Dead in Boca

by Miriam Auerbach

  “I guess so,” I said. “But who are you?”

  “I have no idea,” she said.

  Despite the pathos of her statement, my ego did a tiny victory dance. My little reverse psychology strategy had worked. I’d set Gitta on track toward a hookup with Matthews, and ultimately, she’d reversed course. Just as I’d intended. Not only that, she’d switched tracks entirely. She was starting on a whole new journey. Mission: self-discovery. Destination: unknown.

  AS I RODE TO my office, I thought through my next steps. In all likelihood, the cops had already interviewed the prime suspects or soon would. I didn’t want to cover the same ground. If I was to discover something the cops hadn’t, I needed to use alternative approaches. That left two possibilities: surveillance and undercover investigation.

  I decided to use the former with the ex-wife and the latter with the ex-girlfriend. Since Martha, the ex-wife, knew me from my past Boca Babe life, I couldn’t very well go incognito with her. Short of tapping her phone, which would be seriously impractical (and illegal, although that didn’t give me any qualms), the best I could do was track her movements and eavesdrop in the hope that she’d do or say something incriminating—or exonerating. On the other hand, a shared past wasn’t an issue with Natasha, so undercover infiltration was the way to go there. Before tackling Junior’s women, however, I wanted to take a closer look at his will.

  I reached the strip mall where my office was located and slowed to pull across the rutted parking lot to my space. A line of eight or so people dressed in torn tank tops and shorts that were either too tight or too baggy stood in front of Carl’s Checks ‘R’ Us next door. They all looked over upon hearing the Hog then resumed their silent wait when I shut down the engine.

  It must have been the end of the month. After removing my helmet, I looked at the date on my cell phone. Sure enough—it was the 29th. Money had run out, and they were seeking advances on their payroll or unemployment checks. Advances they’d pay a hefty interest rate on. This was the thing about Boca—its glitzy façade was built on the backs of down-on-their-luck denizens like these.

  I unlocked my office door and went into the air-conditioned comfort. I left the lights off, preferring the natural illumination coming through the large plate-glass window to the glare of overhead fluorescent bulbs. I sat down, perched my booted feet on the edge of the desk, pulled Junior’s will out of its lime-green folder, and started reading.

  As Gitta had said, Junior’s premarital assets would go to his sons. However, upon careful reading, I discovered that the money would go into a trust fund that was already set up and paying out monthly dividends. The new funds wouldn’t increase the kids’ existing income, only ensure it for the rest of their lives. Furthermore, the will stipulated that Junior’s company was to go public following his death, and the resulting capital was to be reinvested in the business.

  There went the financial motive for the sons to kill their father. I guess Gitta hadn’t been familiar with the details of the arrangement. From the heirs’ perspective, it didn’t matter when Junior croaked. They were set for life anyway. Hastening his demise wouldn’t change anything.

  Junior must have arranged it that way on purpose. I almost felt sorry for the sleaze. Life was pretty bad if you had to protect yourself from your own kids.

  Of course, they still could have done it for some other reason. Like some long-simmering resentment from childhood. But as Gitta had stated, people had resented Junior for decades. So why was he killed now? The motive, whatever it was, had to be more recent. And according to Gitta, father and sons had been estranged for years. So a recent conflict seemed unlikely. I didn’t rule the kids out entirely, but moved them to the bottom of my mental list of suspects.

  Next, I called Enrique.

  “I need to borrow your Beemer,” I said.

  “Surveillance?” he asked.

  “Uh huh.”

  When you’re tailing a suspect, you want a vehicle that’s inconspicuous. A Hog is not. Neither is a BMW 760i—in most places. But Boca is brimming with Beemers.

  “C’mon over,” Enrique said.

  I closed up the office and stepped out into the sauna. The wet summer heat rose off the asphalt pavement in visible waves. When the steam reached my face, it turned into droplets. Then gravity slowly pulled them toward the ground. It was a perfect little eco-cycle right there: evaporation, condensation, precipitation. Why, I could be a science exhibit.

  Much as I love my Hog, I had to admit that riding in an air-conditioned conveyance would be real fine today.

  At the Hilton, I found Enrique in the midst of a crisis involving some drunken conventioneers. He hastily handed me his car keys before jumping back into the fray.

  I went to the parking garage, found the car, slid into the driver’s seat, and turned on the ignition. A blast of cool air and cool jazz hit me. Ahhh. I could get used to this.

  Of course I could. This is how I’d lived for ten years before I’d chucked it all for my Hog and my slice of heaven in the Glades. There I went again with the stinkin’ thinkin’, the process that sucks you right back into full-blown relapse. Get a grip. This car was a cage, I reminded myself. Just like the whole Boca Babe lifestyle.

  I drove back over the Intracoastal and parked a block from the entrance gate to the Royal Palm Yacht and Country Club, where Martha lived in the residence she and Junior had once shared. The gated community is in what’s called “downtown” Boca. Puhleeze. As far as I’m concerned, if you can find a legal parking space, it’s not a downtown.

  I pulled out my phone and looked up Martha’s home number in the online white pages. Then, blocking my caller ID, I dialed the number. When she answered, I hung up. Now I knew she was home and just had to wait for her to emerge. Which I knew she would, since she had to get her daily shopping fix. She was a Botox Babe, after all. Live to shop, shop to live.

  I pulled out a pair of binoculars to check out the driver of every vehicle that came out of the gate. A half-hour later I spotted her behind the wheel of a black Hummer. Her shoulder-length, straight blond hair and oversized Prada sunglasses made her indistinguishable from any other member of her species, but I recognized her vanity license plate. 2HOT4U. She drove, and I followed. After four blocks, she came to an abrupt stop, nearly causing me to rear-end her.

  We sat there for several minutes, not moving. I looked in my rearview mirror. A long row of cars had lined up behind me. What was going on?

  I opened the car window and stuck my head out to look ahead. I wasn’t worried that Martha would recognize me, since I knew she would be too self-absorbed to notice anyone around her.

  Shit! We were waiting in a line for gas. And the station was at least half a mile up the road. Damn it! Martha was doing hurricane preparations. That meant waiting for hours to fill up. Once the storm hit, power would go out, and gas pumps wouldn’t work. So the entire town of Boca had to gas up now.

  I gritted my teeth. Was this really the best use of my time?

  Okay, I’d already decided on this course of action, so I’d better follow through. Stakeouts like this were a definite downside of P.I. work. I mentally kicked myself for not being better prepared for surveillance by bringing something to read or listen to.

  A couple hours later, as I was about to go berserk from boredom, we finally reached the pumps. Martha stepped out of her Hummer. Her slim physique was clad in a camouflage t-shirt and matching cargo pants. She was a perfect 1661: she looked 16 from the back, 61 from the front.

  Based on her auto and her attire, Martha was obviously a hurricane veteran, ready for battle. When resources got scarce, Boca could begin to resemble Baghdad.

  I figured it would take a while to fill up her armored vehicle, so I inserted the gas nozzle into the BMW’s tank and got the flow started then rushed inside the station to use the restroom. When I returned, Martha’
s gas guzzling beast still hadn’t been satiated. I replaced the nozzle to the pump, got in the car, and when she finished, followed her to her next destination.

  Which turned out to be an even greater horror: the Publix grocery store.

  The place was a mob scene on a good day. And the days leading up to a hurricane were far from good. This was precisely the pandemonium I had intended to avoid by stocking up on supplies well in advance.

  The parking lot was jam packed. But Martha was in denial of that reality. She circled and circled like a vulture, yakking on her cell the whole time.

  “You’re driving a car not a phone booth!” I yelled. Like she heard me.

  She stopped behind a woman who was loading groceries into a parked car, her shopping cart in the middle of the lane. Martha put down her phone and laid one hand on her car horn while making rolling motions with the other in a vile yet vain attempt to get the woman to speed it up.

  When the woman was done, she closed the trunk, left the shopping cart blocking traffic, and walked off. Fan-frickin’-tastic.

  Martha forged ahead, pushing the cart out of the way with the Hummer’s massive front bumper. Those Hummers might be useless against roadside explosive devices, but they were perfect for a South Florida parking lot.

  We drove on down the parking lane, only to be confronted by a big-ass Buick headed the wrong way. And no wonder—the damn thing had no driver. Or it had a headless driver. Oh wait—there was a little old lady wearing wraparound sunglasses perched behind the wheel, the top of her head barely clearing the dashboard.

  Traffic came to a halt as Granny, unperturbed, took twenty minutes to execute a perfect twelve-point turn. I used the time to unload and reload my Magnum. Not that I was contemplating using it or anything.

  Finally, up ahead I spotted—hallelujah—not one, but two open spaces. Adjacent to each other. Maybe there was a God after all.

  But my foray into faith was crushed when Martha pulled into not one, but both spaces, neatly straddling the dividing line.

  My hand caressed the butt of my gun as my foot floored the gas pedal. I passed the Hummer, drove to the far end of the lot, and came to a halt in a dirt spot underneath a large tree.

  When I opened the car door, I heard it—a cacophony of birds screeching and squawking. I looked up. The tree was full of them, and more were flying in.

  That made it official: the hurricane was coming.

  I managed to get into the store without being run down, causing me to reconsider my position on divinity yet again. Inside, the place presented a bizarre bipolar tableau—half the shelves looked like they’d been looted while the other half remained fully stocked. Upon closer examination, I discerned the difference—the gourmet specialties were gone, the generic staples remained untouched. No caviar, plenty of tuna. No ten-ounce cans of Fancy Feast, plenty of ten-pound bags of no-name cat chow. No white truffle risotto, plenty of white rice.

  Shoppers wandered aimlessly, looking shell-shocked. I found Martha among a crowd clamoring for bottled spring water. A hand-lettered sign announced that the store was rationing two gallons per customer. It was not a pretty sight as shoppers alternately begged and bullied the poor assistant manager who guarded the supply. Where was the National Guard when you needed them? Oh yeah, in the real war zone.

  Martha pushed to the front and proceeded to scream at the beleaguered employee. “I need more than two gallons. I can only wash my hair in Evian!”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, two gallons is the limit,” he said with far more patience and politeness than I would have.

  Martha stalked off with her allotted amount and proceeded to the checkout line, where she pulled out her cell and started to jabber. I edged closer, aiming to catch her end of the conversation and hopefully get something useful out of this excruciating experience.

  “Yes, I’m waiting in line now,” Martha was saying into the phone. Scintillating conversation.

  My eye was caught by the impulse items displayed at the end of the conveyor belt. I realized I hadn’t eaten all day and grabbed a power bar. Then I scanned the cover of a women’s magazine as I eavesdropped. The teaser titles appeared to have been written by someone still thrilled at discovering the novelty of numerals. 66 Sex Positions in 66 Days! Ten Tongue Tricks to Drive Him Wild! Five Fateful Signs He’s Cheating on You!

  How about One Hundred Ways to Use This Rag Other Than Reading It? Kindle a fire . . . Line a birdcage . . . Shove it up your cheating man’s tailpipe . . .

  “I got the last pack of super-premium, extra-life D batteries they had left,” Martha droned on. “I got six Chef Jerome gourmet self-heating meals. Okay, I’ve moved ahead here a little bit.”

  I sure wasn’t picking up any clues to her guilt or innocence. I started to wonder whether finding Junior’s killer was really worth this torture. I put the magazine back in its rack and paid for my snack after Martha had checked out, then followed her to the parking lot, listening to her narrate her actions every step of the way. I always knew she was an airhead, but she seemed to be making an extra effort today. Who was on the other end that could stand this drivel? I was starting to sympathize with Junior for leaving her.

  I kept her in sight as I went back to the BMW. When I reached the car, it was covered in bird droppings, including a big, fat white splatter smack on the driver’s side of the windshield. Great. I got in and turned on the wipers full speed while pushing the windshield washer button. The wipers whipped back and forth like a mad metronome. The result was a chalky smear across the entire windshield. Big improvement.

  Leaning forward to see through the haze, I followed Martha’s Hummer out of the parking lot, scarfing down the power bar as I drove. It was now close to five o’clock. Man, what a wasted afternoon. I hoped she was heading back home so I could clock out.

  But no. She pulled into the parking lot of a large, round building whose wooden sign identified it as the Boca Institute for Group Counseling.

  Looked like Martha was going for some therapy. How exactly would that work? I mean, deep down, the woman was shallow.

  I parked a few spaces away from her then followed her on foot at a distance and entered the building. The interior looked like the inside of a mushroom, with a domed cap for a roof atop a cylindrical stalk. Near the door, a tripod-mounted placard read “Single Women’s Support Group, Mondays 5:00 p.m., Room 102. Open to the public.” An arrow underneath pointed to the right. I saw Martha go into the room. I stayed behind.

  Okay. I was single. I was a woman. I was a member of the public. Hence, no problem. I could go in. I didn’t have to hide my identity. There would be no reason for Martha to think I was spying on her.

  I entered the room, where the late-afternoon sunlight filtered through sheer gold curtains, illuminating peach-colored walls and a cream carpet. Six other women were already there, seated in a circle of soft, yellow leather swivel chairs. They all boasted well-done breast lifts, facelifts, and eyelifts. Since they were sitting, I couldn’t make a determination about butt lifts. All of them were attired in animal prints—a leopard, a tiger, a zebra, a cheetah, a lynx, and a giraffe. To call this pack “cougars” would clearly be an understatement.

  Martha’s camouflage attire added a jarring touch of flora to the fauna. Warring scents of patchouli, citrus, and musk perfumes permeated the room, threatening me with a headache. I fought the instinct to flee.

  A jaguar joined the jungle. She introduced herself as the facilitator and asked everyone to identify themselves. Guess this wasn’t an Animals Anonymous meeting.

  When I gave my name, Martha spoke up.

  “Harriet Horowitz? Is that you? It’s me, Martha Castellano. Do you remember me?” Her Liz Taylor violet eyes (courtesy of colored contacts) bore down on me.

  “Oh. Martha. Yeah, right. Yeah. Hey, you look great! How’ve you been?”

  “Ladi
es,” Jaguar interrupted, “let’s let everyone introduce themselves first.”

  After they had done so, Jaguar said, “Harriet, since this is your first time here, would you like to tell us what brought you?”

  Oops. I hadn’t thought this far ahead.

  “I . . . uh . . . um . . . I have some issues.”

  “Well, honey, you’re in the right place,” Leopard said. “We’ve got more issues than People magazine.” The group burst out laughing.

  “Yeah, well, the thing is . . . I sort of . . . I sort of killed my husband.”

  The laughter stopped, and there was dead silence.

  “What do you mean, ‘sort of?’” Jaguar asked, edging her chair back from the circle.

  “Oh, she did kill him,” Martha cut in. “No ‘sort of’ about it. I was there.”

  “What?” Jaguar asked. “You were a witness to a murder? Where is the body? I have to call the police.” She stood and reached for her cell.

  “Oh no, honey, it’s not like that,” Martha said. “This happened, what, five years ago?”

  “Yeah, that’s about right,” I said.

  “It was at a wedding reception,” Martha said. “In front of all the guests.”

  “Way to go, girl!” Zebra said.

  “So, uh, Harriet,” Jaguar said, clearly flustered, “since it’s been five years, what brings you here now?”

  Good question.

  “Well, um, I’ve been having these nightmares.”

  “So perhaps you haven’t fully processed the trauma,” Jaguar said.

  Yes, that’s it! Great. Thanks for telling me why I came here.

  “Right,” I said. “So I’m here to get some help with, uh, processing. I was hoping I could meet other women who might be going through the same thing. So, uh . . . has anybody else here killed their husband?”