Pelican Bay

by Charlotte Douglas

  “Time is something I don’t have. I’ll check with you at the end of the week.”

  His glance darted around the office as if searching for an excuse. “I may be out of town.”

  “Then I’ll check with your mother.”

  “No!” He crumpled in his chair like an inflatable doll with an air leak. “I’ll have what you need by Friday afternoon.”

  “Margaret,” Mrs. Phillips called to me in a stage whisper as I left his office.

  “Yes?”

  “You really must do something about your makeup.”

  I touched my face where the calamine lotion had dried in a scaly residue. “It’s not—”

  “You’re right, it’s not your color at all. Makes you look bilious. You’ll never catch a man looking like that.”

  I grinned and the dried calamine cracked. “I’m like the Mounties. I always get my man.”

  I had a catch to make, all right, but whether it was a man or a woman remained to be seen.

  CHAPTER 9

  Ted Trask, Lester Morelli’s neighbor, met me in the lobby of the SunTrust building on Pelican Bay’s Main Street. As Estelle, my mother’s housekeeper of my childhood, would have said, he was a tall drink of water, over six feet tall, lean and tanned with the look of money stamped all over his dark suit and yellow silk tie. We rode the elevator to the third-floor offices of Trask, Farmingham and Lane.

  I stifled a yawn, a combination of too little sleep and too much Benadryl. “What’s your firm’s specialty?”

  “Our partners and associates work in all aspects of the law.”

  “Must add up to a lot of billable hours.”

  He chuckled and perfect white teeth contrasted with his tanned complexion. “Between reruns of The Practice and John Grisham novels, we lawyers have no secrets anymore.”

  The bell dinged discreetly and the elevator doors whispered open. He stood aside for me to exit into the reception area. A secretary, who looked remarkably like Mrs. Doubtfire, glanced up.

  “Hold my calls, please, Eudora.” Trask led the way through a central room lined with law books to his corner office. Glass walls provided a panoramic view of the waterfront.

  I sat on a soft leather chair and fought the urge to fall asleep. “As I told you on the phone, I’m investigating the murder of Sophia Morelli.”

  Trask sat at his desk, a slab of black marble on two massive glass columns, and fiddled with an onyx-handled letter opener. “Murder’s something usually reserved for the news. When it happens next door, it’s a shock. And when it’s a woman like Sophia, it’s a real tragedy.”

  “Have you known the Morellis long?”

  “Our house was the first one built on the point. About five years ago, right before Les and Sophia married, they started their house next door.”

  “What can you tell me about Sophia?”

  Trask leaned back and balanced the letter opener on one finger. “Quiet. Sweet.”

  “That’s it?”

  “When they first moved in, Sophia’s poor health kept her practically bedridden. She spent most of her time in her morning room, sleeping, reading or just watching the water.”

  “But her health improved after she lost weight. Didn’t her behavior change then?”

  Trask looked thoughtful. “No. But Sophia was always shy. We just assumed she preferred her own company.”

  “We?”

  “Janet, my wife, and I.”

  “So Janet and Sophia weren’t friends?”

  “Janet is hyperactive, the opposite of Sophia. She’s involved in a dozen charities, plus the activities of our three children. She hardly ever saw Sophia, except to wave to her from the car.”

  Janet’s similarity to my sister, Caroline, sent the nerve endings in my skin into spasms again. “How would you describe the Morelli marriage?”

  “Les is…was devoted to her. Waited on her hand and foot, when he wasn’t working at the restaurant. And even though she’d begun to feel better, he worried about her constantly.”

  “Did they ever quarrel?”

  “Are you married, Detective Skerritt?”

  I flushed under my calamine mask. “No.”

  “Every married couple quarrels. Those who say they don’t are either lying or have given up on making their marriage work.”

  “And the Morellis?”

  “I heard them raise their voices at each other a few times, but never in my presence, so I can’t tell you what they argued about. Probably the usual things.”

  “Such as?”

  “How much time he spent at work, how she wouldn’t take care of herself the way he wanted her to, money—”

  “Are you speculating?”

  Trask shook his head. “I’ve been Les’s doubles partner for years and consider myself his friend. He’s confided in me. I’m telling you this now only to demonstrate how much Sophia meant to him.”

  “Telling me what?”

  “What they fought over. Sophia wanted to hire someone else to manage the restaurant.”

  “Didn’t Lester do his job?”

  “Too well. It kept him away from home day and night. But he refused to give it up. Said he didn’t want people to think he’d married Sophia for her money. He wanted to earn his way.”

  “So he neglected his wife for the business?”

  Trask raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever thought of going into criminal law? You do a hell of a cross-examination.”

  And he’d done a hell of a sidestep. “Did Lester Morelli neglect his wife?”

  Trask rose to his feet and adjusted the gold-and-diamond links in his French cuffs. “Les devoted every minute he wasn’t at the restaurant to Sophia, driving her to the clinic, having all their meals delivered from the restaurant so she didn’t have to cook or be bothered by servants in the house. He’d sit for hours with her when she wasn’t well. If you think he killed his wife, you’re way off base. The guy adored her.”

  Lester Morelli sounded too good to be true. “Did you notice anyone or anything out of the ordinary on your street this past weekend? Particularly anyone around the Morelli place?”

  Trask circled his desk and began moving toward the door, an unsubtle way of ending our interview. “There was a delivery from the restaurant Saturday night. I remember seeing the logo on the van.”

  I rose and headed for the door.

  “Wait,” Trask said. “There was something else. Saturday morning.”

  “What?”

  “Early Saturday about six, I awakened early and was having coffee on my deck. Watching the sunrise.”

  My body screamed for more Benadryl, and I struggled to keep the impatience from my voice. “What did you see?”

  “A boat anchored off the Morellis’ beach, a small outboard. Two young men were walking along the shore. I started inside to call Security, but they saw me, waded to their boat and took off.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  “Late teens, early twenties. Long-haired, tall, slender. Dressed in dark jeans, dark T-shirts.”

  “And the boat?”

  “White, no identifying marks.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  “Once they’d headed west toward the channel, I didn’t pay much attention.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate your help.”

  I hurried through the law library and the reception area and onto a deserted elevator, then allowed myself the luxury of scratching all the way to the first floor.

  The parking lot of the weight-management clinic was full when I arrived a little before five o’clock, and I finally found a space at the hospital across the street. The clear October weather had turned muggy, and as I trekked toward the clinic, the humidity turned the calamine into a thin paste that coated my body.

  I planned to go straight to the yacht club from the clinic, so I wore the navy linen dress and jacket I usually reserved for court appearances. I wobbled in the unaccustomed height of my matching pumps, insecure in the knowledge that no matter ho
w I dressed, I’d look like a bag lady beside the sartorial elegance of Caroline and my mother. I bought clothes only once every other year, but my sister lived to shop. Cutting off her credit cards would be like switching off her oxygen. Sometimes I wanted to do both.

  Adler leaned against his car by the clinic entrance, waiting for me. He cut loose a wolf whistle as I approached. “Looking good, Detective Skerritt.”

  “Save your observations for the folks inside.” The minute I spoke, I regretted my snappishness.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And don’t call me ma’am.”

  He beat me to the door and started to tug it open. I laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”

  He shrugged, smiled and squinted his brown eyes. “These murders have us both on edge. No wonder you’re…prickly.”

  I resisted the urge to smack the grin off his face. “This clinic holds the link that connects the dead women. Let’s see if we can wrap this up.”

  He pulled the door open, then followed me into the waiting room. The people inside fell silent at the sight of us. I had time for little more than a fleeting impression of five large bodies with upturned faces before Karen Englewood ushered us into the inner office.

  “Officer Adler can use my office,” she said, “and Detective Skerritt, you can use Dr. Tillett’s. I’ll send each patient to you as soon as Dr. Tillett has seen them.”

  “And the staff?” I asked.

  “Gale Whatley’s waiting for you, the door on the left at the end of the hall.”

  Tillett’s office told me little about the man. The decor was functional and unremarkable with none of the pretentiousness of Ted Trask’s place. Stacks of files and papers covered every surface, except for a few square feet of the credenza behind his desk that displayed pictures of Stephanie, the small boy I’d seen at their house and an older girl whom I guessed to be their daughter. Built-in bookcases housed a wall of medical texts and journals.

  The doctor’s office manager sat on a love seat and picked at the cuticles of her peach-lacquered nails. When I closed the door behind me, she jumped, and color stained her prominent cheekbones. In her late twenties, she had the lean body of a fashion model, looking in desperate need of a good hot meal just to stay alive. Tillett’s obese patients probably ground their teeth at the sight of her.

  Long, dark hair billowed around her flawless face, and her gray eyes reflected the panicked look of a wild animal caught in headlights. Being interrogated by the police has that effect on people, even those with nothing to hide.

  “God, this is awful,” Gale said. “Do you have any idea who’s doing it?”

  “We have a few suspects but no one in custody at this time.” I rejected the chair behind the desk for one across from her. “That’s why I need your help.”

  “Me?” She laced her fingers in her lap. “I don’t know anything about the murders. Just what I’ve heard from Karen and the news reports.”

  “I’m hoping you can fill in background information.”

  She stared at me. “Like what?”

  “What can you tell me about Edith and Sophia?”

  “Not much.” Her expression softened, and she unclenched her fingers. “Both were very reserved. I spoke with them only when they paid their bills.”

  “Did you observe their interactions with others in the group or with Mrs. Englewood?”

  “Look, I sit at my desk and collect fees and dispense vitamins and diet-drink mix, so I usually see only one patient at a time.”

  “So the victims never had problems with any other members?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a problem, exactly.” With a jerky movement, she flipped her hair off her face.

  “Tell me about it.” The social taboo against snitching runs deep in our society. Digging out facts was worse than pulling teeth.

  “One of the patients is…difficult. He complains about everything. He’s faulted everybody for not taking turns, for hogging the discussion, for lying about calorie intake and weight loss. He’s accused me of overcharging him, Gina of purposely hurting him when she draws blood, and Karen of not taking his complaints seriously.”

  “His name?”

  “Peter Castleberry.” Her gray eyes, accentuated by heavy liner, widened. “But he’s not a killer. Peter’s bristly attitude is a defense. He’s been maligned all his life because of his weight, and he suffers constant pain and discomfort as well as insults. Anyone would be unpleasant under those circumstances.”

  My hives festered, and I recalled my treatment of Adler earlier. Surliness didn’t necessarily produce homicidal tendencies, but I deferred judgment on Castleberry until I could talk with him myself. “How did he get along with Dr. Tillett?”

  “A kind of love/hate relationship.” She shifted on the sofa and crossed long legs encased in expensive stockings, reminding me of my own itchy limbs confined in panty hose that suddenly seemed too small. “Castleberry depends on the doctor to keep him alive, but he’s a man with a man’s ego. He hates that dependency.”

  I longed for a genuine bad guy, someone whose corruption stood out against the purity of those around him, like a giant arrow pointing to my killer. All I found were murky shades of gray, proving the complexities of the people I interrogated.

  A nautical clock above the desk chimed the half hour.

  “Just one more question, Ms. Whatley. Where were you between 5:00 and 7:00 p.m. Friday?”

  She clasped her hands again in a white-knuckled grip. “The office was closed Friday because of Dr. Tillett’s seminar, so I left that morning and drove to Fort Myers to visit my sister. I didn’t get back until last night.”

  Conveniently absent the entire weekend. “Ask Mrs. Englewood to send in the next person.”

  She stood and smoothed her short, form-fitting skirt over slender thighs. “I can give you my sister’s number if—”

  “I’ll contact you if I need it.”

  After Gale Whatley left, Marilee Ginsberg maneuvered in on a Lark scooter. She explained that her arthritic knees had rebelled years ago against supporting her two-hundred-pound-plus bulk. But she couldn’t tell me anything new about the victims or their interactions with the support group or staff.

  In the hallway, Peter Castleberry’s gasping breath announced his approach. He stomped into the room, lowered his four hundred pounds with a thud onto the loveseat, filling it almost entirely, and scowled at me with porcine eyes. If the thin supremacists ever needed a poster child for their hate campaign, Castleberry was a casting director’s dream. Unlike Marilee Ginsberg, who looked like everyone’s favorite grandmother, he inspired instant dislike.

  “Why are you wasting my time when you should be out catching a killer?” His thin, reedy voice was a surprise coming from such a big man.

  “Are you afraid of being questioned?” I could match him measure for measure at being obnoxious, a trait at which I’d become expert after twenty-two years of dealing with lowlifes.

  His tortured intake of air hissed in the room. “I got nothing to hide.”

  “Good. Tell me about Edith and Sophia.”

  “Whiners, both of ’em. Always wanted to be the center of attention. And they were. Karen and Dr. T. always favored the women.”

  “Why was that?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? Life ain’t fair. If it was, would I look like this?”

  To describe Castleberry as hostile would have been a gross understatement. The man was mad at the world. But angry enough to kill? “Where were you between 5:00 and 7:00 p.m. Friday?”

  “Where I always am, at home. Where’s a guy like me going to go? On a hot date?” His bitter laughter dissolved into a wheezing cough.

  “Can someone verify that you were at home?”

  “I’ve lived alone for over twelve years, ever since my loving mama called me a fat slob, told me to get a job and kicked me out.”

  “Did you get a job?”

  He shook his head and his t
riple chins wobbled. “Only for a few months for a photography studio, but I’ve been on disability for years. Now I’ve lost a hundred pounds on Dr. Tillett’s program, and when I’ve lost a hundred more, I plan to work as a photographer again.”

  Photography. If I remembered correctly, cyanide was a component used in developing film. But even if Castleberry had the means and motive for murder, did he have the physical stamina or agility to pull off the crimes? And wouldn’t people have remembered a four-hundred-pound man if they’d seen him in the neighborhood? Castleberry was a viable suspect, but I couldn’t make an arrest based merely on speculation.

  Darkness had fallen when Adler walked me to my car, shortening his long-legged stride to keep pace with me. “I interviewed Rosco Fields and Charlene Jamison, both too ill and feeble to do much of anything, much less commit murder. I also talked to Naomi Calvin, the nurse, and Gina Peyton, the lab technician.”

  “Turn up anything interesting?”

  “Just a few common threads. All, except Castleberry, think Tillett walks on water. No conflicts with him or among the victims, except for Castleberry, who fights with everybody. They all indicated the guy’s about as cuddly as a porcupine.”

  My itching intensified with a vengeance. I dug a bottle of Benadryl capsules out of my pocket and swallowed two dry. Between the lack of progress in the case and my upcoming dinner with Mother, my skin had more eruptions than a Nostradamus prophecy. “Anything about Lester Morelli come up?”

  “Solicitous. Everyone used the word to describe his devotion to his wife. She didn’t drive, so he accompanied her to every appointment.”

  “We’re back where we started.” My feet ached in the unfamiliar high heels, and I longed to soak my itching skin in a warm bath. “Have you found Brent Dorman?”

  “Moved. Left no forwarding address. Fields, Jamison and Calvin all complained how insulting he’d been. If I were a betting man I’d say our murderer is a toss-up between him and Tillett.”

  I climbed into my Volvo. “We’ll know more about Tillett when Bill returns from Boca Raton. Keep after Dorman.”

  “Right after dinner with the women in my life.” He closed my door, gave a jaunty salute and sauntered back to his car.