by Tom Turner
Twenty-Seven
Juke Jackson couldn’t tell his daughter Jonquil that her mother used to be a groupie. But maybe, she’d already figured it out. Just had never brought it up. Because, among others things, her mother was the inspiration of at least three of the great rock n’ roll anthems of all time.
Fact of the matter was, Maggie Blacksmith was right up there with Pamela Des Barres, Bebe Buell, and Tawny Kitaen in the hierarchy of all-time, world-class, rock n’ roll groupies.
Jonquil was one of those compromise names. Maggie—back when Jonquil was born in the nineties—was going through a New Age phase and wanted to name her daughter Tranquil. But Juke, more of a traditionalist, wanted to name her after his mother, Joni. So, Jonquil it became. It was only later that they discovered that was also the name of a flower, so that was an added bonus.
Jonquil was twenty-five now and made for a beautiful bride indeed as proud papa Juke walked her down the aisle of St. Edwards Catholic church on County Road.
Now the wedding party, three hundred strong, was at the reception being held at the Royal & Alien. It was a somewhat odd mix of people since the bridegroom was from Greenwich, Connecticut, and his preppy-looking parents and their friends looked as though they were no strangers to the world of polo, squash and debutante parties. The wedding party and guests were in two large rooms at the R & A—the main bar room and another one that was called ‘the Library.’
The Library, as the name indicated, had three walls of books from floor to ceiling. Sharonda White and Rachel Gold of the R & A Decorating Committee had found a place where you could buy books by the pound—five pounds for a dollar, to be exact. Two whole shelves of books were in German and there were at least two full Encyclopedia Britannica sets but it didn’t matter because most of the R & A members were not big readers anyway. On the third wall of the Library were landscape watercolors and lithographs, which seemed suitably club-like, with the exception of two oil paintings that hung side by side. One was of the soul singer, James Brown, who seemed to be wailing a song as rivulets of sweat poured off his brow. Another was of the comedian, Henny Youngman, with a microphone in his hand and a bad hair-do on his head.
The other room—called the Main Bar—was left over from when the club was called the Mid-Island Club. In fact, the Decorating Committee had decided not to touch it at all. It had lots of chintz and mahogany furniture and on its far wall and on the right wall was what everyone came for—one of the best-stocked bars in Palm Beach (currently, manned by three men in white jackets and black bow ties).
Juke Jackson was on the far left of the bar chatting up Marion Prendergast, who was Geoff the bridegroom’s mother.
“That was really nice of your ex-wife to give the bridesmaids’ luncheon yesterday,” said Marion, who had been pounding flutes of champagne.
Juke laughed. “Actually, just for the record, Maggie never was my wife,” he said. “But she loves doing stuff like that.”
“She told me you two met at a concert where you were playing,” Marion said, polishing off another flute.
“True,” Juke said. “We were the warm-up act for the Stones in Denver.”
“The Rolling Stones? As in Mick Jagger and that other one…the drug addict?” She said, slurring the last part so it came out, ‘druck attic.’
“Yeah, good old Keith,” Juke said. “Met Maggie then, a year later, we were the headliner there.”
Juke could see Marion wasn’t tracking. Not that it mattered.
It looked like her mind had wandered off to something else. Then she gave him a hard-to-decipher smile and a tilt of the head.
“So is it really true what Maggie told me about you?” Marion asked.
Uh-oh, thought Juke, this could go in a whole lot of strange directions.
“I don’t know,” he said. “What did she say?”
“About”—her fake eyelashes flapped like a hummingbird’s wings— “about all those phallaxes?”
“Ah, sorry, Marion, I’m not with you.”
“You know.”
“Honest, I don’t,” he said. “Phallaxes?”
Then suddenly it hit him. Oh, Jesus. “She told you about that? What exactly did she say?”
He immediately regretted asking the question. Because he knew ol’ three-sheets-to-the-wind Marion was going to answer it.
“Well,” Marion said, raising a finger to the bartender for a reload. “She said…let me make sure I got this right…she said” —giggle, giggle—“she said she made plaster casts of—how did she put it”—another giggle— “oh yes, plaster casts of the members of the members of different bands. In other words, their penises—erect penises, that is—”
Juke put a hand up as if he was stopping traffic. “I got it, Marion,” Juke said, thinking, Hey, I was there, honey.
Then he flashed to what a guy in another band told him, about how Maggie had like fifty of the damn things down in her basement. From Jimmy Hendrix to Frank Zappa to, supposedly three quarters of Kiss, not to mention, a roadie named Bart.
Marion was grinning and Juke was feeling like he’d rather be fishing in Idaho.
He saw Jonquil in her flowing white dress coming toward them, a big smile on her face. Saved by the bride!
She walked up and kissed Juke. “So glad you two are getting to know each other,” she said, then kissed Marion on her over-rouged cheek.
“We were just talking about how beautiful you looked coming down the aisle, how you and Geoff seem like the perfect couple. Right, Marion?” he said, thinking a little arm-twist might be in order.
“Absolutely,” Marion said, medium-slow on the pick-up. “Maybe I should make a little toast.”
Juke wasn’t sure what might flop out of her pie hole, so he decided to preempt her and took a spoon off the bar and tapped his champagne flute a few times. At the same time Geoff Prendergast came over to Jonquil and put his arm around her.
Juke tapped his glass a few more times and then there was a hush in the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Juke said. “I’m not too good at this, so bear with me. I’d like to first toast”—he raised his glass to Marion—“Marion, Roger and their wonderful family and friends who came down from Connecticut. It’s been really great meetin’ you all and gettin’ to know you ”—then turning to Geoff—“You both certainly produced a great son, who I’m real proud to have as my son-in-law.” Juke looked around the room and spotted Maggie in the back, standing next to Eliot Segal. “And next, I’d like to toast Maggie”—Maggie smiled and gave a little wave—“To the best mother a girl could ever have. You were always there—when I wasn’t—and you taught Jonquil how to be independent, kind, generous, funny and, most importantly, how to be a lady. So Maggie…great job”—he raised his glass, then everyone else in the room did, too—“you’re a star and you made our daughter one, too.”
Maggie blew him a kiss as Eliot Segal raised his glass high.
“And lastly,” Juke said. “To Jonquil. You’ve always made me so proud, baby. From that time I visited you when you were around ten. I’ll never forget—you were an outfielder on your school softball team going out for a pop fly. You reached up with your glove”—he held up his hand—“shaded your eyes and the ball came down…right smack on top of your head.” Raucous laughter from the assembled three hundred. “Then twelve years later, you graduated magna cum laude from Princeton. And just a little while ago you walked down that aisle, a vision of beauty and poise”—Juke raised his glass again. “So here’s to you, honey. You’re one of a kind. And Geoff, I know you know this, but you’re damn lucky to have her.”
There were cheers, whoops, exuberant clapping and a lot of raised glasses. Then there was the tinkle of another spoon on a glass.
Juke looked back and saw it was Eliot Segal.
“Somebody’s gotta say something about the father of the bride,” Eliot said, clearing his throat. “I’ve known Juke for a long time and know a lot of stuff about the man that…I don’t think I�
��ll share with you tonight. But I will tell you this, Juke Jackson is the most loyal man you’ll ever find on the face of the earth. Guy will do anything for his family and his friends. Or, for that matter, anyone else he happens to be around. There is no man alive I’d rather have in my corner than Juke Jackson .” Segal turned to Jackson, raised his glass and bowed. “You da man, Juke…They sure as hell don’t make ‘em like you anymore.”
Twenty-Eight
Crawford had just hung up with Rose Clarke and was eager to take a look at Fredrika Bloomquist’s photos. And, for that matter, have another look at the equestrian Fredrika herself.
He dialed the number that he had just written down as Ott checked his emails across from him.
“Hello,” the voice answered.
“Fredrika?”
“Yes.”
“Hey, it’s Charlie Crawford, we met—”
“Yes, Charlie, how could I forget? Not every day I meet a real, live detective.”
“Well, so I apologize for calling so late, but how are you?”
“Fine,” she said, “and don’t worry about it.”
“Great, so I was wondering if maybe I could buy you a cup of coffee,” he said. “Say, tomorrow morning, if that works. I was thinking Dunkin’ Donuts, though you might be more a Starbucks kinda gal.”
“Been a while since I’ve been called any kind of a gal. And actually, I’m a tea drinker.”
“Well, they have tea at Dunkin’ Donuts.” He wasn’t positive. “Don’t they?”
“Yes, they do,” Fredrika said. “Regular tea, sweet tea, green tea, chai, you name it.”
Crawford laughed. “Perfect, so how’s eight o’clock at the one on Okeechobee?”
“Sounds good, see you then, Charlie.”
“See you then,” Crawford said and hung up.
Ott looked up from his iPhone. “You don’t waste any time, podna.”
Crawford nodded. “Hey, man, we need something to get us out of the stall we’re in.”
Fredrika Bloomquist had a confident walk—an exaggerated roll and a sway, almost like once upon a time she might have been a runway model. Crawford got up from his table at Dunkin’ Donuts to meet her. It was too early in their short-lived relationship for a kiss on the cheek, so they just smiled at each other and said hello.
“Good to see you again,” Crawford said, pointing toward the people in line. “Shall we?”
“Let’s,” Fredrika said.
They ordered and then sat down. Crawford had his go-to: a large extra dark and two blueberry donuts.
Crawford held up one of the sugar-coated blueberry donuts. “Health food,” he said.
Fredrika laughed. “Ah, somehow I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean? All those antioxidants.”
“How ‘bout all that sugar,” she said. “And let’s be honest, Charlie, there are just tiny little bits of blueberry in ‘em. More like specks. I bet in that one donut, all those little specks don’t add up to one whole blueberry.”
“What a buzz killer,” Crawford said with a smile. “And here I’m thinking they’re gonna help me live to be a hundred.”
“Sorry,” Fredrika said. “Though you still may live to be a hundred.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Crawford said. “So how’s the riding?”
“Good. Jamie’s a great teacher,” she said. “Such a patient man.”
“So what else do you do with your time?”
Fredrika took a sip of tea. “Well, I have my weekly tennis game,” she said, “and do a lot of volunteer work.”
“Oh, yeah, like what?” Crawford said, popping the last of the blueberry donut into his mouth.
“Well, like Habitat for Humanity, for one.”
“No kidding, so you actually pound nails and stuff?”
“Pound nails, screw screws, you name it.”
“Ever do any sheetrocking?”
Fredrika laughed and her thick mane of dark brown hair shook.
“No, but you’re looking at a really good spackler.”
“I’m impressed,” Crawford said. “So what else?”
Fredrika thought for a second. “Well, I work down at the dog pound.”
Crawford, in mid-sip, put his coffee cup down. “You do?”
Fredrika nodded.
“I keep toying with the idea of getting a mutt,” Crawford said.
Fredrika laughed. “It’s gotta be a mutt?”
“Yeah, well, when I was a kid, we always had mutts. And I loved ‘em all”—then he remembered—“except this one named Bugsy. Ate our cat and took a chunk out of my brother’s leg.”
Fredrika was trying hard to suppress a laugh. “Really? Ate your cat?”
“Well, pretty close. All but her fake-diamond studded collar,” Crawford said, launching into his second donut. “Poor ol’ Pandora.”
“Well, all our dogs are sweethearts, not one cat-eater in the bunch,” Fredrika said. “Particularly the mutts.”
“I really am thinking about getting one,” Crawford said, washing down the donut with a long sip of coffee. “Problem is, I’d have to move.”
“Why?”
“I’m in a condo now. No backyard,” he said. “But a helluva view.”
“Oh, yeah, of what?”
“The Publix parking lot.”
Fredrika laughed. “Well, you just let me know when you’re ready to come down to the pound,” she said. “You’ll get pick of the litter.”
“Thanks,” Crawford said, suddenly regretting getting Fredrika there under false pretenses. “I have a confession to make.”
Her head reared back a little. “A confession?”
“Yes,” he said. “Here’s the thing, a mutual friend of ours said you were at Knight Mulcahy’s party when he got killed and you took a bunch of pictures.”
She nodded slowly. “And being a detective you’d like to see them, is that it, Charlie?”
Crawford nodded.
“Well, you could have just asked.” She said. “I would have brought them with me.”
“I should have,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Would it be too much to ask, if I followed you back to your house and took a look at them after here?”
Fredrika pulled her chair back and stood up. “Come on, let’s go,” she said. “Who is our mutual friend anyway?”
“Rose Clarke,” Crawford said, standing up.
Fredrika turned back to him and winked. “Good ol’ Rosie.”
By Palm Beach standards, Fredrika lived in a small house. It was only around three thousand square feet, Crawford guessed, but had a spectacular garden in back and beyond it a show-stopping view of the Intracoastal. She also had an art collection that—something told him—was worth a small fortune.
They were sitting on a couch in her living room looking at a stack of black and white photos.
Crawford had just commented on how professional the photos appeared.
“I was actually a freelance photographer up in New York,” Fredrika said.
“No kidding. I was a cop up in New York for fifteen years,” he said. “But we probably traveled in quite different circles.”
Fredrika chucked. “Where’d you live?”
“Upper West Side,” he said. “Upper, upper, upper”—he pointed at the photos—“These are really good, by the way. Nice composition. Kind of artsy. Like I have a clue what I’m talking about.”
“Well, thank you, Charlie, that’s nice of you to say,” Fredrika said, then standing up. “Anyway, look through them. Maybe you’ll see a murder clue somewhere in there. Sure I can’t get you something to drink?”
“No, thanks, I’m fine,” Crawford said, looking at the next photo. It was of a smiling couple in the foreground, the man had his arm around the voluptuous brunette.
Crawford was about to go on to the next when he saw in the background one of the men he had played golf with at the Poinciana a few days before. It was Earl Hardin—snob, bigot and golfer, who gave himse
lf a gimme from anywhere inside of ten feet. He was going out one of the French doors in the back of the living room.
Crawford pulled the photo closer.
“Found something?” Fredrika asked coming back from the kitchen with a bottle of water.
“Probably not,” Crawford said. “Just wondered if you knew who this was.”
He handed her the photo. “The guy going out the back door.”
Fredrika took a look.
“Oh, that’s Earl Hardin,” she said, like she might say, Oh, that’s Adolf Hitler.
“Not your fave,” Crawford said.
“Not really,” Fredrika said. “But none of that Bush Island crowd is.”
Bush Island was twenty-five miles north of Palm Beach.
“Why? What do you mean?” He asked.
“I don’t know, all those people from the land of pink and green are just so damned pleased with themselves.”
“But isn’t there a fair amount of that right here in Palm Beach?” He asked. “I mean the pink and green crowd.”
“Well, yeah, I guess,” Fredrika said, twisting a strand of her thick hair, “it’s just different somehow.”
Crawford nodded and went on to the next photo, hoping to see another shot of Hardin. But that was the only one and there weren’t any others that piqued his interest.
He looked up at Fredrika. “Thank you very much,” he said. “You really are a hell of a photographer.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m guessing you didn’t spot your murderer in there?”
“Probably not,” Crawford said. “So I’m dying of curiosity, anybody ever call you Freddie?”
Fredrika laughed. “My father. He’s the only one I couldn’t say, ‘don’t call me that,’ to.”
“Are you kidding? I think it’s a cool name,” he said.
“I can’t stand it.” She looked him straight in the eyes. “So we had coffee, maybe we do a drink next? Even though you did lure me to Dunkin’ Donuts under false pretenses.”
“Absolutely,” Crawford said. “Just as soon as things slow down for me.”