by Hal Ross
The room I’d just entered was golf-club chic, meaning it had little to recommend it. Twenty-four by thirty-six. White walls and ceiling. Large color portraits of Tiger Woods, Jack Nicklaus and the late Arnold Palmer on display. Upholstered chairs were scattered around the room with dozens of flower arrangements placed in-between.
Tables in two of the four corners were loaded with hors d’oeuvres. An open bar was set up in the third corner. I stepped up to it and ordered a Diet Coke. The bartender was a bespectacled young man in his mid twenties. I accepted my drink in a tall glass with ice, left a dollar tip, and walked away.
I circled the outer perimeter of the room, taking note of the individual floral pieces and the cards of sympathy attached to each one. I didn’t feel conspicuous because, other than the bartender and a woman from the club who was acting as hostess, I was still the only guest in attendance.
I noticed the Sony electronic video display sitting on a table by itself in the fourth corner. Photos of Cathy Sinclair played in a continuous loop. Cathy and her husband in various poses. Cathy in tennis and golf attire. Multiple photos of the woman with her daughter and grandson.
I reflected on why the memorial was being held here in the first place: The penalty one paid for having two homes. Most of the Sinclair family resided in St. Louis. It made sense to hold the funeral in Cathy’s Midwestern town—which took place almost a week ago—and the memorial service here in Florida.
Money can complicate matters, I was concluding just as footsteps in the hallway drew my attention. I wondered who’d be first to pay their respects. Would it be Cathy’s husband, whom I thought would have—make that should have—been here by now? Or one of her good friends?
I took a sip from my glass and waited.
Frank Sinclair bounded into the room with a surprisingly spry step. I caught his nod as he acknowledged me. Then I watched him glide up to the bar.
What a perfect suspect he makes, even with a solid alibi, I figured. But before I could take that thought any further, I was greeted by Tom and Denise Gerigk. I shook their hands and offered my condolences. I liked the couple, though something told me that a German Canadian married to a French Canadian would eventually lead to a volatile relationship.
“Sheriff—” someone said at my back and I turned.
Debbie Stafford was smiling. Or what she must have thought passed for a smile. The overweight woman was a puzzle to me. At the moment she was hanging on to her husband, Larry, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. But I knew better, having been called to her house a few too many times; imagined ghosts lurking in the dark.
“Mr. and Mrs. Stafford,” I found myself saying in a muted voice, “I’m sorry for the loss of your friend.”
They’d no sooner left my side when Jack and Jill Derbyshire said hello, followed almost immediately by Paul and Cynthia Gladstone.
I took a last sip of my Diet Coke and returned the empty glass to the bar. The room was filling up. I’d come here today to pay my respects as well as to eyeball anyone who might arouse suspicion. Based on crime scene evidence, Mrs. Sinclair knew her killer. It could very well be one of her neighbors or friends.
I checked the time. I’d promised to meet the medical examiner in less than two hours for an early dinner. I’d finally worked up enough nerve to ask Sara Churchill out. I was surprised when she accepted my invitation. Though, at the moment, I was growing apprehensive. It’d been a long while since I’d dated anyone and was risking I’d make a fool of myself.
My gaze shifted without conscious intent. Sure enough, my eyes made the connection before my brain could register what I was seeing.
Half in and half out of the corridor, Frank Sinclair and Barbara Miller were huddled together. They weren’t touching but their body language spoke volumes all the same. Something in their eyes fueled my suspicion. I figured on a prurient history between the two.
I removed a notepad from my breast jacket pocket and scribbled down both their names, followed by a question mark. Something’s going on between these two, and I’ll need to find out exactly what’s what.
* * *
Roy’s in Bonita Springs wasn’t the kind of restaurant I could afford on a regular basis. But I wanted to impress Ms. Churchill. So here I was, feeling like a school kid, my mind unable to focus.
Even though it was early the restaurant was busy as usual. The lighting was on the bright side. Every seat at the liquor bar near the front was occupied, as were those at the food bar next to it. The main room, where I was seated, had a high ceiling with a few decorative pieces on the walls, mainly photographs of girls or flowers with a Hawaiian flare.
I’d been given a corner table, yet the noise level was still at a higher than normal decibel. The clientele all looked content; smiling, eating, talking. There didn’t appear to be a troubled or disgruntled man or woman in the bunch.
Affluence embodied Bonita Springs, as I well knew. More than a few of the residents could buy and sell me many times over. Why, even the tourists gave the impression of being well off.
“Excuse me,” the waitress said, a cute twenty-something, “your Diet Coke, Sheriff.”
I waited until she placed the drink in front of me and left. Then I asked myself how she knew who I was. Did I have a neon sign that announced my vocation?
“Well, hello,” I heard Sara Churchill say before I even noticed her. “Nice to see you away from work.”
I’d forgotten about her sensual voice. “It is nice,” I said. “Thanks for joining me.”
“It’s my pleasure.” She took her seat.
“Drink?”
“What are you having?”
“Diet Coke.”
“Oh,” she said as if it wasn’t what she expected of me. “Do you mind if I have a drink-drink?”
“I don’t mind at all. What’ll it be?”
“Umm. How about a Gray Goose Martini?”
“Straight up? Olive?”
“How’d you know?”
“Instinct,” I said and smiled. I was about to search out the waitress when she appeared as if somehow cognizant of my need. I placed the order, then brought my attention back to Sara. Her blonde hair was accented by the mauve, silk dress she was wearing, semi-low cut with a dash of cleavage.
“Any progress on the Sinclair case?” she asked.
“Something about the husband, Frank, still rubs me the wrong way,” I offered, interested in her take.
“I thought his friends vouched for him?”
“They did. But…”
“But what?”
“Look—the wrench was his, of that there’s no doubt. And it isn’t likely Cathy was using it at the time she was murdered. Several of her friends told me she’d never try to fix something herself. And records show neither she nor Frank called for a repairman. Nor would they have intentionally left it lying around in the foyer. So how else did it get into the killer’s hands, unless the killer was her husband?”
“And if it wasn’t?”
“Then I have no idea. All I can tell you is that it wasn’t a random stranger. Mrs. Sinclair opened the door for her assailant. There was no forced entry. It’s … frustrating as hell. And I’m far from making an arrest.”
She fake-frowned. “I’m sure Mayor Hillier is pleased.”
I laughed. “The man is a piece of work, isn’t he? Not an hour goes by when he isn’t on the phone harassing me.”
“So, tell him to get lost.”
“I’m about ready to do so.”
“He does the same to me.”
“He does?” I was surprised. It wasn’t the medical examiner’s responsibility to search out suspects, or to answer to the mayor. “What does he expect of you? That you’ll get the cadaver to reveal the truth about what happened?”
“Something like that,” Sara said just as her drink arrived.
&
nbsp; “Well,” I held up my glass in a toast, “here’s to solving the murder sooner than later.”
We clinked, then drank.
Sara used a spoon to gather a portion of the edamame that was sitting on a plate on the table. I wasn’t a fan so left it all to her. Then I asked why in the world she’d choose a mostly male-dominated profession.
“I followed in my mother’s footsteps,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I’m the third in the Churchill family. All women. There was my great grandmother, my mother, then me. Only one generation was skipped.”
I studied her as she talked, again admiring the throatiness of her voice. I picked up the menu and pretended to study it while cautioning myself not to say or do anything stupid.
“What’s so interesting in there?” Sara inquired, smiling.
I shrugged. “Lots of things. Have you eaten here before?”
“Uh-uh. But I’ve wanted to. Why don’t you order for both of us?”
I liked that she trusted me. I placed our order: salads and Roy’s Trio, one of the restaurant’s signature dishes.
For the next little while we talked shop until our salads arrived. Then I caught the way Sara was holding her fork, in her fist instead of her fingers. In an effort to be playful I imitated her. Sara put her fork down, her expression turning serious. I cursed my boldness, especially with someone I hardly knew.
Then Sara burst out laughing. “If you must know, my brother got me into this habit when I was a kid. It’s something I’ve never been able to shake.”
“Oh,” I said nonchalantly, “what habit is that?”
“Very funny.” She picked up her fork and tried holding it the normal way. It fell to the table. “See what I mean?”
By the time the main course was served, Sara was halfway through her glass of wine. After a few mouthfuls, she was praising the food when my cell went off.
I left the phone in my jacket pocket. “It’ll stop.”
“Hey—it doesn’t bother me. It could be work related. Maybe you should take it?”
“Uh-uh.” The evening was going so well I was afraid of spoiling it.
I asked Sara if she grew up in southwest Florida.
“I did. Born and bred here, as they say.”
“Mmm. One of the few.”
“That’s true. Not too many of us natives around.”
The waitress brought menus for dessert. Before we could make our choices, my cell rang again. I was vacillating between answering and letting it go to voicemail, when it stopped.
I selected the macadamia nut tart while Sara chose the sorbet trio. We each ordered a decaf cappuccino.
My attention was drawn to the table next to us. A teenage boy was celebrating his birthday. One of the wait-staff was snapping his picture as he blew out the candle in a hot fudge brownie. I couldn’t help but reflect on my own son, now deceased, and his turbulent years growing up.
I was turning back to Sara when my phone rang a third time. Concern got the better of me. I pulled it out of my pocket and said hello.
“Sheriff—it’s Brad. There’s been another one.”
For a moment, I didn’t quite grasp the meaning of what I was being told. “Another what?”
“Another murder, sir. At Bonita Palms.”
7
Three hours earlier
Debbie and Larry Stafford drove home in silence from Cathy Sinclair’s memorial service. The January weather remained above normal, though the sea breeze had dropped the late afternoon temperature to the low sixties.
Larry parked his 7-series BMW in the garage and entered the house. He stepped into his office after passing through a wide hallway lined with equestrian memorabilia that spoke volumes about his wife’s vocation.
Frederick Farms had been one of the most successful and prestigious racehorse breeders in Kentucky. The farm had recently been sold, leaving the family—Debbie, along with her brother and sister—with mega-millions.
Larry didn’t begrudge Debbie her inheritance. He himself had had a fine career as a real estate lawyer. His only regret was not having children. Debbie had been against it and he couldn’t change her mind. And now they were facing turbulent times. He and Debbie had been married for almost forty years, the first thirty-nine of which had passed in relative calm. Almost a year ago, however, things started to change.
It began with his wife’s weight. It’d always been above normal but now it was ballooning out of control. The more she ate the more miserable she became. When she wasn’t eating, she was praying. When she wasn’t praying, she was hearing voices. Every suggestion Larry made—from updating her prescription medication to seeking professional help—fell on deaf ears.
A wood plaque of Jesus was attached to the wall by his office door. Over twenty crosses and crucifixes were scattered throughout the house. If that wasn’t overkill, Larry didn’t know what was.
Debbie had become maniacal lately, experimenting with hormone replacement therapy, then colonic irrigation, and was ready for whatever next came off the internet. Her eagerness to share her “cures” with anyone who’d listen embarrassed Larry to no end.
Tonight, he knew if he stayed home for dinner he’d get into another endless argument. He simply wasn’t in a mood for it. Larry grabbed his car keys, called to his wife over his shoulder, “I’m going out,” and quickly left.
* * *
Debbie waited for the garage door to shut before exiting the bedroom. She once loved her husband, but for some reason they were growing further and further apart. She blamed Larry for it; every little thing she did lately stirred the hackles between them. She could no longer confide in him. Larry wasn’t the empathetic partner he’d once been.
Debbie was wearing a cotton sundress without shoes. She’d removed her makeup, pantyhose, and jewelry a short while ago. She walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took hold of the Saran-wrapped aluminum container of strawberry cheesecake; her favorite. Rather than cut a portion and serve it on a plate, she picked out a fork from the drawer, took a seat at the table, and gorged.
Halfway through, the tears started to flow. Debbie made no attempt to wipe them away.
She had no idea why she was crying; these bouts just came upon her. One minute she’d be perfectly happy; the next she’d feel this anvil upon her shoulders, as if her world was caving in and there was nothing she could do about it.
She finished the pie, stood and walked into the bathroom. It was big, like the rest of the house. Six bedrooms, a massive great room, an L-shaped kitchen.
Debbie peered into the mirror. What am I? A good fifty-something pounds above normal for a woman my age and height? It didn’t matter. She’d inherited her father’s genes. As her momma used to say—and apropos of someone in their business—nothing wrong with being as big and strong as a horse.
But there was more than one thing wrong with her. She took Meaford for the ache in her joints, Cymore for hypertension, and more recently Narvia for her escalating anxiety. She grabbed the plastic container sitting on the counter and removed one of the white pills. Then, worried it wouldn’t be sufficient, she placed a second one in her mouth, put a half-full bottle of water to her lips, and took six, slow sips. It was never five or seven—always six.
She leaned closer to the mirror and admired the whiteness of her teeth. Her best feature as far as she was concerned. She parted her lips, then stuck out her tongue. She bit down … hard. Then twice more … until she could feel a slow trickle of blood.
She paused and closed her eyes. The tangy taste on her lips was better than anything she could imagine.
* * *
Five o’clock and Debbie found she couldn’t keep the thoughts straight in her head. If someone asked what had transpired in the last while, she didn’t think she’d be able to answer.
She went to her private room as if she had no cho
ice, opened the door and stepped inside. It was of average size, ten feet by ten feet. Desk with computer and a swivel chair. A message board hanging on the wall with a pinned to-do list. Forty-eight-inch television off to one side, with an ironing board and iron positioned in front of it. A floor to ceiling bookcase lined the entire back wall; containing a couple hundred books, most of a religious, occult, and self-help nature.
The Bible Debbie now took in hand concealed a switch that she activated. The bookcase split apart revealing a secret alcove six feet deep. The original owner of the house, a semi-famous novelist, married with four hyperactive kids, had built the room to give him the peace and quiet he needed to do his work. Other than painting it stark white, Debbie had left the alcove empty until a year ago when her religious obsession took hold and she went on a buying spree. A heavy, carved-wood statue of Christ nailed to the cross, four feet tall, stood next to a brilliantly lit alter in red. Everything had been purchased at an auction when the fifty-year-old neighborhood church had closed for good.
She approached the alter and paused. Debbie shut her eyes, brought her palms together and began to pray. Visits to the secret prayer room had always given her comfort. And this was what she needed once again.
All was peaceful. At first. Until she heard a distinct whisper and her eyes flew open. What’s that?
Debbie looked left and right, trying to determine where the voice was coming from. Was it Jesus on the cross? Inside her own head? Or one of her ghosts?
8
8:32 P.M.
Instead of ringing the bell, I knocked on the door. It felt like yesterday that I’d been here, interviewing Cathy Sinclair’s husband. Her closest neighbors, the Gladstones, were good people. They’d been living the kind of retirement most of us would envy. And now that life had been shattered.
