Life, Love, & Laughter

by S. L. Menear

  “Humph! What’s that?”

  “You can’t accuse her of false advertising. She’s up front with everything she’s selling.”

  “Oh, you’re an expert on that. On our third date, I remember you flirting with a floozy waitress in a tight skirt. She was up front too. Way up front. I thought her blouse buttons would pop off any minute.”

  “Awww, geez, Ellen, you bring that up every time we have a disagreement. You can recall what I did sixty years ago, but you can’t remember to take your pills every day.”

  “I just want you to know I’ve still got my eyes on you. I don’t want you running off with some floozy.”

  "Humph! I can’t run anywhere. I’m in a damn wheelchair.”

  “Well, Ginny Greenblatt’s wheelchair doesn’t slow her down. I saw her flirting with you yesterday.”

  “You’re crazy! She was just asking me a question. Who’s gonna flirt with a crippled old man like me?"

  “A crippled old woman like Ginny, that’s who!”

  “I’m fed up with your nagging, Ellen. My hearing aids are going in my pocket right now, and then I’m switching my wheelchair to max speed.”

  “You wouldn’t dare do that! You know I can’t push my walker as fast as your motorized wheelchair. Hey, wait for me!”

  “Eat my dust, Ellen!”

  The Boys

  D.M. Littlefield

  Pete Winston settled in a bar stool in the quiet bar. “I need a double Scotch.”

  The bartender arched his eyebrows. “Rough day?”

  Pete nodded. “It was crazy. You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “After years of tending bar, I could tell you stories you wouldn’t believe. But hey, my job is to listen and take your money. We’re alone, so lay it on me.”

  He gulped his drink and chuckled. “My job is to listen and take people’s money too. I’m a marriage counselor. I thought I’d heard it all, but this case was a doozy.” He slid his glass in circles on the mahogany bar. “A very attractive woman in her thirties came to see me and said her husband is a prominent building contractor. He objects to how she’s raising their adopted three-year-old boys and has threatened to divorce her and take custody of them.”

  The bartender poured Pete more Scotch. “What does she do?”

  He sipped the whiskey. “She talks baby talk to them, says they’re so adorable she can’t help herself, and thinks her husband is jealous. She said she loves her husband and doesn’t want a divorce.”

  The bartender wiped the bar. “So what did you tell her?”

  “I told her to have her husband make an appointment with me. I saw him the next day. The guy looks like the actor who played Rocky in the movies.”

  “Sylvester Stallone?”

  “Yeah, only her husband is much taller. He said his wife is a former Las Vegas showgirl. He agreed to the adoptions if she let him choose who they adopted. To be fair, he let her name them. He was mad as hell when she picked Reginald and Rodney. He wanted masculine names like Max and Mike.”

  “The guy has a point,” the bartender said, leaning against the polished wood countertop.

  “I agreed with him. He thought she was turning their boys into pansies. She paints their nails pink! He threatened her with a divorce when she tied pink lace bandanas around their necks to match their nails. The guy loves his wife, but she’s driving him nuts with the boys.”

  The bartender arched his brows. “So, did you solve their problem?”

  “Yeah, I had the whole family come in today. I had to hold a handkerchief over my mouth to hide my laughter when I saw their boys.” He held up his cell phone.

  The bartender gaped at the picture and roared with laughter.

  Two black Great Danes with diamond-studded gold collars and pink-lace bandanas matching their pink nails sat together.

  “When I recovered, I drew up a legal document. After a lot of heated discussions, they both signed it. It states no nail polish. Only cotton bandannas in a masculine print are allowed. Their gold-jeweled collars will only be worn at home. The dogs will wear their new spiked collars at all other times. Rodney’s name is now Rocky, and Reginald is now Rex.”

  The bartender grinned and gave Pete a high five. “Well done!”

  Guinevere’s Lance

  S. L. Menear

  I was a trust fund baby, but that didn’t mean I didn’t need my police detective job. Twelve years ago, I was a college freshman at the University of Miami when a murderer carjacked my family. His ski mask exposed only his evil eyes and maniacal grin. He ordered us out of the car and laughed when he shot us. I watched my parents die beside me in the street.

  The killer was never caught. Grief transformed me into a crusader for justice. I changed my major to criminology and earned a master’s degree in forensic science.

  I spent the past seven years on patrol duty with the Welton Police Department in Palm Beach County, Florida. On my days off, I trolled for the killer in my diamond-white Mercedes roadster with my Glock 40 cocked. The badge was my ticket to justice. The flashy car was the bait. Coworkers assumed I was just a spoiled rich girl. They didn’t know what drove me.

  Three days ago, I became the newest detective on the force. On Sunday, my day off, I drove west over the Blue Heron bridge, made my way south onto Flagler Drive, and glanced at my watch. Uncle Clive and Aunt Elizabeth, the Duke and Duchess of Colchester, had invited me for cocktails and dinner at The Seafood Bar in The Breakers Hotel. One of my favorite restaurants, the oceanfront view was similar to a dining room on a posh cruise ship.

  The late-afternoon drive from my condo on Singer Island to Palm Beach was proceeding ahead of schedule when my cell phone rang.

  Detective Rod Malone’s slightly slurred voice boomed into my ear. “Gwen, get your butt to the Polo Club pronto. We’ve got a DB in a Rolls on the southeast side.”

  My boss since Friday was a man of few words. Just as well, considering he never had anything good to say to me.

  I continued south on Flagler Drive and turned west On Okeechobee Boulevard. Twenty minutes later, I turned south on Highway 441 to Pierson Road. A few miles down the road, I pulled into the tailgating area, and spotted a Rolls-Royce Corniche, top down, parked beside the polo field under a banyan tree surrounded by yellow crime-scene tape. An elaborate party tent crowded with elite residents from Palm Beach anchored the site. The aromas of grilled meat and horses filled the air.

  I weaved my Mercedes through the tailgaters and parked beside a squad car. An approaching siren overpowered the thundering hooves, drunken revelers, and the loudspeakers booming the play-by-play calls.

  After one whiff of Rod’s breath, I knew he’d been hitting the sauce. I took a step back.

  “What? It’s Sunday. I was off duty watching the play-offs when the call came in.” He checked out my black Dior cocktail dress and five-inch Manolo stilettos. “Hot date, eh, Gwen?”

  I rolled my eyes and walked closer to the handsome guy who appeared to be sleeping in the Rolls. Early forties with a blond crew cut, fit physique, and mirrored aviator sunglasses.

  “Are you sure he’s dead?” I said without thinking. “Maybe he drank too much.” I pulled on latex gloves and nudged his shoulder. Big mistake. His body fell like a rag doll over the center console, and his sunglasses slipped off, revealing dull, sightless blue eyes.

  Rod shook his balding head. “Real smooth, Gwen. The ME is going to have your ass. Didn’t your fancy finishing school teach you not to touch dead bodies?”

  Big sigh. Blushing, I pulled back my long auburn hair and focused on the body and the convertible’s interior. No signs of a struggle. No visible marks on the body. No obvious cause of death.

  Rod thrust his hands on his hips. “I should’ve known this case is too high profile for a newbie. Jet Donley is a Palm Beacher with deep pockets. The press will be all over this.”

  “Jet Donley? Isn’t he the bastard who raped those girls last year?” I Googled him on my iPhone.

  “Expensive
lawyer got him off.” He stared at the body. “Guess too much high living did him in.”

  When the medical examiner arrived, Rod stepped aside.

  The ME pulled on his gloves and opened the car door. He glanced at Rod. “Is this how you found him?”

  “Our brand-new detective knocked him over.” Rod glared at me. “He was found behind the wheel with his body slumped back against the seat. His guests assumed he was taking a nap. Eventually, they needed to pop the trunk to get to the Champagne cooler. That’s when they realized he didn’t have a pulse and called 9-1-1.”

  The short, gray-haired man turned to me. “What the hell were you thinking?” He turned back to the body. “Never mind. Probably natural causes anyway.” He pierced the body’s liver area with a device that resembled a meat thermometer. “Yep, died about two hours ago. Is he high profile?”

  Rod nodded. “Jet Donley. Big money. We’ll need an expedited autopsy.”

  Several news vans raced up to be first on the scene. An overeager young female reporter stuck her microphone in my face. “What happened to Jet Donley? Did one of his alleged victims exact justice?”

  Rod gave me a let’s-see-you-handle-this look, so I jumped into the fray. “Mr. Donley died two hours ago in his car. An autopsy will determine the cause of death. Please step back so the medical examiner can remove the body. Thank you.”

  Cameras flashed behind me as the ME zipped the body bag over Jet’s face. After he was wheeled away, I turned to my partner. “Where’s the crime-scene truck? The Rolls should be swept for evidence.”

  “I already took lots of pictures. There’s no crime here. No sense wasting police resources. I’m heading in to file the report.”

  After calling my aunt and uncle to apologize for missing cocktail hour, I searched the Rolls, hoping to find a significant clue Rod had missed. No such luck. I wiped the soft dirt off my heels and fired up my flashy bait car.

  Thirty minutes later, I turned onto the stately entrance drive for The Breakers. Majestic royal palms flanked the wide road, which split near the front of the hotel to circle a massive fountain. Under the portico, a valet briskly opened my door and handed me a claim ticket. I straightened my dress and breezed into the magnificent lobby.

  The hotel was a picture of Old World elegance with thirty-foot ceilings adorned in unique artistic designs. My heels clacked on the polished marble corridor as I walked south through the lobby and turned east into the long hall leading to The Seafood Bar. My elderly aunt and uncle were in the restaurant at a table overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Auntie Liz and Uncle Clive, it’s good to see you.” I leaned over and kissed Aunt Liz on the cheek. When Uncle Clive rose to pull out my chair, I hugged him. “How long will you be in Palm Beach?”

  My aunt smoothed her elegant white hair. “We’re here for the season, my dear Gwen. I do hope we’ll see you often. Is your new job keeping you busy?”

  “Not until today. A wealthy Palm Beacher died at the polo match. Did you know Jet Donley?”

  The waiter poured me a glass of Opus One, a sumptuous red wine blend, and presented the menu. Life was good in the company of a wealthy duke and duchess.

  “We sipped vintage Krug Clos du Mesnil in his tent this afternoon.” Uncle Clive glanced at Aunt Liz. “We left the match early so we’d have plenty of time to relax and dress for dinner. He seemed fine when we left.”

  His answer surprised me. “Did you know him well?”

  “He was quite the womanizer,” Aunt Liz said. “You know the type. I wasn’t fond of him, but we fulfilled our social obligation. I heard he raped three girls last year and escaped prosecution.”

  I sipped the red elixir, savoring the delicious blend from the Rothschild and Mondavi vineyards. “They were merely the tip of the iceberg. He should’ve spent the rest of his life behind bars. Our legal system failed. At least he can’t hurt anyone else now.”

  My uncle swirled the fifty-year-old Macallan whisky in his glass. “Do you think someone seeking justice caused his demise?”

  “Murder?” I bit my lip. “There was no evidence of a homicide.”

  “Considering his crimes, you shouldn’t rule out the possibility someone killed him.” He downed his drink.

  “Enough about Jet.” Aunt Liz patted my hand. “You look fit and fabulous in your little black dress.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Liz. You and Uncle Clive always look regal no matter what you’re wearing.” I couldn’t help thinking I’d never look good in a bikini again with my ugly scar front and center, courtesy of the killer.

  She studied my face. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”

  “Sorry, I was thinking about my scar.” I took a soothing sip of wine. “I’m looking forward to our opera night at the Kravis Center on Tuesday. Carmen, isn’t it?”

  She smiled warmly. “Yes, dear, we have fifth-row orchestra seats. Plan to meet us for cocktails thirty minutes before the curtain.”

  After a pleasant evening, I returned home and checked my messages. Rod had left an update that Jet’s family physician reported he’d been in perfect health.

  I went to bed and slipped into my recurring nightmare of the carjacking.

  I spent Monday researching Jet Donley. Rod and I interviewed the rape victims and their parents. They all had alibis.

  Jet’s death appeared natural until the autopsy report changed everything. Enough sedative was found in his body to drop him into a deep sleep, and a tiny puncture wound was discovered over the right carotid artery on his neck. No poison. No toxic residue at the puncture site.

  Another mystery.

  Rod ordered me to spend Tuesday interviewing Jet’s buddies, which resulted in multiple passes, lewd suggestions, and no clues to help catch the killer.

  After a long frustrating day, I relaxed in a hot shower, dressed to the nines, and drove to the Kravis Center in West Palm Beach.

  Opera night with the duke and duchess was fun and festive. I enjoyed a superb glass of Blackstone merlot in the lobby bar before the show and another during intermission. My aunt and uncle knew how to work a room and have a good time. I must admit I enjoyed the celebrity treatment with everyone crowding around us.

  After the opera, I returned home happy and relaxed. No nightmares this time, thank goodness.

  The headline in this morning’s paper hit me like a sucker punch. Young Palm Beacher, Bradford “Binky” Worthington, was found dead on the terrace of the Kravis Center last night. Binky died during the intermission, according to the medical examiner. He’d gone outside to smoke a cigar with his cocktail. No obvious cause of death and no signs of foul play. It looked a lot like the Jet Donley case.

  How could I have been at the Kravis and not known? The ME must have hauled him away during Act Three. I called my boss’s cell.

  “I’m eating breakfast, Gwen. This better be important.”

  “A rich Palm Beacher was found dead last night at the Kravis Center. Same M.O.”

  “Check it out. Could be a connection. I’ll see you at the station.”

  I called the lead detective on the case at the West Palm Beach Police Department.

  “Detective Palmer here, how may I help you?” a deep voice said.

  “I’m Detective Gwen Stuart from the Welton PD. I believe your rich dead guy has a lot in common with my rich dead guy. I’d like to compare notes over lunch today somewhere on your turf. How about E.R Bradley’s?”

  “Sounds good. I’ll meet you there at noon.”

  Three hours later, I walked into E.R. Bradley’s fifteen minutes early and snagged a water-view table. The wide part of the Intracoastal Waterway known as Lake Worth sparkled in the noon sunlight. A balmy saltwater breeze out of the east mixed with the pleasing aroma of food in the open-air restaurant. I ordered an ice tea and gambled on a coffee for Detective Palmer.

  Feeling confident I could spot a detective among the lunch crowd, I focused on the only man who surveyed the restaurant like a lion hunting prey. The attractive man
in his early forties wore gray polyester pants and a sport coat. I waved.

  “Thanks for coming, Detective Palmer. Please, call me Gwen.” I gave him my best smile and shook his hand. “I ordered coffee for you. Hope that’s okay.”

  His alert eyes glanced at the coffee and focused on my face. “Thanks, Gwen. Call me John. Been on the force long?” He settled across from me.

  I smoothed my hair. “I was promoted to detective last week. Jet Donley is my first murder case.”

  “The rich rapist?” He scanned the menu. “I heard he was found dead in his Rolls.”

  A waitress appeared with her pad and pencil ready. I ordered the grilled chicken salad, and John got a burger with fries.

  He smiled at the waitress and flashed his badge. “We’d appreciate it if you’d expedite our food order.”

  I waited until the waitress walked away. “He’s like your rich dead guy—a relatively young Palm Beacher in good health with no obvious cause of death. He was charged with several rapes but never convicted. The ME found a pinprick in his neck and enough sedative in his system to put him to sleep. We don’t know what killed him, but it looks like murder.”

  John drained his coffee and waved for more. “Binky also avoided criminal convictions, but his crimes were white collar. He cheated hundreds of middle-class people out of their retirement funds and got off through legal loopholes. He ruined many lives.”

  “Has the ME finished his autopsy?” I took a long sip of ice tea.

  “He worked all night and finished early this morning. Found a pinprick in Binky’s neck and a strong sedative in his system. No poison. No cause of death.”

  My eyes widened, and my heart raced. “Sounds like the same killer. I’d like to know if it was the same sedative. Was it injected into his neck?” I leaned back as our waitress placed my meal in front of me.