by Tom Turner
“Yeah, maybe. They’re also doing ECT on me. Know what that is?”
Crawford shook his head.
“Electroconvulsive therapy. First, they put you out, then zap you with electric shocks.”
Crawford felt an unexpected protective impulse. “Christ, you don’t mean like in One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest?”
Bart laughed and held up a hand. “No, no, it’s come a long way from that. Got a pretty good track record fighting depression. Oh, now I remember: DBT stands for Dialectical Behavior Therapy.”
Crawford shrugged. “Whatever the hells that means.”
“I know, right?” Bart said.
“So when do you get out?” Crawford asked.
“I’m not sure yet, but they tell me most people are here for a month or so.”
“And that’s okay with Grey?” Grey Macleod owned Trajectory Partners, Bart’s hedge fund employer.
“Yeah, he’s okay with it.” Bart said.
Fact was, he had to be, since Bart was the star at Trajectory Partners. Crawford had read articles about his brother in the Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times and Bart had even been featured on Jim Kramer’s TV show Mad Money.
“So Sam’s pinch-hitting?” Crawford asked.
Sam, as far as the three brothers went, was the odd man out. Charlie and Bart had been athletes, Sam was on the debate team. Charlie and Bart had been kids who liked to have a good time, Sam was the serious one. Charlie and Bart got by with Cs, Sam straight As. Charlie and Bart were popular with girls, Sam was popular with librarians.
“Yeah, he’ll be all right,” Bart said.
“Doesn’t make you a little nervous?”
Bart laughed. “Nah, he won’t lose us any clients.”
“I hope this isn’t a sore subject, but what about Charlotte?” Crawford asked of Bart’s wife.
“Ah, it’s a little sore,” Bart said. “She’s seeing some guy on the side. I’m not supposed to know about it, of course. She went out to the Canyon Ranch for her annual tune-up. And whaddaya know, the guy was out there too.”
“Sorry, man,” Crawford said. He had always had his doubts about Charlotte, particularly when she flirted with him a couple of times.
“Yeah, well, this time it’s definitely over,” Bart shook his head. “Hey, not like I was husband of the year. Can we talk about you now?”
“Same old, same old,” Crawford said. “Arrest guys, put ‘em in jail.”
“Somehow I think there’s a little bit more to it than that,” Bart said. “How’re you liking Palm Beach?”
“I mostly like it,” Crawford said.
“I’ve got a couple clients who have houses down there,” Bart said. “What about Mort, how’s that gnarly, old bastard doing?”
“Still fat and cranky,” Crawford said, then he turned serious. “You think you’re gonna be okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine,” he said. “But quitting the booze might be a challenge.”
“Well, I got a hotel room nearby for the next couple days. Maybe I can get into your Monopoly game.”
Bart shook his head. “Naw, you don’t need to stick around. I’ll be okay.”
“I know,” Crawford said. “But the murder business is a little slow at the moment.”
Until Clyde Loadholt’s body drifted up behind The Breakers like a beached whale.
Three
Susie Loadholt, the sixty-four-year-old widow of Clyde Loadholt, dabbed at her eyes. She had a pink Kleenex box in her lap at her two-story colonial in West Palm Beach. Her sister was sitting next to her, an arm around her shoulder, kissing her consolingly every thirty seconds or so.
Crawford—six three, one eighty, who everyone said looked like that polo player in the Ralph Lauren ads except with dirty blond hair—sat across from her. Ott—five seven, two thirty, sometimes mistaken for Palm Beach PD’s janitor—had a chair next to Crawford’s.
“All I can tell you was he said he was going to see someone on a boat somewhere,” Susie said sniffling.
“Clyde wasn’t the most communicative man in the world,” the sister offered.
Crawford nodded. “But he didn’t tell you who the person was or the location of the boat?”
Susie Loadholt shook her head. “No, that was all he said.”
“And, Mrs. Loadholt, what did you think when Clyde didn’t come home last night?” Ott asked.
Susie pulled another tissue out of the box. “I thought it was very strange. I called him on his cell a bunch of times starting at around eleven. Never slept a wink. Then this morning, I got the call from Norm.”
Norm Rutledge, Crawford and Ott’s boss. He’d been chief of police in Palm Beach ever since Clyde Loadholt retired.
“So Clyde never said anything else about who he was going to see last night?” Ott asked.
“She already told you,” the sister said with an irritated look.
Susie Loadholt held up her hand. “I can handle this, Mavis,” she said. “He did say one thing. He was going to repair an old wound. That was it.”
Or maybe open up a new one, Crawford thought. “And you didn’t happen to ask him what he meant by that?”
“No,” Susie said.
“Mrs. Loadholt,” Ott waded in again, “did Clyde say anything recently about someone he might have had trouble with, a disagreement with, or mention anyone who might have threatened him?”
Susie shook her head and sniffled again as her sister planted yet another kiss on her rouged cheek.
“How about back when he was police chief?” Crawford asked. “I know that was quite a while ago, but was there ever anyone he told you about, someone who, as my partner asked, might have threatened him or posed a danger to him?”
“Oh my God, that was ten years ago,” the sister said. “How could she possibly remember?”
“Enough, Mavis,” said Susie, turning to Crawford. “No, I don’t remember anything at all like that. Clyde didn’t exactly go around arresting hard-core criminals. It was Palm Beach, after all. He was—well, you know, the chief. Spent most of his time supervising his men. Probably the same as Norm Rutledge.”
Crawford nodded. “Mrs. Loadholt, please understand, we have to ask you a few tough questions.”
“I’m a big girl, Detective.”
“Did Clyde, as far as you know, owe anyone money?”
Mavis burst out laughing.
“What’s so damn funny?” Susie Loadholt turned to her sister.
“You know perfectly well,” Mavis said. “Clyde never spent a dime. So how could he ever owe anyone money?”
Susie squinted her eyes and balled up her fists. “Why don’t you just say he was cheap, Mavis,” Susie said. “Did it occur to you that the poor man just died. I mean, for God’s—”
“You’re right,” Mavis patted her sister’s arm. “I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet.”
Crawford glanced over at Ott who was scratching away at his notebook and trying to hide a smirk.
“Mrs. Loadholt,” Crawford began again, “by any chance, did Clyde gamble at all?”
Susie drew her head back. “If you want to call a friendly poker game where you’d win or lose fifty dollars, then, yes, he gambled.”
“But not any trips to Las Vegas or betting with bookies, anything like that?”
Mavis looked like she wanted to jump in but was biting her tongue.
“Mostly he just liked to do his Sudoku and watch baseball on TV,” Susie said.
Mavis couldn’t hold back. “Football too,” she added.
Susie turned on her. “Jesus, Mavis, who was married to him? You or me?”
“Just sayin’ he was a big Dolphins fan.”
Susie shook her head, threw up her hands, and gave Crawford a tired look. “Maybe you should be interviewing her.”
END OF EXCERPT
Palm Beach Bones is now available on Amazon in eBook and paperback.
About the Author
A native New Englander, Tom dropped out of coll
ege 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
