A stairway of glass and iron, providing a nice dose of modernity, emptied into a loft-like family room that served a bank of bedrooms to the right. A sitting area where the hallway split, led to double doors, signaling the master bedroom suite.
Expecting a concert hall-sized bedroom, I was surprised by the coziness of the room, which was anchored by a modern, king-sized bed. A large picture of a colorful triangle that reminded me of the album cover for Dark Side of the Moon hung opposite the bed.
It looked like one side of the bed had been slept in, and the bedding simply straightened.
I said, “Looks like someone slept alone last night.”
“Maybe they were fighting and things escalated today.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
I checked both of the gray nightstands before a pair of French doors drew me to a rear-facing deck. Sticking my head outside, I wondered how nice it would be to wake up to such a panoramic view. The deck furniture gave no indication of activity, so I closed the door.
“Nothing out there. Let’s check the rest.”
We stepped into her closet, which had more square footage than the bedroom. There were three modern takes on chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and a mirrored vanity that ran for at least fifteen feet. The closet had four sections, each divided by a small, modern picture: makeup, hanging garments, shoe storage, and banks of drawers.
Vargas said, “This is what most women call heaven.”
I passed rows and rows of custom shoe shelving. “There’s gotta be two hundred pairs or more here. This is crazy.”
“Not if you can afford it.”
In the long-hang section there were more gowns than most bridal stores, but not much color variety. It was clear Mrs. Boggs was a fan of white, black, and gray, especially in formal wear. The medium, mid-medium, and short-hang sections offered a more colorful palette but no clues.
It took us a half hour to search all the drawers, but we ended up with nothing and moved to the husband’s closet, which was materially smaller but more than ample.
“The guy gets screwed again.”
“What?”
“It’s like, not even half the space.”
Vargas pointed to a couple of large gaps in the hanging area. “He’s not even using what he has.”
“My bet is he’s living somewhere else. Maybe in one of the other houses.”
“How many do they have?”
“I don’t know, but you can bet with this kind of wealth they have more than one house.”
Vargas pulled open drawers. “You’re right, only a handful of things.”
The palatial bathroom featured a walk-in shower where you could play handball, and a freestanding tub that was egg-shaped. Straddling the edge of the white tub was a wooden tray designed to hold two Champagne flutes.
“I got to get me one of those.”
Her vanity had a tray with an assortment of brushes and an electric toothbrush sitting in its charger. Pulling the clear plastic cap off the toothbrush head, I brushed it over the bristles. I noted the droplets of water the action produced and moved on.
The male vanity top was empty. I pulled opened the top drawer and squeezed the toothpaste. It had hardened.
“Come on, let’s have our chat with Mr. Boggs.”
We left the main house as the forensics team arrived.
Chapter 17
Luca
As we gave instructions to the officers guarding the scene, Peter Gerey was pacing in the distance, talking on his phone. He noticed us and hurried over as we asked the officers to inform us when the coroner arrived.
“Did you find anything, Detective?”
“Now Counselor, you know we can’t share that information. This is an active investigation.”
“It wasn’t an attempt for inside information, Detective. I understand the rules of the game. My concern and hence inquiry is for the family, their privacy and reputation.”
Sure. It couldn’t be the five hundred an hour guys like you charge, Luca thought.
“Noted. We’d like to speak with Gideon Brighthouse.”
“Of course. Mr. Brighthouse is in the pool house.” Gerey pointed to a two-story structure that stood to the left of a rectangular pool, its lights changing from blue to purple.
I loved the way the breeze felt on my face as we made our way. The pool house sat in between the main house and the guesthouse, each generously separated with landscaping and setbacks. Since the entire private side of the island was technically a crime scene, it left us with a lot of property to comb through. I didn’t think so, but who knew? Maybe even the water surrounding this place would need to be searched.
As the stone path meandered to the pool, lights illuminated a sliver of the beach, highlighting uniform lines that said the beach was raked. I wasn’t much of a nighttime swimmer, but the pool, now lit a reddish color, began whispering to me as we reached its decking.
The entire first floor of the building was a series of ten-foot sliding doors, giving the impression that the second floor was floating above. As we entered an open slider, a cascade of rustling palm trees filled the air. Frank Flynn, seated across from Gideon Brighthouse, struggled to get off a white leather sofa.
Brighthouse waited until Flynn took at least five steps toward us before standing. Was that strategic or plain old superiority? Gerey stepped ahead, whispered to his client, and introduced him,
“Detectives, this is Gideon Brighthouse.”
Gideon had delicate features and hazy blue eyes. His wavy hair, on the long side, seemed prematurely gray, unless he’d had work done like his wife. He was tall, over six foot for sure, and his long legs stuck way out of his pink shorts. He didn’t offer his hand. The call between superiority and germaphobia was easy, but he just didn’t look like one of those high-minded, ‘shit-don’t-stink’ guys.
Vargas said, “We’re sorry about your loss, Mr. Brighthouse.”
As he nodded, Gerey said, “If you’re up to it, Gideon, they’d like to speak with you, but only if you feel up to it.”
Gideon whispered, “I guess so.”
Flynn herded us around a glass-topped table before Gerey asked him to leave. To the right, a linear fireplace threw off just the right amount of heat to offset the breeze blowing through the house.
Vargas said, “Again, please accept our condolences, but we need to ask you some questions.”
Gideon glanced at Gerey, who nodded.
“Can you tell us what happened?”
Gideon pulled his head back. “Happened? Nothing happened. I just found her, lying there, she was . . . dead. I checked to see if she had a pulse or anything, but . . . there wasn’t any.”
“What time was this?”
“Uh, about seven thirty.”
“You sure?”
Gideon nodded.
“Where were you before you found the body?”
“The library. I’d come in to get one of my art books and . . . I heard the sound of running water. I thought someone had left the water on, and we need to save all the water we can on the island, so I went into the kitchen and . . . oh my God, there she was.”
“Was the water on?”
“The water?”
“You said you heard water running.”
“I did, I think so. Yes, it was running.”
“Which sink?”
“Uh, the island one.”
“Did you shut off the water?”
Gideon looked at Gerey. “What difference does all this make?”
I said, “Mr. Brighthouse, it may seem irrelevant, but we need to piece together events, and it’s a detail that may be helpful. Did you shut the water off?”
Gideon hesitated. “I honestly don’t remember. I really don’t.”
I wondered if he was calculating the difference as Gerey said, “That’s perfectly normal, Gideon. You’ve been traumatized by a brutal, unthinkable act of violence.”
Vargas said, “Okay. You see your wife lying
on the floor bleeding and check her vitals.”
Gideon nodded.
Vargas said, “What did you do next?”
His shoulders slumped a bit. “I, uh, ran out of the house.”
“You didn’t call for help?”
“She was dead.”
“How could you be sure?”
Gideon squirmed in his chair. “I didn’t know what to do. I . . . my heart started to pound. I’ve had one heart attack already, and I─I just had to get out of there.”
Gerey said, “Mr. Brighthouse has been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder and is under a doctor’s care.”
“I understand.”
Maybe it was because my pee-pee alarm vibrated that I said, “Where did you run off to?”
Gerey glared at me. “There’s no need to phrase it that way, Detective.”
“Trust me, there was nothing intended by the way I said it. Where did you go when you left the kitchen?”
“I went straight to my house.”
“Your house?”
He seemed to gulp for air. “Here, I meant the pool house.”
Between the bed and the house reference, I didn’t need him to spell anything out. This was looking like another domestic murder case. I didn’t want to focus on him just yet, so I asked, “Did you see anything unusual at any time today?”
He started swaying in his chair. “Not that I recall.”
Through the open doors I saw an officer approaching. The coroner must have arrived. I asked, “How about any sounds? Maybe a boat? Any screams?”
He shrugged. “There’s no shortage of boats around here, but certainly no more than usual today. I can’t recall anything that stood out.”
“Give it some more thought and let us know.”
He nodded. “I will.”
I said, “We’ll talk again. The coroner has arrived, and I always like to be on the scene when he does.”
Before walking over to the main house, I hit the bathroom. Sitting and waiting to pee didn’t bother me; this was one nice bathroom with a lot to take in.
Chapter 18
Luca
“What the hell are they doing?”
I ran toward the officers talking on the beach. “Hey, hey. Get off the sand!”
The officers froze like deer in the headlights.
“This is a private island with very little traffic. I don’t want you guys mucking up the sand with your footprints if the killer came in off the beach.”
I went back to Vargas as the officers tiptoed their way onto the grass.
“Unreal. You know, they should make a special force to respond to the scene of a homicide. You’d think they’d learn by now or at least use some damn common sense. But no, no, they just make our jobs tougher.”
“Okay Frank, take it easy.”
“The new sheriff we got, if he knows everything there is to know, how come he hasn’t ordered a response team?”
“You’re overreacting.”
“It probably doesn’t matter anyway. It’s looking like Mr. ‘My-Shit-Don’t-Stink’ did it.”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit early?”
“I know that. Did you hear what he said about his house? They’re not sleeping together. I know there are couples that have separate beds or even bedrooms, but Mr. Hoity-Toity lives in another house altogether.”
“I don’t know why you think this guy is such a snob. He seemed pretty normal to me.”
“Ah, come on Vargas, are you kidding me?”
“What did he do that gave you such an impression?”
“Geez, how about we start with his name, Gideon. I mean, how many plumbers are named Gideon? And he had like an English accent, one of those upper-crust ones.”
“English accent? You know, Frank, sometimes I really think you’re crazy.”
She was right; it wasn’t an accent. It was just the way he spoke, like highly enunciated or something,
“Crazy? Nah, I like to think of myself as interesting.”
As we followed the travertine path to the main house, I said, “Check with the phone company, both the landline and her cell. Find out when the last calls were made and to who. Might help us with a time of death.”
“I’m on it. Be a good idea to check on any credit card use as well, you never know.”
“Sure, and I need you to track down the maids who work here and get them over here in the morning. The house needs a thorough going-over to see if anything is missing. We’ll need to have Mr. Ivy League take a look as well.”
“So, you haven’t made up your mind after all?”
“Covering all the bases as usual. We gotta eliminate in order to focus.”
***
George Shields was hunched over the body, pushing his thumb slowly through Marilyn’s short hair.
The coroner for Collier County hated interruptions, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from firing questions at him. Doctor Shields unbuttoned the top of Marilyn’s blouse. Moving to the left, I saw a wound crusted with blood.
Shields took each of her hands and examined them closely, then laid them by her side. As he rose, I said, “Find anything, Doc?”
“It doesn’t look like there was much of struggle. She was stabbed once with a knife, probably the one right there, and bled to death. Her head has a sizable bruise, but I believe that’s a result of a fall after the attack as she lost consciousness.”
“Can you estimate the height of the killer?”
“Right now, I’d say he or she was tall, six feet plus.”
“Right-handed or a lefty?”
“I can’t say at this point. Need to get the victim on the table.”
“How about a time of death?”
“I’d estimate death occurred about four hours ago. It’s nine twenty now, so roughly anywhere from four to six.”
Vargas and I exchanged glances.
Shields peeled off his gloves. “Moving the body on a boat is going to require extra precautions. I don’t want the body being jostled around on the way in. The ride back has got to be slow and smooth.”
“No problem, Doc. I’ll come along with you. Mary Ann, why don’t you take custody of the evidence we collected, and we’ll meet up at the sheriff’s office?”
Before heading to the dock, I gave instructions that no one, including the husband, was to be allowed near the main house.
***
We had a new sheriff in town, and he was giving me grief. Frank Morgan was the virtual flip side to Joe Liberi, who took early retirement when he was diagnosed with lymphoma. Liberi knew I’d lost my partner and went out of his way to make the transition from Jersey as easy as possible. He appreciated the experience I brought down with me and appointed me as a quasi-mentor for those less seasoned.
I’d just returned to work after my battle with cancer, when Liberi was diagnosed. He was assured the treatment would be successful and allow him to keep working, but at sixty-two, he said it was time to move on and opted to retire. With the big C lurking over my shoulder, I was more than pleased that Liberi was now in remission. Perhaps that sorely-needed reassurance was the price I had to pay in the form of Frank Morgan.
Morgan had it in for anyone who wasn’t from the South, and especially for anyone from the New York metro area. The first time I met him was at a barbecue at Liberi’s house. Before making his retirement plans public, Liberi had organized a small gathering of who he considered key people to get to know his successor. I was honored to be one of six people Liberi invited but couldn’t help thinking it was because of the cancer connection.
Morgan had been serving as the police chief for the City of Naples for the last twenty-two years. Its own municipality, the City of Naples had about twenty thousand citizens and policed its own streets. I knew a couple of officers who worked for Morgan. They said he ran a tight force and resented the growth that had transformed the town from a sleepy hamlet to a ritzy tourist destination.
Morgan was the poster boy for a country boy. He wore c
owboy boots and those string ties that look like shoelaces. When he said he was born in Naples, I kiddingly asked if he was one of the ten people who were actually born here. He said, “You think that’s funny, boy? You Northerners come down here trying to turn my town into some sort of a Times Square. Well, I promise you it won’t happen on my watch.” I didn’t know what to say. I mean, how do you respond to something like that?
Catching Stewart for the Gabelli murder a week before Morgan took over, got me about halfway out of the hole I’d dug at the barbecue. I heard from a detective that Morgan had told him to reach out to me when he hit a dead end in a case. That felt good but did nothing to warm the air between us. The only thing on my side was time. Morgan was retiring himself and would only stay until the next election, when the people would choose a new sheriff.
It was nearly eleven o’clock when Vargas and I brushed past a handful of reporters and headed to the second-floor offices of the sheriff. The door to his office was wide open. Standing while talking on the phone, Morgan waved us in and moved behind his desk.
It felt good surveying the room. They only difference since Liberi occupied the office was the ten-gallon hat and holster hanging from the coat rack. We waited until he finished his call before sitting.
“I don’t have to tell you how delicate this case is, do I?”
We said in unison, “No, sir.”
Morgan nodded. “What am I dealing with here?”
I said, “The victim was—”
“Mind your manners, son. This is the South, where ladies still come first.”
Vargas said, “Thank you, Sheriff, but Detective Luca and I agreed to have him lead this investigation.”
“Go on then.”
I said, “The victim was stabbed once and bled to death in the main home’s kitchen. We believe we have recovered the murder weapon. There were no obvious signs of a break-in, but we plan to go over the property again. The husband said he discovered the body.”
“Said? You have reason to believe he is lying?”
“Not exactly. Keewaydin Island presents a unique setting for a murder. It’s very remote, thus limiting the universe of possible suspects.”
Luca Mystery Series Box Set Page 46