Knock 'em Dead (26 page)

“Is that good?” Liv asked as we stood in deference to the judge’s departure from the room.

“It means we have seven hours.”

“To do what?”

After a huddle, it was decided that Liv would stay with Jane, who was on the verge of a total meltdown. Becky was going to write the motion and prepare her arguments, including getting subpoenas if necessary for Payton to appear in court to tell the judge about the DVDs and the whole kinky, S&M side of Fantasy Dates.

Liam, over my strenuous objections, was going to see Renee Sabato, Harrison Hadley, and then find Taggert. Since I couldn’t skip brunch, I was given the lesser assignments of seeing the widow Baker and Matthew Gibson. Everyone was dogging Zack and Shaylyn, though Becky reminded us that their suspicious absence might work in Jane’s favor.

My first mistake happened about thirty minutes later. I’d forgotten to stop at the florist. If I turned around, I’d be late for brunch. I knew in Motherville that was a mortal sin, whereas showing up on time but empty-handed was more the venial variety.

Willoughby Country Club is a stunning, manicured estate community near historic Stuart. Historic being relative—pretty much anything built before 1929 was designated historic in Florida. I was granted entry by the guard, and then practically screeched into the parking lot.

The clubhouse was an expansive building with a large, open dining room and several smaller rooms reserved for private gatherings and card games. As soon as I walked through the frosted glass doors, I smelled the wonderful aromas from the five-star kitchen. My view was blocked by an enormous arrangement of Asiatic lilies and a small maître d’s podium.

Of course none of that mattered; I didn’t need a direct line of sight to know my mother would cast her eyes upon me with disapproval.

She did. The instant she watched me walk to the linen-draped table, I got
the look
. It was a subtle yet effective expression that all but announced her true feelings. I have no doubt that she loves me. She just doesn’t like me very much. She wanted a different kind of daughter. I wanted a different kind of mother, so on that point, at least, we agree.

To anyone noticing, our air-kissed greeting was picture perfect. My mother is a beautiful woman. She’s tall and slender, and has perfectly styled hair the same dark hue as roasted chestnuts. The only feature we share is pale blue eyes.

Though she was smiling, I knew she was critiquing me as the waiter pulled out my chair and offered my napkin. I also knew I’d failed the litmus test du jour. Nothing new. Unless I could magically morph into my perfect younger sister Lisa, I was, as usual, subpar.

She reached across and patted the back of my hand. “I’m proud of you, Finley.”

I glanced around suspiciously; I’d always wanted to know what the
Twilight Zone
looked like. Fidgeting in my seat, I cleared my throat and said, “Thank you.”

“No, I mean it,” my mother insisted as she did a little two-fingered motion to wave off the waiter. “Judging by your poorly applied makeup, you must have been up all night looking, I presume, for new employment.”

I felt the other shoe drop squarely on top of my head. “I’ve been looking at various options.” If you count being a morgue attendant chick, which, for the purposes of this brunch, I totally was.

“That’s good to hear. I will admit that when your friend Jean—”

“Jane.”

“Whatever. When she was not released, I assumed you would return my money. Interest did begin to accrue from the date I handed you the check.”

Like I needed reminding. “And it will be repaid in full, as promised.” And witnessed and notarized. Under the pretext of needing a sip of water, I pulled my hand away and reached for the glass. “I want to tell you again how much I appreciate your generosity.”

“Not again, Finley. Again implies that you’ve thanked me before.”

“A horrible oversight on my part for which I am truly sorry. We both know you raised me better.”

“Yes, I…”

It was unusual for my mother to drift off midberating, but something behind me had grabbed her attention. I turned my head and saw a very dapper, silver-haired man standing by the maître d’s station. Then I looked at my mother. She was smoothing her hair, adjusting her Chanel suit, and straightening the strand of pearls around her neck. In addition to Chanel, she had that predatory look in her eyes.

Realization dawned quickly. I should have known. Changing our mandatory brunch to Saturday had nothing to do with me. Switching from Iron Horse Country Club to Willoughby had nothing to do with me.

The coy little smile and the casual yet must-be-acknowledged wave in his direction left the man no option but to stop by our table.

“Cassidy! What a surprise,” he said, grasping her hands in both of his.

Poor bastard, if he only knew.

“I didn’t know you were a member here.”

“I just joined,” she said. “I’ve been looking for a new club for some time.”

Liar. You’ve been looking for a new husband for some time.

“I think you’ll like it here.”

I think you’ll need a prenup.

“Where are my manners?” my mother asked. “Truman Caldwell, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter Finley.”

“How do you do?”
Or should I ask, “How is your wallet?”

He offered me a genuinely warm smile. “Your daughter? I would have guessed your sister. Nice to meet you, Finley.”

If that’s really true, then don’t go on
Jeopardy.

“Can you join us?” my mother invited.

“I’m sorry, I’m meeting a friend for lunch. Perhaps next Saturday, if you two aren’t busy?”

I bit down on the inside of my lip. I so wanted to say, “I’m unemployed, so yeah, next Saturday works for me,” but I was already in Cassidy Presley Tanner, blah, blah, blah’s doghouse. Taking a page from Liam’s playbook, I said, “That’s very sweet, Mr. Caldwell, but I’ve got a thing next Saturday.”

“It’s Dr. Caldwell,” my mother inserted.

“Sorry.”

“No need,” he said, patting my shoulder. “And please call me Truman.”

Oh, I have a feeling I’ll be calling you Daddy in no time.
“Thank you.”

“I’ll have to consult my schedule, of course,” my mother practically purred. “But with some rearranging, I’m sure next Saturday will be fine. Say noonish?”

Say barfish?

Dr. Caldwell noticed a man seated at the other end of the dining room and held up his index finger. “My doubles partner is waiting. It was a pleasure to meet you, Finley, and, Cassidy, as always, I look forward to seeing you next week.”

As if the whole thing hadn’t been a well-executed mission, my mother lifted her menu and began to peruse the options. “The salmon here is supposed to be excellent.”

“He seemed nice.”

“Nice?” my mother repeated.

Based on her tone, she didn’t approve of my choice of adjectives. “Pleasant? Affable? Gracious? Decent? Mom, he was here for like thirty seconds.”

“You don’t know who he is?”

Quickly and discreetly, I looked over at the doctor. “Sorry, no.”

“He was named one of the top ten cardiologists in the United States. He consults at Johns Hopkins and St. Joseph’s in Arizona, which, for your information, is ranked the best cardiac center in the country year after year. He’s semiretired and was once in the running for surgeon general of the United States. He is listed in
Who’s Who
and comes from a prominent Massachusetts family. Quite an impressive pedigree, wouldn’t you say?”

“Are you going to breed him or show him?” I wanted to grab the smart-ass remark and shove it back in my mouth, but too late. “Sorry.”

“You always are,” my mother commented, her tone icy. “Given your unstable employment situation, perhaps you should give more consideration to marriage. Patrick is good marriage material.”

Gee, why don’t we call his wife and confirm?
“Yes, he is.”

Her mood lightened. “So you’re finally going to make a commitment?”

I bobbed my head and almost wept with joy when a Bloody Mary appeared in front of me. “I am very committed when it comes to Patrick.” Technically, it wasn’t a lie. I was totally committed to dumping his cheating ass the instant I saw him.

“I’m glad to hear that. Since you’re not working, I could arrange a small dinner party. I wonder what night would be best for Truman? Is Patrick in town?”

“No. In fact, he’s got a long trip ahead.”
Straight to the bowels of hell.

“That’s a shame. Well, as soon as you have his schedule, call me and we’ll work something out. I’ve got a few engagements coming up. Did you decide on the Templeton party? After all, it was generous of them to include you in their invitation to me.”

Twenty-five thousand reasons to be nice. “Tell me again. What exactly are they celebrating?”

My mother frowned. Or at least tried to. Tough to accomplish with a gazillion ccs of Botox in your forehead. “It’s their fortieth anniversary. You’ve met their daughter, Trisha.”

I was drawing a total blank. “I have?”

Our forced conversation was interrupted when the waiter came for our order. I loved salmon, but the rebellious child in me ordered eggs Benedict.

“Trisha is your age. She’s dating Devon Gibson.”

“Matthew Gibson’s older brother?”

This time my mother’s smile was genuine. “Yes. Quite a catch too. Had you been so inclined, you could have ingratiated yourself into that crowd. Then you wouldn’t be in the position of having to beg me for money.”

Ah, the famous mother kiss-me-while-you-slap-me moment. “I appreciate the loan, Mom. Really.”

“Yes, well, I’ll appreciate when it is repaid. It must be nice to be Leona Gibson, what with both her boys settling down and starting families of their own.”

I took a generous sip of my Bloody Mary. “I don’t see Kresley Pierpont starting a family any time soon.”

“Of course she will. Children solidify a marriage.”

“She’s a little flaky.”

“Apparently not. She’s marrying one of the wealthiest young men in Palm Beach. Truman’s been invited to the wedding.”

“That’ll come in handy if anyone suffers heart failure at the reception.”

“Finley, you’re—”

My mother blanched when my cell phone rang. I’d forgotten to put it on vibrate. “Sorry. Hello?”

“Miss Tanner?”

“Yes.”

“This is Emma Killington, Mr. Gibson’s personal assistant. He asked me to call and tell you he can see you at one.”

I checked my watch. “That’s a little over an hour from now. Can we make it later? Say one thirty?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but that’s his only opening for today.”

“Then one o’clock it is. Thank you.” My eggs arrived just as I closed my phone and scooted back my chair. “I’m sorry, Mom, but I’ve got to go.”

Her recently lifted eyes grew wide. “But we haven’t had brunch. You can’t leave without eating. It’s both wasteful and rude.”

“Sorry.”

I knew before I reached my car that I’d have to pay dearly for walking out on my mother. With interest. But I needed to meet with Matthew Gibson more than I needed to please my mother.

Ignoring the posted speed limit, I raced down Cove Road toward the I-95 interchange. The area was in transition. New construction was slowly swallowing the multi-acre home sites. There were only a few orange groves left. I was within a mile of the interstate when I heard a loud crack, then a pop; then my car lurched over on two wheels.

I didn’t even have time to scream before my car went careening down a drainage ditch, then slammed into a pine tree.

B
y the time the paramedics had bandaged the small cut on my forehead, I’d given a semilucid statement to the sheriff’s deputies, arranged for a tow truck, and had Jean-Claude bring me Liv’s car. I’d missed my appointment with Matthew Gibson.

Oh, and it was only due to the miracle of a Tide pen that I was able to get the bloodstains off my shirt. They weren’t major stains, more like drops. It wasn’t the quantity as much as the placement. One was directly over my right nipple, making me look like single-sided lactation machine.

Still, my pitiful appearance wasn’t enough to get me past Matthew Gibson’s personal assistant. Even after being summarily dismissed, when I remained perched at the edge of her desk, the matronly, efficient gray-head didn’t relent.

“I am happy to reschedule,” she suggested for the third time.

“There’s a court hearing in less than three hours,” I explained. “Mr. Gibson has information relevant to that hearing. If I could just have a phone number, something? Anything?”

“This is a legal matter?

“Yes.”

“I’ll see if the family’s attorney is available. Wait here.”

As soon as she disappeared down the long hallway of the waterfront offices of Gibson Investments, I slipped behind her desk and started reading Matthew’s appointment calendar. The only thing I learned was that he was having lunch with Kresley. “Damn,” I muttered. No restaurant.

I had better luck when I flipped through the Rolodex. I scored two telephone numbers for Matthew. I recognized one as his home number—that was on his Fantasy Dates application. My best guess was the other number was a cell.

Nervously, and with adrenaline rushing through my system, I glanced down the hallway, then decided to just go for it. My hand closed on the polished brass knob to Matthew’s private office and to my astonishment, it was unlocked.

It was professionally decorated and neat as a pin. No papers on the large, cherry desk. Nothing but knickknacks on the shelves. The only piece of art was a huge, ornately framed oil painting of Kresley. So the rumors were true. Matthew’s position in the family business was ornamental. Apparently he’d inherited the Gibson family looks but none of the brains.

Seeing a closet door, I further pressed my luck and gave the lever handle a try. It opened. And it wasn’t a closet.

It was a shrine. The five-by-five-foot space was covered floor to ceiling with all things Kresley. Creepy. The vast collection of photos included candid shots as well as posed portraits. Interspersed with the images were news clippings dating as far back as three years. Well before Matthew and Kresley hooked up.

“What are you doing?”

I turned to find the personal assistant and a man I assumed was the family attorney glaring at me from the doorway.

Oh, shit.
“I was looking for the ladies’ room.”

“That isn’t it,” the lawyer told me. “You’re trespassing, Miss Tanner.”

“Then, I should leave, right?”

“Not until you tell me what information you think Mr. Gibson has that is relevant to the Martinez murder.”

I closed the door and hoped they couldn’t see my heart pounding in my chest. “And you are?”

“Richard Helms. Mr. Gibson’s attorney.”

“I’m just conducting interviews with all the Fantasy Dates clients. Mr. Gibson is still a client.”

“His membership was terminated.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. After Ms. Pierpont informed Mr. Gibson that she had neglected to cancel her membership, I discovered Matthew had made the same oversight. It’s been remedied.”

How convenient.
“That’s all well and good, but I’d still like to speak with Mr. Gibson.”

“That isn’t going to happen.”

I narrowed my eyes and glared at the man. He was buffed and polished and reminded me a little too much of Vain Dane. Another man on my hate list. “A woman has been falsely accused.”

“That’s for a jury to decide.”

No way was I backing down, not when Jane’s life as a free woman was at stake. “I just want to talk to him. What’s the big deal?”

“The Gibson family values its reputation and standing in this community, Miss Tanner. Allowing Matthew to be dragged into a high-profile murder case would in no way serve the interests of the family.”

“I think that ship sailed when Matthew joined a buy-a-date service.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a tri-folded document, handing it to me. “If you or anyone else mentions that in public, you’ll face a contempt charge and a civil suit.”

“You got an injunction?”

“Signed by Judge Faulkner about an hour ago. A copy is being messengered to Ms. Jameson and Mr. Taggert. Since there is no evidence that Mr. Gibson or his fiancée has any knowledge relevant to the murder, their names may not be used in any context. Now, security is waiting to escort you from the building.”

Flanked by two uniformed private security guards, I was escorted to Liv’s borrowed Mercedes. They remained in place until I drove out of the parking lot. I didn’t know their names but added them to the Men I Hate list.

Pushing my sunglasses higher on the bridge of my nose, I brushed my fingers over the butterfly Band-Aid at my hairline. So far the only things I’d accomplished on this incredibly horrible day were pissing off my mother, pissing off the Gibson family attorney, and pissing off the dealer I’d leased my probably totaled car from. While it hadn’t left me time to wallow in self-pity over Patrick the Prick, it still wasn’t a stellar showing. The first two were my fault but I wasn’t willing to accept blame for a tire blowout. The dealer could eat dirt and die. After we negotiated a replacement.

Hopefully, I’d have better luck with the widow Baker. I was bruised, tired, angry, frustrated, worried, hungry, and caffeine deprived. I was also very determined when I hit the buzzer on the call box outside Barbie Baker’s estate.

“Yes, ma’am?”

Hearing the man’s voice and realizing he’d identified me by gender, I glanced around until I spotted the video camera mounted just above the hedge line. “I’m here to see Mrs. Baker.”

“She’s unavailable.”

Desperation breeds…creativity. Reaching onto the passenger’s seat, I grabbed the Gibson Family Injunction and held it up for the camera. Now I just had to hope that Barbie Baker’s security camera was no better than the ones employed by banks and convenience stores. “Process server,” I lied. “Someone’s got to sign for it.”

I held my breath until the intricate iron gate began to swing open. Only in Palm Beach would anyone buy a process server driving a Mercedes convertible.

Driving up the long, curved driveway, I was impressed by the house. It was Tuscan-inspired, with lots of fountains and statues. And it sat on an acre of primo oceanfront. Barbie Baker divorced well.

A uniformed butler stood waiting in the courtyard. I might have gotten in the gate but it would take some doing to get past the formidable-looking butler. Lying wasn’t going to get me anything, so I decided the truth was the only way to go. Kinda.

“You have a document for Mrs. Baker?”

“I really need to see Mrs. Baker.”

The impeccably dressed, stout man was expressionless. “That isn’t possible.”

Time to break out the ultimate weapon—tears. It wasn’t all that hard to muster the moisture. Just as the first tear was about to spill from my eye, I said, “I’m here on behalf of Jane Spencer. She’s the woman who was falsely arrested for the murder of Paolo Martinez. I know he was a friend of Mrs. Baker’s, so it’s really,
really
important that I speak with her.”

I saw a tiny crack in his stoic indifference as I brushed the dampness from my cheek.

“Miss. I can’t help you.”

“Yes,” I insisted, “you can. Just five minutes of her time. That’s all I’m asking.”

“You don’t seem to understand. I can’t help you. Mrs. Baker isn’t in residence.”

“Where can I reach her?”

“I have no idea.”

“C’mon. You have to have an emergency number or something, right?”

He shook his closely shaved head. “I expected her back two days ago.”

“From?”

“Mrs. Baker went on a cruise around the world.”

“When did she leave?”

“A little over three months ago.”

Roughly the same time she stopped paying Fantasy Dates. “When was the last time you spoke to her?”

“Mrs. Baker always sends me on vacation when she travels for extended periods. She’s quite considerate that way. So it would have been the day before she left for Greece.”

Roughly the same time the torso washed up on Renee Sabato’s beach. I hoped for the butler’s sake that he had a good retirement plan. “Thanks.”

Jogging back to the car, I dug into my purse for my cell phone, dialing as I started the engine and peeled out of the driveway. As I was waiting for the gate to open, Liam answered.

“McGarrity.”

“I know who the torso is.”

“How are you?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah. I also heard you took a header into a tree.”

How could he possibly know that? “Forget that. The torso has to be Barbie Baker. She’s been missing for three months.”

“No one reported it.”

“She doesn’t have any family. Well, unless you count the ex-husband who hates her. She was supposed to be on some extended cruise, so her disappearance would have gone unnoticed. So you were right. Renee Sabato probably did kill her and then tossed her into the surf. We should call the police.”

“We could do that,” Liam said. “Only we’d have to call the police in Maine. Renee Sabato has been in Kittery, Maine, since April.”

“For what?”

“She didn’t say.”

Deflated, I asked, “You spoke to her?”

“Yes. And about a dozen people who verified she hasn’t left Kittery since opening her summer home.”

“That’s crappy news.”

“I have good news too.”

“Really?”

“Zack and Shaylyn’s boat is docked at Oak Harbour Marina in Juno Beach. I’m on my way there now.”

“What should I do?”

“Put ice on your head.”

I actually glanced around, expecting to see either Liam or a camera. How did the man know I’d hit my head? “I could go see Hadley.”

“Been there. He’s not talking.”

“Taggert?”

“Not at his office, or his house or any of his known haunts.”

“Maybe he’s just not answering the door.”

“It, um, fell down while I was knocking. Trust me, the guy isn’t there. Go see Jane or help Becky. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

I’ve never been very good with authority, so Liam’s suggestion that I go sit and twiddle my thumbs was easy to ignore. Instead, I headed north and found my way along the intracoastal to Oak Harbour.

I didn’t know anything about the boat, no description, nothing. However, Liam’s Mustang stuck out among the luxury sedans and top-of-the-line SUVs.

It was really hot and the strong stench of diesel had my empty stomach churning the instant I started walking along the wooden pier. The marina wasn’t that big and it was prime boating time, so there were only three boats tied to pilings on the dock closest to Liam’s car.

A pelican perched on top of one of the wooden posts flapped its gigantic wings as I passed. Other than that, all I could hear was the lapping of small waves sloshing against the fiberglass hulls.

The first boat was a fishing vessel. I couldn’t picture Zack or Shaylyn baiting a line, so I moved on. The second boat seemed more of a possibility. Hiking up my skirt, I climbed aboard and found every hatch latched tight.

The last one was a forty-two-foot sailboat. Or miniyacht. I’m not a boat person, but I know polished teak and custom touches when I see them. I can also read, “Snowy Owl.” I’d found it.

Climbing aboard, not an easy task in a skirt and heels, I might add, I went around the giant wheel and was immediately hit by the stench of rotting something. Another reason I’m not a boat person—bait smells like, well, bait.

I looked at the closed hatch leading belowdecks. Liam’s car was in the lot so it stood to reason that he was on board. I fanned away the foul-smelling air, more than a little reluctant to go down the two stairs. “Hello?” I called tentatively.

I heard some bumps and thumps; then the hatch flew open and Liam was glaring at me. “You don’t listen well, do you?”

“Not really, no. Did you find them?”

He nodded.

“Are they talking?” I asked, my eyes watering as the smell intensified.

“No. But Taggert’s here too.”

“That’s great.”

“Not really. They’re all dead. Here.” He tossed me the jar of Vicks VapoRub. “If you’re coming down, you’re going to need that.”

I can do this,
I kept repeating as I smeared menthol-scented gel beneath my nose. But absolutely nothing in my life could have prepared me for the scene awaiting me in the hull of the ship. Death and pestilence, times three. Zack and Shaylyn were seated at the small table on the port side. In the center of the table was a jewel case and a thin file. At first glance, they looked like a couple of schoolchildren with their heads resting on their desks. Until you saw the large puddle of dark blood pooled at their feet.

Though dead, Taggert was still moving. His body dangled from a makeshift noose with his feet no more than a couple of inches off the floor.

The cabin hosted more than corpses. Flies swarmed everywhere.

My stomach lurched. “What happened?”

Liam sidestepped the blood and motioned me closer. “There’s a note.”

I didn’t move. “Can you just tell me about it?”
Quickly, before I hurl or pass out. Maybe both.

“Basically, Taggert is confessing to having killed Paolo and these two. Claims Paolo, Zack, and Shaylyn were blackmailing him. The proof is on the DVD. Then I guess in a final act of selflessness, he hanged himself.”

Relief washed over me. “Thank God. We can finally get Jane out of jail.”

“Not necessarily,” he said.

“They’re dead. Taggert was so guilt-riddled that he confessed and committed suicide. We should call people. What are we waiting for?”