Behind The Gates (A Maggie McFarlin Mystery Book 1)

by Charisse Peeler

  Behind The Gates

  Charisse Peeler

  To Patricia and Marissa who inspired me to write this book during one of our many adventures and to my husband Mike who is my biggest fan and the love of my life.

  Chapter 1

  Green Tea Shot

  The air was thick inside O’Malley’s. The ancient air handler was losing its battle against the heavy August night in Boca Raton. The brick-faced building, originally a firehouse, had long ago been converted into a unique bar and grill serving as the local watering hole. It was also the closest place to the gated community of Banyan Tree Country Club where the younger members could have a drink after six p.m.

  The old fire truck doors of the original building remained intact, and tonight they had been thrown wide open, allowing the Wednesday-night crowd of patrons to spill out onto the pavement—more room on which to enjoy the $1 wings featured on the midweek menu.

  On Wednesday nights, too, O’Malley’s hosted the local dart league.

  The Boca Boozers was one of the teams that gathered once a week to throw sharp plastic- tipped shafts at the black-and-red dartboards while standing behind an officially measured twenty-four-inch line of tape on the floor. The tape marked a horizontal distance of exactly seven feet, nine and one-quarter inches from the board. If there was a technique to throwing a dart, it included the player placing one foot in front of the other while still remaining behind the line of tape, leaning his (or her) torso across the line as far as possible—elbow up, one eye closed—then tossing the dart with a nice, smooth release.

  Marco Escobar was usually a stickler for the rules—and one of the best players on Boca Boozers. But tonight he didn’t care. He stood from the Boozers’ table to line up his throw. Only, instead of lining up he turned to the waitress and helped himself to one of the green tea shots she carried confidently on her tray. He downed the light green concoction, closed one eye, then threw his last dart, missing the board completely—and thereby causing the opposing team to erupt in cheers. “Boca Boozers, no longer undefeated!” some guy from the other team crowed mockingly.

  The waitress distributed the remaining green tea shots to Marco’s teammates. Marco reached over and swiped one of the glasses from out of his teammate’s hand, but he didn’t care. It was a shit day…he wasn’t in the mood for games. He put the shot glass down before weaving through the crowd, stumbling out the door and tripping over to the side of the building, where his golf cart was parked. Marco had been drinking since noon: he was a bit wobbly on his feet. In any case it was a relief to get out of the crowded bar, which had been putting him in a worse mood than he had already been in before he stepped inside.

  Thunder rumbled in the dark sky. A flash of lightning in the near distance threatened rain, typical in South Florida this time of year. Marco didn’t care. He took his time driving down the sidewalk, cruising just a few blocks to the back gate of the country club. He would wait here until someone drove in or out and the gate opened; then he would piggyback through.

  A different world lay behind these gates. Different from the world Marco was used to anyway. People behaved differently here. This was a life he thought would be perfect. At first, he had enjoyed the two beautiful golf courses and the camaraderie of the guys at the card table, but it was the rules that frustrated him the most. One thing Marco didn’t like was to be told what to do.

  As he sat in his golf cart next to the gate, hoping to beat the imminent deluge, his head filled with the frustrations of the day, especially the latest letter he had received from the board. He was facing yet another grievance, and possibly more time restricted from the golf course. The longer he waited by the gate the angrier he became…He vowed that everyone who had testified against him at the last board meeting would pay for their troubles.

  Finally, the bar rose and the gate slowly opened, releasing a dark Cadillac SUV from the compound. As soon as the vehicle was past the bar, Marco weaved his golf cart around the wide-eyed octogenarian, who visibly shook in surprise.

  Marco laughed. “Go ahead and turn me in, you old fart,” he yelled. He knew chances were he wouldn’t get turned in. One reason: there really wasn’t any rule against it. He knew this because he had memorized the entire membership rules and regulations for the country club. The guy probably didn’t know who he was anyway. His golf cart had no identifying marks, primarily because of the club’s stupid rule that every golf cart had to be the exact same color…never mind the fact that Marco made sure to cover up his membership number whenever he drove the golf cart off the property.

  The most efficient way back home would have been to take a right on Banyan Tree Lane. But Marco’s brain was devious tonight, and he decided to detour through the golf course. He took his phone out and pushed the button to activate the phone’s camera. He would ride by the board members’ homes, hoping to record some violation, even though the night was probably too dark at this point to be worth it. But these were his sworn enemies: he would figure out a way to pay them back for all the crap they put him through. His revenge couldn’t be too obvious or be able to be attributed to him. What he really needed was an accomplice…and he knew exactly where to find one.

  Marco drove past the clubhouse. He had been banned from its confines for the next six weeks because of a few ridiculous transgressions—he doubted if any of the board members could even remember what they were. But just as he drove past, Rodney stumbled out the back door, bungling his way into the crowded area where all of the golf carts were lined up. Rodney had been enjoying the clubhouse’s convivial offerings for a while, obviously. His normal carefully combed hair was mussed, and half his shirt was untucked. Marco stopped in his path. He parked right behind Rodney’s golf cart and waited until he was close enough to speak.

  “Hey, Marco,” Rodney said in his heavy South African accent.

  “Wanna join me for a nightcap?” Marco asked.

  “Sure,” Rodney replied. “A nightcap sounds good but I need to stop home first.”

  Marco pulled out and let Rodney back up then lead the way along several golf paths until they reached Ibis Lane. The golf course was dark, the roads were quiet. Rodney clicked the door opener to his garage. His 1972 bright yellow Corvette, painstakingly restored, and his 2018 white 435 BMW convertible with the red interior were parked side by side.

  Marco parked his golf cart in the driveway, right next to Rodney’s. He followed Rodney through the interior garage door, past the laundry room and into the living room, where he took a seat in one of Rodney’s overstuffed leather chairs. The chairs faced the large sliding glass doors that looked out at the pool.

  Marco liked Rodney. They had become friends on the golf course; but whenever Marco needed a sidekick Rodney was willing and able.

  Rodney disappeared into the back of the house. A minute later Marco heard a toilet flush and water running. As he looked toward the hall, expecting Rodney to appear, he noticed an unfamiliar accessory hanging on the wall.

  “Well, what is this?” Marco said. He climbed out of the overstuffed chair and moved to the object. “Is this a crossbow…?”

  He reached up and removed the bow from its hook on the wall. He had never seen one before. It was triggered like a rifle but the string was split with a mechanism that pulled back the arrow. He whistled at the beautiful wood, then he felt its heft. He was like a kid with a new toy.

  Rodney returned. He had changed from his pink golf shirt into a button-down Tommy Bahama.

  “This is cool, man,” Marco said.

  Rodney nodded. “My brother sent it to me from South Africa.”

  “You can send thi
s kind of shit in the mail?”

  “I don’t know.” Rodney shrugged. “He did.”

  “Does it work?”

  Again Rodney said, “I don’t know.”

  “I think”—Marco said, smiling broadly—“we’re about to find out.”

  “Then we’ll need these.” Rodney opened a side closet and pulled out a long box.

  “Arrows?” Again Marco smiled. “Can’t forget those…”

  “Bolts,” Rodney corrected, using the proper term. But the next moment he decided to just forget it.

  Marco tucked the crossbow under his arm and headed for the door. He climbed into his golf cart and drove over to his place, forgetting about Rodney until he pulled into his driveway. He parked his golf cart next to his old banged-up work truck, which was illegally parked in the driveway.

  Following Marco, Rodney kept his foot heavy on the pedal then pulled into the driveway and parked behind Marco. He followed his friend through the house, and together they went into the backyard.

  Marco flipped on his back lights. The powerful floods were so bright his yard felt like a stage at the local community theater. The association had no rules regarding lights, even though Marco’s neighbors across the golf course had lodged a complaint that the light from Marco’s yard was filtering into their bedroom. “Buy some damn curtains,” Marco had told them.

  “Give me one of those arrows,” Marco told Rodney now.

  Rodney opened the long box. He carefully pulled out one of the bolts and handed it to Marco. “What are you aiming at?” he asked.

  It took Marco a couple minutes to properly load the arrow into the mechanical configuration. When he finally managed to get the weapon loaded, he held it up, aiming toward the golf course.

  “See that tree across the golf course?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Watch this….”

  Marco pulled the trigger. The arrow flew quietly through the air as it disappeared into the darkness. Then Marco pointed to the countertop on the patio behind them. “Grab that flashlight, and give me another arrow.”

  Rodney handed him the arrow. Marco reloaded the bow. This time he put his eye purposefully to the scope and tweaked its height. Rodney pointed Marco’s flashlight toward the tree Marco seemed to be aiming at. Marco pulled the trigger. The two men watched the bolt disappear in the bushes a few feet beyond the tree Marco had pointed out before.

  Marco reloaded and tried a third time. This time he buried the bolt into the tree; but the bolt wouldn’t be retrieved very easily: it had pierced the tree at least twenty feet above the base of the trunk.

  With his ego in check, Marco handed the crossbow to Rodney.

  “Do you want to try?”

  “Nah, I need another drink,” Rodney said. He walked back into the house, carrying the crossbow and the last bolt in his arms. He placed them carefully on the end of the kitchen counter.

  “Make one for me,” Marco yelled through the open door.

  Satisfied, he sat calmly down in a lounge chair under the overhang.

  “Will do,” Rodney yelled back.

  Just then Marco’s sister, Angie, came out of her room.

  Angie had moved in with Marco several months ago, trading the mental abuse and threatening behavior of her husband for the temper tantrums of her brother. She reminded herself daily that living with Marco was a temporary arrangement: she was willing to put up with it only until she had enough money to pay for the divorce.

  Angie was wearing her work attire—black polyester pants and a white tux shirt. She pulled her long black hair back with one hand, her other hand twisting a black scrunchy around it and tying it into a ponytail.

  “Going to work?” Rodney asked.

  “What do you think?” Angie rolled her eyes.

  “You know…”

  “Not in a million years,” Angie said.

  “I didn’t even say…”

  “You were about to.”

  “If you would give me a chance, you would…”

  “Rodney, if you were the last man on earth and I was the last woman and the future of humankind depended on us, I still would rather jump into a live volcano than live the rest of my life listening to your bullshit.”

  Angie grabbed her purse and slammed the front door as she left.

  Rodney grabbed the drinks and joined Marco outside. “What’s up with her?” he asked.

  “She is never going out with you,” Marco said.

  “I don’t know why not. If she gave me a chance, she wouldn’t have to go to that shit job of hers. I would take care of her.”

  “She likes her shit job.”

  “Tell me she likes dealing cards to a bunch of idiots.”

  “She deals high rollers. Last night one of those ‘idiots’ gave her a hundred-dollar tip.”

  “Well, she could at least go on one date with me.”

  “My sister is only forty years old. What are you? Like, sixty-five?”

  “I’m only sixty-two. Plus, age doesn’t matter,” Rodney said. “Do I look sixty-two?”

  “I was being generous when I said sixty-five,” Marco said.

  “Come on, man,” Rodney said.

  “I got another letter,” Marco said, changing the subject.

  “Oh God, serious? What did you do this time?”

  “I didn’t do anything. I’m telling you, these guys got it out for me.”

  “When is the hearing?”

  “Next week…but you can help me out of this one,” Marco said.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  Rodney stood up and walked back to the bar, filling his glass with ice and Grey Goose.

  “Just bring the bottle,” Marco yelled through the door.

  Rodney grabbed the ice bucket and the bottle of vodka then set everything down on the small table between the two lounge chairs.

  “What is the grievance and who filed it?”

  “Just read the letter.”

  Marco pulled a folded piece of paper from his front pocket and handed it to Rodney before refilling his glass.

  “You threatened Alan Sheffield?” Rodney asked.

  “That’s what he’s claiming but there were no witnesses. And I didn’t threaten him, exactly.”

  “Maybe not. But it says here you told him to be careful if he came home one night not to trip on his dead dog.” Rodney gazed sternly at his friend. “Seriously Marco, were you going to kill his dog?”

  “Jesus, no, Rodney, you know I would never hurt an innocent animal.”

  “Why would he make that up?” Rodney asked.

  “I don’t know. The guy hates my guts. I don’t know why he has it in for me. If I spit on the sidewalk, I’d get another month suspension. It’s ridiculous.”

  “So, what do you need me to do?”

  “You just show up at the board meeting next Tuesday at five o’clock and say you were standing close by and heard the whole conversation—I never said anything about a dead dog. I mean, you can make it believable, you can say I was raising my voice. What I actually said was that it wasn’t fair that I’ve been under a microscope since the day I moved in here. They’ve been looking for any violation they can pin on me to get me mad enough to move out. Guess what? That isn’t going to happen. The only way I’m leaving this club is in a body bag.”

  “A little dramatic there, Marco, but don’t worry, I can come up with something.”

  Rodney leaned back and closed his eyes. He was drunk. The breeze created by the fan above his head…the rhythm of the turning blades…was just too much. He began to snore.

  “Hey man, wake up!” Marco pushed Rodney’s shoulder. He wanted to tell Rodney, Just keep it simple.

  Rodney didn’t wake up. Nonetheless Marco was relieved that Rodney had agreed to back up his story in front of the board. So he left him asleep outside while he went back into the house. The big bag of cat food sitting on the kitchen counter reminded him that he hadn’t fed the cats today. He poured three big bowls and walke
d out the front door then set the bowls under the eaves at the side of the house. As soon as he set the bowls down, several neighborhood strays appeared, heading straight for the food.

  Marco had started feeding the strays almost a year ago. Soon after the older woman across the street had died, he had overheard a member of the board mentioning that now some of the cats might disappear. So, for the price of some dry cat food, Marco had continued to drive the board crazy.

  The most difficult part of taking revenge, Marco had learned over the years, was keeping quiet about it. He wanted his targets to know he was responsible, but at the same time he had to walk that fine line between getting suspended from the club and getting arrested.

  He stood under the eaves for a few minutes, watching a few more cats arrive; then he went back into the house. As soon as he reached the kitchen, a chill ran down his spine. He looked around the house: some of the papers on his desk had been moved. Then he noticed the back door was wide open. He was sure he had closed it when he had come in earlier.

  Rodney’s snoring was unbearable. Marco again closed the slider, but when he turned back toward the kitchen, he was thrown backward by a force that took the breath out of him. His hands flew to his chest…where he promptly felt an arrow shaft buried deep into his bone. He fell to the floor, unable to breathe as he looked around for his attacker. Finally he saw the person holding the crossbow. He couldn’t believe it. With his last breath he asked, “Why?”

  *

  Rodney came slowly out of his deep sleep; Angie’s screaming had awoken him. He was so used to his own ex-wife screaming that he was numb to Angie’s cries. He took his time getting out of the lounge chair. His head was throbbing from the vodka, and he had to pee; but instead of facing Angie inside, he used the eucalyptus hedges on Marco’s patio to relieve himself.

  The last thing he remembered from the night before was Marco saying something about a dead dog. Angie’s screaming didn’t stop—it was so loud. What time was it anyway, he wondered. He pulled open the sliding glass door. Inside, he saw Angie on her knees, pulling on the shaft of a bolt sticking out of Marco’s chest. The sun hadn’t quite made it over the horizon. The only light was a soft orange glow that made the entire scene confusing.