Bonita Palms Page 8

I would not be deterred. “Does Mr. Sinclair have any other lady friends?”

  Barbara Miller fanned her face with her hand as if it were suddenly sweltering inside. “Uh … isn’t that something you should ask him?”

  * * *

  It was too late to return to my office, so I decided to go home. I no sooner entered my house when the phone rang. I answered it in the bedroom.

  “Is this the formidable sheriff who always gets his man?”

  I smiled to myself. “Might this be the medical examiner who never lets a crime go unresolved?”

  “One and the same,” Sara Churchill replied. “How was your day, Sheriff?”

  “Lovely. Just lovely.” I told her about the unproductive interviews and my visit with Mrs. Miller.

  “You sound stressed, Miles.”

  “Do I now?”

  “That and in need of relief. I know just what the doctor ordered. Dinner at my house. Friday at seven. No business. You’ll have to park your phone and gun at the door.”

  “My gun as well?”

  “You betcha. Do we have a date, or not?”

  I didn’t have to think about it. “Book it.”

  * * *

  Changed and washed, I stood in front of the medicine cabinet in the master bathroom. The Narvia container was resting by the sink, the one pill that was supposed to ease my anxiety, despite what it did to my stomach. When asked, my doctor advised me to stick with it, saying my system would eventually get used to it.

  I’d been debating to stop taking them for a while, so I hesitated. Doing without could lead to a relapse, a possible return to the alcohol I knew I couldn’t handle. Did I want to take that risk?

  I guess I did. I replaced the pill in the container and walked out of the bathroom, hoping I hadn’t made the wrong decision.

  13

  January 25

  Jill Derbyshire was seated in the clubhouse bar with June Adams, one of the assistant pros at Bonita Palms. It was five o’clock on a Thursday afternoon and they had just completed a round of golf.

  Jill was wearing her favorite lime-green Jamie Sadock outfit, which she knew went wonderfully with her red hair.

  “One more?” June asked, indicating Jill’s empty wineglass.

  Jill thought for a moment, said, “What the hell? Why not?”

  June was in her thirties; a svelte, attractive woman, with a pixie face and porcelain skin. She placed the order for Jill’s drink, and was about to say something, when she was interrupted by a young man from the pro shop.

  “I apologize for intruding,” he said. “We have a—uh—small emergency that we need you to resolve.”

  The assistant pro looked up at the guy, then down at the table.

  Jill could see the hesitation. June most likely wanted to tell the young man to solve the problem himself; after all, she was off duty. But such was the life of golf pros that their time was seldom their own.

  “I’ll be right there,” June said. She came to her feet and apologized to Jill, promising to return as quickly as possible.

  Jill watched her go. She’d enjoyed the game today. And she found it sad to think her membership here at Bonita Palms could be coming to an end. She and her husband, Jack…

  She paused.

  Thinking about her husband reminded her of the teasing they’d been subjected to by their friends when they were first dating, always connecting their names to the nursery rhyme. It was more than “Jack and Jill going up the hill” or “Jack falling down and Jill tumbling after.” It quickly became a sonnet, with Jack and Jill placed in grossly embarrassing positions.

  But all that was behind them. Soon after graduating college they were married in a simple ceremony in their hometown of Cleveland, Ohio. Three children followed, a boy and two girls, all grown now with families of their own.

  Jack had had a successful career with AT&T, in the HR department. She’d been a stay-at-home mom. They had moved into the Palms over twelve years ago. But recently, one of their major financial investments had gone south. A “failsafe” plan proposed by Bill Miller that was turning into a disaster.

  Jill couldn’t believe they’d ended up in this position. If they didn’t find a solution soon, they’d have to sell their Palms house—perhaps give up the idea of a winter home in Florida altogether.

  “I’m sorry—”

  Jill looked up.

  The same guy from the pro shop was back. “June asked me to tell you she’s going to be longer than expected. She asked if she could buy you another drink.”

  Jill considered it but realized she’d had enough. “No, I’m done. Please tell June I said thanks for the game.”

  “I will.”

  When she arrived home, Jill brought in her driver—the latest model from Ping. Her nametag had come loose, and she intended to replace it with one she’d ordered from Pin High.

  Jill got undressed planning to luxuriate in a long bath. Jack was in Dallas attending an AT&T alumni reunion, hence there was no one waiting for dinner. She could take as much time as she liked. She ran the water semi-hot, then added a bubble solution.

  By the time she toweled off Jill felt refreshed. She took a seat in front of the mirror but dispensed with makeup. She was just taking the hairbrush in hand when she paused.

  What was that?

  She listened but didn’t hear anything. She began to run the brush through her hair, the strokes so even they could have been timed.

  There it is again …Oh, the doorbell. Huh? I’m not expecting anyone. Who can it be?

  She put the brush down, stood and slipped on her robe. “Coming,” she called on her way to the door.

  14

  7:00 p.m.

  Sara Churchill stood in the doorway wearing a dress that was more crimson than red, accenting her well-endowed figure. Her blonde hair cascaded in waves; gold earrings glistening.

  “Something the matter?”

  It took me a moment to realize I was staring. “Sorry,” I said, handing her a bottle of wine.

  She read the label. “Umm. Pouilly Fuissé. What’s the occasion?”

  I shrugged. “Only the best for you.”

  I noticed a coat rack by the door and made a show of removing my jacket; then waving my cell phone for attention, before placing it in one of the pockets. Next I doffed my shoulder holster and gun, and hung everything up.

  Sara laughed uproariously while I did this; then gestured the way.

  Her coach home, on the lower level, was located close to Fort Myers Beach, but I figured it was distant enough to be reasonably priced. It was my first visit, so Sara took me on a tour. There were two bedrooms and two full bathrooms, a great room, and a den that had been turned into an office.

  “Eighteen hundred square feet,” Sara said with a measure of pride.

  I was surprised to see how the color white dominated and that it somehow worked, contrasted by the teal bedspread in the master bedroom, blue leather couch, and abstract paintings exhibiting various hues of the rainbow.

  “Diet Coke?” Sara asked once we reentered the great room.

  “Yes, please.”

  Watching her leave I reminded myself to not rush things. Slow and easy.

  She was back in a few minutes. “Here you go, Sheriff,” she said with a wink and a smile.

  I accepted the drink and perceived her voice could stir the least prurient of men.

  “Cheers,” touching her glass with my own.

  “Skol.” She tasted her martini.

  “Is that your first of the night?”

  “A lady never tells.”

  * * *

  The dinner began with a shrimp cocktail. Two sauces, one red and spicy, the other a pleasant variation of tartar, adorned the plate. The bread basket included sourdough and whole wheat buns.

  �
��You realize you’re a complete mystery to me,” Sara said once we began to eat.

  “I am?”

  “I know nothing about you. Where you were born. If you were ever married. Had any kids. You know—the dull stuff.”

  I concentrated on my food. “I can’t discuss my personal life.”

  “Oh?” Sara threw an inquisitive look my way. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know you well enough.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I mean, not well enough at the moment. The night is young. You’ll simply have to be patient.”

  “For how long?”

  A smile was my answer.

  A Greek salad was served next. Followed by the main course—blackened Florida black grouper, with asparagus and garlic mashed potatoes.

  A few bites in I tried bringing up the murders, but Sara stopped me. “No business,” she said. And I clamped my mouth shut. Instead, we talked about living in Florida and how fortunate we both were.

  Sara insisted on clearing the dishes by herself. A few minutes later, dishwasher running, she joined me in the great room just as I was leaning my head back on the couch, mellowing out.

  “Here you go.” She handed over a glass of water and settled next to me with a snifter of cognac for herself.

  “Who said I wanted water?” I asked, teasing.

  She moved a little closer. “You don’t want it, don’t drink it.”

  I liked the perfume she was wearing, was about to tell her so, but Sara placed her glass of cognac on top of the wood coffee table, then repositioned herself close to my chest and said, “Close your eyes.”

  “Uh-uh. I’ll fall asleep.”

  “So?”

  “I’ve more important things in mind.”

  “Shh.” She placed a finger to my lips.

  * * *

  I jumped when Sara woke me. It hadn’t been restful or sleep at all; more like something in-between, a place where time didn’t pass; images flashing of women being butchered while people stood and watched, incapable—unwilling—to help them.

  “Time for bed, sleepyhead.”

  “Huh?”

  “Can’t have you driving home when you’re this tired. I’ve got everything ready in the spare bedroom. C’mon—” She reached out a hand.

  I hesitated. I preferred the master bedroom, not the spare, but I reminded myself that I wasn’t going to rush things.

  The room was also painted white but again there was enough color to make a contrast. The motif was more masculine, with darker shades for the most part.

  Sara said good night and left.

  Before coming here tonight I’d doubled up on my Narvia medication. Trying to go without was making my anxiety worse. I figured the extra pill was the lesser of two evils. Exceeding the recommended dosage is generally not advised, but I was quite nervous about my date with Sara and realized I needed to calm down.

  A new toothbrush sat on the bathroom counter—still in its original package—and a tube of Sensodyne. I brushed my teeth, undressed, and got into bed, but couldn’t sleep. Too many thoughts swirled around in my head. About Sara, naturally, but about the murder investigation as well. Trying to figure out who benefited was the real puzzle. Both victims were known to the perp. I’m certain of it.

  I must have dozed off… Then a woman’s naked body—near perfect—stood next to the bed; a butterfly-shaped birthmark about the size of a quarter, slightly above and to the left of her naval.

  When she joined me, fingers then hands caressed; mouths then tongues teased. Take it slow, I was telling myself. I didn’t want to be aggressive, but I knew that I was anyway. I was losing control. Something was pushing me in a direction I was unable to resist.

  * * *

  I jolted awake.

  Light was streaming in beneath the window blinds. There was no one lying next to me. Was it a dream? I repositioned myself and moved the covers to the side. I was no longer wearing underwear. I sat up and noticed a stain on the sheets. What kind of dream did I have?

  I heard Sara in the kitchen. I got up and used the toilet, washed my hands and face, finger-combed my hair and dressed.

  Sara was seated at the table, sipping a coffee. I asked what time it was.

  She looked up from the newspaper she was reading. “Almost eight.”

  Her voice was different somehow. Cold and unfriendly. I waited for an invitation to join her. It never came.

  “Interesting birthmark,” I said.

  She didn’t comment.

  Small bits of last night pieced together, but nothing I could make sense of. Had my physical behavior been disgusting? What actually happened?

  I considered asking her but instinctually knew she wouldn’t say. Instead, I went to the coat rack and gathered my things.

  Sara didn’t budge.

  “Thanks for dinner.” I reached for the doorknob. “Can I see you next week?”

  “Call me,” she said, not sounding like she meant it.

  15

  January 26

  Debbie Stafford, in the restroom at Cirella’s Restaurant on Hwy 41, was having another panic attack. Her watch was missing. One minute it was on her wrist, the next it was gone. The gold Cartier was worth $45,000. One of her favorites, it had been a gift from her husband for her sixtieth birthday.

  When did I see it last? she wondered. She remembered putting it on after her shower this evening. But then what? Had she taken it off for some reason? Where? And when?

  She sat in the stall cursing herself. This wouldn’t be the first time in recent weeks where something of value had been misplaced. Damn memory. Sixty-six years old and fading fast. Actually … not fading but becoming delusional.

  Debbie went back to looking for her watch. She dumped the contents of her purse on the cement floor … comb, brush, compact, lipstick, wallet, pocket-sized packet of Kleenex and cell phone. The watch wasn’t there.

  She replaced everything in her purse, came out of the bathroom stall, and approached the sink. One look in the mirror told her more about herself than she cared to know. A double chin threatening to go triple, her puffed cheeks pushing upwards and nearly obliterating her eyes.

  Debbie turned on the water, then glanced self-consciously at her hands. Oversized fingers that she was unable to squeeze together without pain. Letting the cold water run, she soaped slowly and meticulously, then dried off with a paper towel.

  She’d give anything to not have to return to the table, especially not before finding her watch.

  * * *

  Larry Stafford, dressed in beige Bermuda shorts and a white golf shirt with the Bonita Palms logo on the sleeve, sat at the table wondering what was taking his wife so long. The others—Tom and Denise Gerigk, Bill and Barbara Miller—were talking amongst themselves. This left him free to consider Debbie; the thought that she could be suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s disease scared him half to death.

  He prayed he was wrong. That her mood swings, forgetfulness, and recent preoccupation with religion were just a phase she was going through. Getting help for her was foremost on his mind. But how and where would he find someone she’d be willing to see?

  Could I place an ad: WANTED. ONE SHAMAN. TO PERFORM A MIRACLE. That wasn’t likely to work. But he had no doubt if left untreated his wife’s condition would worsen. He was the one living with her. He could see, firsthand, that Debbie was slowly losing her grip on reality. It was up to him to act before it was too late.

  * * *

  Barbara Miller, in a low-cut pink blouse and magenta golf shorts, took another bite, then placed her fork on the plate. Chicken Parmigiana was her favorite dish. Yet she found she was no longer hungry. Frank Sinclair had been on her mind all day. The man had stopped calling. One minute he was confessing his undying lust for her—his need for her—the next he was completely ou
t of touch, as if being a widower took away his desire for continuing their extramarital affair.

  Well, too bad for him, Barbara told herself, absentmindedly glancing in her husband’s direction, seated next to her.

  Bill was hardly touching his dinner—linguini pasta in a marinara sauce. His waistline was shrinking, and Barbara had no idea why. When she asked him about it, he sloughed her off.

  She turned her attention back to the others, heard Larry ask Tom if Arrow had truly closed up in Canada.

  “Yes … for good,” Tom said bitterly.

  “So how will this affect you?” Larry asked. He had friends in the distribution field and knew how the least shift at retail impacted their businesses.

  “Merde! In a big way,” Denise broke in, not hiding her distress.

  “We don’t know for sure,” Tom said, trying to soften the news. “I went to see our lawyer back in Toronto. There’s hope our debt will be recovered.”

  “All of it?” Larry asked optimistically.

  “Not very likely,” Denise again interrupted. “If we get a quarter of it back, I’ll be delighted. Half and I’ll be ecstatic.”

  Barbara found Denise’s fiery temper enticing. Not for the first time, she wondered what it would be like to embrace her French-Canadian passion; to make love to the woman without any inhibitions whatsoever.

  * * *

  Debbie Stafford made her way back to the table, hoping upon hope that the watch would miraculously be there, next to her dinner plate.

  It was nowhere in sight.

  “Are you okay?” she heard her husband ask.

  “I’m fine,” she lied, sat down, and began to dig into the pasta she’d ordered, fettuccine in an aioli sauce.

  “It must be cold by now,” Larry pointed out.

  Debbie flinched, finding his comment embarrassing, especially in front of their friends.

  “Should we get them to heat it up?”

  Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! she almost said out loud.

  “Dear…”

  She was about to acknowledge him, when a muted gasp from across the table drew her attention.

  Denise Gerigk was glaring at her iPhone, a shocked look on her face.