by Tom Turner
“I really miss our meetings on the Revenge,” Rose Clarke said.
The Mentors—minus one—were meeting in Rose’s living room. It was ten in the morning and they were drinking coffee, with the exception of Diana Quarle, who had a teacup and saucer in her lap.
“I know, with that nice James always ready to fetch you another drink,” Diana said.
“So what’s the latest?” Elle T. Graham asked. “I’ve been out of town.”
“Well, if you go by what you read in the Morning News, Beth was pretty justified in doing what she did,” Rose said. “I mean, getting raped at seventeen with her grandfather, the police chief, right there. Not doing a thing to stop it.”
“Question is, is the reporter getting his info from Beth’s defense attorney or from people who were actually there when it happened?” Marla Fluor asked.
“Good point,” Rose said.
Marla was shaking her head. “Can you imagine a life like that?” Fluor said. “Reading between the lines, she had to be a prostitute just to stay alive.”
“You don’t even need to read between the lines,” Elle said. “The reporter pretty much said it.”
“The tip-off was that time she beat the hell out of that guy in the hotel in Atlanta,” Rose said. “I mean, that was just pure rage pouring out. Like that guy represented a lot of men in her early life.”
“Yeah, like her grandfather and that judge, for starters,” Marla said.
They all nodded.
“You know, I have a theory,” Rose said.
“Okay, let’s hear it,” said Diana.
“I’m guessing that the writer Beth discovered—up in wherever-the-hell-it-was, Michigan—was really Beth spilling her sad tale,” Rose said. “Seemed pretty autobiographical, right?”
“Holy shit,” Marla said. “I think you’re right. Which is why she was never gonna meet with us.”
“Exactly,” Rose said.
“Brilliant theory, Rose. So you think the book was her way of getting the whole thing off her chest?” Diana asked. “Like a big catharsis maybe.”
“Maybe,” Rose said, taking a sip of her coffee.
Elle was nodding. “You’re absolutely right, now that I think about it,” she said. “Some of those things in the book really happened to her.”
“Okay,” said Elle. “So here’s the big question: do we take our not inconsiderable power and influence and support her. Try to make it so she doesn’t spend the rest of her life in prison or—”
“In prison?” Rose said. “I heard the prosecution is going for the death penalty. She did kill a police chief and a judge, don’t forget.”
“Plus they’re also looking into the death of her husband in New Orleans,” Diana said.
“Oh, yeah, that’s right,” Rose said.
“She had a husband?” Elle asked.
“Yeah, for about a week,” Diana said. “When she was young.”
A long silence followed. A lot of sips of coffee and tea. Several long looks out the window at the ocean.
“Yes, of course, we do,” Rose said finally. “We have to. The poor woman’s all alone.”
As one, the four friends nodded.
Fifty-Eight
Fact of the matter was, Dominica looked stunning in a black one-piece bathing suit. And the woman could water ski like she had learned to do it before she walked. Crawford and Dominica were with David Balfour on his boat, which was a Scarab: fast and loud. It had two seats looking forward and two looking back. Balfour had the wheel next to his niece Lila. Crawford sat in one of the seats, looking back at Dominica who was effortlessly slaloming back and forth over the wake. They were on the Intracoastal Waterway, slightly north of Palm Beach.
Dominica went wide, kicking up a twenty-foot wake. Crawford got the sense she was showing off for him a little. He liked it. She was so damned athletic and muscular. Dominica went to the same gym that Rose used—some little boutique place in Palm Beach—and they had the same trainer. If he had to guess, he’d bet they had an unspoken competition for the best body in Palm Beach.
Crawford had silently rebuked himself before for being shallow. For the emphasis he put on the physical aspect of a woman. No matter how pure her soul, big her cerebellum, or exemplary her character. Yes, he was a shallow man, and damned if he could change it.
Dominica raised her toned right arm then let go of the rope.
“She’s down,” Crawford yelled.
Balfour cut the engine and turned the wheel to his left, circling back to pick up Dominica.
“She’s really good,” Lila said, turning to Crawford.
“Yeah, I know,” Crawford said. “Problem is she’s really good at everything.”
“Like what else?” Lila asked.
“You name it: surfing, tennis, cooking…Scrabble—”
“Scrabble?”
“Yeah, she kills me at it,” Crawford said as the boat approached Dominica.
“That’s pathetic, Charlie,” Balfour chimed in. “And you went to an Ivy League college.”
“Yeah, not a lot of Scrabble courses there.”
Dominica was ten feet away, smiling up at Crawford and shading her eyes.
“Good job,” Crawford said. “I don’t know how you can stay up so long. My arms get tired.”
Dominica shrugged. “‘Cause it’s so smooth. Like glass”
Crawford reached down, grabbed her arms, and pulled her up into the boat. Then he reached over, got a towel, and handed it to her.
She toweled off and looked at him. “Okay, big boy, you’re next.”
Lila had already skied.
“You ready for another go?” Crawford asked Lila.
“I will, but not right now,” she said. “It’s your turn, Charlie.”
Crawford felt suddenly uncertain. “There aren’t any snakes in there, are there?” He had flashed back to a murder scene where twenty-four cottonmouths had been dumped into a man’s backyard the year before. A woman had been killed by them, and when he went to investigate it was the creepiest, most terrifying crime scene he had ever seen.
“A big, brave homicide detective scared of a little snake,” Dominica said with a smirk. “I didn’t see a one…just a few twelve-foot alligators.”
“Seriously?” Crawford said, making no move to take his shirt off and jump in the water.
“No, not seriously,” Dominica said and laughed.
“How ‘bout you, David?” Crawford said to Balfour, who had the boat idling. “Why don’t you go? I can drive.”
Lila laughed. “You big chicken, Charlie. Come on the water’s really nice and warm.”
“Yeah, ‘cause of all the snakes and gators peeing in it,” Crawford said.
Lila and Balfour laughed, Dominica shook her head and smiled.
Reluctantly, hesitantly, fearfully he stood up and started to take his shirt off. “What about sharks?”
“Yeah, Charlie,” Dominica said. “And the Loch Ness monster too.”
“Wiseass,” Crawford said, taking his shirt off.
Dominica tossed him the life jacket. He put it on.
“Get in there, you big wimp,” Dominica said.
Crawford meekly sidled toward the gunwale. Hesitantly, he stepped up to it.
He looked back at Balfour for support. Balfour motioned with his hand for him to jump in.
He did. It really was warm, but the water was so dark. He tried to not imagine what lurked beneath as he grabbed the ski rope.
Dominica tossed a water ski at him. It skimmed across the surface and he caught it.
“I’m thinking maybe get up on two,” he said. “Then drop one.”
“Up to you,” Dominica shouted back.
That really would be wimpy.
“Nah, I guess I can do one,” he said. He got his left foot into the ski. He raised his arm and Balfour hit the boat’s throttle.
He wobbled a little at first, but was able to get up.
He raised his fist, exuberantly to Dominica.
She shot him a big smile and a thumbs-up.
The surface of the Intracoastal was incredibly smooth. He stayed in the wake at first, directly behind the boat, just going straight. Then he remembered back to how rough it was on Lake Waramaug in Connecticut, where he’d first learned to ski. And Lake Sunapee in New Hampshire, where he’d first gotten up on one ski.
Snakes, gators, and sharks out of his mind, he shot across the wake, his legs straight, fast and feeling suddenly confident. It had been at least five years since he last skied, but it was like it was yesterday. He cut across the wake again then cut hard to his left, shooting up a big spray. There was a short pause as the boat caught up. Then it tugged hard at his arms and shoulders and he cut across the wake again. He jumped when he hit the wake and caught a little air.
He remembered his brother Sam calling him a hot dog once. Maybe so, but wasn’t that the whole idea? To push it a little? Hell, worst case was you’d fall.
He whipped across the glassy water—faster than the times before—then cut it hard.
Too hard. His legs went out from under him and he smacked down with his shoulder and head then flipped over. It felt like the wind was knocked out of him.
He looked toward the boat, which was circling back to him. Slowly, he began to breathe easier.
“You okay?” Dominica called out, a concerned look on her face.
He nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said as she drew closer.
“That was quite a header,” she said, leaning toward him to help him out.
“Yeah,” he said, taking her hand. “I was just trying to be better than you at something,” she pulled him up, “should’ve known better.”
David Balfour had two boats. The ski boat and a yacht. A small yacht but a yacht nevertheless. They were tied up at the Palm Beach Marina, two much larger yachts on either side. Balfour was grilling steaks on the aft deck, while Lila, Dominica, and Crawford were nursing cocktails, seated in a semi-circle of plushly cushioned teak furniture. Balfour had mixed up a batch of rum drinks called Southsides, which, he explained, were a drink native to the north shore of Long Island. He told the others that a friend had sent him six bottles of mix made by a bartender at a club up there who guarded the secret of its ingredients like Colonel Sanders guarded his Kentucky Fried Chicken recipe.
“These things are really good,” Crawford told Balfour.
“Strong too,” Dominica said, raising her glass.
“Hey, nothing’s too good for my two favorite cops,” Balfour said, pointing. “By the way, did you notice who my neighbor is, Charlie?”
Crawford craned his neck in the direction Balfour was pointing and first saw the black hull. Then, on the upper deck, the resplendent red Thunderbird.
“No, didn’t even notice,” Crawford said, as Balfour came and sat down.
“So what’s the real story there?” Balfour asked. “I’ve heard so many different things about her.”
“I’ve got to be careful what I say,” Crawford said. “They’ll be a trial coming up.”
“Well, what about the Aileen Wuornos thing?” Balfour asked, leaning closer to Crawford.
“Who’s Aileen Wuornos?” Lila asked.
“Before your time,” Balfour said to his niece. “She was this serial killer who killed like ten men. She was basically a prostitute who would get picked up by men hitchhiking. Then they’d do…whatever they did, and she’d kill ‘em.”
”But what did that have to do with Beth Jastrow?” Dominica asked, looking to Crawford.
Crawford just motioned to Balfour. “Let’s hear what David has heard.”
“Well, the way I heard it Beth Jastrow may have been on a similar course, though she only killed one man. Until the judge and her grandfather, that is,” Balfour said. “And when she was young, she supposedly went and visited Wuornos before Wuornos hooked up with Old Sparky.”
“Okay,” Lila said, “I hate to be so dumb but…Old Sparky?”
Crawford and Balfour laughed.
“It’s the nickname for the electric chair,” Balfour said.
Lila nodded. “Oh, right, now I know what you’re talking about.”
“But,” Crawford said, “Wuornos was actually executed by lethal injection. They stopped using ‘Old Sparky’ back in 2000.”
Dominica turned to Crawford. “Is that true? Beth Jastrow went and visited Aileen Wuornos?”
Crawford shrugged. “I don’t really know.”
Balfour turned to Dominica. “Charlie playing dumb.”
Dominica laughed. “Yeah, I know.”
“No,” Crawford said. “All it is, is Charlie not repeating hearsay.”
“All right,” Lila said, standing up, “I’m going into the galley to make my famous salad.”
Dominica stood up. “I’ll join you.”
Lila nodded. “We’ll leave them to talk about women serial killers.”
The two walked away.
Balfour stood up. “Come on, Charlie, I gotta flip those steaks.”
They walked over to the grill. “Jesus,” Crawford said. “I’ve never seen steaks that thick.”
Balfour flipped one, then the other, then turned to Crawford. “I just want to say two things, Charlie.”
“Okay.”
“First, I want to thank you again for bringing Lila home,” Balfour said. “For dropping everything and doing what you did. And also, for not bringing in the cavalry.”
“You’re welcome.” Crawford said. “And number two?”
Balfour took a step toward Crawford. “Number two, don’t fuck it up.”
“What?”
“With Dominica,” Balfour said. “In case you haven’t noticed, she’s—”
“Trust me, David, I have noticed,” Crawford said. “The problem is my job. I get so damn busy when I’m on a—”
“Don’t be an idiot, Charlie,” Balfour said. “You’re just gonna have to figure out how to make it work. Besides, Palm Beach ain’t Chicago. Last time I checked, murders are still pretty rare here.”
Fifty-Nine
Crawford woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Maybe it was the header he took waterskiing or three of Balfour’s Southside drinks. Then he started remembering the dream. It was one of those dreams where you come close to waking up screaming, though Crawford had never had one that went that far. But still, it was scary as hell—in 3-D and Technicolor. Snakes and gators and, yes, even the goddamn Loch Ness monster in a cameo, chasing him all around the most peaceful, tranquil place in the world: Lake Waramaug in New Preston, Connecticut, where he’d learned how to water ski. It was a CGI-fright world.
“You okay, Charlie?” the voice beside him said.
Then it all came back to him.
It was Dominica. And ohmigod, they’d just had the most incredible love-making session of all time. Must have gone on for at least two hours. Right before he collapsed in utter and complete exhaustion and the ghouls of the netherworld crept into his bone-chilling, forbidding nocturnal world.
He laughed. “Yeah, just had a crazy dream.”
“I could tell,” said Dominica. “Like you were in the middle of World War Three.”
Crawford leaned across and kissed her.
He never really got back to sleep.
At 6:00 a.m. he slid out of bed, got into his well-worn Dartmouth sweat pants, Nike flip-flops, and Fruit of the Loom t-shirt. First stop, of course, was Dunkin’ Donuts, where Janelle, server extraordinaire with the melt-your-heart smile, fixed him up. A veggie egg white flatbread extravaganza—for Dominica. Then the wake-up wrap and the big n’ toasted for him. Oh, and, a double order of hash browns for the voracious Dominica.
Next stop was Swifty’s newsstand over on Congress and Okeechobee. Okay, on a cop’s salary the Sunday New York Times seemed to cost about as much as a cheap Japanese car these days, but it was a must-have on a rainy Sunday.
He drove back to his apartment overlooking the parking lot of Publix when the sappy, old Louis Armstrong song, �
�What a Wonderful World,” came on the radio. Sappy, maybe, but even for a Rolling Stones guy, the song hit the spot. Dunkin’ Donuts five-star cuisine, a rainy day perfect for staying inside, “All the News That’s Fit to Print,” the best-looking, nicest, smartest, funniest woman in Palm Beach—and, for that matter, Florida and, quite possibly, the world. What more could a guy ask for?
THE END
Afterword
I hope you liked Palm Beach Bones. If you did, please leave a quick review on Amazon. Thank you!
Charlie Crawford and Mort Ott return for another murder investigation in Palm Beach Pretenders—now available on Amazon.
And to receive an email when the next Charlie Crawford Palm Beach Mystery comes out, be sure to sign up for my free author newsletter at tomturnerbooks.com/news.
Best
Tom
Palm Beach Pretenders (Excerpt)
One
If you go to the Mar-a-Lago website, you will see photos of catered weddings, which take place at the club. One shows an exterior pathway leading to an ornate, white arch, where men and women are united in holy matrimony. A profusion of palm trees sway in the breeze over rows of white wooden chairs on either side of the path. The wedding in the photos appears to be fairly small, seating a hundred or so guests.
Today’s wedding party was much larger, and the white wooden chairs looked tiny because the average guest weighed between two hundred fifty and three hundred pounds. It was the wedding of the son of legendary college football coach Paul Pawlichuk, who’d recently signed a five-year contract for nine million dollars per year. Rich, the bridegroom, was a linebacker for the Miami Dolphins and made even more than his father, though it was Paul who was the member of the Mar-a-Lago Club. Rich was marrying Addison, the younger sister of Carla Carton, the lead actress in the hugely successful Netflix series Bad Karma. Not much was known about the bride except that she’d recently been a Miss Universe runner-up and was a woman who demanded things be done her way.
Rich’s Miami Dolphin teammates and friends were sitting in the fragile-looking white chairs, along with a number of former college football players who had remained friendly with their coach, Paul. Fortunately, and somewhat surprisingly, as the ceremony came to a close and all rose to watch and photograph the ring exchange and protracted kiss between Addison and Rich, it appeared that all the white chairs had survived intact. The only casualty was the well-tended and recently mown lawn, into which countless chair legs had sunk three or four inches below the dark-green zoysia grass.
