Luca Mystery Series Box Set

by Dan Petrosini

  He shook his head. “Me and my granddaddy used to fish right off of Key Island. Yep, we caught a whole lot of fish back in the days when the only boats off the homes in Port Royal were meant for fishing. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Luca?”

  I noticed that Morgan used the island’s old name. “Afraid not, sir.”

  “Anyone else besides Mr. Brighthouse on the island?”

  “Not according to him. Said his wife gives the staff off on Wednesdays. At this point he’s someone we’re very interested in.”

  “Tread carefully. The Boggs family has been an important part of this community back to days when the state was formed. We can’t be pointing fingers and dirtying reputations, you hear me?”

  “Understood, sir. This is a serious crime, and we’re going to conduct an exhaustive and thorough investigation.”

  “Good, but you’ve got to be discreet. You New York boys know what that word is, don’t you?”

  Vargas said, “We understand, sir.”

  “I don’t want either of you talking to the press. They’re out there doing damn cartwheels with this story. I’ll handle those rascals from here. Is that clear?”

  Vargas and I nodded.

  “I want to be kept fully apprised of the developments in this case. Now, get out of here and show me you’re as good a detective as you think you are.”

  Chapter 19

  Gideon Brighthouse

  After waking, I started my customary fifteen minutes of transcendental meditation while lying in bed. It was hard to quiet down, but the Maharishi was right, repeating a mantra is a bit of magic.

  I said my last “om” and was feeling as balanced and peaceful as I could, considering the circumstances, and headed down to breakfast. I was hoping Shell had left a bowl of high-fiber cereal with my coffee and juice, as my body had completely shut down.

  No cereal, but a heaping bowl of berries, and the juice was prune. I poured a cup of coffee, stirred in my skim milk and took a sip. Blood began pounding in my ears as soon as I unfolded the newspaper. I got up, ripped open a slider, and paced the pool deck, deeply inhaling the air and view of the gulf. The pounding receded and I waved back at Matthew, who was raking the beach.

  If I’d thought about it, I shouldn’t have been surprised by the headline in the Naples Daily News that blared, Socialite Marilyn Boggs Murdered at Home. Maybe it was the helicopter pictures of Keewaydin, with arrows naming the buildings on the island, stripping away a layer of privacy, that wobbled me. Needing an appointment to talk through all of this, I called my therapist and left a message before heading inside.

  Pushing the paper to the far edge of the table, I ate breakfast. After pouring another cup of coffee, I dragged the paper over and read the lead story.

  Socialite Marilyn Boggs Murdered at Home

  Philanthropist Marilyn Boggs was found stabbed to death in her Keewaydin Island home last night. Marilyn Boggs is the daughter of Martin Boggs, the late founder of American Investments. Mrs. Boggs served on the board of numerous charitable organizations in Collier County and was currently in leadership positions with The Juvenile Diabetes Foundation and St. Vincent de Paul Society.

  The Collier County Sheriff’s department responded to a 911 call made about 9 p.m. last night and found the body of Mrs. Boggs in the kitchen of the main home.

  A prominent socialite, Mrs. Boggs lived on the private side of the island with her husband, Gideon Brighthouse, who was an adviser to former Senator Robert White. It is believed that Mr. Brighthouse was on the island at the time of the fatal attack and did not suffer any injuries.

  Keewaydin Island is a barrier island off the coast of Naples, and 85% of the island is public and managed by the Florida Coastal Office. Eight miles long, the island is free of cars and filled with abundant wildlife.

  A spokesman for Sheriff Morgan called the crime shocking and disturbing and said the sheriff had made solving the crime a priority for the department.

  Born in Naples, Marilyn Boggs was 50 years old and had no children. She is survived by her brothers, Paul and Wesley Boggs, who reside in Boston. Funeral arrangements have not been announced.”

  Chapter 20

  Luca

  Intermittent pain in my abdomen convinced me not to wait, and I was sitting in my urologist’s office instead of trying to solve the Boggs case. A year ago, I would have swallowed a handful of Tylenol, but after getting bladder cancer I couldn’t take chances.

  Maybe it was the irritating morning show host or my nerves, but in spite of the sign that prohibited cell phone use, I called Vargas. Digging my chin into my chest, I said, “What’s going on, Vargas?”

  “Aren’t you at the doctors?”

  “Yeah, I’m in the waiting room. You got anything?”

  “Went through the house with the husband, but he didn’t notice anything. He kept claiming nobody could keep track of all the stuff his wife bought.”

  “He didn’t live there anyway. What about the maids?”

  “I’m just about to go through with a housekeeper named Shell.”

  “Keep me posted. I’m going outta my mind waiting here.”

  “Don’t worry, Frank. Take care of yourself first. The case will be here when you’re done.”

  My name was called as I hung up, and I hustled to the window expecting to start my visit. The woman behind the window asked me, “Mr. Luca, did you see the sign?” She pointed to the cell phone prohibition.

  I nodded sheepishly and she said, “But you didn’t understand it?”

  Head hanging, I went back to my chair. After a half hour passed, the door swung open and a nurse with a clipboard called my name. She showed me into an exam room, weighed me, and left, telling me the doctor would be right in.

  Leafing through Men’s Health, a text came in from Vargas:

  ‘Jewelry missing. Talk when you’re out.’

  While punching in her number, the door swung open. Chart in hand, it was Doctor Peters.

  “How are you, Mr. Luca?”

  “I’m okay, Doc.”

  He looked over my chart. “You’re experiencing abdominal pain?”

  I nodded.

  “Take off your shirt and lay down.”

  Unbuttoning from the top down, my anxiety crept up. Would this be a day that would be scorched into my memory bank, or forgotten like yesterday’s morning coffee?

  My back stuck to the paper on the table as Peters bent over me, pressing his fingers into my gut. He moved around in a clockwise, circular motion until he hit an area that made me grunt.

  “Just hold still, Mr. Luca.” He massaged the area and did some type of pinching in the area that made me uncomfortable.

  “That’s the spot. What’s going on, Doc?”

  “Sit up.”

  Sit up? Wasn’t bad news better to deliver to someone lying down?

  “It appears to be nothing more than some scar tissue that has formed adhesions on your abdominal muscles.”

  Phew! “That’s all it is?”

  “I believe so. We’ll do an ultrasound to be sure.”

  Ugh, now I had to sweat another test out? “Can you do it here?”

  “We have the equipment, but you’ll have to schedule it.”

  My shoulders sagged. “I was hoping—”

  “I can understand your apprehension after all you’ve been through, but I’m pretty certain you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  I heard myself say, “Yeah, that’s what the first doctor said.”

  Peters studied me for a second, checked his watch, and picked up the phone.

  “Sue, I need to squeeze in an ultrasound. Is room four open?”

  This was one of the few times being a wise guy got me anywhere, or did it? I could be speeding up hearing bad news.

  ***

  My shirt was only half buttoned as I dialed Vargas on the way out of the waiting room. I paced the parking lot as she explained, “The maid identified a necklace and three cocktail rings as missing.�
��

  “Is she sure?”

  “Absolutely. Said one of the missing rings was Marilyn’s favorite, a gift from her father.”

  “Can we estimate the value?”

  “I’ve gotten several pictures of Mrs. Boggs wearing the pieces, and I’ll get them down to Georgie for an estimate. It may not be anything, but we also found fifty thousand in cash in her nightstand.”

  “Fifty thousand? That sounds like a lot to me, but we’re talking about the ultrarich here. It’s probably their petty cash.”

  “Kinda what I thought.”

  I said, “Look, we’ve got to alert all known fences and pawn shops in Collier and Lee.”

  “In the works, all the way up to Orlando.”

  “Oh, ask Gideon what jewelers the family dealt with.”

  “Done. He told us they primarily dealt with Thalheimers but had bought things over the years from Bigham as well.”

  She’d thought of everything; it was good but depressing.

  “Frank, you there?”

  “Yeah. Good work. I’ll see you at the office.”

  “How’d it go with the doctor?”

  “All good, just some scar tissue.”

  Hopping in my car, I couldn’t believe the case just did a chameleon on me. Was this a robbery gone wrong? How did a thief, and now murderer, get on and off Keewaydin without being noticed? We’d have to canvass everyone. Someone had to see a boat unless Gideon was in on it. Could he have let someone onto the island to kill his wife and let him take some expensive jewelry as payment? That would make it appear to be a robbery, and there would be no paper trail for paying the assassin.

  As I turned onto Pine Ridge, a pinch in my gut brought me back to the doctor’s visit. It was good news, but I realized the relief that nothing serious was happening with my new plumbing had lasted all of a minute. I tried to understand why, as scared as I had been going in, that I was ungrateful.

  Sitting at the light to 41, I forced myself to believe it was because of the case, but as the light turned green, the truth hit me. I felt I was due a pass after everything I’d been through. The car in back of me beeped its horn, and I finally pressed the gas pedal down.

  Chapter 21

  Luca

  Three days after the murder, I stepped off Naples Pier and onto a police boat for the ride to Keewaydin Island. Normally I’d never consent to an interview with someone I considered a suspect on their territory. However, using Gideon’s anxiety issues and the publicity the case had already attracted, the Boggs attorney had asked us to conduct the interview on Keewaydin. I didn’t fight it. The island was captivating, and I looked forward to visiting as we slowly pulled away from the dock.

  The boat sped up as we passed through the area where the water wavered between brackish and salt. It was a perfect day to be on the water. The Gulf of Mexico was a sheet of glass, and there was only the hint of a breeze. The only negative was the glare. Though I had my Maui Jims on, it was still too bright.

  A maintenance man, decked out in white, met me at the dock with a golf cart. I said I’d rather walk, and he trailed me to the pool house. I knew there was no doubt Gerey had prepped Brighthouse. A lawyer for a high-profile family and a political operative getting their messages aligned made perfect sense but never concerned me.

  The maintenance man two steps behind me, I peeled off my jacket as soon as I stepped on the stone path. The island felt and looked different today. Maybe it was because no other officers were here. I slowed my pace, as there was something about this place. The mainland was visible, but the island was peacefully remote. If this guy wasn’t babysitting me, I’d zig and zag my way to the pool house. As we stepped onto the pool deck, Gerey pulled open a slider and forced a smile.

  “Good to see you, Detective.”

  Reflexively I said, “Likewise.”

  He lowered his voice. “I appreciate you coming alone. Gideon gets uncomfortable when there’s too many people around.”

  “He got lucky; my partner’s in court.”

  As we entered, Gideon Brighthouse rose out of a blue chair. Sockless, he was wearing a beige linen suit and red tee shirt that looked like paint had been splashed on it. Like the island, Gideon looked different today but still didn’t offer his hand. Instead, he swept his arm toward a chair that looked like it was made of rope and sat back down.

  I hadn’t noticed the night the body was found, but there was a series of multimedia pieces that formed a band over the sliders. It heightened the effect that the glass doors were all connected. I’m no designer, but I’d never seen anything like it. It wasn’t my style, but I gave whoever did it credit for originality.

  “Mr. Brighthouse, I know this may be difficult, but I’d like to go over the day and night you found Mrs. Boggs in the main house.”

  Gideon nodded, picked up a Pellegrino water bottle and took a sip.

  “Let’s start right before you found the body. Where were you, and what were you doing?”

  “As I said the other night, I was here, reading an article about Jasper Johns. I couldn’t believe there was a mistake—in the name of one of his paintings. It’s not a major work, but still.” He shook his head, pausing. “I was sure they were wrong, but before I fired off a letter to them I wanted to be certain I was correct. I have a retrospective of his work. It’s a wonderful book and the definitive reference on Johns.”

  There was no doubt he had rehearsed his recollection, but his manner of speaking was beginning to grate on me. I said, “I understand, go on.”

  “I went to the library to fact-check the Johns piece.”

  “Were you going to bring the book back here?”

  “Absolutely not. I rarely take a book out, unless it’s pure reading material. The library has proper reading surfaces. Some of the books in my collection . . . are quite large.”

  “Okay. On the way to the house, did you see or hear anything unusual?”

  He shook his head. “No. It was just . . . another beautiful night.”

  “When you entered the house, you went straight to the library?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now you’re in the library, what happened next?”

  “Anytime I go to the library, the first thing I do . . . is enjoy my one and only Pissarro, Boulevard Montmartre at Night . . . Impressionism at its best.” He closed his eyes. “It’s wonderful.”

  “I’m sure it is. What did you do next?”

  “I took the Johns retrospective off the shelf.”

  “You said you heard water running and that was why you went into the kitchen. Is that right?”

  “Why, yes. I was about to prove Art Monthly wrong . . . but before I had an opportunity to open the book, I heard what I believed to be water running, and went to check on it.”

  “Did you take the book with you?”

  “Um, I believe so.”

  “When you entered the kitchen, what happened?”

  “I was stunned and didn’t comprehend . . . then I saw the blood. I tried to see if Marilyn was still alive . . . but she had no pulse.” He looked around. “I think I may have panicked a bit . . . my chest was tightening, and with my history . . . I can’t take chances.”

  “You said that you ran out. Is that accurate?”

  He lowered his chin. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Were all the doors and windows closed?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t recall anything being open.”

  “I’m trying to get an accurate picture of your movements in the kitchen. You came in through the foyer, but the island blocked the view. As you went to shut the water off, is that when you saw your wife on the floor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. So, you bent over her and checked her pulse.”

  He nodded.

  “Did you shut the water off?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Gideon’s cheeks seemed to redden a shade. Was he lying? And why? I said, “It’s important, as the responding officer claims neither of the k
itchen faucets was running.”

  Gerey said, “Perhaps it was Frank Flynn who shut the water off.”

  “Not according to what he told Detective Vargas. Flynn claimed not to have even been in the kitchen.”

  “I’m sure there is a practical explanation, Detective.”

  “Let’s move on to the staff and any visitors during that day. Who was on the island?”

  Gideon crossed his long legs and said, “No staff. The housekeepers and maintenance crew are off each Wednesday, but Marilyn had her friend John Barnet . . . over that afternoon.”

  This time there was no question, he blushed. “Is this John Barnet a mutual friend?”

  “No. He’s the proprietor of Barnet Wines in Waterside. Marilyn met him . . . when they did one of her charitable functions.”

  “What was the purpose of Mr. Barnet’s visit?”

  “It may have been in connection with an event.”

  “Mr. Brighthouse, was your wife having an affair with Mr. Barnet?”

  Gerey said, “Detective, please. There’s no reason to allude to—”

  “Come on, Counselor. Mrs. Boggs was found dead in her own kitchen. That gives me the only reason that counts. Now, Mr. Brighthouse, please answer the question.”

  Gideon took a series of deep breaths as he studied his lap. “Yes . . . she was.”

  “How long had it been going on?”

  Shrugging, Gideon said, “A year, year and a half, maybe longer.”

  “Was this the first affair your wife engaged in?”

  Gerey rubbed his hands on his thighs as his client said, “No . . . there have been a couple of . . . others, but none that lasted as long.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe Mr. Barnet would want to harm Mrs. Boggs?”

  “John Barnet thinks he’s polished, and he is a leech, but I’m not qualified to evaluate him in regards to violence.”

  That surprised me. He didn’t seem to want revenge or believe that Barnet did it. With all the transgressions, I could understand why he didn’t care for his wife any longer. However, most men, this one included, wouldn’t be able to resist the opportunity to deliver a dose of payback.