Holidays Are Murder Read online

  Years ago Bill’s wife, spooked by fear of his dying in the line of duty, had divorced him and moved to Seattle with their only daughter, Melanie. Bill had been heartbroken. I’d stepped in to help with his daughter on her infrequent visits, and my relationship with Bill had deepened, then stalled in limbo when I’d put on the brakes. I still wasn’t sure what had stopped me, fear of commitment or an equal anxiety over the true depth of Bill’s feelings for me.

  One thing was undeniable. Bill had been my best friend since our first days on patrol for the Tampa P.D. twenty-two years ago, and I didn’t want anything to spoil that friendship. Tonight, although he’d been retired from the job for two years, I looked forward to hearing his take on my rooftop burglar.

  I slid into a booth across from Bill. Toby Keith belted out “How Do You Like Me Now?” from the ancient Wurlitzer in the corner, and locals from the marina filled the stools at the bar and watched a pregame football show on the new plasma-screen television high on the wall in the corner.

  Bill greeted me with a grin. His thick hair, once brown, was now white, a handsome contrast to his deep tan, and his blue eyes retained their boyish charm. “I already ordered.”

  “No problem.” I always had an old-fashioned burger all the way with fries, and Bill was well versed in my preferences.

  The waitress served frosted mugs of cold beer and when she left, Bill said, “For someone who just came off vacation, you look tired.”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “You also look beautiful,” he hastened to add, “but I’m worried about you. You wore yourself out on the weight-loss clinic murders. I was hoping with those solved, you might slow down a bit.”

  “No rest for the weary.” I sipped my beer and hoped it wouldn’t send me into a deep coma.

  While we waited for our food, I gave Bill the details on our rooftop burglar. “Looks like I’ve hit a wall,” I said when I’d finished.

  “Have you tried tracking the Clinton mask?”

  “Adler worked on it all day. But the masks were produced over a decade ago and carried by the thousands by Wal-Mart and K-Mart, as well as other specialty stores. Nobody kept records on individual purchases of the masks. Besides, you know how many transients and new residents we have in this county. That mask could have been brought in from anywhere in the country.”

  “What about online?”

  “I’ll make sure Adler checked that, too.” I hated computers, didn’t own one and barely tolerated using the one at work. In a profession becoming increasingly high tech, my technophobia was another compelling reason to toss in the towel. I refused to own a cell phone and only reluctantly carried a beeper.

  Our meals arrived and as I bit into my burger with gusto, I realized I’d forgotten to eat lunch. Good thing, since the food in front of me represented an entire day’s ration. Fresh memories of three overweight murder victims had me counting calories.

  Bill put down his burger and wiped his lips with his napkin. “Margaret—”

  Besides Bill, only members of my immediate family called me Margaret. When I’d first partnered with him, he’d called me Princess Margaret, a derogatory reference to my debutante days, but after I saved his life during a domestic dispute call, I’d won his respect and he’d referred to me as Skerritt on the job. Later, after his divorce, when our relationship developed outside of work, he’d begun calling me Margaret, often with a tenderness I found hard to resist.

  “Margaret, I’ve given this a lot of thought.” His blue eyes locked gazes with mine and his expression was deadly serious.

  My heartbeat stuttered. Had my unwavering rejections of his marriage proposals convinced him to move on?

  “I’ve decided,” he continued, “to accept your invitation to have Thanksgiving at your mother’s.”

  “That wasn’t an invitation,” I said, relieved only until the prospect of Bill and my mother in the same room hit me. “That was a threat.”

  “She can’t be that bad.”

  “She doesn’t approve of anything about me,” I countered. “And she lets me know it every time our paths cross.”

  My mother was a social scion of Pelican Bay. Her father had been a prominent physician, my late father a distinguished cardiologist, and she enjoyed her position of wealth and influence. When I had graduated from college with a degree in library science and announced my engagement to Greg Singleford, who was completing his internship in the ER, Mother had been over the moon. But Greg’s brutal murder by a crack addict in an ER treatment room had changed everything.

  I’d loved Greg with all the passion and innocence of youth, and his death had shaken my core values. As a result, I couldn’t see spending my life with books, or, as my mother had intended, at meetings of the Junior League and Art Guild, once I’d realized that the world was such a dangerous place. Daddy had supported my decision to enter the police academy and had openly expressed his pride in my accomplishments. He’d served as a buffer between Mother and me until his death twelve years ago. But Mother had been horrified from the beginning that her younger daughter had chosen a down-and-dirty career in law enforcement over social prestige. And she never let me forget it. During the recent publicity over my arrest of Lester Morelli for the clinic murders, she’d taken to her bed with a sick headache and had remained there until after Morelli had been indicted and the news coverage had ceased.

  “So you’re withdrawing the invitation?” Bill asked.

  “No, I’m just warning you that dinner with Mother will be an ordeal. It always is. So you might want to reconsider.”

  He reached across the table and grasped my hand. “Maybe just once you ought to tell your mother to take her hoity-toity attitude and stick it up her—”

  “Bill!”

  “You’ve heard the word ass before,” he said with a rare flash of temper. “You’ve even used it a few times yourself.”

  “But never in relation to my mother. Mother wouldn’t be caught dead with a common ass. She has only a very sophisticated derriere.” I teased to defuse his irritation.

  “You’ve got to stop tiptoeing around her.”

  “She and Caroline are all the family I have.”

  Pain flashed through his eyes, and I wished I could take back my words. Bill had even less family than I did.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Maybe it’s time for a family of your own. We could be a family, you and I.”

  I was on the verge of choking up over his proposal when my beeper sounded. “I have to call the station.”

  “I’m giving you a cell phone for Christmas,” he promised with a scowl.

  “I’d either lose it or forget to charge it, so save your money.” I hurried from the table to the pay phone in the lobby.

  I was gone only a couple of minutes before I returned and cast a longing look at my unfinished burger. “Gotta go,” I said. “Another break-in.”

  “You’re dead on your feet,” Bill said. “At least let me drive.”

  For a few seconds I luxuriated in the unaccustomed comfort of having someone fuss over me. Then duty kicked in.

  “Okay, but let’s roll. Shelton was already frothing at the mouth over last night’s burglary. I don’t want him putting me on report for slow response.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Last night’s burglar may have been stupid, but if he was hoping to make the Pelican Bay Police Department look bad, tonight’s repeat break-in had definitely accomplished that goal. Bill parked his car in the same space I’d used the night before. I thanked him for the ride and left the car in a hurry. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed that our discussion about families had been interrupted. Relieved, I decided. Being with Bill when he was relaxed and laid-back was easy. When the serious stuff kicked in, I was out of my element.

  It was just after 8:00 p.m., and light poured from the windows of Mama Mia’s, doing a booming take-out business, judging by the activity visible through the plate glass and the number of d
rivers scurrying from the restaurant with insulated bags. Monday night football apparently created a huge appetite for pizza.

  My attention this evening, however, wasn’t on Mama Mia’s but Bloomberg’s Jewelers next door. Steve Johnson let me in the front entrance.

  “The owner’s on his way,” Johnson said. “It was a smash-and-grab.”

  Shards of glass from several display cases littered the narrow aisle. Bloomberg’s wasn’t a large store, but its small space packed a hefty inventory of high-end goods. Even my very picky mother was a frequent shopper here. Looking at the empty display cases, I hoped Bloomberg’s insurance was adequate. The man had lost a mint.

  “We have to quit meeting like this, Maggie.” Adler appeared at my elbow and handed me a large foam cup of coffee. “Malcolm sent you this. Got it at Mama Mia’s.”

  I took the steaming infusion of caffeine with gratitude and glanced toward the parking lot where Bill had returned to his car and was now reading a magazine in the glow of the dome light. It was going to be another long night.

  Bloomberg arrived immediately after Adler. He entered the shop and, for a moment, I feared the little man would burst into tears.

  “I’m Detective Skerritt,” I said. “We spoke on the phone this morning.”

  A frail, nondescript man with kind brown eyes and graying hair, Bloomberg wrung his hands. “You warned me, Detective. And I called the contractor. He’s scheduled tomorrow morning to secure the ducts on the roof. Too late now.”

  Bloomberg seemed to shrink into his shapeless gray sweater as he shook his head and surveyed the damage. Adler moved toward the rear of the shop and entered a hallway.

  “Can you tell me what’s missing?” I asked Bloomberg.

  “Someone knew what he was doing,” the jeweler said. “He took only the most expensive items.”

  “Didn’t have much time, though,” Johnson chimed in. “I was in the neighborhood and was here within minutes of the alarm sounding.”

  Adler returned to the front room. “Entered through the roof, just like last night.”

  “Do you have motion detectors?” I asked Bloomberg.

  The elderly man shook his head. “Only alarms on the doors and display windows.”

  “Were the interior lights on when you arrived?” I asked Johnson.

  He shook his head. “I hit the lights when I got here so I could see to turn off the alarm.”

  “Then our burglar couldn’t be seen from the street,” I said, “and he didn’t set off the alarm until he left. He had all the time in the world to pick and choose what he wanted.”

  The CSU techs arrived. “Déjà vu all over again,” one commented before starting to work.

  “I’ll need your surveillance tapes,” I told Bloomberg.

  “From how far back?” he asked.

  “How far back do you keep them?”

  He looked chagrined. “My wife makes fun of me. Says I’m obsessive/compulsive. It takes a lot of tapes, but I keep them for a month. Just in case.”

  “In case?”

  His lined cheeks reddened with embarrassment. “I’m an old man. Sometimes I don’t notice things like I should. If something was missing, like from a shop-lifter, it could be days before I’d notice.” His eyes brightened. “But if I have the tapes, I can at least go back and see what happened.”

  “Let me have them all.”

  I’d begin with the past few hours. I was hopeful surveillance would reveal a good view of our burglar. Even if masked, if he was a habitual offender, I might recognize him. If not, I’d work my way backward through the remaining videos. If someone had cased the store in the past month, he probably wouldn’t have bothered to hide his face and I’d have him on tape.

  Several hours later I wasn’t feeling as confident. I’d returned to the station to view the most recent surveillance video. Even in the dim light from the streetlights outside, it had captured perfect images of the burglar, who had ditched Bill Clinton for a ski mask. After the pizzeria closed, Maria Ridoletti stopped by the station to confirm our perp. Standing in front of the monitor, she watched the tape and shook her head.

  “That’s not him.”

  “You mean, it’s not Clinton?” I suspected that the ski mask had thrown her.

  She crossed her arms over her skinny chest and tapped her foot impatiently. “It’s a different guy altogether. He’s almost a foot taller than the one who robbed me.”

  Those were words I didn’t want to hear. “You’re sure? After all, you were sitting down.”

  “And the guy in the Clinton mask was almost eye-to-eye with me. Nope, that’s definitely not the one who robbed me.” Her scathing look spoke volumes. “Looks like you’ve got two robbers to catch now.”

  The next morning the insistent ringing of the telephone awakened me. A glance at my bedside clock indicated the time was a few minutes past seven. I’d had less than four hours’ sleep in the past two days, and I wanted nothing more than to let the answering machine pick up while I dived under the covers until the alarm sounded at seven-thirty. But, recalling the dynamic duo of thieves still at large, I fumbled for the phone beside my bed and braced to hear Darcy announcing another break-in.

  “Good morning, dear.” My mother’s refined voice, buoyant with irritating cheerfulness, resonated in my ear. “I was hoping I’d find you at home.”

  That one simple statement carried a truckload of disapproval, her indirect snipe at the unpredictable hours of my job.

  “What’s up?” I asked. Mother never called simply to chat or pass the time of day. She communicated only to issue a summons or an edict. This morning was no exception.

  “I’m calling about Thanksgiving dinner. You are coming, aren’t you?”

  “I certainly intend to.” I didn’t want to get into the possibility, of which Mother was well aware but chose to ignore, that work might intervene.

  “We’ll gather at five for cocktails. Dinner at six.”

  With partial consciousness came the memory of my conversation with Bill at the restaurant the previous night. “If it’s all right, I’d like to bring a guest.”

  “A guest?” Her voice crackled with surprise.

  “Bill Malcolm.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Of course not.” Her tone contradicted her words. “But, really, Margaret, what do you know about this man?”

  “This man was my partner for seven years and he’s been my friend for over twenty.” The fact that in all that time he’d never met my family said a lot about my shaky relationship with them.

  “I’m aware of that, dear,” she said with a hint of exasperation, “but what do you know about him?”

  “I know that he’s good and decent, but if you’d rather I came alone—”

  “I’m sure Mr. Malcolm is a very nice man, but what do you know about his family?” For Mother, with people, as with art and antiques, provenance was all.

  “Most of them are dead,” I said.

  “Don’t be obtuse, Margaret. You know exactly what I’m asking. Who were they?”

  Decent, unpretentious, hardworking people, with whom my elitist mother had absolutely nothing in common. “His father was a citrus grower in Plant City. He’s eighty-five, suffers from Alzheimer’s, and is in an assisted-living facility in Tampa.”

  “He was a farmer?”

  “You could say that.” Contrariness kept me silent on the fact that Bill’s father’s orange groves were several thousand acres of prime real estate, worth millions if sold for development. A sufficient amount of wealth covered a multitude of sins in Mother’s book, but I wasn’t about to pander to her prejudices.

  “And his son lives in Pelican Bay?” She was sounding more dubious by the minute.

  “At the marina. On his boat.”

  “Mr. Malcolm lives on a boat?” Horror laced her voice. “Like a transient?”

  Even in my sleep-deprived state, I experienced a guilty thrill at Mother’s disapproval. I
’d learned long ago I could never please her, so sometimes I took perverse pleasure in pushing her buttons instead. Especially since I was still smarting from her dismissive attitude a few weeks ago at the yacht club when I’d saved her from an armed teenager intent on robbery. Instead of thanking me, she’d criticized my language. Why I, at forty-eight, still longed for my mother’s approval, was one of the mysteries of the universe.

  “Because he does live on a boat, I’m sure he’d enjoy having Thanksgiving dinner in a real home,” I lied, knowing Bill could whip up an elegant holiday meal in his small galley kitchen that would put Mother’s expensive caterers to shame.

  “Your friends are always welcome at my house, Margaret,” Mother insisted, but her tone lacked conviction. “I’ll be happy to have Mr. Malcolm join us for Thanksgiving. But please, remind him that we dress for dinner.”

  I stifled the irrational image of Mother, my perfect older sister Caroline and her stuffy husband, Hunt, sitting naked around Mother’s antique dining table, and I couldn’t resist baiting her. “Clothes are always helpful, especially when the weather’s chilly.”

  Mother’s sigh of exasperation vibrated loudly through the handset. “You know what I mean, Margaret. At least, I hope you haven’t forgotten all the social niceties.”

  Not as long as I had Mother as a constant reminder. “Thanks, Mother. I’ll see you Thursday.”

  I climbed out of bed and gazed through the sliding-glass doors of my second-floor bedroom at St. Joseph Sound and the Intracoastal Waterway that separated the city from Pelican Beach. The waters, smooth as glass, reflected a towering bank of cumulus clouds, rose-tipped by the sunrise, and mirrored the shimmering lavender-and-pink striations cast by the early-morning sky.