Bonita Palms Read online

  “Does she seem mentally unavailable to you?”

  “In what way?”

  “Does she spend many hours brooding? In a fugue state? Unaware of her surroundings?”

  “Yes!” Now we’re getting somewhere. “And lately she seems possessed by God. Hears Him talking to her sometimes.”

  Dr. Kline scribbled in her notepad. “How about her maiden name?”

  “She knows it.”

  “Does she ever forget your name?”

  “No.”

  “Your date of birth?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “The name of our president?”

  “She knows who he is,” Larry said. And he was convinced: Debbie no more had Alzheimer’s disease than he did.

  Dr. Kline put down her pen. “Mr. Stafford, oftentimes we notice a change in the ones we’re closest to and it worries us. In your wife’s case, it’s appears to be her religion. According to you, she’s far more fervent about it now than she was before. But I don’t believe it’s harming anyone. Is it?”

  Larry shrugged. “No, I guess not.”

  “Well, perhaps there are other factors motivating this kind of behavior.”

  “Like what?”

  “A change in your relationship? The way you communicate with one another?”

  He became embarrassed. “I … don’t think so.”

  The doctor pounced on the vagueness of his answer. “May I suggest you give it more thought? In the meantime, I will gladly meet with your wife. But from the answers you’ve given me, I don’t believe there’s an indicator for Alzheimer’s disease. Bringing her here might be a waste of time and money. I’ll leave it up to you to decide.”

  * * *

  On the drive home Larry reviewed the questions he’d been asked along with his answers. If Debbie doesn’t have Alzheimer’s disease, what does she have? Doctor Kline insinuated he could be partly to blame; something to do with their relationship, or the way he was communicating with her.

  Perhaps he hadn’t expressed himself properly? Debbie’s recent behavior had nothing to do with him. She’d gone over the top; listening to voices, speaking to a God only she could hear.

  He reached their house and parked in the driveway next to his wife’s car. He walked in and called out his hello.

  No answer.

  “Deb?”

  Nothing.

  He called her name again. Still no reply, he moved toward the master bedroom, thinking his wife might be taking a nap.

  The empty room ratcheted up his concern. He searched the other rooms, finally knocking on the door to Debbie’s office.

  No response.

  He turned the handle and poked his head in. She wasn’t there. He was about to leave when he heard a muffled groan coming from behind the bookcase at the back. Larry was aware of his wife’s hidden alcove. He rushed forward, removed the Bible on the center shelf of the bookcase and hit the switch. The bookcase popped apart. The lights in the alcove were ablaze. Debbie’s body was lying prone at the base of Christ’s statue. He rushed to her side and searched for a pulse; found it, but it was weak. He whipped out his cell, dialed 911, then turned back to his wife and began to apply CPR.

  22

  February 21

  “You’ve already had your damn vacation!” Hank Broderick said from the doorway to my office. He entered and took a seat.

  “So?” I said.

  “You won’t be paid.”

  “I know that.” Getting paid was the furthest thing from my mind.

  “And this will go against your record.”

  That surprised me. “For taking a leave of absence?”

  “Now—in the middle of a murder investigation? Yes, of course.”

  I leaned back in my chair.

  “Well?”

  “I still need the time off.”

  “And I need you here, on the case.”

  “But I’ve been demoted. Remember? You’re the one now in charge.”

  “You weren’t demoted. Just asked to step aside.”

  “That’s the same thing.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  I sat there and stared at Hank, giving him a little of his own medicine, refusing to blink first. Three weeks of working with the man only drove us further apart. It wasn’t that I didn’t try. Broderick was every bit as self-centered as I believed he would be when we first met. Not purely egotistical but a phony, someone who thought too highly of himself, someone who talked down to everyone, especially the men under my command.

  However, with Broderick now being my superior, I’d had no choice but to send my request for time off through to him via email less than an hour ago. And here he was.

  “I need every able-bodied person available for duty,” he said, breaking the silence.

  I let him stew for an extra minute, then said with finality, “I’ll only be gone five days.”

  Broderick stood. “You want your time off, take it! But you better hope that another murder doesn’t occur in your absence!” He turned and stomped out of my office.

  * * *

  The drive was long and tedious. I had lots of time to mull over my relationship with Hank Broderick. As far as I was concerned, I saw no evidence of a brilliant analytical mind. If anything, I was yet to see why Sheriff Norman and Mayor Hillier held him in such high esteem.

  I was using my personal car—a year-old Chevy; I’d been loyal to the one brand all my life. I’d started off on I-75 heading north, keeping more or less to the speed limit.

  I made frequent stops, for the restroom as well as coffee. The first motel I chose cost eighty dollars. It’d been a while since I’d stayed in one and it felt strange. The room was of average size with a musty smell to it. Sleep was slow in coming.

  The following morning, I had breakfast and was back on the road by 9:00 a.m. I turned on the radio and searched the dial. All I could get was static; it was too isolated an area for anything coherent.

  A horn honked. I’d lost focus and had drifted into the passing lane. I quickly corrected, then slowed down.

  The second motel I picked had a television that didn’t work and a phone that was out of order.

  * * *

  It took three days to get to my destination. Upon arrival, I made a detour and purchased flowers. Then I left my car with the doorman at my hotel—a Hilton downtown.

  In the morning I was on my way before nine. The wind was one thing about Chicago I’d never gotten used to; and the cold. After living in Florida, they both felt much worse and I was glad I’d brought a coat.

  Traffic stalled. I arrived at the cemetery after a drive forty minutes too long. The plot I’d purchased for my wife and son was in a newer section. I parked as near as I could.

  The temperature was in the mid-thirties. There was no snow on the ground, yet the air felt damp. There were no other visitors close by.

  I approached the gravesite and placed the flowers I’d picked up the day before at the double tombstone. I said a prayer, then lowered myself to a sitting position and crossed my legs.

  The reason why I came here, why I had to be here today, was to honor the anniversary of my wife’s passing. That, as well as the fact that I was teetering on a precipice; still unnerved from my demotion and its aftereffects, still upset that something I couldn’t remember—and she wouldn’t say—had come between Sara and me. Most of all, I was very much bothered that my willpower could’ve become so diminished I’d actually purchase a bottle of Jack Daniels and seriously think about drinking it.

  I’d held that open bottle in my hand for too many minutes, then started to put it to my lips; a nanosecond away from a relapse; a nanosecond away from destroying my life for good.

  I had no idea what stopped me, but I thanked my lucky stars that something did. Some last vestige of conscience c
aused me to march into the kitchen, tilt the damn bottle, and pour its entire contents down the drain.

  I didn’t feel relief afterwards; only shame.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry,” I said, my eyes fixed on the tombstone, apologizing simultaneously to my son and Alice. The words sounded trite and I grew embarrassed. An involuntary sound escaped my lips, part sigh, part groan. I closed my eyes and envisioned my wife as she lay dying; how emaciated she’d looked, the sickly smell of her shallow breath. All because of me.

  A lifetime of penitence wouldn’t be enough. And sitting there in my personal funk, I was hit by a stark premonition. My demotion at work was only the beginning; I was soon going to have to face a lot worse.

  23

  February 22

  “Tabernac!” Denise Gerigk swore.

  Her neck again, on the right side. She tried to keep as still as possible. But the dish of hors d’oeuvres she held was getting heavy. She slowly moved toward the great room and set the plate down on the coffee table; waited for the pain to ease up.

  Denise looked at her watch: almost 1:30 p.m. Their mid-week bridge game had been switched to Saturday and it was her turn to host. She had only a few minutes before the others would arrive.

  At the best of times she was restrained from moving her neck without also moving her shoulders. They either worked in unison, as a single unit, or she suffered the worst spasms imaginable. Whenever she forgot—like a minute ago—her neck seized up and sent her a vicious reminder.

  Mind over matter, she told herself, and purposely put a bounce in her step, returning to the kitchen to round up the balance of appetizers.

  * * *

  They all showed up at once. Barbara Miller, her usual showy self, in a tight lavender blouse, mauve short-shorts, and high heels. And two women recently conscripted into the bridge group as replacements for Denise’s murdered friends: Carol Monaghan, brown hair done up in a bun, wearing a navy pants suit. And Joan Ward, a sixty-six-year-old petite blonde dressed in a black and white golf outfit. Joan was a well-liked neighbor who’d just returned from Madison, Wisconsin where she’d spent three months looking after, then burying her mother, who suffered from heart disease. Denise led the way into the great room where the bridge table and chairs were set up. Two decks of cards—one red-backed, the other blue—in opposite corners.

  The women took their seats and Denise pointed out the abundance of snacks she’d laid out on the adjacent coffee table: two kinds of potato chips, smoked salmon, devilled eggs, guacamole, a variety of imported cheeses, pita bread and a humus dip. “Help yourself,” she said. “The hot stuff will be served later.”

  “God, I hope not,” Barbara Miller objected. “You’re going overboard again, always trying to fatten us up.”

  It was true, Denise reflected. Not the fattening up part, but she was trying to go that one step beyond. Not to show off, more to prove she was an equal. In truth, she’d always felt inferior to these women. Their showy homes, their wealth, were far and beyond anything she and Tom had accomplished. Somehow, she couldn’t live down the feeling of inferiority, and this was her way of making up for it.

  The bridge game commenced; Barbara was her first partner. By the third round Denise was ready to call it quits. She’d had bad luck before, but this was ridiculous. “Colin,” she swore under her breath.

  “What’s that?” Carol Monaghan asked. “Babbling in French once more? You do realize the rest of us can’t understand a word you’re saying, don’t you?”

  Denise smiled. “Better that you don’t,” and went back to studying her hopeless hand.

  By the time they changed partners Denise had opened the second bottle of wine. The women had been sampling the snacks from time to time, and one or the other had mentioned how tasty everything was.

  A bathroom break was called for when the second hour was up. Denise sighed in relief. Her cards weren’t improving; if anything, they’d gotten worse. The women reconvened and Barbara Miller suggested they extend their break, to which all agreed.

  “What’s the latest on Arrow?” Carol asked Denise.

  “Fuckin’ Arrow!” Denise spat.

  “Whoa!” Joan reared back.

  “Sorry—” Denise shrugged, “my French ears don’t seem to mind my language.”

  “Oh?” Carol looked her way. “What’s the difference between French ears and English ones?”

  “Some words don’t sound as bad in French.”

  “Ah-ha,” Carol chirped. “Well, tell us about fuckin’ Arrow, then.”

  The other women laughed.

  Denise let out a sigh. “There’s nothing new. Tom’s in Toronto meeting with our banker. But it doesn’t look good.”

  “Geesh!” Barbara piped in. “And we all thought the toy industry was a fun business.”

  “Yeah. Some fun.” Denise made a dour face. “If things get any worse Tom and I will have to sell this house and move in with one of you.”

  “That bad?” Joan asked.

  “Yes, unfortunately.” Denise managed a wan smile. “But I’m kidding about the moving-in-with-one-of-you part.”

  * * *

  “This is fantastic,” Barbara Miller exclaimed fifteen minutes later as she sampled the blue cheese and pear tartelette.

  “Not as good as this olive tapenade,” Joan insisted.

  “Or this baba ghanoush,” Carol raved. “You’ll have to give me the recipe.”

  Denise was pleased. She stood and refilled everyone’s wine glass. “I meant to ask the three of you about Debbie Stafford. Does anyone know what happened, exactly?”

  “All rumors,” Barbara said.

  Then all three began speaking at once.

  “It was self-inflicted.”

  “No. I hear it was attempted murder.”

  “I think she was planning her own demise.”

  “Or someone else was.”

  “Surely not her husband?”

  “Could’ve been.”

  Denise was finding it difficult to keep up. “Hold on. I need you guys to slow down.”

  The girls began apologizing over one another.

  Denise waved her hands for silence and they quieted. She asked, “Does anyone know if Debbie is allowed visitors?”

  “I believe so,” Joan said. “I can check with the hospital and let you know.”

  “Please do,” Denise implored. “Why don’t the four of us plan on seeing her together?”

  “Good idea,” Carol said. And the other women nodded their agreement.

  Barbara turned to Denise. “How much longer will Tom be away?”

  “He’s back on Thursday.”

  “Would you like to stay with Bill and me?” Barbara offered. “We’d love to have you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the murders,” Barbara contended. “With Tom out of town, you shouldn’t be alone.”

  Denise seemed to have a moment of reflection, then casually replied, “I’m not worried.”

  24

  February 28

  I was more at peace with myself after my trip to Chicago. On the drive home I’d had a good deal of time to reflect, I was determined to resolve the issues foremost on my mind; priority one being Sara. I cared about her and wanted to get to the bottom of what I’d done that upset her the night I slept over. Priority two was my working relationship with Hank Broderick. Unless I found a way to iron out the differences between us, the murder investigation would suffer, and that was something I couldn’t afford to let happen.

  However, my good intentions where Broderick was concerned already faced a major obstacle. Weeks ago, at his behest, I began interviewing various servicemen who worked at Bonita Palms. Men that he had preselected for me, not as suspects but possible witnesses.

  For instance, Gino Scapillati, the fifty-year
-old service director with Excalibur Service, who spent twenty percent of his time at the Palms and eighty percent in neighboring communities such as Shadow Wood, Highland Woods, and Spanish Wells. And Fran Bailey, a forty-five-year-old technician with Broad Connections, in the business of solving computer problems, be they Mac or PC.

  The list continued, from Manuel Garcia, gardener, to Cecil Rowe, pool specialist. All the men had come in voluntarily and none had seen anything suspicious or the least bit out of the ordinary.

  I remembered all of them. And they were back. Each and every one. Broderick had ordered me to conduct this second round of interviews, and it irked the hell out of me. It was all to saddle me with grunt work; bog me down with minutia—keep me out of the way—out of the real investigation so that Broderick could take all the credit should an actual lead be uncovered.

  I continued with the interviews, but my heart wasn’t in it. At noon I headed out of the building to take a long lunch.

  * * *

  I returned at 2:00 PM to find another group of familiar workers lined up outside my office. I confronted Broderick a few doors down and let him know I was on to his game.

  “What’re you talking about?” he feigned innocence.

  “Give me a break! I interviewed every one of those men a few weeks ago!”

  “So?” he said, unable to hide a grin. “I’m just trying to be thorough.”

  “You’re wasting my time, damnit. These men don’t know anything. Yet, you dragged them in here twice. For what?

  “I told you.” His expression turned smug. “We have to be meticulous. Leave nothing to chance.”

  “And we accomplish that, how?

  “By doing what you’re doing.”

  “Bullshit, Hank. Find another grunt,” I said, then spun on my heels, exited his office and headed home.

  25

  March 1

  Frank Sinclair was in the bathroom, splashing a dozen drops of Shen Min, a topical hair rejuvenate, on a hardly noticeable bald spot in the back of his head. He’d been using a mirror and the area of thinning hair caught his eye, reminding him that he was in decline. He’d seen it with friends. First the hair, followed by their eyesight, then everything else; an inevitable skid that was irreversible.