Bonita Palms

by Hal Ross

  Barbara couldn’t say how long she and June slept. All she knew was that the king-size bed was comfortable, and she was exhausted. But it wasn’t the kind of fatigue one complained about.

  The house she was using today—a bungalow in the community of Grey Oaks—was on the market for 4.6 million dollars. Barbara had gotten the listing last week. The owners lived in England for part of the year and were currently on a cruise in the Orient.

  Barbara realized how fortunate she was, to be in her chosen profession. To have the pick of the litter, so to speak, able to use some of the nicest homes for her trysts; with no one being the wiser.

  Well, almost no one.

  The last time she and June were together she’d arrived home in a blissful state only to find the mirror in her bathroom had been shattered. Beneath it, lying on the carpeted floor, were fragments in unique shades of blue and pink that plainly came from the Venus de Milo statue she’d cherished. Valued at thirty thousand dollars, now gone.

  No one had to tell Barbara who was responsible. She’d recently noticed Bill following her in his car. It paralleled his acting more hostile toward her. Nothing was mentioned but deciphering the message was easy.

  Now, as June stirred beside her, Barbara blanked out her thoughts.

  “Did I fall asleep?” June asked hazily.

  “Yes, we both did.”

  “What time is it?”

  Barbara reached over to the nightstand and checked the clock. “Almost noon.”

  “Oh, my God! I’ve got to be at work.” The covers were flung aside, and June sprang out of bed.

  Barbara took delight in watching her. No doubt their age difference—June thirty-one, she forty-nine—added to the allure, helped all the more by June’s near-perfect body.

  She heard the shower come on and was tempted to join her, to have one last go of it. But her better judgment held her back. Mustn’t overdo a good thing, she reminded herself.

  June came out of the bathroom. Barbara got out of bed and approached. She gave her a hug and kissed her goodbye. She watched June leave, already missing her touch.

  * * *

  Barbara was humming to herself when she walked into the house. “Hello,” she called. “I’m home.”

  No answer.

  The door to Bill’s office was closed. She knocked and waited. No response.

  “Bill?” she raised her voice.

  “What the hell do you want?” came his reply through the locked door.

  There was a meanness in his voice that Barbara had gotten used to. “I said, I’m home.”

  “Bully for you.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Bill?”

  “What?”

  “I asked if I can get you something.”

  “No. Go away—I’m busy.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. How are you feeling?”

  “Just … peachy keen.”

  “Honestly?”

  “For fuck’s sake! Can you not take a hint and leave me alone?”

  Barbara half expected the rebuke, but it still stung. She backed away and went to the master bedroom.

  * * *

  The room was large—20’ x 30’. She and Bill each had a sitting area and a private safe built into the wall on either side of the bed. Both kept personal possessions locked inside.

  She glanced at the Picasso print concealing the safe behind it. The contents now included the original thumb drive and a copy of the letter she’d sent to Frank Sinclair. She was owed a favor by an old acquaintance, Patricia Greer, alias “Melanie”. Patricia headed an escort service and her place of operation—her private home—was once raided by the police. Barbara had sold Patricia the property and had been able to reassign the ownership documents to an offshore corporation so that it couldn’t be seized in the ensuing investigation. Thus, it was a matter of calling in a favor. After explaining her predicament, Patricia readily agreed to help target Frank Sinclair.

  Barbara would’ve given anything to have been there when he received the package. The look on his face would’ve made her day ten times over.

  I’ll teach the bastard to ignore me! To use me for more than a year and then dump me like I’m some toy he’s bored with! Barbara may have acted like she wasn’t bothered by it, but she damn well was. No one does this to me and gets away with it. I’m the one who decides when an affair is over. I’m the one in control. Always was and always will be. And now the sonofabitch will pay!

  28

  March 12

  I sat on my couch thinking about the arrest of Martin Williams. It was plainly a mistake that eventually would be uncovered. Meanwhile, Sheriff Norman had been coasting toward his retirement, but with “trusty” Hank failing badly with his perp for the murders, the sheriff would have to soon recognize he’d best step up to the plate.

  Lunch hour came and went, then someone rang my doorbell. I hadn’t bothered to shower or shave for the better part of a week and was dressed in an old pair of sweats, so I was reluctant to answer it. When the person began to knock, I figured, What the hell.

  Sara Churchill—as attractive as ever despite the frown creasing her brow—waited to be invited in.

  I stepped aside to give her room.

  “You didn’t reply to my voicemails,” she said, sounding miffed, brushing past me into the vestibule.

  “What voicemails?” I said, immediately regretting the lie.

  “Only five or six of them. What’s the matter with you?”

  I gave my patented shrug.

  “I was worried about you, Miles. I thought something had happened to you.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just—” It was ironic to find our roles reversed. I’d been the one who desperately wanted to continue our relationship. Yet, knowing what I knew now, that I’d manhandled her with no memory of having done so, made me reluctant to be anywhere near her.

  “Is it because of what I told you?” Sara asked, making the correct assumption. “Because if it is, I’m sorry. I never should’ve said anything. I … could’ve been wrong. Maybe I misinterpreted your intentions.”

  I saw what she was doing, trying to mitigate my burden of guilt. “You scared the hell out of me,” I confessed. “If what you said is true—and I don’t doubt you for a minute—then something weird is happening to me. I need to … find out what’s going on.”

  “What is going on?” Sara echoed with caution.

  “I—I don’t know. But it’s obvious I can’t be trusted.”

  “Miles—”

  “Look,” I gathered myself, then took the plunge: “you’re the only woman I want to be with, Sara. You make me feel special. I very much want to continue seeing you. But you’ll have to be patient. Let me get to the bottom of my problem.”

  “What problem, Miles?” Sara said in exasperation.

  I sighed. “I don’t know what it is. That’s the problem. All I know is that I have lapses in memory during which I do things I can’t explain. Please bear with me. I need time to figure it out.”

  She headed for the door, then turned. “Better not take too long, Miles.”

  * * *

  “Sheriff?” Brad Pederson barked out tentatively, less than an hour after Sara had left.

  Two callers in the same afternoon? Why am I suddenly so popular? I opened the door and said, “I was never sheriff. Simply deputy sheriff. And in case I need to remind you, I’m no longer in that position.”

  “You still are to me, sir. Always will be.”

  “Your loyalty is misplaced. Anyway, what are you doing here?”

  “I need to tell you something.”

  I led the way into the kitchen where I invited Pederson to have a seat. “Still take it black?” I asked, indicating the Keurig machine next to the stove.

&nbs
p; “Yes, I do.”

  The sergeant accepted the coffee, then turned serious. “There’s been another murder, sir. Last night. During the supper hour.”

  My heart jumped. “Who was it?”

  “Barbara Miller.”

  “My God!” It took me a moment to compose myself. “Same M.O. as the others?”

  “Not quite. A knife was used.”

  “A knife?”

  “Yes. But all other aspects match the previous murders—no forced entry, same time of day, murder weapon belonging to the deceased and left at the scene.

  “And the Williams kid is still in jail?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Hmm. Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Brad?”

  “I am, sir. That’s the reason I’m here.”

  29

  March 14

  Larry Stafford was alone having a late lunch in the Bonita Palms clubhouse after completing a round of golf. He’d never had the money or the inclination for the sport when he was growing up. But once he’d entered university he was swayed by his friends to give it a try, and it had evolved from there. The fact that he was merely an average player never bothered him.

  Larry was by himself because the other members of his foursome had prior commitments. He didn’t mind, however. It felt good occasionally to not have to make conversation.

  The clubhouse had recently been renovated at a cost of hundreds of thousands of dollars. He took in the vaulted ceiling, the excess wainscoting, and the rosewood dining tables set in various configurations, seating from two to ten. There was an abundance of mahogany, and more television sets, in more size configurations—all located in the bar area—than was necessary. Quite a room, for those who could afford to belong to the club.

  Such is the prerequisite of a successful golf community, Larry mused to himself. If you got it, flaunt it. Not just a mantra of the nouveau riche, he knew.

  He sipped his iced tea and tried to while away the time by observing the other club members, few of whom were alone. The majority seemed relaxed and in good spirits, enjoying themselves.

  Larry wished he and his wife could enjoy themselves even half as much. The last month had been one of the worst of his life. He’d spent most of his time at the hospital. The prognosis had remained up in the air, especially at the beginning, and he thought for sure he would lose her.

  No one knew exactly what had happened. Debbie was too weak to shed any light on her condition and the doctors couldn’t figure it out, at least not until they discovered what pills she had ingested. The overdose could have killed her.

  Her recovery had gone smoothly from that point onwards. One minute, Larry was having to consider making funeral arrangements, the next he was filled with hope. As his wife’s strength improved so did her mindset. By the time he brought her home two weeks ago Debbie had renewed energy.

  But before long she reverted to her old self. The weight she’d lost during her hospitalization was back, her religious fervor had re-intensified, and her attitude toward him became even more confrontational.

  Enough, Larry told himself. It was too painful to dwell upon his situation. He glanced at his watch: 3:05 p.m.

  He signed his lunch chit and left. Once in his car he didn’t have to think about his destination. He’d been following the same routine for a while. Golf or a movie; often a combination of both, all timed perfectly to get him home no earlier than eight-thirty in the evening. By then his wife would invariably be out of it and too tired to start another argument.

  30

  March 15.

  BONITA PALMS KILLER STRIKES AGAIN!

  COMMUNITY IS TERRIFIED!

  ACTING DEPUTY SHERIFF BRODERICK ASKED TO RESIGN!

  SUSPECT MARTIN WILLIAMS RELEASED FROM CUSTODY!

  * * *

  The call came soon afterwards. “I need to see you,” Sheriff Norman said.

  I wasn’t surprised to hear from him. “Welcome back to the living,” I said with no reserve of sarcasm.

  “I deserve that,” he said after a pause. “Look—I’m hoping you can meet me for lunch.”

  “When?”

  “Today, please. I’m sure you’ve been following the news. We need to talk.”

  “Today’s fine.”

  “Okay then,” he said, the relief in his voice unmistakable. “How about the coffee shop at the Hyatt off 41? It’s kind of isolated. We can have some privacy there.”

  “Sure. What time?

  “How is one o’clock?”

  “One is good.”

  * * *

  The sheriff was already there when I arrived, attired in his dress uniform, so crease-free it appeared to have been ironed less than a minute ago. He stood from the table and thrust out his hand. We shook and took our seats. The strain Sheriff Norman was feeling showed. His thick brown hair was still styled in waves, blue/green eyes penetrating as always. But his easy smile was absent and the haggard look on his face suggested a serious lack of sleep. The man was sixty-five but looked ten years older.

  “I’m truly sorry,” he said. “I should’ve stayed more involved.”

  I waved it off. “No apology necessary. If I was zeroing in on retirement, I’d probably have done the same as you.”

  “I doubt it,” the sheriff conceded. “Meanwhile, Hillier had the authority to act on my behalf but only up to a certain point. He overstepped his bounds when he fired you. I should have told him he was out of line. But the case had stalled. I thought Hank, being fresh blood, could jumpstart it. Guess you knew him better than I did. Anyway…”

  “Ready to order, gentlemen?” the waitress broke in.

  Sheriff Norman asked for the crab cakes and I told her I’d have the same.

  “I want you back,” he said once she was gone. “I can assure you there’ll be no further interference. Not from Mayor Hillier, nor Mayor Torbram. I’m sure you know I released Broderick, so he’s out of the picture. This’ll be your investigation to run, with complete autonomy and my full backing.” He removed an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to me.

  I opened it and read that I was being rehired with a salary bump of ten percent. I was surprised at the generous offer, but not by the news of Broderick’s demise. I’d known his days were numbered right from the get-go. I’d sized the man up as pure ego the moment I met him. Arresting Martin Williams just to make himself look good proved my point.

  “No one gets this kind of increase,” the sheriff said. “And my replacement will have to live with it. Speaking of which, I know you have no interest in running for my job.

  “Well, sir,” I said, “that’s a correct assumption.” And we both had a good laugh.

  “So?”

  “All right,” I said softly, “let’s put this killer behind bars.”

  * * *

  I phoned Sara and gave her the news.

  “This calls for a celebration … like, dinner tonight at my house,” she proclaimed.

  I hesitated. “Not a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “We talked about this, Sara. I still don’t trust myself.”

  “Well, let’s make it lunch, then,” she insisted. “But it might have to wait for a little over a week. I’m jammed at work and there’s a conference in Atlanta I need to attend in-between.”

  I smiled to myself. “Lunch will be fine. And thank you for understanding.”

  I knew this would be my last opportunity for a long while to relax. I spent the rest of the afternoon with the latest novel by David Baldacci. Then I barbecued a steak for dinner, aiming to spoil myself a bit. Afterwards I listened to Harry Connick, Jr. on my iPod, keeping my eyes closed and willing myself to zone out.

  It was early, not yet 9:00 PM, when I went into the bathroom for a couple of Narvia pills, before returning to the couch.
r />   * * *

  I awoke with a start, sprawled out on the carpet and still fully dressed. But my shirt had several buttons popped off and was badly torn.

  I could hear the television but didn’t remember turning it on. I tried sitting up. My head was pounding so I lay back down. I reviewed the events of the day: lunch with the sheriff, calling Sara, reading a book, dinner, Harry Connick, Jr. … What else had I done?

  31

  Earlier the same week

  It was still fresh in your mind, the blade entering Barbara Miller’s body, tearing through cartilage and tissue, the shock on Barbara’s face adding immeasurably to the satisfying thrill of it all.

  She had been effusive when she’d opened the door to her house by way of invitation and announced her husband was out and not expected home for hours. She was dressed as provocatively as ever: red shorts that were too short, and so tight the indent of her crotch was evident. Pink blouse unbuttoned practically to her navel, exposed bosom unencumbered by a bra.

  “Come in,” she’d said with a welcoming smile. “I have beer in the fridge, white wine in the cooler, scotch, bourbon and Canadian whisky in the bar. What’s your pleasure?”

  Your reply was automatic: “Water with ice, please. I was in the neighborhood. Just thought I’d drop in to say hello.”

  “Really?” Barbara said, eyes dancing. “Isn’t that nice. Follow me…”

  She headed to the kitchen and you followed. It took concentration not to act impulsively, your eyes flicking this way and that, searching for something—anything—that could be used as a weapon.

  Nothing seemed appropriate. There were decorative pieces on pedestals, either too big and clumsy or no bulk to them at all. This had never happened before. Tightened nerve ends threatened your control, but giving up was out of the question. And then…

  The knife-block—dark wood with eight inviting handles—SANTOKU STAINLESS STEEL in capital letters—resting on the granite countertop. But you’d never used a knife before so the search continued, roaming every which way until the realization hit that nothing else would work.

  Barbara turned her back and it was now or never; reaching out, you snatched the closest one, with a six-and-a-half-inch blade.