His boyish face split into a grin. “Want me to run down to Dr. Tillett’s and have them whip you up a diet shake?”
“I want to be thin, not dead.” I shuddered at the thought. “Which reminds me, what did you find out about Anastasia?”
“She is one strange woman. Like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie.”
“Antonio, the maître d’ at Sophia’s, said she was so beautiful years ago, the Gianakis brothers fought over her.” I lifted anchovies and feta cheese off the mound of lettuce in a round container, set them aside and dug beneath the greens and sliced beets for potato salad.
“She’s sixty-five, shaped like a washing machine, smokes like a chimney and dresses entirely in black. She lives in a tiny house a block from the sponge docks, and I stopped counting housecats when I hit twelve.”
“Feeble?”
“As in too feeble to get around? No way. She has her own car, tends her own garden, even works several hours a week in a gift shop she owns on Dodecanese Boulevard.”
“Was she upset by Sophia’s murder?”
“She’s madder than a wet hen. Blames Lester Morelli.”
I paused with the gyro halfway to my mouth. “That’s a twist. Everyone I’ve talked to sings his praises as the model husband. What’s her beef?”
“Claims he wants the Gianakis fortune all for himself and would do anything to get it. She says Sophia was flying to Athens to get away from him—and to break the news to her relatives that she was filing for divorce.”
“Was Anastasia credible?”
He took a large bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “Not completely. She couldn’t give me the name of anyone else who could corroborate her charge. Says Sophia told her everything in confidence. She acts a little crazy, but she definitely has her own agenda.”
“She still after Vasily’s half of the Gianakis fortune?”
“Not half. All of it. According to her, Sophia left everything to Lester, but had Lester died first, Anastasia would be the secondary beneficiary.”
I tried to picture Lester as the killer, but it clashed with everything more than a dozen witnesses had said about him and his relationship with his wife. “So if Lester was convicted of Sophia’s murder, Anastasia would be a multimillionaire.”
“Like I said, she’s one spooky character. But capable of murder?” He shrugged.
The more I uncovered, the more tangled this case became. “When did Anastasia see Sophia last?”
Adler scooped up the cheese and anchovies I’d set aside and plopped them on his salad. “That’s the interesting part. She visited Sophia Friday afternoon to say goodbye before her trip to Athens.”
“And between five and seven when Edith died?”
“Anastasia says she left Sophia’s a little after five and drove straight home to feed her cats. But none of her neighbors saw her. I checked.”
I played out a scenario in my head. Anastasia leaves poison in her niece’s vitamin bottle, drives to Edith Wainwright’s and somehow poisons her, maybe with cyanide-laced chocolates, then pins the blame on Lester, who, if convicted, forfeits his inheritance to Anastasia. But why not poison only Sophia and then blame Lester? “Did Anastasia know Edith?”
He shook his head. “Only what she’d read in the paper about her murder.”
I shoved my unfinished salad and sandwich aside, pulled out the notes I’d taken that morning and filled Adler in, not only on what Antonio and Dorman had told me, but my impressions as well.
“What do you think?” I asked when I’d finished.
“Beats the hell out of me. If both women hadn’t been killed with the same poison, I’d say their connection through the clinic is only a weird coincidence.”
“Mick’s report is in. The lab hasn’t turned up any contaminants in the other vitamins or diet drinks, and the FDA has no reports of similar cases involving these products. We can’t completely rule out product-tampering yet, but my instincts tell me the killer’s right here and knew both these women.”
“It would help if your instincts could be more specific.” Adler swigged his Classic Coke and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Doc Cline’s toxicology report confirms both women were killed by potassium ferricyanide.”
“Did she detail the commercial uses for the compound?”
“Yeah. Doc’s thorough.”
“We’ll put together a list of local suppliers when we get back to the station, then check them out, see if any of them know any of our suspects.” I resisted the impulse to cross my arms on the table, lay my head down and sleep. Just the thought of interviewing dozens of suppliers in the Tampa Bay area who might have sold poison to the killer made me even more tired.
Adler finished his sandwich and pointed to mine. “You gonna eat that?”
My appetite had disappeared, and, in addition to suffering from fatigue, my arms and back itched. “No, go ahead.”
He reached for my gyro. “How many murders have you worked?”
“Too many.”
I closed my eyes to the memory of small, white bodies, bloated with saltwater. Bill and I had never tracked down the killer who terrorized Tampa years ago, kidnapping and murdering children before dumping their bodies in the bay. The murders had ceased as abruptly as they’d begun, leading us to believe the perp had either died or moved to another part of the country after we’d turned up the heat. My skin erupted in new blotches at the recollection.
Adler gobbled the sandwich, gathered up the empty containers and papers, stuffed them in a nearby trash receptacle and sat at the table again. He rolled his drink can between his wide palms, staring at it as if searching for answers. He hadn’t brought me here to talk about the case. He could have done that in the office.
“You heard the chief’s announcement,” he said.
“He told me about it this morning. He hopes we can solve these murders in a hurry to make the department look good.”
He clenched his hands, crushing the aluminum can. “We both know that’s not going to happen. We’re going around in circles, getting nowhere.”
“All we need is a break. That one small piece that makes the whole picture fall into place.” My pep talk was as much for me as my partner. I’d been consumed by doubts.
“I won’t do anything,” he said, “until I’ve talked with Sharon, but my mind’s made up. I can’t wait for the city council to decide. I’m submitting applications to the Clearwater and St. Pete departments.”
His eyes filled with pain, and I wanted to assure him that everything would work out, but local politics and politicians were never predictable. In Adler’s place, I’d be doing the same thing.
“If the sheriff takes over city protection,” I said, “he’ll have to hire extra deputies—”
“I have to think of my family. I can’t take a chance on waiting.” He smashed the crumpled can against the table. “How do they expect us to concentrate on our work when our jobs are hanging—”
“We have to.” I held up my hands against his protests. “I know, that’s easy for me to say. I can collect my pension and walk away. But if we nail the bastard who’s been supplementing diets with cyanide, maybe we can help the others in the department keep their jobs.”
He tossed the can into the trash, stood and brushed away a few leaves that clung to his jeans. “You remind me of my mom, always looking on the bright side.”
“Thanks, Adler. You just made my day.” Feeling older than my years, I followed him to his car.
With the exception of a few recent upscale developments, the farther inland a house from the waters of Pelican Bay, the lower the real estate values. Peter Castleberry lived on the eastern edge of the city in a house with peeling paint that might once have sheltered migrant grove workers.
A broken concrete walk led across the sandy yard to the front porch, where aged screening, pulled away from its splicing, draped over scraggly plumbago bushes flanking the front stoop. Stacks of yellowed newspapers and magazines covered the porch flo
or, except for a clear swath to the front door. I rang the bell, and it buzzed in an interior room like an angry metallic insect.
The floor trembled beneath my feet as Castleberry approached. He jerked the door open and scowled. “Whaddaya want?”
“I have a few more questions. They won’t take long.”
He grimaced and stepped aside for me to enter. A white Persian cat shot across the room and down a hallway.
“I already told you everything I know,” he whined.
My questions were forgotten as I surveyed his living room. Unlike the clutter on his porch, the room, bare of all furniture except a television and an oversize recliner, had the sparse, sleek appearance of an art gallery. Track lighting along the ceiling illuminated a series of poster-size, framed photographs.
“These are gorgeous.” I moved closer to one wall to examine the black-and-white scenes: clusters of masts at the marina, the dunes of Pelican Beach, a sailboat with its spinnaker puffed with wind on the bay, a night-blooming cirrus strangling a bleached dead tree trunk. The masterful shading of black and white seemed more vibrant than the gaudy tones of Kodachrome. “Did you take these?”
His prickly demeanor softened at my praise. “I told you I was a photographer.”
“You ought to contact the art centers, arrange a show.” I wasn’t feeding his ego. His pictures reminded me of Clyde Butcher’s shots of the Everglades and Panhandle beaches.
“That’s what Les told me.”
“Lester Morelli?”
“Several months back we had like a show-and-tell at our clinic meeting. Les saw my photograph of Pelican Beach when he dropped Sophia off. Asked me if I’d consider selling it.”
I remembered the beachscape above the fireplace in the Morelli living room. “I’ve seen it.”
“It was one of my favorites. Les came by and looked at all of them, but he liked that one best. Bought it for Sophia as a surprise.”
Without his belligerent posture, Castleberry was almost friendly. He dragged a straight chair in from the adjoining dining room and offered it to me before dropping his bulk into his recliner.
“Did me a real favor, Les did. I needed the money. Disability checks don’t go very far.”
“So you know Morelli well?”
“Not well. Just enough to speak to. But he’s a great guy, and he paid generously for the picture.”
I jumped as something rubbed against my ankle. The Persian had returned to slink around the legs of my chair and purr like a distant motor.
“Come here, baby. Come to Daddy,” Castleberry crooned in his reedy voice. The cat leaped into his lap and lifted its head to have its throat scratched. “This is Fluffy. She’s good company.”
“Edith Wainwright had a cat, a Siamese.”
“I know. She got her the same place I got Fluffy. From Sophia’s aunt.”
“Anastasia Gianakis?” The woman had told Adler she didn’t know Edith.
“At one of our meetings, Edith and I talked about how lonely living by ourselves is, and Karen suggested we get a pet. We both said we liked cats, and Sophia mentioned that her aunt took in strays until she found homes for them. A few days later, Anastasia showed up on my doorstep with a cat carrier and Fluffy. Now she’s like one of the family.”
“Anastasia?”
He looked blank for an instant, then shook his head. “Fluffy. She’s like my own kid.”
“Did Anastasia take a cat to Edith, too?”
“Yeah, same day. She had the Siamese in the car with her. She was waiting until after five when Edith got home from work, so she came in, had a glass of tea and looked at my exhibit. She left the Siamese in its carrier on the porch, and the damn thing cried like a baby the whole time.” He shifted his weight in his big chair and looked over my shoulder, avoiding my eyes. “What happened to her?”
“Edith?”
“The cat.”
“Animal control took it.”
His fingers tightened on Fluffy’s fur. “What’ll they do with her?”
“Put her up for adoption, but if no one claims her…” Strange how he showed more empathy for the cat than the young woman whose life had ended so violently.
“Can I get you something?” he asked. “Iced tea? A soda?”
“I’d like to see the rest of your pictures, if you don’t mind.”
“Mind? I’m flattered. Take your time.” He hoisted himself to his feet and shadowed me as I examined the rest of his works. He talked of f-stops, light meters, filters and lenses, and I let him ramble until he mentioned his darkroom.
“Do you develop your own film?”
“That’s half the challenge, the only way to get the results I’m striving for. Want to see how it’s done?”
I followed him to a cramped, windowless room at the back of the house with a counter, sink, rows of developing trays and drying lines stretched from wall to wall. He launched into a detailed account of the developing process.
Twenty minutes later when I pulled away, Castleberry, wearing a congenial smile, waved to me from the sagging porch.
I waved in return, but my smile was not for Castleberry. I was thinking of the brown, crystal-filled jar with a gold-and-red Kodak logo tucked among the chemicals and developing fluids on the darkroom shelf. The label read Potassium Ferricyanide.
CHAPTER 13
Morning sunlight glinted off a life-size angel of white marble, hovering on its granite pedestal above the crowd of mourners in Pilgrims Rest, Pelican Bay’s oldest cemetery. Streaks, etched on the statue’s cheeks by a century of rain and bird droppings, created the illusion of tears.
The melodic chant of the Greek Orthodox priest carried on the breeze to the hillock where Adler and I stood in the shade of a cypress tree to observe the funeral of Sophia Morelli.
Edith Wainwright’s body had been flown to Michigan for burial beside her parents, and according to the local funeral home, no one had appeared to pay their final respects.
Lester Morelli, flanked by black-clad mourners, sat erect and unmoving before his wife’s flower-covered coffin. His gaze locked on the blanket of sweetheart roses, but even at a distance, I could see his red-rimmed eyes and the wetness of tears on his face.
“I’ve never laid eyes on most of these people,” Adler whispered.
I leaned toward him and whispered back, “Some are Sophia’s relatives from Greece. I met them at the wake last night at the Morelli house.”
“And Morelli’s family?”
“He says he’s an orphan, that Sophia was the only family he had.” Morelli had been a gracious host the previous night, but strain and emotion had hardened the contours of his face and made him appear older. I’d detected a touch of frost in the air between him and Sophia’s relatives, but Greek families are a clannish lot, slow to accept outsiders, as Antonio had told me.
At the final amen, the crowd dispersed. Karen Englewood, Richard Tillett and Marilee Ginsberg went directly to their cars. Ted and Janet Trask walked away with two other couples I recognized as Morelli neighbors. Antonio and others from the restaurant shook hands solemnly with Lester before leaving. Sophia’s black-clad relatives climbed into stretch limousines, all except one, a short, stout woman who approached Lester after the others had left.
“That’s her,” Adler said. “Anastasia.”
The woman pointed a black-gloved finger and poked Lester in the chest. She kept her voice low, but the anger in it carried her words to us.
“This is all your doing. Sophia Gianakis would be alive today if she hadn’t married you!”
She continued to punch him with her finger, until Morelli batted her hand away. His features twisted, but whether from anger or grief was hard to tell. He leaned down inches from her face and spoke so softly we couldn’t hear. She recoiled, sputtered as if at a loss for words and shook a clenched fist at him until a funeral home attendant intervened to lead Morelli to the remaining limo.
Anastasia stood alone beside Sophia’s casket. The old woman caressed th
e polished wood surface, then slipped a rose from the casket spray and pressed it between the pages of her prayer book. She turned and stumbled over the uneven grass to her car, the last, besides mine, in the cemetery. When she passed us on her way out, her mouth was set in a thin, tight line.
“She’s angry at Morelli,” I said. “That’s clear enough.”
“Yeah, but because she thinks he killed Sophia, or is she just pissed because he gets the fortune that could have been hers?”
I glanced over the list of mourners I’d jotted in my notebook. “Brent Dorman didn’t show.”
“Why should he? He hated all Tillett’s patients.”
“But Morelli’s his current boss, and the restaurant was closed for lunch today because of the funeral.”
Adler grinned. “Just because the guy’s a jerk doesn’t mean he’s a hypocrite.”
“Any other brilliant conclusions?”
“I questioned him at his apartment early this morning,” Adler said. “Caught him before he left for his daily workout. The guy’s a survivalist, among other things. Every corner was stacked with rations, camping equipment and bottled water. Posters of bodybuilders and Schwarzenegger and Stallone armed to the teeth covered the walls. I didn’t see any weapons, but I’ll bet he has a cache somewhere. The place was littered with issues of Soldier of Fortune, Gung Ho, and Guns & Ammo.”
“Dorman’s an angry young man,” I said, “but angry enough to kill?”
Adler scratched behind his ear, mussing his thick hair. In addition to his all-American good looks, he had a formidable mind. I could almost see the synapses firing behind his smiling eyes.
“Some of these guys,” he said, “the real fanatics, might kill to prove their manhood. After talking with him and seeing how he lives, I’d bet if Dorman wanted to whack someone, he’d do it with his bare hands or a weapon. Not poison.”
I conceded his point. “Where does that leave us?”
“Castleberry had the method, the bottle of potassium ferricyanide crystals. From the way you describe him, he seems mad at the world, ready to take his frustration out on anybody, but especially people like Sophia and Edith, who got in the way of the attention he craved from Tillett and Karen Englewood.”
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