The Serenity Murder (A Luca Mystery Book 3)
Page 1
The
Serenity
Murder
The Serenity Murder
A Luca Mystery
Book 2
by Dan Petrosini
Copyright © Dan Petrosini 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
The novel is entirely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. For requests, information, and more contact Dan Petrosini at danpetrosini@gmail.com
Available in ebook and print.
First edition: 2018
Also by Dan:
Vanished - Book 2 - A Luca Mystery
Am I the Killer? - Book 1 - A Luca Mystery
The Final Enemy
Complicit Witness
Push Back
Ambition Cliff
Acknowledgements
A special thanks to Squad Sergeant Craig Perrelli for his counsel on the real world of law enforcement.
This book would not be possible without the love and support of my wife Julie and daughters, Stephanie and Jennifer.
Table of Contents
Also by Dan:
Acknowledgements
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56s
Also by Dan:
Chapter 1
Gideon Brighthouse
I heard the yacht reverse engines as it maneuvered into the dock and got off my lounge chair. Walking to the end of the wraparound deck, I wanted to be sure it was Marilyn. Sure enough, she stepped on the dock, trailed by two white-uniformed deckhands laden down with the day’s bounty. Her shopping addiction was the only thing that hadn’t changed since the day we met.
Knowing her temporary high would ebb once things were put away, I bathed in the beauty of Keewaydin Island for a minute longer before heading to the main house. Padding down the stone path, I surveyed my slice of paradise; it was the only place I felt at peace since the panic attacks started. I didn’t mind spending days alone here; in fact, I relished it. During the days I’d listen to music on the deck, peruse art books, and alternate dips in the pool with swims in the shimmering gulf. The days would melt away, and when the sun began to ease into the horizon, I’d have dinner on the deck before heading to hang out in the art building.
It was a fulfilling existence, and the fact was, I’d never had a panic attack on Keewaydin in all the years I’d lived there, even after my heart attack. However, once I was off the island, all bets were off. I prayed the streak would stay intact today with the stress of confronting Marilyn.
The main home, dubbed Serenity House, was a light blue, two-story building in the Key West style. It was capped with a silver-gray metal roof and sported generous porches on each level. Over the past five years I’d spent less and less time in Serenity House. Eventually I traded sleeping there for the guesthouse by the pool when things with Marilyn deteriorated about two years ago.
Reflecting on our relationship, I honestly could say I don’t know how we went from happily in love to hating each other. It wasn’t me, at least at first, who’d upended things. My career as a senior advisor to Senator White was peaking when Marilyn and I met. It had taken me a while to find something satisfying to do outside the art world. Though politics and art are universes apart, I was able to use my creativity during the campaign and quickly rose through the ranks.
The combination of power and access was a drug that energized our relationship. While we both relished the endless stream of events, parties, and White House state dinners, I didn’t realize at the time that it was central to our marriage. When Senator White stumbled into a scandal during his bid for reelection, Marilyn distanced herself from me. I initially misread it, believing she was disappointed and that it would pass. However, as polls showed White trailing the upstart challenger, she became increasingly testy and changed into an ice queen before the last ballots were counted. We never really recovered.
I climbed the stairs to the porch where, shaded and aided by a steady gulf breeze, it was twenty degrees cooler. Despite the Boggs family’s formality and wealth, the home had a welcoming, relaxed feel. It was that vibe that had me convincing Marilyn to move from Port Royal to the island. She initially resisted, but later agreed, saying it was to please me, but I knew what ultimately swayed her was the fact that no one else lived on their own private island. She used the isolation card to justify spending fifteen million on a Gulf Shore Boulevard penthouse and added a Fifth Avenue apartment that checked in at three million. It was excessive and sickening at times, but there was no doubt it was convenient and fun as all hell for a little while.
Marilyn was in the kitchen giving instruction to Shell, a housekeeper. It was a Tuesday. The household staff were off Wednesdays, as Marilyn wanted the house empty for her midweek interludes. I stopped and admired the Jasper Johns piece that hung over the white limestone fireplace. The painting, known as Map, was a vibrant, richly worked expression that defined Johns’ move from abstract to things more concrete. It was one of the first pieces I recommended buying, and it had risen in value like all the others, providing me with a tiny sword to defend my so-called laziness.
Before I could fully absorb a whimsical flower painting by Murakami, Ruby, another housekeeper in black uniform and crepe-soled shoes, came down the stairs. Knowing our greeting would alert Marilyn to my presence, I walked into the kitchen. Mid-sentence, Shell nodded and left.
Her back to me, Marilyn was outfitted in deep blue athletic wear that clung to her thin frame. The silence was broken when she turned on her latest obsession, a fancy juicer. It bought me thirty seconds to reconsider, and I had to inch forward to prevent myself from leaving.
Produce duly liquefied, she turned and said, “My, my, what─the air conditioning’s broken in the pool house?”
“We have to talk.”
“About what?”
“Us.”
She stuck a straw in the green soup and took a sip before saying, “Now is not a good time. I’ve got a yoga class w
ith Gerard in a few minutes.”
“Come on, Marilyn, we both know it’s not working.”
Green eyes glaring, she said, “Perhaps if you engaged in a useful activity instead of moping around the property like a lunatic, things might be better.”
“That’s not fair. You know how hard it is for me to leave Keewaydin.”
She muttered, “How convenient and pitiful.”
I wanted to shove the drink down her throat. “You think so? Well, did you ever consider the attacks I suffer started right after the first time you cheated on me?”
“So, it’s my fault you’re dysfunctional?”
“Please, I don’t want to argue.”
“Fine by me.”
Marilyn took a long sip, set the drink down and walked out, saying, “I got to go.”
I trailed after her. “Come on, Marilyn. Can’t we talk this over?”
“I don’t like this arrangement any more than you do, Gideon.”
She threw the door open to a mirror-walled studio and headed to a rack filled with colorful mats. She grabbed a red one and unrolled it as I said, “Okay, okay. Why don’t we negotiate a divorce settlement?”
Putting her hands on her hips, she said, “What do you want in a so-called settlement, Gideon?”
I couldn’t look her in the eye and peered over her head at the endless mirror images of the two of us. A tightness grew in my chest.
Smiling, she said, “Tell me, I’m so interested to understand what it is that my beloved Gideon desires. It’s certainly not sex, is it now?”
She was right. I’d found myself sufficiently revolted by her that we hadn’t had sex in three years.
“I don’t know why you always have to be so, so . . . cruel.” I couldn’t get enough air in. “Just forget it.”
“Don’t run away now, Gideon. You started this, so let’s finish it.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I said, “I don’t want anything but the right to live here, and some of my art.”
“Your art? You mean the pieces the trust paid for?” She laughed. “I don’t think so. And as far as the island goes, that’s completely out of the question.”
My mouth was bone-dry. “So, you’d rather go on living this way?”
“I’ll take the hit and agree to a divorce, but you’ll only get what the prenuptial provides. That’s all you're entitled to, and I’m not giving up a dollar more, especially to you.”
Her old man, Martin Boggs, founded America’s third-largest mutual fund company and had built a multibillion-dollar fortune that was protected better than the nuclear code. The six-billion-dollar trust currently benefited Marilyn and her two brothers and contained clauses that allowed the old man to control his kids from the grave. He rightly knew that bad marriages ruined lives—and fortunes—and had a clause inserted that carried a ten percent penalty for divorcing and a crippling fifty percent reduction if the required prenuptial agreement was violated.
Scaling Mount Kilimanjaro barefoot with a giraffe on my back would be easier than getting Marilyn to move off the mark.
“I . . . I guess we’ll just keep things like they are.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to file for divorce, Gideon. It’s what we both want, and you’ll have to leave the island.”
Throat closing, I reached for the counter as Marilyn’s voice began to fade. My mind scrambling amid the rising panic, I tried to recall the instructions my coach had told me. What was it? A doll, yes, make like a ragdoll, a limp ragdoll.
I slumped my head forward, sagged my shoulders and sucked in a deep abdominal breath. I held it for a count of five, releasing it slowly through my nose. As I began repeating the process, Marilyn’s voice came into focus and I heard her say, “You’re pathetic, you know that?”
Bile splashed against the rear of my throat. I’d hated her for years and thought endlessly about killing her. It was time to finally do it.
Chapter 2
Barnet Wines and Spirits was spread over three Waterside Shops storefronts. It was an unusual place for a liquor store, representing a gamble to offset the astronomical rent with sales of boutique wines and an entrée into serving the thriving charity scene in Naples. No expense was spared in building out the store’s space. In a bid to rank with the philanthropic set, it featured a cave for private tastings and small events, along with luxurious retail space that looked like a world-class collector’s cellar.
John Barnet closed the door to his office and sorted through the mail. A solid quarter of the stack were past-due notices, reinforcing the fact he’d placed his chips on the wrong horse. He pulled two of the oldest out and wrote checks dated a week ahead. Confident he’d find a way out, he pulled his six-foot six-inch frame out of his chair and headed to the bathroom to freshen up for his meeting.
Barnet was running a tiny comb through his Van Dyke when Marilyn knocked on the door. Wearing a white skirt and red blouse and dripping with jewelry, she immediately lifted Barnet’s spirits.
“Mrs. Boggs. It’s so nice to see you again.”
He closed the door behind her and caressed her face. Pushing her pixie hair back, he hungrily kissed her. Marilyn returned the affection but pulled away when Barnet ran his hand up her skirt.
“Don’t be such a bad boy, Johnny. This isn’t the place.”
Barnet smiled. “We still on tonight?”
Marilyn silently nodded and pouted her lips.
“I just got in a wonderful grower Champagne. It’s highly allocated, but I know you’ll love it. Nobody outside of New York’s got it.”
“Sounds special.”
Barnet took her hand. “Not as special as you. I can’t wait to see you later.”
“Let’s make it at the penthouse. I’m going to be downtown for a Leukemia Foundation meeting. Did you know I’m chairing the ball this year?”
“Very nice. Is it going to be at the Ritz again?”
She nodded.
“You know they don’t allow outside beverage vendors.”
“It’s only one event, John.”
“I know, but it is not fair. Besides, they serve second-rate plonk, and at crazy prices to boot. You know better than me, if you want folks to open their wallets you have to run a top-shelf event. I could put together something unique for you, maybe a nice mix of older Bordeaux and Napa cult wines that’ll have people talking about the event a month later.”
“You’re probably right. I’ll speak with them.”
“You think they’ll agree?”
She smiled. “Are you doubting me, Johnny?”
“Not in a zillion years, darling.”
She looked at her watch. “I have a facial at two, so let’s go over the St. Matthew House event.”
“Sure.”
Barnet pulled a file out and sat next to Marilyn, who said, “I hope you remembered that the majority of attendees aren’t, shall we say, as sophisticated as usual.”
“You forget I’ve been doing this for a while? Not to worry, I put together a nice selection, nothing over the top, that suits the crowd. Even the cheese selections are upper midrange.”
“Sounds perfect. You’ve got the mimosa bar, right?”
“Yep. Though I think it would be a nice idea to add a tray of chocolates to every table.”
“But the package from the Hyatt includes dessert.”
“They’re just going to give you a cheesy sheet cake. Having premium chocolates is a nice touch that they’ll remember.” He snapped his fingers. “It just hit me; what about giving every attendee a little box, nothing big, say a selection of four chocolates?”
“I like it, but I don’t want to give the impression that we’re spending too much money on the affair.”
“Leave it to me. I’ll have the boxes printed with something like, ‘Courtesy of the Boggs Foundation,’ or something lik
e that.”
“I like that idea. How much do you think it will run?”
“Asking prices? What, are you on a budget all of a sudden?”
“Of course not, just curious.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll work it out for you.”
“Thanks, Johnny. I’ve got to get moving.”
“By any chance did you bring a check with you? I don’t want to give my people the impression I’m not following company procedure.”
Nodding, Marilyn pulled a matching Hermes checkbook out of her pocketbook. “How much you need?”
“Uh, let’s make it an even fifteen thousand.”
Marilyn’s perfume was still in the air when he summoned his store manager into his office.
“What’s up, John?”
Barnet held out Marilyn’s check. “Run this right over to the bank.”
“No problem.”
Bridgette took the check but didn’t leave.
Barnet said, “That’s all I needed.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“It’s personal, but I don’t have a brother or anyone to ask about it.”
“It’s okay, what’s going on?”
“Well, there’s this guy, Gary, and he won’t leave me alone. He’s always coming by my place and he makes me uncomfortable.”
“Were you involved with this guy?”
“No, never. He creeps me out. He’s like stalking me. And I don’t know what to do about it. What should I do?”
Barnet leaned back in his chair. “Back in L.A., we had this preacher type guy who used to hang around in front of my Cienega Boulevard store. He’d try to tell the winos to stop drinking and just kept interfering with the customers. I told him to stop, but he’d be there rain or shine, and it started to hurt sales.”
“Wow, what did you do?”
“He’d park in Randy’s Donuts lot, and one night I waited in the dark for him and he never came back again.”
“What’d you tell him to get him to stop?”