The Serenity Murder (A Luca Mystery Book 3)

by Dan Petrosini

  “Well, you know we made a big push for the futures, and we’re getting sales, but I’ve got to front half the money for all these orders, and on top of that I sunk a ton of money into the catering side of things, and that didn’t exactly work out like I planned.”

  “I thought the catering idea you had was good. You just have to give it time.”

  Barnet exhaled dejectedly. “Time, I don’t have. These bastards here had the gall to serve a pre-default notice on me. Can you believe it?”

  “Default? Can they do that?”

  Barnet threw his hands up. “And we’re only two weeks behind on the rent. It’s crazy.”

  “How much is due?”

  “Forty thousand.”

  “Really? Forty thousand? That’s expensive.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I could help some.”

  “Really? I don’t want to involve you, Marilyn, but I really don’t know what to do. If you could help, that’d be incredibly generous of you.”

  “You know I’d be happy to help you, John. I’ll lend you ten thousand.”

  “Oh, that’ll help a little.”

  ***

  Before sitting behind his desk, Barnet guzzled two bottles of water, attempting to curb a light hangover. He set another bottle on his desk and looked over yesterday’s receipts. Flinging the tally to the side, he opened a red file labeled Futures.

  After scanning the two pages in it, Barnet got up and yanked his office door open.

  “Bridgette! Where’s Bridgette? I need her. Now!”

  He slammed the door and paced the room for a minute until there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in!”

  “Hey, John, you needed something?”

  “What the hell’s going on with the futures?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He grabbed the file and waved it.

  “This. This is what I mean. It’s a joke.”

  Bridgette glanced at the file. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

  “Is this all the orders?”

  “Yes. Unless something came in this morning.”

  “Are you telling me twenty measly orders is all we have?”

  “There’s a lot of competition out there, John. Besides, a lot of people are out of town this time of the year.”

  “You ever hear of the phone? We can take a damn order over the phone!”

  “We’ve, we’ve been talking and emailing our targets. We’re really not doing that bad, John.”

  “Are you kidding me? You know how much it’s costing me to advertise? What’s the damn point of this?”

  “I─I—”

  “Get back out there and sell some damn wine! I’ve got a lot to do.”

  Barnet flopped onto his sofa and had just closed his eyes when his cell rang. He yanked it from his pocket. It was Marilyn. He swiped the call away, put his feet on the coffee table and began rummaging through a bank of ideas he had accumulated to keep the store afloat. After twenty minutes of soul-searching, he got up, opened his laptop, went to Amazon’s site, and began browsing.

  Chapter 9

  Four days later, Marilyn closed the door to Barnet’s office and said, “How could you do this to me?”

  “It was a mistake, that’s all.”

  “I’m so embarrassed, I don’t know what to do.”

  “You shouldn’t be. It was nothing, just a simple miscalculation.”

  Marilyn put her hands on her hips. “My reputation is on the line, John.”

  “That’s crazy. With your money, what do they think you’re doing, stealing?”

  “Of course not. But they’ll think I’m incompetent, and that’s worse than stealing. The philanthropic community is built on trust. Our donors rely on us to be good shepherds of their money. Any rumors or even a whiff of impropriety, intentional or not, and they’ll go running.”

  “Would you stop being an alarmist already?”

  “It’s easy for you to say that, but this is my life, John.”

  “What? Are you saying I don’t care about you? That’s crazy.”

  “I know, but John, this really makes me look bad. It’s a lot of money, and I’m sure people are talking about it.”

  “I’ll make sure Bridgette cuts a check today.”

  “I already reimbursed St. Vincent de Paul.”

  “You did? You ask me, I think you should have waited.”

  “I had to resolve it immediately.”

  “I understand, but I don’t like the way it looks.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at it this way, you reimbursed the overcharge before going to the vendor. It could look a little fishy.”

  “Oh no, you think so?”

  “Don’t get nuts, Marilyn. I’m just thinking out loud.”

  “You see, you see how this could all be misinterpreted?”

  “It won’t be. They got their money back, and you have your story to tell about an overcharge.”

  “Story?”

  “Come on, Marilyn, you know what I mean.” Barnet got up and headed to the wine cooler. “Take it easy. Everything’s going to be fine. Let’s have a glass of white Burgundy. I just got in this delicious Burg from Domaine Leroy. You’re gonna love it.”

  ***

  The following morning Barnet was catching the sun on a bench outside his store. He greeted the UPS man, who was wheeling a stack of boxes into his store. A couple of minutes later, the store manager stepped outside holding a small box.

  “This has your name on it, John. Is it for the store?”

  Barnet took the Amazon package. “No, it’s mine. I ordered a new external hard drive.”

  “Good idea. I need to back up my laptop. I don’t trust this cloud thing.”

  “Me neither. Those guys are going to get hacked like everybody else.”

  “Only a matter of time. I gotta go. The Southern Wine truck is out back with a delivery.”

  Barnet took ten more minutes of sun before going back into the store. He went straight to his office and locked the door. He eased his tall frame into a chair and opened the package. Fingering the tiny device, Barnet marveled at how much smaller it was than the one he’d used before. He slipped the thumb-sized unit and charging cord into his breast pocket and threw the packing materials, after tearing them into small pieces, into the trash.

  Stroking his Van Dyke, Barnet ran through his idea to buy time again. Satisfied there were no holes in it, he decided the sooner the better. It was Friday and he’d see Marilyn later, as usual. Tonight would be the night.

  Chapter 10

  Marilyn nuzzled up to Barnet, snaking her hand down his thighs. When Barnet didn’t react, she straightened up.

  “What’s the matter, John?”

  “I don’t know, not feeling up to it I guess.”

  “Did you drink too much again?”

  “No, it’s the first bottle.”

  She got off the couch. “Oh, well, maybe we just need to open another then.”

  “Or maybe we just need a little excitement to get things going, you know, a little kickoff help.”

  “I certainly hope you’re not talking about any kind of drugs, John. You know I don’t engage in those types of activities.”

  “No way; you know the only drug for me is wine.”

  “Then what are you talking about?”

  “It’s nothing to get crazy about. So, don’t get mad or anything.”

  Marilyn crossed her arms. “I don’t like the sound of this, John.”

  “Forget it then.”

  “Now that you brought it up, you’ve got to tell me.”

  “Well, I just thought, you know, something to start a little spark to get me going.”

  “I’m offended you need more than me to get things going, John. Frankly, it’s hurtful.”

  “That’s the point, it’s nothing more than you.”

 
; Marilyn sat down next to John and ran her hand through his curly hair. “That’s so sweet of you. So, what, inspiration shall we say, are you referring to?”

  John reached into his rear pocket and pulled his phone out. Holding it horizontally, he hit play and a video jumped to life. When Marilyn saw herself naked with her ankles in the air, she screamed, “Oh my God! What have you done?”

  “It’s nothing, just—”

  Marilyn jumped off the couch. “Nothing? That’s me. We . . . we . . . that’s personal. How could you do that to me?”

  “I was only—”

  “Only what? You filmed me without my permission!”

  Barnet shrugged. “I knew you’d say no.”

  “So, you went ahead anyway? And I’m supposed to be fine with that?”

  “I thought you’d appreciate it, sort of a memento. I think our time together is special.”

  “It was; now I’m not so sure.”

  “Come on, Marilyn you’re making too big a thing about this. Everybody does it.”

  “I thought you knew Marilyn Boggs is not just anybody.”

  “I do. You’re very special to me.”

  “I want that video, John, and I want it now. It’s got to be deleted. If that ever gets into the wrong hands I’d be destroyed, and the family would be disgraced.”

  “Okay, okay, I get it. Look, I’ll delete it now if it makes you feel better.”

  “Yes, it would.”

  “You sure you don’t want to see the whole thing? There’s a really good part a little further on.”

  “What’s wrong with you, John Barnet? Destroy the damn thing now or it’s over between us.”

  “All right already. I just thought . . . but, forget it. It wasn’t such a good idea, I guess.”

  “It’s totally offensive. I can’t believe you did it.”

  “I’m sorry, really, I was just trying to, I don’t know, I thought it might be fun.”

  “Fun? Are you losing your mind, John?”

  He hung his head. “Believe me, I didn’t mean to upset you, Marilyn. It was a mistake. I see that now, and I apologize for doing it.” Barnet took the phone and hit delete. “It’s gone now. Can you forgive me?”

  Chapter 11

  Gideon Brighthouse

  I came in from a long walk on the beach. It was so peaceful, I’d forgotten about how hot it was. A swim in the pool would be perfect. I decided to grab a towel and take a dip.

  Sliding a door open, I saw a package on my desk and perked up. The Jasper Johns notebooks I purchased from the Sotheby’s auction had arrived. It was wonderful to be able to submit your bids online and not have to deal with going in person.

  Approaching the desk, I could see the Sotheby package, but what was the other parcel? Picking up the package, it felt empty. I grabbed a pair of scissors and cut the top off the plastic envelope. Inside was a harder plastic enclosure. When I saw the Russian lettering, I dropped the package and scanned the area.

  Shivering with the realization the mushrooms had arrived, I began pacing the room. Keeping this in the closet as I had planned didn’t feel right anymore. Could it be toxic, just breathing around it? Could you even trust the Russians to package it correctly? They probably didn’t care. I’d have to Google if these mushrooms emit fumes that are harmful. Was it even safe to touch without gloves?

  What the heck did I get myself involved in? I should just discard them before it’s too late. Oh man, what was I thinking? No way I can go through with this. Inhaling deeply, I told myself to calm down. I was about to plop on the sofa when I realized I was sweaty and headed up for a shower.

  Halfway up the stairs, I made a U-turn and came down. Grabbing a dish towel from the kitchen, I wrapped the mushroom package in it. After slipping it in the cabinet beneath the cooktop, I went back up the stairs.

  While showering, I thought through a bunch of hiding places. I needed somewhere the housekeepers wouldn’t find it. Keeping it outside the house made sense, but I couldn’t risk the maintenance crew uncovering it.

  Every place I considered had flaws. Toweling off, I mentally rummaged through idea after idea, rejecting them all as I got dressed and went downstairs.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, I remembered this TV show where a killer had kept poison in his kitchen’s spice rack. It was nervy, but I liked it and settled on keeping it in plain sight when a delivery man knocked and slid open a door. He was carrying the pool house’s weekly floral arrangement.

  He placed a large triangular vase overflowing with massive stems of birds of paradise and left. Admiring how the orange flowers contrasted with the black vase, an idea hit me and I went to the art house.

  Flicking on the lights, the building came alive, highlighting its special lighting. I loved this place. How many nights did I sleep in here before the right mix of meds contained my anxiety? Even after things settled down, I’d considered moving in here, but it wasn’t practical. With only a half bath and no kitchen, it would needlessly complicate life, something I needed less than most people.

  There were plenty of spots to hide the slim package. It could be taped under one of the viewing benches, secured behind a painting, or even dropped inside a sculpture. Besides the odd appraiser or insurance representative, no one came in here but me. It was perfect.

  Circling the room, I thought the best place would be to tape it to the underside of one of the velour benches, whose pale green fabric had a couple of inches of overhang. The cleaning girls would never see it. I settled on a bench that faced a Richard Prince piece called Even Lower Manhattan. Dark in both its color red and mood, Prince had inserted an unreadable piece of newsprint by the edge of the painting. The mystery of the piece drew me in every time. I wanted to reach into the painting, pull the newspaper out, and read what it was about.

  The air conditioning kicked on, breaking my concentration. I’d have to wait until the staff left to hide it.

  ***

  Where’s the tape? I needed the heavy kind. Couldn’t trust scotch tape with this, and I couldn’t ask the maintenance guys. After checking all the kitchen drawers, I headed to my desk. Sitting on top of the desk was a box from Microsoft. My new laptop had finally arrived. Tugging at the tape, I opened the box but took a layer of cardboard with it. I froze. No way I wanted that to happen with the mushroom packaging; I could poison myself. If I put it in a plastic bag, the plastic would rip when I took it down, but the original packing would be intact.

  Leaving the laptop box, I rummaged through the bottom drawer for tape and stopped when I found an old photo of Marilyn and me. It was taken the same year we had married, at an event commemorating the one-year anniversary of Senator White’s election.

  The Ritz Grand Ballroom was packed. I said to Marilyn, “I should’ve raised the minimum donation to get in tonight.”

  She smiled. “You did fine, darling. There’s always a way to raise more when you need it.”

  A photographer knelt before us as a reporter from the Wall Street Journal approached. I wrapped my arm around Marilyn and smiled for the picture. The reporter said, “Good evening, Mrs. Boggs. Mind if I borrow your husband for a quick interview?”

  “Not at all. I’ll see you later, Gideon.” She pecked my cheek and made a beeline to Pam Biondi, Florida’s Attorney General.

  “This is quite an affair you’ve put together, Mr. Brighthouse.”

  “People enjoy supporting the senator.”

  “What can you tell us about the senator’s plans?”

  “Senator White is working on a bipartisan plan with Senator Blalock to resolve the immigration stalemate.”

  “That’s a difficult subject to tackle, but I’m interested in what his plans are for higher office.”

  The rumors that had begun to circulate made me tingle, but I had to be careful. “The senator is focused on the second year of his six-year term.”

  “That’s noble, but there’s a rising chorus who say the senator shou
ld run for president.”

  “While that’s a flattering proposal, the senator is committed to serving the good people of Florida and intends to serve his full term.”

  “What if the movement grows? Would the senator consider making a run for the White House?”

  Marilyn was dancing with the aging patriarch of the Collier family and smiled as she sashayed by.

  “This all makes for interesting speculation, but I’d like to get back to my wife before old boy Collier steals her.”

  I headed to Marilyn and chatted with Collier before whispering in her ear, “The word’s out. All the Journal wanted to talk about was White making a bid for the White House.”

  She squeezed me. “Oh, Gideon, can you imagine? That would be wonderful.”

  “I know, it’d be amazing, and we’d help make sure it happened.”

  I tossed the picture back in the drawer, wondering how we got to the point where she was having affairs and I wanted her dead.

  ***

  We reached a tipping point three years ago in March. Senator White was holding a rally at the Naples Grand Resort that I’d arranged, and Marilyn hadn’t shown up for it. I called her several times, but she never picked up. Our campaign had been playing nonstop defense since a pay-for-play scandal had broken. White had sponsored some agriculture legislation that would give disproportionate benefits to his largest donor. The blowback was ferocious. White couldn’t get his talking points across, forcing us to double our efforts to push his agenda.

  The ballroom had zero energy that night. It was the fifth lackluster event in a long week. I was tired and in no mood to stick around for a post-event evaluation. As soon as White went up to his room, I said my goodbyes, telling everyone Marilyn wasn’t feeling good and drove home.

  I can still see her on the bedroom chaise reading. Entering the room, I asked, “Where were you? I needed you to be there. You’re making me look bad.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “Get what, Marilyn?”