“Decaf, three sugars, just the way you like it.” He sat on the sofa and patted the cushion next to him.
“Thanks. I think I’ll marry you.”
“I’m counting on it. How about tomorrow?”
I settled beside him, and Roger, after trying unsuccessfully to squeeze between us, turned around three times before lying next to me. “Let’s get Trish settled first.”
“How did your girl-talk go tonight?” Bill said.
“Before it was cut short by the falling hammer of three Long Island iced teas? In a nutshell, Trish intends to win you back, kick me out and live together with you happily ever after.”
Bill cursed and almost spilled his coffee. At the string of expletives, Roger dived off the sofa and under the coffee table.
“I hope you set her straight,” Bill said.
“She didn’t want to be confused with the facts. You’re her great white hope.”
Bill leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. “Another case of the rescuer becoming the victim.”
His reaction was reassuring, but didn’t solve our problem. “So what now?”
He opened his eyes and stared into mine. “I think it’s time Trish paid a visit to Melanie. But from what you tell me, getting her out of the house will take some strong persuasion.”
“I’d suggest dynamite, but it’s so messy.”
“Ah, Margaret,” he said in that warm, deep voice that melted my bones, “you’re such a good sport. Any other woman would have been throwing hissy fits from the get-go. You’re one in a million.”
I smiled. I’d thrown my hissy fits in private. If Bill wanted to believe I possessed stellar qualities, who was I to disillusion him? “We’ll deal with Trish later. Tell me about Tonya.”
Roger, sensing the tension had left the room, peeked from beneath the table and hopped onto the sofa again.
Bill drank his coffee, as if collecting his thoughts before he spoke. “McClain is an interesting woman. Mid-forties, typical spit-and-polish ex-military and very butch.”
“So she wasn’t asked and didn’t tell?”
“Apparently.”
“Did she have an alibi for the day of the shooting?”
Bill shook his head. “She says she was driving to Key West for a long Labor Day weekend, but didn’t have a witness to back up her story.”
“No credit card receipts for gas?”
“Claims she paid cash.”
“So she could have traveled to Key West via Sand Key,” I said. “It’s maybe sixty miles out of the way.”
“I don’t know. Tonya was hard to read. She appeared surprised to learn that Kimberly is living in the Bay area.”
“Does she own a rifle?” I asked.
Bill shrugged. “I asked, but she said that was none of my business, and if the police want to know, they can get a search warrant, if they have grounds.”
“A suspicious attitude.”
“Or very Second Amendment,” he said. “I wouldn’t want a detective, private or otherwise, sniffing into my business without cause.”
“What did she say about being fired?”
“She insists that Kimberly’s letting her go from the Wynona Wisdom staff was strictly over creative differences with no hard feelings.”
“And you believed her?”
“She seemed convincing,” he said. “But if she’s a sociopath, she could smile and smile and still a villain be.”
“I love it when you talk Shakespeare.”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “You should hear me talk dirty.”
I covered Roger’s ears. “He’s only a pup.”
Bill sighed. “And you have a houseguest. And so do I.” His expression brightened. “There’s always the boat.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Kimberly’s paying us not to leave her alone at night.”
“That’s irrational,” Bill said. “Sister Mary Theresa was killed in broad daylight.”
“Fear is rarely rational.”
He nodded. “We still don’t know for certain whether Kimberly’s fear has a basis in fact. The woman can’t spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder.”
“Maybe in a week or two, after the trauma of the shooting has lessened, she’ll feel safe at home.”
“Who’s working this weekend while we’re off on our cruise?” he asked.
“I’ve already lined up Mackley to spend the nights here.”
He set aside his coffee and pulled me into his arms. “We’ll be married in a couple of weeks. How about a preview of coming attractions?”
AN EARLY RISER, I was at my desk at the office by eight the next morning, reading the classifieds and circling prospective apartments. I’d give Trish enough time to sleep off last night’s excesses before taking her house hunting.
After lining up agents to show the properties and planning a route that would have Trish screaming to sign a lease, any lease, just to stop me from dragging her all over Upper Pinellas County, I turned to my notes on Kimberly’s case.
So far, there was no prime suspect in Sister Mary Theresa’s death. Forget prime. We didn’t have even a secondary suspect, unless I counted Tonya McClain. Bill was returning to Tampa this morning to interview Tonya’s neighbors and friends in hopes of turning up a current link between Tonya and her ex-boss. Meanwhile, the only connection between the nun’s death and Kimberly was the physical resemblance between the two women. None of the threatening letters to Wynona Wisdom had panned out. No identifiable suspect with a grudge against the sister or Kimberly had surfaced and, if the sniper had been a random killer, he hadn’t struck again, at least not in the Bay area.
My investigation had hit a wall. Unfortunately, in situations like this, often someone else had to die before the conundrum could be solved. That conclusion made my skin itch, and I reached into my desk for a Benadryl capsule to ward off homicide hives and washed it down with coffee.
The phone rang, and seconds later, Darcy buzzed me on the intercom. “Detective Keating is on line one.”
And I’d thought the morning couldn’t get more depressing. Silly me.
I picked up the phone. “Skerritt here.”
“Good morning to you, too.” Keating’s voice was as sexy as his appearance. Combine that with his arrogant personality, and he was downright irritating.
“What do you want?”
“Got up on the wrong side of the bed, did you?”
I was being rude, but my ill manners were rolling off his ego like rain off a newly waxed car. “Yes. So?”
“So I have an ID on your John Doe.”
Between dealing with Trish and trying to reconcile Kimberly’s fears, I’d forgotten about J.D. and the Lassiter sisters.
I reached for a pencil. “Okay.”
“Not so fast,” he said. “We have a deal, remember?”
Memory clicked. “Yeah, I remember. I’ll meet you for lunch.”
“Lunch wasn’t our agreement. I’ll pick you up at seven for dinner at Sophia’s.”
“I’ll meet you at Sophia’s,” I corrected. I had the distinct impression that riding in the same car with Keating would turn him into an octopus with more appendages than I could handle. “Remember, we’re two professionals having dinner to share information, so don’t get any wise ideas.”
He laughed as if I’d cracked a joke. “See you at seven, Maggie.”
A FEW HOURS LATER, I’d decided that tonight’s dinner with Keating was going to be a treat compared to my morning from hell.
When I had picked Trish up at the house after Keating’s call, she’d looked none the worse for wear after the previous evening’s overindulgence, especially once sunglasses covered her bloodshot eyes.
She fastened her seat belt as if impaling an enemy. “This is a waste of time.”
“You’re going back to Seattle?” I couldn’t keep the hopefulness from my voice.
“No, but I know I won’t see anything I like better than where I am now.”
“Where you are now
is my house.”
“I’m sure Bill will buy out your half.”
She was living in a dreamworld, but her real world had turned so ugly, maybe dreams were all she could face.
“I’ve picked out several great properties in good neighborhoods and arranged for the leasing agents to meet us there.”
She leaned against the headrest and sighed. “At least I’ll get some fresh air.”
Three hours later, I wanted to cut off her air supply entirely. First, I’d driven her to the most elegant property, a one-bedroom condo on the approach to the causeway to Pelican Beach. The complex was built over a ground floor parking garage.
We climbed to the second floor, where the condo’s sliders gave magnificent vistas of the bay, Pelican Beach and Caladesi and Honeymoon Islands, all framed by palms. The newly renovated space was small but packed with amenities: a washer/dryer, large walk-in shower, updated kitchen and a balcony that caught the onshore breezes and tropical sunsets.
Even though Bill had agreed to spring for the added cost of the upscale digs, Trish turned up her nose and shook her head. “Too many stairs.”
Undeterred, I drove her to Countryside, not far from the mall. The attractive town house, nestled among trees and backing onto a conservation area, was quiet and luxurious and only minutes from serious shopping, one of Trish’s passions.
“Not enough windows,” she complained of the unit sandwiched between two others.
“But you have skylights,” I said.
“Too claustrophobic.” She walked out the front door and headed for the car. I thanked the agent and followed her.
I’d saved the best for last, a house for rent in Osprey Country Club Estates. Built in the fifties, the postmodern residence, beautifully restored and landscaped, was small but a perfect fit for one person.
Trish wandered through the rooms with copious windows and large expanses of glass in the gables of the vaulted ceilings.
“You’ll have plenty of light here,” I said. “Lots of windows, sliding glass doors.”
“That’s the problem,” Trish said.
I shoved my hands in the pockets of my skirt to keep from strangling her. “Why are windows a problem?”
“With all this glass, anyone could break in, in a heartbeat. I’d be living alone, after all.” She shook her head. “No, it would be too scary.”
Scary was what was going to happen to her if she didn’t move out of Bill’s and my house. Soon.
Temporarily admitting defeat, I dropped her back at our place and left her mixing rum and Coke for a liquid lunch a little after noon.
Messy as it was, I might have to resort to dynamite to dislodge her after all.
CHAPTER 16
Later that afternoon, I met Bill at his boat and explained the failure of my mission.
“You’ll just have to ask her to leave.” We were sitting on the rear deck, enjoying the refreshing, salty breeze. “Trish has deluded herself into believing you two are going to take up where you left off all those years ago.”
Bill frowned. “She’s in a fragile state. I don’t want to push her over the edge.”
I was ready to push her off a cliff, which, lucky for Trish, wasn’t available, considering Florida’s flat terrain.
“Letting her stay alone, drinking all day, isn’t helping her situation,” I said.
“Wouldn’t she do the same thing in her own apartment?”
“If she gets a job and recognizes that she can’t continue to depend on you, maybe she’ll pull herself together.”
“Or go off the deep end entirely.” Bill shook his head. “But you’re right. She can’t remain at our place. I’ll call the leasing agent tomorrow and put a deposit on the condo on the causeway. And I’ll rent her a car until I can find her a used one.”
“No, until she can find one for herself,” I said firmly. “As long as you’re acting like a knight in shining armor, she’s going to play damsel in distress. She has to take charge of her own life, or she’ll come running to you for everything.”
Bill reached across and grasped my hand. “It’s strange how clear hindsight can be. Looking back on my marriage to Trish, I can see now how she relied on me for everything. I made all the decisions, handled the finances, disciplined Melanie. No wonder Trish was terrified something would happen to me. She wouldn’t have known what to do without me.”
“Then why did she strike out on her own?”
“Maybe she was facing her worst fears,” he said.
“But she didn’t. She married Harvey instead.”
Bill nodded. “And my guess is that Harvey finally got tired of her dependency. At first, her clinging was probably flattering, but a marriage is a partnership. If her marriage to Harvey was like hers to me, Trish collected the benefits without any responsibility.”
A flutter of my previous hesitancy about marrying swept over me. “Do I lean on you too much? I know I let you do all the cooking.”
Bill laughed. “You, Margaret, are the most self-sufficient woman I know. And cooking for you is a joy, not a chore.”
His praise reassured me. “Do you think we should approach Trish with a united front?” I said. “Both of us could help her pack and move.”
“Good idea. That way she’ll have no doubt where my loyalties and affection lie.”
“As long as she’s sober enough to think straight,” I said.
“One can only hope.”
“So,” I said, feeling wifely, “how was your day?”
Bill shrugged. “I talked to several of Tonya McClain’s friends and neighbors. She’d discussed her previous employment by Wynona Wisdom with two of her friends. Tonya had obvious issues with Kimberly.”
“That’s what Kimberly said. Tonya didn’t agree with the advice Kimberly gave.”
Bill reached down to Roger, who lay on the deck at his feet, and scratched behind the dog’s ears. “Then Kimberly must not have known.”
“Known what?”
“That Tonya had a thing for her.”
“A thing?” I grinned, knowing what he meant but wanting him to say it.
“Tonya was in love with Kimberly.”
I did a few mental calculations. “If I have the timeline right, that would have been about the time Kimberly went gaga over Simon Anderson.”
Bill nodded.
“But,” I added, “loving someone who doesn’t love you back doesn’t necessarily make you a killer. If so, we might as well arrest Trish right now.”
“What if Tonya’s unrequited love ate at her? Maybe, despite her insistence that she didn’t know Kimberly had moved here, Tonya followed her to Tampa Bay and decided if she couldn’t have Kimberly, nobody would.”
“That’s a stretch, but not out of the question.”
“It’s the only theory that fits our only suspect.” His gaze followed three pelicans skimming in chevron formation across the sunlit water. “Otherwise, we’re back to the random-sniper theory.”
I nodded. “And a random killer leaves the door wide open for every suspect from nutcases to gang initiates.”
“Which means Kimberly could spend the rest of her life wondering whether she is a target.”
“Speaking of our client, can you stay with her this evening?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Sure. Where will you be?”
“On a not-so-hot date.”
“Date? What part of engaged don’t you understand?” he teased.
“The same part you forgot in bringing your ex-wife into our soon-to-be home.”
“Touché. You don’t take crap off anyone, do you?”
“Let’s leave my mother out of this.”
I explained how Keating had agreed to run J.D.’s prints and how he’d coerced me into having dinner with him before giving me what he’d discovered.
“Just do me one favor,” Bill said.
“What’s that?”
“Order the most expensive item on the menu.”
I leaned over and kissed his v
ery attractive mouth. “I’ll bring you a go-box.”
I HADN’T BEEN TO SOPHIA’S since June, when Bill and I, assisted by Adler, Porter and Mackley, had provided security for a reception following the wedding of a couple from two feuding families. The event had turned into a catastrophe, but we’d averted major damage to the restaurant’s banquet room by putting our emergency plan into action and separating the combatants before furniture was broken or blood spilled.
I hoped I wasn’t going to need an emergency plan tonight. Waiting in the lobby, Keating was drawing interesting stares from other women. In his well-cut suit and tie, he was appealing eye candy to those unaware of his self-centered personality.
Nobody noticed me. Unlike my sister Caroline, who lived and died by the latest issue of Vogue, I was no fashion hound. My navy linen dress, worn tonight without its matching jacket due to the heat, was ages old and the dowdiest thing I owned. I’d bought it while working with the Pelican Bay PD to wear for court appearances and had hoped its ho-hum style would send Keating a message. But the guy’s clue radar was apparently shut down for repair.
He gave a low whistle when he saw me. “Maggie, you look fabulous.”
“Thanks.” I nodded toward the large manila envelope in his hand. “Is that what you found on J.D.?”
My urge was to snatch it and run.
He nodded. “But what’s your hurry? We have all night.”
I shuddered at the anticipation in his voice. “You may have all night. I have a client waiting for me.”
He offered me his arm. “Then we shouldn’t waste any time.”
Stiffening my back and my resolve to get dinner over with as soon as possible, I rested my hand lightly on his sleeve. We followed the maître d’ down broad marble stairs into the dining room.
Sophia’s had been built in the style of a Venetian palazzo, and its soaring ceiling, encircling balcony and rococo ornamentation made the restaurant a visual as well as a culinary delight. The room’s linen-draped tables were crowded with diners, and soft music and the muted clink of silverware and crystal filled the air.
The maître d’ led us to a secluded alcove beside an arched window that overlooked the sound. Beside the table, champagne chilled in a silver bucket. A single red rose lay beside my place setting.
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