Free Quint Mitchell 01 - Matanzas Bay by Parker Francis Page B

balcony, recently whitewashed walls, and a narrow, shaded front yard. Two Shaker style rockers sat on the porch and a couple of hanging fern baskets filled in the space between the milled posts.
    I used the antique knocker to announce my arrival. Jarrod Watts opened the door almost immediately. He greeted me with his familiar bemused smile.
    “Good to see you again, Mr. Mitchell,” he said, shaking my hand in a crushing grip.
    “Hey, Jarrod. I wish you’d call me Quint, I’m not that much older than you.” He appeared to be about the age my brother Andrew would be if he were still alive.
    He looked at me as though calculating my age before smiling broadly. “Sure, Quint. You here to see Mr. Henderson?”
    “Is he home?”
    Before Watts answered, a voice behind him boomed, “Jarrod, how long do you intend to stand there with the door open? Either move your ass so I can get a good look at our visitor or pull him inside before he faints from that gawd-awful heat.”
    Henderson was obviously home.
    Watts rolled his eyes at the outburst as if it was something he’d heard many times before, but he moved his ass aside and gestured for me to come in. I stepped into a large open room with exposed wooden beams, a fireplace, polished hardwood flooring, and Clayton Ford Henderson sitting in a Louis XV chateau cane chair next to the stairwell.
    “Welcome to Martinez House, Quint. We’re pleased to share our humble abode with you.”
    “You’re looking good, Clayton. How’s the knee?”
    “Still setting off alarms in airports,” he said with a chuckle. “Actually it feels pretty good today. I’m only sittin’ because Jarrod just put me through a sadistic workout, and I needed to rest for a few minutes.” He pushed himself from the chair with a little effort and took a wobbly step forward to shake my hand.
    Henderson’s wavy white hair was perfectly groomed, and a mischievous twinkle appeared in his watery gray eyes when he smiled. With his Deep South accent and southern charm, I imagined him in a white linen suit, standing on the veranda of a massive plantation house surrounded by women in ball gowns and servants dispensing mint juleps.
    “I was hoping for a few minutes of your time.”
    “Of course, as much time as you want. Why don’t we go upstairs to my study?”
    I glanced at the short but steep flight of stairs and back to Henderson. “We can stay down here if it’s too much trouble for you.”
    “Nonsense, I’m fine. Don’t you worry about me. Besides, Jarrod keeps telling me I need more exercise.” He had one hand on the chair as he waved me off. “You go on up, don’t wait for me.”
    I took four or five steps before pausing to check on his progress. Three steps behind me, Henderson’s right hand gripped the railing as he carefully placed his leg on the next step. “What are you waitin’ for, Quint? I’ve climbed up and down these stairs a hundred times since my surgery. In fact, it’s been part of my daily—”
    His left leg seemed to have other ideas and slipped out from under him. Before I could move Henderson toppled backwards into the waiting arms of Jarrod Watts.
    His face paled, but Henderson quickly snapped into character. “Damn, Jarrod, you really are my knight in shining armor, boy. If I’d hit my head and croaked, I guess you’d be out of a job.”
    “That’s why I’m here, boss,” Watts said. He held the old man under his arms while Henderson steadied himself and grabbed the banister for extra support.
    Watts followed him to the top of the stairs. When we reached the landing, Henderson said, “See, I made it fine, Jarrod. Now stop actin’ like a mother hen and make us some Anastasia Island Iced Tea. Care to join me, Quint?”
    I raised my eyebrows. “Anastasia Island Iced Tea?”
    “Surely you don’t think I’d serve anything called Long Island Iced Tea in my house? My dear old granddaddy would send the ghost of Stonewall Jackson to render me a new one.”
    “I’ll