Palm Beach Taboo (Charlie Crawford Palm Beach Mysteries Book 10) Read online

  “By the way,” Crawford asked, “do other members, specifically ones who live in your four other houses, have keys to this house?”

  “I had one,” Crux said. “But then I have keys to all the houses. I’m not sure if other members have keys for this house. And, as for your question about the congregation, we have forty-three members. Without going into a lot of detail, we are a philanthropic organization and every one of our members belongs to the Mensa society.”

  Whoa, that was a major curveball. Crawford’s eyes darted over to Ott’s.

  “No kidding,” Ott said. “So, does that mean that all of you have IQs of like 175 or something?”

  Crux rolled his eyes. “They don’t get much higher than 162 unless you’re Charles Darwin or Bobby Fischer. You just have to be in roughly the top two percent to qualify.”

  “Just,” Ott repeated with a nod. “That’s a pretty tall order.”

  “And how long have you been here in Palm Beach? In the five houses?” Crawford asked.

  “Bought the first one four years ago and the other ones every year or so since then.”

  Crawford’s burning question was how they got the money to buy all the houses? But he didn’t ask, because his gut was telling him that was an answer that could wait. Someone would tell him. Or he’d figure it out himself, in time.

  On the surface, there appeared to be nothing wrong with SOAR—smart people supposedly doing good deeds. But one of their members had been brutally murdered.

  That was a seriously bad deed.

  Three

  Turned out Crux, who Crawford guessed was no more than five feet six inches tall, was actually from New Zealand. He made a joke about his height, explaining how his namesake, the Southern Cross constellation, was the smallest of all eighty-eight of them. Crawford and Ott spent another half hour interviewing him and got more information than they bargained for. And it felt as if Crux was willing to go on for another hour. He told them his parents had moved to New York from New Zealand when he was twelve. And that his father had been president of ASB bank, headquartered in Auckland, when he was recruited to take over a UK-based bank.

  Crawford and Ott spent two more hours interviewing the other people who lived in the house.

  At 5:05, Crawford and Ott finally walked out the front door of 1450 North Lake Way. Crawford turned to Ott as he opened the door of his car. None of the Mensa-member residents struck him as being the killer, but then, being as smart as they reputedly were, they could probably hide it pretty well.

  “So, what do you think?” he asked his partner.

  “I think they probably all have IQs fifty points higher than your normal, run-of-the-mill murderer,” Ott said. “I don’t know, man, they all seemed pretty tense and uptight, but I guess that was to be expected. What did you think?”

  Crawford looked down at the pebble driveway, then up at Ott. “I got the feeling from a couple of them that they might be holding back. Like we were only getting ninety percent.”

  “I know what you mean. What about Crux?”

  Crawford pushed a few pebbles with his shoe. “Umm, more like fifty percent. Like he might have a few secrets he wants to keep to himself.”

  Ott nodded. “Yeah, I got that too,” he chuckled as he opened the car door, “By the way, what’s with all these funky names? They get ’em from Star Trek or something?”

  Crawford conked out as soon as his head hit the pillow, even with three cups of coffee coursing through his veins. He set the alarm for nine-thirty and was at his desk by ten. As he always did with his homicide cases, he first went to Google, because, in the past, anyway, almost all his murder victims had been, if not famous, then at least pretty well known to others, even outside of Palm Beach. His most recent victim was Thorsen Paul, who had started the high-flying NextRed pharmaceutical company and was worth three billion one day, then bankrupt two months later. A year before had been Knight Mulcahy, the $60-million-dollar-a-year talk-show-host blowhard, who had more enemies than grains of sand on the beach behind his house. A little further back, there’d been the ruthless Russian gangster brothers living in a knock-off Hugh Hefner Playboy Mansion, complete with a harem of beautiful women. The list went on.

  When Crawford Googled SOAR, all he got on Wikipedia was a brief sentence in red that said, We have insufficient data on this entity. When he Googled Christian Lalley, nothing at all came up. That wasn’t a surprise to Crawford and only confirmed his belief that SOAR was highly secretive. And that Crux did not encourage his congregation to be the least bit talkative or forthcoming, even though he was quite willing to talk about himself.

  Next stop was Rose Clarke, the most successful real-estate agent in Palm Beach, and Crawford’s former friend with benefits. (She was still a good friend, but the benefits had dried up. That was a long story.) He dialed her cell.

  “Hi, Charlie, whatcha up to? It’s been a while.”

  “Too long. Are you busy?”

  “I’ve got a showing at 11:30. You can come over now if you want?”

  “Thanks, I will. Want me to pick you up your Starbucks special?”

  Rose had some pretentious-sounding Starbucks coffee she swore by. It was called Aged Sumatra Lot Number 593.

  “Oh, yes, would you, sweet boy?”

  “Sure. See you in fifteen minutes.”

  He got there in thirteen, since there was a short line at the Worth Avenue Starbucks, and he double-parked in front.

  He handed her the coffee. “Is this the equivalent of some fancy French wine?”

  “Exactly,” she said with a chuckle. “It’s the Chateau Lafite Rothschild 2010 of coffee.”

  Crawford smiled. “I’ll stick to the Gallo brothers of coffee. Dunkin’ Donuts.”

  She batted her lashes. “Man of the people, Charlie Crawford.”

  He sat opposite her in her stylishly appointed office. She was the only one in her company who had an office, besides the manager. The other agents worked in cubicles in an open bullpen area.

  Rose Clarke was Crawford’s go-to when it came to learning more about the diverse people and personalities of Palm Beach. It was almost as if she possessed a vast, alphabetized catalogue of every one of the ten-thousand-odd citizens residing in the island paradise. Of course, that wasn’t true, but Crawford had only ever come up with a few dozen names she didn’t know personally or, at least, know of, during his years with the PBPD.

  “So, what is the subject of today’s little get together?” Rose asked.

  Crawford came right out with it. “A guy named Crux and a…congregation named SOAR.”

  “Why? Did something happen there?”

  Crawford nodded slowly. “I’m amazed. Something that didn’t hit your radar five minutes after it happened.” He leaned back. “A man by the name of Christian Lalley was murdered at one of their houses early this morning.”

  Rose leaned forward and put her coffee container down. “You gotta be kidding? How?”

  “He was stabbed to death.”

  Rose put her hand up to her mouth and shook her head. “Oh my God, I actually met him once. I showed him the house they bought at 1450 North Lake Way. He made the offer and negotiated it.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  Rose sighed and thought for a few moments. “Kind of a humorless guy. All business, no small talk. Straight-shooter, though.”

  “And what do you know about SOAR?”

  Rose took a sip of her designer coffee. “Supposedly they do good things. I think they teach poor kids in West Palm. Dropouts and, you know, challenged kids. Something like that. They’re pretty secretive, though.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. How much did they pay for 1450 North Lake Way?”

  “Eight point five million.” Rose always knew the numbers.

  “So, the question is, where’d the money come from to buy that house and their other four?”

  No hesitation from Rose on that. “Rich women. The first was Marie-Claire Fournier, daughter of the second or may
be the third richest man in Canada.”

  “So, she’s a member of SOAR?”

  “Was. She died last year. Less than fifty years old, as I recall.”

  Rose’s cell phone rang. She looked down at it and turned off the ringer.

  “Do you know what she died of?”

  “No, but I remember seeing her at a charity thing a couple nights before it happened. Looked pretty healthy to me.”

  She had Crawford’s full attention now. “So, you’re saying it was her money? She paid for the houses?”

  A knock came at Rose’s door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Sylvia, can I come in?”

  Rose rolled her eyes. “I’m busy, Sylvia, what is it?”

  “I just got a really good offer for your listing on El Vedato.”

  Rose sighed and put her hand up to her mouth. “Come back in half an hour.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sure the buyer’s not going to change his mind in thirty minutes.” Rose said and smiled at Crawford. “That’s the first time I’ve ever told an agent with an offer to cool her heels.”

  “I appreciate it,” Crawford said. “Just another few minutes. You were talking about Marie-Claire—”

  “Fournier. Yeah, so what I heard was all the houses were in Marie-Claire’s name and when she died, they were willed to her two daughters. One of ’em lives in Palm Beach.”

  Crawford nodded. “So, what did that mean? Crux and the SOAR members might be faced with having to vacate them?”

  Rose held up a hand. “You’d think. Except out of the blue come two new SOAR members who offered the two daughters sixty-five million for all five houses.”

  “And?”

  “They accepted it. It was a fair offer.” Rose looked down at her silenced phone, which was flashing. “That’s another offer,” she said with a smile. “You’re costing me a lot of money, Charlie.”

  “I’m sure the buyers aren’t gonna change their minds in thirty minutes.” He shrugged innocently.

  Rose raised her Starbucks. “Touché.”

  “And who were those new SOAR members who bought the houses?”

  “I knew you were going to ask that. It was kept very hush-hush for a while but eventually leaked. A woman named Fannie Melhado and her brother, Freddie. Members of the most exclusive club in Palm Beach.”

  “The Poinciana, you mean?”

  “No, the forty-three billionaires who own houses here.”

  Crawford nodded. “Back to Marie-Claire Fournier, do you remember there ever being any suspicion about her death?”

  Rose thought for a moment. “I just remember there being a lot of silence.”

  “You mean like…deadly silence.”

  Rose smiled. “Guess you could call it that.”

  Crawford thought for a second. “What’s strange is, I never heard anything at all about her death,” Crawford said. “And, presumably, if it was thought to be anything other than natural, I’d know about it.”

  “Why don’t I nose around a little and see what I come up with?”

  Crawford stood. “I would really appreciate that.”

  “For you, Charlie, anything.” She flashed her best coquettish smile. “Well, almost anything.”

  He moved to give her a kiss on the cheek, but she turned at the last moment and it ended up landing on her lips.

  “Kisses on the cheek are for aunts and sisters,” she said. “Now get out of here.”

  Four

  Crawford called Ott into his office. “We really need to interview all the SOAR members from all the other houses,” he told his partner.

  “Just line ’em up like a production line?

  Crawford shrugged. “I don’t know any other way to do it.”

  “Any more thoughts on the ones we interviewed last night?” Ott asked.

  Crawford thought for a few moments. “The problem was it was a high-stress situation in the middle of the night. Understandable that all of them would be, you know, jumpy, tense and keyed up.”

  Ott nodded. “Yeah, I agree, but what did you make of that guy Pollux?”

  “I’d say he was the most jumpy, tense, and keyed up.”

  Pollux, who didn’t give his actual name, reminded Crawford of Washington Irving’s character, Ichabod Crane. And not the Johnny Depp version. He was a tall, lanky scarecrow of a man, mid 40s or so, who had the most prominent Adam’s apple Crawford had ever seen. It stuck out at least two inches and looked like it was going to pierce the skin on the front of his neck at any moment.

  “Yeah, no shit. Dude never made eye contact with either of us,” Ott said. “Kind of creepy. Had one of those shifty looks common to used-car shysters and Wall Street guys.”

  “Watch it,” Crawford said, “you’re talking about my old man and my two brothers… the Wall Street guys,”

  Ott put up his hands. “Sorry. Cam’s a good dude. Never met your father or your other brother,” he said. “Did you ever wonder what these SOAR people do all day long?”

  “Good deeds, supposedly. But I’m not exactly sure how or what that actually means.”

  Ott swung a leg up on Crawford’s desk. “So…” he said, “you think the killer’s gonna outsmart us?”

  Crawford didn’t understand the question at first, then: “Oh, you mean, the Mensa thing.”

  “Yeah, so I looked into it a little. The Mensa society. Know who’s in it?”

  “Who?”

  “Well, the only names I recognized were movie stars. Steve Martin and Geena Davis were two of ’em.”

  “Steve Martin I can definitely see. Geena Davis… was she Thelma or Louise?”

  “Louise. The one Brad Pitt banged.”

  Crawford chuckled. “You think that’ll be on her tombstone?”

  “Yeah, here lies Geena the Mensa… who Brad Pitt banged in a cheap motel room.” Ott shrugged. “Tell ya what, man, she never seemed all that bright to me.”

  “Hey, she was acting.”

  Crawford’s office line rang. It said Unknown on caller ID. He picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Inspector Crawford?” The man had a British accent.

  Close enough. “Who’s calling.”

  “I’m not going to give you my name, but I will tell you why I’m calling.”

  That was a start.

  “Okay?”

  “I used to be a member of SOAR.” Crawford hit speakerphone. “Let’s just call me a disgruntled former member.”

  Crawford mouthed get a trace to Ott.

  Christian Lalley’s murder had made the early morning TV news and was all over the radio too. Getting a call like this so soon almost seemed too easy.

  Ott hustled out of Crawford’s office.

  “Anything you can tell me would be greatly appreciated, sir. How long ago did you… leave SOAR?”

  “Five months ago. I didn’t like what it had become.”

  “And what was that?”

  “A bunch of people sucking up to Crux. He’s the head of it, as I’m sure you know by now. He turned into a complete autocrat.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have killed Christian Lalley?”

  “Not really. But I could theorize all day long. I’d recommend you ask Cressida. She knows where all the bodies are buried in that happy little island paradise.”

  “How do you spell that name?” Crawford asked. He knew the woman from last night but needed to kill time for the phone trace to kick in.

  “C-r-e-s-s-i-d-a.”

  “I would really like to come and talk to you. I can assure you that no one will ever know we spoke.”

  “That’s what you think. Those people have ways of keeping an eye on everyone they want to.”

  Ott was back in Crawford’s office, now, scribbling something on a sheet of paper.

  “What can you tell me about Crux?” Crawford asked as he read the page Ott slid to him. Got it, the note said.

  “A lot,” the man said. “But isn’t that you
r job to find out?” Abruptly, he hung up.

  Crawford looked up at Ott. “Now there’s a guy we need to talk to.”

  “Yup. And through the miracle of modern technology, we’re gonna.”

  Five

  The mystery caller’s name was Simon Petrie and he lived in a modest, stucco, ranch-style house just over the bridge in West Palm. He was not happy they had found out he was their mystery caller.

  Crawford and Ott knocked on his door, identified themselves, told him they’d traced his call, and asked if they could come in. Reluctantly, Petrie let them in after being assured that no one from SOAR had followed them or was watching from a car or a house across the street.

  “You’re sure about that?” Petrie asked as they sat in his living room.

  “Not unless they have a satellite,” Crawford told him.

  “I wouldn’t put it past them,” Petrie said. “Those people are omnipresent.”

  Leave it to a Mensa, Crawford thought… use a fifty-cent word when a simple everywhere would do the job.

  “Mr. Petrie,” Crawford began, “you told us you were ‘a disgruntled former member’… Why?”

  “Disgruntled or a former member?”

  “Well, I assume they’re related.”

  “You are correct,” Petrie said, then he got up and walked over to a window and peered side to side across the street. “You may think I’m paranoid”—the thought had indeed crossed Crawford’s mind—“but you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  “Tell you what, Mr. Petrie, would it make you feel better if, after we leave, we have an undercover cop keep an eye on your house?”

  Petrie cocked his head. “I might just take you up on that.”

  “Let me know; we’ll arrange it,” Crawford said. “Now, do you know whether SOAR or Crux have resorted to any kind of physical violence in the past? I ask because it seems as though you’re fearful they might do something to you. Harm you in some way, I mean.”

  Petrie thought for a second. “I don’t have any hard evidence, but after what happened to Christian…”

  “We understand,” Crawford said. “So, are you assuming that his killer was someone in SOAR?”