Palm Beach Bedlam

by Tom Turner

  Mrs. Schiller pushed open the half-opened door. The disappointment on her face was evident. “So, you’re Horst?”

  Horst nodded. “Yes, ma’am. You ready to go?”

  She forced a smile. “Yes. Come on in.” Then she glanced at Crawford. “Nice to meet you, Detective.”

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  As she and Horst went inside, Tom Schiller appeared.

  Crawford introduced himself. The two had a short conversation on the porch. Schiller hemmed and hawed for a while, but after Crawford told him he had him on camera, Schiller lowered his voice and admitted to walking out of The Colony with a woman whose name he didn’t remember. Crawford was ninety-five percent sure Schiller was not his man. Just a man who didn’t get enough attention on the home front. He asked him a few more questions until he was a hundred percent sure, then he left.

  Next on Crawford’s agenda was lunch with Rose Clarke at her palatial British Colonial on the ocean. It was really a fact-finding mission, but that’s the last thing he’d tell her it was. He had phoned her earlier in the morning and asked her out for lunch. She told him she was working at home and he should come over for a salad and a couple glasses of rosé. “Even though manly men like you probably don’t drink rosé,” she’d said.

  He assured her that he did drink rosé on occasion, just not on the job. She then reminded him that he had come over once, it was a Wednesday, and had a chicken avocado wrap and several glasses of chardonnay, followed by what she daintily referred to as a “roll in the hay … no, actually several.” He remembered it fondly, but clarified, “That was back when there was a long stretch when nobody was getting killed in Palm Beach, which is not the case at the moment.”

  And besides, he reminded her, that had been before the “moratorium.” The moratorium, also referred to as “the deal,” was something Rose and her good friend Dominica McCarthy had cooked up. Rose and Dominica—both former friends with benefits of Crawford’s, but still friends—had implemented a sex ban after bringing it to his attention that he’d had it too good for too long—having sex with both of them alternately on a somewhat regular basis. He had objected strenuously, but they were resolute. The moratorium had been in effect for eight months now, and Crawford was feeling a little desperate to change the status quo.

  They were sitting at a glass-topped table out by Rose’s infinity-edge pool, which gave the impression from Crawford’s angle that the ocean beyond was a continuation of the pool. They were eating Cobb salads and, turned out, Rose was a hell of a good amateur chef.

  “This is so good,” Crawford said, having taken his first bite. “Is there anything you don’t do well?”

  Rose smiled. “I suck at tennis.”

  “Which is not true. I’ve seen you play and you’re not bad. You just have such incredibly high expectations for yourself.”

  “Yeah, that’s true. Perfectionist, I guess,” Rose said, putting down her wine glass. “So, Charlie, I know you have no time for me when you have a murder except to pick my brain, so what is it you want to know?”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “Yup.”

  Crawford laughed. “All right, so tell me about a few people. First of all, Lord Ainslie Sunderland.”

  Rose smiled and shook her head. “Well, first of all, he’s not.”

  “What do you mean? Not what?”

  “A lord,” Rose said. “He was born Ainslie Lord Sulcher. Lord being his middle name. Son of a hod carrier. Know what a hod carrier is?”

  “Yeah, isn’t that a laborer who hauls bricks around? An English thing.”

  “Very good. That Ivy League education comes through again.”

  Crawford shook his head. “Nah, I remember it from a crossword puzzle.”

  “You do crossword puzzles?”

  “Did. I was too impatient. Gave up on ’em.”

  “Another thing I suck at.”

  “Yeah, ’cause of your perfectionism, I bet. If you didn’t get every word in fifteen minutes, you gave up. Right?”

  “Yeah, maybe. Back to Sunderland. As I said, he started out life as Ainslie Sulcher, working in the dry-cleaning business. Flash forward twenty years, and he owns, like, ten of ’em and is pretty rich. Along the way, he knights himself Lord Sunderland and buys a broken-down castle—”

  “Wait, I thought only the Queen could knight you?”

  “Yes, that’s correct, but it didn’t stop him from doing it in some underhanded, back-channel kind of way. Bribed someone, I’m sure.”

  Crawford leaned back in his chair; the woman could sure spin a yarn.

  “And before you know it, in the great tradition of British aristocracy and rich American women, Ainslie marries a Pratt.”

  “What’s a Pratt?”

  “Descendant of a guy who was John D. Rockefeller’s partner in the oil business. Owned a chunk of Standard Oil, I think it was.”

  “So, like a robber baron?”

  “Exactly. And five years later, when he’s around thirty-five, he divorces the robber baron’s daughter but somehow ends up with half her money.”

  “So, now he’s not just a lord but rich as hell?”

  Rose nodded. “Ends up in Palm Beach … Word is, trolling for another rich daughter or widow, even though he doesn’t need the money anymore.”

  “I have a question.”

  “Just one?”

  “Has every single person in Palm Beach reinvented themselves?”

  “Only about half,” Rose said.

  “It’s incredible,” Crawford said. “I gotta get with the program.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m just the same ol’ schlub I’ve always been.”

  “Yeah, but such a handsome, smart, and funny schlub.”

  Crawford reached across the table and patted her hand. “Thank you, Rose, that’s very kind. So, Lord Sunderland … aside from the thing with Bard and the girls ten years ago, any other scandal or skeletons in his closet?”

  “Not that I can think of. He had a kid with the Pratt heiress who married into the royal family. But I’m told the Queen basically cold-shouldered him because she knew the guy was such a colossal phony.”

  “Wow, the man’s come a long way from the son of a humble hod carrier.”

  “You’re not kidding,” Rose said, finishing off her glass of wine. “You know, Charlie, back in the old days I would have seduced you by now.”

  She was referring to the pre-moratorium days.

  “Yeah,” Crawford said, wistfully. “Gotta say, I really miss those days.”

  Rose’s eyelashes flicked a few times and she tapped the glass-topped table. “I want to tell you about my new friend, Charlie.”

  It could only be one thing, Crawford knew. “I’m all ears.”

  “We-lll.” She stretched the word out so it seemed like it was six syllables. “I’m seeing a man.”

  Crawford gestured for more. “Come on, girl, details. Gimme details.”

  “Okay, he’s a really nice guy. Not as handsome or as funny as you, but he’ll do.”

  “You forgot smart.”

  “Oh, yeah, he is that. Not to mention attentive and sweet.”

  “Sweet is good. What’s he do for a living?”

  “He’s a doctor. A shrink, to be exact.”

  “Oh,” said Crawford.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I just said, ‘oh.’”

  “Yeah, but it’s how you said it.”

  “You’re hearing things, Rose. What’s his name?”

  “John.”

  “John who? Don’t make me pull teeth here.”

  “Muldoon.” She frowned.

  “What?”

  She shrugged. “I just don’t love that name.”

  “What difference does it make? You’re not marrying him … or are you?” Crawford looked out on the ocean and saw an ocean liner way out on the horizon.

  “No, of course not. We just met two weeks ago.” />
  “Where? On his couch?”

  Rose faux-laughed. “Funny. Do you think I need a shrink?”

  “I think we all need a shrink from time to time.”

  “Maybe you got something there,” Rose said. “You don’t seem all that broken up about my news.”

  “I’m just faking it really well,” Crawford said, taking a bite of tomato, bacon, and avocado.

  “No, seriously, it’s like you don’t care that we won’t be having our little nooners anymore.”

  Crawford laughed. “There’s one thing I’ve learned in life.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Never say never.”

  “I didn’t. I said anymore.”

  “Same thing,” Crawford said. “Can I ask you about someone else?”

  “You don’t want to talk about my burgeoning love life?” Rose asked as she poured another glass of rosé.

  Crawford shook his head. “Can I just run one more name by you?”

  “Sure,” Rose said with a sigh. “You’re already bored with my love life, I see. Who do you want to ask me about?”

  “It’s not that I’m bored with it, I’m just,” he sighed melodramatically, “not a part of it, so—”

  “So it doesn’t interest you, I get it. Who do you want to—”

  “Khalid Al-Ansani.”

  Rose smiled and rubbed her hands together. “Oh, now there’s a guy who’s like a character out of a James Bond novel. Matter of fact, come to think of it, he had a yacht that actually was in a Bond movie. I forget which one, but the one where the bad guy was named Blofeld, I think it was.”

  “Oh, From Russia with Love, among others.”

  “Are you a James Bond expert?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Anyway, Khalid’s led a pretty colorful life,” Rose said. “He was a billionaire back when there were only a handful of them around. But he’s had some big-time reversals.”

  “So now he’s slipped back to mere millionaire status?”

  “Exactly,” Rose said, taking a sip of her rosé. “Somebody once told me he had, like, eighteen or twenty houses all over the world at one time, though maybe he’s down to only five or six. I think he spends most of his time here … At least I see him around a lot.”

  “What about … What’s his history with women?” Crawford asked.

  “Prodigious,” Rose said. “I don’t know if he’s got as many wives and mistresses as houses, but it’s probably pretty close.”

  “So, any good scandals on his résumé?”

  Rose thought for a second. “With the exception of those girls ten years ago with Asher Bard, I can’t think of any.”

  Crawford nodded.

  “Oh, hey, you’ll appreciate this,” Rose said. “Khalid went to the company that makes the game Monopoly—like maybe fifteen years ago or so, when he was still flush—and had them make up a game board with all his houses on it. So instead of Park Place, it was some address in London. Mayfair, I think. And instead of Broadway, it was some address in Monte Carlo.”

  Crawford just shook his head. “Somehow I’m finding this a little hard to relate to.”

  Rose chuckled. “Then I heard he gave the custom games to family members and friends.”

  Crawford thought for a moment. “But the question is, did he ever have a condo in West Palm Beach with a spectacular view of the Publix parking lot?”

  Rose laughed, started to say something but stopped.

  “What?” Crawford said. “You were about to say something. About Al-Ansani?”

  Rose held up her hands. “That’s enough for now.”

  Crawford slowly shook his head. “Rose, you’re holding out on me.”

  She heaved a long sigh. “Oh, all right,” she said, hesitating. “So, this is about three years ago. Khalid called me up and said he was thinking about selling his house, and would I come over and give him some idea how much he should ask for it.”

  Crawford was nodding now. “I already know where this is going.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “So, you go to Chateau Khalid and nobody’s in the house except him and there’s soft music playing and he offers you a drink. Champagne, probably.”

  Rose laughed. “You’re not a detective, by any chance?”

  “Then, he takes you around, gives you the grand tour of the place—with several more champagne pit stops—and finally he squires you into the master bedroom. This big monster four-poster bed, like something out of Catherine the Great, am I right? And boom, he starts to slap those sly Saudi Arabian moves on you.”

  Rose shook her head in disbelief. “Jesus, were you there or something? Hiding behind a curtain, maybe?”

  Crawford laughed. “No, I just know how men think. And it’s always with their … well, you know.”

  18

  After lunch at Rose’s house, Crawford drove to the Chesterfield Hotel at 363 Cocoanut Row. The Chesterfield was a boutique hotel a few blocks from Worth Avenue that, on its website, boasted of its “old-world charm, sophisticated interiors, and beautifully designed rooms and suites.”

  Crawford parked a half block away and walked into the lobby. A tall, skinny man was at the reception desk. “Yes, sir, welcome to the Chesterfield,” the man said with a British accent.

  “Thanks,” Crawford said. “I’m Detective Crawford, Palm Beach Police. Is the manager here? I’d like to speak to him.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Borland, his name is. I’ll get him for you,” the man said, walking to a closed door behind him. He knocked, then went in. A few moments later he walked back out followed by a bald man in a blue blazer.

  “Hi, I’m John Borland. May I help you?”

  Crawford shook Borland’s hand. “Yes, I have a few questions about a guest who stayed here earlier this week.”

  Borland nodded. “I think I know who you mean.”

  “Grace Spooner was her name.”

  Borland nodded more emphatically. “The woman who was killed at The Colony.”

  “Yes.”

  “I was in my office just about to leave for the day when she checked out on Tuesday. It was a very odd time for a guest to check out. Right around five o’clock. Plus, she had already paid for the night and so was on the hook for it. I remember wondering why she’d check out at that time.”

  “She didn’t offer any explanation?”

  “No, not according to Justine, who was at the desk at the time. Just said she needed to go. Then when I read in the Post about her terrible death at The Colony, I wondered again why she would pay to stay there when she had already paid to stay here. Didn’t make any sense to me.”

  “I agree, it doesn’t make sense,” Crawford said. “Do you know when she made the reservation?”

  “I sure do, because I was the one who took the call. It was last Thursday, and the person who made the reservation was not Ms. Spooner, but a man.”

  “Really? Did he give his name?”

  “No.”

  “But to make the reservation, he’d need to give you a credit card. Right? And give you his name?”

  “Normally. But he said he was going to have a messenger come right over with cash. And, sure enough, an hour later a messenger showed up with five hundred twenty dollars in cash.”

  “I never heard of anybody doing that.”

  “I think it was a first for me, too.”

  Crawford thought for a moment. “Do you have any record of where the messenger came from? What service?”

  “No, sorry, just a young guy in khakis and a blue shirt.”

  The whole thing was looking like a dead end, which was a huge letdown since it might have been a critical link in cracking the case.

  “Did anyone visit Ms. Spooner when she was here? Or have a drink with her maybe? In the Leopard Lounge possibly?”

  Borland glanced over at the tall, skinny man, who shook his head. “Not that I ever noticed,” he said.

  “Sorry,” Borland said.

  “Okay,” Crawfo
rd said. “Well, thanks for your help.”

  “I’m afraid it wasn’t much,” Borland said.

  He was right.

  Crawford tried Ainslie Sunderland one more time, but again only got his message machine.

  Next stop was Cedar Knolls up in Riviera Beach. Crawford felt it was important to go there and confirm a few things. Maybe get some new facts, too. He drove to the station to pick up Ott for the short ride north up Route 1. Crawford was waiting for Ott outside the station when a man wearing cargo shorts and a red Coke T-shirt came into view in Crawford’s rearview mirror. He was walking down the sidewalk at the same time Ott came out of the station. Crawford saw his partner’s eyes light up when he saw the man on the sidewalk. The man, apparently recognizing Ott, rushed up to him and threw his arms around him in a full-on bear hug.

  The two had a short conversation, then Ott pointed at Crawford’s Crown Vic, and the two shook hands and said good-bye.

  Ott opened the passenger side door of the Vic. “Sorry about that,” he said. “That was an old buddy from Cleveland. Renting a place in Boca for a few months.”

  “Not a fan of Cleveland winters, huh?”

  “Yeah, you know how it is: the older you get, the lower your tolerance.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Speaking of fans, I’m not a big fan of man hugs,” Ott said.

  “Why not?” Crawford knew Ott to be outspoken on just about every subject known to man.

  “I don’t know exactly. Half the time it just feels … awkward. I mean, shit, what’s wrong with a good old-fashioned handshake.”

  “Nothing,” Crawford said. “It’s my greeting of choice.”

  “Yeah, the one time I saw you hug a guy,” Ott chuckled, “it was like you were hugging a cactus. Not into the experience at all.”

  “Well, you see these guys do it, and they barely touch.”

  “Or where it’s like one of ’em’s thinking, ‘I just met you once, why the hell are we hugging?’”

  “I’m with ya.”

  “So I guess we’re both in the old-fashioned handshake camp.”

  Crawford nodded. “I guess.”

  Cedar Knolls was a large three-story colonial style house that looked inviting at first. It reminded Crawford of his grandmother’s house in Massachusetts that always smelled of gingerbread. Then he drove closer and saw the bars on the windows. It was beautifully landscaped in front with a massive live oak surrounded by palm trees. He had gone on Google and read some disturbing articles about the place from ten years ago and wondered whether the live oak was the same tree one of the troubled teens had hanged himself from. There was a parking lot off to the side that was large enough to park twelve to fifteen cars, Crawford drove in and parked. “We don’t have an appointment or anything, right?” Ott asked, getting out of the Vic.