Such Wicked Friends

by Rod Hoisington

  She wished she could have followed her. She checked her watch: three o’clock. Priscilla said she was a server, perhaps she was headed to work for the dinner hours at the Marriott Beach Resort. Not too far. She rang Chip and left a voice mail saying she might be late getting to his house—maybe about six. She’d spend the entire afternoon doing her field investigation routine on Priscilla Fowler.

  Much later, when she finally got to Chip’s a little after six, he was sitting on the couch with his sport jacket thrown across his knees waiting.

  “Oh, don’t tell me. You have to go out—some sort of special duty? And I’ve so much to tell you.”

  “No, let’s go out to dinner. It’s been too long. How about a big steak?”

  On the way to the restaurant, she filled him in on her afternoon adventure. “I don’t know where she was headed after the hair salon. Not to her job at the Marriott, that was for sure. In fact, no one there has ever heard of her.”

  “Is this where I say, the plot thickens?”

  “I detoured past her apartment on the way over to your place. No red Prius in the parking lot. So she’s still out there somewhere. Damn, I wish I could have followed her.”

  “Do it tomorrow. When do I get to meet this Miss Florida USA?”

  “Third runner-up. You wouldn’t be interested. She has spectacular boobs and amazing long legs. Not your type at all.”

  “I don’t care about her body. How’s her mind? Can she discuss the great philosophers?”

  “If she can I’ll have to kill her.”

  “So, follow her tomorrow. We’ll see where she leads you.”

  “Can you bring up her license photo? I want to be certain we’re talking about the same gal?”

  “Sure. That’s what the bachelor cops always do.”

  “You’re a bachelor cop.”

  “I meant other bachelor cops.”

  Once parked at the restaurant on the Waterway, he booted his police computer. A search popped up her license with photo.

  “That’s her. What do you think, Chip, do you like all that hair?”

  He squinted at the small photo. “I know her. I even remember the name now, Priscilla.” He let out a small laugh. “She doesn’t work at Marriott, she works at Knockers in Palm Point—they wear nametags on their shirts. Here I wondered if I’d ever meet the mysterious Priscilla, and I find out I already have.”

  “Knockers, you say?”

  “Yeah, a hot-bod bar. The servers wear red shorts and are braless under white T-shirts. A deputy from Brevard County took me in there one time.”

  “So it’s a place to ogle big boobs.”

  “It’s a place to appreciate and judge the female form.”

  “So it’s a place to ogle big boobs.”

  “Now you’ve got it.”

  They sat at an outside table overlooking the marina. They were in time to watch the sky burn into a deep orange across the western horizon before fading. They ordered dinner and started on the wine. He was still watching the sunset when she said, “Did you ever date her?”

  “Who?”

  “Hillary Clinton...now who the hell have we been talking about?”

  “Oh, the mysterious Priscilla? No, but the thought crossed my mind. I saw her only that once. That was before you were in my life.”

  “You mean a sex thought?”

  “Yes, I mean a sex thought. One of the million sex thoughts the researchers say men have every day.”

  “Isn’t it more like four million? You must mean before breakfast.”

  “Maybe this gal has some logical explanation for her disguise. Why would she hide a shape like that?”

  “Simple, she might have converted to Muslim.” She thought back to Brad’s comment to her that day in the office, that Martin wouldn’t like him if he knew what was going on. “If she and Brad had something going on, it would explain her prints in his car. Do you think she dressed down for Brad as well? What would be the point?”

  “You’re asking a man? We men never deceive our lovers unless, of course, it suits some particular purpose at the time.”

  “I don’t think Martin’s in love with her, still he should know about this. Maybe he already knows. Will you print out her photo for me? I’m going to need it tomorrow.”

  “So, you’re going to dig in and find out what’s going on?”

  “Does a penguin have a twin?”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Martin loved this part of the terrace and garden behind his family home, shadowed by the old oak trees. Even in the high summer heat, the ever-present ocean breeze would cool one’s skin. And, of course, the pool was always there, inviting and waiting. He couldn’t imagine living there alone. Earlier, during his school years, his father was invariably off somewhere. Then he, himself, was off traveling—Asia or the Continent mainly. He returned at his mother’s sudden illness and death. Since the diagnosis of his father’s Alzheimer’s, they had grown closer. They had successfully learned how to relate in the new family situation.

  He liked it as it had become with his father accepting and becoming fond of Amelia, his live-in caregiver. She was sixty-something and owned a small house across town now occupied by her divorced daughter and her children who moved down from Tennessee. Amelia would occasionally visit her daughter and grandchildren, though she preferred the quiet life on the barrier island with the Bronners. She quickly became a pleasant member of the household.

  She and his father were sitting on opposite sides of a low wicker table when he joined them. She asked if he wanted anything—an iced tea perhaps. After his father was gone, Amelia wouldn’t be needed. He sometimes wondered what he’d do alone there in the big house.

  He was ready for a new passage in his life. He had traveled and enjoyed the freedom of singlehood with few regrets. His sex life had been okay. He wondered if he should start worrying about his love life. Now in his late thirties he was feeling ready to devote his time to the concerns of a family. He and his wife would remodel and redecorate to mark the place as their own. It would be a new beginning for the house. A house with a new purpose. The home of his own family. The place where his children would grow up and where he and his wife would grow old.

  His father looked up from the newspaper and said, “So, is your dinner date with a new or old friend?”

  “New, Priscilla Fowler. I’ve made reservations at the club.”

  “Why the stuffy old club, you want to impress her?”

  “No, but you practically founded the club, and I want to continue to support it. I’m sure it would be an interesting experience for Prissy.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “She’s a friend who’s been nice to me.”

  “Been nice...sounds nice. Been nice...sounds nice,” he repeated. “One can’t have too many pretty women being nice to one, can one? Is she young and pretty?”

  “Young and pretty.” Only a slight overstatement and what his father’s imagination wanted to hear.

  “That’s enough then. By all means, take her to the club. If she finds it too stuffy, then bring her back here. I’ll make her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

  He kissed his father on the forehead and left.

  He was waiting in the apartment lobby when Priscilla stepped off the elevator. He was pleased. Her hair was pulled back, the blouse curved in nicely to accent her slim waist, and with her usual longish skirt, she looked fine.

  The Club was modeled after the Union Club in Boston. When his father was active in the law, he’d been a guest up there on several occasions. Later, he and the other founders had commissioned the architects who had renovated the Union Club to design the interior of their club with rich woods and marble columns, stairways and floors. Instead of offering spectacular views of the Common and historic Boston Back Bay, The Club was magnificently situated between the ocean and the Waterway with panoramic views of both. The lush foliage and palms made the exterior unmistakably Florida. The club was an exclusive and private
organization of a social nature and a meeting place for prominent individuals from business and the professions, many now retired.

  For that evening, Martin chose the Blue room, one of three large dining rooms, because of the cellist in the far corner who would enhance the peaceful mood.

  The evening progressed comfortably Priscilla seemed delighted. Just before dessert and coffee, Martin looked across the room to see a man wearing a somewhat distressed sport coat over a black T-shirt enter the dining room and approach at a quickened pace.

  Martin was perplexed, but Priscilla recognized Detective Jaworski from his recent interrogation of her and said, “I’m surprised you’re a member here.”

  The detective ignored her, leaned over and whispered in Martin’s ear, then turned and left as hurriedly as he had arrived. Martin glanced around the room; many heads had turned to watch. He placed his napkin on the table, stood and held her chair. “I’m very sorry. We must leave immediately.”

  “What...?”

  “An emergency.”

  Jaworski was waiting for them on the outside steps. He motioned for them to follow him to the side of the building where Detective Moore was leaning against one of the two parked police units. He signaled to Detective Moore who stepped over and turned Priscilla around holding her arms behind her.

  “Priscilla Fowler, you are under arrest for the murder of Bradford Ebert.” He put the cuffs on her.

  “Wait,” Martin spoke up, “you can’t do this.”

  Jaworski began reading her Miranda. A uniformed policewoman got out of Moore’s car, strode over and spoke to Priscilla, “Please lean against the vehicle there and spread your legs. Do you have any guns, knives or weapons of any sort on your person?”

  “Martin,” Priscilla yelled. “Did you know about this?”

  “No, he just told me to go outside or else. Jaworski, can’t we do this another way?”

  “You her attorney?”

  “Well, no....”

  “Yes, he is! He’s my attorney so you have to let me go.”

  “Prissy, I can’t represent you. I don’t do crime. Defending criminals is a specialty. I’m not qualified and wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “Sandy could help me. That’s it. I want her to represent me. Oh, thank God I thought of her.” For a second she looked relieved. “Detective, I hereby refuse to answer on the grounds Sandra Reid is my attorney.”

  Martin said, “Prissy, she’s not going to take your case. Moran has her under arrest and threat of disbarment. She may have to give up all clients.”

  Jaworski said, “Whoever you decide on can see you at the police station. You take her in Moore. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Detective Moore helped her into the back seat of his unmarked vehicle. “Watch your head, lady.”

  Priscilla yelled, “Can’t Martin ride with me? He’s going to get me out.”

  Martin said, “I’ll go to the police station. We’ll find you an attorney.”

  Jaworski said, “She won’t be arraigned tonight, too late. She’ll spend at least tonight in jail.”

  The uniformed policewoman closed the door on her and got in the front seat beside Detective Moore. After he drove off, Jaworski turned to Martin. “I doubt she’ll be released on bail tomorrow morning. This is murder one, you know.”

  “Did you have to embarrass me at dinner like that?”

  “I don’t decide when the arrest warrants come down, Martin. I just implement them when they hand them to me. I could have brought my people in, arrested her inside and handcuffed her in front of everyone. I could have made a big deal out of marching her out like they do on TV. And hey, I took off my ball cap.”

  “Okay, thanks for that. I knew she was a suspect, but I thought it was groundless. What happened all of a sudden?”

  The detective said, “We have proof that after the party—after you took her home that night—she went back out to Brad’s house in the middle of the night.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The next morning, Martin waited in the courtroom for Priscilla’s arraignment. He was one of a dozen spectators watching and waiting for the processing of those arrested the night before. Detective Jaworski had refused him permission to see her, as he wasn’t her designated lawyer.

  When they called her case, Jaworski led her in from the small side waiting room. Mel Shapiro was sitting in the front and now stood up beside Jaworski. She wore the standard orange jailhouse jumpsuit. She walked with her head down looking at her cuffed hands. Her face had the leftovers of the previous evening’s makeup, and her hair looked as if combed by her fingers. She looked terrified. Martin felt sick.

  Shapiro addressed Judge Allen and informed him of the murder charge. The judge then asked her if she had an attorney, she looked baffled. He then asked if she could afford an attorney, she stood motionless. The judge said the court would appoint an attorney until she made up her mind. He postponed her arraignment and rapped his gavel. The entire proceeding took less than a minute. Jaworski took her arm to lead her away, but she stood there facing the judge for a moment as though waiting for something else to happen.

  “That’s it?” she exclaimed as she Jaworski pulled her sideways out of the room. She never turned around. Never aware Martin was in the courtroom.

  Martin hurried up to Shapiro who was looking through a file waiting for the next arraignment. “When may I see her, Mel?”

  “I know you’re not going to defend her, Martin. What about Sandy?”

  “I don’t believe she’ll do it. Sandy isn’t unfriendly to her, yet there’s something that’s not right between them. I’m just a concerned friend.”

  “Just a friend? I heard Jaworski interrupted your fancy dinner date last night. And he says you’re also in touch—you might say—with Jenna Ebert. You’re just one of those inconspicuous guys who go around quietly picking all the plums.”

  “Mel, I can’t imagine you have a decent case against her. Please remember she’s still an innocent citizen not proven guilty at this point and certainly not a danger to anyone. Can you give her a little consideration? My immediate concern is to speak to her.”

  “No problem there, visiting hours start at ten. That’s less than an hour from now. I’ll be sure she’s there to meet you.”

  “How about cosmetics, personal stuff like that? Do you have anyone that can see what she needs?”

  “I’ll get her handbag back from the property room. I’m sure she can have it in her cell. Will that make you happy? But I need a favor from you.”

  “Thanks, Mel, anything.”

  “You’ve got to let me in on your secret with all these women.” He patted Martin on the shoulder.

  “Has the police report been released yet?”

  “You can have my copy right now. I’ll get another.”

  Martin was there waiting when visiting hours started at ten. As was suitable for a small Florida beachside town, the Park Beach city jail had only a dozen cells. Its main purpose being to temporarily house drunks overnight, prisoners awaiting some judicial procedure across the street at the courthouse or awaiting transportation out to the large and very serious county prison.

  The visitor’s room was small and uncomfortable, filled with five long metal tables with chairs. A police sergeant sat at a desk by the exterior door and a uniformed officer stood by the door to the hallway leading back down to the cells. He and Priscilla were the only other people. They now sat on opposite sides at one of the tables. No partition separated them. The sign on the wall warned about touching.

  After she shuffled in, she started in on him, “You bastard. You abandoned me. I was scared, huddled in that stinking cell all night. Do you know there’s no seat on the toilet and no curtain or anything?”

  She had much more to say, so he let her go on and get it out. She looked terrible, probably hadn’t slept much. He sat listening, feeling sorry for her and nodding his head in sympathy.

  Finally, she seemed to calm down. “That cop j
ust told me to enjoy myself while I’m here in this city jail. In a few days, they’ll transfer me out to the county jail to await trial. He told me this city jail is paradise, and out there it’s the depths of hell. If this is paradise....”

  He had a chance to interrupt, “Prissy, I’m so sorry you’re going through this. I was here last night. I was at your arraignment this morning. This is the absolute first they’ve allowed me to speak with you. Did they bring you your handbag?”

  “Yeah, and a cup of coffee. How did you know?”

  “How did you get yourself into this mess? I don’t know how to help you or even if I want to help you.” He was afraid his words would set her off again.

  “Of course, you’re going to help me. I didn’t do anything. You don’t think I killed Brad?”

  “No, but I can’t be your attorney, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “A court appointed attorney should show up today. You don’t have to pay him and you don’t have to keep him.”

  “Maybe I’ll have to find someone on my own. Why aren’t you doing more? You’ve got plenty of bucks.”

  He was somewhat confused. She was acting like an entirely different woman, less reserved, less guarded and certainly more assertive. He was concerned that she used the phrase “plenty of bucks.” Did it mean she knew about his family money? “Well, what was going on between you and Brad? Tell me the truth now. Did your affair have anything to do with his death?”

  “What are you talking about?”