Palm Beach Pretenders

by Tom Turner

  “Because the other man’s married?”

  Nyquist didn’t respond.

  “Ms. Nyquist?”

  “I think he might have been,” she said

  Crawford tapped his desk with his fingers. “Did Ms. Taylor ever mention anyone she was…scared of, maybe? Anyone who ever threatened her? Or who may have physically assaulted her?”

  Carrie Nyquist sniffled. “No. She never mentioned anyone. I mean, Mimi was a woman who worked very hard but had a pretty simple life. She wasn’t a party girl or a social butterfly like a lot of the women in this business.”

  “Mr. Lang told me about her mother up in Vero Beach. Do you know whether she had any other immediate family?”

  “No. She was an only child.”

  “One more thing. Do you happen to have a key to her apartment?”

  “Yes, I actually do, she gave it to me because she used to have a dog,” Nyquist said. “Sometimes she’d go out of town for a day or two and I’d go feed and walk it.”

  “I understand,” Crawford said. “Could I stop by and get that key from you? I’m going to need to go inspect her apartment.”

  “Sure,” Nyquist said. “I’ll be in and out the rest of the day. I’ll leave it with the receptionist, who’s here until six.”

  “Sounds good. Thank you very much. Oh, also, Mr. Lang’s going to ask all of you agents to come in tomorrow morning to meet with me and my partner, so I hope to see you then. I may have some more questions at that point. Thanks again.”

  “You’re welcome,” Nyquist said. “See you tomorrow morning.”

  Crawford clicked off and thought about what he’d say to Mimi Taylor’s mother. It was pretty much the same script every time, just a different name. He and Ott alternated making the calls. It was a job no one wanted.

  * * *

  Claudia Detwiler was in a foul mood. The Reclining Nude murder had probably killed her sale of the house on North Lake Way and now Jessica Donaldson wasn’t returning her calls. The drive back to her office after they found the body of Mimi Taylor had been a quiet one. Except for that little pain-in-the-ass Willie, who’d whimpered all the way home, as if he’d just crashed his Luke Skywalker Landspeeder into a bridge abutment.

  The Palm Beach EMS team had gotten there ten minutes after Claudia put in the 911 call and an EMT had paid particular attention to Jessica Donaldson, who seemed to be in shock. He’d offered to take her to Good Samaritan Hospital, just over the north bridge in West Palm, but she said she was okay. Her daughter and husband were doing fine and her son…well, Willie was Willie.

  Crawford and Ott had come to Claudia’s office to interview her and the three now sat together in the real estate agency’s conference room.

  “During the entire time you were at the house on North Lake Way, Ms. Detwiler,” Ott was asking, “did you see anyone else there?”

  “No,” Claudia said. “No one.”

  Unlike his short, stout, balding partner, Charlie Crawford looked nothing like a cop. He looked more like a male model who’d just popped out of a GQ ad (minus the snappy threads.) “So, you and your clients walked into the house and were going through it when Mrs. Donaldson and her son and daughter walked into the master bathroom?” Crawford asked.

  “That’s pretty much it,” Claudia said. “I was with the husband when the wife and two kids went into the master and master bath. I ran in when I heard the screaming.”

  “Did you ever go up to the second story?” Ott asked.

  Crawford knew what Ott was thinking. Maybe the killer had gone up there to hide if he heard Detwiler and the Donaldsons come into the house.

  “No, we never got that far,” Claudia said. “The police came, then the paramedics. We left a little while after that.”

  “Did you make an appointment with Mimi Taylor, the listing agent, before going to the house?” Crawford asked.

  “Yes, I did,” Claudia said. “She was going to show the house to my customers. I thought it was odd she wasn’t there, because she’s normally so prompt.”

  “So you’ve worked with her before?”

  “Oh, yes, quite a bit,” Claudia said.

  “Was anyone else around?” Crawford asked. “Like a landscaper maybe, or a pool man or a caretaker?”

  “Nobody that I saw,” Claudia said. “Oh, wait a minute, I forgot. I sent over my window cleaner in the morning. Maybe he saw something.”

  Ott noted that in his well-worn notebook, then looked up. “What’s his name? And number if you have it.”

  Claudia scrolled down on her iPhone. “His name is Diego. I don’t remember his last name…wait a minute, here it is Diego Andujar.” She read Ott his phone number.

  “And, Ms. Detwiler, just so we’re clear,” Crawford said, “you were with the husband, Mr. Donaldson, when you heard Mrs. Donaldson screaming. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where were you?”

  “In the living room. He was admiring the view of the ocean and the beach.”

  Crawford nodded. “Did you happen to notice anybody walking away from the house toward the beach when you were looking out?”

  “No, sorry, I didn’t.”

  “You mentioned having worked with Ms. Taylor fairly frequently. Did you know her pretty well?”

  “Not that well,” Claudia said. “I just knew her as a good agent. I sold another listing of hers last year.”

  “What do you know about her?” Ott asked.

  “What do you mean? I just told you.”

  Crawford hadn’t had a chance to catch Ott up on his conversations with Arthur Lang and Carrie Nyquist.

  “I just wondered what you know about her relationships with men or her personal life in general?” Ott said.

  Claudia exhaled and glanced out the window. “I remember hearing that she had a longstanding relationship with a man, but I think they may have broken up.”

  “Do you know any more about it?” Ott asked.

  Claudia shrugged. “Sorry.”

  Crawford nodded and glanced over at Ott. “I can’t think of any more questions, for now.”

  “Me either,” Ott said, standing up. “Could we get your card in case we need to get back in touch with you.”

  “Sure,” she said, then she reached into her purse and pulled out two cards. She gave one to each of them.

  Crawford and Ott stood up, across the conference table from Detwiler.

  “Oh, one last thing,” Crawford said. “Could you give us the cell phone numbers of Mr. or Mrs. Donaldson, please. Just in case we need to talk to them.”

  Claudia gave them Jessica Donaldson’s number. “Be my guest. I think my conversations with those two are fini.”

  * * *

  On the way back to the station house, Crawford put in a call to Diego Andujar. It went to voicemail, so he left a message. “Mr. Andujar, my name in Detective Crawford, Palm Beach Police Department. Please call me as soon as possible.” He left his number.

  “Why does that name sound familiar?” Ott asked

  “I don’t know,” Crawford said. “Third baseman for the Yankees? Except it’s Miguel.”

  Ott shook his head. “The guy I’m thinking of boosted cars.”

  “Really?” Crawford said. “Wonder if he boosted Mimi’s Taylors’?”

  “Let’s find the little beaner,” Ott said, never one you’d call politically correct. “Meanwhile I’ll check him out on FDLE.”

  Ott was referring to a website that contained a database of individual criminal records.

  “While you’re at it, see about getting a search warrant for Mimi Taylor’s place?” Crawford said. “If you’re right about Andujar having a record, he wouldn’t be a guy I’d give access to a twelve-million-dollar house.”

  Ott smiled. “If I’m right.”

  “You were once back in 2016.”

  Ott shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Funny fuck, Chuck.”

  END OF EXCERPT

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  About the Author

  A native New Englander, Tom dropped out of college and ran a bar in Vermont…into the ground. Limping back to get his sheepskin, he then landed in New York where he spent time as an award-winning copywriter at several Manhattan advertising agencies. After years of post-Mad Men life, he made a radical change and got a job in commercial real estate. A few years later he ended up in Palm Beach, buying, renovating and selling houses while getting material for his novels. On the side, he wrote Palm Beach Nasty, its sequel, Palm Beach Poison, and a screenplay, Underwater.

  While at a wedding, he fell for the charm of Charleston, South Carolina. He spent six years there and completed a yet-to-be-published series set in Charleston. A year ago, Tom headed down the road to Savannah, where he just finished a novel about lust and murder among his neighbors.

  Learn more about Tom’s books at:

  www.tomturnerbooks.com