The Serenity Murder (A Luca Mystery Book 3)

by Dan Petrosini

  Brighthouse waited until Flynn took at least five steps toward us before standing. Was that strategic or plain old superiority? Gerey stepped ahead, whispered to his client, and introduced him,

  “Detectives, this is Gideon Brighthouse.”

  Gideon had delicate features and hazy blue eyes. His wavy hair, on the long side, seemed prematurely gray, unless he’d had work done like his wife. He was tall, over six foot for sure, and his long legs stuck way out of his pink shorts. He didn’t offer his hand. The call between superiority and germaphobia was easy, but he just didn’t look like one of those high-minded, ‘shit-don’t-stink’ guys.

  Vargas said, “We’re sorry about your loss, Mr. Brighthouse.”

  As he nodded, Gerey said, “If you’re up to it, Gideon, they’d like to speak with you, but only if you feel up to it.”

  Gideon whispered, “I guess so.”

  Flynn herded us around a glass-topped table before Gerey asked him to leave. To the right, a linear fireplace threw off just the right amount of heat to offset the breeze blowing through the house.

  Vargas said, “Again, please accept our condolences, but we need to ask you some questions.”

  Gideon glanced at Gerey, who nodded.

  “Can you tell us what happened?”

  Gideon pulled his head back. “Happened? Nothing happened. I just found her, lying there, she was . . . dead. I checked to see if she had a pulse or anything, but . . . there wasn’t any.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Uh, about seven thirty.”

  “You sure?”

  Gideon nodded.

  “Where were you before you found the body?”

  “The library. I’d come in to get one of my art books and . . . I heard the sound of running water. I thought someone had left the water on, and we need to save all the water we can on the island, so I went into the kitchen and . . . oh my God, there she was.”

  “Was the water on?”

  “The water?”

  “You said you heard water running.”

  “I did, I think so. Yes, it was running.”

  “Which sink?”

  “Uh, the island one.”

  “Did you shut off the water?”

  Gideon looked at Gerey. “What difference does all this make?”

  I said, “Mr. Brighthouse, it may seem irrelevant, but we need to piece together events, and it’s a detail that may be helpful. Did you shut the water off?”

  Gideon hesitated. “I honestly don’t remember. I really don’t.”

  I wondered if he was calculating the difference as Gerey said, “That’s perfectly normal, Gideon. You’ve been traumatized by a brutal, unthinkable act of violence.”

  Vargas said, “Okay. You see your wife lying on the floor bleeding and check her vitals.”

  Gideon nodded.

  Vargas said, “What did you do next?”

  His shoulders slumped a bit. “I, uh, ran out of the house.”

  “You didn’t call for help?”

  “She was dead.”

  “How could you be sure?”

  Gideon squirmed in his chair. “I didn’t know what to do. I . . . my heart started to pound. I’ve had one heart attack already, and I─I just had to get out of there.”

  Gerey said, “Mr. Brighthouse has been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder and is under a doctor’s care.”

  “I understand.”

  Maybe it was because my pee-pee alarm vibrated that I said, “Where did you run off to?”

  Gerey glared at me. “There’s no need to phrase it that way, Detective.”

  “Trust me, there was nothing intended by the way I said it. Where did you go when you left the kitchen?”

  “I went straight to my house.”

  “Your house?”

  He seemed to gulp for air. “Here, I meant the pool house.”

  Between the bed and the house reference, I didn’t need him to spell anything out. This was looking like another domestic murder case. I didn’t want to focus on him just yet, so I asked, “Did you see anything unusual at any time today?”

  He started swaying in his chair. “Not that I recall.”

  Through the open doors I saw an officer approaching. The coroner must have arrived. I asked, “How about any sounds? Maybe a boat? Any screams?”

  He shrugged. “There’s no shortage of boats around here, but certainly no more than usual today. I can’t recall anything that stood out.”

  “Give it some more thought and let us know.”

  He nodded. “I will.”

  I said, “We’ll talk again. The coroner has arrived, and I always like to be on the scene when he does.”

  Before walking over to the main house, I hit the bathroom. Sitting and waiting to pee didn’t bother me; this was one nice bathroom with a lot to take in.

  Chapter 18

  Luca

  “What the hell are they doing?”

  I ran toward the officers talking on the beach. “Hey, hey. Get off the sand!”

  The officers froze like deer in the headlights.

  “This is a private island with very little traffic. I don’t want you guys mucking up the sand with your footprints if the killer came in off the beach.”

  I went back to Vargas as the officers tiptoed their way onto the grass.

  “Unreal. You know, they should make a special force to respond to the scene of a homicide. You’d think they’d learn by now or at least use some damn common sense. But no, no, they just make our jobs tougher.”

  “Okay Frank, take it easy.”

  “The new sheriff we got, if he knows everything there is to know, how come he hasn’t ordered a response team?”

  “You’re overreacting.”

  “It probably doesn’t matter anyway. It’s looking like Mr. ‘My-Shit-Don’t-Stink’ did it.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit early?”

  “I know that. Did you hear what he said about his house? They’re not sleeping together. I know there are couples that have separate beds or even bedrooms, but Mr. Hoity-Toity lives in another house altogether.”

  “I don’t know why you think this guy is such a snob. He seemed pretty normal to me.”

  “Ah, come on Vargas, are you kidding me?”

  “What did he do that gave you such an impression?”

  “Geez, how about we start with his name, Gideon. I mean, how many plumbers are named Gideon? And he had like an English accent, one of those upper-crust ones.”

  “English accent? You know, Frank, sometimes I really think you’re crazy.”

  She was right; it wasn’t an accent. It was just the way he spoke, like highly enunciated or something,

  “Crazy? Nah, I like to think of myself as interesting.”

  As we followed the travertine path to the main house, I said, “Check with the phone company, both the landline and her cell. Find out when the last calls were made and to who. Might help us with a time of death.”

  “I’m on it. Be a good idea to check on any credit card use as well, you never know.”

  “Sure, and I need you to track down the maids who work here and get them over here in the morning. The house needs a thorough going-over to see if anything is missing. We’ll need to have Mr. Ivy League take a look as well.”

  “So, you haven’t made up your mind after all?”

  “Covering all the bases as usual. We gotta eliminate in order to focus.”

  ***

  George Shields was hunched over the body, pushing his thumb slowly through Marilyn’s short hair.

  The coroner for Collier County hated interruptions, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from firing questions at him. Doctor Shields unbuttoned the top of Marilyn’s blouse. Moving to the left, I saw a wound crusted with blood.

  Shields took each of her hands and examined them closely, then laid them by her side. As he rose, I said, “Find anything, Doc?”
<
br />   “It doesn’t look like there was much of struggle. She was stabbed once with a knife, probably the one right there, and bled to death. Her head has a sizable bruise, but I believe that’s a result of a fall after the attack as she lost consciousness.”

  “Can you estimate the height of the killer?”

  “Right now, I’d say he or she was tall, six feet plus.”

  “Right-handed or a lefty?”

  “I can’t say at this point. Need to get the victim on the table.”

  “How about a time of death?”

  “I’d estimate death occurred about four hours ago. It’s nine twenty now, so roughly anywhere from four to six.”

  Vargas and I exchanged glances.

  Shields peeled off his gloves. “Moving the body on a boat is going to require extra precautions. I don’t want the body being jostled around on the way in. The ride back has got to be slow and smooth.”

  “No problem, Doc. I’ll come along with you. Mary Ann, why don’t you take custody of the evidence we collected, and we’ll meet up at the sheriff’s office?”

  Before heading to the dock, I gave instructions that no one, including the husband, was to be allowed near the main house.

  ***

  We had a new sheriff in town, and he was giving me grief. Frank Morgan was the virtual flip side to Joe Liberi, who took early retirement when he was diagnosed with lymphoma. Liberi knew I’d lost my partner and went out of his way to make the transition from Jersey as easy as possible. He appreciated the experience I brought down with me and appointed me as a quasi-mentor for those less seasoned.

  I’d just returned to work after my battle with cancer, when Liberi was diagnosed. He was assured the treatment would be successful and allow him to keep working, but at sixty-two, he said it was time to move on and opted to retire. With the big C lurking over my shoulder, I was more than pleased that Liberi was now in remission. Perhaps that sorely-needed reassurance was the price I had to pay in the form of Frank Morgan.

  Morgan had it in for anyone who wasn’t from the South, and especially for anyone from the New York metro area. The first time I met him was at a barbecue at Liberi’s house. Before making his retirement plans public, Liberi had organized a small gathering of who he considered key people to get to know his successor. I was honored to be one of six people Liberi invited but couldn’t help thinking it was because of the cancer connection.

  Morgan had been serving as the police chief for the City of Naples for the last twenty-two years. Its own municipality, the City of Naples had about twenty thousand citizens and policed its own streets. I knew a couple of officers who worked for Morgan. They said he ran a tight force and resented the growth that had transformed the town from a sleepy hamlet to a ritzy tourist destination.

  Morgan was the poster boy for a country boy. He wore cowboy boots and those string ties that look like shoelaces. When he said he was born in Naples, I kiddingly asked if he was one of the ten people who were actually born here. He said, “You think that’s funny, boy? You Northerners come down here trying to turn my town into some sort of a Times Square. Well, I promise you it won’t happen on my watch.” I didn’t know what to say. I mean, how do you respond to something like that?

  Catching Stewart for the Gabelli murder a week before Morgan took over, got me about halfway out of the hole I’d dug at the barbecue. I heard from a detective that Morgan had told him to reach out to me when he hit a dead end in a case. That felt good but did nothing to warm the air between us. The only thing on my side was time. Morgan was retiring himself and would only stay until the next election, when the people would choose a new sheriff.

  It was nearly eleven o’clock when Vargas and I brushed past a handful of reporters and headed to the second-floor offices of the sheriff. The door to his office was wide open. Standing while talking on the phone, Morgan waved us in and moved behind his desk.

  It felt good surveying the room. They only difference since Liberi occupied the office was the ten-gallon hat and holster hanging from the coat rack. We waited until he finished his call before sitting.

  “I don’t have to tell you how delicate this case is, do I?”

  We said in unison, “No, sir.”

  Morgan nodded. “What am I dealing with here?”

  I said, “The victim was—”

  “Mind your manners, son. This is the South, where ladies still come first.”

  Vargas said, “Thank you, Sheriff, but Detective Luca and I agreed to have him lead this investigation.”

  “Go on then.”

  I said, “The victim was stabbed once and bled to death in the main home’s kitchen. We believe we have recovered the murder weapon. There were no obvious signs of a break-in, but we plan to go over the property again. The husband said he discovered the body.”

  “Said? You have reason to believe he is lying?”

  “Not exactly. Keewaydin Island presents a unique setting for a murder. It’s very remote, thus limiting the universe of possible suspects.”

  He shook his head. “Me and my granddaddy used to fish right off of Key Island. Yep, we caught a whole lot of fish back in the days when the only boats off the homes in Port Royal were meant for fishing. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Luca?”

  I noticed that Morgan used the island’s old name. “Afraid not, sir.”

  “Anyone else besides Mr. Brighthouse on the island?”

  “Not according to him. Said his wife gives the staff off on Wednesdays. At this point he’s someone we’re very interested in.”

  “Tread carefully. The Boggs family has been an important part of this community back to days when the state was formed. We can’t be pointing fingers and dirtying reputations, you hear me?”

  “Understood, sir. This is a serious crime, and we’re going to conduct an exhaustive and thorough investigation.”

  “Good, but you’ve got to be discreet. You New York boys know what that word is, don’t you?”

  Vargas said, “We understand, sir.”

  “I don’t want either of you talking to the press. They’re out there doing damn cartwheels with this story. I’ll handle those rascals from here. Is that clear?”

  Vargas and I nodded.

  “I want to be kept fully apprised of the developments in this case. Now, get out of here and show me you’re as good a detective as you think you are.”

  Chapter 19

  Gideon Brighthouse

  After waking, I started my customary fifteen minutes of transcendental meditation while lying in bed. It was hard to quiet down, but the Maharishi was right, repeating a mantra is a bit of magic.

  I said my last “om” and was feeling as balanced and peaceful as I could, considering the circumstances, and headed down to breakfast. I was hoping Shell had left a bowl of high-fiber cereal with my coffee and juice, as my body had completely shut down.

  No cereal, but a heaping bowl of berries, and the juice was prune. I poured a cup of coffee, stirred in my skim milk and took a sip. Blood began pounding in my ears as soon as I unfolded the newspaper. I got up, ripped open a slider, and paced the pool deck, deeply inhaling the air and view of the gulf. The pounding receded and I waved back at Matthew, who was raking the beach.

  If I’d thought about it, I shouldn’t have been surprised by the headline in the Naples Daily News that blared, Socialite Marilyn Boggs Murdered at Home. Maybe it was the helicopter pictures of Keewaydin, with arrows naming the buildings on the island, stripping away a layer of privacy, that wobbled me. Needing an appointment to talk through all of this, I called my therapist and left a message before heading inside.

  Pushing the paper to the far edge of the table, I ate breakfast. After pouring another cup of coffee, I dragged the paper over and read the lead story.

  Socialite Marilyn Boggs Murdered at Home

  Philanthropist Marilyn Boggs was found stabbed to death in her Keewaydin Island home last night. Marilyn Boggs
is the daughter of Martin Boggs, the late founder of American Investments. Mrs. Boggs served on the board of numerous charitable organizations in Collier County and was currently in leadership positions with The Juvenile Diabetes Foundation and St. Vincent de Paul Society.

  The Collier County Sheriff’s department responded to a 911 call made about 9 p.m. last night and found the body of Mrs. Boggs in the kitchen of the main home.

  A prominent socialite, Mrs. Boggs lived on the private side of the island with her husband, Gideon Brighthouse, who was an adviser to former Senator Robert White. It is believed that Mr. Brighthouse was on the island at the time of the fatal attack and did not suffer any injuries.

  Keewaydin Island is a barrier island off the coast of Naples, and 85% of the island is public and managed by the Florida Coastal Office. Eight miles long, the island is free of cars and filled with abundant wildlife.

  A spokesman for Sheriff Morgan called the crime shocking and disturbing and said the sheriff had made solving the crime a priority for the department.

  Born in Naples, Marilyn Boggs was 50 years old and had no children. She is survived by her brothers, Paul and Wesley Boggs, who reside in Boston. Funeral arrangements have not been announced.”

  Chapter 20

  Luca

  Intermittent pain in my abdomen convinced me not to wait, and I was sitting in my urologist’s office instead of trying to solve the Boggs case. A year ago, I would have swallowed a handful of Tylenol, but after getting bladder cancer I couldn’t take chances.

  Maybe it was the irritating morning show host or my nerves, but in spite of the sign that prohibited cell phone use, I called Vargas. Digging my chin into my chest, I said, “What’s going on, Vargas?”

  “Aren’t you at the doctors?”

  “Yeah, I’m in the waiting room. You got anything?”

  “Went through the house with the husband, but he didn’t notice anything. He kept claiming nobody could keep track of all the stuff his wife bought.”