Pelican Bay

by Charlotte Douglas

  Before I could decline, she hurried away down a dark hallway and left me alone with a gigantic chinchilla Persian draped across the back of the sofa like a feather boa. A round table at the sofa’s end displayed photographs in silver frames, most of them of a dark-haired man and a stunning girl with shining black eyes, Vasily and Anastasia in their youth.

  In one corner, burning tapers flanked two gilded icons of saints, painted in Byzantine style in bright primary colors. The heavy scent of sandalwood from a brass incense burner permeated the air. A massive Remington typewriter dominated a desk in the opposite corner.

  In a few minutes Anastasia returned with a loaded tray and served thick Turkish coffee in small cups and tiny cookies she called koulourakia.

  Before I discussed her letter, I had a few other items that needed clearing up. “When you spoke to Officer Adler, you told him you didn’t know Edith Wainwright, but Peter Castleberry said you personally delivered a cat to her house.”

  “Your young man did not ask if I had ever met the poor girl. He asked if I knew her. To meet and to know are different things.” She smiled as if I were a backward child to whom she was kind enough to explain the obvious.

  “Last Friday night, when Castleberry was killed, where were you?”

  “I went to special services at the church. The good father can vouch for me.”

  “You’re using God as your alibi?”

  Her black eyes crinkled with laughter. “Not God, although he saw me, too. Father Theo, my priest.”

  I made a note to check with the Orthodox priest on my way out of Tarpon. “Now, this letter you sent me—”

  “You are going to arrest him, yes?”

  “Him?”

  “Lester Morelli, the monster who killed poor little Sophia.”

  “I can’t arrest him. There’s no evidence.”

  “What about the evidence from Sophia’s own lips. She told me he was mistreating her. She was going to the islands to get away from him.” She dunked a cookie in her coffee, popped it into her mouth and crunched with a fierceness probably intended for Morelli.

  “I have at least a dozen people,” I said, “who claim otherwise, people with nothing to gain from having Morelli indicted.”

  “Humph. If you do not believe me, then why are you here?”

  “To ask about your typewriter.” I nodded toward the Remington.

  She set down her cup and extended her hands toward me to expose misshapen fingers and swollen joints. “My arthritis is so bad, I can no longer hold the pen. The last day I saw her, Sophia gave me the typewriter so I can write to my family in Greece.”

  “It came from Sophia’s house?”

  “No, no.” She shook her head. “It came from the restaurant. Sophia had Antonio deliver it to her house when she knew I was coming. Since she was disposing of it, anyway, she gave it to me.”

  “Why did she get rid of it?”

  “The chef’s assistant used to type the special entrée cards for the menus, but when Lester bought a new computer system with printers, they had no need for this.”

  “Who had access to the typewriter at the restaurant?”

  “It was kept in the kitchen, so anyone who worked there could have used it. But why do you talk of typewriters when Lester Morelli is walking free?”

  “Because your typewriter might be a link to the killer, Mrs. Gianakis.”

  “You must arrest this man, Detective, so my sweet Sophia can rest in peace.”

  Anastasia could have typed the card I’d found by Edith’s door, but it didn’t feel right. I didn’t scratch her completely off my list. Ted Bundy, Florida’s most notorious serial killer, had been famous for his charm, and too many had died as a result of it.

  The priest confirmed Anastasia’s alibi.

  For almost a week after my visit with her, Bill, Adler and I concentrated on Dorman and Morelli and kept track of every move they made. Both had had access to the typewriter that had printed Karen’s name on the gift card found at Edith’s house. I waited for one of them to incriminate himself.

  Morelli simply continued to drink himself into a stupor. Every night, either Dorman or Antonio drove a polluted Lester home, then brought him back to the restaurant the next morning. Adler and I placed bets on which would last longer, Morelli’s grief or his liver.

  Dorman was an obsessive-compulsive who never varied his routine. He jogged on the trail at sunrise, worked out at the Body Shop, then reported in time to work the luncheon crowd at the restaurant. He drove straight home at night, with the exception of occasional escort duty for his intoxicated boss.

  Chief Shelton stayed on my back and pressed for a solution for the case. The debate over disbanding the department had divided the citizens of Pelican Bay into two angry camps. More than eight thousand had signed petitions to keep the force intact, while another local group, hoping for tax relief if the sheriff’s department took over, was slowly growing in numbers. The longer the diet-clinic murders went unsolved, the worse it looked for the home team.

  The first homicide had occurred three weeks ago, and we had no arrests to show for it. The delay had done nothing to improve my disposition or my skin condition. I sat in the darkness in the Volvo, scratching and watching the Friday night crowds enter and leave the restaurant. After learning about the typewriter, which the lab had matched to the card found at Edith’s, I felt certain either Dorman or Morelli was my man, but I needed more than the feeling in my gut to make charges stick.

  Meanwhile, I couldn’t take a chance that the killer might strike again, so neither Morelli nor Dorman drew a breath that I didn’t know about.

  At ten-thirty, Adler’s car pulled next to mine, and he joined me in my car. “You expecting the same routine tonight?”

  I nodded. “Which do you want when they leave, Dorman or Morelli?”

  He unwrapped a stick of gum and poked it in his mouth. “Doesn’t make much differ—”

  “Look.” I grabbed his arm. “I think this week of terminal boredom’s about to pay off.”

  As the restaurant’s side door, marked Private, opened and closed, dim light briefly silhouetted a man’s body. The figure slipped through the shadows to the back of Morelli’s Mercedes, parked in its reserved spot, and opened the trunk. The interior light illuminated his face as he shoved something in his belt and withdrew a small package. He closed the lid softly and headed for the marina park in a nonchalant walk.

  “It’s Morelli,” Adler said.

  “Yeah, and if that’s the walk of a drunk, I’m Miss America.” I opened my door. “Let’s go. The missing piece of our puzzle just fell into place.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Morelli sauntered into the park like a man with no specific destination. He circled the bandstand, stopped at the water fountain for a drink, then continued south. Adler and I followed at a distance.

  When Morelli exited the park onto the jogging path that paralleled Edgewater, we lengthened the space between us and him. Without the cover of deep shadows from the park’s trees, we risked being recognized if we came too close.

  I grabbed Adler’s hand and laced my fingers through his. When he tried to jerk away, I tightened my grip and whispered, “Hold my hand, dammit. If he looks back, I want him to see lovers on a moonlight stroll. I don’t want to spook him.”

  “You’re spooking me,” Adler muttered.

  For several blocks we ambled behind Morelli, who paused only once to look back. A block later, with his package tucked under his arm, he stopped to light a cigarette.

  I stopped, too, and threw my arms around Adler’s neck. “Hug me,” I whispered, “but don’t take your eyes off him. We’ll break off when he starts to move away.”

  “Jesus, Maggie, I feel like I’m seducing my own mother.”

  “You’d be rotten at undercover, Adler,” I whispered in his ear. “You have no imagination.”

  Morelli took his time with his cigarette. I kept my face pressed against the soft leather of Adler’s jacket. �
��What’s he doing now?”

  “He just flicked the butt into the bay. He’s moving on.” Adler released me.

  “Not yet.” I tightened my hold on his neck. “Give it a minute.”

  “Hell, Maggie, you act like you’re enjoying this.” He squirmed.

  “And if you don’t act that way, too, you’ll blow our cover.” I waited another moment, then dropped my arms. “Let’s move.”

  “Thank God.” Adler stepped away, jerked his jacket over his hips and fell into step beside me. “Where do you think he’s headed?”

  “If I’m right, you’ll see for yourself in a few seconds.”

  Morelli fulfilled my expectations by leaving the path, crossing Edgewater and strolling up Windward Lane toward Karen Englewood’s house.

  Adler and I sprinted past Windward to the next block and raced through the yard of the house behind Karen’s. We crept across her backyard, up the drive, and hid in the shadow of the tall pittosporum hedge that edged her front porch.

  The house was dark, and the ringing door chimes carried through the open windows. Upstairs, a door opened, footsteps pattered down the staircase, and the porch light came on.

  I withdrew deeper into the hedge when the front door lock clicked, and Karen’s voice floated out into the night. “Lester? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you so late, but I had to see you.” Lester’s voice oozed sincerity.

  “Why?” Karen sounded half asleep. He’d probably awakened her.

  “Grief,” he said. “It’s driving me crazy. I’ve been drinking too much, trying not to think about how much I miss Sophia. Then I realized the only way out of this pain is to stop pitying myself and to think of others instead. I won’t take long. I’ve brought you something.”

  Karen hesitated, then the door swung wider. “Sure, come in.”

  Footsteps sounded and the front door closed. “Watch the back door,” I whispered to Adler.

  He slipped away into the darkness, and I advanced up the porch steps, keeping out of the line of sight from the living room windows where the lights had come on and the shadows of Karen and Morelli were outlined on the draperies.

  The front door was unlocked. I eased it open and crept into the foyer. Through the broad arch that led into the living room, I could see the back of the chair where Karen sat, but Morelli was off to the side, out of sight.

  “You were so kind,” he said. “Sophia owed her progress entirely to you. I brought you a small present to show my gratitude.”

  I hoped I’d figured right. Morelli sounded so sincere, he almost had me believing him. If his late-night jaunt proved no more sinister than a grateful gesture, Shelton would have my head for illegal entry, and the department, whose survival already looked tenuous, would suffer.

  “A gift isn’t necessary,” Karen said. “I liked Sophia and was happy to help her.”

  “But I want you to have it. I hope you like chocolate.”

  Chocolate.

  Edith Wainwright’s stomach had held traces of chocolate along with the cyanide. I pulled my gun and started to move, then hesitated at Karen’s next words.

  “I love chocolate, but not at night. The caffeine in it keeps me awake.”

  “Please—” his seductive voice enticed her “—just one, so I’ll know you like them.”

  “I do appreciate your gift, but—”

  “Just one, and then I’ll leave.”

  “All right, but chocolates are like potato chips with me. It’s hard to stop once I’ve started.”

  I stepped into the room.

  Morelli’s eyes widened and flickered with annoyance before he smiled. “Detective Skerritt, how nice to see you. Why the gun?”

  Karen sat stunned, holding the box of chocolates.

  I moved toward her. “Don’t touch those, Karen. And you, Morelli. Put your hands up and back away.”

  He shrugged, lifted his hands and smiled again, a charming psychopath. But when Karen leaned forward to place the box of chocolates on the coffee table, Morelli jerked a handgun from his belt with one hand and, with the other, yanked Karen in front of him like a shield.

  “It’s no use,” I said. “My partner’s out back. All I have to do is call him.”

  Morelli rammed the barrel of the gun against Karen’s temple. “Don’t. Put down your gun and let me go, or I’ll kill her.”

  “And once she’s dead, what then?” I raised the volume of my voice, hoping Adler would hear. “You’ll kill me and then my partner? You kill a cop, and every law-enforcement officer in the country will be after your hide. You’ve botched this one, Morelli. Let her go and give yourself up.”

  “Not until she pays for all the trouble she’s caused. If it wasn’t for this meddling bitch, Sophia would have died years ago and saved me all this trouble.” He pulled Karen tighter against him. His hand covered her mouth and nose, and she was struggling to breathe, but I couldn’t get a straight shot at Morelli with her in the way.

  I had to play for time for Adler to get into position. “Why Edith, Peter and Tillett?”

  His grin was chilling. “Edith was to throw suspicion off me. I couldn’t have Sophia the only victim. But you didn’t have a clue what was happening. And I found out I liked killing. I was good at it. It was a game where I always came out the winner. So while I was at it, I took my revenge on the whole damned clinic that kept Sophia alive too damned long, and pinned the blame on Karen here.”

  A shadow moved in the dining room and worked its way behind Morelli. At first, I thought it was Adler. The man moved like a flash, arms flexed, a baseball bat in his hands. Before anyone else knew he was there, he clobbered Morelli with a two-handed swing, laying him out cold on the living room floor. Morelli’s gun skittered across the hardwood surface.

  “You all right, Mom?” Larry dropped the bat and led his shaken mother to a chair.

  Adler had entered on Larry’s heels and knelt beside Morelli. He felt for a pulse, then snapped his cuffs on the unconscious man’s wrists. “He’s still breathing. I’ll call an ambulance.”

  “Phone’s in the office.” Larry jerked his head toward the room across the hall, and Adler sprinted out of the room.

  “So you decided to come home after all?” I said to Larry.

  “Moved back yesterday, and a good thing, too.” He scowled at Morelli’s still form and draped an arm around his mother’s shoulders. “Mom and I worked things out.”

  He’d cut his hair, and his eyes were clear, drug-free.

  Karen averted her gaze from the man stretched out on her Aubusson rug and squeezed Larry’s hand on her shoulder. “Larry has a new job.”

  While we waited for the ambulance, I patted down Morelli’s pockets and extracted two envelopes, one containing potassium ferricyanide crystals, the other, a typed suicide note in Karen’s name, claiming she’d killed Edith, Sophia, Peter and Tillett because her work at the clinic had wrecked her marriage. Because she couldn’t live with her guilt, the note said, she was taking her own life.

  Morelli had thought of almost everything. Across the hallway in her study, a typewriter sat on the credenza behind her desk. I slipped in a clean sheet and typed a few words. The fonts matched. When the lab checked the note, they’d probably confirm it had been typed on Karen’s machine. As cool as Morelli had been, he’d most likely written it during the break-in when he’d planted the gun that had killed Castleberry in her desk. He hadn’t known then that Tillett would survive his car accident.

  “How could he do it?” Karen asked as the paramedics wheeled Morelli out.

  I shrugged. “A killer’s mind is a strange and twisted thing. Like he said, at first to cover his tracks, then as a game he enjoyed winning, the ultimate experience in power and control. And with the note he’d planned to leave on your body, he’d have his scapegoat and clear access to Sophia’s fortune at last.”

  “But,” Larry said, “he didn’t get away with it, thanks to you.”

  I grinned at him. �
��You did all right yourself.”

  EPILOGUE

  The Ten-Ninety-Eight, held fast by its anchor, bobbed in the clear turquoise waters off Caladesi Island. Bill and I had just finished a picnic breakfast on the beach. I tugged the hem of my bathing suit where it had crept over my butt and reached for my beach bag.

  “This is the life,” I said. “Gorgeous November weather, a beach all to ourselves and four more days of vacation, sans beeper.” I sat cross-legged on the blanket and rubbed lotion on my arms and legs.

  “More hives?” Bill asked. “I thought those cleared up after the grand jury indicted Morelli.”

  “They did. This is sunscreen.”

  Bill stretched out on his back with his arms folded behind his head and eyed me over the rim of his sunglasses. “You have to admit, the guy almost got away with it.”

  I spread a blob of sunscreen across my nose and cheeks. “His alibis threw us. By the time he killed Edith, he’d already established the precedent of locking himself in his office on Fridays to do his bookkeeping. Then after Sophia’s murder, he locked himself in every night with a full bottle of whiskey, which he probably splashed on his clothes, then poured the rest down the drain. Acting so drunk his staff had to drive him home was a convincing touch.”

  “You’d never have caught him without surveillance.”

  “You’re right. All Morelli had to do was waltz out his side door. He was within walking distance of Edith’s, the trail and Karen Englewood’s. His car never left its reserved spot. We found a roll of duct tape in the trunk. The tear matches the tape on the homemade silencer. Rags with brake fluid matching the brand used in Tillett’s Infiniti were also in his trunk. And as glib as Morelli is, he can’t explain away his confession in front of Karen and me.”

  Bill shook his head. “I’d have thought he was too smart to incriminate himself.”

  “Pride overrode his common sense and did him in. He had to brag about his accomplishments.”