Bonita Palms Read online

  PROLOGUE

  January 4

  The doorbell ringing surprised her…

  She glanced at her watch, a gold Rolex with a diamond bezel. Her first thought was that it must be the pizza. But barely fifteen minutes had passed since she’d placed her order. She set her wine glass down on the coffee table, stood and went to see who it was.

  “H…Hello,” came the awkward greeting.

  “Oh, hi,” she said, smiling.

  “Sorry to bother you.”

  “No bother at all.” She opened the door wider.

  “I—uh—need to borrow a pipe wrench. Do you happen to have one?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Great. Damn leak under our kitchen sink is getting worse.”

  “No problem. Just give me a minute.”

  “I’ll wait here,” her visitor said, stepping into the foyer and closing the door.

  Her destination was the workshop inside the garage. She flipped on the light switch. Her gaze automatically traversed the power drill, floor model electric saw, lathe, and various other objects that befit a do-it-yourselfer; something her husband was not but pretended to be.

  It didn’t take long to locate the wrench, hanging on a hook. She shut off the light, cradled the implement in her arm, and carried it back to her visitor.

  “Here you go,” she said, passing it off, and turned, meaning to reopen the front door.

  The first strike, aimed for the head, missed and caught the back of her shoulder, but with enough force to drop her to her knees.

  The pain was excruciating. My God, what just happened? she wondered.

  She twisted and looked up, scarcely in time to see the wrench coming at her again. Instinctively, she tried to block it.

  The second strike broke her arm; she screamed.

  There was a strange look in her assailant’s eyes. Confusion? Regret? And this gave her hope.

  She was struggling to get to her feet when the third strike opened a gash close to her carotid artery on the left side of her neck.

  Why? she wanted to ask.

  Too late, the fourth strike pulverized her skull.

  1

  Six hours earlier

  Cathy Sinclair liked her life, and very much enjoyed living in Bonita Palms. The Gulf Coast community in Bonita Springs, Florida, had been her second home for the past eleven years. Originally from St. Louis, Missouri, Cathy and her husband, Frank, still maintained a condo in the city of their birth, but rarely spent time there.

  A gated community, “The Palms” as most residents referred to it, boasted a challenging golf course, three tennis courts, a fitness club, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, multiple bicycle and walking trails, and two separate and impressive dining facilities. Over two thousand acres in all. A heartbeat west of US 41, the Palms bragged that they were close enough to Naples without coming across as ostentatious, and far enough from Fort Myers without being lumped in with what some considered, perhaps snobbishly so, a semi-blue-collar town.

  What Cathy liked most about where she lived was the proximity to restaurants and shops that were dear to her heart. Even better, when it came to the weather, she believed few other locations in North America could compare. It was as if there were an invisible demarcation line sixty miles south of Sarasota, protecting this part of Florida from not only excessive rain but the cold.

  Twenty-one hundred homes and condominiums in all, with values varying from four hundred thousand to fifteen million dollars. The Palms was self-sufficient, owned and managed by the members themselves. The current board of directors had Cathy convinced that the worst was over. They’d come through recessionary times. They’d survived the downturn in golf’s popularity. They’d outlasted a major mortgage crisis.

  As she strolled through her fifty-two hundred square-foot house, Cathy was reminded that the cathedral ceiling contributed to a feeling of unrestricted space. She entered the huge bathroom adjoining the master bedroom and took a seat on the upholstered bench in front of the full-length mirror.

  She slipped out of her rose-colored nightgown and a self-satisfied smile creased her lips. Sixty-two years old and the breasts of a woman half her age, with only the slightest imperfection—the left being slightly larger than the right. Though her doctor told her it was normal; nature’s way of adding extra protection for her heart.

  She turned, first to one side, then the other. At five-five, she was proud of her well-distributed weight of 116 pounds. Her blonde hair may have its share of peroxide, her Botox treatments may have contributed to the appealing shape of her lips and cheeks, but Cathy took pride in her appearance. Unlike some, she never denied the fact that she’d had various enhancements. Plus, she was pleased with the results, and that was all that mattered.

  She glanced at the wall clock adjacent to the mirror and chided herself. She stood, slipped into her bra and panties, then approached her closet—nearly the length and width of an average-sized bedroom—to pick out what she planned to wear.

  Early January yet the temperature had been unseasonably warm. She was tempted to choose the white cardigan, but was mindful of the time of year. Summer colors could wait for summer, she decided, finally selecting a navy blue, two-piece pants suit that she believed to be more appropriate.

  In the kitchen she donned oven mitts, lifted the meatloaf casserole from the top of the stove where she’d left it to cool, inserted it into a thermal wrap, then headed to the garage.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, she steered her E-450 Mercedes into the parking lot of the Anglican Church on Bonita Beach Boulevard.

  Her five neighbors, who were also her best friends, were already in the kitchen. Air kisses made the rounds. First with Jill Derbyshire, a thin redhead, well-put-together sixty-seven-year-old from Cleveland, Ohio. Jill was wearing tan slacks and a cardigan in white; the very color Cathy had told herself to avoid.

  Denise Gerigk, a Montreal-born French-Canadian blonde, now living primarily in Toronto, at fifty-eight, wasn’t merely the second youngest of the group but the best looking; not surprisingly making her the most envied. Denise was attired in a burgundy, form-fitting dress that accented her curves in a distinctive way.

  Cynthia Gladstone, a sixty-three-year-old originally from Detroit, was another attractive blonde, of average height, wearing a light blue, Coral Bay golf dress that was not out of place away from the golf course.

  Debbie Stafford stood next to her, a brunette in her mid-sixties from Louisville, Kentucky; a heavy-set woman attired in what could only be described as a coral-colored muumuu.

  And finally, Barbara Miller, a tall, statuesque woman, in black head to toe: sweater, skirt, and shoes. Barbara, also a brunette, was a forty-nine-year-old from Buffalo, New York. The other women aptly described her as a trophy wife.

  “Meals for Humanity” was their charity of choice. Twice a week they took turns preparing appetizer, salad, main course, dessert, and beverage—usually coffee—and bringing it here, where they volunteered their time to serve the homeless.

  Cathy found it a blessing and not a chore.

  Today, there were over fifty people. Mexicans, African Americans, and whites. The downtrodden; men and a few women. Most had seen better times; some had never seen good times at all.

  There, but for the grace of God… flittered through Cathy’s head uninvited. She well knew what it was like to be poor. And while she and members of her immediate family had never hit the same depths as some of these people, she felt sorry for them. Though this was an emotion she would never display, knowing how fickle their pride was.

  The first in line was a man Cathy knew simply as Joe. He w
as well past sixty-five. A weather-beaten face, unkempt gray hair worn far too long. His fingernails varied in size and were discolored. Cathy filled his plate and bid him a pleasant day.

  A man Cathy hadn’t seen before followed. Then a woman who broke Cathy’s heart. Cindy Travis was barely thirty, yet looked far older. Today the bruises on her face were more pronounced. The diminutive woman was a bundle of nerves, trembling as she proffered her plate with an anxious hand.

  “Cindy…” Cathy kept her voice as low as possible so as not to embarrass her. “Can we talk afterwards? I … want to help. If you won’t go to the women’s shelter I suggested, let me come up with another solution.”

  The woman’s eyes enlarged. “Shh–” she hissed, then mumbled something else.

  Cathy couldn’t make out what she said; it sounded like “He’s here.” Or, “He’s near.” She looked around. She’d met Cindy’s husband once before, a disgruntled laggard with a chip on his shoulder. A man twice the size of his wife and prone to violence.

  Before Cathy could say anything more, Cindy hurried away. Cathy reluctantly went back to her chore. The line was long. It took over twenty-five minutes before the last could be served.

  * * *

  The six ladies regrouped in the kitchen. The large portrait of Christ on the near wall overpowered the room. And while it should have acted as a monitor of decorum, it had little effect on Cathy and her friends as they nibbled on the leftover food and gossiped about their significant others.

  Jill Derbyshire brushed a thin strand of red hair from her eyes and went first, mentioning her husband’s prostate: “Ever since his doctor told him it was slightly enlarged the man’s been in a state of panic. You know men and their prostates.” She rolled her eyes. “Poor baby thinks his sex life is over … I only wish.”

  On it went, with Cynthia Gladstone talking about how upset her husband was with his encroaching baldness, and Debbie Stafford mentioning “a boil the size of a small tank” on her husband’s butt and his refusing to have it lanced. Denise Gerigk revealed that her husband, Tom, informed that he was inviting kidney disease if he didn’t ease up on booze, told his doctor, “Take your diagnosis and shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

  Cathy smiled at the appropriate times, nodded her head, even laughed when the others laughed. She was well aware of the idiosyncrasies of the opposite sex. Usually it would amuse her as much as it did her friends. But a certain dread was setting in. Soon enough she noticed the silence and, even worse, the others were staring at her.

  Cathy paused, swallowed once, then feigned surprise. “What?” And she waited. When no one spoke, she continued, trying to put a lighter spin on things. “I have nothing to confess. Frank and I have the perfect marriage. Neither of us complains. We never argue. We don’t fight.” By exaggerating she figured they’d get the message.

  And each woman in turn commiserated, wagging her head in sympathy, the humor in their little gabfest all but gone.

  * * *

  By the time Cathy returned to Bonita Palms it was almost five o’clock. The bar code affixed to the windshield on the passenger side of her car enabled her to use the special lane designated for residents. The other lane had a guard on duty tending to visitors twenty-four hours a day.

  Cathy drove slowly past the rows of palm trees stretching as far as she could see. They lined both sides of the road, in perpendicular lines, as if they’d been planted with meticulous care.

  There were no homes to obstruct the view. Those inhabitants who didn’t live in one of five condo buildings resided in neighborhoods unto themselves. Each had its own private entrance. Some faced the golf-course; a few fronted one of several man-made lakes. Many were exposed to both.

  The names of these communities projected an air of exclusivity. Cathy passed Cozy Hollow, then Doonesbury, followed by Waterford, Royston, and Sleepy Lagoon. Over fifty in all. Some with coach homes or villas, others with larger, freestanding houses. All coming under a set of rules prohibiting any resident from independently adding paint, plantings or decorations that didn’t follow strict guidelines.

  Cathy occasionally objected to the uniformity, as well as to the unusually high quarterly assessment that was charged by her own community, Augusta. A fee to cover maintenance of the front lawns, repairs to the roadway and roofs, and countless other things that cropped up, predominately in the warm climate of southwest Florida.

  She arrived at her circular driveway, remotely opened the garage, drove in, parked, and flicked the closing switch.

  In the foyer of her house, she dug her mobile out of her purse, speed-dialed her husband’s cell phone. It rang three times then went to voicemail. She didn’t bother to leave a message. Frank’s so-called “fishing” trips were becoming more frequent of late. She suspected there was something else at play. One of the perils of marrying a man five years her junior, she supposed. But she didn’t want to make a fuss; at least not yet.

  The antique grandfather clock in the great room chimed the hour of 5:00 p.m. Cathy didn’t hesitate. With purpose she glided into her bathroom, opened the cabinet and removed the small plastic bottle.

  “Cylaria,” she read off the label. Another pill, this one for her arthritis that had been acting up; the only pill she took before dinner. Its side effects included dry mouth and upset stomach. But prescription medication had become an integral part of her life of late. She was reminded of the pharmaceutical ads on television, how each came with a caveat; or two or three or even ten. Half the time she wondered if the pills were worth the risk.

  Cathy shrugged the worry aside. Before going to bed she’d take Crestor to keep her cholesterol under control. In the morning it’d be Micardis for blood pressure and Losec for her stomach. It was what it was. As far as she could tell, her four prescriptions were far below the norm, especially for someone her age. However, she was never one to delude herself. Certain people she knew didn’t take pills strictly for medicinal purposes. Eternal youth was their goal, their desire to live longer.

  Cathy filled the small glass she kept by the sink with water, popped the pill, and washed it down. Then she undressed and put on one of her favorite silk kimonos she had purchased on a trip to Tokyo a few years back. It was a blend of bright pinks and blues depicting a group of women at market. She stepped into her slippers and proceeded into the kitchen.

  Wives with the biggest kitchens cook the least, the popular maxim flashed in her head.

  Her kitchen was certainly one of the biggest, painted a neutral color somewhere between beige and white. Of course, she had all the amenities, from jumbo Sub-Zero refrigerator and freezer—both built-in and camouflaged to match the decor—to a stainless-steel double sink, dozens of mahogany cupboards, and a marble table that could seat twelve; all resplendent in the sunlight now streaming through the extra wide skylight that intersected the vaulted ceiling.

  Cathy approached the built-in wine cooler that stood next to the butler’s pantry and removed one of her favorite Chardonnays. It had a twist top that she preferred over the hassle of a cork. She poured a glass and took a seat in the great room. With Frank away there was no need to cook so she ordered a pizza. Then, cordless phone still in hand, she dialed the familiar number in St. Louis.

  When her grandson, Eric, answered, Cathy smiled to herself. The five-year-old liked talking on the telephone.

  “Do you know who this is?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What is my name?”

  “Grandma.”

  “That’s right, darling. And whom am I speaking to?”

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, yourself. Can you tell me your name?”

  “Hello?”

  “Eric—stop saying ‘hello.’”

  “Goodbye—”

  “Wait a minute. Is your mommy home?”

  “Hello?”

  “Eric!”

/>   “Yes?” He heard his grandmother’s raised voice and his own voice softened.

  “Go tell your mommy I’d like to have a word with her.”

  “Hello?”

  Cathy truly loved her only grandchild, but sometimes he could drive her to distraction. She heard a muffled sound at the other end of the line and then her daughter, Angela’s, quick pronouncement: “Sorry, Mom. I’ll have to call you back. I’ve got ten things going on at once.”

  They said hurried goodbyes and disconnected. Cathy took a sip of wine and frowned. She could picture her daughter’s statuesque figure. Brown hair askew. Thirty-six years old but still a kid. Always trying to market one “get rich quick” scheme or another. If it wasn’t Isagenix, it was Rodan & Fields skincare, or Açai, the liquid with supposed antioxidant powers. Not that she needed the money; her husband was a lawyer and doing quite well for himself.

  But Cathy knew what drove her daughter. She thought back to before Angela was born, when she and Frank could barely make ends meet. Both grew up in St. Louis and came from lower middle-class backgrounds. They’d married at a young age. Cathy worked as a secretary while Frank attended university and studied for his master’s degree in business administration. They couldn’t afford it but decided to have a baby anyway, and Angela was born. For a year or two the euphoria of being a mother overshadowed the grim reality of their financial situation.

  Eventually, however, finding herself without an option, Cathy went back to work, while Frank continued with his schooling during the day. But he soon applied for and was hired as the night manager at an upscale restaurant in the downtown core.

  After Frank graduated, he became a partner in the restaurant, then the sole owner. Their fortune turned for the better. One restaurant expanded into two, four, then six.

  But all of that came later. Angela grew up with little in the way of fancy clothes or an abundance of toys. There were no day trips to the zoo, no visits to Disneyland. From an early age she’d learned what it was like to go without.

  Is it any wonder, Cathy reflected, that my daughter is obsessed with money?