by Kieran York
“They usually fought.”
“So, besides the killer, you were the last to see Sylvia alive?”
“Yes. I did not kill her, so I was not the last.” Lilia sat in a chair across from me and sobbed.
“I need to get a clear picture of a time frame. What happened immediately after we let you off at midnight? Everything you can recall, no matter how small the detail might seem.”
“Sylvia began drinking because I treated her coolly. She became verbally abusive. I was angry with her because of her actions. The way she acted with you and your partners upset me. When she drank, I became even angrier. We fought. She told me to leave. She was going to cut me from her life. She also mentioned she planned to rewrite her will. She would leave me nothing. I told her I have my own money. That also enraged her. While I packed my luggage, she telephoned her daughter. She told Debra that she would be excluded from her will. In her intoxicated way, she also called someone else with the same message. I don’t know who.”
“What time did you arrive here at Breakers?”
“It was about two in the morning. I remained here the rest of the night until the detectives arrived this morning at nearly seven.”
“How did they know where you’d be?”
“They told me they’d been informed by the maid that I would probably be here. I’ve stayed here in the past when Sylvia drank. When she upset me, I leave for my own protection.”
I watched as she fidgeted. “Do you know who would gain financially from her death?”
“Yes. The heirs, excluding me. I never depended financially on her. She often told me how she wished her assets to be divided. Often, to punish heirs, she threatened to exclude them. But I saw her last will. Debra was to receive the Palm Beach property and one-third of Sylvia’s money. Royalties mostly. She named me as a beneficiary of one-third also.”
My tone was pensive, on purpose. “Would Debra believe Sylvia might be cutting her out of her inheritance?”
“Perhaps. Debra is very spoiled. She knew her mother was becoming more and more disapproving of her troubled lifestyle. Sylvia saw herself in Debra.”
“Is Jeremy Howell heir to the final third of Sylvia’s estate?”
Lilia sighed as she turned her face. Either suppressing anger or in disgust, she answered with resolve. “No. But I believe he might be the killer. Sylvia had fired him. I think this time he realized she was truly not going to take him back as her manager.”
“You mentioned the inheritance divided into thirds. The other third goes to whom?”
When her jaws unclamped, she answered, “Helene Earnest. Sylvia’s medium. She channels Sylvia’s dead relatives. Helene directs her own center for spirituality. She convinced Sylvia to donate a great deal of money. Sylvia was convinced that was a charitable contribution.”
“Helene Earnest,” I repeated with mystification. “You mean the woman who uses the sage-name Loma?”
“Yes.”
My mind searched its mental index. Helene Earnest, a.k.a. Loma. According to guru gossip, she foisted gadget spiritualism. She was into the purses and pockets of many of the rich and famous. Now, she was to benefit from yet another massive contribution to her fraudulent case. With one-third of Sylvia Grant’s royalties, the attractive Helene would be set for life. The Loma’s luminescent eyes were said to reflect her theme. Which were— The Truth, The Light, and The Flame. Now her eye would also be reflecting The Wealth.
I inquired, “Why Helene? She’s known as an operator.”
Lilia’s lovely body twisted slightly as the line of her long legs moved. “Yes. Very much so. I never understood their relationship.”
“Helene, or Loma, purportedly knows intimate details of her follower’s lives. That’s what convinces them that Loma is on the level. How did she get the inside scoop on Sylvia?” I queried.
“I have no idea. She was suddenly a part of Sylvia’s life. She attached herself.” With contempt in her voice, Lilia continued, “In more ways than one. She professed to be in love with Sylvia.”
“Were her feelings returned?”
Eyes blazing, Lilia spat, “Of course not. Sylvia and I have always been faithful. Sylvia had a need to believe in a higher power. Helene provided her with that. But there was certainly nothing else.”
“So the second threatening call Sylvia made about negating her will could have been to Helene or Jeremy?”
“I am inclined to believe it was Helene. I was in the room at the time. Sylvia asked if the person on the other end of the line was watching a will being torn into bits. Perhaps indicating that the listener has supernatural powers—which Sylvia believed Helene had. This is a question she would not have asked Jeremy.”
I cleared my throat. “And you’re positive Sylvia wasn’t romantically involved with Helene?”
“I am positive. She loved only me. Deep down, she must have understood that Helene was a hoax.”
“I’m sure the police have also interviewed Debra, Helene, and Jeremy by now. Are there any other suspects you can think of?”
“All that I can tell you for certain is that I did not kill her. I know I haven’t got the courage to murder anyone.”
I carefully inspected her face. “Can you list the reasons you would have for not killing her?”
“I loved her deeply. And I’m asking you to find the killer. If I were guilty, why would I employ your firm to capture the murderer?”
I stood. “Sometimes the killer tosses a misleading gesture by offering a reward. We call it a detour technique.”
“Only Sylvia and her killer can tell you I am not guilty. And Sylvia is dead.”
“The dead tell their secrets.”
Her eyes protested. “But the dead cannot speak.”
“The body of a murder victim provides forensic clues.”
Our glance connected. I realized I had already determined Lilia Franco was innocent. She was the most beguiling woman I’d ever met. My promise to save her was implied with my handshake at the door. Her hand was blossom soft and warm. It produced a flush on my face. My stoical, romance-resistant façade seemed to be dwindling.
Our walk to the elevator was deliberately slow. Lilia’s handshake had made me tremble. A battalion of cupids was doing aerial maneuvers. They were taking aim at my heart. The heart I once believed was not even at home.
On my way out, I checked with the desk clerk about Lilia’s arrival at the hotel. The clerk said Lilia was shaken, but there was no sign of a struggle. The singing star was quiet and went immediately to her room. Nothing was unusual.
I had offered Lilia twenty-four hour security. She had assured me hotel security would be sufficient. She would only need us when she went out. And so I drove back to the yacht through the quiet streets of Palm Beach.
Life was speculative, I considered as I parked and began my walk through the marina toward the yacht’s gangway. No one became an attorney without that axiom branded into their thought process. A private investigator added to that age-old saying with a slightly different speculation. If you wanted a crime solved, the underneath of each probe might be a deadly proposition. Over the past three years, our detective trio has faced some hammer-down, trigger-pulling episodes.
The trio’s home and business was located on our yacht, The Radclyffe Hull. And The Radclyffe was a nautical dream. From her top—a plush fly bridge, raised pilothouse, and a sky lounge, and to the base of her rudder, she was a lady.
Our yacht’s pilothouse was equipped with an array of the latest communication and navigational apparatus in the control station. Her sky lounge had circular wraparound seating, wet bar, and an entertainment center. Then a spacious deck lounge with L-shaped seating on opposite sides of a Jacuzzi, including a game table and built-in electric barbecue. Far aft was what we called our toy department. There the tender, davit, and jet skis were stored.
The Radclyffe’s upper level, from the forward deck, housed our offices, client conference room, and a galley. The galley area contained
a plethora of lavish features. Summer had whistled when first observing the kitchen area. Accoutrements galore, she had said with awe. The dinette had a raised settee adjacent to the gourmet galley. With pullout pantries, it was stocked with an assortment of gadgets that I’d collected along the way. Unique island cabinetry stored pots, pans, and china.
The galley was my sanctuary. Childhood poverty had made a gourmand of me. Early in my life, I’d been fed meagerly as a welfare recipient. My mother often traded benefits for cash—and cash for booze. I promised myself to compose meals that would treat my palate when I was old enough to make my way in life. I’d read somewhere that you needn’t go to fine restaurants to experience gourmet meals if you learned to prepare them for yourself.
When I reached working age, I started busing tables at local diners. That got me through high school. Once in college, I had graduated up to fine restaurants where I soon became an underline chef slash pantry assistant. Not only was I well fed, but also the work taught me great chef’s secret techniques and ingredients. Along with scholarships, cookery provided my education. Law school tabs are costly, but I finally matriculated. I was exhausted but none the worse for wear.
My love of the galley provided me with stress reduction. Nothing perked me up like creating a dish fit for the goddesses.
As for The Radclyffe’s formal dining area—it was done in cherry wood with taupe, muted dusty rose colors, and sand shades. Aft was a formal salon that had a panorama of the seascape through huge windows. It was tranquilly decorated in sea colors, accented by splashes of lighting that speckled the room with a warm ambiance. The aft deck serves as a bikini sun deck.
The lower level began forward with my full-beam mistress suite. Done in oyster white and highlighted with corals, it included a queen-sized berth, lavatory, walk-in closet, entertainment center, and adjoining spa. The other three staterooms—Rachel’s, Summer’s, and a guest room, also had similar amenities.
Behind the staterooms were crew’s quarters. Since we were the crew, we had converted that area into our gymnasium with a steam bath, whirlpool tub, and recreation area. Far aft housed the engine room with generators, digital center, and machinery areas.
The trio’s staterooms reflected individual tastes. My own was relatively free from clutter. My one indulgence was a bulletin board filled with the photographs of women I most admire. From Sappho’s likeness—a reproduction of the painting in the Museo Nazionale in Naples to Gertrude Stein’s photo with Toklas and Basket in front of their vintage auto called Pricilla. There was a vast assortment. Above the others were two photos of my partners.
When I entered the office, our lime-colored parrot greeted me with her familiar cawish sound. It was followed by expletive suggestions about what I might do to myself—presumably under cover of darkness. Pluma had been partial payment for springing one of my underworld clients when I was an attorney. After the famous drug lord’s case had been dismissed, he was gunned down. I was stuck with the bird. Summer teased that I was given the bird by yet another satisfied client.
Pluma prided herself on scandalizing our visitors by the foul-beaked phrases she’d learned under the tutelage of her former owner. She wasn’t having any ‘Pluma wants a cracker’ lessons that I’d tried out to rehabilitate her languages skills. Her formative years were just too salty.
“Tone it down, Pluma,” I scolded. “Or I’ll wash your beak out with soap.”
“Chinga tu madre. Chinga tu madre,” she screeched in her Cuban accent.
“Best to your manacita, too,” I muttered while retrieving the bouquet of messages that were jammed into my favorite teacup. That was always a sure sign of Summer’s frustration with telephone duty. I unfolded them.
Two calls were from Lieutenant Tom Powers of the Palm Beach Police Department. I figured, as head of the homicide division, he would be leading the Sylvia Grant murder investigation. His calls were going to inform me that Trevar Investigators, also known as Trevar’s Team, and sometimes as the Radclyffe Hull Trio, assistance was not needed on the case. Rachel had obviously made an early morning raid on the department’s records and resources. Her ex-cop ties were invaluable.
Glancing out across the marina’s parking lot, I spotted Rachel’s conservative eggshell-white BMW. She was parking it precisely in its spot. Precision was Rachel’s specialty. She carried her small laptop protectively under her arm. As usual, one’s first sighting of Rachel was her fiery red hair. It was clipped stylishly into a neck-length sweeping curls back from her tawny-cream oval face. Her second most prominent feature was the official ice princess’s stare from her hazel eyes. With a blink, those eyes could convert from frost to fabulous.
Rachel’s stride, although she’d spent five years as an enforcer, was elegantly feminine. No tough cop jazz for this Yale graduate—with honors. She was the second daughter of a Southern judge. She hadn’t forgotten the lessons taught by her mint julep sipping mother. But she didn’t carry the genteel, stylish mannerisms that required she become a spousal trophy. She rejected her mother’s attempt to dictate matrimony. Her father was an educator. He engineered Rachel’s philosophical views of Cicero, Goethe, Rousseau, and Shakespeare.
At Rachel’s twenty-seventh birthday party, three years ago, she announced a gift to herself. Disillusioned about justice’s revolving door, she planned a career change. She was clearly tired of capturing, cuffing, and celling the bad guys. Then they were released immediately upon the arrival of a crafty defense attorney. Often I was the dirtball’s lawyer.
The career change was to join the private investigation firm I was starting. In her eyes, it was beneficial in two ways. She would be doing what she loved, and I would be out of the court system. I would not spring the perps for enormous bundles of cash. When I’d first mentioned Rachel becoming a partner, she had balked. I did, however, persuade her that I would be changing my ways. I would be at her side, chasing down the rotten dirt-bags. My honorable redirection met with her approval.
And we were both delighted that Summer had decided to join the firm. While I just turned forty, Rachel was thirty, and Summer was the baby of the family. She was barely twenty-one. Rachel and I assumed den mother attitudes at times, to Summer’s consternation. We often joked that we had some very important decades covered.
When Rachel entered the office, she sat in the chair next to mine and in front of the computer next to mine. She dropped an armload of photocopies on her desk as she expelled a sigh of exasperation. “Beryl, are you certain you want to do this?”
“Find the Grant killer or represent Lilia Franco?”
“According to those in the know, Lilia might be the killer.” Rachel dug through her handbag, which served as her mini office with phone, notebook, cosmetic storage area, and general catchall. “I’m working on several other cases right now.”
“We all are. But the cases are small and easily tidied up. What’s the real reason you don’t want us taking the case?”
Her face tensed. “I don’t like representing guilty people.”
“Rach,” I argued, “Lilia didn’t kill Sylvia. She loved her.”
“They had a knockdown, drag-out fight before Lilia left. I got copies of the police files. There were complaints about a row from the neighbors. As big as the property is, they must have been doing some loud shouting at one another. Then silence.”
I squirmed around in my chair before crossing my legs. “Lilia left the scene. She checked in at The Breakers.”
“But did she kill Sylvia on the way out?”
I whirled my chair around and glared back at my computer’s empty screen. Then through my teeth, I answered, “Lilia did not kill anyone.”
Rachel studied me. I felt her eyes boring into my skin. “Beryl, we’ve had clients before that have been less than candid with us. There is a possibility Lilia killed Sylvia.” Rachel opened one of her files and read, “Primary suspect—last at the scene, last to have seen Sylvia Grant alive. Guess who?”
Rachel slapped two
more handfuls of papers on her desk. A little heavier weight paper and there would have been a thud.
I rallied, “The murderer was the last to have seen Sylvia alive. Not Lilia.”
“Beryl, you seem to be losing your objectivity on this issue. Are you interested in Lilia?”
“Naturally, I think she’s lovely. But I also think she’s innocent.”
“I doubt that you’ve ever dated anyone more than three times in your life. So I hope you aren’t going to stake the firm’s reputation on a crush that will only last until,” she broke checking the calendar, “until Thursday.”
“Your allegation is that I’m finicky about ladies.”
“Allegation. Beryl, you’re talking like an attorney again.”
“I am a defense attorney. And you don’t like it one little bit.”
“I don’t like it because you hide behind it. Take a look at your sheet. Where romance is concerned, you have the staying power of an impatient butterfly. You’re the most emotionally buttoned-up woman I know. You don’t want to stick around romance long enough to bond. Lilia’s sheet shows she’s a suspect.”
“Sheet!” I repeated. “Now you’re talking like a cop.” I glanced into her face as together we chuckled. “Okay, I’m attracted to her. That doesn’t mean I'm not objective.”
“Our policy is against fraternizing with clients.”
“Lilia is mourning her recently deceased lover. She is also famous and wealthy. I don’t have a chance with someone like her.”
“With your dimples, you might just make it an interesting diversion for her.”
My silence was an answer of sorts. Perhaps it was a wish. “How about a late afternoon conference? I’ll touch bases with Summer, and we’ll plan it?”
Her right eyebrow lifted. “To vote on taking Lilia as a client?”
“I’ve already agreed to represent her.”
“The trio has always agreed together in representing clients. Summer may have an objection.”