Pelican Bay

by Charlotte Douglas

  Anger sent a surge of adrenaline through me, aggravating my already inflamed skin. I felt sorry for Shelton, who’d now have to walk a thin line between defending his department and placating the council.

  “I’ve posted a memo,” he said, “explaining what I can, but I need your help, Maggie.”

  “I’m no politician, Chief. This one’s in your court.”

  “If you don’t find this murderer soon, Ulrich will have more ammunition for his cause, an implication that since we can’t do the job, we might as well turn everything over to the sheriff.”

  “Adler and I are working overtime as it is. Even with Bill Malcolm assisting gratis, we can’t conduct interviews and follow leads fast enough.”

  “I understand—” He stopped abruptly and peered over the desk at me. “What’s the matter with your face?”

  “Allergies,” I snapped. “I’m allergic to murder.”

  He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose wearily. “You have to do the best you can with what you have to work with. Between the double homicide and Ulrich’s proposal, the department’s under siege now, and you’re the point man. Everyone’s counting on you to make us look good.”

  “If you want results, I need more detectives, not more pressure.” I searched for a remnant of the infamous Shelton temper in his haggard face, and the lack of it scared me.

  He stood and shrugged, looking shriveled and impotent in his expensive suit. “Pressure’s all I’ve got to offer. I have to write a statement for the press. Good luck, Maggie.”

  I walked back to my office, ignoring Darcy’s inquisitive stare. For once, everything in my life, my work, my future, my relationship with my family, were all headed in the same direction.

  Right down the toilet.

  CHAPTER 11

  A pod of dolphins broke the glassy surface of the bay and provided an impromptu show for diners on Sophia’s palazzo. I finished a bran muffin and melon slice, shoved the dishes aside and drew a grid on my legal pad while I waited for the breakfast crowd to disperse.

  Down the left margin, I listed everyone connected to Edith or Sophia. Across the top, I made columns for motivation and alibis. By the time I’d finished the page and polished off a carafe of coffee, I was alone on the terrace.

  “Can I bring you anything else?” A matronly waitress, who moved as if her feet hurt, placed my check on the table.

  “If the maître d’ is in, I’d like to talk with him.”

  A few minutes later, a gray-haired man in a dark suit with a continental cut approached my table and introduced himself as Antonio Stavropoulos. “Is there a problem?”

  I produced my badge. “I’m investigating the death of Sophia Morelli, and I have a few questions.”

  He sat opposite me and smoothed a wisp of snowy mustache. “I began working for George Gianakis when Sophia was a baby. When George died, I worked for her. She was like my own daughter. What can I do to help?”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Sophia was a beautiful child. Her papa had wanted a son, but when God did not smile on him, he doted on his daughter. Taught her everything about the hotel and restaurant business, and promised her that Sophia’s, named, as she was, for her grandmother, would be hers someday.”

  “She liked running the restaurant?”

  Antonio snapped his fingers at the waitress and pointed to the empty coffee carafe. When she scurried away, he turned back to me. “She loved working alongside her papa. When George died ten years ago, she was heartbroken.”

  “She was almost thirty then. Had she never married?”

  “She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her papa. And even if she could, George thought no man good enough for his Sophia. Called them all fortune hunters. And why not? What man wouldn’t wish to own such a place as this?” He threw open his arms, taking in the broad terrace, the waterfront view and the pink-stuccoed restaurant designed like a doge’s palace. “George patterned it after Ringling’s Cà d’Zan in Sarasota.”

  “And after George died?”

  Antonio straightened his lapels and leaned forward. “Sophia tried to fill the hole that her papa’s death left in her heart with baklava and galatabouriko. She grew heavier and heavier, and then the diabetes and heart problems began.”

  “How did she meet Lester Morelli?”

  “Six years ago I hired him as a waiter. He was kind to Sophia, made her laugh. Before anyone knows what’s going on—” he snapped his fingers in the air “—Sophia is marrying Lester and he is running the restaurant. As ill as she was, she was happy to have a man to lean on once again.” Antonio’s resentment was poorly concealed.

  “Was that a problem?”

  He shrugged. “Lester is a good manager, and Sophia’s health would not allow her to continue but—”

  He paused as the waitress brought a fresh carafe of coffee, clean cups and a platter of the Greek pastries that had ruined Sophia’s health and figure. He poured coffee for us both and helped himself to a pastry after my virtuous refusal.

  “You were saying about Lester’s management,” I prodded.

  “The restaurant keeps its reputation, and business is good, but it is not the same.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Lester Morelli is not Greek, not one of us. He will always be an outsider.”

  Now that Lester owned the restaurant, with that attitude, Antonio might find himself the outsider. “Did you know Vasily Gianakis?”

  He swallowed a bite of baklava and dabbed his mustache with his napkin. “When brother turns against brother is always sad.”

  “Why did they quarrel?”

  “Vasily stole his brother’s sweetheart.”

  “Anastasia?”

  “Both brothers wanted her, but Anastasia had eyes only for Vasily. He was younger, more handsome. But also poorer.”

  My mother had told me about the brothers’ falling out, but I’d forgotten most of it. “Didn’t their father leave them both an equal share of the restaurant, resort and real estate holdings?”

  “Yes, but that is the saddest part. George was frugal, always pinching his pennies, but Vasily—” he shook his head. “Vasily was a big spender, bought a large home, fancy cars, a yacht, all for his beloved Anastasia. Within a year after receiving his inheritance, it was gone.”

  “How could he run through a fortune so quickly?”

  “There was very little cash. Most of the brothers’ money was tied up jointly in real estate, the restaurant and the resort. Vasily couldn’t liquidate his holdings without George’s consent. George refused.

  “So Vasily lost everything?”

  “No, George paid off his brother’s debts, but he took title to Vasily’s half of everything as collateral. Vasily was never able to pay off the debts and interest, so George called in his note. The brothers never spoke to each other again. And Vasily never forgave Sophia for inheriting what he considered rightfully his.

  “And Anastasia?”

  “While Vasily was alive, she obeyed his wishes and shunned Sophia. But after her husband’s death, she made peace with her niece.”

  “Peace?”

  “She would come to the restaurant and have lunch with Sophia and invite Sophia to her house. But Sophia only, never Lester.”

  “Seems odd she’d bury the hatchet so quickly after so many years of animosity.” I traced Anastasia’s name in the left column of my chart.

  “Sophia claimed both of them were glad to see an end to the brothers’ hatefulness, but Lester thought otherwise. Who knows, maybe this time, Lester is right.”

  “About what?”

  “I usually leave the gossiping to the old women,” he said, “but I want Sophia’s killer caught. And if Anastasia Gianakis had anything to do with that sweet girl’s death, I hope she burns in hell.”

  “What makes you think Anastasia’s involved?”

  “Lester told Sophia her aunt was only trying to ingratiate herself to persuade Sophia to include Anastasia in he
r will.”

  I needed a scorecard to keep the players straight in this game of family intrigue. “Wouldn’t that be the other way around? Anastasia’s much older than Sophia was. Why would the older woman want to be included in her niece’s will?”

  “Because the reason Sophia started attending the weight-loss clinic three years ago was that her doctors expected her to die any minute.”

  “Did she add Anastasia to her will?”

  “No one ever told me, but Sophia was crazy about her husband. I’m sure she left him everything.”

  “Then why would Anastasia wish to harm Sophia?”

  “For the dish that is best served cold.” He speared the last bite of baklava and popped it into his mouth.

  “Revenge? But Sophia did nothing to Anastasia.”

  “Family hatreds are seldom logical, Detective.”

  Neither was murder. I could find no trace of reason in either Edith’s or Sophia’s death. “Does Lester have enemies, anyone who might try to hurt him through his wife?”

  Antonio ran a finger inside his crisp collar as if it was suddenly too tight. “I have already told you there are those of us who resent him because he is an outsider, but none of us would hurt Sophia. That would be like cutting off a nose to hurt one’s face.”

  “Anyone else? Dissatisfied customers? Canceled suppliers?”

  “If there were unhappy customers, I would know. As for the wholesalers, I am unaware of any problem, but that does not mean it does not exist.”

  “Were Lester and Sophia happy together?”

  His mouth twisted in an ironic smile. “Who is to say what is happiness between a man and wife? Did they fight and throw things in the presence of others? Not here. Since she started her strict diet, Sophia avoided the restaurant like a reformed alcoholic shuns a cantina, so I’ve seen little of her the past two years. But when she was here, I witnessed no friction between them.”

  “Lester Morelli will inherit a fortune. Does he strike you as the type who would murder for money?”

  “Why should he? He had it all, anyway.” Antonio’s narrow lips curved in a frown. “When he came in last night, he looked terrible. He’s taking it very hard.”

  “He came to work the day after his wife died?”

  “He was here. I did not say he worked. He shut himself in his office with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. By the time we closed at midnight, the bottle was empty and Lester was falling-down drunk. Brent drove him home.”

  “Brent Dorman?”

  Antonio lifted his eyebrows. “You know him?”

  “I’d like to question him. What time does he come in?”

  Antonio shot out his wrist and checked a steel-and-gold Rolex. “He should be here now. Would you like me to send him to you?” He stood and adjusted his jacket.

  “I won’t keep him long. But first, was Lester here Friday evening between five and seven o’clock?”

  “He was here all day Friday, from morning till midnight.”

  “And you’re certain he didn’t leave between the hours I mentioned?”

  “Every Friday from five until midnight, Lester works on the books, brings them up to date for the week. He was in his office last Friday as usual.”

  “And Dorman, did he work Friday?”

  Antonio’s eyes widened. “Only until four o’clock. He had pulled a muscle in his back, so I sent him home. He returned to work on Saturday.”

  “Fully recovered?”

  “He appeared to be. Why don’t you ask him?” He bowed with continental grace and left.

  I scribbled a few notes from my interview with Antonio, then walked down the stairs toward the landing that served as a dock for the restaurant. Boaters often tied up there long enough for a meal at the palazzo, but this morning the slips were empty and the bay deserted. The setting mocked me with its serenity. Somewhere in this tranquil community was a killer who had murdered twice and could strike again at any minute.

  “Detective Skerritt?”

  I jumped, almost dropping my notepad into the water. A stocky man, built like a steel fireplug, had approached without a sound. “Brent Dorman?”

  “Yeah. What can I do for you?”

  “You used to work for Dr. Tillett?”

  “This is about the fatso murders, isn’t it.” His grin did little to soften the hard lines of his young face. “Bet there’s a bunch of hefties out there now, pushing away those extra helpings at the thought of someone just waiting to whack ’em.”

  I sat on the balustrade that edged the lower terrace. Dorman perched beside me with his massive arms crossed over his chest.

  “You don’t care much for heavy people, do you?” I said.

  He grimaced like a man with a bad taste in his mouth. “If they don’t respect themselves enough to keep fit, why should I respect them?”

  “Is that what you told Dr. Tillett when he fired you?”

  “Hey, fat people disgust me. Lots of people disgust me, but that doesn’t mean I’d kill them.” He clenched his arms tighter across his chest, and his powerful biceps strained against the fabric of his white dress shirt.

  “Antonio tells me you left work early Friday.”

  “We had a big luncheon party, a bunch of blue-haired old biddies raising money for some charity. When I was clearing up afterward, I stacked a tray too heavy, picked it up wrong and pulled a muscle in my back. If I’d kept working, it would have tightened up, and I’d have been out for a week.”

  “You went home?”

  “I went to the Body Shop for a massage, then I went home.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I left here before four. Jake worked me right in, and I was home by five, five-fifteen.”

  “You live alone?”

  “I got a garage apartment over on Tangerine Street. Ain’t much, but I couldn’t afford my other place after Tillett let me go.”

  “Did you see or talk to anyone when you arrived home?”

  “What is this? I told you I didn’t whack Moby Edith or Ms. Morelli, either. Her husband’s a good guy, gave me this job when I needed it bad. Why should I hurt her?” Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  “Is there anyone who saw you at home Friday night?”

  “No. I took a muscle relaxant and slept till time to get ready for work Saturday.”

  “And you worked all day and never left the restaurant?” I was groping in the dark, hoping to bump into something, anything, significant.

  “Yeah, that’s right—aw, shit.” His confident manner evaporated and his muscles seemed to lose their tone. “I did leave the restaurant once. I made a delivery in the van.”

  “Where?”

  “To the Morelli place on Pelican Point. Every few days, Mr. Morelli has me restock his refrigerator. Saves his wife from having to shop and cook while she’s on that liquid diet.”

  “Did you see Sophia?”

  “No.” He perspired in the cool sea air. “Mr. Morelli always gives me a key so I don’t have to disturb her. But all I did was unlock the door, put the containers in the refrigerator and leave.”

  I took down his new address and told him I’d be in touch. Brent Dorman was an obnoxious bigot, but I’d need a better motive than prejudice to book him for murder.

  I interviewed several other waiters and Lester’s chef, but no one could shed any light on Sophia’s death. The woman had been loved and respected by the help, and while most expressed resentment of Lester as an outsider, all confirmed his devotion to his wife.

  The early luncheon crowd was gathering as I passed through the main room with its ceiling that opened to the second floor. Marble columns supported an encircling gallery with doorways leading to private dining rooms. Linen-draped tables, tucked beneath the balcony in secluded alcoves with tall windows, sported Reserved cards. The room’s elegance, more ostentatious than the yacht club, failed to intimidate me. Unlike the exclusivity of my mother’s favorite haunt, the ambience of Sophia’s could be enjoyed by anyone with a few extra dollar
s or a major credit card.

  I walked toward my car and squinted in the noonday sun. A sleek Mercedes glided past me and parked in a reserved space at the side of the building. Lester Morelli climbed out slowly, as if his muscles ached. Mirrored aviator glasses hid his eyes, so I couldn’t read his expression or tell if he recognized me. He entered the restaurant by a side door marked Private.

  Although the sun hadn’t passed the yardarm, I expected Antonio had Lester’s bottle of Jack Daniel’s ready and waiting.

  CHAPTER 12

  Adler stood by the window in the CID office when I returned to the station.

  “Don’t sit down,” he said. “I’m taking you to lunch.”

  “I spent all morning in a restaurant. I’ll just grab something from the vending machine.”

  “No restaurants.” He gripped my elbow and maneuvered me out of the office and down the hall. “We can use some fresh air to clear our heads.”

  I climbed into his new Toyota SUV, and the aroma of garlic and onions hit me. “What have you got in here, a deli?”

  “Stopped for takeout before I left Tarpon Springs.”

  His too-hearty attitude didn’t fool me. By now the whole station knew about Ulrich’s proposal to disband the department. Dave had a new house, new car and new baby to pay for. His cheerfulness probably covered panic.

  We drove east along Pelican Creek to Pioneer Park, a natural hammock of live oaks crisscrossed with nature trails. Dave parked in the empty lot, and we walked to a shaded picnic table beside the creek. Above the tannin-dyed waters, an anhinga roosted in a wax myrtle and spread its wings to dry.

  Dave carried two paper sacks, one grease-stained, the other threatening to break at the bottom from moisture. He swiped a few strands of Spanish moss off the table and unpacked the bags.

  “Gyros.” He handed me a sandwich the size of a football. “Greek salads and cold drinks.”

  I popped the top on a sweating can and lifted it in salute. “The dieter’s downfall. I can consume a thousand calories in one sitting, but if I wash it down with Diet Coke, somehow I feel virtuous.”