Holidays Are Murder
Charlotte Douglas
THE HOLIDAYS?DON'T YOU JUST LOVE 'EM?Been overstressed at work? Ever wish the holidays would go on an extended vacation? Worried about finding the perfect gift? Or had unresolved conflicts with family that drive you up the wall?Detective Maggie Skerritt is every woman who's been there, done that.She also excels at her work, doesn't eat right or get enough sleep and loves to have someone else do her cooking. But her job is murder and she strives to make her city safe. In the process, she gathers her courage to risk loving again.But first she has to make it through Thanksgiving, Christmasand another murder in Pelican Bay.
Youre not really into this, are you?
I sighed. Bill knew me too well. Ive never been a big fan of Christmas, not even as a kid.
Thats hard to believe. What kid doesnt like Christmas?
My mother always hijacked the holiday.
Your family didnt celebrate?
We celebrated all right, in my familys own inimitable way.
Bill pulled me toward him and tipped my chin with his finger until our eyes met. You dont have to do this he nodded toward the box with my Mrs. Claus costume if you dont want to.
I hesitated. Part of me wanted to take the out hed given me and run.
Youve been telling me I need to lighten up and have some fun. So Ill give it my best shot, I said, determined to enjoy myself.
Even if it killed me.
Charlotte Douglas
USA TODAY bestselling author Charlotte Douglas, a versatile writer who has produced over twenty-five books, including romances, suspense, gothics and even a Star Trek novel, has now created a mystery series featuring Maggie Skerritt, a witty and irreverent homicide detective in a small fictional town on Floridas central west coast.
Douglass life has been as varied as her writings. Born in North Carolina and raised in Florida, she earned her degree in English from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and attended graduate school at the University of South Florida in Tampa. She has worked as an actor, a journalist and a church musician and taught English and speech at the secondary and college level for almost two decades. For several summers while newly married and still in college, she even manned a U.S. Forest Service lookout in northwest Montana with her husband.
Married to her high school sweetheart for over four decades, Douglas now writes full-time. With her husband and their two cairn terriers, she divides her year between their home on Floridas central west coasta place not unlike Pelican Bayand their mountaintop retreat in the Great Smokies of North Carolina.
She enjoys hearing from readers, who can contact her at charlottedouglas1@juno.com.
Holidays are Murder
Charlotte Douglas
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader,
Christmas in west central Florida isnt exactly a Currier and Ives event. We still celebrate with family and friends, but we make our snow angels in white sugar sand instead of the frozen white stuff. Poinsettias grow in the landscape as well as sprouting in pots in the produce aisle and at the florists. And weve been known to crank up the air-conditioning in order to roast our chestnuts on an open fire. Floridians, as Bill Malcolm will show you, adapt creatively to Yuletide celebrations in the land of palm trees, sunshine and surf.
Like many of us, Maggie Skerritt has a lot on her plate for the holidays. I hope youll enjoy her at her bestand worstin Holidays Are Murder, and that youll return to Pelican Bay in March 2006 for Spring Break, when Maggie matches wits with murderers again.
Happy reading, and happy holidays!
Charlotte Douglas
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 1
The phone rang at 12:30 a.m., awakening me from a deep sleep.
Give me a break, Darcy, I complained to the night dispatcher whod called. Im still on vacation.
Sorry, Maggie. According to the chief, youre back on the clock as of midnight.
George Shelton, Pelican Bays chief of police and certifiable closet redneck, had been the bane of my existence for the past fifteen years, so his attitude didnt surprise me. I scribbled the address Darcy gave me and hurried to dress.
Ten minutes later, with a bad case of bedhead and my body screaming for caffeine, I drove east along Main Street, deserted except for the crowded parking lot at the Blue Jay Sports Bar.
Pelican Bay, a picture-postcard retirement town and tourist mecca on Floridas central west coast, is populated primarily by retirees and snowbirds from the northern States and Canada, and few are night owls. Once the sun sets and television enters prime time, you might as well roll up the sidewalks, because no one ventures outaside from a few of the younger folks and the occasional criminals.
The criminals are where I come in. Ive been a cop for over twenty-two years and a detective with the Pelican Bay Police Department for the past fifteen, and being hauled out of bed after midnight was making early retirement seem more alluring by the minute.
The address Darcy had given me turned out to be a pizza place in a strip mall a few miles west of U.S. Highway 19, the main artery that bisected the county from Tarpon Springs at the north to the Sunshine Skyway Bridge at the mouth of Tampa Bay. All of the strip stores were dark except the center one, Mama Mias Pizzeria. Lights blazed from the large plate-glass windows and illuminated a scattering of bistro tables and chairs in what was primarily a take-out joint.
I parked my twelve-year-old Volvo in a diagonal parking space between a Pelican Bay Police Department cruiser and the sheriffs crime scene unit van, clipped my shield to the pocket of my blazer and climbed out.
A crescent moon hung high in the east and palm fronds rustled above the parking medians lush floral landscaping, but a chill wind, compliments of a late November cold front, dispersed any semitropical illusions. I hurried into the pizzeria, as much to escape the cold as from any burning desire to fight crime.
Dave Adler, whod been assigned as my partner at the beginning of the weight-loss clinic murders six weeks ago, met me at the door. Looking rested, bright-eyed and young enough to be my son, he greeted me with a grin. How was your vacation, Detective Skerritt?
At least Id finally broken him of the habit of calling me maam.
Terrific, I lied.
During the past two weeks Id spent several pleasant hours on the beaches of Caladesi Island and the deck of a cabin cruiser owned by Bill Malcolm, my former partner when I first became a cop with the Tampa P.D. twenty-two years ago. But for the remainder of my vacation, Id been bored out of my gourd. Accustomed to working 24/7 in our understaffed CIDCriminal Investigation Departmentfor a decade and a half, Id forgotten how to relax and enjoy myself. Without new or cold cases to occupy my mind, I had wandered my waterfront condo, restless and unable to concentrate, even on the popular novels I was so fond of.
New hairdo? Adler asked.
I resisted the urge to wipe the teasing grin off his too young, too handsome face. What have we got?
Armed robbery.
Anyone hurt?
Adler shook his head. The owners shook up. She was the only one here.
Mama Mia?
He nodded, then jerked his head toward a door behind him. Shes back there.
I crossed the room, heavy with the smell of onions and Italian spices, rounded the take-out counter and entered the office at the back.
Steve Johnson, the patrolman who had responded to the 911 call, stood beside a woman who huddled in a desk chair and was trying to light a cigarette with trembling fingers. Johnson, big and beefy with a paunch that didnt need supplementing, stuffed the last of a slice of cold pizza into his mouth. Hey, Maggie. Thith ith Maria Ridoletthi, thowner.
Maria Ridoletti? I clarified. Johnsons full mouth had made me guess at the correct pronunciation.
Johnson swallowed hard. Yeah. Ill be out front if you need me.
Keep your hands in your pockets and your mouth closed. For all I know, you just consumed evidence. I smiled to take the bite out of my criticism. Johnson wasnt the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but his heart was in the right place. However, with the department under siege by a city council lobbying to shut us down and save taxpayer money by contracting with the county sheriff to take over policing Pelican Bay, we couldnt afford any screw-ups.
His pudgy face flushed with embarrassment, Johnson slid past me to the door and left me alone with Mama Mia.
You want to tell me what happened? I asked.
Maria Ridoletti was far from my image of an Italian mother. Midthirties, rake thin with stringy dark hair, narrow face and a body that looked as if shed never eaten pizza or much of anything else, she stared up at me with dazed, black-lined eyes. I was robbed.
By a customer?
She shook her head. Id already closed and locked up for the night. I was just beginning to count the days receipts for the night deposit when I looked up and found him standing right where you are now. When he saw me, he jumped, like he hadnt expected anyone to be here.
Was he someone you recognized?
Maria nodded.
I dug deep for patience and asked, Who was he?
Bill Clinton.
Who? Somewhere in my sleep-deprived brain, Bill Clintons appearance at a pizza parlor made perfect sense. Especially since Mickey Ds had closed for the night.
You know, Maria said. Bill Clinton, the former president.
I was about to call the CSU tech to bag what she was smoking when she explained.
It was a mask, like on Halloween.
A big man?
She shook her head. A runt, no bigger than me. But he kept one hand in his pocket and acted like he had a gun. So I didnt argue when he ordered me to hand over the cash.
Youre sure it was a man?
She closed her eyes a moment, as if trying to remember, then nodded. Yeah. No boobs, no butt. Scrawny neck with a big Adams apple.
Deep voice?
No, sort of squeaky.
As if he was trying to disguise it?
Maria shrugged. Maybe.
Did you see any identifying marks? Scars? Tattoos?
Except for his neck, he was pretty much covered up. Even wore gloves.
What else was he wearing?
Jeans. A Buccaneer ball cap and sweatshirt. Black Nikes.
I couldnt help sighing. Shed just described the wardrobe of choice of almost half the men in the Tampa Bay area. You said you locked the front door. Was the back locked, too?
She nodded. I always double check the doors before I count the money.
So how did Mr. Clinton get in? You have any employees with keys?
No way. I cant pay much, so the turnover heres pretty high. Dont have anyone Id trust with keys. She took a long pull on her cigarette and exhaled.
I waved away the smoke. Security system?
She grimaced. Never thought I needed one till now.
How much did Clinton steal?
I hadnt finished counting. Most of our business is credit cards, but we sell a lot of pizza during Sunday football games. Had to be somewhere between six hundred and a thousand dollars. Her black-lined eyes misted with tears. Times are tight, Detective. Will I get it back?
Probably not. Well do our best.
Detective Skerritt. Adler stood in the doorway. Come look at this.
You okay? I asked Maria.
She swiped at her eyes with the back of one hand, smearing her eyeliner, then nodded and took another drag. I didnt have the heart to remind her about the state law that banned smoking in restaurants.
Sit tight. Ill be right back. I left the room and followed Adler down a hallway that branched to the kitchen on the right, restrooms on the left. He shone his Maglite at the ceiling. Where the grate for the air-conditioning duct should have been was a gaping hole.
I groaned. Weve got ourselves a rooftop burglar.
I continued down the hall, pushed the panic bar on the rear exit and stepped outside. A gust of wind blew a tattered newspaper across the rear parking lot, empty except for a car I later learned was Ridolettis. A dog barked in the distance. In the harsh glow of security lights, I scanned the back of the building. A Dumpster stood along the rear wall with a wooden pallet leaning against it. Another pallet atop the Dumpster rested against the wall like a ladder.
Theres your access, I said. Make sure the techs process this area.
Fresh skid marks from a single narrow tire indicated the perp might have made his getaway by bike. Or it could have been a track left earlier in the day by a kid just passing through.
I nodded to the row of mobile homes in the trailer park that backed up to the strip mall. Well start a canvass. Maybe the neighbors saw something.
Now? Adler lifted his eyebrows in surprise. Its almost 2:00 a.m.
Most of those folks are in their late seventies and eighties, I reminded him. They wont remember squat by daybreak.
Thats cold, Maggie.
Were in a cold business, Adler.
Eight hours and an equal number of cups of coffee later, I sat at my desk in CID and typed my report. None of the neighbors behind Mama Mias had seen or heard anything. Unlike the popular television crime dramas that have the culprit in custody within an hourincluding commercial breaksour crime lab techs had found zip, but not for lack of trying. To make matters worse, Maria Ridoletti was already proclaiming to all who would listen that if the sheriffs department had been handling the case, shed probably have her money back by now.
I finished the report and tried to ignore the foreboding in my gut. Examining the strip mall, Id noted that Bloombergs Jewelers was next door to Mama Mias. Maria had stated that the robber had been startled to encounter her. Apparently not expecting to confront anyone, however, hed worn a mask, even though business hours were long over. That fact suggested hed prepared for surveillance cameras, which were prevalent in Bloombergs. My guess was that the thief had intended to hit the jewelry store but had become disoriented on the roof and picked the wrong air duct for entry.
If there was anything worse than a burglar, it was a stupid burglar. Maria Ridoletti was lucky he hadnt panicked and shot her. I figured the only reason he hadnt was that he hadnt actually had a gun.
This time.
Skerritt! Get in here! Chief Sheltons voice reverberated through the building from his office at the other end of the hall. Whenever his temper escalated, he abandoned the intercom for a more direct and intimidating form of communication.
Hoping to respond before his infamous temper boiled over, I hurried to his office. Kyle Dayton flashed me a sympathetic glance as I passed his post at the dispatch desk.
Close the door, Shelton snapped when I entered his pine-paneled inner sanctum.
I shut the door behind me and waited for the chief to speak. For several weeks after the city council had first broached disbanding the police department, Shelton had discarded his fireball personality and slunk around the P.D. like a whipped dog. But somehow hed regained his pugnacious attitude, the fiery spirit that had seen him through the Vietnam War and his early KKK days in the Georgia foothills and had ultimately made him a contender in the political arena. Politics was the only reason he held his $180,000 a year position, because Shelton had the policing and personnel skills of a gnat.
You got a lead on this rooftop burglar? Midmorning sunlight glinted off his bald head and his pale blue eyes squinted in the glare from the window that overlooked the city park.
Not yet. No physical evidence was recovered at the scene, and the perp was masked.
Dammit, Skerritt, first a serial murderer and now this. How the hell do you expect us to keep our department
Crime happens, Chief. Thats why were here.
Sheltons face reddened and a vein bulged at his temple. Were here to keep crime from happening, and if we dont, we sure as hell wont be here much longer. Therell be sheriffs cruisers patrolling these streets instead of our green-and-whites!
You want me to consult a psychic? I already knew the answer, but Sheltons dumbfounded expression was worth asking the question.
Hell, no. Just solve the damn case.
With no suspects, no leads, no hard evidence, thats a problem. I could put the word out to our usual informants, offer to pay for info in case the perp blabs to his cronies or flashes his take around town.
Shelton shook his head with a guttural growl. Whatever you do, keep expenses down. Moneys the whole issue behind the councils push to can us.
Ill do my best.
I turned to leave.
And, Skerritt, he added.
Yes?
Good luck.
Thanks, Chief.
I knew hed say that. Luck, after all, was free.
After fruitless hours of scanning mug shots and vital statistics in search of a runt who could fit through air ducts, I shut down my ancient computer and called it a day at 7:00 p.m.
Bill Malcolm met me at the Dock of the Bay, a restaurant and bar that overlooked the marina where Bills thirty-eight-foot cabin cruiser, the Ten-Ninety-Eight was moored. Bill, who had lived on board since his retirement from the Tampa P.D. two years ago, had offered to cook supper for me in his galley kitchen, but Id turned him down. Our relationship had taken an unexpected turn during my vacation. For years he had been joking about my marrying him, but now I wasnt so sure he was joking any longer, and I was uncertain how I felt about that change. I loved him, without question. One other fact of which I was completely certain, however, was that I wasnt a good candidate for marriage. In reality, no cop was, hence the skyrocketing divorce rate for police officers.
Years ago Bills wife, spooked by fear of his dying in the line of duty, had divorced him and moved to Seattle with their only daughter, Melanie. Bill had been heartbroken. Id stepped in to help with his daughter on her infrequent visits, and my relationship with Bill had deepened, then stalled in limbo when Id put on the brakes. I still wasnt sure what had stopped me, fear of commitment or an equal anxiety over the true depth of Bills feelings for me.
One thing was undeniable. Bill had been my best friend since our first days on patrol for the Tampa P.D. twenty-two years ago, and I didnt want anything to spoil that friendship. Tonight, although hed been retired from the job for two years, I looked forward to hearing his take on my rooftop burglar.
I slid into a booth across from Bill. Toby Keith belted out How Do You Like Me Now? from the ancient Wurlitzer in the corner, and locals from the marina filled the stools at the bar and watched a pregame football show on the new plasma-screen television high on the wall in the corner.
Bill greeted me with a grin. His thick hair, once brown, was now white, a handsome contrast to his deep tan, and his blue eyes retained their boyish charm. I already ordered.
No problem. I always had an old-fashioned burger all the way with fries, and Bill was well versed in my preferences.
The waitress served frosted mugs of cold beer and when she left, Bill said, For someone who just came off vacation, you look tired.
I bet you say that to all the girls.
You also look beautiful, he hastened to add, but Im worried about you. You wore yourself out on the weight-loss clinic murders. I was hoping with those solved, you might slow down a bit.
No rest for the weary. I sipped my beer and hoped it wouldnt send me into a deep coma.
While we waited for our food, I gave Bill the details on our rooftop burglar. Looks like Ive hit a wall, I said when Id finished.
Have you tried tracking the Clinton mask?
Adler worked on it all day. But the masks were produced over a decade ago and carried by the thousands by Wal-Mart and K-Mart, as well as other specialty stores. Nobody kept records on individual purchases of the masks. Besides, you know how many transients and new residents we have in this county. That mask could have been brought in from anywhere in the country.
What about online?
Ill make sure Adler checked that, too. I hated computers, didnt own one and barely tolerated using the one at work. In a profession becoming increasingly high tech, my technophobia was another compelling reason to toss in the towel. I refused to own a cell phone and only reluctantly carried a beeper.
Our meals arrived and as I bit into my burger with gusto, I realized Id forgotten to eat lunch. Good thing, since the food in front of me represented an entire days ration. Fresh memories of three overweight murder victims had me counting calories.
Bill put down his burger and wiped his lips with his napkin. Margaret
Besides Bill, only members of my immediate family called me Margaret. When Id first partnered with him, hed called me Princess Margaret, a derogatory reference to my debutante days, but after I saved his life during a domestic dispute call, Id won his respect and hed referred to me as Skerritt on the job. Later, after his divorce, when our relationship developed outside of work, hed begun calling me Margaret, often with a tenderness I found hard to resist.
Margaret, Ive given this a lot of thought. His blue eyes locked gazes with mine and his expression was deadly serious.
My heartbeat stuttered. Had my unwavering rejections of his marriage proposals convinced him to move on?
Ive decided, he continued, to accept your invitation to have Thanksgiving at your mothers.
That wasnt an invitation, I said, relieved only until the prospect of Bill and my mother in the same room hit me. That was a threat.
She cant be that bad.
She doesnt approve of anything about me, I countered. And she lets me know it every time our paths cross.
My mother was a social scion of Pelican Bay. Her father had been a prominent physician, my late father a distinguished cardiologist, and she enjoyed her position of wealth and influence. When I had graduated from college with a degree in library science and announced my engagement to Greg Singleford, who was completing his internship in the ER, Mother had been over the moon. But Gregs brutal murder by a crack addict in an ER treatment room had changed everything.
Id loved Greg with all the passion and innocence of youth, and his death had shaken my core values. As a result, I couldnt see spending my life with books, or, as my mother had intended, at meetings of the Junior League and Art Guild, once Id realized that the world was such a dangerous place. Daddy had supported my decision to enter the police academy and had openly expressed his pride in my accomplishments. Hed served as a buffer between Mother and me until his death twelve years ago. But Mother had been horrified from the beginning that her younger daughter had chosen a down-and-dirty career in law enforcement over social prestige. And she never let me forget it. During the recent publicity over my arrest of Lester Morelli for the clinic murders, shed taken to her bed with a sick headache and had remained there until after Morelli had been indicted and the news coverage had ceased.
So youre withdrawing the invitation? Bill asked.
No, Im just warning you that dinner with Mother will be an ordeal. It always is. So you might want to reconsider.
He reached across the table and grasped my hand. Maybe just once you ought to tell your mother to take her hoity-toity attitude and stick it up her
Bill!
Youve heard the word ass before, he said with a rare flash of temper. Youve even used it a few times yourself.
But never in relation to my mother. Mother wouldnt be caught dead with a common ass. She has only a very sophisticated derriere. I teased to defuse his irritation.
Youve got to stop tiptoeing around her.
She and Caroline are all the family I have.
Pain flashed through his eyes, and I wished I could take back my words. Bill had even less family than I did.
He took a deep breath and exhaled. Maybe its time for a family of your own. We could be a family, you and I.
I was on the verge of choking up over his proposal when my beeper sounded. I have to call the station.
Im giving you a cell phone for Christmas, he promised with a scowl.
Id either lose it or forget to charge it, so save your money. I hurried from the table to the pay phone in the lobby.
I was gone only a couple of minutes before I returned and cast a longing look at my unfinished burger. Gotta go, I said. Another break-in.
Youre dead on your feet, Bill said. At least let me drive.
For a few seconds I luxuriated in the unaccustomed comfort of having someone fuss over me. Then duty kicked in.
Okay, but lets roll. Shelton was already frothing at the mouth over last nights burglary. I dont want him putting me on report for slow response.
CHAPTER 2
Last nights burglar may have been stupid, but if he was hoping to make the Pelican Bay Police Department look bad, tonights repeat break-in had definitely accomplished that goal. Bill parked his car in the same space Id used the night before. I thanked him for the ride and left the car in a hurry. I didnt know whether to feel relieved or disappointed that our discussion about families had been interrupted. Relieved, I decided. Being with Bill when he was relaxed and laid-back was easy. When the serious stuff kicked in, I was out of my element.
It was just after 8:00 p.m., and light poured from the windows of Mama Mias, doing a booming take-out business, judging by the activity visible through the plate glass and the number of drivers scurrying from the restaurant with insulated bags. Monday night football apparently created a huge appetite for pizza.
My attention this evening, however, wasnt on Mama Mias but Bloombergs Jewelers next door. Steve Johnson let me in the front entrance.
The owners on his way, Johnson said. It was a smash-and-grab.
Shards of glass from several display cases littered the narrow aisle. Bloombergs wasnt a large store, but its small space packed a hefty inventory of high-end goods. Even my very picky mother was a frequent shopper here. Looking at the empty display cases, I hoped Bloombergs insurance was adequate. The man had lost a mint.
We have to quit meeting like this, Maggie. Adler appeared at my elbow and handed me a large foam cup of coffee. Malcolm sent you this. Got it at Mama Mias.
I took the steaming infusion of caffeine with gratitude and glanced toward the parking lot where Bill had returned to his car and was now reading a magazine in the glow of the dome light. It was going to be another long night.
Bloomberg arrived immediately after Adler. He entered the shop and, for a moment, I feared the little man would burst into tears.
Im Detective Skerritt, I said. We spoke on the phone this morning.
A frail, nondescript man with kind brown eyes and graying hair, Bloomberg wrung his hands. You warned me, Detective. And I called the contractor. Hes scheduled tomorrow morning to secure the ducts on the roof. Too late now.
Bloomberg seemed to shrink into his shapeless gray sweater as he shook his head and surveyed the damage. Adler moved toward the rear of the shop and entered a hallway.
Can you tell me whats missing? I asked Bloomberg.
Someone knew what he was doing, the jeweler said. He took only the most expensive items.
Didnt have much time, though, Johnson chimed in. I was in the neighborhood and was here within minutes of the alarm sounding.
Adler returned to the front room. Entered through the roof, just like last night.
Do you have motion detectors? I asked Bloomberg.
The elderly man shook his head. Only alarms on the doors and display windows.
Were the interior lights on when you arrived? I asked Johnson.
He shook his head. I hit the lights when I got here so I could see to turn off the alarm.
Then our burglar couldnt be seen from the street, I said, and he didnt set off the alarm until he left. He had all the time in the world to pick and choose what he wanted.
The CSU techs arrived. Dj? vu all over again, one commented before starting to work.
Ill need your surveillance tapes, I told Bloomberg.
From how far back? he asked.
How far back do you keep them?
He looked chagrined. My wife makes fun of me. Says Im obsessive/compulsive. It takes a lot of tapes, but I keep them for a month. Just in case.
In case?
His lined cheeks reddened with embarrassment. Im an old man. Sometimes I dont notice things like I should. If something was missing, like from a shop-lifter, it could be days before Id notice. His eyes brightened. But if I have the tapes, I can at least go back and see what happened.
Let me have them all.
Id begin with the past few hours. I was hopeful surveillance would reveal a good view of our burglar. Even if masked, if he was a habitual offender, I might recognize him. If not, Id work my way backward through the remaining videos. If someone had cased the store in the past month, he probably wouldnt have bothered to hide his face and Id have him on tape.
Several hours later I wasnt feeling as confident. Id returned to the station to view the most recent surveillance video. Even in the dim light from the streetlights outside, it had captured perfect images of the burglar, who had ditched Bill Clinton for a ski mask. After the pizzeria closed, Maria Ridoletti stopped by the station to confirm our perp. Standing in front of the monitor, she watched the tape and shook her head.
Thats not him.
You mean, its not Clinton? I suspected that the ski mask had thrown her.
She crossed her arms over her skinny chest and tapped her foot impatiently. Its a different guy altogether. Hes almost a foot taller than the one who robbed me.
Those were words I didnt want to hear. Youre sure? After all, you were sitting down.
And the guy in the Clinton mask was almost eye-to-eye with me. Nope, thats definitely not the one who robbed me. Her scathing look spoke volumes. Looks like youve got two robbers to catch now.
The next morning the insistent ringing of the telephone awakened me. A glance at my bedside clock indicated the time was a few minutes past seven. Id had less than four hours sleep in the past two days, and I wanted nothing more than to let the answering machine pick up while I dived under the covers until the alarm sounded at seven-thirty. But, recalling the dynamic duo of thieves still at large, I fumbled for the phone beside my bed and braced to hear Darcy announcing another break-in.
Good morning, dear. My mothers refined voice, buoyant with irritating cheerfulness, resonated in my ear. I was hoping Id find you at home.
That one simple statement carried a truckload of disapproval, her indirect snipe at the unpredictable hours of my job.
Whats up? I asked. Mother never called simply to chat or pass the time of day. She communicated only to issue a summons or an edict. This morning was no exception.
Im calling about Thanksgiving dinner. You are coming, arent you?
I certainly intend to. I didnt want to get into the possibility, of which Mother was well aware but chose to ignore, that work might intervene.
Well gather at five for cocktails. Dinner at six.
With partial consciousness came the memory of my conversation with Bill at the restaurant the previous night. If its all right, Id like to bring a guest.
A guest? Her voice crackled with surprise.
Bill Malcolm.
Oh.
Is that a problem?
Of course not. Her tone contradicted her words. But, really, Margaret, what do you know about this man?
This man was my partner for seven years and hes been my friend for over twenty. The fact that in all that time hed never met my family said a lot about my shaky relationship with them.
Im aware of that, dear, she said with a hint of exasperation, but what do you know about him?
I know that hes good and decent, but if youd rather I came alone
Im sure Mr. Malcolm is a very nice man, but what do you know about his family? For Mother, with people, as with art and antiques, provenance was all.
Most of them are dead, I said.
Dont be obtuse, Margaret. You know exactly what Im asking. Who were they?
Decent, unpretentious, hardworking people, with whom my elitist mother had absolutely nothing in common. His father was a citrus grower in Plant City. Hes eighty-five, suffers from Alzheimers, and is in an assisted-living facility in Tampa.
He was a farmer?
You could say that. Contrariness kept me silent on the fact that Bills fathers orange groves were several thousand acres of prime real estate, worth millions if sold for development. A sufficient amount of wealth covered a multitude of sins in Mothers book, but I wasnt about to pander to her prejudices.
And his son lives in Pelican Bay? She was sounding more dubious by the minute.
At the marina. On his boat.
Mr. Malcolm lives on a boat? Horror laced her voice. Like a transient?
Even in my sleep-deprived state, I experienced a guilty thrill at Mothers disapproval. Id learned long ago I could never please her, so sometimes I took perverse pleasure in pushing her buttons instead. Especially since I was still smarting from her dismissive attitude a few weeks ago at the yacht club when Id saved her from an armed teenager intent on robbery. Instead of thanking me, shed criticized my language. Why I, at forty-eight, still longed for my mothers approval, was one of the mysteries of the universe.
Because he does live on a boat, Im sure hed enjoy having Thanksgiving dinner in a real home, I lied, knowing Bill could whip up an elegant holiday meal in his small galley kitchen that would put Mothers expensive caterers to shame.
Your friends are always welcome at my house, Margaret, Mother insisted, but her tone lacked conviction. Ill be happy to have Mr. Malcolm join us for Thanksgiving. But please, remind him that we dress for dinner.
I stifled the irrational image of Mother, my perfect older sister Caroline and her stuffy husband, Hunt, sitting naked around Mothers antique dining table, and I couldnt resist baiting her. Clothes are always helpful, especially when the weathers chilly.
Mothers sigh of exasperation vibrated loudly through the handset. You know what I mean, Margaret. At least, I hope you havent forgotten all the social niceties.
Not as long as I had Mother as a constant reminder. Thanks, Mother. Ill see you Thursday.
I climbed out of bed and gazed through the sliding-glass doors of my second-floor bedroom at St. Joseph Sound and the Intracoastal Waterway that separated the city from Pelican Beach. The waters, smooth as glass, reflected a towering bank of cumulus clouds, rose-tipped by the sunrise, and mirrored the shimmering lavender-and-pink striations cast by the early-morning sky.
For a moment I considered what life might be like without my job. With the tidy sum vested in my pension and a small income from the trust Daddy had left me, I wouldnt have to work. If I retired, I could enjoy a cup of coffee and the morning paper on my balcony while I watched the charter boats heading into the Gulf with their boatloads of tourists.
And then what would I do the rest of the day?
With a months worth of Bloombergs surveillance video waiting at the station, I headed for the shower.
Adler was already at the station when I arrived.
Did you go home last night? I asked.
Adler had a pretty young wife, Sharon, and an adorable year-old daughter, Jessica, and I worried that the extra hours he logged were negatively affecting his family. I didnt want him to end up as Bill had, divorced and unable to watch his daughter growing up.
Yeah, I left right after you. Adler flushed to the tips of his ears. Im logging some personal time today. Came in early to let you know before I take off.
He was having trouble looking me in the eye. I shut the door to the CID cubicle that some called an office and faced him. Whats up?
He lowered his voice. An interview with the Clearwater P.D. I cant wait for the council to make up its mind about whether to keep our department. For my familys sake, I have to make sure I have a job.
Although he was still green, I respected Adler more than any of my partners since Bill Malcolm. With his sharp mind and humble demeanor, he had the makings of a great detective. He also had the rare gift of bringing out my maternal instincts, and I would sorely miss him if he left.
I spent the rest of the day watching surveillance tapes until my eyes crossed. During the past few weeks, several people had done some serious browsing in Bloombergs without making any purchases, but no one fit the description of either of the perps. In desperation, I punched the number of Mick Rafferty, head of the sheriffs crime lab, into my phone.
Mick, I said when he answered. Do you have the latest face recognition software?
You know I do, Maggie, me darlin. Mick was quintessential Boston Irish, young and cocky with devilish blue eyes, wall-to-wall freckles and an encyclopedic mind like a steel trap. Havent you seen the ACLU goon squad screaming invasion of privacy for the past few months on the evening news?
I wasnt about to admit how long it had been since Id watched a newscast, evening or otherwise. Does the software work?
What have you got?
I explained about the surveillance tapes and my hope that Mick could run a few of the faces through the system in hopes of coming up with a match.
Make notes of the footage you want me to check and send me the videos, he said. But I have to warn you, I have three major homicide cases that have priority. It could be a while before I can get to your tapes.
I understand, Mick, I said. But Im flying blind here, and Im afraid this pair will hit again. Next time somebody might get hurt.
Youll get the bastards, Maggie. You always do.
I marked the tapes that showed suspicious customers, bundled the videos in a bag and carried them to my car to transport to the sheriffs crime lab in midcounty.
Thanksgiving morning dawned warm, clear and bright, the kind of November day that had the folks down at the chamber of commerceand tourists whod shelled out big bucks for their holiday vacationsexchanging high fives. As I drove north along Edgewater Drive into town, joggers in colorful spandex were spaced along the bayside path like beads on a string, the brown pelicans that gave the town its name dived for fish in the emerald-green waters, and the cloudless sky promised a balmy, sunny day.
After I passed the marina, I turned into the parking lot of Sophias, a four-star restaurant and hotel, built like a Venetian palazzo and nestled on the edge of the bay. Antonio Stavropoulos, the ma?tre d, had called the station earlier and requested that I stop by, and the dispatcher had relayed his message.
I had to circle the lot twice before I found a place to park. Thanksgiving breakfast at Sophias was a local holiday tradition, and the recent murder of the restaurants owner by her greedy husband had apparently not diminished the eaterys appeal. If anything, the publicity appeared to have increased business.
Antonio met me in the lobby. The tall, elegant man, gray-haired and rake slim in his continental-cut suit, took a large cardboard box from behind the hostess desk and handed it to me.
A gift, he said, for the members of your department from the staff at Sophias.
Departmental regs and Shelton with apoplexy danced through my head. Im sorry, but we cant accept gifts.
But today is Thanksgiving, and here we are grateful for the hard work the police have done to catch our Sophias killer and put Lester Morelli behind bars where he belongs.
Youre very kind, I said, but rules are rules.
And Chief Shelton was poised like a stalking panther, waiting for one wrong slip so he could fire me and justify his fierce opposition to my joining the force fifteen years ago, when Id taken him to court in a discrimination suit to win my job.
I understand, Antonio said with a twinkle in his eye. Then you must purchase these pastries for your department, no?
I stifled a groan. Pastries at Sophias ran about a dollar a bite, and that huge box held at least four dozen of the luscious goodies. Sure. How much?
One dollar, Antonio said with a deadpan expression. Tax included.
Ten minutes later, with the box of baklava and other Greek delicacies stashed in the stations break room, I entered my office to contemplate the rooftop burglars whod so far eluded me.
The fact that they hadnt struck again the past two nights was no consolation. Id asked the chief to have the media alert business owners to secure their rooftop duct systems, but Shelton was too paranoid about the political fallout to comply. The most Id been able to accomplish was the distribution of lists of the stolen jewelry along with our incomplete description of the thieves to Bay area pawnshops. My only hope was that the perps would be dumb enough to try to move the items in the area.
Later in the morning, Adler was plowing his way through a third piece of baklava and revisiting mug shots in case wed missed someone the first time around. Hed offered no details on his earlier job interview, and I hadnt asked. I figured hed talk about it when he was ready.
How come there are so few skinny criminals? he asked as he flipped through the pages of photographs. All these guys are big and muscle-bound.
I shrugged. Theyve all been through the system. Guess they bulked up by working out in prison. Unless
Unless what?
My mind didnt want to grasp the possibility that had been flitting around the edges of my consciousness since Maria Ridolettis description of the first perp.
Unless our thieves are children.
CHAPTER 3
I dressed for the holiday dinner at Mothers with my usual fatalism. No matter how well-made or perfectly fitted my gray slacks, burgundy silk blouse and ubiquitous black blazer, Mother and Caroline, who were on a first-name basis with every salesclerk in Neiman Marcus at Tampas International Plaza, would consider me a frump.
But focusing on couture was merely a diversion from the anger over the break-ins that simmered deep inside, a fire I had to douse or Id end up being the turkey at our Thanksgiving meal. Interacting with my family without creating a domestic crisis took the combined skills of a global diplomat and a SWAT hostage negotiator. In my present state of mind, Id send my mother into cardiac arrest and my sister into a swoon before the night ended.
Bill Malcolm, who, like Sean Connery, grew more handsome with age, arrived at four-thirty, looking like a cover model for Yachting World in gray slacks, navy blazer and a white turtleneck that showcased his George Hamilton tan. Homing in on my disposition like a heat-seeking missile, he saw immediately beneath my calm facade.
If this dinner has you so worked up, dont go, he stated with his usual and often irritating logic.
Its not that.
The job?
I nodded. Youd think after two decades Id grow a thicker skin.
Uh-uh. He took my hand, led me to the sofa and pulled me down beside him. If these crimes stop affecting you, then youve lost your humanity. I never want to see that happen.
I can deal with most of it, but when kids are involved
Images that had dogged my days and haunted my dreams for over sixteen years made me shudder. Small, white, bloated bodies on the medical examiners table, young girls, children really, pulled from Tampa Bay, where theyd been dumped like garbage by their assailants. Try as we might, Bill and I had been unable to track down the monster who had killed them. The murders had stopped, but whether because wed turned up the heat or the killer had simply moved on, Id probably never know.
New case? Bill asked.
Not exactly. It just struck me today that our rooftop burglars might be kids.
Bill nodded. And a kid didnt have the knowledge to pull off that jewelry store heist, not unless someone coached him.
What kind of person uses kids to do his dirty work? Dickens Oliver Twist and Fagin came instantly to mind. I knew that degree in library science was good for something.
You sure theyre kids? Bill asked.
I dont have hard evidence, only what my guts telling me.
He pulled me toward him and kissed my forehead. Ah, Margaret, thats only one of the things I love about you.
My gut?
That, too, but mainly because after over twenty years on the job, youre still capable of outrage.
I glanced at the clock. Speaking of outrage, if we dont get moving, thats what Mothers going to display if were late.
The home of my youth was located in Pelican Bays most exclusive section, Belle Terre, a waterfront enclave of mansions built in the 1920s and 1930s on a bluff above the sound, most now on the National Register of Historic Buildings.
Growing up, Id taken for granted the Mediterranean splendor of the house designed by Misner with its soaring beamed ceilings, mosaic tile floors, central courtyard and Spanish tile roof, set on two acres of prime waterfront real estate. In the lush St. Augustine lawn, brick pathways meandered through moss-draped live oaks, orange trees and jacarandas, and ended at the bayside tennis court, where Id spent some of the happiest hours of my childhood playing tennis with my dad. Today I couldnt remember the last time Id held a racket.
Bill gave a low whistle of surprise as he guided his car along the winding drive to the front of the house. These are pretty fancy digs.
When I was living here, I never thought of this place as extraordinary. My friends lived in similar houses, so this was no big deal.
He brought the car to a halt next to my brother-in-law Hunts Lincoln Town Car. You miss your debutante days?
I thought for a moment, as much to postpone going inside as to consider his question. I miss the innocence. In spite of so many advantages, I led a very sheltered life. My friends didnt do drugs or have drunken parties. And there was no premarital sex. I flashed him a smile. We were snobs, but we were virtuous snobs.
Youre still virtuous. His answering smile was warm and intimate.
You know better. My wild and hot affair with a fellow cop my first year on the Tampa P.D. had been no secret. Id hoped the physical intimacy would dull my emotional pain, but Id soon discovered that hard work was a better analgesic than sex and had quickly ended the involvement.
Our parents didnt divorce, I continued. If there was scandal, it was kept so hush-hush, we never knew about it. And even though the Vietnam War was raging and the country was mired in antiwar and civil-rights protests and riots, none of it touched me. I thought I lived in a perfect world, until
Bill squeezed my hand. Hed heard many times the story of Gregs murder and how the trauma and anger over that horrific event had propelled me into a career in law enforcement.
After all this Bills gesture took in the impressive two-story house and sprawling grounds that required a team of gardeners to maintain them the academy must have been a culture shock.
I nodded. And, in the words of Thomas Wolfe, I cant go home again. Ill never look at the world the same.
You went from one extreme to the other. Maybe its time to find a middle ground.
He was talking about retirement, and the prospect held a certain seductiveness, until I remembered the possibility that some scumbag might be using kids to do his dirty work. Not yet.
More dragons to slay? He squeezed my hand again and his blue eyes lit with amusement.
How were you able to finally give it up? I asked.
His expression sobered. One day I woke up and knew Id had enough, that I didnt want to live surrounded by crime and the misery it inflicts any longer. So I just walked away.
You think thatll happen to me?
Theres always hope.
I noted then the other cars beyond Hunts and realized wed been the last to arrive. Speaking of dragons, we should hurry inside before the Queen Mother starts breathing fire.
Estelle, mothers longtime maid, dressed in her usual black uniform and an immaculate starched apron as white as her hair, opened the massive carved front door. Happy Thanksgiving, Miss Margaret. Its good to see you home again.
I hugged her and kissed her smooth ebony cheek. Her scent of Ivory soap triggered a hundred memories. Mother would have had a cow if shed witnessed my display of affection toward the hired help, but Estelle had raised me, bandaged my scraped knees, dried my childhood tears, fed me cookies after school and, years later, held me when my father died. In many ways, shed been more of a mother than my biological one.
Happy Thanksgiving, Estelle. Ive missed you. This is my friend Bill Malcolm.
Bill shook Estelles hand and her bright brown eyes scanned him up and down with the scrutiny of a cattle buyer in a stockyard. Hes a keeper, Miss Margaret.
Thanks, Estelle, Bill said. Thats what Ive been trying to tell her.
Your mamma and the rest of em are in the courtyard, Estelle said. I gots to check on them caterers before they trash my kitchen.
She hurried toward the back of the house at a shuffling gait that indicated her bunions were bothering her, and I guided Bill through the foyer into the courtyard.
Wow, Bill murmured as we stepped into the soaring atrium. Great space.
Seeing the courtyard through his eyes made me reevaluate where Id played as a child. A triple-tiered fountain anchored the center of the huge expanse of Mexican terra-cotta tiles. Tropical plantings of frangipani, gardenias, bird of paradise, and travelers palms softened the corners of the huge area. Open hallways with Moorish arches circled both the first and second floors, and an arching glass ceiling flooded the area with natural light and kept the air-conditioning in and the weather out.
Groupings of wrought-iron chairs and tables with plump cushions were scattered in conversational clusters across the open area. With unusual grace for an eighty-two-year-old, Mother rose from a nearby chair and came to greet us.
I thought perhaps you werent coming, she said in a benevolent tone that didnt entirely hide her disapproval of our tardiness.
The coolness of her greeting was in stark contrast to the bear hug and resounding kisses my father would have offered and made me realize one of the reasons I hated coming home was the fact that Daddy was no longer there to welcome me.
A muscle ticked in Bills cheek, the only indication that Mothers attitude had annoyed him. He seldom showed anger, not because he didnt feel it, but because hed learned over the years to effectively leash his deep rage, an appropriate response to the injustices hed encountered on the job and in his personal life. I watched as he somehow managed to bleed the tension from his body and relax, a skill I envied.
If were late, Mrs. Skerritt, Bill said, its my fault. I lingered too long admiring the beautiful grounds of your house. A fitting prelude, I might add, to its exquisite interior.
Mothers stiff demeanor softened slightly. You must be Mr. Malcolm.
Please, call me Bill. He gave her his warmest smile, the one that had caused hardened criminals to spill their guts in the interview rooms, and grasped her hand in both of his. I watched in amazement as the Iron Magnolia succumbed to his charm, a quality that made Bill irresistible. He had, hands down, the best people skills of anyone Id ever met.
And you must call me Priscilla, she insisted.
I almost swallowed my tongue. Mother rarely allowed anyone to call her by her first name. In fact, Id heard it so seldom, Id almost forgotten it.
Priscilla, Bill said. It suits you. Very regal.
Mother did appear regal in her floor-length skirt of black taffeta, a high-necked, white silk blouse with long sleeves, a cummerbund in gold-and-black plaid, and her snowy hair piled high like a crown.
Leaving me trailing in their wake, she escorted Bill deeper into the courtyard to meet the usual suspects. My sister, Caroline, looking like a younger clone of Mother in both dress and hairstyle, although her tresses were a golden bottle-blond, sipped a martini and eyed Bill with interest over the rim of her glass. Her husband, Huntington Yarborough, a big man whose usual florid complexion had turned an even deeper red after a few drinks, rose from his seat by the fountain where he was nursing what looked to be a double Scotch.
Michelle, their oldest daughter, and her husband, Chad, hovered in a far corner with my nephew Robert and his wife, Sandra. My four great-nieces and great-nephews were conspicuously absent, either at home with a sitter or farmed out to their other grandparents. Mother was adamant that small children had no place at social functions, not even family holiday celebrations.
Bill, well-versed in my family tree and its twisted branches, met and greeted each of my relatives with his usual ease. A waiter appeared and took our drink orders.
So, Bill said to Hunt, Margaret tells me youre in the insurance business.
I suppressed a groan. Once Hunt began talking business, there was no stopping him. Id dozed through many of his dinner-table monologues.
Hunt pounced on Bill like a puppy on a bone. You name it, I insure it. Property and casualty, life and health, annuities. I can do all your financial planning
Someone grasped my elbow and a familiar voice said, How are you, Margaret? I havent seen you in too many years.
Seton Fellows, Daddys best friend, smiled down at me from his extraordinary height of six foot five. The best neurologist in the Tampa Bay area, the man was a giant in the medical profession, as my father had been. His thinning gray hair matched his deep gray eyes, but the age that lined his face hadnt affected his erect posture or his usually sunny disposition.
What a nice surprise, Dr. Fellows. Mother didnt tell me you were coming.
It was a last-minute invitation, he said with a conspiratorial wink. Your mother needed an even number at the table.
Bills last-minute inclusion had thrown off Mothers seating arrangement. Lucky for us, I assured him. How have you been?
His gray eyes clouded. Lonely. This will be my first Thanksgiving without Nancy. So its good to be with friends.
Youve known Mother and Daddy a long time, havent you?
He nodded and sipped his drink. Philip and I were in medical school together.
Across the courtyard, Mother and Caroline hung on Hunts every word, and somehow even Bill managed to appear interested. With Dr. Fellows as my captive audience, I had found someone who might satisfy my curiosity about my parents early years, a time neither had discussed, at least, not with me. Their large wedding portrait hung in the sitting room of the master suite, but neither Mother nor Daddy had ever talked about the few years prior to or immediately following their marriage.
What were they like then? I asked Seton.
Your parents?
I nodded. Before Daddy became Pelican Bays best cardiologist.
The lines in his face crinkled with amusement. Philip, as all of us, worked long, hard hours.
And Mother?
His hesitation was brief but notable. She organized the wives association. Not many female medical students in those days. Why do you ask?
I shrugged. They were so different from each other. I never could understand the attraction.
They complemented each other, like yin and yang. Your mother took charge of everything outside of work, which freed your father to be the brilliant doctor that he was.
Did they love each other?
They were married for almost fifty years.
Were they happy?
Happiness means different things to different people.
He had sidestepped my question, but before I could rephrase it, Mother rang a small silver bell with all the drama of a stage production, and Dr. Fellows hurried to escort her into the adjacent dining room.
The florist and caterers had transformed the room. I pictured a television reality show, How the Rich and Famous Celebrate Thanksgiving, as I observed the towering topiaries of chrysanthemums, colorful autumn leaves and deep green ivy that marched down the center of the massive refectory table that had once graced an ancient Spanish monastery. Gigantic cornucopia, overflowing with fruits and gourds, flanked the silver serving dishes on the matching sideboard. The table was set with Mothers heavy silver flatware and engraved napkin rings and covered with enough white damask for a circus tent.
We stood behind our chairs, waiting for Mother to be seated. I thought longingly of the weathered pine table in the sunny kitchen and wished Bill and I could share our meal there with Estelle.
Mother rang her silver bell again. Dr. Fellows will say grace.
Before I bowed my head, I caught a sympathetic look from Bill, who had been assigned the seat across from me.
Heavenly Father, Dr. Fellows began.
The beeper on my belt shrilled, shattering the rooms quiet.
Really, Margaret, Mother said with no effort to hide her disapproval. Cant you turn that thing off?
Dr. Fellows smiled, but Caroline, Michelle and Sandra glared with as much disapproval as if Id just stripped topless.
Im on call, Mother. If youll excuse me, Ill use the phone in the foyer. Please, go ahead. Dont wait for me.
Id have felt relief at being snatched from the jaws of social responsibility, but I knew a summons on a holiday had to be bad news.
I was right.
Darcy Wilkins answered at dispatch when I phoned the station. Weve got a drowning at a private residence on the beach.
Accidental?
Its your call, she said. The M.E.s on her way.
She gave me the address. I braced for Mothers disapproval and returned to the dining room to announce my regrets.
CHAPTER 4
Bill dropped me off at my condo, where I picked up my car for the trek to the beach. As I drove across the causeway, I saw that the city crews had already strung Christmas lights and decorations, and their festive glitter provided an ironic contrast to my mission. Even if the reported drowning turned out to be accidental, one family would have their future Thanksgiving holidays marred forever by memories of tragedy.
The causeway emptied into the commercial district of the beach, high-rise hotels and condos, restaurants, fishing piers and dozens of shops crammed with T-shirts and tacky tourist souvenirs made in Taiwan. The streets were crowded with out-of-state and rental cars and the sidewalks filled with folks who had forfeited the traditions of home for a holiday in the sun.
I turned north and the asphalt of the commercial district gave way to ancient brick streets. Homes, modest in size and style but worth a small fortune because of their beach location, lined the roadway. The street ended at a huge wrought-iron gate, more symbolic than obstructive, since it always stood open. It marked the entrance to the beachs most upscale residential area, Yacht Club Estates. I drove past the clubhouse where, a few weeks ago, Id apprehended two armed punks attempting to rob my mother. Most of the houses were screened from the road by massive hedges, since their coveted views came from the Intracoastal Waterway on the east side of the street or the white sand beaches of the Gulf of Mexico on the west. The price of real estate on this end of the beach started at seven figures, then soared like a bottle rocket.
A few blocks past the yacht club, another ornate gate loomed, this barrier the real deal with an electronic surveillance system and pass-card entry. Tonight, however, the usually locked gates stood ajar. Death, the great leveler, hadnt needed a key to infiltrate this bastion of the wealthy.
I drove through the open portal and approached the cluster of vehicles gathered on the beach side of the street. A P.B.P.D. green-and-white and a paramedics van stood with their emergency lights strobing the adjacent sea grape hedges with flashes of red and blue. Adlers SUV was parked beside the cruiser. After I climbed from my car, he met me at the break in the hedge.
Id hoped wed get through the day without a call, he said. No such luck.
Did you miss dinner? I asked.
He shook his head. We ate early, so Im missing only football games and the washing up. How about you?
No big deal. I felt only a momentary twinge of guilt over the fact that Id rather work a signal seven than have Thanksgiving with my relatives. Whos the vic?
Vincent Lovelace.
The cable channel giant?
Founder and owner of Your Vacation Channel. And from the looks of this house, this guy didnt need a vacation. He lived one.
Hes on permanent holiday now.
Adler nodded. Paramedics pronounced him when they arrived. Doc Clines on the way.
We stepped through the gate in the hedge and the house, a huge four-story tower of glass and steel with lights blazing from every level, rose in front of me. I could see through the rooms of the first floor to the brightly illuminated terrace with its lap pool and the beach and Gulf beyond. On the pool deck lay the body of Vincent Lovelace. Rudy Beaton, a P.B.P.D. patrol officer, was taking statements from two paramedics. A woman with wet hair sat huddled in a blanket on a deck chair on a raised terrace at the north end of the pool.
I recognized Mrs. Lovelace instantly. Until that moment, Id forgotten that Vincent had married Samantha Weston, daughter of Mothers best friend Isabelle. With a sinking feeling, I knew, no matter how this investigation sorted out, Mother was not going to be happy.
I walked through the house with its minimalist furnishings, enough vibrant splashes of primary colors for a Jackson Pollock canvas or a day-care center, and immaculate housekeeping. The whole place looked as if it had been staged for a photography shoot for a spread in Architectural Digest. Classical music, a Vivaldi mandolin concerto, flowed from surround-sound speakers and blended with the crash of the surf from the adjacent beach. Sandalwood-scented candles glowed on the fireplace mantel and coffee table but couldnt quite mask the cooking aromas from an earlier meal.
Adler and I stepped onto the patio where Rudy met us.
The wife called 911, he said. Said she found her husband on the bottom of the pool. Pulled him out and tried CPR, but couldnt revive him. He was dead when the paramedics got here.
Anyone else in the house? I asked.
Beaton shook his head.
I rounded the pool and scanned the victim. His abbreviated Speedo revealed the tan, fit body of a man clearly in his prime. A large gash ran down his left temple below his thick dark hair.
Secure the scene and call in the Crime Scene Unit, I told Rudy.
Beaton raised his eyebrows. CSU? This is an accident, right?
Weve yet to determine that. Ask the paramedics to clear their equipment and wait in the bus. I turned to Adler. Check with the neighbors. Find out if they saw or heard anything. Ill interview the wife.
Before I approached Samantha Lovelace, I studied the scene. The narrow lap pool ran parallel to the house along the western edge of the forty-foot terrace. At the south end of the pool, a wrought-iron deck chair lay on its side. Water puddled around it. A few feet away, a pole protruded at an angle from a clump of sea oats that edged the terrace. Closer inspection revealed a long-handled skimmer net. Several feet north of the overturned chair, Lovelaces body lay in another large puddle of water, apparently where his wife had dragged him from the pool.
I stared at the beach beyond the terrace. Something was wrong with the picture and I took a moment to figure it out. A wide swath of sand, leading from the terrace between the dunes to the waters edge, had been carefully raked, like the terrain in a Japanese garden. Nothing disturbed the perfection of the white sugar-sand, no footprints, not even bird tracks, although, in the light of the rising moon, a night heron skittered through the breakers farther up the beach. Several different-size feet had made deep impressions in the sand on either side of the raked area where people had walked the shoreline before the intervening sand had been smoothed. To the west stretched the seemingly unending expanse of the Gulf of Mexico, reflecting a swath of silver moonlight. The scene was peaceful and serene.
Except for the dead body on the pool deck beside me.
What have we got?
I jumped at the sudden voice at my elbow. Doris Cline, wearing her usual running shoes, had sneaked up on me. For someone whod been called out on a holiday, she looked unusually perky, more like a gung-ho, high school, physical education teacher with her bouncy gray curls, wide smile and bright eyes, than a medical examiner.
Youll have a dead detective if you keep scaring me like that. Sorry to ruin your Thanksgiving.
Doc nodded toward the body on the pool deck. Mines not half as ruined as his. What happened?
I walked her through the scenario Id garnered from the evidence. Here, at this first puddle, Lovelaces head somehow came in contact with that overturned wrought-iron chair. Theres blood on the metal arm. Then he went into the water. His wife claims she found him in the pool, dragged him out and tried CPR.
Doc knelt on the flagstone decking, poked a finger into the first puddle of water and lifted it to her mouth. I shuddered at the gesture, but figured clear water was the least gross of the fluids Doc had to deal with.
She lifted her eyebrows. Salt. Was he swimming in the Gulf first?
Not unless he raked the beach behind him when he came out, and theres no rake in sight.
Doc approached the body and scrutinized the victim. Bleeding on the temple indicates he was alive when this injury was sustained. Those long scrapes on his chest, however, were post mortem. Probably occurred when he was dragged from the pool. She lifted the victims right hand that sported a diamond the size of a walnut set in a gold band.
The fact that hes still wearing that rock rules out robbery, I said.
Doc checked his left hand with its plain gold wedding band. His nails on both hands are broken and the tips of his fingers are scraped.
Signs of a struggle?
She nodded. As if he tried to claw his way out of the pool.
Could he have been groggy from the blow to his head, so stunned that he couldnt pull himself out of the water?
Ill know more after the autopsy.
Had he been in the water long?
She shook her head.
The CSU team arrived. While Doc continued her examination of the body, I asked the techs to take samples of the two puddles and also water from the pool, as well as the blood from the chair arm. After requesting that they bag the skimmer net, I headed toward Samantha.
Although the day had been warm, the night breeze off the chilly Gulf waters was cold, and in her chair on the raised deck, Samantha was shivering. How much from physical discomfort and how much from emotional distress, I couldnt tell.
Why dont we go inside where its warmer, I suggested.
She looked up with a shell-shocked expression and recognition flitted across her deep blue eyes. I know you.
Maggie Skerritt. I took her arm, tugged her from the patio chair and led her into the living room.
Margaret? Priscillas daughter? What are you doing here?
Im a detective with the Pelican Bay Police Department.
With the wooden expression of a sleepwalker, she sank into a chrome-and-leather chair beside a fireplace with a mirrored surround and tugged the blanket closer. She picked up a remote control from a side table, pointed it at the fireplace and punched a button. Flames flared from a gas log. Shaking her head, as if clearing mental fog, she asked, Why are the police here?
Standard procedure whenever theres a death.
Samantha was ten years younger than I was. Shed always been a beauty and either good genes or a great plastic surgeon had preserved that youthful attractiveness into her late thirties. But with her makeup ruined by pool water and tears, her face appeared ravaged. My job was to sort out how much of that effect had been produced by genuine grief.
I glanced at a massive portrait of two tow-headed little girls holding a Jack Russell terrier puppy that hung above the fireplace. Their resemblance to Samantha as a child was unmistakable.
You have children? I asked.
Two daughters. Emilys sixteen. Danas almost fifteen. Her face crumpled and fresh tears streaked her cheeks. How am I going to tell them their fathers gone?
Where are they?
She glanced at a stylized clock of crystal and brass on the mantel. Landing in Colorado. We had dinner at noon. Then they left with our neighbors, the Standifords, for a week of skiing in Aspen.
I know this is hard, Samantha, but I need you to tell me what happened right up to the point you pulled your husband from the pool.
She inhaled a deep, shuddering breath and wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands. After dinner, we loaded the girls luggage and ski equipment into the Standifords SUV. After they left for the airport, I put away leftovers and cleaned up the kitchen.
And your husband?
He was working in his study. She nodded toward a room at the south end of the house. Hes always working. We were lucky he took time to eat with us today. Her voice was hard with annoyance before she broke into fresh sobs. That was the last meal well ever have as a family.
And after that? I prodded. I felt sympathy for her, but the quicker I completed my questions, the sooner I could leave her to her grief.
She wiped her nose with a corner of the blanket, a rough utilitarian item provided by the paramedics. Vince was still working. I felt a migraine coming on, so I took my medication and went upstairs to take a nap.
How long did you sleep?
Her eyes, filled with agony, gazed up at me. It was my fault, wasnt it?
Why do you say that?
If I hadnt been asleep, I might have found him in time to save him.
Had your husband been drinking?
She gave a short laugh, more like a hiccup. Not a chance. Hes a fitness addict. Never touches alcohol or red meat.
Did he have an illness or take medication that might have made him dizzy and caused him to fall?
She shook her head. Vince just had a physical. His doctor told him he has the body of a twenty-year-old.
And now Vince Lovelace would be forever young. Did your husband swim every day?
Like clockwork. The edge returned to her voice. He always swims laps in the pool every evening before dinner. If hed shown the same diligence toward his family.
Trouble in paradise, but discord didnt necessarily generate foul play. Did your husband have enemies?
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