Bonita Palms

by Hal Ross

  I turned once more to the board. “Victim number two, Cynthia Gladstone, sixty-three years old.”

  “DOD—January 17th,” Scott Wellington said. “Same cause—blunt force trauma. Same time of day as the first homicide. Alone in the house. Husband out on an errand. But he’s proving to be beyond reproach. I’ve looked into every facet of his life. Couldn’t find a dent. Not a tax bill unpaid. No hint whatsoever of suspicious activity in his past.”

  “Okay, that leaves us with the third and latest victim—Jill Derbyshire.” I stepped closer to the corkboard and tapped her photograph. The woman seldom looked her age until now.

  “Bludgeoned to death with her own golf club,” Pederson stated ruefully. “January 25. Just before nightfall. Husband, Jack, alibied up at an AT&T reunion. He flew back to town the minute his wife’s murder was discovered. And he’s still in pretty bad shape. However, our investigation turned up a financial problem the Derbyshire’s were facing, something that could have ruined them. Jack is the beneficiary of his wife’s million-dollar insurance policy, which I find a little too convenient.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “These little peccadilloes, so to speak, with at least two of the husbands, give us something to consider. Substantiated alibis notwithstanding, nothing should be overlooked.” I took a few steps back. “Let’s move on,” I said, directing their attention to an entirely different set of photographs.

  “Harold Brown, electrician with Florida Power and Light, is one suspect.” I paused and pointed to his picture on the board, that of a handsome man in his late-forties. “We know he doesn’t have a credible alibi so he’s worth a further look. And then there’s Turk Lagerfeld, technician with Comcast. Brad—you said something was off when you re-interviewed him?”

  “Yes, and he had a vibe coming off him. Deep rooted anger or bitterness. Physically, he’s an imposing guy. Not someone you’d want to meet alone in a dark alley. A definite hatred of the opposite sex. I’m investigating his background.”

  “Good.” I looked at my watch. “That’s enough for today. But there’s one other thing I need to mention.” Be careful, a voice in my head warned, you’re on shaky ground. “Should Hank Broderick ask questions about our investigation, you refer him to me posthaste. Don’t divulge any information to him whatsoever.”

  * * *

  I waited for both men to leave, then leaned back in my chair and cupped my hands behind my head. My gut was telling me that the only true suspect we had was Cathy’s husband—Frank Sinclair. I theorized that his plan all along was to murder his wife. Or, more likely, he’d paid an accomplice to kill her—a hitman-for-hire. A professional clever enough to leave no evidence behind.

  I’d solved some major crimes in my day, especially in Chicago. Murder for personal gain, for revenge, or simply for the thrill of it all. Perps who were more intelligent than most, or plainly psychotic. I’d seen every type. And I wasn’t going to let this bastard—be it Frank Sinclair or someone else—get away with it.

  19

  February 13

  Her car was a blue C-class Mercedes. Not a popular color in Southwest Florida, where white dominated. But Bill Miller wouldn’t have had a problem following his wife no matter what color of car she was driving. Barbara tended to go slow. Turtle slow. Bill figured he could pull over and nap for five minutes and still be able to keep up with her.

  In and out of traffic. From 41, to Bonita Beach Boulevard, to 75. Then south for a few miles until she reached the Immokalee exit. West from there for ten minutes until Barbara pulled into a non-gated community.

  Bill hung back. His wife knew his car, of course, even if there were a disproportionate number of Bentleys in this part of Florida compared to the rest of the country.

  He pulled in behind a delivery truck and parked. He was half a block down from the house Barbara was visiting. From where he sat, he had a clear line of sight. He observed his wife in the driveway fishing for something in her car, most likely her purse. She finally stepped out. Bill couldn’t positively tell from the distance he was at, but he was fairly sure she was wearing a smile of anticipation. There was even a sprightliness in her step as she approached the front door.

  The minute she entered the house, Bill put his car in gear and moved closer, until he was near enough to identify whoever might show up next.

  He turned off the motor and went to lean back, when he doubled over in pain. He punched the dash as hard as he could. Then again and again, until shockwaves ran up and down his arm.

  He’d been holding off making the appointment with his doctor. Bill suspected his cancer had metastasized, but he didn’t want to know, even though the pain was getting worse. This wasn’t what he’d envisioned for his retirement. Back in his twenties his moniker had been “Ironman Bill.” He’d had the world by the balls and thought he’d live forever. Now he was in ill health and his financial world was crumbling, with too many losses and not enough new suckers to keep the money rolling in.

  “Fuck!” he swore aloud. The hurt wouldn’t subside. He held on to the steering wheel with all his might. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, a doctor had counseled. And he tried it … didn’t do a bit of good.

  He electronically adjusted his seat, leaned back, and brought his legs up. He was contemplating returning home when a red Ford Focus pulled into the driveway.

  That’s not Frank Sinclair’s car. Bill recognized June Adams immediately, the assistant pro at Bonita Palms, as she got out of the vehicle. Why is SHE meeting with my wife?

  His cheeks flushed. To buy a house, you idiot! Here he was, thinking the worst of Barbara, when she was actually working.

  He started the car, then hesitated. What if this was only the first of two meetings his wife had arranged? Number one being business, number two pleasure?

  He shut off the motor and turned the radio on to 101.9. A song by a new artist he didn’t know was playing and he liked it. His favorite country station seldom disappointed.

  * * *

  Bill nodded off. Half in, half out of dozing, he heard women’s laughter. He opened his eyes, checked his watch, and was surprised to see that two hours had gone by. The women were just exiting the home, giggling like schoolgirls. An awfully long time spent on looking at a house, Bill figured.

  Both women hesitated, embraced, looked lovingly into each other’s eyes, then passionately kissed in the open doorway.

  Bill recoiled in shock.

  The kiss lingered, with tongues teasing.

  He wanted to vomit. He wanted to laugh. Or cry. He wanted to take his wife’s neck in his hands and wrench her head off her body. It was one thing to discover her affair with Frank Sinclair. But this? Cheating with a woman? Not simply a cuckold. Good God in Heaven! This made him … he couldn’t even think of a word for it.

  After June Adams got into her car and drove off, Bill fired up the Bentley and floored it, tires squealing. He didn’t slow for yellow lights turning to red, barely able to focus.

  As if on automatic pilot, the car brought him home to Augusta. Bill left the vehicle in the driveway, hopped out and slammed the door. Once inside the house he made a beeline for the master bedroom.

  A few of Barbara’s favorite things rested on the bureau next to her side of the bed. A musical jewelry box with a windup ballerina, an acrylic flower grouping, and a delicate Venus de Milo glass statue.

  Bill grabbed the statue and his rage propelled him into Barbara’s bathroom. He heaved the statue—an antique his wife had found in Istanbul—at the mirror. There was a tremendous popping sound as the glass shattered, shards of statue and mirror flying in all directions, almost catching Bill in the face as he ducked.

  Out of the house and back into his Bentley, Bill felt no satisfaction from what he’d done; none whatsoever. Frustration and anger were so deeply rooted, he realized it wasn’t likely to go away anytime soon, not unles
s he achieved the revenge he so desperately craved; payback that was long overdue.

  20

  February 16

  Mayor Hillier confronted me in my office at 9:00 a.m. Without saying a word he waved both local newspapers—one from Fort Myers, the other from Bonita Springs—each called the News Press. I was seated at my desk, but even from an odd angle I could make out the headlines.

  SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT AT A LOSS!

  SERIAL KILLER STILL ON THE LOOSE!

  I held back my anger. The intention of the press was to sell newspapers. I couldn’t fault them for doing their job. But it was the mayor who got to me; his desire to assign blame.

  Sweat was already dripping off the man’s pudgy cheeks, his hands in constant motion. Like a litany, he listed the lack of results, harping back to Cathy Sinclair’s murder and describing it in minute detail. “My constituents are fed up,” he continued. “I hear by the grapevine that a petition’s been started, calling for my removal from office. Me! When you’re the deputy sheriff! When it’s you who should’ve had this investigation wrapped up long before now!”

  I was about to suggest that the man take a seat before having a coronary when he did exactly that, then removed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped his brow.

  “You leave me no choice,” he said as if this was actually difficult for him. “Change was inevitable. As of this moment, you’ll no longer fill the role of lead investigator. That position has been transferred to Hank Broderick. It’ll be up to him to utilize your services as he sees fit.”

  Sonofabitch! I suspected this was coming but was still blown away by his audacity. “No,” I said calmly.

  “What’s that?”

  “This isn’t a decision you can make.”

  “Oh? Wanna bet? It’s already been made.”

  * * *

  I picked up the phone and called Sara Churchill. She’d been less cool to me lately. I’d racked my brain trying to recall what had happened that night at her house, even went so far as to ask her about it. All she’d say was that I shouldn’t pretend I didn’t know.

  She answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “How about lunch?”

  “Sorry, I’m tied up.”

  “I need to ask you something.”

  “Can’t you ask it over the phone?”

  There was nothing to ask; I just wanted her company. “Not really.”

  “Then let’s make it another time.”

  “Sure.”

  I came to my feet and took the stairs, hurtling downwards like a man on a mission. I had to get out of there. Out of my office, out of the building; away from everyone.

  I walked briskly with no destination in mind. The first restaurant I passed had a large Heineken sign in the window.

  One beer might do the trick, I figured. The next showcased Bud Lite.

  The longer I walked, the worse it got. From beer to bourbon to vodka: advertisements everywhere, teasing. I turned and retraced my steps.

  * * *

  Late afternoon I drove out to a small church off Daniel’s Parkway to an AA meeting with an open invitation sponsored by the Salvation Army of Fort Myers.

  We were a baker’s dozen including myself, gathered in the recreation room. A fifty-something-year-old woman was the first to speak. Thin, brown unruly hair, turtle-shelled glasses, she sounded miserable, talking about her kids being taken away from her.

  After fifteen minutes, an African American gentleman in his late sixties or early seventies spoke of the demon rum. “I had the bottle to my lips,” he said. “I knew better than to drink, but the devil had his way with me…” and he droned on in misery.

  The next person to speak was a man around forty, with full head of dirty brown, uncombed hair and a deep, baritone voice. “I fell off the wagon and went on a bender that lasted over a month, maybe longer. Finally, I pulled myself together and sobered up … completely. But my wife left me anyway. Took the only people that matter to me—my son and daughter. So why even try to stay sober? There’s no justice in this world. Might as well drink as not.”

  A few people in the room started talking at once, offering suggestions and words of encouragement. The moderator had to remind them they were not supposed to try and give advice. By now, I’d stopped listening. It wasn’t only the stories that were getting me down. My mind was in a fragile state and I had no idea how to fix it.

  * * *

  Night had fallen by the time I left the church. There was a haze in the sky foreboding bad weather for tomorrow. I didn’t once pause to consider where I was going.

  Inside Costco, I drifted over to the one area of the warehouse I had no business being. Rum and scotch. Vodka, gin, Canadian whisky. Bottles positioned like impeccable centurions, row upon row, for the most or least discriminating taste.

  The forty-ouncer of Jack Daniels was in my hands; it took willpower not to open it on the spot, take a long pull, and once more feel the glorious sensation in my throat.

  I headed toward the checkout, my head buzzing. I paid, then started for the exit. There were half a dozen people waiting in line in front of me. My conscience tweaked; I ignored it. My receipt was verified and I was waved through.

  At home, I changed into a tee and jeans and strolled into the bathroom. The plastic container of Narvia was in the top drawer. I carried it and the bottle of Jack into the great room, where I lowered myself onto the sofa, placed both items down on the shag rug by my feet.

  I hadn’t touched a pill in three days. This was the second time recently that I’d tried going without. It was more than what it did to my stomach. I’d been experiencing blackouts lately, periods of time where I couldn’t remember where I was or what I’d done.

  Which poison is better? I questioned.

  I grew up in an Irish/American family. Unlike others of our heritage, my father seldom drank. The truth was, I had no one to blame but myself.

  My eyes drifted back and forth from the pill container to the bottle of Jack. And I knew—deep inside—what the correct choice should be. But something tugged, pulling me in a direction I didn’t want to go.

  I took hold of the bottle. Before I could change my mind, I had it open.

  21

  February 18

  Debbie Stafford locked herself in her bedroom and glanced at her watch. The same Cartier she thought she had lost when she’d arrived for dinner at Cirella’s almost three weeks ago, only to discover it lying on the counter by the bathroom sink after she’d gotten home later the same night. She counted ten more minutes just to be sure. Her husband might have forgotten something, or he might be planning to surprise her. She didn’t want to take that chance. A little while longer wouldn’t matter.

  She was out of sorts today, more than usual. Her morning had begun with a sharp pain in her right leg. Why it always had to be the one on the right was a puzzle to her; more like a burn, it was distracting. Pennsaid, her anti-inflammatory medication, usually did the trick. She squeezed out twenty drops and massaged the clear liquid into her aching limb.

  Then she caught her image in the mirror and reeled back. Hag, she thought. Black hair hanging in clotted strings. Cheeks wrinkled and bloated. Cracked lips begging for a coat of Chapstick. Tired eyes with no hint of warmth let alone life.

  Debbie stood stock-still, staring at herself. She filled a glass with water, placed two of her Narvia pills in her mouth, and washed them down with her obligatory six sips.

  * * *

  Larry was waiting in the reception area of Dr. Susan Kline, an Alzheimer’s specialist. The doctor had come recommended. Larry felt guilty about going behind his wife’s back, but felt he had no choice. For weeks, he’d been trying to come up with a reason for Debbie’s behavior; for her mood swings, for the way she was letting herself go to seed.

  “Mr. Stafford?”


  He looked up.

  The receptionist beckoned him to follow her.

  The office was spacious. Picture windows allowed the sun to stream in and fill the room with light. Diplomas hung in glass frames behind the desk.

  The doctor—barely five feet, if he had to guess; middle-aged and blonde— introduced herself and shook his hand. “I understand you’re here about your wife?” she said once they’d taken their seats.

  “Yes, I—” He was stuck for words.

  “Does she know about your visit?”

  “Huh?”

  “Is she aware that you are here today?”

  Larry felt his cheeks burning. “No, I—”

  “No need to explain,” the doctor assured him. “What’s your wife’s name, Mr. Stafford?”

  “Debra. Or Debbie.”

  “And what makes you think Debbie has Alzheimer’s disease?”

  “I don’t know that she does—” he began, then froze.

  “Go on.”

  “Well—”

  “Look, perhaps it would help if I asked you a few simple questions. Would that be alright with you?”

  “Yes, of course.” His discomfort eased.

  “Does your wife respond to her own name?”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “Does she know what day of the week it is?”

  “Yes.”

  “The time of day?”

  “Yes.”

  “The month we are in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her address?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Her phone number?”

  He nodded.

  “How about her date of birth?”

  “Yes,” he said, “as far as I know.”

  “Is she forgetful?”

  “Sometimes … not often,” he corrected himself for accuracy.