Duby's Doctor (34 page)

"Woof!" said Butch.

CHAPTER TWO – THE OFFICE

Downtown Miami

One Day Before the Explosion

Leslye Larrimore was a 50-ish, elegantly
coiffed woman who sported designer business attire and balanced
effortlessly on five-inch stiletto heels. Leslye's office at
Pace-Larrimore, Incorporated, was an expansive, opulent room with a
stunning city view. Mahogany and brass shone everywhere around her
as she read her mail at a desk the size of an aircraft carrier.

Harry Pace entered without knocking and
sprawled in one of the elegant, upholstered guest chairs across
from the desk. Leslye set her mail aside.

"Missed you at Sylvie's last Saturday," she
said.

"I doubt if my daughter would agree with
you," said Harry. "Surely Dan Stern was there to fill the
void."

"Jealous? Harry, really."

"I'm not jealous, Les. I'm her father."

"And he's your business partner," said
Leslye. "I should think you'd be pleased that they like each other.
She's not daddy's little girl any longer, Harry. She's going to
have other men in her life."

"Fine. Let her have other men. Les, can't you
get Stern to lay off?"

"You want him to lay off, you tell him. Why
are you so against Danny all of a sudden?"

Harry pursed his lips and clinched his fists.
He bounced one fist on his knee. "He'll get his tail in a crack
someday and do something desperate to get himself out of it. Heck,
he may have done it already. I don't want Sylvie to be caught in a
crossfire."

Leslye smiled and used her most soothing
tones. "I really think you're overreacting," she said. "I don't see
any of that happening. Really I don't."

Harry pushed himself up from the chair like a
much older man. "I'll pass on dinner tonight, Les, if you don't
mind," he told her. "Think I'll go out to the boat and spend the
weekend alone. Try to get my perspective back. Chill out.
Okay?"

Leslye couldn't quite hide her
disappointment, but she tried. "Sure, Harry," she said. "You take
care of yourself. It'll all look better Monday morning. I'm sure
there's nothing to worry about."

"Yeah, maybe not," said Harry. He left her
office, closing the door behind him.

Immediately, Leslye dialed a number on her
desk phone. She was irritated when she reached an electronic device
instead of a human.

"Stupid machine," she said beneath her
breath. Then, into the phone, she said, "Yeah, it's me. Call me at
home when you get in, no matter how late."

Then she hung up the phone and chewed at the
edges of her expensive manicure.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~

It was 2:45 a.m. by the digital bedside clock
when Leslye’s cellphone vibrated with a loud clatter on the
nightstand and she writhed across silk sheets to answer it.

"Hello," she said, and looked at the clock
while listening to the caller. "Well, it's about time. Listen, I
think we'd better pay Harry a visit first thing in the morning.
This thing could blow up in our faces if we're not careful. Meet me
at the marina at nine thirty."

Without giving the other party a chance to
argue, Leslye hung up and went back to sleep.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Dinner Key Marina, Coconut Grove, Florida

The Day of the Explosion

A silver Bentley pulled in and parked beside
the black Jaguar sedan in the yacht basin parking lot. The Jaguar
disgorged Leslye Larrimore, who immediately approached a younger
man, in Ostrich-skin boots, who angled out of the Bentley.

Attorney Larrimore slung her Louis Vuitton
briefcase over her shoulder and extended her hand to the man. He
shook her hand perfunctorily before shoving his soft, manicured
hands into his pockets, ruining the perfect drape of his linen
Euro-style slacks. “Where’s Pace? It’s hot out here,” he said.
Leslye focused her practiced charm at him and assured, “It’ll be
cooler on the boat.”

“It would be cooler in your office,” he
muttered. “This is what I get for kowtowing to Harry Pace. I know
you like him, Leslye, but let’s face it, Harry is a certifiable
kook.”

Leslye touched the man’s elbow and steered
him toward the nearby pier.

“Where are we meeting him?” he asked,
scanning the yachts lining both sides of the long, floating
pier.

“Out there,” Leslye pointed to a sailing
vessel moored a hundred yards out into the bay.

“Of course we are,” the man sighed.

Together they walked to the end of the
central pier, where Leslye flagged down a marina employee in a
Zodiac pontoon runabout. In moments the Zodiac had pulled up
directly before the couple, and it’s pilot helped them board the
twelve-foot inflatable.

Leslye negotiated the pier-to-craft transfer
with amazing poise even in a pencil skirt and high heels. The man
in Ostrich boots removed his suit jacket and loosened his collar;
he produced a monogrammed handkerchief and wiped perspiration from
his head and face.

“Can we hurry this along, please,” he said,
commanding rather than asking.

Leslye’s smile never faltered. She gestured
to the pilot, and the Zodiac putt-putted away from the pier.

Minutes later the runabout, with its company
of three, was about halfway between the shore and an out-moored
sailing yacht with "Helen" in florid gold lettering on the stern.
Leslye delved into her briefcase and lifted her cellphone.

"I'll just let Harry know we're here," she
said.

Seconds later, the faint ring of a telephone
could be heard coming from the Helen – and a deafening blast
vaporized the yacht in a cloud of fire and debris.

Concussion from the explosion rocked the
Zodiac. Leslye, her companion, and the marina employee hid their
faces from the glaring flames and covered their heads from falling
debris. The marina employee shouted “Mister Pace!” and moved as if
to dive overboard and attempt a rescue.

Leslye stopped him with a hand on his
shoulder, a look, and a wag of her head. Harry Pace, master of the
good ship Helen, was no more. Nothing remained but a burning oil
slick, black smoke, and floating shards of teak decking.

“You absolutely sure Harry was on that boat?”
said the man in Ostrich boots. His voice held amazingly little
emotion.

Leslye kept her eyes on the burning, sinking,
unrecognizable mass of wood and fiberglas. She nodded.

The man looked back toward his parked car
then glanced at his diamond-studded Rolex watch. “Okay. We’re done
here, then. I need to get back to work.”

CHAPTER THREE – THE MORTUARY

Miami—Tuesday Evening

Four Days After the Explosion

Lithgow Funeral Home was an elegant building
with white marble columns facing a circular driveway bounded by
well-manicured box hedges. It resembled the front entrance at the
Academy Awards, with wealthy mourners arriving in their
chauffeur-driven gas guzzlers. Everyone who was anyone simply must
be seen at the viewing of the late Harry Pace, and they must be
seen at their best. The jewelry had come out of the safe deposit
boxes for this one. The glittering ladies and their silk-penguin
escorts craved cameras, and the local media did not disappoint.

Inside a crowded reception room lined with
flowers, sterling candelabra flanked a closed casket. An exquisite
oil painting of Harry Pace rested on an easel at one end of the
casket. A few of the attendees amused themselves speculating as to
how many inches, or ounces, of Harry were actually inside the
casket, which must have cost as much as a Space Shuttle.

Sylvie Pace, young, blonde and beautiful (of
course) in a thousand-dollar simple black dress, graciously shook
the hands of whatever "mourners" stopped by her chair to pay
respects.

Dan Stern sat attentively on Sylvie's right.
He was a little older, a lot taller and darker, and a little less
beautiful than Sylvie. But Dan always cut a fine figure in his
expensive suits and hand-made Ostrich-skin boots.

Together Sylvie and Dan were the South
Florida equivalent of royalty, on glorious display.

Leslye Larrimore, looking strained despite
her professionally applied makeup, caught Dan's eye from somewhere
in the crowd. He gave her a "come hither" gesture. After a few
moments of careful maneuvering, Les arrived at Dan's chair. He rose
to whisper to her.

"Stay with Sylvie a minute, will you?" said
Dan. "I've gotta go outside for a smoke."

"Nasty habit," Leslye told him before taking
her seat in the chair he had vacated.

"Yeah, so's Valium," was his snarky
reply.

Leslye sent him an overly sweet smile, and
Dan headed for the nearest exit.

Walt McGurk's red pickup with yellow doors
rolled into the funeral home parking lot just as Dan emerged with
an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Dan must have recognized the
truck, because Walt stepped out of the driver's side door to find
his path blocked by Dan Stern, casually lighting a cigarette.

"Thought you had quit," Walt said. "Smart
folks have."

Dan scowled at Walt's black western shirt,
black jeans, black Stetson hat, and black boots. "You've got no
business here, Dogpatch," said Dan. "Why don't you save Sylvie and
the rest of us some embarrassment and just mosey on back to the
ranch." He blew a smoke ring directly into Walt's face.

Walt dismissed Dan with a look and walked
past him toward the funeral home entrance.

Dan tossed his freshly lit cigarette to the
ground and followed. At the door, Dan grabbed Walt's shoulder and
pulled him aside. "What are you trying to do!?"

"Just tryin' to pay my respects," said
Walt.

"Respect! You and Harry fought like alley
cats. Neither one of you ever showed any 'respect' to the other
one."

"I didn't come to see Harry. I came to see
Sylvie."

Walt shook off Dan's grip and entered the
building. Once inside, he worked his way through the throng toward
Sylvie's chair. The high-society, glammed-to-the-max crowd scorned
his horse-ranch attire with looks and whispered comments. Walt
ignored them and presented himself before Sylvie's chair. He
removed his hat, took her hand, and pulled her up to walk with him
to the closed casket.

They gave no greetings to one another but
stood together in silence beside the easel displaying Harry's
portrait. Sylvie unconsciously leaned against Walt. When she
sniffled, he folded her against him in a brotherly hug.

Gently, Walt told her, "Whatever's in that
box, it ain't Harry. Y'hear me? Harry ain't here. You need to
remember that."

"I know," replied Sylvie between weepy
hiccups. "The preacher said the same thing. I guess Daddy's with
Mama now. In heaven."

Walt smiled to himself. "Well, I don't know
if I'd give Harry quite that much credit."

Across the room, Dan Stern joined Les
Larrimore in watching Walt comfort Sylvie over the casket. Leslye
whispered, "I thought you said she hated him."

Dan shrugged. "That's what she says. Avoids
him and his place like the plague."

"Well, Danny boy, you better be sure she's
had her shots. That plague looks contagious to me," said
Leslye.

Dan's expression turned anxious. He moved
toward Sylvie and Walt. Coming to Sylvie's side a moment later, Dan
gently extricated her from Walt's arms and tenderly ushered her
away. "Come sit down, sweetheart," Dan told her. "You look a little
woozy."

Dan lovingly helped Sylvie into her chair.
Leslye sat in the adjacent seat. Dan said to Sylvie, "Les will get
you something to drink." He glanced at the lady lawyer
meaningfully. "Right, Les?"

Leslye stood and found herself staring into
the shirtfront of Walt McGurk, who had followed Sylvie and Dan.
"I'll be right back; you just rest, dear," Leslye told Sylvie.
Looking up at Walt towering over them, she said, "Good night,
Mister McGurk. Thank you for coming." She stepped around him and
left in search of a beverage.

Walt scanned the room. Sylvie was surrounded
by elegant strangers and watchdogged by Dan Stern. Walt shoved his
Stetson onto his head and ambled toward the exit.

Halfway there he stopped, decided he was not
leaving, and marched briskly back to Sylvie's chair. He elbowed his
way to her and, when Dan refused to yield a place to sit, Walt
squatted on the floor in front of her. This put Walt on Sylvie's
eye level, and he pinned her with his eyes like a lepidopterist
skewers a butterfly.

"Sylvie, you know half of my ranch is yours
now. Harry's half," Walt said.

"I guess so."

"Well, if you’re in a bind, I’ll buy you out
fair and square. Cash on the barrelhead."

Dan said, "Really, McGurk! I don't think this
is the time—“

"I'm talkin' to Sylvie," Walt said, cutting
Dan short.

Sylvie didn't feel like discussing business
at all, and certainly not while Walt and Dan were going at each
other in front of the jet set. "Can't we discuss this later?"
Sylvie said to Walt. "I mean, it's not like I need the money."

Walt's mouth moved as if he would argue with
her, but he realized the room had gone silent. The "mourners" all
seemed to be staring at him. He stood abruptly, withered the room
with a look, and strode for the door.

Leslye arrived with a cup of water for
Sylvie. Dan gave Les his chair, and he left to follow Walt, saying
to the ladies, "I'll just make sure he finds his way out."

Les urged Sylvie to drink, but Sylvie merely
held the cup and watched the door through which Walt and Dan had
gone. Leslye patted Sylvie's shoulder and said, "It's all right,
darling. Don't let Harry's pet jailbird upset you."

"Harry's what?"

"Jailbird," said Les. "Everybody knows Harry
got him out of jail and set him up in that horse-breeding
business." Bitterness tainted her voice as she continued, "One of
your mother's charity cases, I expect. Harry never learned to tell
her no."