named George Wentworth, the son of a former United States Senator, was making his run for the Republican presidential nomination, even though the nominating convention was more than a year away.
    It had been a month since Connie’s death, and the island had hardly burped over it. Life moved on. The world does not intrude loudly on Longboat Key, and in a place with as many old people as these islands, death was familiar. I missed Connie, but every day she receded further into my memory. Once in a while, I would walk into a bar, knowing the local crowd would be there on that particular day, and be momentarily surprised at Connie’s absence. We didn’t talk about her much, except to occasionally wonder who could have murdered her.
    There had been a flurry of articles in the daily newspapers over on the mainland in the first week after her murder. I read that the police had found Connie’s apartment undisturbed. Her car was parked in her reserved space in the apartment parking lot. There was no sign of a struggle in the car. There were no leads on the perpetrators. It was a real life mystery that caused a lot of gossip on the key. The island weekly ran an article about her death, and the next week a follow up personality profile in which I was quoted. A columnist in Sarasota, who seemed to hate policemen in general and Longboat Key policemen especially, ran a couple of columns castigating law enforcement for not finding the murderer. Logan was never mentioned.
    Logan had stayed at my condo for a couple more days until he got a call from Chief Lester telling him he could move back to his own place. On Monday Logan left Sarasota-Bradenton airport on his next business trip and returned to the island on Friday. He and everyone else settled back into their routines.
    On a bright morning, the third Saturday in May, Chief Lester called me at home. He didn’t waste any words. “Matt, late yesterday the Manatee County grand jury indicted Logan for the murder of Connie Sanborne. Banion and I are heading to his place to arrest him. I thought you would want to be there.”
    “What? You can’t be serious.” I said, stunned.
    “Dead serious, Matt. We’re leaving the station now.”
    I was wearing shorts, boat shoes and a tee shirt from the key’s most recent annual St. Jude’s festival. I headed for Logan’s, thinking that this was a chickenshit thing for the State Attorney to do. Logan could not possibly get before a judge for a bail hearing before Monday. He would have to spend at least two nights in the lockup. Then it occurred to me that if the State Attorney took the case to a grand jury rather than filing an information, it would be a first degree murder indictment. It was almost impossible to get a judge in Florida to set bail on a murder one case. Logan would probably have to stay in jail until the trial.
    I arrived at Logan’s place just as the chief and Banion drove up in an unmarked car. I shook hands with both and asked, “What the hell is this all about, Bill? I thought everyone was convinced that Logan