The Serenity Murder (A Luca Mystery Book 3)

by Dan Petrosini

  “He didn’t live there anyway. What about the maids?”

  “I’m just about to go through with a housekeeper named Shell.”

  “Keep me posted. I’m going outta my mind waiting here.”

  “Don’t worry, Frank. Take care of yourself first. The case will be here when you’re done.”

  My name was called as I hung up, and I hustled to the window expecting to start my visit. The woman behind the window asked me, “Mr. Luca, did you see the sign?” She pointed to the cell phone prohibition.

  I nodded sheepishly and she said, “But you didn’t understand it?”

  Head hanging, I went back to my chair. After a half hour passed, the door swung open and a nurse with a clipboard called my name. She showed me into an exam room, weighed me, and left, telling me the doctor would be right in.

  Leafing through Men’s Health, a text came in from Vargas:

  ‘Jewelry missing. Talk when you’re out.’

  While punching in her number, the door swung open. Chart in hand, it was Doctor Peters.

  “How are you, Mr. Luca?”

  “I’m okay, Doc.”

  He looked over my chart. “You’re experiencing abdominal pain?”

  I nodded.

  “Take off your shirt and lay down.”

  Unbuttoning from the top down, my anxiety crept up. Would this be a day that would be scorched into my memory bank, or forgotten like yesterday’s morning coffee?

  My back stuck to the paper on the table as Peters bent over me, pressing his fingers into my gut. He moved around in a clockwise, circular motion until he hit an area that made me grunt.

  “Just hold still, Mr. Luca.” He massaged the area and did some type of pinching in the area that made me uncomfortable.

  “That’s the spot. What’s going on, Doc?”

  “Sit up.”

  Sit up? Wasn’t bad news better to deliver to someone lying down?

  “It appears to be nothing more than some scar tissue that has formed adhesions on your abdominal muscles.”

  Phew! “That’s all it is?”

  “I believe so. We’ll do an ultrasound to be sure.”

  Ugh, now I had to sweat another test out? “Can you do it here?”

  “We have the equipment, but you’ll have to schedule it.”

  My shoulders sagged. “I was hoping—”

  “I can understand your apprehension after all you’ve been through, but I’m pretty certain you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  I heard myself say, “Yeah, that’s what the first doctor said.”

  Peters studied me for a second, checked his watch, and picked up the phone.

  “Sue, I need to squeeze in an ultrasound. Is room four open?”

  This was one of the few times being a wise guy got me anywhere, or did it? I could be speeding up hearing bad news.

  ***

  My shirt was only half buttoned as I dialed Vargas on the way out of the waiting room. I paced the parking lot as she explained, “The maid identified a necklace and three cocktail rings as missing.”

  “Is she sure?”

  “Absolutely. Said one of the missing rings was Marilyn’s favorite, a gift from her father.”

  “Can we estimate the value?”

  “I’ve gotten several pictures of Mrs. Boggs wearing the pieces, and I’ll get them down to Georgie for an estimate. It may not be anything, but we also found fifty thousand in cash in her nightstand.”

  “Fifty thousand? That sounds like a lot to me, but we’re talking about the ultrarich here. It’s probably their petty cash.”

  “Kinda what I thought.”

  I said, “Look, we’ve got to alert all known fences and pawn shops in Collier and Lee.”

  “In the works, all the way up to Orlando.”

  “Oh, ask Gideon what jewelers the family dealt with.”

  “Done. He told us they primarily dealt with Thalheimers but had bought things over the years from Bigham as well.”

  She’d thought of everything; it was good but depressing.

  “Frank, you there?”

  “Yeah. Good work. I’ll see you at the office.”

  “How’d it go with the doctor?”

  “All good, just some scar tissue.”

  Hopping in my car, I couldn’t believe the case just did a chameleon on me. Was this a robbery gone wrong? How did a thief, and now murderer, get on and off Keewaydin without being noticed? We’d have to canvass everyone. Someone had to see a boat unless Gideon was in on it. Could he have let someone onto the island to kill his wife and let him take some expensive jewelry as payment? That would make it appear to be a robbery, and there would be no paper trail for paying the assassin.

  As I turned onto Pine Ridge, a pinch in my gut brought me back to the doctor’s visit. It was good news, but I realized the relief that nothing serious was happening with my new plumbing had lasted all of a minute. I tried to understand why, as scared as I had been going in, that I was ungrateful.

  Sitting at the light to 41, I forced myself to believe it was because of the case, but as the light turned green, the truth hit me. I felt I was due a pass after everything I’d been through. The car in back of me beeped its horn, and I finally pressed the gas pedal down.

  Chapter 21

  Luca

  Three days after the murder, I stepped off Naples Pier and onto a police boat for the ride to Keewaydin Island. Normally I’d never consent to an interview with someone I considered a suspect on their territory. However, using Gideon’s anxiety issues and the publicity the case had already attracted, the Boggs attorney had asked us to conduct the interview on Keewaydin. I didn’t fight it. The island was captivating, and I looked forward to visiting as we slowly pulled away from the dock.

  The boat sped up as we passed through the area where the water wavered between brackish and salt. It was a perfect day to be on the water. The Gulf of Mexico was a sheet of glass, and there was only the hint of a breeze. The only negative was the glare. Though I had my Maui Jims on, it was still too bright.

  A maintenance man, decked out in white, met me at the dock with a golf cart. I said I’d rather walk, and he trailed me to the pool house. I knew there was no doubt Gerey had prepped Brighthouse. A lawyer for a high-profile family and a political operative getting their messages aligned made perfect sense but never concerned me.

  The maintenance man two steps behind me, I peeled off my jacket as soon as I stepped on the stone path. The island felt and looked different today. Maybe it was because no other officers were here. I slowed my pace, as there was something about this place. The mainland was visible, but the island was peacefully remote. If this guy wasn’t babysitting me, I’d zig and zag my way to the pool house. As we stepped onto the pool deck, Gerey pulled open a slider and forced a smile.

  “Good to see you, Detective.”

  Reflexively I said, “Likewise.”

  He lowered his voice. “I appreciate you coming alone. Gideon gets uncomfortable when there’s too many people around.”

  “He got lucky; my partner’s in court.”

  As we entered, Gideon Brighthouse rose out of a blue chair. Sockless, he was wearing a beige linen suit and red tee shirt that looked like paint had been splashed on it. Like the island, Gideon looked different today but still didn’t offer his hand. Instead, he swept his arm toward a chair that looked like it was made of rope and sat back down.

  I hadn’t noticed the night the body was found, but there was a series of multimedia pieces that formed a band over the sliders. It heightened the effect that the glass doors were all connected. I’m no designer, but I’d never seen anything like it. It wasn’t my style, but I gave whoever did it credit for originality.

  “Mr. Brighthouse, I know this may be difficult, but I’d like to go over the day and night you found Mrs. Boggs in the main house.”

  Gideon nodded, picked up a Pellegrino water bottle and took a sip. />
  “Let’s start right before you found the body. Where were you, and what were you doing?”

  “As I said the other night, I was here, reading an article about Jasper Johns. I couldn’t believe there was a mistake—in the name of one of his paintings. It’s not a major work, but still.” He shook his head, pausing. “I was sure they were wrong, but before I fired off a letter to them I wanted to be certain I was correct. I have a retrospective of his work. It’s a wonderful book and the definitive reference on Johns.”

  There was no doubt he had rehearsed his recollection, but his manner of speaking was beginning to grate on me. I said, “I understand, go on.”

  “I went to the library to fact-check the Johns piece.”

  “Were you going to bring the book back here?”

  “Absolutely not. I rarely take a book out, unless it’s pure reading material. The library has proper reading surfaces. Some of the books in my collection . . . are quite large.”

  “Okay. On the way to the house, did you see or hear anything unusual?”

  He shook his head. “No. It was just . . . another beautiful night.”

  “When you entered the house, you went straight to the library?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now you’re in the library, what happened next?”

  “Anytime I go to the library, the first thing I do . . . is enjoy my one and only Pissarro, Boulevard Montmartre at Night . . . Impressionism at its best.” He closed his eyes. “It’s wonderful.”

  “I’m sure it is. What did you do next?”

  “I took the Johns retrospective off the shelf.”

  “You said you heard water running and that was why you went into the kitchen. Is that right?”

  “Why, yes. I was about to prove Art Monthly wrong . . . but before I had an opportunity to open the book, I heard what I believed to be water running, and went to check on it.”

  “Did you take the book with you?”

  “Um, I believe so.”

  “When you entered the kitchen, what happened?”

  “I was stunned and didn’t comprehend . . . then I saw the blood. I tried to see if Marilyn was still alive . . . but she had no pulse.” He looked around. “I think I may have panicked a bit . . . my chest was tightening, and with my history . . . I can’t take chances.”

  “You said that you ran out. Is that accurate?”

  He lowered his chin. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Were all the doors and windows closed?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t recall anything being open.”

  “I’m trying to get an accurate picture of your movements in the kitchen. You came in through the foyer, but the island blocked the view. As you went to shut the water off, is that when you saw your wife on the floor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. So, you bent over her and checked her pulse.”

  He nodded.

  “Did you shut the water off?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Gideon’s cheeks seemed to redden a shade. Was he lying? And why? I said, “It’s important, as the responding officer claims neither of the kitchen faucets was running.”

  Gerey said, “Perhaps it was Frank Flynn who shut the water off.”

  “Not according to what he told Detective Vargas. Flynn claimed not to have even been in the kitchen.”

  “I’m sure there is a practical explanation, Detective.”

  “Let’s move on to the staff and any visitors during that day. Who was on the island?”

  Gideon crossed his long legs and said, “No staff. The housekeepers and maintenance crew are off each Wednesday, but Marilyn had her friend John Barnet . . . over that afternoon.”

  This time there was no question, he blushed. “Is this John Barnet a mutual friend?”

  “No. He’s the proprietor of Barnet Wines in Waterside. Marilyn met him . . . when they did one of her charitable functions.”

  “What was the purpose of Mr. Barnet’s visit?”

  “It may have been in connection with an event.”

  “Mr. Brighthouse, was your wife having an affair with Mr. Barnet?”

  Gerey said, “Detective, please. There’s no reason to allude to—”

  “Come on, Counselor. Mrs. Boggs was found dead in her own kitchen. That gives me the only reason that counts. Now, Mr. Brighthouse, please answer the question.”

  Gideon took a series of deep breaths as he studied his lap. “Yes . . . she was.”

  “How long had it been going on?”

  Shrugging, Gideon said, “A year, year and a half, maybe longer.”

  “Was this the first affair your wife engaged in?”

  Gerey rubbed his hands on his thighs as his client said, “No . . . there have been a couple of . . . others, but none that lasted as long.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe Mr. Barnet would want to harm Mrs. Boggs?”

  “John Barnet thinks he’s polished, and he is a leech, but I’m not qualified to evaluate him in regards to violence.”

  That surprised me. He didn’t seem to want revenge or believe that Barnet did it. With all the transgressions, I could understand why he didn’t care for his wife any longer. However, most men, this one included, wouldn’t be able to resist the opportunity to deliver a dose of payback.

  Chapter 22

  Luca

  “I don’t like it, Vargas. How could he forget to tell us that this John Barnet was on the island the day his wife was killed?”

  “I don’t know, Frank. Maybe he was in shock that night. Don’t forget, Gerey said Brighthouse sees a bunch of doctors.”

  “So, you’re saying it wasn’t an intentional omission?”

  “No, I’m just saying this guy suffers from anxiety on normal days. Finding his wife murdered could’ve triggered shock or a mental shutdown of some kind.”

  “Morgan’s gonna love this. First thing I should have done was interview the captain of the boat. Or the staff. For God’s sake, what’s wrong with me?”

  “Let’s move forward, Frank.”

  I lowered my chin and voice. “I think I’ve got chemo brain.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Chemo brain—that’s ridiculous.”

  “No, I mean it.”

  “Really? Okay, what about the fact that I didn’t think of it either? So that makes two of us.”

  “It’s not just this one thing, Mary Ann. I’m just not myself.”

  “It’s in your head, Frank. You’re an excellent detective, the best we’ve ever had down here.”

  “I’m serious, Mary Ann. I feel like I’ve been missing things I normally should see.”

  “Frank, you’ve been through a lot, and it’s normal to feel like it took a toll on you. But I’m your partner, and I know you haven’t missed a step. It’s all in your head.”

  She was something, more than a partner, but I didn’t believe a word she said. I sulked, and Vargas said, “As far as Morgan goes, he doesn’t need to know all the little details.” She came around her desk. “I’ll tell him there’s a chance we have another suspect, nothing more. Be back in ten.”

  “Thanks. While you go, I’ll call Barnet and set up an interview.”

  Barnet was cooperative, as expected, and agreed to come in the next morning. He even waived his right to have an attorney present. Whether it was posturing or that he truly had nothing to fear would eventually surface.

  I checked my phone again. Still no response from Kayla. I had sent her a text two days ago, and she never responded. What was going on? After debating whether to nudge her, I tapped out a text asking her if everything was okay.

  ***

  My mind and my car were racing. Running late to see a house my Realtor said had possibilities, I couldn’t stop considering approaches for tomorrow’s interview of Barnet. Was this case going to take a turn? I always thought there were two types of murder cases: those where the killer was obvious and all
we needed to do was collect evidence for the prosecution; and those puzzle types, often difficult, but that’s where you earned your stripes. It was really satisfying to dig in, investigate a complex case, and arrest the killer. There were actually three types, but we detectives don’t like to talk about those that go unsolved.

  Making the turn from Airport onto Immokalee took a good five minutes, and Immokalee was backed up all the way to I-75. Buying something off this road might be a mistake I thought, as we crawled toward Walmart. Keeping my eyes off the clock was a strategy I used to help keep me from worrying about being late. As soon as I passed the Target Superstore, I realized taking Logan Boulevard would’ve avoided much of the traffic.

  The entrance to Saturnia Falls had big boulders with tons of water rushing over them. I couldn’t decide if it was overdone or not. Like most places in Naples, Saturnia had gotten its name from Italy, in this case inspired by a group of natural hot springs near the town of Saturnia.

  After getting directions from the guard, I snaked my way to number 4290 Saturnia Grande Drive. A horde of kids were riding their bikes in the cul-de-sac about six houses away, confirmation that Saturnia was a full-time family type of community. The agent was walking down the driveway. I could see his comb-over. Didn’t he get the memo that Bruce Willis made it okay to be bald?

  He handed me the listing report and blabbed on about the community’s amenities. I could hear a lot of road noise as he spoke, putting me on guard. I asked where it was coming from, and he said Logan Boulevard was just beyond the house, adding, “It’s only busy this time of the day.” I resisted telling him I was a detective and that the time-of-day statement rang my falsehood meter.

  Since I was here, I took a quick look around. It had a nice floor plan, all open with high ceilings. It was a bit dated, but they had at least done the kitchen, though I wouldn’t have chosen such a dark tile. The master bath had to be renovated, but the other bath and a half were livable. Going out to the lanai blew away any possible rationalization about the traffic. You could almost hear the people talking inside the cars as they went by.