Pelican Bay

by Charlotte Douglas

  “Did he make any threats? Cause any trouble?”

  Tillett returned to his seat, the most relaxed he’d been since my arrival. “Dorman’s a bodybuilder, the strong, silent type. He looked like he wanted to hit me, but he just glared, then took off. I haven’t seen him since.”

  A network of minute creases framed his eyes, and deep furrows ran from his cheeks to the corners of his mouth. Now that his nervousness had passed, signs of fatigue erupted everywhere, from the slump of his shoulders to the redness in his eyes. Must have been a hell of a seminar.

  “How old are you, Doctor?” When doctors looked younger than I did, I really felt my age.

  “Forty-three. Why?”

  “For my report. I don’t need to tell you about paperwork, I’m sure.”

  “Hell, I’m buried in it. I spend more time with insurance forms than with patients.”

  “How long have you practiced in Pelican Bay?”

  “Fourteen years. I opened my clinic ten years ago.” He spread his arms along the back of the sofa.

  “Are you aware of Sophia Morelli’s provision for you and your clinic in her will?”

  The bright flush of color that rose to his hairline gave me his answer before he did. “It’s an occupational hazard.”

  “Bequests from patients?”

  “Patients who become infatuated with their doctors.” His flush deepened. “Sophia was very grateful for the help we’d given her, but she also seemed starved for affection and attention. She received plenty of both at the clinic. The bequest, she said, was her way of showing her gratitude.”

  “Didn’t her husband give her affection and attention?”

  “Lester Morelli is devoted to his wife. But the obese are pariahs in our thin-worshipping society. Often, if they’re lucky enough to receive support from their families, that’s their only positive reinforcement. They’re all hungry, if you’ll excuse the pun, to be accepted, to fit in.”

  Stephanie entered from a door behind her husband and laid a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened at her touch, then grabbed her hand and pulled her around beside him with a smile that seemed forced.

  “Would you like some coffee, Detective Skerritt?” she asked. “Or iced tea?”

  She didn’t look at her husband, and I had the feeling I’d walked into the middle of a family feud with the combatants waiting for me to leave before resuming hostilities.

  “Thanks, but I have work to do. Dr. Tillett, I’ll see you tomorrow at five.”

  Stephanie walked me to the door. When it closed behind me, I paused, waiting for sounds of an explosion, but heard nothing. Maybe Stephanie Tillett was the type who expressed displeasure with icy silence rather than heated debate.

  Sunday browsers crammed the Barnes & Noble at Sunset Point Shopping Center. In the children’s section, I located a copy of Pat the Bunny for Adler’s kid, but finding an appropriate gift for Mother wasn’t as easy. Interviewing Tillett’s staff and patients the next evening would make me late for her birthday dinner, but I couldn’t arrive empty-handed.

  After finishing my shopping, I called the station for Adler’s address and drove to his southside neighborhood. Vehicles lined the curb in front of his place, a small house with gray siding and black shutters.

  The Tillett and Morelli residences had seemed cold and uninviting, but Adler’s had home written all over it. A wide porch stretched across the front like open arms. Rocking chairs, a wooden swing and pots of red geraniums made it a place I’d like to sit on warm summer nights and listen to the cicadas in the pine trees.

  A curving brick walk led to the broad front steps and branched to a gate in a privacy fence that enclosed the side yard. Voices and an occasional burst of laughter floated over the fence from the back of the house.

  I rang the front doorbell and, when no one answered, walked through the side gate to the backyard. A crowd of about twenty people mingled in small groups on a series of terraced wooden decks and bricked patios that filled the yard beneath the extensive canopy of an ancient live oak.

  A long table held platters of food and a frosted cake with pink sugar roses and a fat numeral one candle. Beside the table, a galvanized tub filled with crushed ice cooled beer and sodas.

  Adler stood over a charcoal grill, turning hamburgers. The fire ruddied his face, and he wore an orange-checkered apron with “Who invited all these tacky people?” inscribed in bold black letters.

  “Hey, Skerritt.” Steve Johnson called from behind the buffet table. “Figured out who’s slaughtering the stock at the fat farm?”

  “Not yet. But if you eat that mountain of potato salad on your plate, I may be adding you to the list of victims.”

  “Steve, watch these.” Adler handed him the spatula and hurried toward me. “Glad you could make it. Come meet the birthday girl.”

  He led me to a group seated in Adirondack chairs at the base of the oak. A young woman with a child in her arms rose to greet me.

  “Detective—Maggie,” Adler said, “my wife, Sharon, and Jessica.”

  I caught only a fleeting impression of Sharon’s green eyes and dark brown hair before the youngster reached out her arms to me. Jessica was dressed in a white ruffled sunsuit and a broad-brimmed white hat turned up above her face. Dimples marked plump knees, elbows and rosy cheeks. She waved her arms, pumped her feet and laughed with a gurgling sound. The sight made my heart ache with a strange longing.

  “You must be special,” Sharon said. “She’s been clinging to me since the party began. Won’t even go to her grandparents.”

  “Hi, Jessica.” I took the child, and she wrapped her chubby arms around my neck. Her red-gold curls brushed my nose, and she smelled of powder and that fresh, wholesome scent distinctive to babies and small children.

  “Happy birthday, sweetie. I brought you a present.” I sat in a nearby chair with the child in my lap and watched her shred wrapping paper. She grabbed the book upside down.

  “Thank you,” Sharon said. “I know how busy you’ve been.” She knelt beside the chair and helped Jessica turn the pages. Her husband joined us.

  “It’s nothing—”

  “Not just for the book,” she said, “but for not giving Dave grief about the party. It would have been a shame for him to miss it.”

  I glanced around the group of relaxed and happy partygoers. “Enjoy it while you can, Adler,” I said to Dave. “I’ve turned up another suspect.”

  “Tillett?” he asked.

  “Maybe. And a lab technician Tillett fired a couple weeks ago, guy named Brent Dorman. Seems he has a special dislike for heavy people.”

  “Can’t say I blame him. I like ’em slim myself.” He nudged Sharon’s slender hip with the toe of his Reebok.

  “We’ll all be fat and fifty someday,” Sharon said, “if we live right.” She picked up Jessica, who’d begun to fidget in my lap. “We’re ready to cut the cake. Will you have some?”

  I shook my head. “I have interviews to squeeze in before the day’s over.”

  Adler walked me to my car. “Sorry you can’t stay. I’ll be back at the station before dark.”

  “Locate Brent Dorman for me. I want to question him as soon as possible.”

  I drove away as fast as I could without breaking the limit, trying to escape the awareness of things lost, the children I’d never had, the grandchildren I’d never hold. I cursed my own sentimentality, a useless emotion when it came to catching killers.

  Five minutes later, I parked in front of Karen Englewood’s house. The jalousie windows of the Florida room were cranked open, and voices flowed from the room. The conversation wasn’t friendly. I sat in my car, more from a reluctance to interfere than a desire to eavesdrop. But I left my window down.

  “Why can’t you tell me where you’ve been since Friday?” Karen was shouting.

  “Why don’t you leave me the hell alone?” a male voice answered. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

  “You live in my house and I pay your bills. An explanation
of your comings and goings is little enough to ask in return.”

  “Stuff it, Mom. You care more about those blimps you call clients than your own son. As far as I’m concerned, they can all rot in hell. Who needs the fat freaks?”

  A loud crash yanked me from the car and propelled me up the front walk. The door flew open, and a tall young man, dressed in black jeans and a dark T-shirt embossed with scarlet dragons, almost knocked me down as he raced to the curb. Karen stood in the doorway and watched him go. He climbed into a faded Trans Am, revved the engine and scratched off down the street, leaving the smell of burning rubber hanging in the air.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  Tears tracked her cheeks, but she showed no sign of injury. She nodded and stepped aside. “Come in, Detective. I’ve given the neighbors enough of a show for one afternoon.”

  I followed her into the Florida room. Miniblinds had been partly closed against the late afternoon sun, plunging the room into shadow. I avoided shards of pottery and clumps of dirt and leaves from a broken urn near the door and sat in the wicker rocker. “Was that your son?”

  “Yes, Larry. Every conversation I have with him is a battle.” She pulled tissues from a box on an end table, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “And me a psychologist.”

  “Hard to stay objective when it’s your own kid.”

  “Tell me about it.” She attempted a smile. “Larry’s nineteen, and he’s never forgiven me for divorcing his father four years ago. Running with the wrong crowd is his way of getting back at me.”

  She’d opened a door, so I plunged through it. “So you weren’t at home by yourself Friday night?”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re good, Detective. How did you know?”

  “Body language. You’re not a good liar.”

  “Thank God for that.” She laughed, but her features reverted quickly to sadness. “Larry and I had a huge fight Friday afternoon. He’d come home early from work and I guessed correctly that he’d been fired. When I questioned him about it, he blew up at me.”

  “Why did you suspect he’d been fired?”

  “He’d been warned before about coming in late, hungover.” She picked up her embroidery frame from the basket at her feet. “Larry’s been mostly a loner since Jack and I split up, but sometimes he hangs with a crowd that gathers on one of the spoil islands off Pelican Point. They drink beer. And smoke pot. His clothes reek of it.”

  “I know that group. We’ve alerted the marine patrol, but it’s hard to sneak up on a small island undetected. They toss the dope into the campfires. We arrested a few on drunk and disorderly charges.”

  “Larry was one of them. I’ve had to bail him out a few times. But he never seems to learn his lesson.” She set aside her cloth without taking a stitch. “Who am I trying to kid? He isn’t going to change.”

  “He’s still young—”

  “He’s acting out, doing everything he can to lash out at me.”

  “Everything? Including killing your clients?”

  “No!” Her hands shook, and she rammed them into the pockets of her skirt. “His actions are irritating, antisocial, but he’d never hurt anyone.”

  She didn’t sound convinced.

  “Where were you really Friday evening?” I asked.

  “Driving. I went all over town looking for Larry. He’d left the house in such a mean and angry mood. I was afraid he might hurt…”

  “Someone?”

  “Himself.” She spoke firmly, but whether to persuade herself or me, I couldn’t tell. “I couldn’t find him. He was gone all weekend until an hour ago, but he wouldn’t tell me where he’s been or what he’s been up to.”

  Karen opened the blinds, and the sky flamed like the pulp of ripe mangoes above the setting sun. “Any idea,” she asked, “who killed Edith and Sophia?”

  Her change of subject was obvious, but it suited my purposes. “I need information. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Have supper with me. I have a casserole in the oven, and Larry won’t be back to share it.”

  I could never resist someone else’s cooking. I followed the patter of her espadrilles down a dark hallway to the kitchen. It stretched across the back of the house and looked like a television soundstage for the Galloping Gourmet. Copper pans and strings of garlic hung from a rack above the stove, and a herb garden flourished in a bay window above the sink. The aroma of roasting chicken made my mouth water.

  We ate at a scrubbed wooden table decorated with checkered place mats and terra-cotta pots of gerbera daisies. Karen served a salad of romaine and radicchio and dished up huge portions of chicken, brown rice and water chestnuts in a savory sauce. Savory—that’s what my frozen packages always claimed. I didn’t know sage from sassafras.

  I took a bite of chicken, chewed and nodded my approval. “How long have you worked with Richard Tillett?”

  “Ten years, since the clinic opened.” She added artificial sweetener to her iced tea. “Best job I’ve ever had.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Richard Tillett. He knows medicine and has compassion, too, a scarce commodity in too many doctors today.”

  I wondered if Tillett’s bedside manner had played a part in Karen’s divorce. “Is he the kind of man to benefit from another’s misfortune?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Are you aware of any money problems?”

  Her face scrunched in thought as she toyed with her salad. “Our pay was late a few weeks ago, but he explained it as a temporary cash-flow problem. Lord, we’ve all had those, haven’t we?”

  “Tell me about Brent Dorman.”

  Anger flashed in her deep brown eyes. “A pompous ass.”

  I choked on my iced tea. “Liked him that much, eh?”

  She picked up her knife and fork and attacked the romaine, shredding it into minute pieces. “Why he ever applied for work at the clinic, I’ll never know. He hates overweight people with a passion.”

  “Passion enough to kill?”

  She considered my question for a moment before answering. “No, he doesn’t have the guts for anything so decisive. His hatred of heavy people is a way of making himself seem important, superior.”

  “What’s more superior than the power of life and death?”

  “Are Dr. Tillett and Brent suspects?”

  “I have to investigate every angle.”

  “And you’re concentrating on the clinic?”

  “It’s more than coincidence that Edith and Sophia belonged to the same group.” Ignoring my yearning taste buds and remembering departmental weight standards, I declined her offer of more casserole.

  “Only a psychopath,” she said, “could murder so cold-bloodedly. And none of the staff or patients is psychopathic. I’d stake my credentials on that.”

  “Not even Brent Dorman?”

  “Obsessive-compulsive maybe, but not psychopathic.” She folded her arms on the tabletop and leaned toward me. “There’s a crazy person out there killing fat people—”

  “But Sophia wasn’t fat.”

  “She was about ten to fifteen pounds overweight. To someone who hates fat enough to kill, even an extra ounce is probably too much. He’d view body weight the way an anorexic does—only emaciation is beautiful.”

  “Sounds like an overview of American culture.” I shifted in my chair, cognizant of my sturdy thighs. “Models to movie stars.”

  “People have been murdered simply because their skin’s the wrong color or they belong to the wrong ethnic or religious group. Why’s it so hard to believe someone could be killed only because she’s fat?” Karen insisted.

  “It’s not impossible,” I conceded, “but it’s a stretch.”

  She shook her head. “Obese people are one of the most maligned and abused groups in this country. Lots of people think nothing of taunting and insulting them openly. Some not only dislike them, they have a pathological fear of them, afraid that with too many chips or desserts or whatever they’re temp
ted to binge on, they’ll become fat, too. To them obese people represent what they fear most. And fear often leads to hatred.”

  Karen’s eyes glittered in the soft light. She stood and removed the plates from the table. “There’s a homicidal maniac roaming out there somewhere. You have to find this person, Detective, before he—or she—kills again.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Iridescent slicks of oil glistened on the undulating surface of the marina basin, reflecting the orange sodium lights that flooded the area with perpetual daylight. Brine and fish odors floated on the wind. My footsteps on the weathered boards of the dock beat a muffled counterpoint to the water lapping against the pilings. I pulled my jacket closer against the chill that had descended with the sunset.

  When I reached the far end of the dock, soft light escaped around the edges of the drawn curtains of the Ten-Ninety-Eight. It wasn’t too late to turn back, to spare Bill the details of my case. He’d earned his freedom from such matters. Nowadays, his toughest decision was which televised sporting event to watch on Sunday afternoons.

  But I didn’t want to go home to my lonely condo, where the faces of Edith Wainwright and Sophia Morelli would haunt me. I stepped down to the walk that ran the length of his boat, pulled the vessel toward me with a mooring line and rapped on the cabin window.

  Bill slid open the glass door to the rear deck and grinned up at me. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  “Permission to come aboard?”

  He reached out and steadied me as I maneuvered from the walk to the ice chest that doubled as a bench and down to the deck. His callused palms warmed my cold hands.

  In the tiny cabin, the closed curtains created a snug nest. I kicked off my shoes and curled into a corner of the overstuffed loveseat that spanned the length of the lounge area. Characters conversed silently on the muted television that sat on a counter between the lounge and the galley.

  Bill picked up the TV remote and killed the power.