by Jane Heller
I sighed. “Lucinda, honey, I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”
Roberta Ross lived in a four-bedroom townhouse in Sailfish Point, a gated, guarded, notoriously expensive country club community on the southernmost tip of Hutchinson island. A sprawling maze of condos, townhouses, and truly immense homes, as well as a beachside clubhouse and restaurant, tennis courts, a marina, and a fabled golf course, Sailfish boasts CEOs, Wall Streeters, and other newly minted folks, many of whom fly back and forth to their primary residences in their very own little Gulfstreams.
Roberta’s townhouse, a Mediterranean-style building with brick courtyard, plunge pool, and fireplace, was her temporary home, she explained as she led me inside.
“I’m renting until I find something I want to buy,” said Roberta, a stunning brunette dressed in a career-woman, canary-yellow suit. “The real estate market’s been so hot that we don’t have a lot of inventory right now. Speaking of which, I’m showing a house across town in a half hour. Will this take long?”
“No. I’ll get right to the point,” I said. “As I told you on the phone, I want to talk to you about Jeffrey Hirshon.” I did my song-and-dance. “Since you and he were dating shortly before he was murdered, I figured you might have some thoughts about who could have killed him.”
“Truthfully, I didn’t know Jeffrey all that well. Wait—let me amend that. I knew him casually for years, because he and my ex-husband were in the same medical group. But it wasn’t until Peter and I split up that my relationship with Jeffrey took a romantic turn. The minute he heard I’d left Peter, he started calling me.”
“That doesn’t show much sensitivity on Jeffrey’s part. Toward your ex-husband, I mean. They were colleagues.”
“Yes, but they never got along. For one thing, Peter was envious of Jeffrey’s success. Whatever Jeffrey had, Peter wanted. The money, the car, the boat, the women. Peter is incredibly immature that way.”
“Is that why you left him? Because of his immaturity?”
“I left him because I found him in bed with a nurse. From the Intensive Care Unit at the hospital, would you believe. I walked into our bedroom and there she was, caring for him intensely.”
Vicky Walters, I realized. Whatever Jeffrey had, Peter wanted—and got, apparently.
“That must have been quite a shock,” I said. “Every woman’s nightmare.”
“It wasn’t great,” she admitted. “I guess that’s why I went out with Jeffrey, as a payback. I knew it would drive Peter crazy. Of course, the reason Jeffrey asked me out in the first place was to tweak Peter.”
“So you only dated Jeffrey briefly?”
“Yes. We went to the Heart Ball together. He took me to dinner a couple of times. We did an overnight on his boat. That was about it. We were hardly the love match of the century. In fact, I don’t know why Peter was so envious of him. There wasn’t a lot to the man, in my opinion. Not when you got up close.”
“Roberta,” I said. “This is a touchy question, but I’m going to fire away, okay?”
“Go ahead.”
“Given the animosity between the two men, do you think there’s any chance that Peter killed Jeffrey?” Yes, I know. Peter was with Vicky the night of the murder, according to Vicky. But she was a dedicated nurse by day and an insecure slut by night, and I wasn’t sure if I trusted her.
“I doubt it,” said Roberta. “Peter’s not the violent type at all. In the eleven years we were married, I couldn’t get him to kill a single palmetto bug.”
“Any other ideas as to who could have done it?”
She shook her head. “I hate to run, but I’ve really got to show that house now.”
“I understand.”
“Although there is something I’d like to ask you, Deborah.”
“Please.”
“You said on the phone that your mother lives on South River Road in Sewall’s Point. It’s that two-story, blue-gray one on the water, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Is she interested in selling?”
“Selling? Absolutely not. She adores the house.”
Roberta handed me her business card. “If she changes her mind, see if she’ll call me, would you?”
“You want to buy the house?”
“No, I want to list it. I told you: we don’t have a lot of inventory, especially when it comes to waterfront properties in Sewall’s Point.”
“Well, my mother’s house is not for sale,” I said. “But there is another house in the neighborhood that I’d go after if I were you.”
“Really? Whose?”
“Jeffrey’s. You and he may not have been the love match of the century, Roberta, but you were his last girlfriend, as far as we know. If any realtor in town should get the listing, it’s you.”
Chapter Eighteen
When I got back to the cottage on Tuesday afternoon, there were two messages on my answering machine. One was from my mother, saying that she had wangled an appointment with Peter Elkin for the very next day.
“I made it sound like an emergency.” She giggled in her message. “But what got me in, I think, was that I was a patient of Dr. Hirshon’s, so the office already had my file. The nurse said she’d ask Dr. Elkin if he’d take me right away, and fifteen minutes later she called to say he’d squeeze me in at two-thirty. Mission accomplished, dear!”
What Jeffrey had, Peter wanted, I thought, remembering Roberta’s assessment of her ex-husband and wondering if the rivalry extended to their patients.
The second message was from Ray, which surprised me, given his antipathy toward the telephone.
“How about dinner tonight? My place,” said the message. “You made the tuna sandwiches last time. I’ll make ‘em this time. The address is Thirty-nine Seminole Street. Seven o’clock. Let me know.” He left his home phone number.
I smiled as I rewound the tape. Ray Scalley was definitely growing on me.
His house was a two-story, white-shingled bungalow that he had lovingly and painstakingly renovated in his spare time. He had bought it two years after Beth died, thinking he needed a change of scenery as well as a project that would take his mind off his loss.
On a narrow, palm tree-lined street in downtown Stuart, behind and between the city’s commercial buildings, the house was an old Florida jewel set along one hundred feet of the St. Lucie River, complete with yellow pine floors, tongue-and-groove ceilings with exposed beams, handsome moldings, and a fireplace made of original coquina. Also on the property were a small outbuilding, which Ray used as a workshop, and a detached garage.
“This house is terrific,” I said after he had given me the tour. We were standing in his kitchen, which wasn’t a lot bigger than the one at the cottage but boasted gleaming new appliances and custom-built cherry-wood cabinets. In fact, the entire place was gleaming and polished and showed off Ray’s splendid woodworking skills—skills so splendid I suspected that he had run out of areas to renovate, out of ways to fill his lonely hours.
“Thanks. I’m pretty happy with the way it turned out,” he said, handing me a glass of white wine and then reaching into the refrigerator for a Heineken for himself. “And I like living downtown. It’s not like New Yawk, but there’s always something going on, always a little hustle-bustle, whether it’s a train coming through or a concert at the Lyric or just the restaurant traffic. Down here, you never feel like you’re alone.”
“As opposed to my little cottage in the middle of nowhere, you mean.”
“Hey, don’t get me wrong. I love it out at the beach. But there are times in your life when it’s good to be smack in the heart of civilization. That’s what my well-meaning friends tell me, anyway.”
Ray was smiling, but his grief over the death of his wife and child was still palpable, even after six years.
“Tell me about these tuna fish sandwiches you’re making,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “Are you a Bumble Bee man or will it be Starkist tonight?”
“Oh. Jeez. I forgot
to start the fire.” He hurried out of the kitchen and returned several minutes later with charcoal all over his hands. “If you hadn’t reminded me, we would have starved to death.”
“Are you grilling something on the barbecue?”
“Yeah. Fresh tuna. I bought it this morning, hoping you’d be able to come over. We’re having it with pasta, garlic bread, and some broccoli for you, since you’re the vegetable fan. Sound okay?”
I wagged a finger at him. “You said we were having tuna sandwiches and now I find out you’re going to a lot of trouble.”
“What trouble? You’re my new buddy. I’m making dinner for you. Sit back and count your lucky stars.”
I laughed and took my wine into the living room, a lovely spot with wall-to-wall windows overlooking the river. Ray had furnished it with white slip-covered chairs, lamps that had been converted from kerosene lanterns, and a rectangular, richly varnished teak coffee table that, I assumed, he had designed and built himself. I wondered if the pieces had moved with him from the house he and Beth had shared. There were no framed photographs of her in the room, I noticed. No wedding pictures. No shots of the two of them frolicking in the sun and surf. No evidence that she had existed, as far as I could tell; only photos of Ray’s parents and brother, judging by the strong family resemblance, and souvenirs from Gators games, along with a stack of periodicals called Gator Bait. Nothing whatsoever that said “Beth.” But then I had no idea whether the floral needlepoint pillow resting on one of the chairs held special memories of her, or whether the art books displayed on the coffee table had been meaningful in some way to their relationship. Perhaps Ray derived a measure of comfort in keeping his reminders of his wife to himself. I had never suffered the kind of tragedy he had; I couldn’t imagine how he managed to mourn and cope at the same time.
After a few minutes, he joined me in the living room, parking himself on the arm of my chair. He asked me what was new with the investigation. I told him about my visits with the Sirens of Stuart.
“I ran into Frank Gillby this morning,” he said when I’d finished chronicling my adventures. “He can’t figure out what to make of you.”
“As long as he doesn’t send me off to jail, I don’t care what he makes of me.”
“He’s a good man, Deborah. So’s Avery Armstrong, Sewall’s Point’s chief cop. They’ve got a tightrope to walk with this case. Everybody in Sewall’s Point is screaming for an arrest—they’re worried their property values will go down from all the publicity, I guess. But Frank and Avery want to take their time, to make sure there are no mistakes, no rushes to judgment. I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes, believe me.”
“Did Detective Gillby say whether he was following up on any of the information I gave him?”
Ray smiled. “He said he thought your information was interesting.”
“Oh. In other words, I should muzzle myself.”
“No. In other words, he’s glad to have your input.”
“Really?”
“That’s what he told me.”
I felt better knowing that my shlepping to people’s houses so I could ask them impertinent questions wasn’t for nothing.
At eight o’clock, Ray announced that dinner was served and motioned for me to follow him into the small but cozy dining room. He served the tuna steaks hot off the grill while I dished out the pasta and garlic bread and helped myself to the broccoli.
“You’re not a bad cook,” I remarked after taking a bite of the fish.
“Self-taught. Beth used to do the cooking when we were married. After she died, I decided it was time I became a big boy and learned how to fend for myself.”
“Well, I’m impressed. Everything’s delicious.”
“Even the broccoli?” He made a face.
“Especially the broccoli,” I said, flattered that he had prepared something he didn’t like just to please me.
We ate and talked, not about Jeffrey or the police, but about Ray’s job and some of the people he worked with, about the Historical Society and the politics that went on there, about the debate raging in Stuart between those who welcomed development and those who sought to stem the tide of “progress.”
After we cleared the table and did the dishes, Ray asked me if I was up for a little excitement.
“That depends,” I said. “Can you be more specific?”
“No problem.” He grabbed my hand and led me outside to the detached garage, an old building that he had also renovated.
He opened the doors and grinned. “She’s pretty sweet, huh?”
I followed his adoring gaze to the right bay of the garage, where a motorcycle was parked.
“Well, what do you know?” I said. “Ray Scalley’s a biker.”
“No, Ray Scalley’s a collector,” he corrected me. “Come see.”
He waved me over to the object of his obvious affection.
“It’s a 1948 Indian,” he said proudly. “A ‘Chief,’ their top-of-the-line model.”
“What? Not a Harley?” I teased.
“Nah. Every yuppie and his brother’s got a Harley now,” he said. “Indians are classics, very hard to get your hands on. The company started making them in the twenties and stopped production in the fifties. I’ve been working on this baby for a long, long time, especially the engine, which is seventy-four cubic inches and took me forever to rebuild. Naturally, it’s much more reliable than a Harley.”
“Naturally,” I said, getting caught up in Ray’s enthusiasm.
“The Indian itself weighs about four hundred fifty pounds, which means it’s really powerful but relatively light for such a big bike. With all due modesty, I think it’s the finest-looking machine on the road.”
“It’s shiny, I’ll grant you that. I’ve never seen so much chrome. And those fenders.” I whistled.
“They’re called skirted fenders, and they’re the Indian’s distinguishing feature, the way the metal continues down the sides of each wheel.”
“Spiffy.”
“Yup. And what about the leather? Feel it.”
I reached out and stroked the motorcycle’s black leather seat. It was as soft and smooth as velvet. “Feels comfortable,” I conceded.
“Good. Then we’ll go for a spin.”
I gulped as Ray reached for a couple of helmets. I had always viewed motorcycles with a mixture of Wow-They’re-Cool and Yikes-They’re-Dangerous. I had never ridden one, figuring I was too bourgeois, leaving it to bad-ass chicks with tattoos and nose-rings to ride them for me.
“You look terrified.” Ray laughed.
“You noticed.”
“It’ll be okay, I promise.” He handed me one of the helmets and helped me strap it in place before slipping on his own. And then he straddled the seat of the Indian and rolled the bike out of the garage.
“Your turn.” He patted the seat behind him and told me to sit. I sat—hesitantly, to say the least. “Come on, Deborah. I won’t bite.” He pulled me closer. “Just hang onto me and away we’ll go.”
I followed his instructions, wrapping my arms around his waist, pressing my legs against the back of his, noticing how hard and warm his body felt and trying not to be distracted by my own yearning to be held.
Ray kick-started the motorcycle, at which point the seat vibrated so forcefully I thought I’d lose my teeth. “Hang on,” he said again, his voice rising with the giddiness of a kid playing with his favorite toy.
He steered us out of the driveway and off we went, down Seminole Street, onto Osceola, and, eventually, over to Riverside Drive and its lushly landscaped homes along the St. Lucie. At first, I clung to Ray so tightly that he complained that my fingernails were digging holes in his sides. “If you ease up a little, you might actually enjoy yourself,” he called out. “It’s not like I’m taking you on I-95. I’m just doing the quiet streets. Slowly. So you’ll get your feet wet.”
“I appreciate that,” I shouted in response and relaxed my grip a tiny bit.
It was a bal
my, starry evening, with only an occasional light breeze—a perfect night to be out zipping around the neighborhood—and as I became more comfortable with the fact that I was perched atop the seat of a motorcycle, as opposed to, say, a garden-variety bicycle, I did begin to enjoy myself. It really was liberating to be zooming along, the sweet, soft air in my face, my body formfitting Ray’s. That was the part I liked best, I must admit—the physical contact, the sense of literally hugging Ray without having to feel awkward about it.
“Yee-hah!” he cried out as we left a Jaguar in the dust at a traffic light, the luxury car no match for the Indian.
“You’re a juvenile delinquent,” I kidded him.
“What?” he yelled.
“Never mind.” I laughed.
Ray’s sheer joy, his unadulterated pleasure at being able to cruise around in the classic cycle he had resurrected and labored over and tinkered with, was contagious. I caught the fever, the fun, the sense of freedom he was experiencing. I was having such a good time that I almost forgot there was a killer on the loose—right there in River City.
About ten o’clock, Ray brought us back to his house.
“Well?” he said as he helped me off the motorcycle. “Liked it? Didn’t like it? None of the above?”
“Liked it,” I said, “although I think it’ll take a while for my heart rate to return to normal.”
Remembering that Ray had to be on the job early each morning, I told him I thought I should get going.
“That was a great evening,” I said as he walked me to my car. “Thanks for inviting me over, Ray.”
“It’s a standing invitation,” he said, leaning over to kiss me on the cheek this time. “See you later in the week?”
“Sure.”
As I was driving home, I realized that Ray and I were settling into a routine of sorts. We were forging a friendship that appeared, at face value, to be based on the simple fact that we liked each other. We didn’t have a lot in common in terms of our backgrounds, nor were our personalities especially similar. But he was pulling me closer, I could feel it. And I wasn’t resisting, I could feel that too.