Bonita Palms Page 21

  He quickly moved back.

  “Is it true?” Debbie quietly asked. “All those terrible things they’re saying about me? Killing those women … my friends? I don’t remember any of it, Larry. I swear I don’t.” She shivered. “Am I really under arrest?”

  He knew she’d been told that she was, and his heart went out to her. He blamed part of her confusion on the blow she’d suffered to her head; the other part on her withdrawal from the Narvia medication. “I’ve hired a lawyer,” he said. “Hubert Vaughn has years of experience in murder cases. He’s the best in Southwest Florida. I don’t care what it costs.”

  Debbie permitted herself a wisp of a smile, which set off the security guard.

  “Listening to both of you talk turns my stomach,” Mahoney growled. “Jill Derbyshire—remember her? One of your victims? Her husband, Jack? He’s my cousin.”

  Larry was appalled. “Now, wait a minute…”

  “No, you wait.” Mahoney approached, got into his face. “You people with money think you have all the power—think you can buy your way out of anything! Well, not this time!” He turned to Debbie. “Because, Mrs. Stafford—never again, under any circumstances, will you ever breathe free air!”

  54

  April 28

  At home, my shoulder and arm began to ache again, but I was determined to gut it out rather than take the anti-inflammatory the doctor prescribed for me. As a matter of fact, I’d sworn off all drugs, including aspirin. The prognosis was that the healing of my wounds would take time. The butcher knife Debbie Stafford had used cut tendons and ligaments. Even after two operations, the doctors weren’t sure if I’d ever regain full axial rotation of my right arm. This could seriously affect my career in law enforcement. No way to know until after the next surgery, scheduled for the end of May.

  I’d regained consciousness in the ambulance and was told that, based on new information, my men were on their way to the Stafford residence to conduct another search. I tried to pull rank and insisted I be driven there as well. The driver refused to listen and continued on to the hospital instead.

  The next couple of days were a blank. I opened my eyes on the third morning and found Brad Pederson at the foot of my bed. I was still a little groggy from the anesthetic but could tell something was bothering him.

  “Sara?” I asked.

  “She’s fine.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why the strange look on your face?”

  “Well…”

  “Go on.”

  “This may not be the best time.”

  “Best time for what, Brad?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sheriff—”

  I lifted up, but the pain forced me flat on my back. “C’mon, man, out with it!”

  “You’ve been suspended for getting Sara involved. They’re conducting a full investigation.”

  I figured if I didn’t regain full use of my right arm, my career as a cop would be moot anyway. “And Sara? How is she doing? The truth. Don’t hold anything back, Brad.”

  “After you were taken away by ambulance,” he explained, “we raced back to the Stafford house. We performed a thorough search of every room for Ms. Churchill. Like you, we were unable to find her. We were about to give up and leave when we got a call from headquarters. Larry Stafford, who was being questioned, was very forthcoming. He suggested we look in his wife’s secret prayer room, a hidden alcove behind her bookcase, clearly having no idea what we might find. He told us how to gain access.”

  Secret prayer room?! I took this in, but didn’t want to interrupt. No wonder I couldn’t find Sara when I searched the house.

  “Sara’s body was found lying on the floor next to a religious alter,” Pederson continued. “She appeared to be D.O.A. The paramedics couldn’t find a pulse. They applied CPR, hooked her up to oxygen, and were on their way to the hospital in a matter of minutes.”

  My heart raced. “You said she was fine!”

  “She is. Bear with me for a minute. She was dead, Miles,” he said, with a look of wonderment in his eyes. “We all thought Sara was gone. No one can explain how, but she came back to life. The doctor—Henry Gempler—could only say it was a miracle. As you know, I’m a lapsed Catholic, but when I was in that room, I felt the strangest energy. A tingling sensation at first that had nothing to do with fear for Sara’s welfare. And then a feeling of calm and acceptance, as if everything was going to be all right.”

  The news shook me to my core. “Have you talked to her?”

  “We finally did a few days ago. She told us what happened. After she rang Debbie’s doorbell, Mrs. Stafford answered in an agitated state, saying she had to go out. Sara told her she only needed a few minutes of her time. Debbie reluctantly led the way to the couch in the great room. Sara had never been in the house before and couldn’t believe her eyes—the number of crosses, crucifixes, and pictures of Jesus, hanging on the walls.

  “Mrs. Stafford had no sooner taken her seat across from Sara when she bounced back up and began to pace, muttering something unintelligible to herself. Then she stopped, approached the closest cross on the wall and said, ‘I have to pray.’

  “Sara felt embarrassed and looked away, not wanting to intrude on something that personal. Then she heard movement and looked up to see this metal cross arching toward her head. That’s the last thing she remembered.”

  I waited, unable to speak, reminded of the statue of Jesus I’d used to clock Debbie.

  “Forensics established what happened next,” Pederson continued. “Similar M.O. to the murders. A blow to Sara’s head that stunned her. A second whack that—” he made quote marks with his fingers—”killed her … but not for good. We’ll never know why, but Mrs. Stafford didn’t inflict the third insurance blow. Anyway, Debbie wiped her fingerprints off the cross and replaced it on the wall. She then dragged Sara into her secret prayer room and left her for dead. Most likely she was planning to return to dispose of the body after she killed Mrs. Gerigk.”

  “A secret prayer room,” I spoke the words out loud this time, in wonderment.

  Pederson shook his head. “Yeah. You’ll have to see that room to believe it … soon as you’re discharged, that is.”

  * * *

  I was sitting on my couch, waiting for her arrival, when my cell rang. It was Pederson informing me he was still trying to work out the clearance problem, due to my suspension, and he hoped he could show me Debbie’s prayer room by the end of the week. I thanked him and slipped the phone back into my jacket pocket.

  The sound of a car pulling to a stop out front brought me to my feet. I went to the door and opened it. Sara was just parking, I stood and waited. I’d offered to go to her house, but she insisted on coming to mine.

  “Welcome,” I said.

  She looked darn good considering all she’d been through; blue shoes perfectly matching her baby-blue silk dress. The only evidence of her ordeal was the lone, skin-tone bandage near her forehead.

  On our way into the great room, I asked if she’d like a Chardonnay.

  “Yes, please. Still planning to cook for me?”

  “If you can call it cooking. More like ‘heating up’.”

  “Heating up will do.”

  I headed for the kitchen, guilt already manifesting itself. I must have apologized to her two or three dozen times already, but it didn’t seem enough.

  I carried Sara’s drink over and took a seat beside her. She sipped, exaggerated the smacking of her lips, said, “Mm, mm good,” then paused. “Aren’t you having a water or Diet Coke?”

  “Not thirsty.”

  “Uh-oh.” Sara put her glass down on the coffee table. “You’re doing it, aren’t you, Miles? I can hear it in your voice.”

  “I’m not.”

 
“Yes, you are. This has to stop. You didn’t hold a gun to my head. You needed help. I volunteered. If nothing else, you should be proud of what you’ve accomplished. You played your hunch and it turned out right. So, let’s move on with our lives, shall we? It all could have ended much worse. Denise Gerigk should have been another of Debbie Stafford’s victims. You arrived before Stafford could finish her off. Call it good luck for all of us.”

  I let my breath out slowly. “And I’ve been rightfully suspended for getting you involved.”

  “Suspended when they should be giving you a darn medal for solving the case!” Sara’s voice rose with passion. “Anyway, I’m more interested in what excuse you’re going to use for not spending the night with me.”

  I smiled. “You mean, this is confession time?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  I pointed to her wine glass. “Finish it.”

  “Is the news that bad?”

  “You never know.” I waited for her to drain her glass. “Here’s the truth: At one point in the investigation, I considered myself the possible killer of at least one of the women.”

  “Whaat?” Her voice was more like a shriek.

  “I was taking Narvia too … and occasionally upped the dosage. After one particular blackout I had a vague memory of getting into a fight with some lowlifes in a seedy part of town, beating the crap out of them. Worse, I couldn’t account for my whereabouts when Cathy Sinclair’s murder took place, so that must have been my first blackout. Cathy and I knew each other well. If I’d appeared at her door, she would’ve invited me in. And then there was the blackout when I stayed over at your place. I put two and two together and came up with overdosing on Narvia as the trigger for subconscious violence. I had to consider myself a suspect. If I did turn out to be one of the perps, how could I ever ask you to forgive me?

  “Fortunately, Debbie Stafford has now confessed to all four killings, and has given a detailed description of each one, matching the forensic findings, so I can breathe again. I’m in the clear. Therefore … I am going to spend the night with you. If, after all that, you’re still willing…”

  Her expression turned roguish. “Willing and able, mister.”

  “How about we make this our new beginning?”

  “Exacto mundo, muchacho. Let’s start over and see where it leads.”

  I offered my hand.

  She grabbed it as if to shake, then stood. Her weight started to shift in the direction of my bedroom.

  I resisted and she shot me a confused look.

  “One second,” I said, removing the phone from my jacket. “I don’t expect any calls, but just in case…” I held the button down until a message said slide to power off, then did so.

  Sara laughed when I tossed the phone over my shoulder, onto the couch. And she squealed with delight as I scooped her up in my arms and carried her away.

  EPILOGUE

  June 13

  Joan Ward was a local hero of sorts; to her friends and neighbors, at least, for her tip that led the deputy sheriff to ID Debbie Stafford as the murderer.

  Today, Joan was on the seventh hole of the Bonita Palms golf course, a short par three, 105 yards. It was on her practice swing that it happened—a jolt of pain in her right shoulder. She tried to shrug it off, but when she swung at the ball on the tee it was worse.

  “Are you okay?” Jackie Wydock, one of her foursome, asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Joan replied, slowly rolling her arm. “Something just popped in my shoulder.”

  “Happened to me once,” Wydock said. “Took almost two months of rest before it felt any better.”

  Exactly what I didn’t want to hear. Joan picked up the ball, told the other women she couldn’t continue, and headed off to the clubhouse to change, which turned into a difficult chore by itself.

  A restless night led to an appointment the following day with her family doctor, Sally Lewis, a tall, patrician-looking woman in her late fifties. After examining Joan, the doctor said the pain initiating out of the blue was a concern. X-rays were ordered. When they came back negative it was recommended Joan see a physical therapist.

  Three names were offered. Joan went home and called the first on the list. The man was tied up for at least two weeks. The second she tried was on vacation. The third had a cancellation and could fit her in the following morning.

  Carmen Stillo was in his forties, six feet, with the body of a serious devotee to physical fitness. It didn’t take him long to finish his examination and come up with a diagnosis.

  “Adhesive capsulitis. More commonly known as ‘frozen shoulder’. Have you had a recent medical procedure? Something serious that prevented you from moving your arm for long periods of time?”

  “No. Nothing like that,” Joan shook her head. “I go to the gym three times a week. This happened playing golf. I took a practice swing and immediately knew something was wrong. What’s the treatment?”

  “Range of motion exercises and deep tissue massage.”

  “For how long?”

  “That’s difficult to say.” He turned his palms upward. “You should start seeing improvement within three or four months. But your shoulder may not return to normal for at least a year. There’s no guarantee. This is a very stubborn injury to treat.”

  “A year?” Joan gasped. “Is it possible the treatments won’t work?”

  The therapist shrugged. “If that happens there’s always steroid injections. Or arthroscopic surgery as a last resort. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I can start your treatments now. Are you up for it?””

  Joan agreed. However, almost immediately she regretted her decision. Stillo’s massage wasn’t like anything she’d experienced in her life. The session was so painful it brought tears to her eyes. “Shit!” she screamed at one point, unable to hold it in. After thirty minutes she called it quits, left in a huff, and vowed she’d never go back.

  The next day she called Dr. Lewis who prescribed an anti-inflammatory called Lunore. However, Joan hated taking pills, so while she went ahead and filled the prescription at her pharmacy, she decided to tough it out, hoping against hope the pain would eventually go away on its own.

  But she tossed and turned most nights, keeping her husband, Seth, awake as well. Both became delirious from lack of sleep, until Seth finally insisted she start taking the anti-inflammatory. “How can it possibly get any worse?” he contended.

  Joan went into her bathroom and washed down a capsule of Lunore with water. And she faithfully followed the recommended dosage of one in the morning and one at night. Ten days later she was feeling better, the pain blessedly easier to handle. Life was good. So wonderful, in fact, she couldn’t resist the temptation to up the dosage, which led to feeling heavenly.

  Ten o’clock the following evening, Seth was at his weekly poker game that usually wrapped up around eleven p.m. Joan was feeling nostalgic. She reflected that their sex life was… well, boring. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love with wild abandon.

  Joan smiled to herself and went about preparing; first changing into a negligee she hadn’t worn in years that revealed a tease of cleavage. She placed a bottle of Roederer Crystal Brut champagne into a bucket of ice. Melted some chocolate and dipped strawberries. Cued up Sinatra on her iPod sitting in its mini speaker. And to enhance her performance, she popped a Lunore.

  Joan turned on the music, sat down on the couch in the great room, and began fantasizing about her seduction. She was jolted back to reality at 10:30 when she heard Seth’s car pull into the garage.

  Why’s he home so early? she wondered.

  Seth walked in bearing a frown.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked with concern.

  “I had to bail on the game. Another of my damn migraines.” He leaned toward her, gave Joan a quick peck on the cheek. “I’m going
straight to bed.”

  She felt the euphoria drain from her body. Seth hadn’t even noticed what she was wearing, nor the champagne.

  Oh well, maybe in the morning? Joan resolved. But she needed something to fill the stark emptiness her body was experiencing.

  She went to the master bathroom and tossed down a second Lunore. Then another for good measure. She dropped down on the closed toilet seat and waited for the drug to take effect.

  Time seemed to pass slowly, though it was only fifteen minutes until her world went black. When she returned to semi-consciousness, an indeterminate time later, it felt like some entity had taken control that was more sure of itself than Joan had ever been.

  Bedroom, said a voice in her head.

  She obeyed, found herself standing in the middle of their bedroom, staring at Seth, laying on his back, snoring the night away.

  Purse.

  Joan went to her dresser, opened her Gucci handbag that was sitting on top, and peered inside it. The compact Beretta she’d never removed, even after Debbie’s arrest, came into focus.

  Gun.

  She hesitated.

  Gun! An order, not a request. Joan reached for it.

  Seth.

  Joan went to the edge of the bed where her husband, having rolled onto his left side, lay facing her; still asleep but no longer snoring.

  Ready. She clicked off the safety and chambered a round.

  Seth let out a particularly loud snort, then opened his eyes, blinking rapidly in confusion.

  Aim. The gun arced upward in a slow, smooth motion.

  Seth first saw the angelic look in his wife’s eyes, contradicted by the cold black O of a gun barrel appearing before his face. “Dear??? What’s going—”

  Fire. Joan squeezed the trigger.