Читать книгу Holidays Are Murder - Charlotte Douglas - Страница 10

I dressed for the holiday dinner at Mother’s with my usual fatalism. No matter how well-made or perfectly fitted my gray slacks, burgundy silk blouse and ubiquitous black blazer, Mother and Caroline, who were on a first-name basis with every salesclerk in Neiman Marcus at Tampa’s International Plaza, would consider me a frump.

But focusing on couture was merely a diversion from the anger over the break-ins that simmered deep inside, a fire I had to douse or I’d end up being the turkey at our Thanksgiving meal. Interacting with my family without creating a domestic crisis took the combined skills of a global diplomat and a SWAT hostage negotiator. In my present state of mind, I’d send my mother into cardiac arrest and my sister into a swoon before the night ended.

Bill Malcolm, who, like Sean Connery, grew more handsome with age, arrived at four-thirty, looking like a cover model for Yachting World in gray slacks, navy blazer and a white turtleneck that showcased his George Hamilton tan. Homing in on my disposition like a heat-seeking missile, he saw immediately beneath my calm facade.

“If this dinner has you so worked up, don’t go,” he stated with his usual and often irritating logic.

“It’s not that.”

“The job?”

I nodded. “You’d think after two decades I’d grow a thicker skin.”

“Uh-uh.” He took my hand, led me to the sofa and pulled me down beside him. “If these crimes stop affecting you, then you’ve lost your humanity. I never want to see that happen.”

“I can deal with most of it, but when kids are involved…”

Images that had dogged my days and haunted my dreams for over sixteen years made me shudder. Small, white, bloated bodies on the medical examiner’s table, young girls, children really, pulled from Tampa Bay, where they’d been dumped like garbage by their assailants. Try as we might, Bill and I had been unable to track down the monster who had killed them. The murders had stopped, but whether because we’d turned up the heat or the killer had simply moved on, I’d probably never know.

“New case?” Bill asked.

“Not exactly. It just struck me today that our rooftop burglars might be kids.”

Bill nodded. “And a kid didn’t have the knowledge to pull off that jewelry store heist, not unless someone coached him.”

“What kind of person uses kids to do his dirty work?” Dickens’ Oliver Twist and Fagin came instantly to mind. I knew that degree in library science was good for something.

“You sure they’re kids?” Bill asked.

“I don’t have hard evidence, only what my gut’s telling me.”

He pulled me toward him and kissed my forehead. “Ah, Margaret, that’s only one of the things I love about you.”

“My gut?”

“That, too, but mainly because after over twenty years on the job, you’re still capable of outrage.”

I glanced at the clock. “Speaking of outrage, if we don’t get moving, that’s what Mother’s going to display if we’re late.”

The home of my youth was located in Pelican Bay’s most exclusive section, Belle Terre, a waterfront enclave of mansions built in the 1920s and 1930s on a bluff above the sound, most now on the National Register of Historic Buildings.

Growing up, I’d taken for granted the Mediterranean splendor of the house designed by Misner with its soaring beamed ceilings, mosaic tile floors, central courtyard and Spanish tile roof, set on two acres of prime waterfront real estate. In the lush St. Augustine lawn, brick pathways meandered through moss-draped live oaks, orange trees and jacarandas, and ended at the bayside tennis court, where I’d spent some of the happiest hours of my childhood playing tennis with my dad. Today I couldn’t remember the last time I’d held a racket.

Bill gave a low whistle of surprise as he guided his car along the winding drive to the front of the house. “These are pretty fancy digs.”

“When I was living here, I never thought of this place as extraordinary. My friends lived in similar houses, so this was no big deal.”

He brought the car to a halt next to my brother-in-law Hunt’s Lincoln Town Car. “You miss your debutante days?”

I thought for a moment, as much to postpone going inside as to consider his question. “I miss the innocence. In spite of so many advantages, I led a very sheltered life. My friends didn’t do drugs or have drunken parties. And there was no premarital sex.” I flashed him a smile. “We were snobs, but we were virtuous snobs.”

“You’re still virtuous.” His answering smile was warm and intimate.

“You know better.” My wild and hot affair with a fellow cop my first year on the Tampa P.D. had been no secret. I’d hoped the physical intimacy would dull my emotional pain, but I’d soon discovered that hard work was a better analgesic than sex and had quickly ended the involvement.

“Our parents didn’t divorce,” I continued. “If there was scandal, it was kept so hush-hush, we never knew about it. And even though the Vietnam War was raging and the country was mired in antiwar and civil-rights protests and riots, none of it touched me. I thought I lived in a perfect world, until…”

Bill squeezed my hand. He’d heard many times the story of Greg’s murder and how the trauma and anger over that horrific event had propelled me into a career in law enforcement.

“After all this—” Bill’s gesture took in the impressive two-story house and sprawling grounds that required a team of gardeners to maintain them “—the academy must have been a culture shock.”

I nodded. “And, in the words of Thomas Wolfe, I can’t go home again. I’ll never look at the world the same.”

“You went from one extreme to the other. Maybe it’s time to find a middle ground.”

He was talking about retirement, and the prospect held a certain seductiveness, until I remembered the possibility that some scumbag might be using kids to do his dirty work. “Not yet.”

“More dragons to slay?” He squeezed my hand again and his blue eyes lit with amusement.

“How were you able to finally give it up?” I asked.

His expression sobered. “One day I woke up and knew I’d had enough, that I didn’t want to live surrounded by crime and the misery it inflicts any longer. So I just walked away.”

“You think that’ll happen to me?”

“There’s always hope.”

I noted then the other cars beyond Hunt’s and realized we’d been the last to arrive. “Speaking of dragons, we should hurry inside before the Queen Mother starts breathing fire.”

Estelle, mother’s longtime maid, dressed in her usual black uniform and an immaculate starched apron as white as her hair, opened the massive carved front door. “Happy Thanksgiving, Miss Margaret. It’s good to see you home again.”

I hugged her and kissed her smooth ebony cheek. Her scent of Ivory soap triggered a hundred memories. Mother would have had a cow if she’d witnessed my display of affection toward the hired help, but Estelle had raised me, bandaged my scraped knees, dried my childhood tears, fed me cookies after school and, years later, held me when my father died. In many ways, she’d been more of a mother than my biological one.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Estelle. I’ve missed you. This is my friend Bill Malcolm.”

Bill shook Estelle’s hand and her bright brown eyes scanned him up and down with the scrutiny of a cattle buyer in a stockyard. “He’s a keeper, Miss Margaret.”

“Thanks, Estelle,” Bill said. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her.”

“Your mamma and the rest of ’em are in the courtyard,” Estelle said. “I gots to check on them caterers before they trash my kitchen.”

She hurried toward the back of the house at a shuffling gait that indicated her bunions were bothering her, and I guided Bill through the foyer into the courtyard.

“Wow,” Bill murmured as we stepped into the soaring atrium. “Great space.”

Seeing the courtyard through his eyes made me reevaluate where I’d played as a child. A triple-tiered fountain anchored the center of the huge expanse of Mexican terra-cotta tiles. Tropical plantings of frangipani, gardenias, bird of paradise, and travelers’ palms softened the corners of the huge area. Open hallways with Moorish arches circled both the first and second floors, and an arching glass ceiling flooded the area with natural light and kept the air-conditioning in and the weather out.

Groupings of wrought-iron chairs and tables with plump cushions were scattered in conversational clusters across the open area. With unusual grace for an eighty-two-year-old, Mother rose from a nearby chair and came to greet us.

“I thought perhaps you weren’t coming,” she said in a benevolent tone that didn’t entirely hide her disapproval of our tardiness.

The coolness of her greeting was in stark contrast to the bear hug and resounding kisses my father would have offered and made me realize one of the reasons I hated coming home was the fact that Daddy was no longer there to welcome me.

A muscle ticked in Bill’s cheek, the only indication that Mother’s attitude had annoyed him. He seldom showed anger, not because he didn’t feel it, but because he’d learned over the years to effectively leash his deep rage, an appropriate response to the injustices he’d encountered on the job and in his personal life. I watched as he somehow managed to bleed the tension from his body and relax, a skill I envied.

“If we’re late, Mrs. Skerritt,” Bill said, “it’s my fault. I lingered too long admiring the beautiful grounds of your house. A fitting prelude, I might add, to its exquisite interior.”

Mother’s stiff demeanor softened slightly. “You must be Mr. Malcolm.”

“Please, call me Bill.” He gave her his warmest smile, the one that had caused hardened criminals to spill their guts in the interview rooms, and grasped her hand in both of his. I watched in amazement as the Iron Magnolia succumbed to his charm, a quality that made Bill irresistible. He had, hands down, the best people skills of anyone I’d ever met.

“And you must call me Priscilla,” she insisted.

I almost swallowed my tongue. Mother rarely allowed anyone to call her by her first name. In fact, I’d heard it so seldom, I’d almost forgotten it.

“Priscilla,” Bill said. “It suits you. Very regal.”

Mother did appear regal in her floor-length skirt of black taffeta, a high-necked, white silk blouse with long sleeves, a cummerbund in gold-and-black plaid, and her snowy hair piled high like a crown.

Leaving me trailing in their wake, she escorted Bill deeper into the courtyard to meet the usual suspects. My sister, Caroline, looking like a younger clone of Mother in both dress and hairstyle, although her tresses were a golden bottle-blond, sipped a martini and eyed Bill with interest over the rim of her glass. Her husband, Huntington Yarborough, a big man whose usual florid complexion had turned an even deeper red after a few drinks, rose from his seat by the fountain where he was nursing what looked to be a double Scotch.

Michelle, their oldest daughter, and her husband, Chad, hovered in a far corner with my nephew Robert and his wife, Sandra. My four great-nieces and great-nephews were conspicuously absent, either at home with a sitter or farmed out to their other grandparents. Mother was adamant that small children had no place at social functions, not even family holiday celebrations.

Bill, well-versed in my family tree and its twisted branches, met and greeted each of my relatives with his usual ease. A waiter appeared and took our drink orders.

“So,” Bill said to Hunt, “Margaret tells me you’re in the insurance business.”

I suppressed a groan. Once Hunt began talking business, there was no stopping him. I’d dozed through many of his dinner-table monologues.

Hunt pounced on Bill like a puppy on a bone. “You name it, I insure it. Property and casualty, life and health, annuities. I can do all your financial planning—”

Someone grasped my elbow and a familiar voice said, “How are you, Margaret? I haven’t seen you in too many years.”

Seton Fellows, Daddy’s best friend, smiled down at me from his extraordinary height of six foot five. The best neurologist in the Tampa Bay area, the man was a giant in the medical profession, as my father had been. His thinning gray hair matched his deep gray eyes, but the age that lined his face hadn’t affected his erect posture or his usually sunny disposition.

“What a nice surprise, Dr. Fellows. Mother didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“It was a last-minute invitation,” he said with a conspiratorial wink. “Your mother needed an even number at the table.”

Bill’s last-minute inclusion had thrown off Mother’s seating arrangement. “Lucky for us,” I assured him. “How have you been?”

His gray eyes clouded. “Lonely. This will be my first Thanksgiving without Nancy. So it’s good to be with friends.”

“You’ve known Mother and Daddy a long time, haven’t you?”

He nodded and sipped his drink. “Philip and I were in medical school together.”

Across the courtyard, Mother and Caroline hung on Hunt’s every word, and somehow even Bill managed to appear interested. With Dr. Fellows as my captive audience, I had found someone who might satisfy my curiosity about my parents’ early years, a time neither had discussed, at least, not with me. Their large wedding portrait hung in the sitting room of the master suite, but neither Mother nor Daddy had ever talked about the few years prior to or immediately following their marriage.

“What were they like then?” I asked Seton.

“Your parents?”

I nodded. “Before Daddy became Pelican Bay’s best cardiologist.”

The lines in his face crinkled with amusement. “Philip, as all of us, worked long, hard hours.”

“And Mother?”

His hesitation was brief but notable. “She organized the wives’ association. Not many female medical students in those days. Why do you ask?”

I shrugged. “They were so different from each other. I never could understand the attraction.”

“They complemented each other, like yin and yang. Your mother took charge of everything outside of work, which freed your father to be the brilliant doctor that he was.”

“Did they love each other?”

“They were married for almost fifty years.”

“Were they happy?”

“Happiness means different things to different people.”

He had sidestepped my question, but before I could rephrase it, Mother rang a small silver bell with all the drama of a stage production, and Dr. Fellows hurried to escort her into the adjacent dining room.

The florist and caterers had transformed the room. I pictured a television reality show, “How the Rich and Famous Celebrate Thanksgiving,” as I observed the towering topiaries of chrysanthemums, colorful autumn leaves and deep green ivy that marched down the center of the massive refectory table that had once graced an ancient Spanish monastery. Gigantic cornucopia, overflowing with fruits and gourds, flanked the silver serving dishes on the matching sideboard. The table was set with Mother’s heavy silver flatware and engraved napkin rings and covered with enough white damask for a circus tent.

We stood behind our chairs, waiting for Mother to be seated. I thought longingly of the weathered pine table in the sunny kitchen and wished Bill and I could share our meal there with Estelle.

Mother rang her silver bell again. “Dr. Fellows will say grace.”

Before I bowed my head, I caught a sympathetic look from Bill, who had been assigned the seat across from me.

“Heavenly Father,” Dr. Fellows began.

The beeper on my belt shrilled, shattering the room’s quiet.

“Really, Margaret,” Mother said with no effort to hide her disapproval. “Can’t you turn that thing off?”

Dr. Fellows smiled, but Caroline, Michelle and Sandra glared with as much disapproval as if I’d just stripped topless.

“I’m on call, Mother. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll use the phone in the foyer. Please, go ahead. Don’t wait for me.”

I’d have felt relief at being snatched from the jaws of social responsibility, but I knew a summons on a holiday had to be bad news.

I was right.

Darcy Wilkins answered at dispatch when I phoned the station. “We’ve got a drowning at a private residence on the beach.”

“Accidental?”

“It’s your call,” she said. “The M.E.’s on her way.”

She gave me the address. I braced for Mother’s disapproval and returned to the dining room to announce my regrets.