The tennis courts were visible in the distance. They had blue Har-Tru surfaces, and an image of Marilyn and me playing there in our tennis whites morphed into nurses tending to her when she slipped into a coma. Nothing I had read fixed the amount of time she’d be in a coma before dying. The average seemed to be three days. I hoped it would be quicker, but certainly not suddenly.
Going up the stairs two steps at a time, I heard voices that seemed to be arguing and were coming from the family room. I slowed down. No need to announce my presence; I wanted to surprise them. Slipping through the front door into the bleached, wood-paneled foyer, I stopped in front of a Ralph Lauren mirror which reflected the couple. Wine glasses in hand, Marilyn was on the beige Chesterfield couch, and opposite her Barnet sat on the blue bench in front of the grand piano.
Barnet was outfitted in light blue pants and a white linen shirt that made his deep tan look too dark. I squinted. Was he wearing orange socks? Waiting till he was in the midst of a sip, I stepped into the room,
“Wow. Am I witnessing a lover’s quarrel?”
Barnet nearly choked and stood up, towering over Marilyn, who said, “Gideon. You remember John.”
“How could I forget? He’s the guy who’s been screwing you, for what, over a year now?”
Barnet stiffened. “I─I better be going.”
“Ah, come on, John, stay. I don’t want to be the one to break up the weekly screw fest.”
Marilyn said, “That’s enough, Gideon!”
Barnet said, “Look, I’m gonna get going.”
Marilyn said, “Don’t you dare.”
I said, “Say, John, that pin of yours, I believe you need more than just the entry-level class to earn one.”
Barnet’s eyes moved to his chest and he said, “The sommelier pin? Technically there are several levels of certification. When things got too busy, I stopped taking courses and ended up somewhere in the middle.”
“Really? As far as I know, you only passed the first level in L.A., which doesn’t entitle you to a pin.”
“I took additional classes with their Parisian affiliate.”
“Real smooth, aren’t you? You’ve got an answer for everything.”
Marilyn sprung off the sofa. “Damn you, Gideon.”
Barnet said, “I’m sorry to have upset you, Gideon.”
“Me, upset? Why would you being here, in my living room, with my wife, upset me? It’s your Wednesday routine, isn’t it?”
Marilyn got up, saying, “Calm yourself down, Gideon. You’re making a fool of yourself.”
I laughed, “Really, and all the time I thought it was the two of you making me out to be a damn idiot. How silly of me.”
Barnet turned to Marilyn. “It’s better if I leave.”
I headed for the door. “No need to. The house is all yours.”
They’d gotten way too comfortable and needed a conscience check. Having both of them squirm a little before Marilyn left the scene forever felt damn good.
Chapter 14
Gideon Brighthouse
Images of Marilyn and John Barnet having sex that afternoon haunted me. The doctors told me to take a walk when I was agitated to help calm me down. I slid a door open, stepping into a breeze that was sprinkled with rain, and retreated.
Those bastards probably did it in my old bedroom, the sexual pleasure heightened by the excitement from the encounter with me. Marilyn was so smug this afternoon, and that Barnet, he was a shifty bloodsucker if there ever was one. He played it right, though, much as I hate to admit. He offered two, or was it three times to leave? Barnet didn’t antagonize me at the time and even looked like he was somewhat scared. It was probably all an act. What was that Parisian nonsense? I’d have to check that out; he was probably lying.
Why did I give a damn what they did? In less than three days I’d have a fresh canvas to paint my life on. Still, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake them from my mind, especially Marilyn. As the rage rose, I tried the breathing exercises and the new stretching regime, but nothing worked.
***
Two of my pill bottles and a glass of water were on the coffee table. It was just past seven thirty. The Valium and Ativan combo had knocked me out. I’d been sleeping a couple of hours. I sat up, drank the rest of the water, and waited for the fog to lift.
When my mind cleared, I grabbed Contemporary Art Monthly off the coffee table and flipped through it to an article on Jasper Johns. About halfway through, the piece mentioned a string of his lesser-known works, and I was certain that the author had mistitled a small painting. Setting the magazine down, I lowered the recliner and headed to Serenity House. The library in the main house held every art book I’d ever owned, and among the wall-to-wall shelves a retrospective of Johns waited to clarify the title.
Approaching, I noticed that no lights, other than the automatics, were on. All six pairs of double windows above the front porch were ebony mirrors. Unless she left when I had slept, Marilyn was home. Perhaps she’d fallen asleep after her session with Barnet. I considered yelling her name out to wake her as I turned into the library.
The room was another sanctuary for me. Every inch of the library was lined with ceiling-to-floor, blond wood shelves. Ladders on each wall, that glided on brushed nickel rails, broke up the reams of books. The room’s massive size was mitigated by three comfortable seating areas. I grabbed the retrospective I was looking for and was about to plop into my favorite wing chair, when I realized the dim sound I was hearing was running water.
I headed into the kitchen. Sure enough, the water was running in the island sink. Coming around the island, my hands flew up, and as the book tumbled to the floor, I shouted, “Oh my God!”
Stepping over a stream of blood, I knelt and felt Marilyn’s neck for a pulse. She was stiff and cold. Jumping up, I looked around. A bloody kitchen knife was on the floor a few feet away. I stepped over her body, shut the water off, and stared at Marilyn as my heart began to pound. Turning away from her, I began to run, kicking the book as I left the kitchen. When I got to the pool house, I grabbed my pills and choked, trying to down two without water. A dizzy feeling came over me and I tried to fight it with my breathing exercises but was overcome by blackness.
When I woke, I was on the floor. My head was pounding and my wrist was sprained. I scrambled to my feet. Was it all a dream? It had to be. The conscience can be vicious, I knew. It’s the only thing that keeps the world from descending into total chaos. This had to be a warning. Didn’t it? My mind was telling me not to go through with killing Marilyn.
I left the pool house and tiptoed my way to Serenity. The front door was wide open. I pulled out my cell phone and headed in.
Chapter 15
Luca
Lights illuminating the way ahead, a police boat pushed off Naples City Dock. It navigated slowly until entering Naples Bay, where it sped up considerably.
Passing inlets of black water that led to Port Royal, lights outlining the enclave known as Keewaydin Island became visible. I took a step toward the bow and said, “Talk about privileged? This is off the hook.”
Vargas said, “How many people live on it, Luca?”
“Pretty sure it’s just Marilyn Boggs and her husband.”
“Really? Looks like there’s five, six buildings, at least. Just for the two of them?”
I nodded. “According to Susan. She and her husband own ‘Sweet Liberty’. Did you ever take a ride on their catamaran?”
“No.”
“You should. It’s beautiful. Anyway, she said when the Boggs bought it they built three houses for themselves. And there’s a guesthouse, a pool house, and, get this, a building for all their art.”
“That’s over the top. It looks so peaceful. I’ve never been on the island.”
“Well, there’s another thing for you to do. You know, for a Floridian, you don’t seem to know as much as I do about the area.”
“You know how it goes. People who live in New York never go to
the Statue of Liberty, right?”
I nodded. “Anyway, seventy-five percent of the island is owned by the State of Florida. I took a boat ride over there about a year ago. It’s real peaceful, gazillions of wildlife. The day I went, I saw at least half a dozen bald eagles. Keewaydin’s got a real shelly beach, so bring your sneakers if you go.”
A couple of yachts filled with onlookers were drifting fifty yards off the island’s shoreline. Our boat slowed down as it approached the dock, maneuvering into a space between four powerboats that were tied up. Two of them were police boats and had their strobe lights on.
Vargas said, “The husband found the body?”
“Yeah, he called it in. Name’s Gideon Brighthouse.”
“Brighthouse? Thought the family name was Boggs.”
“It is. Apparently, the wife never took his name. The chief said Brighthouse was a political operative awhile back, used to work for one of Florida’s senators.”
“Then he jumped on the gravy train?”
“Maybe. We’ll find out if it was the money or that elusive thing we call love.”
“Speaking of romance, how are things with Kayla? I thought you said she was coming into town.”
“Yeah, she was supposed to be heading in for a couple of days, but something came up and she had to cancel.” I couldn’t tell Vargas I thought Kayla was brushing me off, it’d be embarrassing considering how I’d made it seem things were going great.”
“Oh.”
The last thing I needed to think about now was Kayla. I pushed the blue feeling aside and focused on the new case.
“Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
I helped Vargas off the boat onto a long, gray dock made of Trex. Thirty feet away a gate of scrolled iron, with pickets overhanging the water, prevented anyone from getting from the dock onto the island. It was a measure of security, but that didn’t mean someone couldn’t swim in off a boat.
After examining the area around the dock, I surveyed the house. A dozen royal palms, beautifully lit, lined a wide, stone path to the Key West-styled home. Man, I couldn’t even come up with a number for what this place was worth. I wished it were daylight. We’d have to come back in the morning, and I’d get a bead on what this place looked like.
Two men were heading our way down the lighted walkway. I knew from the suit and strut that one of them was a lawyer. He barely nodded to us and went past us, straight toward the police boats.
I introduced ourselves to Frank Flynn. In white boat sneakers, shorts, and a tee shirt, Flynn was a family friend who was carrying forty pounds of extra weight. After telling me I looked like George Clooney, he revealed that he lived across the strait in Port Royal and had been summoned by the family lawyer. Flynn said Gideon, the husband, was distraught and in the pool house. As we made our way to the main house, he told us that he’d been the first to arrive and that he met Gideon at the dock but did not see the body.
It was the first murder scene I’d approached without having a microphone stuck in my face. However, that wasn’t the extent of how different this one was. Usually there were plenty of patrol cars, a perimeter line set up around the actual scene, and another further out to fence off an area, preventing the media and public from interfering. Here, we were surrounded by a gulf barely lapping at the shore, under a black sky speckled with diamonds. It was quiet, and if not for the police boat lights, a perfect spot to honeymoon.
Peter Gerey caught up with us after convincing the police boats to tone down their lights. Serious as cancer, Gerey was the lawyer who quarterbacked the family’s interests in the State of Florida. A partner in a small firm, he helped guide the top one-tenth of a percent on matters of money, privacy, and that good old intangible, reputation.
Thin-lipped, Gerey spoke in the hushed tone of an undertaker.
“Detective, the family would appreciate discretion in regards to the press. We’d like to avoid having to combat baseless rumors. I trust you realize the Boggs are a prominent family, one that employs hundreds of people. Despite their profile in the community, the Boggs family places a high value on their privacy.”
I held up a hand. “Counselor, I’m here to conduct an investigation. Talking to the press isn’t a part of my job description. I’m sure you know a bunch of people at the sheriff’s office, and I’d suggest that’s where you make your pitch. Now, this is as far as you can go.”
“But—”
“No “buts.” This is a crime scene.”
We climbed the stairs to the porch, and over the door was a hand-carved sign with silver lettering: Serenity House. I thought about the coming contradiction as we signed in with the officer guarding the scene.
Chapter 16
Luca
I stood in the foyer. It was a magnificent home, the nicest I’d ever been in. There were a lot of interesting pictures hanging with little lights over them. But it wasn’t like the place was a museum. It was tough to explain; you just knew it was expensive, but it wasn’t gaudy. It was, it hit me, serene.
Well, all that serenity was broken, as usual, by human behavior gone off the rails. The sound of a camera snapping and whirring away prompted me to pull on booties and gloves and get to work.
The officer standing in the kitchen entranceway said the coroner was expected within the hour. He moved aside and we stepped into the kitchen. It looked like one of those kitchens you see in design magazines.
White quartz topped the gray cabinets along the walls, and the island had the reverse, white cabinets and a gray slab on top. The body wasn’t visible, and if not for the uniforms, it could have been the cleanup after an elegant dinner party. A slight coffee smell hung in the air, and my gaze wandered to cabinetry that housed built-in espresso and Keurig machines.
The photographer, a good kid named Giancarlo, stood up. He was finished. I asked him to find out how to turn on all the outside lights and see if there were any footprints he could document in case a rainstorm came through.
Vargas and I sidestepped over an art book, and there was the body.
Marilyn Boggs, a small woman with a pixie haircut, looked almost ten years younger than the fifty I was told she was. She was on her back, head lolled to the left, and was wearing jewelry that weighed more than she did. One of her stilettos was half off, and her skirt was hiked, revealing a thin thigh. She wasn’t my type.
Stepping over a stream of blood, I crouched down. Gravity had begun to pool her blood. She’d been dead more than a couple of hours. Her perfect makeup was marred by smudged lipstick and a slight mark on her right cheek. The woman’s upper body was resting on a puddle of crimson red that was getting gummy. A single puncture wound in her chest, that I figured went completely through her thin body, was the source of the puddle.
I stood. “She’s five foot one, max. We’ll get a good idea from the wound how tall the killer was.”
A long, serrated knife with an ebony handle lay three feet to the right of the body. Tinged red, it looked to be the murder weapon. How did this rich lady end up dead? The knife, unusual in the wealthy circles of crime, was puzzling. Stabbings were rare; this could be a break-in gone bad.
I glared at two officers who were talking like they were at a tailgate party.
“Come on, guys!”
Vargas said, “Why don’t you two wait in the hallway?”
The officers backed out of the kitchen, and Vargas said, “Crazy, all this money, and she’s stabbed like a hooker in an alleyway.”
“Money? This isn’t money, Vargas. This is what’s called wealth.”
She shook her head. “Money, wealth, whatever. It can’t buy you happiness or, apparently, security.”
I circled around to the other side of the kitchen, visualizing how a struggle may have played out. She was on the floor near one of those double-basin farm sinks. The woman could have been at the sink and was surprised by someone. Maybe he came through one of the massive sliders that formed the left-hand wall, which overlooked an outdoor dining area and f
ountain.
A lone wine glass, delicately thin and empty, sat on the island. I took a closer look at the glass. The rim appeared clean and the glass didn’t show any signs of residue. A few feet to the left, a bottle of red wine, three-quarters empty, was sitting on top of a white marble disk.
To the left of the glass and disassembled, was an expensive-looking juicer. I checked it for traces of water for a clue to when it had been cleaned.
There was an empty slot in the bleached-wood knife block sitting on the counter two feet from the sink, which was also empty. Looking at the handles, it was clear that was where the murder weapon came from. How did the murderer get their hands on it if she was in the kitchen?
“What are you thinking, Luca?”
“Was the victim in the kitchen, or was she out of the room and a thief came in? Then she surprised him, and he went for the knife?”
“I don’t know; this is not the easiest place to rob.”
“Agreed, but it could’ve been someone on staff or some worker, who knows? Either way, we’ve got a ton of interviewing to conduct. First thing: find out who was on the island, who came and went, and if anyone saw or heard a boat close by.”
“Didn’t you say the island is mostly owned by the state?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Is it possible someone got on the island from that side?”
“Absolutely.”
Vargas sighed. “I thought the remoteness of this place would make the investigation easy.”
“Easy? The last easy case I was on was . . . oh yeah, there never was one, unless you want to count a burglary one time where this guy broke in, got drunk, and fell asleep. The husband found him and called us.”
“You never told me about that.”
“No end to the madness in this business.”
“You want to interview the husband now? He’s in the pool house.”
“Let’s take a look at the master bedroom first. We’ll check the rest of the place after we talk to him.”
Luca Mystery Series Box Set Page 45