by Tom Turner
“Sorry about the shoes, but that’s great about the board. What kind?”
Dominica shook her head and smiled. “Like you know the names of surf boards.”
“True.”
“So you got the small talk out of the way,” Dominica said. “Want to talk about Mulcahy now?”
Crawford shuffled awkwardly. “Come on,” he said, “are you trying to make me feel like a guy with an agenda? I mean, here I am trying to take you out to lunch and you’re making it sound like I’m just one big ulterior-motive guy.”
“Hey, you said it,” Dominica held up a hand. “But I don’t hold it against you.”
“Okay, okay, let’s go,” he said. “Before I ask Cato out instead.”
“She’d kill to get the invite from you, lover boy.”
Green’s Pharmacy on North County didn’t sound like a lunch place, but it made one of the best hamburgers in Palm Beach. Best breakfast, too. Crawford liked it because it was right across from St. Edward’s church. So, he could hit mass on Sunday, then slide across the street and do a swiss cheese omelette with a couple of big, greasy sausages and rye toast slathered with strawberry jam.
Crawford and Dominica sat down and a waitress came right over.
“Hi, I’ll have the chef salad,” Dominica said to the waitress, “can you chop it up?”
“Sure,” the waitress answered. “I can do any damn thing you want.”
The waitresses at Green’s, who wouldn’t dream of allowing themselves to be called the more contemporary term—wait staff—had a certain amount of pressure on them. Not only to crank out good food in a timely fashion, but also to be bantering good ‘ol gals, right out of some TV show with an annoying laugh track. That’s the way it had always been at Green’s.
Dominica was still looking over the menu. “Actually, you know what,” she said. “I’ll have the clam chowder instead.”
“Sure,” said the waitress, “chop it up?”
Dominica laughed. “Just a side of Saltines.”
Crawford went with his go-to: burger n’ fries. “So far this case is just a lot of interviews going nowhere,” he grumbled. “I might as well get out a telephone book—if they still had ‘em—and go through it one by one.”
“So you don’t have any primaries?”
“That’s the problem, I got too many,” Crawford said, putting the menu down. “Knight Mulcahy wasn’t a guy who was gonna win a lot of popularity contests. He pissed off a lot of people. No, let me amend that, he pissed off everyone he came in contact with.”
“Didn’t seem to hurt his ratings,” Dominica said.
“I know, most popular talk show in the universe,” Crawford said. “But, it’s funny, in the town where he lived, seems like nobody could stand the guy.”
Dominica frowned. “That’s kinda sad.”
“Yeah,” Crawford said. “Didn’t even have a Labrador retriever that loved him.”
The waitress showed up with their food.
“That was fast,” he said.
She nodded. “Saw you park your car,” she said. “Had the burger on the grill before you walked in.”
Crawford gave her a thumbs-up and took a bite of his burger. “God, that’s good,” he said, then he put it down. “You know what’s really amazing?”
“What’s that?”
“How much cheating goes on in this town.”
Dominica chuckled. “Jesus, where’d that come from?”
“I was just thinking. I mean, seems like everyone cheats,” he said. “Mulcahy—so my CI tells me—had at least three girlfriends, his wife ditto—”
“You mean, boyfriends?”
“Yeah, but who knows?”
“Who else?”
“Who else what?”
“Is in this cheater file of yours.”
“I don’t know, just about everybody,” Crawford said.
“I wonder if it’s a rich person’s thing,” Dominica said.
“Maybe,” Crawford said. “Not like I’ve done a survey. I’d say it’s more like an idleness thing?”
“Meaning too much time on your hands, why not fuck around?”
“Yeah, something like that,” Crawford said. “I’m working on another theory, too.”
“Care to run it by me?”
“Okay,” Crawford said, “but it’s not fully developed yet.”
Dominica shrugged.
“So a lot of people here have like these massive egos—”
“No argument there.”
“And I think people like that feel they deserve everything they can get their hot little hands on—money, power, sex—”
“The big three, huh?” Dominica said, nodding. “I think you’re on to something, Charlie.”
“Yeah, I’m always on to something. Question is, is it relevant to finding a murderer or not?” he said, then he had another thought. “Also, another thing I’ve noticed is, it’s everywhere.”
“What’s everywhere?”
“Well, they’re so many single women in this town, you know, hustling to make a buck—nannies, baby sitters, real-estate agents, women who work at the shops—hell, for all I know, maybe even evidence-tech babes, and no shortage of men chasing them.”
“Not this evidence-tech babe, my friend.”
“But you know what I mean, men figure every woman is fair game.”
“I’m not sure Palm Beach has a monopoly on that.”
“Probably right. I just see these really old codgers squiring around women who look like they could be their granddaughters.”
“Maybe they are.”
Crawford shook his head.
“How do you know?”
“By the look in their eyes,” Crawford said. “The look of lust.”
Dominica, in the middle of a spoonful of chowder, stifled a laugh and swallowed. “I think you’re starting to lose it, Charlie. You need a nice, long vacation.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “Where you want to go?”
“You know you’re not going anywhere until you’re six for six,” she said. “And so on that note, let’s get back to Mulcahy.”
Crawford nodded. “You got nothing at the scene, right?”
“Not true,” Dominica said. “I got hair, I got fibers. But who knows who they belong to. Could be Mulcahy, could be his wife, could be his son, could be the cleaning lady.”
“And when will you get the results?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“What about the two bullets?”
“You have to ask Hawes.”
Crawford put his hamburger down. “So, are we on the same page? Mulcahy was having sex, then the woman left and a guy who followed ‘em down popped him.”
Dominica chewed that over for a second. “Yeah, sounds right. But maybe they were a team?”
Crawford started nodding. “Never thought of that.”
Dominica tapped her finger on the table a few times. “She sets it up. The guy finishes it off,” she said. “Or a husband or a boyfriend catches ‘em in the act. Or, hey, maybe it was a guy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe he was having sex with a guy,” Dominica shrugged. “It happens, you know.”
“Yeah, I know, but from everything I know about Mulcahy, he was the most heterosexual guy on the planet.”
Dominica reached for a packet of Saltines. “Didn’t they use to say that about Rock Hudson?”
Crawford nodded. “Good point.”
“Or, I got another one, maybe he was having sex with a woman and she plugged him ‘cause he was a shitty—”
Crawford put his hand up to her mouth. “Okay, Dominica, I think you’re getting a little carried away now.”
She laughed. “I know, I know, ‘just stick to hair and fibers, right?’”
Twelve
Crawford knew a man who was a member of the Poinciana Club he could almost call a friend. His name was David Balfour and he was what used to be known as a playboy. Not that the term had di
sappeared, it just had a certain dated quality to it. Like if you Googled ‘playboy,’ there’d be a line-up of guys from the ‘80’s with long sideburns, tight shirts unbuttoned down to their navel, maybe a gold chain or two, standing next to a Maserati convertible.
Balfour had actually been quite helpful in Crawford’s previous cases, and they had a joke between them that Balfour was Crawford’s C.I.—meaning confidential informant. Crawford suspected that the C.I. designation actually gave Balfour a sense of purpose, since most of his days consisted of more frivolous pursuits like chasing women and deciding between going to the happy hour at the Breakers or the one at Ta-boo.
Balfour had asked Crawford several times to be his guest at the Poinciana for a round of golf, but Crawford had begged off, saying his game was not up to Poinciana standards. And though he had been a seven handicap up north, Crawford hadn’t played more than a handful of times since moving to Florida. That was at the muni golf course with a motley crew that wore cargo shorts and day-glo Under Armour t-shirts and lugged around six-packs of beer in their bags. Crawford had also always felt that, as a cop, he should keep his distance from men he might have to arrest one day. And, for that reason, he stayed away from bars, parties, and country-club golf courses on Palm Beach island.
But now might be the time to break his rule and take Balfour up on his offer to play golf at the Poinciana—get a first-hand look at where Knight Mulcahy spent so much time and, apparently, created so many enemies. It also would be eye-opening to get a close-up peek at a few of the case’s many suspects.
According to Rose Clarke, Sam Pratt, Chuffer Church, Ainsley Buttrick, and Knight Mulcahy’s son Paul were all Poinciana members. He had a hunch he might be able to dig up even more members there, who might have had a motive to kill Mulcahy.
He dialed Balfour’s cell.
It was just past two PM. He knew Balfour’s schedule pretty well by now. His combination chef/ housekeeper prepared him lunch at one o’clock—usually something on the healthy side. To accompany lunch, Balfour would always mix himself a Bullshot—a drink which consisted of a good slug of Tito’s vodka, ice, V-8 juice, beef bouillon, Worcestershire sauce, a heavy jolt of Tabasco, then another shot of Tito’s, which Balfour called a floater.
The idea of a Bullshot had its appeal to Crawford, but whenever Balfour offered him one, he politely refused. “On the job, huh?” Balfour would say, and Crawford always nodded. Balfour explained that he kept it to two Bullshots, having cut back from three five years before. He described how, back then, his routine was to knock back three stiff ones, then go out to his pool and nod off—essentially pass out—in one of his heavily-padded chaise longues. One time, he explained, he ended up with a particularly bad sunburn. Not only that, he explained, it also turned out to be a waste of a perfectly good afternoon, which could otherwise have been spent playing eighteen holes, a game of backgammon with the boys, or a tryst with one of his many lady friends.
“Hey, Charlie, long time no talk, what’s up?”
“How you been, David?”
“Great, man, just sitting here pool-side with a libation and my friend, Alexa.”
Of course.
“Well, I won’t keep you,” Crawford said. “Hey, I wondered if that offer to play golf at the Poinciana was still open?”
“Damn right it is,” Balfour said enthusiastically. “Just so happens I had a guy drop out of my foursome tomorrow morning. Can you play then?”
Tomorrow was Saturday. “Sure. What time?”
“Nine-fifteen.”
“Perfect. I’ll be there.”
“All right, finally,” Balfour said. “Our chance to go drown a few golf balls together.”
“Looking forward to it,” Crawford said. “Should I come a little early…hit a few out on the range?”
“Yeah, absolutely, make it a quarter of.”
“See you then.”
Crawford had a full dance card that afternoon. He and Ott were meeting the novelist Ned Durrell at two, the antique shop owner Lila Moline at three, then he was having a ‘working drink’ with Rose Clarke right after that.
Crawford had also learned that there’d been a photographer from the Glossy—the nickname for The Palm Beach Daily Reporter—at the Mulcahy party, who he also wanted to hook up with. The way he heard it, Knight was apparently opposed to any photographic record of his nocturnal shenanigans, but socially ambitious Jacqui felt that a little pictorial documentation of her gamboling with Palm Beach’s movers and shakers couldn’t hurt. And Jacqui, ultimately, had worn Knight down.
So, Crawford had gone to the Glossy offices and met with the photographer, who was only too happy to show Crawford the pictures he had taken. Crawford suspected that if something came of the photographs he was shown, the photographer might make the claim that he was instrumental in helping solve the murder.
It took Crawford more than an hour to go through all the photographer’s pictures. He concentrated on the ones of Knight with his guests. One with Ned Durrell caught his attention because Durrell had a deep-creased frown as he and Mulcahy stood face-to-face like two boxers in the ring about to go at it. Crawford’s other read was that it looked as if Mulcahy had either just emitted a noxious odor or, in keeping with his reputation, had just unloaded a barrage of invective at the novelist.
There were also several pictures of Knight with a good-looking redhead that caught Crawford’s attention. One, in particular, showed Knight and the redhead going out the back French doors. Then he realized that it was probably the woman Paul Mulcahy had mentioned. The one who had come back in with Knight a few minutes later. Knight was turned in such a way that it looked like he was trying not to get spotted as he made his exit. Crawford made a mental note to ask Paul Mulcahy if the woman he saw his father leave with was the redhead.
Then Crawford had thought to ask the photographer if he knew who the woman was.
“Yeah, that’s Olivia Griswold.” The photog leaned closer and whispered, “AKA the red menace.”
He remembered that was the name Paul Mulchay had said. He planned to ask Rose Clarke what the derivation of the nickname was. She probably had several juicy footnotes on the matter.
The photographer had claimed he had more pictures at his house in West Palm and asked if Crawford wanted to follow him over there to see them. Crawford thanked him, said that he had to be somewhere soon, and asked him to bring them in to the Glossy’s office the next day. The photographer assured him he would. Then Crawford asked him if it would be all right if he took a few of the pictures and the photographer said he had proofs of all of them and gave him the ones he wanted.
Crawford swung by the station house and picked up Ott for the Ned Durrell interview. Durrell lived in a big house on Barton. Crawford had heard him referred to as the poor man’s James Patterson—another Palm Beach resident, and a writer who cranked out a million bestsellers in production-line fashion.
Durrell wrote spy novels that featured a snobbish, Gauloise-smoking French aristocrat as its protagonist. That was about all Crawford knew because he had bogged down after slogging through two sluggish chapters in his one and only attempt to get through one called Night-something.
Durrell greeted them with a suspicious look and a snarly poodle at his feet. The poodle was making noises like it had a bone caught in its throat and was trying to work it free.
“Thanks for seeing us, Mr. Durrell,” Crawford said, putting out his hand. “I’m Detective Crawford, and my partner, Detective Ott.”
Durrell shook their hands limply. “Come on in,” he said, stepping back inside.
Crawford and Ott followed him in, through the foyer and into a room off the back of the living room. It was clearly where Durrell knocked out his quasi-bestsellers. There were eight framed covers of his novels on the wall behind his Herman Miller Eames chair.
Durrell walked to his chair and motioned to the two chairs opposite it.
“Have a seat,” he said, like he wanted to get it over with fas
t.
Crawford and Ott sat.
Facing the eight covers, Crawford thought about coming up with something complimentary about Night whatever, but knew he’d be pretty bad at faking it.
“Mr. Durrell,” he said. “As part of our investigation, we’re going around talking to as many friends of Knight Mulcahy as we can.”
Durrell put his hands together, then looked up. “Knight and I barely tolerated each other, but go ahead.”
Crawford nodded. Like Rose Clarke, blunt was the word that came to mind.
“We have a photo of you two talking,” said Crawford, taking it out of his breast pocket.
Ott glanced down at it. “Now that you mention it, Mr. Durrell,” he said, “it does kinda look like two people who barely tolerated each other.”
Once in a while, Crawford felt like he should apologize for Ott, but his comment didn’t seem to faze Durrell, who seemed lost in thought.
“He said on the air that my latest book—which is up for a Macavity Award, by the way—was, in so many words, a piece of shit,” Durrell said.
Crawford didn’t know what a Macavity Award was, but was pretty sure it fell short of a Pulitzer.
“So is that what your conversation was about?” Crawford asked, remembering now that it was called Night Wolf.
“Yeah, brief and acrimonious,” Durrell said. “He went out of his way to tell his audience, well, actually he cleaned it up, said it was ‘a piece of steaming excrement.’ You know, he could have just kept it to himself, how he felt. I mean, we do live in the same town. Bump into each other at Publix and shit.”
“Gotta say, one bad review doesn’t strike me as much of a reason to kill a guy,” Ott said.
“Well, thank you, Detective, for weighing in,” Durrell said, then frowned almost as deeply as in the photo. “Wait, you came here ‘cause I’m a suspect?”
“As I said,” Crawford said, “we’re talking to half the town.”
“You seem pretty well plugged in, Mr. Durrell,” Ott said. “Anybody you can think of who might have had a motive to kill Mulcahy?”
Durrell exhaled.
“No, I really don’t have a clue,” Durrell said. “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. You know why?”