Fat Chance (5 page)

“There’s no need to be sarcastic, Finley.”

“I’m trying to be helpful by giving you a heads-up.”

“And you think I had something to do with a crime? That’s absurd. I’m not the one with the criminal history in this family, so why would I need a lawyer?”

Detective Graves was walking toward me. “Fine. Don’t call your lawyer. Call your travel agent.”

“Why?”

“Have her recommend a trip to a place where you can’t be extradited back to the U.S. to face murder charges.”

“Murder char—” I snapped the antiquated cell phone closed. I’d done my daughterly duty.

“Who were you calling?” Graves asked as the mobile crime scene unit drove onto the other side of the lawn, leaving more deep grooves in the freshly laid sod.

“My mother,” I told him, meeting his narrowed gaze with one of my own.

“You and your friends are going to have to go to the Palm Beach police station and give statements.”

It was a relief hearing I wasn’t going to be dragged back to West Palm for interrogation. “My purse is in the house.”

“It will be returned to you at the station. After the crime scene techs get finished. The cars, too.”

“Can I at least have my shoes?”

Graves frowned and jogged back inside, returning in a flash with my damp,
expensive
shoes dangling from his beefy forefinger.

I looked at my brand-new BMW. Liam was leaning against it, his arms folded in front of his chest. I was curious when I saw him glare down one of the officers stationed in the driveway. Officer—I strained to read the nameplate pinned on his uniform shirt—Diaz was glaring right back. My heart fluttered a few times, touched that Liam was, albeit passively, showing support.

In a matter of minutes, Jane, Liv, Becky, and I were driven to the station. It was a far cry from the dank, gray station in West Palm. It looked more like an office building, complete with art on the walls and the distinctive feel of a professional decorator’s hand.

Not unexpectedly, we were separated, and I was instructed to follow a tall, lanky male officer through the door clearly marked
NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL BEYOND THIS POINT.

With an authentic smile on his face, he politely held a padded chair out for me. If he hadn’t been dressed in a blue polyester uniform, I could easily have mistaken him for a well-trained server.

“Can I get you anything, Miss Tanner? Coffee, a soft drink?”

“Coffee would be great, thank you.”

“How do you like it?”

“Intravenously.”

He laughed. “I’ll be right back.”

He also lied. My toes tapped nervously against the marble tiled floor as five, then ten, then thirty minutes ticked off the clock mounted between two avant-garde paintings with small cards taped just below the lower right-hand corner. Jumbled nerves and building irritation inspired me to walk over and inspect the artwork. The small cards indicated that the paintings were on loan from a tony gallery and available for sale. Only in Palm Beach.

As casually as possible, I tugged at my bra strap, feeling the warmth of the secreted medallion against my skin. I kept trying to think of a reason for why and how the medal had found its way into the hand of a skeleton. For that matter, how had the skeleton gone undetected all these years?

Hearing the click of the doorknob, I turned to see the officer carrying not the cup of Styrofoam tar I’d been dreading but a molded cardboard holder with an iced latte tucked into one of four compartments.

“Sorry it took so long.”

“Well worth the wait,” I said, greedily taking the latte from him. If you had to be trapped in a police station, Palm Beach was definitely the way to go.

He had a clipboard tucked under his arm, and as soon as we
settled into our assigned seats, he pulled out a pen and began asking me benign questions. Name, address—I gave him the one to my condo, unsure when I’d get the nerve to return to my dream/nightmare house on the beach.

“Marital status?”

“Single.”

“Dating anyone?”

I blinked. “How is that relevant to the investigation?”

He grinned up at me. “It isn’t. I was trying to sneak it past you.”

“You’re hitting on me?” I didn’t know whether to be flattered or furious.

He shrugged. His shoulders were narrow and boney. His hair was blond and neatly cropped. His charm was marginal. Other than being thirtyish and bringing me a decent iced coffee, there wasn’t a single thing about this guy that landed him on my radar.

“That would be a violation of departmental protocol,” he explained. Wink, wink, nod, nod. “No offense intended. But if you’re not doing anything on Friday night—”

“I’m in the middle of a celibacy thing,” I cut in.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a business card and passed it across the carved cherrywood table. “Feel free to give me a call if you change your mind.”

“Can we move this along?” I asked, pulling the card close and using it as a coaster.

If he was disappointed, it didn’t show on his tanned face. For some idiotic reason, that stung. First Patrick, then Liam, and now Officer Kiss-ass. I was starting to wonder if I was destined to spend the rest of my life internet dating.

His cell phone chirped, and he had a brief conversation that
consisted of “Okay,” and “I’ll let her know.” Holding the phone away from his ear, he said, “Your friends have finished giving their statements. They want to know if you want them to wait for you.”

Knowing that Jane was probably totally freaked, I shook my head. “I’m good.” I was irritated that my interview was taking so long, but I had learned the hard way not to annoy the police. Even when the police annoyed me. And this guy was in danger of leapfrogging over Graves and Steadman as my least-favorite law enforcement officer. The only thing preventing me from putting him at the top of the list was the latte, and I was almost finished with that.

It took him another thirty-nine minutes to complete the questionnaire, then he went and got a tape recorder and listened as I recounted how we’d found the skeleton. I was left to trace the logo of the coffee shop with my fingernail while my statement was typed, then presented for my signature.

I read it, signed it, and stood up. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Wish I could take credit for it,” he said unapologetically. “Some guy dropped them off for you and your friends.”

As fast as possible, I left the police station. It was fully dark, but the parking lot had lights attached to tall poles. I looked around for my car, or at least for a familiar face to take me back to my car. Tucked into the half dozen cars in the parking lot, I spotted Liam leaning against my new car, one foot resting on the front bumper. His half-primer, half-putty car was in the spot next to mine. He brought a long-necked bottle of beer to his lips and, judging by the sharp angle of the bottle, took the last sip.

“There are laws against having open containers of alcohol,” I said. “Why are you here?”

He smiled and my stomach knotted. I was torn between
wanting to slap the smile off his face and kissing him senseless. I hated him for making me feel like this.

He flung the empty bottle into a Dumpster a good ten yards from where we stood. The sound of the glass breaking echoed in the still night.

“Thanks for the coffee, Liam,” he teased. “That was a really decent thing for you to do, and I really appreciate it.”

“I’m eternally grateful,” I said flatly. “You want to get off my car? I’d like to go home.”

“Wanna tell me what you lifted off the deceased?”

I felt my cheeks grow warm and was thrilled that it was too dark for him to see the guilty blush. “What makes you think I—”

“I heard what you said to your mother.”

“Eavesdropping is rude.”

He shrugged and rose to his full height. I hated that I had to tilt my head back to compensate for his height. “Have it your way,” he said as he turned his back and moved toward his car.

“Thanks for bringing me my car,” I said, finding it easier to talk to his back.

“I didn’t. The cops towed it here. The bill’s on the passenger seat next to your purse.”

I
WAS TIRED, ANNOYED, AND
jonesing for coffee—three really good reasons why I should have done the smart thing and called it a night. It’s rarely a good idea to have a face-to-face with my mother when I’m not at my peak, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep until she explained why my stepfather’s medallion was clutched in the skeleton’s hand.

As I merged onto I-95, I ran possibilities through my mind. After a twenty-minute drive to the swanky Singer Island high-rise, I still couldn’t come up with a single scenario that explained where I’d found the medallion.

As usual, I parked right in front of the polished, deco-styled, twelve-story building. In the spot clearly marked
DELIVERIES ONLY, ALL OTHERS TOWED
, I felt a resurgence of irritation as I glanced down at the tow receipt on the passenger seat. Cutting the engine, I decided it was a statistical impossibility that I would
get towed twice in the same night. Besides, I almost always used this spot. It was a convenience and an excuse not to have to walk all the way from the visitor’s lot. It was just to the right of the polished stone steps that encircled the beautiful, lighted fountain and led up to glass doors with heavy brass handles. A gentle breeze lifted a light spray of water into the air.

When I reached the top step, a security guard glanced up, gave a little nod of recognition, then buzzed me in.

“Hi, Ted,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t notice that I had to glance down at his nametag.

“I’ll call your mother and let her know you’re on your way up,” he replied, reaching across the ornate desk.

“Thanks.” I walked through the four-story atrium toward the dual elevators. Tucked between the elevators was a gigantic bouquet of freshly cut and professionally arranged flowers.

As usual, my issues of being a failure as a daughter joined me in the elevator. In the amount of time it took to travel from the lobby to the penthouse, I made a lengthy mental list of some of the ways in which my mother considered me a failure. First and foremost, she couldn’t forgive me for not going to law school. Forget that I didn’t want to go to law school. That was immaterial. What made that decision such an unforgivable sin was her perception of how it reflected on her. Then there was the twenty-nine and not married thing. Given that she was prowling for hubby number six, she couldn’t understand why I didn’t marry someone—
anyone
—even if it didn’t work out. I felt myself smile at the skewed logic. My mother would rather see me divorced than perpetually single. If I was divorced, at least then—according to her—it meant I had tried.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open just as a Muzak version of a Tom Jones tune began. My palms were sweaty. That
always happened when I was about to enter my mother’s penthouse. I always morphed into a stupid sixteen-year-old right at the threshold. Must be a mother-daughter thing. Or maybe a spider-fly thing.

Before I had a chance to ring the bell, the door opened and I was greeted with an icy glare. It’s weird, because my mother and I have exactly the same aqua-blue eyes, so it’s kinda like being glared at by yourself in some twisted alternate reality.

“Do you know what time it is?” she asked, tightening the belt on the blue silk LaPerla robe Lisa had given her for Mother’s Day. Needless to say, the robe had made my gift of an orchid look like an afterthought.

“Ten-o-five?”

I took a deep breath, knowing it would be the last filtered air I’d put in my lungs for a while. My mother was quite fond of Imperial Majesty No.1. At $2,100.50 an ounce, you’d think she’d use it sparingly. Wrong. I practically choked on the heavy scent as I walked through the foyer and into the living room.

The penthouse is very formal. Lots of earthy colors, floral watercolors, and the creepy Grecian statuary—most of them headless—that had scared me senseless as a child.

Glancing into the kitchen, I saw three teacups and demi torte plates next to the sink. Crooking my thumb in that direction, I asked, “Graves and Steadman?”

“Lovely people,” my mother commented as she sat on the sofa across from me, hands decorously in her lap, back straight. “Couldn’t have been more polite.”

“You had a tea party with the police?” I slumped down in the closest chair. “The same officers who arrested me not that long ago?”

Mom shrugged. “They were doing their job, Finley. Knowing
you, I’m sure you went out of your way to antagonize them.” She paused and tucked a strand of auburn hair back into place. “It’s like you have some sort of mental illness when it comes to dealing with authority figures.”

This wasn’t going well. “You served tea and canapés to the people who handcuffed me and stuck me in a cell not once but twice, and you think I’m the one with a screw loose?”

My mother’s face scrunched, but only those facial muscles that were low on Botox cooperated. “What do you want, Finley? I’ve got an early appointment tomorrow, and I’d like to get some sleep.”

I ignored my mother’s look of disapproval as I fished inside my bra and pulled out the medallion. Placing it on the coffee table between us, I steered it around a vase of lilies. “The victim was holding this.”

My mother gave the item a cursory glance. “What victim?”

I quelled my strong urge to reach across the table and shake her. “The murdered girl in the closet of the house you just sold me.”

My mother sighed like a pro. Technically, thanks to her years on stage, she is a pro, so the overly dramatic response fell within the bounds of normal. “Where did you get the idea she was murdered?”

“Gee, call me crazy, but burial in a closet was my first clue.”

“The police told me they didn’t find any evidence of foul play. It’s their position that the poor woman was a vagrant and simply took refuge in a vacant home. Melinda moved out six months ago. As I explained to the police, other than the security patrols, there wasn’t anyone checking the house on a regular basis. Whoever the dead person was, she probably had pneumonia or some other homeless person illness and crawled in the closet to
die. While that is sad, it is hardly cause for alarm.” Her eyes narrowed. “Nor is it cause to back out of our agreement.”

I rubbed my hands over my face and counted silently backward from one hundred. I made it all the way to seventeen before I was sure my tone and expression would meet with her approval. “None of that explains the medallion.”

“I haven’t seen that silly thing for more than a decade,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “If I’m not mistaken, it was one of the items stolen when the Palm Beach house was robbed eleven or twelve years ago—though God only knows why a thief would bother with that piece of costume jewelry.”

“Burgled,” I corrected absently.

“Excuse me?”

“Robbery is stealing by threat or intimidation or violence. Burglary is breaking and entering for the purpose of theft.”

“Did you come here to argue semantics?”

“No. I’m trying to figure out how a medal I gave my father ended up in the hand of a skeleton shoved in a box in a house I just bought from you.”

“How should I know?”

“You
owned
the house.”

“As I explained to the police, I never had anything to do with the place. Jonathan originally bought it as an investment but then decided it was better to turn it into a charitable endeavor. We had a property management company handle day-to-day things. After Jonathan died, I kept the same management company.”

“Back up,” I interrupted. “What was charitable about a rental property on Palm Beach?”

Another deep sigh. “Because of the tenant. Jonathan rented the place to Melinda for a pittance and wrote the difference off as a loss. His choice didn’t sit too well with the upper crust on
Palm Beach, but Melinda and Jonathan had worked together for years, so he supported her devotion to those ill-bred children. They did agree that Melinda would limit herself to four children at any given time. It was Jonathan’s way of trying to avoid trouble with the neighbors.

“Unfortunately for them, the society types couldn’t very well take action against Jonathan. Can you imagine the bad press if they attempted to ban a foster mother from the island? Look at the fallout when Donald Trump raised a large American flag. They sued him, but the public sided with patriotism. The old money residents are not fond of publicity, especially when it shows them in a bad light.”

“Why am I only hearing about this rental thing now?”

“It was none of your business. Other than the occasional Christmas card, I had no interaction with Melinda. Beyond that, you’d have to ask my accountant or the property management company if you want more details. I’ve never paid much attention to business affairs.”

Unless it was how many shares of stock were put into her portfolio by a soon-to-be-ex husband. “So what changed?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you were getting a huge tax break, why did you stop renting the place?”

“It was turning into a headache. The neighbors were complaining more and more frequently, that sort of thing. Seven months ago I had the property manager give Melinda notice.”

“Out of the blue?” I asked. “No wonder she stripped the place.”

“You got a house out of the deal,” my mother reminded me.

I had a sinking feeling she’d be reminding me of that a lot. “And a skeleton,” I said. “Let’s not forget that hidden perk.”

“If you want to renege, Finley, I suggest you—”

“I don’t want to renege; I just want to know how a gift I gave my stepfather ended up in the hand of a skeleton.”

“Maybe he left it in the house.”

“But you said it was stolen.”

“I assumed it was. My insurance company asked me for a list of missing items after the break-in. It wasn’t with Jonathan’s things, so I assumed the burglars took it. Obviously, he lost it in that house and the vagrant found it. I think your recent crime-fighting spree has warped your mind. There’s nothing untoward about that medallion turning up in a house Jonathan visited occasionally.”

I wanted to press her for more details, but when she stood up, I knew I was being dismissed. The cops got tea and canapés. I got the old heave-ho. Before she showed me to the door, I was able to wrangle out of her the name of the property management company. Marc Feldman would be one of my first calls in the morning.

I
T TOOK A WHOLE
lot of MAC concealer to cover the dark circles I was sporting after a fitful night of being chased by skeletons that morphed into my mother and back again. Pretty scary dreams. On the plus side, since I’d gotten up just after 4:00 a.m., I’d already downed a pot of coffee, so my energy level was pretty high as I pulled into the parking lot of Dane, Lieberman, and Zarnowski.

I noticed two things right off: (a) I was still five minutes late, and (b) one of the hottest guys I’d seen in all twenty-nine years of my life was parked one car away. Maybe there was life after Patrick and Liam after all. If not life, I mused as I watched him lift a box out of the trunk of a sleek black Porsche, definitely sex.

Of course, he turned and caught me staring at him. With that face and that body, I didn’t much care that I’d been caught with my eyeballs in the cookie jar. He was the anti-Patrick—tall, slightly muscular, jet-black hair and eyes to match. He smiled back, making him the anti-Liam.

I reapplied lip gloss just to kill time. I wanted to make sure I headed for the door at the same time as Gorgeous Guy. A completely intentional, accidental meeting might just cure my dating dry spell. He smoothed his tie out of the way, then pulled a third box from his trunk. They were those cardboard put-it-together-yourself things that I have yet to master. His looked pristine.

Was it possible that the work gods had smiled on me and I was a Honda Accord away from a new estate client? I put him somewhere in his thirties, definitely within the parents’ estate zone. He was definitely from out of state. Floridians didn’t wear black Hugo Boss slacks and Ike Behar black shirts. At least not in the daytime when the temperature was already nearing eighty and it was barely past nine.

As soon as I saw him reach to close the trunk, I stepped out of my car and slipped my most recent purchase from the Coach outlet in Destin on my shoulder. It was from the SoHo collection, and the pink was a perfect splash of color to complement the gently pre-owned Ralph Lauren ruffled black and white shirt-dress I’d picked up on eBay. The dress retailed for over one-fifty, but I’d gotten it at less than a quarter of that, even after adding in dry cleaning to get rid of any remnants of pre-ownership. My round toe pumps came in handy, adding a couple of inches to my five-foot-three frame.

“Need some help?” I asked, casually strolling in his direction.

“That would be great.” He handed me a box by the press-thru handles. It barely weighed a pound.

After folding his suit jacket over the top box, he hoisted everything and started toward the door. He had an exceptional butt. And I was happy to trail behind, drinking in the scent of Acqua Di Giò eau de toilette, one of my all-time favorite men’s fragrances. I hurried around him, quickly admiring his broad shoulders as I reached for the door handle.

“Thanks,” he said.

Recognizing the remnants of a New York accent, I instantly started planning our dating future. Of course dating a New Yorker would mean Christmases in the city, Broadway plays—hell, I’d almost reached that romantic moment in a hansom cab, where he was offering me a signature blue box from Tiffany’s, when Maudlin Margaret’s voice turned into a total buzz kill.

“You’re late.”

You’re bitter.
“Traffic,” I lied.

Margaret pushed back her chair and came out from behind the horseshoe-shaped reception desk. I half expected her to have a whip or something. I wouldn’t put corporal punishment past Vain Dane.

“You must be Mr. Caprelli.”

“Guilty,” he said, placing the boxes on Margaret’s sacred ground and offering her his hand. “Mrs. Ford, right?”

She batted her lashes. “Call me Margaret, please.”

My stomach turned at the sight of her flirting with my possible future husband. Peeking around the torso of Mr. Caprelli, I asked, “Messages?”