“I’m investigating her husband’s death.”
“I thought he drowned.”
“He did.”
“Then how come you’re investigating an accident?”
With his smart-ass attitude, I liked this young punk less by the minute. “What makes you think it was an accident?”
His ego deflated slightly and his dark eyes took on a hint of wariness. “They said so on television.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear on TV.”
He dropped the bag of rackets onto the dock planking and crossed his arms in a defensive posture. “So why are you talking to me?”
“I understand you and Mrs. Lovelace are…close.” I was fishing here, but I often came up with prize catches that way.
He colored beneath his tan. “Hey, I may be boinking Samantha, but I had nothing to do with her husband. I don’t even know the man.”
“Funny how that works. Where were you Thanksgiving?”
“At home. It was my day off.”
“You spent the day alone?”
“Yeah. So what?”
“Did you take your boat out?”
He paused, as if weighing his reply. He didn’t seem the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he had to know I could get the answer to my question from the marina attendant.
“Yeah, I was on the water in the afternoon.”
“Lots of water out there. Can you be more specific?”
“I was just cruising. Dropped anchor off Caladesi Island for a while to check out the babes on the beach, but I was home by dark.”
Only a narrow pass, not deep enough for most boats, separated Caladesi Island from the northern tip of Pelican Beach where the Lovelace home was located. Racket Man could have been in and out of the Lovelace place in minutes, with no one the wiser.
“I suppose the marina attendant can verify you were docked before nightfall?” I asked.
He looked flustered. “Jake doesn’t see everything.”
I considered the heavy gold chain around Alberto’s neck, the gold-and-stainless-steel Rolex on his wrist, and the wink of a diamond stud in his ear. The boy obviously enjoyed the finer things in life. But was he willing to kill for them?
“I hear you’re from Argentina. How come you don’t have an accent?”
He tossed his carryall into the boat and frowned. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Humor me.”
“I grew up in Miami, but my parents are from Argentina. What’s the harm in letting the ladies think I’m from South America?”
“One lie often leads to more.”
“I’m going to be late for work, and that’s no lie. Are we through here?”
“One more question. Are you in love with Samantha Lovelace?”
Emotions rippled across his face. Anger? Guilt? I couldn’t tell. He broke eye contact and gazed down the canal toward the sound. “My feelings toward Samantha are none of your business.”
“Guess again, pal. When her husband’s been murdered, everything about anyone who knows her is my business.”
“You’re wasting your time with me.” Alberto cast off the lines and boarded the boat. The roar of its powerful engines made further conversation impossible, so I stood and watched him maneuver the long, sleek craft out of its slip toward open water.
Alberto Suarez was no innocent, of that I was certain, but I had no evidence to prove he was a killer.
By 10:00 a.m. I was waiting at the entrance to Macy’s and watching the ice skaters on the mall’s central rink. I’d checked with Jake, the marina attendant, before leaving Pirate’s Cove, but he hadn’t witnessed Alberto’s return yesterday and couldn’t give me a time. He could only verify that the cigarette boat had been in its slip when he clocked out at 8:00 p.m.
Caroline was late, so I entertained myself by people watching. The mall’s customers were a cross section of Pelican Bay’s population. Gray-haired seniors in Bermuda shorts and sturdy Reeboks power walked their way around the rink. A few broke off at the food court, apparently anxious to replenish the calories they’d just burned. Young couples pushed baby strollers loaded not only with their offspring but enough paraphernalia for a safari.
A knot of teenage girls, belly buttons bare and navel rings flashing, walked with the swagger of mall ownership and oblivion to others. One had combed her bright green hair into spikes that gave her a disturbing resemblance to a Chia Pet. Another had a rodent tattooed on her shoulder with its thin tail wrapped around her neck. From my years of experience as a cop, I knew that adolescent rebellion took many forms. Outrageous dress was one of them, and, unfortunately, was often a first step toward even more antisocial behavior. I wondered how long before I’d run into Miss Chia or Rat Gal in an official capacity.
“Sorry, I’m late,” Caroline spoke behind me, “but I couldn’t do a thing with my hair this morning.”
My sister never appeared in public without being impeccably attired and made up and with every hair in place. This morning, she was wearing a heather tweed skirt of muted pastels, a crisp white blouse and a dusty-pink suede blazer with matching pumps. I thought her a bit overdressed for the mall.
“Don’t you have a hair salon appointment this afternoon?” I asked. She probably cleaned house before the maid arrived, too.
She was eyeing my hair with obvious skepticism, and I recalled too late that I’d failed to run a comb through locks that had been randomly rearranged by gulf breezes since I’d left the house at 6:00 a.m.
Caroline opened her mouth and I braced myself for the usual criticism. Instead she said, “Let’s get going. We don’t have much time.”
With me in tow, she sailed into Macy’s and headed straight for the ladies’ department as if she had a built-in GPS. Caroline lived to shop, and I doubted there was an upscale retail shop within a hundred miles she couldn’t find with her eyes closed.
In the ladies’ department, I made a beeline for the sale rack. Caroline’s gasp of horror and quick course correction had me standing in front of the designer collection.
“Hold out your hands,” she ordered.
With a religious zeal shining in her eyes, she picked through the rack, grimacing at this outfit, plucking another to place in my outstretched arms. Within a matter of minutes, I held enough silk, taffeta and chiffon to clothe a Miss America Pageant.
“I don’t think any of these are really me,” I protested from behind the mountain of garments.
“I certainly hope not,” Caroline responded emphatically. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”
I had to agree. If I showed up at the Christmas tea looking like my usual self, Mother would be mortified. And with my undercover mission, I had to blend in. My usual clothes had cop written all over them.
A clerk who knew Caroline by name practically bowed and scraped all the way to the dressing room. “Right this way, Mrs. Yarborough, and if there’s anything you need, just press that buzzer.”
I needed a good stiff drink, but I don’t think that’s what the saleslady had in mind.
Feeling like a child sent to her room for punishment, I entered the changing cubicle. Caroline settled into an overstuffed chair by the three-way mirror. “I want to see each one,” she ordered.
Inside the cramped space, I removed my blazer, exposing my shoulder holster with its Smith & Wesson. Knowing security monitored the room with hidden cameras, I hung my sidearm on a hook and clipped my badge conspicuously to the holster. Caroline would never forgive me for embarrassing her if I got us even temporarily detained.
Forty-five minutes later I’d tried on every dress Caroline had selected, but none, thank God, had pleased her. I wasn’t the dressy type, and I had looked like an idiot in every one. You can put lipstick on a pig, but it’s still a pig.
“I don’t understand why none of these work,” she said. “With your looks, you should be able to wear anything.”
I wasn’t sure how to take that. “You’re the pretty one in the family
.”
Caroline appeared surprised. “You think so?”
“Without a doubt. You could have doubled for Grace Kelly.” And she definitely had the princess thing down pat.
My compliment seemed to please her, and, for once, she smiled at me with affection. “I always thought Daddy liked you best because you look like his side of the family, hazel eyes and brown hair.”
I shook my head. “Daddy adored you because you look exactly like Mother.”
A quiver of insecurity flitted across her face before she composed herself with a stiffening of her shoulders. “This isn’t solving the problem at hand.”
The clerk, anxious to please, hovered in a corner of the dressing room and wrung her hands.
“Look,” I said to saleswoman, “I’m more into tailored. Don’t you have something in a dressy skirt and jacket?”
She glanced to Caroline for approval.
My sister checked her watch. “At this point, I’m willing to look at anything. I really don’t have time to try another store.”
“I think I have just the solution.” The clerk hurried out and returned almost instantly with a taffeta tartan skirt, a cropped black velvet jacket with a round neckline and a sheer, lace-trimmed blouse.
Caroline’s expression brightened. “That might work.”
With a sinking heart, I donned the ensemble and walked to the mirror. The lace on the stand-up collar scratched my neck, further irritating my burgeoning hives, and the flowing lace cuffs practically covered my hands. The hem of the black jacket hugged my waist, exposing the plaid breadth of my hips for all to see.
“I look like the drum major for the Dunedin High School Scottish Band.”
Caroline clasped her hands together. “It’s perfect. All you need are proper stockings and shoes. And your hair and makeup done, of course.”
“What, no bagpipe?”
“Oh, stop, Margaret. You really do look charming. No one will recognize you.”
“You’re too kind.”
But she had a point. If my purpose was to eavesdrop on the latest gossip on the Lovelaces, blending in was key. And if Caroline loved my Bonnie Lassie disguise, so would Mother.
Only one hurdle remained. I glanced at the price tag and caught my breath. “Good grief, Caroline. I don’t think I paid this much for my car. Isn’t there a consignment shop nearby?”
“Don’t be silly. You get what you pay for, and anyone can see this is quality.”
All I could see was insanity, but I was desperate to solve the Lovelace case before Shelton returned from Jackson Hole. And mollifying my mother couldn’t hurt, either. I bit the bullet and handed the clerk my credit card.
I had hoped the outfit was enough to satisfy Caroline, but, enjoying the rare pleasure of having me at her mercy, she stood with the smile of a cat cornering a mouse. “Next stop, shoe department.”
An hour later, with my credit card halfway to maxed out and my trunk full of packages, I headed for the station to meet Adler and compare notes.
Yesterday he’d garnered some interesting info from one of the Lovelace teens’ e-mails. In an instant chat exchange, Emily had written her best friend about how tired she was of her parents’ bickering:
Dad’s almost never home, and when he is, Mom is always on his case. Chilling’s one thing, but the temperature around here is arctic! I think they hate each other.
Do you think they’ll get a divorce?
I don’t like to think about it, but it’s possible. Mom’s so miserable.
And your dad?
I never see him. When he’s home, he stays in his office.
Marital bliss had definitely gone AWOL from the Lovelace house, but I had yet to discover if the situation had deteriorated to the point of violence.
Adler’s task for the morning had been to track down Elaine Bassett and Dan Rankin to see what light they could shed on the murder. Adler was at his desk in CID, filling out reports, when I reached the P.D.
“Elaine Bassett lives on the south side of town,” he said. “She’s in her late fifties, a widow, and she was spending Thanksgiving weekend with her brother in Lakeland. She came back early when she heard about Lovelace’s death on TV.”
He dived into a paper bag on his blotter and pulled out a foot-long sub. “Want half?”
I shook my head. “I picked up a salad at the food court.”
“Mrs. Bassett was really broken up,” Adler continued. “Said she thought of Lovelace as the son she’d never had.”
That comment hit too close to home, so I hurried him along. “Did she provide any leads?”
He nodded. “Once she stopped crying and pulled herself together. Lovelace had a lot of enemies.”
“You make a list?”
He wiped his fingers on a paper napkin and pulled his notebook from the pocket of his leather bomber jacket. “Dan Rankin is at the top.”
“Lovelace’s former partner?” My hives were giving me fits. I had already downed Benadryl capsules, so I reached into my desk for backup and rubbed lotion onto my forearms. “Is Rankin still ticked because Lovelace bought him out before Your Vacation Channel went big?”
Adler nodded and fixed me with a stare. “You ever considered the irony?”
“Of Rankin’s missing out on a fortune?”
Adler shook his head. “Of a homicide detective allergic to murder.” He circled his face with his index finger, alerting me that my splotches had spread.
I slathered lotion on my cheeks and forehead and made a mental note to wash my face before dressing for the tea. Otherwise, I’d arrive at the yacht club looking like the queen of the zombies.
“Rankin visited Lovelace at his office the day before Thanksgiving,” Adler said. “They met behind closed doors, but Mrs. Bassett could hear that they were having a knock-down-drag-out fight. Said it got so bad, she was on the verge of calling security when Rankin stormed out.”
“Same old grudge?”
“Variation on a theme. Rankin needed a loan. Lovelace wouldn’t give it. Rankin was royally pissed because he’d loaned Lovelace the money to start Your Vacation Channel. He expected some quid pro quo. Lovelace told him to take a hike.”
“Bassett told you all this?”
“She wants Lovelace’s killer caught, and she thinks Rankin’s our man.”
“He apparently has motive.”
“Mrs. Bassett heard him threaten Lovelace as he was leaving. Said he’d see him in hell.”
“Did you get Rankin’s side of the story?”
“Tried, but no luck. According to his neighbors, the Rankins are in Atlanta. Won’t be back until next week.”
“When did they leave?”
“Early yesterday morning.”
“So Rankin was in town at the time of the murder?”
“Yeah.” Adler looked as pleased as a kid with a new puppy. “And you’re going to love this. After talking to their neighbors, I snooped around the outside of Rankin’s house. He lives on a canal in the neighborhood just south of Pelican Point.”
“He has access to the water?”
Adler nodded. “Rankin owns his own dock. Where he moors his ski boat.”
CHAPTER 8
The only thing worse than a murder investigation with no hot leads is a murder investigation with too many hot leads. As I dressed for the Christmas tea, I considered the plethora of suspects Mrs. Bassett had provided Adler. Not only did Rankin hate Lovelace’s guts, the cable guru had a long list of disgruntled employees. But with Alberto and Rankin having motive, means and opportunity in the form of ski boats, I intended to concentrate on them—unless my undercover assignment at the yacht club guided me in another direction.
When I reached the clubhouse portico, the valet was the same one who’d been held at gunpoint by thugs a few weeks earlier when I’d intervened. He all but hugged me when I got out of my car. I’d have parked it myself, but I doubted I’d make it back across the street without breaking my neck or an ankle in the black suede stiletto hee
ls Caroline had picked out.
The teen gave my Highland fling outfit the once-over and me a thumb’s-up. “Looking good, Detective Skerritt!”
I put my finger to my lips. “Just Ms. Skerritt today, okay?”
He winked and nodded, then leaned closer and whispered in my ear, “You packing heat?”
The comfortable bulk of my Smith & Wesson nestled beneath my jacket. “Think I’ll need it for this hen party?”
“You never know,” he said with a shiver. “Get this many females in one room, you’re asking for trouble.”
I climbed the steps to the lobby, hoping to find answers, not trouble.
Mother was the first person I encountered. She was standing with the other members of her committee in a receiving line. I had to give Caroline fashion credit, because the old girl did a double take before recognizing me. With amazing quickness for a woman in her eighties, she hurried over, grabbed me by the elbow and steered me to a corner.
“What are you doing here?”
I attempted to appear innocent. “I thought you’d be glad to see me. You’ve been asking me to attend the Christmas tea for over twenty years. I decided to honor your request.”
Her eyes narrowed. “The Lovelaces aren’t here.”
“Of course not, under the circumstances.”
“And I don’t want you questioning my friends.”
I crossed my heart. “No questions, I promise.”
But only because at the first hint of interrogation, the mouth of every woman in the room would close tighter than a miser’s fist. I planned to be a very good listener.
“I’m aware that you’re unhappy with my investigation, Mother, but I also know you want me to find Vincent Lovelace’s killer and to make certain Samantha and her girls aren’t in danger. I’m going to do my best, but first I wanted to do something for you.”
Mother’s skeptical expression didn’t waver, so I kept talking. “That’s why I’m here. I even splurged on a new outfit for the occasion. How do you like it?”
I tried not to wince, recognizing that behind my verbal tap dance was a pathetic need for approval.
Holidays Are Murder Page 8
