“Call 911, you moron!” Angie screamed.
Rodney searched his pockets until he located his phone. He wiped the drool from the side of his mouth. He still wasn’t fully awake when the operator came on. When she asked the nature of his problem, he said, “I’m not sure but I think he’s dead.”
“Who’s dead?” the operator asked.
“Marco.”
“What is his last name, sir?”
“Escobar.”
“Is he breathing?”
“I don’t know.” Rodney looked at Angie. “Is he breathing?”
“No, he’s not breathing. He’s got a fucking arrow in his chest!” Angie screamed.
“Sir… Sir…” The operator was trying to get Rodney’s attention.
“No, he’s not breathing,” Rodney said into the phone. “I’m pretty sure he’s dead. There’s a bolt—an arrow—sticking out of his chest.”
“Okay sir, I have a deputy dispatched to your location. I need you to stay on the phone with me until they get there.”
“Okay.”
“Sir, do you know what happened?”
“I was asleep,” Rodney replied.
“Do you have anything to do with this sir?” the operator asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Who is there with you?”
“His sister, Angie.”
“Where is Angie?”
“Trying to pull the arrow out of his chest.”
“Sir, tell her to move away from the body.”
“Angie, they said move away from the body.”
Angie sat back on her heels, her hands covered in blood. She wiped them on her black pants, but it didn’t help. The blood merely spread farther up her arms.
“Sir… are there any weapons in the house?”
Rodney looked around. He spotted the crossbow on the counter, close to where he had set it the night before.
“Yes,” he said.
“Okay, the deputies are just a few minutes away. Just hold tight.”
It wasn’t even five minutes later when the doors burst in from all sides and officers entered, guns drawn.
“Hands up!” demanded a loud voice.
Both Rodney and Angie reached up.
*
Rodney sat in the back of the Palm Beach County sheriff’s car, watching the sky turn the most magical colors of orange and red. He breathed deeply, remembering when he first moved to Boca…how different it was from New York, but how similar to his home in South Africa.
Angie sat in a separate sheriff’s vehicle. She had watched her brother’s body, wrapped in a black zippered body bag, being loaded into an ambulance. She could see the rise in the middle, where the arrow was still lodged.
She didn’t cry but kept her jaw clenched tight, wondering where she was going to live now. She worried whether she would be able to get her clothes and makeup, and would she be able to make it to work tonight?
By midmorning, the yellow police tape surrounding the perimeter of Marco’s house on Iguana Lane had put the country club on full alert. A steady stream of golf carts slowly drove by, hoping to get a peak of the goings on. One by one, the residents questioned the officers, hoping to learn a bit of information they could share with their neighbors; but the officers gave the same answer to everyone who asked: “It’s too early to tell.”
Normally an ambulance in this neighborhood wasn’t that big of a deal; the average age of the country club’s residents was close to eighty. But the fact that it was Marco’s house—and that Rodney had been spotted sitting in the back of a police car—created a bigger stir than might otherwise have been expected.
Both the front and back gates had local police checking cars and questioning residents. All of the contractors, pool cleaners, and landscapers were all turned away for the day to preserve any evidence that might have remained after the heavy rains that had fallen during the night. The golf staff were already fielding calls in regard to the yellow tape surrounding the trunk of the large banyan tree and nearby bushes on hole Number 4 of the lower course: an arrow was sticking out high amid the banyan’s thick branches.
“If my ball lands inside the barrier, can I retrieve it?” was a common question from the golfers.
The answer from the staff was, “No.”
“If it’s close enough to the barrier, can I use a club or my retriever to reach in and get it?”
“No.”
“So, where is the drop, then?”
“Is your ball inside the yellow tape?”
“No.”
“Seriously these people don’t live in reality.”
Chapter 2
Moscow Mule
The breakfast crowd at the Tiki Grill reminded Maggie more of her high school lunchroom than the informal dining experience at the country club. Every morning the same cliques gathered at their regular tables. The jocks. The nerds. The ambitious wannabes in student government. The packs of mean girls. And, of course, the misfits.
Maggie, Alexandria, and Britney considered themselves members of the misfits: they were not traditional members at the club. There were two jock tables, the guys and the girls. The guys were the good golfers, and the girls were golfers and tennis players. The nerds were not really nerds but more loners who enjoyed turning through the staid, sober pages of The Wall Street Journal or the latest nonfiction hardback instead of the drama that was the necessary consequence of being in the company of others. The student government was the table of board members and the chairs of important committees. The mean girls didn’t usually come to breakfast—but you could always be assured of finding them in the women’s card room.
Whenever a new member arrived, the three women would guess what breakfast table they would join. Alexandra was usually right. Actually, she was right Every. Single. Time. Her expertise was likely due to her ability to read people; that, combined with her thirty-plus years of country club living.
Maggie poured herself a cup of coffee before she sat down with Alexandra and Britney.
“Did you hear?” Alex asked before Maggie even had the chance to sit.
“Hear what?”
“Marco is dead,” Britney said.
Maggie stared at her incredulously. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Not kidding,” Alex replied.
“How?”
“Someone said Rodney shot him with a bow and arrow,” Britney said.
Maggie scoffed. “That’s crazy, Rodney just seems so mild mannered. I can’t see him shooting anyone.” She shook her head. “He wouldn’t even know how to shoot a bow and arrow.”
“You should know, you’re the one who dated him.” Britney flashed her friend a smile.
“Seriously?” Maggie replied. “I never dated him. We hung out a few times.”
“Well that’s not what he says,” Alex observed.
“Maybe it was an accident?” Britney suggested, after a moment. “They had him in the back of a cop car.”
In truth, it had been Alex who had brought the three women together. She had seen Britney siting alone at the bar one night and introduced herself, offering her friendship. Soon after, Maggie moved in. The three had been inseparable ever since. They had been brought together by a need for allies in the crazy world that existed behind the gates of the Banyan Tree Country Club. Their method of coping with the country club lifestyle was similar to the strategies necessary for surviving a natural disaster like a hurricane, or a medical emergency, like having to share a kidney. Country club life didn’t quite suit them, but the Banyan Tree’s community was where they chose to live.
Britney was the youngest of the group. She had just turned twenty-nine and moved in two years ago. She was gorgeous—absolutely gorgeous!—as well as smart. Most of the people at the club assumed she was a high-end stripper or a trust fund baby living on her daddy’s money. The first time she showed up at the country club’s bar, she was met with side glances and turned-up noses. The ladies instantly hated her…and the men
all wanted to get to know her better.
In truth, Britney was a self-made woman. Only five years prior, she had approached a small boutique hotel on Palm Beach Island, offering to redesign their lobby for a school project. It had proved to be her big break. She did such a great job on the lobby, the owners hired her as their exclusive designer for all their hotels. Soon she was so busy flying all over the country, she dropped out of her school and started her own company designing high-end hotel lobbies.
Maggie moved into the country club just a few months after Britney. She was a retired technical writer for Boeing in a suburb of Seattle, where she had spent her entire life. After a bitter divorce and the nonstop rain and grey skies, the fifty-five-year-old needed a new life somewhere less depressing.
Maggie had always wanted to write a novel. She had started several projects, but they didn’t really go anywhere. She figured a new location would help inspire her; so she packed her bags and moved to Boca Raton.
Simply put, Alexandra was a class act. She was a part-time resident at the country club. No one knew her age; nor did they attempt to guess. When she lost her husband nearly four years ago, she also lost most of her friends. Whether this was because most of the activities were designed for couples or the wives didn’t want a beautiful available woman around their husbands, she became an outcast. She wasn’t ready to join the unofficial single women’s club where all the women who had lost their husbands banded together and complained about their lives. She still had a life to live.
Alexandra was the current CEO of a midsize manufacturer of airplane parts in upstate New York, where she was born and raised. Now she commuted back and forth from Rochester to Boca Raton on her corporate jet. Her sweet smile and fashionable style were very deceiving. The lady stood four feet, nine inches tall. She might easily be confused for a retired kindergarten teacher with an amazing golf swing, but she was one tough cookie you didn’t want to cross.
The three women sat at the four-top near the side door in order to have a full view of the morning’s activities.
“Who found the body?” Britney asked.
“I heard the jocks say his sister found him around four thirty this morning when she got home from work,” Alexandra said.
Britney smiled pertly. “I bet it’s one of those ladies from the card room that killed him.”
“I heard he pulled all the orchids from Edith Cohen’s trees,” Alex observed. “You know how much she brags about them.”
“Why on earth would he do that?” Maggie asked.
“She came stomping into the bar the other day and yelled at him for being too loud. Apparently she was in the card room and his laughing was distracting her. She probably lost the hand and needed an excuse. I guess he just ignored her ranting and continued to eat his lunch, so she grabbed him by the arm to get his attention. When he stood up to face her she screamed at him to ‘sit his fat ass down.’ He was so shocked he actually sat down. Doc spoke up and said she should shut her mouth and go back to the card room. All the guys turned back to their business, trying to ignore her. She then said, ‘Obviously none of you have ever lived in a country club.’ The guys thought Marco should file a grievance but he was determined to handle it his own way.”
“Isn’t she the lady that was sitting at the table near us on New Year’s Eve?” Maggie asked.
“Yes, remember she was the one that took the centerpiece off our table and put it on the floor because she couldn’t see the countdown on the giant screen behind us?”
“That’s right.” Britney nodded. “I think she’s crazy.”
“She’s also the reason for Marco’s last suspension,” Alex said.
“What did he do?”
“She parked her cart by the side door of the clubhouse—it’s not even a parking spot but she’s claimed it as her own private spot. So, as she walked past the cart barn, she heard Marco say, ‘Fucking idiot!’ I guess someone had backed into his cart, leaving a huge scratch. Edith went right into the manager’s office and filed a grievance for his foul language.”
“He does have a temper,” Maggie observed. “I’ve heard him cuss out a few people; but I think he’s a nice guy overall.”
“You mean he used to be,” corrected Alexandra.
“I can’t believe he’s dead,” Britney said.
“Me either,” Maggie replied.
The three women sat silently for a few moments, each remembering Marco in their own way.
“Oh my God,” Maggie said suddenly. “I have a great idea.”
Britney said, “What is it?”
“I am going to write a book.”
“I thought you were already writing a book?” Alexandra said.
“Yeah, it’s a historical fiction. I’ve been working on it for over ten years. I vowed to finish it when I retired…but honestly? It’s just too boring. I think I should switch gears and write a murder mystery.”
“I love a good mystery,” Alex said.
“It will take place in Boca. I can use Marco’s murder but just change all the names. We can secretly work on the case. We’re three smart women…we’ll probably solve it before the cops.”
Maggie looked at the other two women, waiting for their response.
“I’m in,” Britney said. “Sounds fun.”
“I’ve got nothing better to do for two weeks, so why not?” Alexandra said. “We can brainstorm during happy hour.”
“I’m so excited. I have so many great ideas for characters,” Maggie told her friends.
“Ha ha ha,” Britney replied. “That’s not hard.” She raised her arms then spread them apart, indicating everybody in the room.
Maggie had already taken her phone out. She opened the phone’s notebook app and started typing. So she didn’t notice the tall, suited man approach their table.
“Hello, ladies,” the man greeted.
“Hello,” Britney said first.
“May I?” He pointed to the empty fourth chair directly across from Maggie.
“Please,” Alex said, motioning for him to sit.
“I’m Detective Mike Marker,” the man said as he sat down. “I’m looking into the death of Marco Escobar.”
Maggie’s eyes instantly drifted from the handsome man’s electric-blue eyes to the man’s left hand. And there it was, a ring. Alexandra noticed Maggie’s attention wavering then kicked her under the table.
“Did any of you know him?” the detective asked. He held a small flip-style notebook, a pen at the ready.
“We all know him,” Britney volunteered.
“But, not that well,” Maggie said quickly.
“Yeah, not that well,” Alex added.
“Have any of you had interactions with him, business or social interactions?”
“We all have, we live in a country club. I mean the social part, not the business part,” Maggie said, receiving another kick from Alex.
“To be honest, it wasn’t an accident that I sat at this table,” Detective Marker said. “A few of your ‘friends’ here”—he motioned around the room—“have named you three as people who may have insight into his life.”
Britney looked around, shaking her head. “These people really have nothing to do.”
“You know what?” the detective said, standing, “I’m going to extend an invitation downtown, at my office this afternoon, maybe around three o’clock? That way we can have some privacy. What do you say, ladies?”
“Do we need lawyers?” Britney asked.
Detective Marker raised one eyebrow. “Do you think you might need a lawyer?”
“I think we’re good,” Alex said. “Anything we can do to help find whoever murdered Marco.”
“Did I say anything about murder?” Detective Marker asked.
“No, but word around here travels fast. It’s only breakfast, imagine what the rumors will be by happy hour?” Maggie said, smiling too big.
“That’s what I’m hoping for,” the detective said, extending to each of them a busin
ess card he retrieved from the front pocket of his pants. “My personal cell is on the back, just in case you need it; otherwise, call the number on the front. I look forward to seeing each of you at the station this afternoon.”
“Will do,” Britney said.
She took all three cards from Detective Marker then handed one to each of the ladies.
“Looking forward to it,” Maggie said, as the detective walked over to the teachers.
The three friends knew the teachers hadn’t known Marco personally but could attest to all his transgressions. The jocks had all known him well, as that was his clique. None of the academics had known him well enough, other than to point him out.
“You weren’t obvious enough,” Alex said to Maggie.
“What?”
“You almost fell out of your chair,” Britney said, laughing.
“You never know when the next Prince Charming will walk into your life.”
“I guarantee it’s not going to be behind these gates,” Alexandra said. “Believe me.”
“I do believe you,” Maggie returned, “that’s why we’re doing happy hour off campus this afternoon.”
“I’ll get us a car,” Britney said. She looked down at the detective’s card in her hand. “We can have the driver deliver us downtown to the detective’s office, and when we’re done, we can go somewhere in West Palm since we’ll already be there.”
“Great idea,” Maggie said. “There’s that place downtown called Moscow Mule, maybe we could stop there. This,” she added, “is going to be so much fun.”
“Don’t get so excited, Maggie,” Alex cautioned, “this is serious stuff. Just watch what information you give this guy. You could be a suspect.”
“I didn’t murder anyone,” Maggie replied.
“No innocent person is in prison either,” Britney said sarcastically.
Maggie looked at the card in her hand. She turned it over and smiled.
Chapter 3
Mango Margaritas
Behind The Gates (A Maggie McFarlin Mystery Book 1) Page 2