Palm Beach Pretenders

by Tom Turner

  “I get it,” Crawford said.

  “You going up there?”

  “Yeah, we’re on our way. Thank you, Rose.”

  “You’re welcome,” Rose said. “Say hi to Mort.”

  “I will,” Crawford said, clicking off and turning to Ott. “Rose says ‘hi.’”

  Ott pulled into Duke’s driveway. “Not, ‘Send my love to that big stud, Mort?’”

  Crawford laughed. “I’m sure that’s what she was thinking.”

  Sixteen

  As Crawford and Ott walked up the steps to Xavier Duke’s house, a man in his twenties with two young women came out of the house.

  “Hey, how ya doin’?” the man said, nodding at Crawford and Ott.

  Crawford and Ott both nodded back as the threesome headed toward a black Jaguar.

  Ott pressed the buzzer and turned to Crawford. “I might just throw a couple of curveballs at this guy.”

  And before Crawford could ask him what he meant, a man opened the door and smiled out at them. “A wild guess,” he said with a smile. “Detectives Crawford and Ott?”

  Crawford nodded. “Yes, I’m Detective Crawford, and this is my partner, Detective Ott.”

  They all shook hands. “Come on in,” Duke said.

  They walked into the black and white checkerboard floor lobby, then into the vast living room beyond. It was decorated with furniture and fabrics in soothing earth tones. The paintings were mostly landscapes—more English country pastoral than Palm Beach tropical.

  Duke sat in a green wingback chair and Crawford and Ott on an upholstered sofa.

  “I’d have never recognized the place,” Ott said, looking around. “Last time we were here, everything was red, yellow and orange.”

  Duke laughed and nodded. “Yes, I know, including the Warhols, right?”

  Ott nodded and took out his well-worn leather notebook.

  “So, Mr. Duke, you know why we’re here,” Crawford said. “Question is, did you see or hear anything suspicious at the Pawlichuk wedding last Saturday? Anything at all that could be helpful to our investigation?”

  Duke, wearing pressed jeans and a green shirt with a polo player on it, thought for a second. “I’m trying to think how best to answer the question…And I’m afraid the answer is ‘no.’ I mean, I’ve never seen so many big, strapping men in the same place before in my life. It was kind of intimidating, actually. Not that I’m implying one of them had anything to do with what happened there, but with all that testosterone mixed with alcohol, I just wondered. But please understand, I’m certainly not implying that I saw any one of them do anything threatening or hostile.”

  “Are you referring to an incident where one of these men got into a shouting match with Paul Pawlichuk?” Ott asked.

  Duke shook his head. “No,” he said. “I wasn’t even aware of that. I just felt the potential for something violent to happen.”

  Crawford glanced at Ott who gave a quick shrug. Crawford hadn’t given any thought at all to the fact that many of the men there worked at brutal, physical jobs. That inflicting pain was a big part of what they did. That injuring the competition was an unwritten and unspoken rule, no doubt encouraged.

  He flashed back to playing halfback on the Dartmouth football team almost twenty years before. He remembered bone-crushing tackles by men who wanted to hit him so hard it would knock him out of the game. But, the reality was, Ivy League football was meek and genteel compared to the game played by colleges like Alabama and Ohio State, which had programs designed expressly to make money for their colleges and catapult men into the NFL.

  Yes, one of these men could have gotten drunk and, spur-of-the-moment, killed Paul Pawlichuk and Carla Carton. For whatever the reason. But it seemly unlikely, much like Mindy Pawlichuk being the murderer.

  Crawford eyed Duke again and wondered why he had brought up the football players.

  “Mr. Duke, did you hear or see anything involving one of the football players—maybe words exchanged between one of them and Paul Pawlichuk—or an argument possibly?”

  Duke held up his hands. “I should have never brought it up,” he said. “No, I didn’t see or hear anything. It’s just that when I thought afterward about what happened, I just couldn’t picture anyone else there being capable of doing it.”

  Two women walked across the far end of the living room.

  “When did you leave the reception, Mr. Duke?” Ott asked.

  “I guess it was around nine-thirty or ten.”

  “Did you, by any chance, see Mr. Pawlichuk or Ms. Carton walking from the main house to the pool on the ocean when you were leaving?” Ott asked.

  They had asked everyone that question, but so far no one had. In fact, no one had seen the pair together. Clearly, Pawlichuk and Carton had gone out of their way not to be seen. Crawford’s theory was that they had not walked to the oceanfront pool together, but had planned to rendezvous there after making separate exits.

  “No, sorry, I didn’t see either one then,” Duke said. “Last I saw of them, was Paul talking to his son and new daughter-in-law and Carla talking to that woman who worked for her.”

  “Jaclyn Puckett?” Ott asked.

  Duke shrugged. “I guess that’s her name.”

  Crawford glanced over at Ott and noticed his partner’s eyes had gotten slitty and his mouth tight. He had seen it a thousand times before. It was Ott’s look of impatience.

  “Mr. Duke, what is it you do, again?” Ott asked.

  “Again? I don’t believe you asked me before,” Duke said. “I’m in the film business, though not as active as I used to be.”

  Ott nodded his head slowly. “I actually knew the answer to my question, having taken the liberty of researching some of the films you’ve done over the years.”

  “Oh, did you?”

  “Yes, and if I’m not mistaken, you did one called, Tiger’s Wood, and another called, On Golden Blonde?” Ott asked his questions in the same measured tone.

  Crawford choked off a laugh and tried to prevent his jaw from going into freefall after hearing Ott’s “curveball.”

  Duke nodded. “Yes, but I did those a long time ago. On Golden Blonde was at least eight years back.”

  “And have you done any films similar to those in the last few years?”

  “No, I have largely curtailed my activities in that field.”

  Two young couples walked through the living room. One of the women was a blonde wearing only a bra, panties and flip-flops.

  Ott glanced over at them, then his eyes wandered back to Duke’s. “On Golden Blonde II?”

  “Very funny,” Duke said. “Just friends of mine.”

  Ott nodded. “I see.”

  Crawford decided it was time to change the channel before Ott got too far afield. “So long story short, Mr. Duke, you didn’t see or hear anything that looked unusual or out of the ordinary?”

  Duke thrummed his fingers on a side table next to him. “No, sorry, I wish I could be more helpful, but it was just another wedding to me.”

  Crawford glanced at Ott, nervous, but also kind of hoping that his partner would go into his wind-up and fire another curveball. “Got anything else, Mort?”

  “Nah, not that I can think of.”

  “Well, Mr. Duke,” Crawford said standing and taking out his wallet, “if there’s anything else you can think of, give us a call, please.” He handed Duke a card.

  “I sure will,” he said.

  Crawford and Ott had decided on the way up to save their biggest question for last. Once Duke was good and relaxed.

  “Oh, almost forgot, one last thing, Mr. Duke,” Crawford said. “Someone mentioned that you had some information about Carla Carton that she didn’t want anyone to find out about.”

  Duke frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Ott gave him a big smile. “Are you sure? A little secret between the two of you? Something you were holding over her?”

  “I barely knew the woman,” Du
ke protested.

  Crawford and Ott stared at Duke until it was clear they weren’t going to get an answer.

  “Okay, Mr. Duke, thanks again,” Crawford said and he and Ott walked out of the living room, through the foyer and down the steps.

  “We gotta get to the bottom of that Carton thing,” Crawford said to Ott.

  “Jaclyn Puckett’s the answer,” Ott said.

  “Just what I was thinking.”

  They walked up to the Crown Vic and got in.

  Crawford turned to Ott with a smile. “Those were really the names of his skin flicks?”

  Ott snickered as they got to their car. “You think I could make that shit up? He also had a couple of other beauties.”

  “Let’s hear ‘em?”

  “Well, let’s see. There was the unforgettable Twin Cheeks—” Crawford laughed— “and who could ever forget his classic, Good Will Humping?”

  Seventeen

  It was a little past four when Crawford and Ott rolled over the tiny pebbles of the Chattahoochee driveway of a big, two-story Mediterranean house at 114 Hammon Avenue.

  Ott’s eyes scanned the house from top to bottom, then the guesthouse, the pool, the pool house, the tennis court and the lush landscaping of the property. “What does this guy Whitcomb do again?”

  Crawford shrugged. “He’s a socialite, according to Rose.”

  Ott looked bemused. “So, is that like a…paying job?”

  “If it comes with a trust fund, it is.”

  Crawford parked their Crown Vic, on the back of which some wise-ass had written “wash me,” between a top-of-the-line Lexus and a red Maserati convertible.

  They walked across the crunchy driveway and Ott hit the buzzer. He was the designated buzzer-pusher, researcher, and curveball question asker.

  A man wearing khakis, a sport shirt and a beige sweater draped around his neck answered the door.

  “Mr. Whitcomb?” Crawford asked.

  “Hey, guys,” Whitcomb said, thrusting out his hand. “Rennie Whitcomb, come on in.”

  “Thanks,” Crawford said, shaking his hand. “I’m Detective Crawford—”

  “And I’m Detective Ott.”

  “Welcome,” Whitcomb said. “My daughter’s in the media room. Let’s go join her.”

  “Sounds good,” Crawford said, following Whitcomb into the house.

  They went into a room that had six rows of plush leather chairs—eight across—facing a screen. In a bay window area were two more chairs across from each other with a backgammon board in between, and off to the side a bar and a refrigerator built into a wall.

  A girl was pouring out a Coke into a glass with ice cubes.

  “This is my daughter Taylor,” Whitcomb said walking up to the girl. “This is Detective Crawford and Detective…sorry, tell me again?”

  “Ott,” said Ott.

  They shook hands, then Taylor asked, “Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?”

  “No, thanks, I’m good,” Crawford said and Ott held up a hand and shook his head.

  “So let’s sit,” Whitcomb said, and they did.

  Crawford noticed that Taylor had a fresh sunburn on her nose and forehead. “So, you’re down here for spring break, Taylor?”

  “Yeah, I have to go back next Sunday,” she said, then took a sip of her Coke.

  “Where do you go to college?”

  “I’m a freshman at Dartmouth, up in New Hamp—”

  “I know where it is,” Crawford said. “I went there a million years ago.”

  “Oh, wow, really,” Taylor said, giving Crawford a thumbs-up. “Go Big Green!”

  Rennie Whitcomb was eyeing Crawford. “No offense, but that’s kind of unusual, a police detective going to an Ivy League college.”

  Ott smiled his big, dopey grin. “Whaddaya mean? I went to Harvard.”

  “Get out of here,” Taylor said, eyeing his symphony of brown duds.

  “Yeah, the Harvard of the Midwest,” Ott said. “Cuyahoga Community College.”

  Taylor and Rennie Whitcomb laughed. Crawford had heard it before.

  “So, Taylor, we saw your name on the guest list for the Pawlichuk wedding last Saturday. You went, I assume?” Crawford asked.

  Taylor looked nervously at her father. “I, I—”

  “It’s okay,” Rennie said, with a shrug. “You’re old enough to go where you want. Within reason, of course. I just don’t know why you told me you went to see friends up on Jupiter Island.”

  “I don’t know,” Taylor told her dad. “I just thought maybe you and Mom might have a problem with me going to the wedding with an older man.”

  “How old?” Rennie asked.

  “Mm, in his forties,” Taylor low-balled.

  Rennie shook his head. “Matter-of-fact, I do have a problem with that. A twenty-five-year age difference, you bet I do”—Rennie looked at Crawford and Ott—“But we can talk about that later. You fellas go ahead and ask your questions.”

  Crawford nodded and leaned forward. “What was the name of the man you went with, Taylor?”

  She smiled. “Xavier Duke. He’s very nice.”

  Crawford did his best not to react.

  Rennie shrugged. “Never heard of him,” he said. “What’s he do?”

  “For a living, you mean?” Taylor asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “He’s a movie director,” Taylor said.

  “And what? Wants to make you a star?” Rennie said, shaking his head. “Like that creep Harvey Weinstein.”

  Taylor rolled her eyes. “No, Daddy.”

  Crawford held up a hand. “Okay, if we—”

  “Sure, sure, Detective. Go ahead and ask your questions,” Rennie said.

  “When did you meet Mr. Duke?” Crawford asked.

  “When I was down here at Christmas. We texted back and forth a little after that. He knew I was going to be here for spring vacation and asked me if I wanted to go to the wedding.”

  Crawford nodded. “And do you remember about what time you left the wedding?”

  “Um, around ten. Xavier took me home.” Then to her father: “A perfect gentleman.”

  Rennie nodded. “That’s good.”

  “And while you were there,” Ott asked, “did you happen to see any arguments, or confrontations, or fights involving either Paul Pawlichuk or Carla Carton with anyone else at the wedding?”

  “Or, for that matter, between anybody at all?” Crawford added, and Ott nodded.

  “Well, first of all, I didn’t know who Paul Pawlichuk was until I got there,” Taylor said, “then Xavier introduced me. But, no, I didn’t see anything like that between him or anybody. Everybody acted pretty normal, I thought.”

  “What about Carla Carton?”

  Taylor smiled. “I actually was a big fan of hers,” she said. “Xavier knew her—from the business, I guess.”

  “So, there were no incidents of any kind that you might have observed?” Crawford asked.

  “No, just a lot of football players doing shots of tequila,” she said. “Getting a little rowdy.”

  “Rowdy football players. Great.” Rennie frowned at his daughter. “Just what kind of a wedding was this?”

  Taylor chuckled. “Not your kind, that’s for sure. There weren’t a lot of society types.” She looked over at Ott. “I do remember something that may have been nothing.”

  “What was that?” Ott asked.

  “Well, I remember seeing Carla, after a dance with someone, go around the side of the house. Then, like thirty seconds later, a man went in the exact same direction.”

  “A man? Can you describe him?” Ott asked.

  “Not too tall, maybe five-eight or -nine, had a Fu Manchu and I think a tattoo on one of his hands—”

  Rennie rolled his eyes. “Oh, this sounds like a very charming bunch. Men with Fu Manchus and tattoos, football players doing shots. Were there any bikers or gangbangers?”

  Taylor laughed. “I’m surprised you even know what a
gangbanger is.”

  Ott took out his iPhone and handed it to Taylor. “Is this the man?”

  Taylor looked at the photo and nodded. “That’s him.”

  “That’s Carla’s husband,” Ott said. “His name is Duane Truax. A NASCAR driver.”

  “Oh, my God,” Rennie said, closing his eyes. “This line-up just keeps getting better and better.”

  Taylor sighed. “Maybe you understand now why I told you I was going to see friends on Jupiter Island.”

  Rennie flung his hands up in exasperation and stood.

  “Where are you going?” Taylor asked.

  “I’ve got a tennis game at five,” Rennie said, patting his daughter on the shoulder. “In the future, honey, I’d prefer that you steer clear of weddings where people get killed.”

  It was Taylor’s turn to roll her eyes.

  “I’ll leave you in the capable hands of the detectives.” Rennie said good-bye to Crawford and Ott and walked out of the room.

  Taylor waited until her father was out of earshot. “Does the word snob come to mind?”

  Crawford and Ott smiled but didn’t say anything.

  Taylor shook her head. “My dad would rather stay home and twiddle his thumbs than go to a party that isn’t the crème de la crème of Palm Beach society.”

  “I got that.” Crawford smiled. “Taylor, how did you meet Xavier Duke in the first place?”

  “You mean, ‘cause it seems like we’re from totally different universes?”

  “Something like that,” Crawford said.

  “Well, he has these parties at his house,” Taylor said. “Seems like they never end. Bar’s always open and a million kids coming and going.”

  “Kids?”

  “Yeah, I’d say anywhere from eighteen to mid-twenties, mainly.”

  Ott leaned forward. “And how did you find out about them?”

  “This guy who’s a friend of a friend,” Taylor said. “He’s always up there. One time a bunch of us were at the Poinciana having lunch. He stopped by our table and told us about the place. He went on and on about the grotto, the waterfall, all the games, so, of course, we all wanted to check it out.”