Dead in Boca

by Miriam Auerbach

  “Not him!” Miss Lil snapped. We all jumped.

  “Okay.” Enrique fast forwarded. We saw the contessa give Pompadour a slip of paper with a number. He took off, and soon thereafter a seventyish guy with five gold chains around his turkey neck took his place.

  “You look like my second wife,” he said, “and I’ve only been married once.”

  “Not him!” Miss Lil yelled again.

  The process was repeated seven more times. At the end, one thing was clear: the Seminole Hard Rock was full of sleazoid skanks on the make. None of whom was Worthington. And none of whom had the slightest imagination when it came to pickup lines.

  “Contessa, I believe you deserve combat pay,” I said.

  “Don’t insult me, Harriet,” the contessa said. “You know very well I would do anything in my power to further the cause of justice. And, of course, to help a dear friend.” She patted Miss Lil’s hand. “By the way, all nine of those . . . personages have called the cell number which I acquired solely for this purpose. I am now disposing of this SIM card.” She opened her phone, removed the card, tossed it, and replaced it with another.

  “Good,” I said. “Okay, Mom, let’s look at your video.”

  Enrique inserted the video card.

  We saw the dimly-lit interior of La Cucina Toscana from the bar. Wood-paneled walls were interspersed with muted murals of the Tuscan landscape. Small tables were set with white tablecloths, silver, and crystal, and an open-flame pizza oven cast a warm glow. A few couples and foursomes were scattered throughout. Leonard sat a few seats down at the bar, nursing a drink. Mom’s manicured hand held a glass of wine.

  A man in white pants, a blue-and-white striped Ralph Lauren shirt, and a bad comb-over approached. “Estelle?” he asked. “You’re even lovelier than your photo.”

  Oh, gag me.

  We sat through five more minutes of fawning flattery before Miss Lil declared, “Not him!”

  The second sycophant, whose deep V-neck red shirt revealed an untended nest of grey chest hair and whose opener was, “I may not be a genie, but I can make your dreams come true,” also turned out to be “Not him!”

  But we hit pay dirt with Bachelor No. 3

  “Estelle, you must be an alien, because you’ve just abducted my heart.”

  When he ordered a Glenlivet straight up, Miss Lil bolted from her chair.

  “That’s him!” she screamed as she sprang from her seat. “That’s the chicken-shit, candy-ass yard dog who killed my baby boy. Get him! Get him! Get him!”

  Chapter 9

  MISS LIL WAS literally foaming at the mouth.

  “I’m calling Junior’s people right now to take care of that slime bucket,” she said, saliva dripping down her chin.

  “Sit down.” I pointed a finger at her. “You’re not calling Junior’s people. We had a deal, and you’re going to stick to it. The only people you’re calling are the police. Otherwise, I’ll go to the media with this whole sordid story.”

  “Why, that’s . . . that’s blackmail!” Miss Lil said.

  I shrugged. “I doubt the police will see it that way.”

  There was silence.

  “Very well,” Miss Lil finally said, slumping into the sofa.

  I turned to my mother. “Mom, do you have another date set up with . . . what’s his name now? Doubletree?”

  Mom threw me an offended look.

  “Oh, never mind,” I said. “Of course you do.”

  “We are meeting at the Golden Croissant for breakfast tomorrow at nine.”

  “So soon?”

  Mom smiled. “He just couldn’t wait to see me again.”

  “Fine. Miss Lil, please ask Detective Reilly to join us.”

  “Now?”

  “Yep.”

  Sighing, she pulled out her phone. “I think it would be best to have Gitta here as well,” she said.

  “Fine,” I said.

  She made the relevant calls. Twenty minutes later, Reilly showed up. His tie, bedecked with dancing leprechauns, was loose around his stout neck, and perspiration stains marked the underarms of his button-down, short-sleeved shirt.

  He took one look around the small crowded room.

  “What the hell . . . ,” he began. Then he saw me. “Horowitz! I can’t believe it. What is it with you and murder? Why can’t you stick to scam busting and get off my case?”

  “Gladly,” I said. “Just wanted to hand you a prime suspect on a silver platter.”

  The color in his ruddy face rose to nearly match his flaming red hair.

  “We will explain everything, Detective,” Miss Lil said, “as soon as Gitta arrives.”

  That seemed to calm him down. When she waltzed in, her Boca boobs up front and center in a white cable-knit sleeveless top with a keyhole cutout, he calmed further. In fact, he seemed downright tranquilized.

  Miss Lil brought Reilly up to date on the events.

  “So, you all have been withholding information about a person of interest in the case,” Reilly said when she finished. “You decided to hire your own little private cop here.” He looked me up and down, his lip curled. “Man, I love working in Boca. I just take your taxes, and you do my job for me.”

  “Speaking of taxes, Detective, we understand how terribly underpaid our public servants are,” Gitta said. “We’d like to personally express our gratitude to you for keeping Miss Lil’s misfortune a private matter.”

  His eyes were transfixed to her chest and practically glazed over.

  “Uh, yeah. Sure,” he said. “There’s certainly no need to bring the family more pain by airing all the details. Besides, it would serve no public interest.”

  “We just knew you’d see it as we do,” Gitta said as she flashed him a dazzling smile.

  “Okay, here’s the plan,” he said, staring at me, daring me to challenge him.

  “Hey, the show’s all yours,” I said.

  “I will have my people positioned at the café tomorrow morning prior to Mrs. Horowitz’s meeting with the suspect.”

  “That’s Mrs. Rosenberg, Detective,” Mom corrected. “Mr. Horowitz, Harriet’s father, was several husbands back.”

  “Uh-huh. Okay. When the suspect comes in, we grab him and take him in for questioning. That’s it. No funny stuff. Understood?”

  We all nodded.

  “On behalf of the Boca Police Department, thank you all for your . . . cooperation. Mrs. Rosenberg, I’ll see you tomorrow. Horowitz, hope to never see you again.”

  Gee, and here I’d just made his job easier. Ingrate.

  “Mrs. Castellano and Mrs. Castellano, may I escort you to your vehicles?” Reilly held out both elbows. The Babes took hold, and the trio left.

  Man. I could see why Miss Lil had thought it prudent to have Gitta present. It was amazing how a pair of boobs could fry a guy’s brain. Did Reilly actually believe he had a snowball’s chance in hell with Gitta? She’d said it herself—he was way underpaid. There was no way he could provide the support those babies required. I mean, even the cheapest La Perla bra cost a couple Ben Franklins—probably a day’s pay for him.

  It had been a long day. I was ready to hightail it to my hideaway. Before I did, though, I wanted to see the rest of the video of Worthington.

  Enrique turned it back on, and we watched. Worthington was exactly as I had predicted: suave, stylish, and sophisticated. His appearance was altered from what Miss Lil had described: he was now clean-shaven, his hair was salt-and-pepper, his eyes were deep blue and framed by aviator glasses. But the same unctuous, lost-puppy-dog appeal she’d portrayed was there.

  “Would you care to dine?” he asked Mom on the video, his voice smooth like a classical radio announcer’s.

  “Why yes, that would be lovely,” Mom said.


  I looked over at her on the sofa and raised my eyebrows. Dinner hadn’t been part of the plan.

  She shrugged. “It was getting late, and I was hungry,” she said.

  Back on screen, the two were now seated at a table, perusing menus.

  “Why don’t you try the filleto al balsamico?” Worthington said. “It’s absolutely delicioso.” He put his fingers to his lips, kissed them, then opened his fingers in a gesture of gastric appreciation. “Chef Alberto is a genius.”

  Mom spoke up from the sofa. “That was the most expensive item on the menu.”

  Nice trick to make the ladies believe he had bucks—and was generous.

  “All right, I shall have that,” Mom said on the video, playing the part of the agreeable, pliable female.

  Worthington ordered the fillet for her, an osso bucco for himself, and a bottle of Château Margaux.

  After the waiter left, Worthington leaned forward toward Mom. “I must say, Estelle, I was quite impressed by your post. It demonstrated a certain sophistication, a cultivation of mind. A rare quality on SuperSeniors.com, if I may say so.”

  Right—compliment her mind not her appearance. He had the game down.

  “Oh, really?” Mom asked. “Do you use the site often?”

  Worthington lowered his head. “Well, I have dated several women I met on the site. But I just haven’t found that special someone yet.” Keeping his face down, he gazed upward at Mom. Playing coy. “How about you, Estelle?”

  That’s right, focus on the lady. Don’t act self-centered.

  “I understand what you mean,” Mom said. “My special someone was Harold. It’s been very lonely since he tragically died when his ’67 Mustang hit a Texas longhorn cow up by Frostproof, Florida.”

  Harold was my father, and that happened over thirty years ago.

  “I’ve hardly dated since then,” Mom said.

  Yeah, if you didn’t count her four subsequent spouses.

  It was kind of fascinating watching two people weave a web of lies designed to ensnare each other. Pretty much like the real dating world.

  Yet, something about Worthington was bugging me, apart from the knowledge he was a smooth-talking con. But I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Worthington said, reaching over to touch Mom’s hand then withdrawing, not lingering a second too long. “The grief never quite goes away, does it? I lost my own parents when I was a young boy, yet I still think of them every day.”

  Express empathy. Establish commonality. Reveal vulnerability. All right out of the playbook.

  Their meal arrived, and Worthington insisted Mom take a bite from his plate. The conversation turned to their respective international travels. Worthington attentively refilled her wine glass whenever it hit the halfway mark. Once the plates were cleared and after-dinner drinks arrived, Worthington leaned back in his seat and took a sip of his espresso with Amaretto.

  “You know, Estelle, all in all I’ve been a very fortunate man,” he said. “After I patented my differential carburetor manifold, I made a fortune beyond the wildest dreams of this poor little orphan boy.”

  I glanced at Chuck to check out his reaction to this supposed ingenious mechanical invention. He rolled his eyes.

  “But truly,” Worthington went on, “all that wealth is meaningless without someone to share it with.” He offered a brief, tentative smile.

  “You are so right,” Mom said. “My dear Harold ensured I was well taken care of.”

  Actually, Dad, a traveling salesman, hadn’t left Mom and me the proverbial pot to pee in. It had taken Mom several more tries to finally hit the jackpot with husband No. 5, Mortimer Rosenberg, owner of the Mort’s Mortuaries funeral parlor chain.

  “So I don’t want for anything materially,” Mom said, “but life is just not meant to be lived alone.”

  “Estelle, I’ve never said this before, but I feel that tonight just may be the start of something special. May I see you again?”

  That’s right—once you’ve completed the financial pre-qualification, move in to close the deal. They made the date for tomorrow morning at the Golden Croissant, Worthington paid the bill, and they departed. The video ended.

  I said my goodbyes to everyone, including a curt one to Lior, and went home to mull things over with my Paleozoic partner. Something about Worthington still gnawed at the corners of my mind.

  It was well past midnight when I pulled up to the cabin. Moonlight reflected off the grassy water. The air was thick and heavy. The swamp was eerily quiet and still. Not even the Spanish moss moved. Was this the calm before the storm?

  I went in, poured a glass of Hennessy, and came back out. A few feet away, the reflected moonlight rippled. A pair of glittering eyeballs emerged from the mire.

  “Hey,” I greeted Lana. “What’s the word on the weather?”

  Her front legs lifted in what looked like a shrug. Haven’t heard a thing, seemed to be the message. Nobody’s talkin’. Nobody’s movin’.

  Animals were known to pick up signals of an impending storm way before humans did. In years past, I’d seen flocks of birds gather, jabber, and then disperse and disappear. Where they went, I had no idea. And not only them. River otters, turtles, and raccoons all did the same thing.

  So, if they weren’t talking now, danger was not imminent. Not weather danger, anyway.

  Lana kept a steady gaze on me. What’s the scoop on our sweetheart scammer? She seemed to be asking.

  I gave her the update. When I finished, it hit me what was bothering me about Worthington.

  “You know what?” I said. “Something just doesn’t feel right here. Our guy is a con, all right. He’s a liar, a player, and a world-class charmer. But I tell you, he’s not a killer.”

  Why not? she asked.

  “He enjoys the game too much. Where’s the fun in shutting down your opponent? Then who would you play with? And killing is too crude, too . . . lowbrow. Our guy likes to be clever. Likes to play cat and mouse. Thinks he can outsmart everyone, lie and charm his way out of any situation. After all, he has up to now. If he knew Junior had sicced me on him, he’d just view it as a greater challenge, a chance to show me up with his superior skills. Killing just doesn’t do it for me here.”

  He could have hired someone to do it, Lana suggested.

  “Yeah. But then he still has the same problem. The thrill is gone.”

  Well, our job is done. We did what we were hired to do—find Worthington. It’s in the cops’ hands now. Lana twisted her tail and started to float away.

  “I’ve got news for you. Our job is not done. Our job is not only what we get hired and paid for, our job is justice. I don’t care what the cops decide, this guy is not the killer. Our job won’t be done till we find out who really knocked off Junior. And why.”

  Chapter 10

  I AM NOT A morning person. This disposition was not helped by the fact that the last few mornings brought ill tidings. Saturday morning it was Junior’s death, then Sunday, the news that the tropical depression had turned into a storm. Now, this morning’s newscast announced that Alejandro had strengthened into a Category 1 hurricane and was expected to make landfall in the U.S. in a few days.

  Great. I could deal with a hurricane. What I couldn’t deal with was how Mom would insist that I come stay with her. My log cabin had withstood four hurricanes in the last few years. I’d be perfectly safe here, enjoying my solitude. But try telling Mom that. A battle of wills was looming. It made me want to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head. But that was the Boca Babe method of dealing with life. I was living a new paradigm now. Besides, I had a killer to catch.

  Since I now doubted Worthington was the one, I wasn’t too concerned about Mom’s safety at her breakfast meeting with him. The
cops and Leonard would be there, watching every move. What could go wrong?

  They were supposed to meet at nine. When I hadn’t heard anything by ten, I started to rethink my position. But then a text message came in on my cell.

  Suspect apprehended by Boca Raton PD at 0945. No collateral damage. Agent Goldfinger.

  Okay, now the questioning would start. I thought about muscling my way in to observe the interview. But Reilly would be incensed. Somehow I just wasn’t up for combat that morning. Besides, what would be the point? I’d already decided to follow other avenues.

  I sipped my coffee as I sat on the porch, contemplating which path to pursue first. If Worthington wasn’t the killer, who were the potential suspects?

  Why don’t you start with the obvious? A voice sounded out of nowhere.

  I looked up. Lana was stretched out full length on a fallen tree limb, catching the first rays of the day.

  “The obvious,” I repeated. “And that would be?”

  She remained motionless, staring at me.

  “Shit,” I said. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of it before? Of course the spouse is always the prime suspect.”

  Brigitta really had you snowed.

  How had I let that happen? I knew that the two Castellano women were sucking me in, but I’d gone so fast and so deep that I hadn’t even considered the obvious. Brigitta could have been using me to deflect suspicion from herself.

  “But that has to be the first angle the cops looked into,” I told Lana. “Why duplicate their efforts?” Okay, so I was trying to salvage some pride.

  Lana’s eyes tracked a passing turtle. She was obviously contemplating her next meal and ignoring me.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll go talk to her again. I think an unannounced visit will be best. I’ll get a feel for her relationship with Junior and sound her out for how she’s financially set following his death.”