Palm Beach Taboo (Charlie Crawford Palm Beach Mysteries Book 10)

by Tom Turner

  The next day he took a tour of Ernest Hemingway’s house on Whitehead Street in Key West. It was okay, a nice, old Spanish style, two-story house with lots of windows. Lots of cats, too, wandering around the house and grounds. They were reputed to be the great granddaughters and grandsons of Hemingway’s original menagerie of cats. There were also plenty of photos and paintings of the man called Papa, along with his old typewriter and lots of old books, and for some inexplicable reason, framed photos of checks he had written. That was a head-scratcher. Crawford had no clue why anyone would think checks would be of interest. He left the house after half an hour, his takeaway being that he was still more of a Fitzgerald man.

  Day three was dominated by a long walk around the funky town. He came to the conclusion he would have liked Key West better back in Hemingway’s day. Too many T-shirt and ice-cream shops now. He also came to another conclusion: that he would have had a better time if he had brought Dominica along.

  Night three he went bar-hopping. Beer was beer and rum was rum, but he had fun chatting up a few of the locals he met. One woman made it clear that she was available for the next chapter, but he wasn’t interested.

  He missed Dominica.

  Rose, too.

  Forty-One

  It was Saturday. Crawford had arrived back from Key West the night before. He woke up, loaded three large teaspoons of Folgers finest into his Mr. Coffee machine and walked to his living-room window. He didn’t know what was worse, having the Publix parking lot chock-a-block full of cars, trucks, and shopping carts or, as it was now… empty. Well, with the exception of a long-haired, bearded homeless man slowly dragging his way across the four football fields’ worth of painted stripes, a tattered but colorful beach towel slung around his shoulders.

  Just as it had been time to wrap up the Christian Lalley murder, it was now time for him to find a new place to live.

  He waited until 9 a.m. to call Rose.

  “Hey, Charlie,” Rose answered. “So, congratulations are in order; you got your killers.”

  “Thanks, Rose,” he said somberly. He was still having trouble getting over killing a man.

  “That Bemmert guy,” Rose said. “What a low-life.”

  “I’ll tell him you send your regards. So, you got a full day today?”

  “You want to look at places?”

  “Yeah, if you can squeeze me in.”

  She thought for a second. “How about… four-thirty?”

  “I got all day. No bad guys to catch. Four-thirty it is.”

  “Fine. Come on by the office.”

  “See you then.”

  A few minutes after he hung up with Rose, his cell rang. It was Ott.

  “Whatcha doin’?” Ott asked.

  “What kinda question is that? Sittin’ here having a cup of coffee.”

  “Doesn’t it feel weird having spare time on your hands?”

  “I know. I’m going to look at condos with Rose later in the afternoon.”

  “Well, how ’bout a speed nine in the meantime?” Ott said. “Or, since you’ll be doing it with me, let’s just call it a… relaxed nine.”

  A speed nine was something Crawford had invented: it was a quick break from work and a form of recreation. In addition to going to his gym in West Palm Beach every other day, Crawford would play nine holes at the par-three golf course south of Palm Beach once a week or so. He had dubbed it a speed nine because he didn’t take any practice swings and any putt within five feet of the cup was a gimme. It never took more than an hour and his record was forty-eight minutes. He usually played alone or with Dominica, who was a pretty decent golfer.

  He liked speed nines because he could break up a day with a quick round, then go back to the office and work ’til late. The one time he played with Ott it took well over an hour and a half, as Ott insisted on taking two practice swings before each shot and scrupulously putting out every hole. So, Ott hadn’t been asked back.

  Dominica, on the other hand, got the idea fast and played even faster. Plus, she was a lot easier on the eye than Ott.

  “Okay, man, you’re on. But here are the ground rules: No practice swings—”

  “I’m good with that.”

  “No shoptalk.”

  “That’s easy, we got nothin’ to talk about.”

  “And no farting when I’m about to putt.”

  Ott burst out laughing. “Why would I ever—”

  “You did it last time we played. Twice.”

  “Same stakes as before?” his partner asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Hey,” said Ott. “Should we ask Dominica?”

  “I was just about to say that. I’ll call her,” Crawford said. “Balls in the air—or, in your case, the water—at eleven?”

  “Perfect. Then lunch and a libation or two.”

  “You got it. Better bring your A game.”

  “Ha, like I’ll need it with you.”

  Dominica had to juggle her schedule but told Crawford she was eager for the opportunity to take his money. Then, she got serious. “How are you doing anyway?”

  He knew what she was asking.

  “I’m okay. Worst part of the job.”

  “I hear you.”

  There was a silence.

  “All right. Enough of that,” Crawford said, changing his tone. “I predict my game’s about ready to return to its former greatness.”

  Dominica laughed. “Hm. Can’t say I have any recollection of that.”

  “Now I’m really gonna kick your ass.

  Ott duck-hooked his first drive on the 147-yard first hole into the water. He almost winged a seagull, which was drifting along minding his, or her, own business.

  “See, if I had had a practice swing, I’d have been on the green,” Ott said.

  Crawford rolled his eyes at Dominica. “Here we go with the excuses.”

  Dominica chuckled as Crawford bent down, teed up his ball, then looked up at her.

  She was wearing a short skirt with a swirl of abstract pastel colors over deeply-tanned and well-muscled legs…which would have been distracting enough. But then there was the upper half of this perfectly put-together woman.

  Crawford, wearing tan khaki shorts and a blue polo shirt with no logo, addressed his teed-up ball and lashed at it. It started out fine, but then as if it had caromed off some invisible wall, it dived hard left and, after one skip, splashed into the same body of water that Ott’s ball had found.

  “Okay, boys,” Dominica said, “you want to concede me this hole?”

  “Not so fast, girl,” Ott said. “There’s plenty of room in that pond for another ball.”

  But Dominica hit a nice, straight drive that ended up on the apron of the green. She got her par and won the hole.

  They went around in an hour and ten minutes, despite a few more water balls and unplayable lies.

  But in the end, it was, surprisingly, Ott who won. He deposited his winnings—two twenties, a ten, four fives, and eleven ones into his previously skimpy wallet.

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” Ott said as the trio walked off the eighteenth green. “I might be able to retire if we did this every day.”

  “Typical,” Crawford said, shaking his head. “Eke out a narrow victory and it goes straight to your head.”

  “Narrow?” Ott said. “What’s narrow about me winning six out of nine holes. You’re just a sore loser ’cause you came in third… behind a girl, I might add.”

  Forty-Two

  Crawford invited Dominica to join Rose and him on his condo search, and she accepted. He figured two women’s opinions were worth a lot more than one of his.

  Crawford picked up Dominica at 4:25 and drove to the Rapallo North building at 1701 South Flagler. They met Rose in the lobby of the building and Rose, pro that she was, didn’t miss a beat when she saw Dominica.

  “What an unexpected surprise,” Rose said, walking over to Dominica and giving her a single-cheeker.

  Crawford preferred sin
gle-cheekers himself because double-cheek kisses struck him as overproduced. Same with bro hugs.

  “I hope it’s okay I came along,” Dominica said.

  Rose nodded exuberantly. “Of course, the more the merrier. Gives us a chance to catch up.” She gestured at the elevator. “Shall we?”

  The three walked in, and Dominica turned to Rose. “So, how is the real-estate market?”

  “Well, it depends. I’d say it’s pretty strong, more sales than last year. But the condo market’s a little soft.”

  Dominica turned to Charlie. “Music to your ears, huh?”

  Crawford nodded and winked at Rose. “Look out, here I come: Lowball Charlie.”

  The first condo they looked at was the two-bedroom on the 14th floor they had seen before that needed some work but had a nice view southeast—out over Everglades Island.

  “Do you really need a two-bedroom?” Dominica asked.

  “It’s not like I’ve got a lot of houseguests. Every once in a while, I guess I do.”

  Next, they looked at a one-bedroom, two-bath on a lower floor. It needed a fair amount of work, but the price was right. However, the view was only average, Rose pointed out.

  Crawford shook his head. “After four years of watching people pushing shopping carts, it’s all about the view.”

  “So, the one on fourteen?” Rose asked.

  “Yeah, but I’m still trying to decide between a one-bedroom and a two,” Crawford said. “What else we got?”

  “A couple in Trianon.”

  That was another tall building just north on Flagler.

  “How much?”

  “Stretching your budget a little. Four-twenty-five and four-fifteen.”

  “Think we could get ’em in the threes?” Crawford asked.

  “Yeah. I’d say high threes, maybe.”

  The problem was they both were on low floors. Three and four. Both featured the same line-of-sight and had views more south than east—a long way from jaw-droppers.

  Trianon was a notch above Rapallo as a building and only a five-minute drive to the station.

  “There’s another one in the building that has a view—I hate the expression— but it truly is, to die for.”

  “Can we get in?” Crawford asked.

  “Yes, it’s vacant. Problem is, you can’t afford it.”

  “How much?”

  “Seven-forty-nine. Two bedrooms, two baths, right around twelve-hundred-fifty square feet.”

  Crawford didn’t hesitate. “Let’s have a look.”

  “What’s the point?” Dominica asked. “You’ll just feel bad you can’t have it.”

  Crawford shrugged. “Hey, it never hurts to look,” he said. “They might be really motivated. You know, take like… three-fifty.”

  Rose laughed. “In your dreams.”

  They took the elevator up to the twelfth floor. It was apartment 1201. Rose opened the door, and the view was exactly as advertised. To. Die. For. Breathtaking. Jaw-dropping. Drop-dead gorgeous. Out of this world, and every other cliché you could come up with.

  “Oh… my… God,” Dominica said, as the three walked out onto the balcony.

  Straight ahead was the Palm Beach Marina and some of the biggest boats around, many owned by Palm Beach’s forty-three billionaires, no doubt. To the left, and slightly north, was the stately middle bridge, and a few miles beyond it to the northeast, the majestic Breakers Hotel rose in the distance.

  Crawford looked to the southeast and saw Everglades Island. He thought he even spotted Phoebe Lilly’s enormous British Colonial, an American flag flapping in the breeze. Then he looked straight ahead and pointed.

  “That’s the station,” he said to Dominica. “I could wave to you from up here.”

  Dominica laughed. “You could if I had an office with a window.”

  Crawford patted her shoulder and turned to Rose. “I’ll take it.”

  Rose’s eyes bulged. “What?”

  “Yeah, let’s offer ‘em seven hundred thousand…cash.”

  “But you…you haven’t even seen the master bedroom yet.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Crawford said, glancing at the new kitchen. “They obviously renovated the whole place pretty recently.”

  Rose looked over at Dominica. “He’s been holding out on us. Not telling us about the Crawford millions.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Dominica said to Crawford. “Can you buy me one too while you’re it?”

  Crawford smiled and turned to Rose. “How much is the monthly maintenance?” Then, he put up a hand. “Nah, don’t tell me. Whatever it is, it’s worth it for this view.”

  Again, Rose glanced over at Dominica. “Is this the same man we walked in here with? The man who said, ‘Three hundred’s my absolute cut-off. I can’t go a nickel over?’”

  Dominica smiled at Crawford, studying him. “Looks the same,” she said. “I don’t know what came over him. He did have a couple of beers at lunch….”

  Crawford laughed. “What can I tell you? I thought things over a little… I’m going to get a new car, too.”

  “Oh, really,” Rose said, reaching into her purse for her iPhone. “You want the number of the Rolls dealership?”

  THE END

  Killing Time in Charleston Excerpt

  One

  A year after what happened in Boston, Janzek flew down to Charleston, South Carolina, for his college roommate’s wedding. It took him about five minutes to fall in love with the place. Beautiful old houses, five-star restaurants on every block, streets crawling with killer women and, best of all, no snow in the forecast. What was not to love?

  He had wandered off from his friend’s wedding reception with Cameron, the twenty-eight-year-old sister of the bride. Together they discovered the culinary gusto of an out-of-the-way spot called Trattoria Lucca, then followed it up with some jamming music at a quasi-dive he figured he’d never be able to find again. Last thing he remembered was teetering down a cobblestone street, arm around Cameron’s shoulder, looking for a place that had either Lion or Tiger in its name. That Cameron, what a handful she turned out to be.

  The day after the wedding he canceled his return flight to Logan Airport, then on Monday morning walked into the Charleston Police Department on Lockwood Street. The résumé he had knocked out in his hotel room that morning had a typo or two in it, but that didn’t seem to bother the chief of detectives who hired him on the spot.

  Now, three months later, he was coming down the home stretch: Interstate 26, just north of Charleston. The first half of the trip down had been a little dicey, since the day he had picked for the move had turned out to be especially cold and windy. He was driving a U-Haul, his car on a hitch behind it, and had been wrestling the steering wheel of the orange-and-white cube the whole way down. A few miles before Wilmington, Delaware, a gusty blast blew him into the path of a rampaging sixteen-wheeler, which roared up on his bumper like an Amtrak car that had jumped the tracks. It was a close call, but things quieted down after he hit the Maryland border.

  He had the window down now and was taking in the warm salt air, which reminded him of the Cape when he was a kid and life was easy. He was looking forward to the slow, Southern pace of Charleston. Kicking back with a plate full of shrimp and grits, barbeque and collards, or whatever the hell it was they were so famous for, then washing it all down with a couple of Blood Hounds, a bare-knuckled rum drink bad girl Cameron had introduced him to.

  He was thinking about how he might get his lame golf game out of mothballs, psyched about being able to play year-round. One thing he’d miss would be opening day at Fenway, but he’d heard about Charleston’s minor league baseball team and figured it would be good for a few grins. One thing he’d never miss would be staring down at stiffs on the mean streets of Beantown.

  The ring of his cell phone broke the reverie. He picked it up, looked at the number, and didn’t recognize it.

  “Hello.”

  “Nick, it’s Ernie Brindle. Where y�
�at?” Brindle was the Charleston chief of detectives, the man who had hired him.

  “Matter of fact, Ernie, I’m just pulling into Charleston. A few miles north. Why, what’s up?”

  Brindle sighed. “Looks like it’s gonna be trial by fire for you, bro. I’m looking down at a dead body on Broad Street... it’s the mayor. The ex-mayor, guess that would be. How fast can you get here?”

  Janzek had figured he’d at least get a chance to unload his stuff from the U-Haul before his first-day punch-in.

  “Thing is, Ernie, I’m driving this big old U-Haul with all my junk in it. Can’t I just drop it—”

  “No, I need you right now. Corner of Broad and Church.”

  Janzek stifled a groan. “Is Church before or after King Street?”

  “Two blocks east. Just look for a guy under a sheet and every squad car in the city. Not every day the mayor gets smoked.”

  “Okay, I’m getting off I-26. I see a sign for King Street.”

  “You’re just five minutes away,” Brindle said. “Welcome to the Holy City.”

  “Thanks,” Janzek said. “Kinda wish it were under different circumstances.”

  Janzek rumbled down Meeting Street, breathing in the fragrant scent of tea olive trees. He got stuck behind a garbage truck and his first instinct was to lay on the horn, but something told him you didn’t do that in Charleston. Up ahead, he saw a horse-drawn carriage jammed with gawkers. The garbage truck and the carriage were side by side—like blockers—creeping along at ten miles an hour. The smell of horse manure wafted through his open windows and replaced the sweet tea olive smell.

  Janzek finally saw an opening, hit the accelerator, and slipped between the truck and the carriage. Broad Street was just ahead. He had never seen so many squad cars except at an Irish captain’s funeral up in Southie. Ernie Brindle was keeping an eye out for him, and when he saw the U-Haul pull up, he directed Janzek past the long line of black-and-whites to a spot in front of a fire hydrant. Janzek got out and walked over.