Florida Is Murder (Due Justice and Surface Tension Mystery Double Feature) (Florida Mystery Double Feature) (6 page)

There was no question that the Republican candidate posed a serious threat to Warwick’s reelection, but I wondered whether the campaign contributions made to Warwick’s campaign would really support free trade or just his ego.

The party ended and everyone gone by midnight.

Left George to close up, trudged upstairs for bed.

Called Carly again to tell her the good news: that Dr. Morgan had been here tonight, alive and in person.

Still no answer; I didn’t leave another message.

George and I usually like to dissect these events and rehash the various conversations. But tonight, I collapsed into deep slumber long before he came upstairs.

Even though I consume mystery novels like candy, I was new to the investigator game. I had learned what I needed to know about Dr. Morgan without having to inquire. No one acted guilty, whatever that means.

So I missed my best opportunity to investigate everyone who had a reason to kill Michael Morgan.

In the long run, it would have saved me a lot of pain if I’d figured that out.

But ignorance is bliss. I had the last sound sleep I would have for a while.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Tampa, Florida

Thursday 9:10 a.m.

January 7, 1999

On Thursday morning, we slept late and had the after party chat over breakfast and coffee that we didn’t have the night before. We shared laughter and outrage and he gloated a while before we kissed and left for work.

I didn’t tell him about Carly just yet. George thinks I have a blind spot where Carly’s concerned. He calls it my Mighty Mouse Routine. I’m always saving the day for her, he says, and he views it as an unnecessary extravagance.  He thinks Carly is old enough to take care of herself.

That’s not the only thing he’s wrong about.

The good news about Dr. Morgan would resolve Carly’s issues and then I’d give George the whole story without having to argue about how I’d handled her this time.

That was the plan.

For about thirty minutes after I reached my desk, it seemed the plan would work.

One of the greatest things about my job is no obnoxious phone calls. George, Kate, and select family can reach me on a private line. Otherwise, my secretary takes messages and my judicial clerks talk to the callers. It’s one of the many advantages of being a federal judge. A state court judge is elected; they have to talk to everybody.

The point is, Carly could have returned my calls on my private line, my cell, or my home phone, but she hadn’t. I’d heard nothing from her since yesterday. Not an unusual occurrence. But just now, damned inconsiderate. And worrisome.

My secretary brought in the message slips for calls I received through regular channels. I flipped through them quickly:  CJ at 7:45 a.m.
Ha! As if.
In addition to making my own hours, my lifetime appointment means it’s not necessary to kowtow to a little guy who thinks he’s the boss. Gleefully, I crumpled it and tossed it into the trash can.
She scores!

Four more slips. A reminder of my hair appointment, Kate, President of the Women’s Bar Association, and, at the bottom of the pile, Carly.

She’d called yesterday. Before she appeared at Minaret.

For some reason, I felt a bit better knowing she’d tried to reach me first. Seemed not so desperate, maybe.

Asked my secretary to schedule an appointment with the chair of the Women’s Bar Association, confirm my hair appointment, and make a date for late lunch with Kate.

Studied yesterday’s pink slip reflecting Carly’s call. No further clues revealed themselves. Wondered aloud,
“What’s going on with you, little sis?”

Remembered the last time we’d met before yesterday afternoon. We’d argued then, too. The issues were not dissimilar.

While I was still in private practice, I volunteered my time to teach a law school course. Despite her two brothers and me all being lawyers, Carly decided to go to law school. Or maybe it was because we were lawyers. Anyway, Carly threw caution to the wind and took my class four years ago.

Even if she hadn’t been my “little sister,” I’d have thought she was one of those rare students who understood the subject and demonstrated desire to excel.

She became a colleague that year and I found myself working with her to make sure she understood the basics of cross examination, jury selection and evidence.

After she graduated, my personal relationship with Carly, always strained, finally achieved an uneasy truce:  Carly began to look on me as an available, if not overly desirable, mentor. For a time. Too briefly.

She joined the prosecutor’s office; called now and then from with a particular question or issue. An almost easy peace descended.

Abruptly, she was asked to resign.

She wouldn’t tell me why.  Following unsuccessful attempts to find out, culminating in one really nasty screaming match, I got the message that it was none of my business.

She asked me to write a recommendation when she applied for a house counsel position with a small medical device manufacturer a few weeks later.

That’s one thing about Carly; no matter how offensive she’s been to me, she continues to act as if she has some sort of God-given right to keep coming back for more favors.

Of course, I gave her what she wanted.

Maybe because of what she thought of as her disgraceful termination, and maybe because she was still jealous of my relationship with her mother, until yesterday, I hadn’t heard from her in over a year, when she was in trouble again.

Maybe George is right. Maybe our relationship is seriously co-dependent. I need to rescue her as much as she needs the help.

Knowing that doesn’t change it.

My thoughts started to wander down the well-trodden path of my feelings for Kate, who had been my mother’s best friend and like a mother to me since Mom died when I was sixteen.

I jerked myself back to the present.

No point in going over that ground again.

Wherever my relationship with Kate’s daughter had gone wrong, rehashing history wasn’t going to change it. The only reason to relive history is to avoid making the same mistakes. Otherwise, you’re just wallowing in the past--an indulgence I know from experience won’t get me anywhere.

If I had back all the hours I’ve spent trying to figure out how to make Carly stop acting like a spoiled child, I’d be at least three years younger.

I picked up the phone and dialed Carly’s office number.

“Good morning, MedPro,” the receptionist answered the phone. I asked for Carly Austin and was put through to her office. Carly picked up on the first ring.

“Carly, its Willa.”

“Judge Carson! I’m so pleased you called me back.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

Some hesitation. Then, cryptically, “I’d like to see you for an hour or so. Would it be possible for me to meet you somewhere?”

I felt the frown lines between my eyebrows, and consciously tried to relax them. I remembered Dr. Aymes’s comments on age lines. No point in getting needles punched in your face before you have to.

Carly sounded cheerful, almost normal. Not the nervous, timid woman who sat across the table from me yesterday. She’d always been confident and self-assured. Even when she was fired by the prosecutor’s office, she hadn’t seemed cowed. Yesterday, she did. Now, she didn’t.

Confused, I wanted to strangle her and put us both out of my misery.  “Look, about Dr.--”

She jumped in. “Let’s talk when I see you, shall we? How about your office? Maybe three o’clock? Thanks.”

My protest fell into empty space.

Annoyed, I dialed Frank Bennett. If they’d identified the body, I could put Carly’s mind to rest this afternoon and bow out completely. He answered after the first ring.

“Frank, Willa Carson here.”

“Willa!  How nice to hear from you. What’s up?”  Frank has a nose for news, obviously. I’d never called him before. The direct approach wasn’t always best.

We talked about the fund-raiser, Senator Warwick, and George’s disappointment that Elizabeth Taylor no-showed last night. Frank was covering the Warwick campaign, and asked if I knew when the senator would be in town again.

Finally, I worked into the real reason for my call.

“Frank, since our talk last night about that body they pulled out of Tampa Bay, I’ve been curious about something, and I haven’t seen anything on your newscasts about it.”

“What’s the problem?”

“You said something about the guy being dead already when he hit the water--” I tried to sound tentative, unsure. Not easy for me.

“Yes?”  He volunteered nothing. Rather unlike Frank, I thought. Maybe he’d been told to report anyone asking questions about the body. I wished I’d thought of that before I called him; too late now.

“I was wondering how you knew that?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been missing some of my reports?”  He teased me.

“I guess I must have,” I said, stifling impatience.

“A bullet to the front of his head blew the back of his skull off. There’s not much chance he survived that. And the coroner’s report said no water in the lungs, which means he didn’t breathe in the water and die by drowning.”  He explained patiently, but seemed to asking questions at the same time.

I was tempted not to answer the unspoken, but I didn’t want Frank poking around in my life trying to find out why I wanted to know about this particular crime.

“Well, that explains it then.”  I told him. “George and I were having a conversation at breakfast this morning and he said the police couldn’t possibly tell whether anyone had drowned or been killed before they were found in the water. I told him I was sure that even more complicated things had been determined forensically, and I would just call you and ask.”

Tsk, tsk. A marital squabble. And too much for my pretty little head. Frank Bennett knows I’m not so vacuous, but he accepted the explanation, no doubt for his own reasons.

Then, he said, “While I have you on the phone, Willa, let me ask you something.”

“Okay.”  Wary.

“I looked around last night, but I never found Michael Morgan. I talked to Peter, and he said he didn’t actually see Morgan come in. Are you sure Morgan was there?”

My good mood vanished. Neck hairs tingled.

Even tone, slow cadence, total control. “Like I said last night, Frank, I wouldn’t know the man if I saw him.”

“Well, ask George, will you?  Right now, I’m assuming he’s still missing.”

“Sure, I’ll ask,” I said. And I meant it. I didn’t say I’d reveal George’s answer.

We rung off with the appropriate farewells, and I made a mental note not to ask Frank anything else about the case before checking all other sources.

Frank Bennett had been an award-winning journalist for too long. Instincts would bring him back around asking questions, and I hoped I hadn’t already sparked his curiosity too much.

I couldn’t figure out what to do next without talking to Carly first, so I spent the remainder of the morning revising proposed orders drafted by my clerks, preparing matters scheduled for tomorrow, and reviewing next week’s trial calendar.

Every ten seconds or so, questions about Dr. Morgan and the murdered man refused to stay in mental storage, questions Carly would answer this afternoon if I had to sit on her to make her tell me.

At one o’clock, I left to meet Kate at the Tampa Club for lunch, happy that I’d put on something besides chinos and a chambray shirt this morning.

I walked briskly to the Barnett Bank building, took the elevator to the 42nd floor and then skipped quickly up another flight of stairs to The Tampa Club. I had joined The Tampa Club when it first opened because I wouldn’t join The Captains’ Club.

The truth is, the “C Club,” as it’s known, would not admit women until a few years ago. When they started to admit women and invited me to join, I refused. I’m pleased to report that many other women did the same and now the “C Club” is having difficulty making ends meet.

On any given day, you can still find the old rich and long powerful at their club. I guess not getting my dues and membership fees hasn’t put them into bankruptcy and, in the meantime, all the women who want to be on the inside are still on the outside.

If you won’t come in after you’re invited, what more can they do?

That’s the trouble with Ghandi’s method of political protest; it’s so easy for the targets of peaceful resistance to miss it.

As I feared, Kate was already waiting in the Grill Room, the club decorator’s idea of a cozy, paneled enclave on the south west corner of the building. I kissed her cheek.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

Kate kissed me back, and said, “Don’t worry, dear. I enjoy the view of the Bay from here. It’s almost as nice as the one from Minaret. And I haven’t been waiting long. Just long enough to order this glass of Chardonnay. Why don’t you join me?”

I took Kate’s suggestion. Crisp Chardonnay and Greek seafood salad accompanied our lively discussion of George’s party.

“I was looking forward to seeing Jason. It’s been too long since my oldest son came to see me. I’m disappointed that he wasn’t there.”

“I was disappointed, too. He called, but I didn’t get the message until this morning. He left for Romania earlier than he expected because of Senator Warwick’s trip to resolve the financial situation over there. He apologized. Said he’d call next week.”

Leave it to Jason to disappoint his mother through a message to me. By tacit consent, we ignored the fact that Jason hadn’t been coming to the fund-raiser to see his mother, but rather to support the senator, who is also his boss. Kate has a soft spot for all her children, each for different reasons. Jason she loves as her firstborn and she avoids his shortcomings, just like she does with her other son Mark, and Carly. And me, too, for that matter even though technically I’m not her biological child.

“Well, it was a lovely evening, even if I did have to spend it with the Warwicks. And speaking of Victoria, did you know that her mother has been very ill recently?  They think she has Lupus.”