Holidays Are Murder

by Charlotte Douglas

  “I know it’s short notice,” Karen said when she answered, “but how about stopping by for lunch?”

  About the same age as me, Karen and I had hit it off immediately during my previous investigation, but I hadn’t seen her since Morelli’s indictment by the grand jury. In his straight talk about my getting a life, Bill had encouraged me to develop friendships outside the department. With time to kill while waiting for the warrants on Kelso to come through, I took Karen up on her invitation.

  Returning to Pelican Bay, I turned off Edgewater Drive onto Windward Lane and parked in front of a large Dutch Colonial home just a few houses in from the waterfront drive.

  Karen answered the door on my first ring. An attractive woman with good bones and a great sense of casual style, she was dressed in khaki slacks, a tapestry vest in coordinating colors, a white blouse and cordovan loafers. Her dark hair with its striking streak of gray was pulled back into a French braid. She greeted me with a hug. “It’s good to see you, Maggie.”

  “How’s Larry?”

  “At work, thank God.”

  When I’d first met Karen, her son had fallen in with the wrong crowd, taken up booze and pot, and been fired from his job. Just before the attempt on his mother’s life, Larry, concerned for her safety after the murder of three of her clients, had cleaned up his act and moved back home.

  I smiled at her news. “That’s good.”

  “What’s even better,” she spoke over her shoulder as I followed her down the hall toward her sunny kitchen, “is that he’s also back in school. I don’t know how you did it.”

  I’d had a heart-to-heart talk with Larry during my previous investigation. It’s main purpose had been to evaluate him as a suspect, but somehow I’d managed to convince the kid of the error of his ways in his relationship with his mom. The irony of my counseling someone on how to mend fences with his mother hadn’t been lost on me.

  “Larry’s a good kid. You raised him right. He would have come around. I wish I could say that about the kids I’ve encountered lately.”

  “Sit—” Karen gestured to a stool at the island in what I called her Galloping Gourmet stage set kitchen “—while I make our salads. What have you been up to? I read in the paper there’s been another murder in town.”

  Karen shredded fresh greens, sliced hard-boiled eggs and carved slices of chicken breast, and I told her briefly about Vince Lovelace, then turned the conversation to Jason McLeod, Richard Denny and Tiffany Harlow.

  “There’s not much I can do for Jason and Richard at this point,” I said. “And that’s the frustrating part. For years I’ve watched Jason sliding into the pit he’s in now, and I was helpless to stop him. Judges are loath to take a kid away from his mother, even when she’s worthless.”

  “Did you try Big Brothers?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Between Jason and his mom, they scared off every decent guy who tried to help. Jason cleaned out the wallet of his last Big Brother and took his Porsche for a joyride.”

  After adding a sprinkling of parsley and a garnish of carrot curls and grape tomatoes, Karen slid my salad toward me and passed the dressing. She settled on her own stool and pursed her mouth in thought. “These kids need role models, influences they’re not getting at home. And they need them while they’re young. At Tiffany’s age, for instance. Once they hit their teens, their personalities are pretty much set.”

  I took a bite of romaine, chewed and swallowed. “With the influx of new residents, all the social services in Pelican Bay are stretched way too thin. Kids fall through the cracks every day.”

  “Ever thought about starting your own mentoring program?”

  I almost choked on a sliver of chicken. “Me? You’ve got to be kidding. In the first place, I know as much about children as I do about car engines. And in the second, where would I find the time?”

  “You mentioned you might be retiring from the department soon.”

  “That would give me time but not the skills.”

  “What if I set up a program? I’m only working part-time at the clinic, and, to be honest, I like to keep busy.”

  I gazed at her in surprise. “You’re serious?”

  “I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to do this,” she said with a grin. “Just a psychologist.”

  “Okay,” I conceded, “just for the sake of discussion, supposing you do set up this program. Where do you expect to find mentors?”

  She grinned. “Pelican Bay is full of retirees. A lot of them are probably former law enforcement. Maybe they’d like to provide guidance for a child who might otherwise end up on the wrong side of the law.”

  I thought instantly of Harry Lenkowski, the retired cop who lived in the condo across from Al’s Attic. And Bill Malcolm, who loved kids. “If you’re willing to look into setting up such a program,” I said, “I’ll help all I can.”

  “Good,” she said. “Together, maybe we can make a difference.”

  I dug into my salad and savored the prospect of being proactive instead of reactive where these kids were concerned.

  It was late afternoon before the warrants were issued. Adler and I drove immediately to McLeod’s subdivision where earlier I’d posted patrol officers at the ends of Kelso’s block to make sure he didn’t disappear before we got there.

  Accompanied by Johnson and Beaton, Adler and I knocked on Kelso’s door at 4:00 p.m.

  “Go away,” a deep voice shouted through the open jalousies. “I ain’t buying nothing.”

  The dilapidated state of Kelso’s house and yard made the McLeod residence look like the Taj Mahal. Whatever profits Kelso had realized from his ill-gotten goods hadn’t gone into home improvements. Recalling the cocaine use listed on his rap sheet, I figured most of it had disappeared up his nose.

  “Police officers,” Adler yelled. “Open the door.”

  Curses exploded in the room and the sound of frantic movements. A few minutes later, Beaton, who’d been waiting at the back door, escorted a handcuffed Kelso to the front of the house.

  A big man in his thirties, Kelso was unwashed and unshaven. Barefoot and limping, he wore only a pair of jeans slung low on his hips.

  Beaton grinned. “I knew sandspurs were good for something.”

  “Yeah,” Kelso growled, “if I’d had my shoes, you never would have caught me.”

  “I wished you’d had them,” I said. “Then my officer here could have shot you to keep you from escaping.”

  I mustered all my self-restraint to curb my temper. Robbing from hardworking folks was bad enough, but training children for his dirty work had been downright evil. “Get him out of here,” I ordered Beaton, “before I do something I regret.”

  Johnson and Beaton took Kelso to the station for booking, and Adler and I remained to search the house. I removed a pair of latex gloves from my pocket, pulled them on, and glanced at Adler. “Ready?”

  He nodded. “Let’s nail this bastard.”

  Two hours later we were back at the station with so much evidence that not even an entire cadre of legal eagles would be able to shake our case.

  “It’s my turn to type up the report,” Adler said. “You’ve put in a long day.”

  The last thing I wanted was to go home to my empty condo. “It’s almost Christmas. Don’t you have some shopping to do?”

  He grinned. “If we buy any more toys for Jessica, I don’t know where we’ll hide them. Our bedroom closet already looks like Santa’s workshop. You through with your shopping?”

  “Haven’t bought the first thing.” To be honest, I didn’t know where to begin. I’d have to ask Miss Manners about the protocol on giving gifts to a mother who’s disowned you.

  “Then I should be typing this report,” Adler said, “so you can hit the mall.”

  I shook my head. “I might as well work. I don’t even have a shopping list yet.”

  “What are you doing for Christmas this year? Going to your mother’s?”

  His query caught me by surprise,
and to my horror, tears filled my eyes. I blinked rapidly and cleared my throat. “I don’t have any plans.”

  “Why don’t you spend Christmas with us?”

  “Thanks for asking, but Christmas is for family. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  Adler flashed one of his killer smiles. If he used that technique with the women in his life, they had to be putty in his hands. “Maggie, as far as Sharon and I are concerned, you are family. In fact, you should come and bring Bill, too. The more, the merrier.”

  His words touched me, especially since my own family had just disowned me that very morning. I took a deep breath to keep from tearing up again.

  Adler was watching me with his big brown eyes. I studied his face for signs of pity but found only sincerity. Adler had a big heart, and his wife and daughter were lucky to have him.

  He must have seen the indecision in my expression, because he added, “You don’t have to let me know yet. Just think about it.”

  “I’ll think about it if you’ll get out of here and let me finish this report.”

  He conceded with a nod and another smile. “See you tomorrow. Maybe we’ll get a break on Lovelace’s killer.”

  I smiled back at him. “That’s all I want for Christmas.”

  CHAPTER 15

  I finished the arrest report on Leland Kelso but couldn’t face returning home, where echoes of Mother’s angry voice still reverberated through the rooms. Instead, I drove to the marina, parked and made my way through the fog to the Ten-Ninety-Eight.

  The boisterous bloviating emanating from Bill’s television indicated he was watching “The O’Reilly Factor,” but he shut off the set as soon as I tapped on the sliding-glass doors.

  When he saw me, he opened the door and motioned me inside. “Did you get my message?”

  I shook my head. “I haven’t been home.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What makes you think something’s wrong?”

  “Your eyes are teary, you have this little tic at the corner of your mouth and your hives have hives. Rough day?”

  I swallowed a sob, hiccupped and nodded. In an instant I was enfolded in his arms with my face pressed against his chest. His embrace, coupled with the gentle rocking of the boat, soothed me, and I struggled to regain control of my emotions.

  “Want to talk about it?” he asked.

  “I hate Christmas.”

  He pulled me onto the sofa next to him, but didn’t let me go. I could feel his gaze searching my face, but I avoided his eyes, afraid I’d give too much away.

  “So, this is just a bad case of holiday phobia?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re not on the job now, Margaret. This is Bill, your best bud, you’re talking to. If you want to cry, or shout and scream, or lie on the floor and kick your feet, be my guest.”

  The image of me, wedged in the small space that served as his floor and pitching a tantrum, made me smile, as I’m sure he’d intended.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Now, what’s bugging you?”

  “It might take less time to tell you what isn’t.”

  “In that case, we need a drink.” He rose and headed for the galley. “Have you had dinner?”

  I shook my head. “I came straight from the station.”

  “Could you eat something? I have homemade stew I can heat in the microwave.”

  I wasn’t hungry, but letting him prepare a meal would delay my having to tell all. Within minutes, Bill placed a tray in front of me with a steaming bowl of stew, hot corn muffins and slices of mango with blueberries. The savory smells stimulated my appetite and I dug in.

  “How do you do this?” I buttered a muffin and took a bite.

  “Cook?”

  “I can’t even manage to stock my refrigerator.”

  “Another reason why you should marry me. You need me to keep you from wasting away.”

  “Fat chance, pun intended.” In light of the fragile state of my emotions, marriage was the last thing I wanted to discuss right now.

  “I like a woman with meat on her bones.” He grinned. “And yours are so wonderfully configured in all the right places.”

  “If you think by feeding me you’ll be able to have your way with me, think again, buster.”

  “I’m Bill. Buster must be your other guy.”

  Between the comfort food and Bill’s banter, the knot in my stomach was easing. By the time I’d finished the meal, I was relaxed enough to provide a blow-by-blow of Mother’s outburst that morning.

  “You mustn’t blame yourself,” he said when I finished.

  I laid my head against the back of the sofa and sighed. “Who should I blame, the current administration?”

  “I’ve told you your mother’s insecure. She’s terrified of what other people think. By washing her hands of you, she thinks she’s protecting herself.”

  “Isn’t she?”

  Bill shook his head. “She’s only demonstrating how pathetic she is, too concerned over her own status to support her daughter.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “Because you’re too close to the situation to be objective.”

  “Her attitude still hurts.”

  “Of course it does.” He’d carried the tray back to the galley and returned to sit next to me. He put his arms around me and held me close. “But your friends know the truth.”

  Realizing how much he meant to me, I snuggled into his embrace. But the situation was heading in a dangerous direction, one my feelings were too raw to handle. I diverted the conversation with a full account of Kelso’s arrest.

  “So that’s one case, at least, that’s closed,” I concluded.

  “Damn, you’re good, Margaret.”

  “As much as I hate to admit it, technology made the difference in this investigation. I’d still be in the dark without Rafferty’s facial recognition software.”

  Bill shook his head. “Mug shots and shoe leather would have brought Kelso down eventually. Rafferty’s help just speeded up the process.”

  “What did you find out from the boat mechanic?”

  “That was the message I left you. Nada on Jackpot. But the mechanic did give me the name of a guy who specializes in painting and detailing cigarette boats. If the painter doesn’t know the boat and its owner, then I’ll start checking the distributors.”

  “Where’s this painter located?”

  Bill nodded. “A dry dock near Davis Island.”

  “What about jurisdiction?”

  “I figured you could call Abe Mackley and fill him in?”

  “Mackley’s still with the Tampa P.D.?”

  “Due to retire in the spring.”

  “I’ll call him in the morning,” I said, “and fill him in on our case. Then I’ll go with you to question the painter. We have to find that boat. If its owner is a random killer, we’re running out of time before he strikes again.” I stood to leave.

  “Stay here tonight,” Bill said.

  As much as I wanted to comply, I shook my head. “You’re just feeling sorry for me.”

  He pushed to his feet, took my face in his hands and looked into my eyes. “I know exactly what I’m feeling, and, believe me, Margaret, it’s not sorry.”

  The next morning Bill drove me back to my condo and called Abe Mackley while I showered and dressed. Our relationship had taken a new turn when we’d slept together last night, and I felt as if I’d stepped off the edge of a cliff and still hadn’t hit bottom. I was moving toward commitment, and I was scared out of my mind. Although I was warming to the idea of marriage, of working and growing old with Bill, I was too rusty at relationships, I feared I’d bungle things badly. One look at my disconnection from my own family proved how inept I was. Bill’s friendship was the most precious part of my life. He was the only person who accepted me without judgment, always told me the truth, but with kindness, and treated me with unlimited generosity of spirit. I was still terrified that by taking that final s
tep to matrimony, I would jeopardize all that was good in our relationship.

  Earlier this morning, Bill had pooh-poohed my fears. “We’ll always be friends, Margaret. But added to that, we’ll have the pleasure of waking up to each other every morning, spending the better part of our days together, and holding each other every night while we sleep. I want to grow old with you. What’s not to like about that?”

  “I like it, all right, too much. But what if I mess it up somehow? What if I can’t learn to lighten up? What if you get sick of me?”

  He’d pulled me against him in the wide bed that filled the cabin and the heat of his skin had warmed me. “How long have we been friends, Margaret?”

  “Twenty-two years.”

  “That’s a pretty good track record, don’t you think?”

  “But we didn’t have the hurdle of marriage.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a hurdle.”

  “I don’t know the first thing about being married.”

  He grew still and didn’t say anything for a moment. “I’ve had experience,” he finally said, “but since my first wife walked out on me, maybe you figure I’m not a good risk.”

  “That’s not true!” I sat upright and stared at him. “Tricia couldn’t take the pressure of being a cop’s wife. That was her weakness, not yours.”

  “I could have changed jobs,” he said. “Chosen a career that was safer and didn’t scare her so much.”

  “And denied who you are? You’d have been so miserable, your marriage wouldn’t have survived. Besides, you were a cop when Tricia married you. She knew what she was in for.”

  “Maybe,” Bill said. “But I don’t blame her for leaving. She went to pieces after that domestic call when I almost bought the farm. Continual exposure to that kind of stress is a lot to ask of anyone. My biggest regret is that she took Melanie so far away.”

  “Tricia still loved you,” I said. “If she’d lived where you could visit regularly and she’d had to see you often, she could never have made the break.”

  “What about you?” he asked.