Palm Beach Deadly Read online

  “Knight grabbed his shirt,” Jacqui said, bunching up her hand just beneath her neck, “and walked him backwards across the room all the way to the front door, then pushed him really hard. I couldn’t see what happened next, but I think he may have pushed him down the front steps.”

  Crawford glanced at Ott again. Ott looked like someone listening attentively to an announcer describing a particularly acrobatic, game-winning football catch.

  “If I was Bob,” Ott said, “that might be the end of my party crashing.”

  “Hold on.” Crawford put up a hand. “I want to make sure I got this straight. This man Bob just shows up, makes himself at home and…nobody knows who he is?”

  “Pretty much,” Jacqui said. “I mean, he dresses nicely. The same neatly pressed double-breasted blue blazer every time, usually with a stylish pocket square. His shoes are Gucci—well, knock-offs maybe.”

  “How do you think he finds out about cocktails parties like yours?” Ott asked.

  “My theory is he drives around until he sees a bunch of cars parked on the street. Typically, on a Thursday, Friday, or Saturday night. Apparently, he’s been doing it for years.”

  “Really?” said Ott, shaking his head.

  Crawford had nothing more to ask. He and Ott thanked Jacqui Mulcahy and left.

  As they drove down the long driveway of Knight Mulcahy’s house, Ott turned to Crawford, at the wheel.

  “Chuffer, huh,” he said. “Don’t recall ever meeting anyone by the name of Chuffer before.”

  “Yeah, me neither,” Crawford said. “‘Nother thing, I haven’t been to that many cocktail parties in my life, but I’ve never heard of a guy showing up out of the blue and helping himself to a few pops and a couple of shrimp.”

  “Yeah, ‘The Man in the Double-breasted Blue Blazer.’ Sounds kinda like the name of a novel. You know, like The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo or something.”

  Five

  Juke Jackson and Eliot Segal were sitting in a corner table of Cisco’s at just past 11:30 at night. Segal was wearing Wayfarers and a flat-brimmed leather hat pulled down over his long, bleached blonde hair. Jackson was wearing the same shirt he wore on the cover of his latest album, Rock ‘Til Ya Drop, the one which had recently gone platinum. The A&R guy had come up with the title and even though Juke had thought it sounded kind of cheesy, it stuck and they went with it and now it had sold north of two million copies. Juke and Eliot were around the same age, late forties, and both were terrified about the approaching big 5-0 and the dreaded AARP ‘welcome aboard’ letter they had heard so much about.

  “Your fans know you play?” Eliot asked.

  “Shit, no, that would be a career-killer,” Jackson said and laughed. “I can see it at the supermarket checkout line: ‘National Enquirer Reveals: Juke Jackson is a Four Handicap!’”

  Eliot gave him a light fist bump.

  “So how’d you come up with the idea for the club?” Juke asked.

  “Well, I thought about trying to join the Poinciana, but knew there was no way in hell,” Eliot said. “Can you imagine them throwing out the welcome mat for a Jew talk-show host who wears a yarmulke and campaigned for Bernie Sanders?”

  “I’d say you got a better chance than a singer with a sleeve of biker tats and a nipple ring,” Juke said, referring to himself.

  Eliot laughed. “I don’t know about that.”

  “The expression snowball’s chance in hell comes to mind,” Juke said. “In both our cases.”

  “Yeah, exactly,” Eliot said. “So anyway, I forgot about it for a while. Played golf down at the muni at the south end in disguise. Then I heard about the Mid Island having financial problems. You know, dwindling membership, the whole deal. Had my accountant check into it. Long story short, I went after it and bought it with a few other guys.”

  “So you got an eighteen-hole golf course. What else?”

  “Eight tennis courts, two pools—one for kids and one for those of us who want to get as far away from kids as possible. Then there’s a nice clubhouse, a dining room, the whole schmear. That’s Yiddish for everything you want in a country club and then some.”

  Juke nodded. “So sign me up, I’m in.”

  Eliot smiled and reached across the table to shake his hand. “Sight unseen?”

  Juke nodded. “Yeah, I’ve heard enough,” he said. “But I’m curious, what’s the Palm Beach old guard make of it?”

  “Are you kidding? They hate it,” said Eliot. “I mean, can you blame ‘em? As Jon Bon Jovi might say, we give country clubs a bad name. Rich, nouveau Jews, spics, schvartzes, a Russian oligarch or two…we even got a token Muslim who they probably think’s gonna wade into the deli section at Publix with an AK-47 and blow everyone away.”

  “I like it even more,” Juke said. “What’s a schvartze again?”

  “Black dudes,” Eliot said. “We got Oprah’s business manager, the Mayor of Philly, couple other brothers who made good, even that rapper A Dollar Short, or whatever his name is.”

  Juke Jackson laughed. “Jeez, gets better and better.”

  Juke saw a group of three women in their twenties approaching from the bar. One of them thrust out her boobs and ran her tongue along her upper lip.

  “Incoming trio right behind you,” said Juke.

  The three women broke into big hero-worshipping smiles as they approached Eliot and Juke’s table.

  One of them put her hand to her mouth as Eliot turned around. “Ohmigod, you, too! Ohmigod!”

  The other two simply ogled, speechless.

  “Hell-o, ladies,” said Juke leaning back in his chair.

  “Hi,” said one, her eyes going back and forth from Juke to Eliot. “I can’t tell you how big a fan I am. Of both you.”

  “Can we—can we—can we get—” one struggled to patch a sentence together.

  “An autograph?” asked Eliot.

  “Oh, my God, that would be so cool,” said the first one. “Maybe a selfie, too.”

  The maître d’ came over.

  “Ladies, I’m going to have to ask you to—”

  “It’s okay,” said Juke, as he autographed a coaster one had thrust at him, then he stood up and put his arm around one and smiled as she pushed her iPhone camera button.

  One of them mustered up her courage. “Do you…live here…in Palm Beach?’

  Juke nodded.

  “Yeah,” Said Eliot. “Haven’t been here that long.”

  “Wow, not exactly a place I’d think a rock star would actually…live,” she said, then not wanting to leave Eliot out, “Or the best late-night talk-show host on the planet.”

  “Thank you, darlin’,” Eliot said. “But you’d be surprised—Rod Stewart, Jimmy Buffet, Butch Trucks, all live here.”

  “Wow, really?”

  Eliot nodded, finishing up the last autograph.

  “Well,” said the leader, “we don’t want to overstay our welcome.”

  But the blonde apparently did. “Can we just buy you a drink maybe?”

  “Ordinarily, we’d buy you one,” said Juke. “But, unfortunately, we’re kind of in the middle of a business discussion here.”

  The other one grabbed the sleeve of the blonde’s dress. “Come on, Lily. Well, hey thanks, it was sooo great meeting you guys.”

  “Yeah,” said the blonde.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” said Eliot.

  “Bye, girls,” Juke said.

  The girls walked away.

  “Nice ass on that blonde,” said Juke.

  “Hey, we could get ‘em back.”

  “Nah…What were we talking about?”

  “My club,” Eliot said. “Or I should say, your new club. Glad you’re coming aboard and, don’t worry, people’ll leave you alone. Got a good foursome for you. What’s your handicap again?”

  “I’m a four,” said Juke.

  “Well, shit, man,” said Eliot, “you could be the goddamn club champ.”

  Six

  Mrs. Chuffer Church, or
perhaps it was his girlfriend, answered the door. She identified herself as Victoria, said she’d go get ‘Chuff.’

  Chuffer Church walked in behind Victoria a few moments later. He had watery blue eyes, an eight-month-pregnant woman’s gut, and long grey hair that curled down around his ears. Ott had looked up his address when he got in a few minutes before Crawford that morning, the day after Knight Mulchay’s murder. Then they’d waited until nine, which they deemed a decent hour to show up on his doorstep.

  “Hello, Mr. Church,” said Crawford, “I’m Detective Crawford, Palm Beach Police Department, this is my partner, Detective Ott.”

  “O-kay,” Chuffer said, a little uneasily. “And what can I do for you?”

  “In case you haven’t heard, Knight Mulcahy was killed last night.” Crawford stopped to take in Church’s reaction.

  “What?” said Church, in apparent shock. “What happened? How would I—”

  “We need to ask you a few questions,” Ott said. “Mind if we come in?”

  Judging from Church’s body language, he did mind, but Crawford and Ott walked past him anyway.

  Reluctantly, Church pointed to his living room, where the three of them went and sat down.

  “Where were you between ten and eleven last night, Mr. Church?” Crawford asked.

  Church’s eyes bored into Crawford’s. “Are you out of your friggin’ mind, you think I—”

  Crawford held up a hand. “Mr. Church, we’re going to be asking a lot of people that question. Please, don’t be offended, just, if you would, tell us where you were.”

  “Right here, watching a movie. You can ask her.” Church flicked his head at Victoria, who was standing behind him.

  Victoria stepped forward, nodding. “‘The Danish Girl’ on HBO,” she said. “I didn’t like it, fell asleep half way through.”

  “Yeah, it sucked,” Chuffer volunteered.

  “Mr. Church,” Crawford said. “Mr. Mulcahy’s wife told us you once threatened to kill him.”

  Victoria’s head snapped back in disbelief.

  Church frowned, then slowly shook his head. “Oh, Christ, that was in the heat of the moment, a long time ago,” Chuffer said. “Haven’t you ever done something like that? Get all worked up about something? You don’t mean it, just blurt it out.”

  “Threaten to kill somebody—can’t say as I have,” Crawford said, though he remembered saying he was going to kick someone’s ass into the end of next week a few times.

  “So that was it?” Ott said. “Just a threat, with no intention of carrying through with it?”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what it was.”

  “So you never left here last night?” Crawford asked.

  “No,” said Church.

  Crawford glanced over at Ott. He didn’t have anything more. Crawford got to his feet.

  “Okay, well, thank you, Mr. Church,” then nodding to Victoria, “You, too, Mrs. Church.”

  “It’s Smith,” she said.

  “Thank you, Ms. Smith,” Crawford said, turning, walking out the door and down the steps, Ott right behind him.

  Crawford turned to Ott. “Guy may have lost a couple hundred thou on that Mulcahy deal that blew up,” he said as they walked past a gleaming green Aston Martin, “but he’s clearly a long way from food stamps.”

  Next stop was Sam Pratt, the man with the alleged hole in his golf pants. Crawford had called him on the way over to Chuffer Church’s house and set up an appointment at ten. Pratt lived on Golfview Road, a chip shot from the Poinciana club.

  He answered the door in green golf shorts and a baby blue golf shirt that had a tiny chipmunk on the breast pocket. Crawford assumed that must be the logo of a fancy club somewhere.

  They introduced themselves and Pratt invited them to come inside. They walked through a lavishly decorated living room out onto a loggia overlooking a pool. A naked woman was doing laps in the pool.

  “Don’t mind her,” Pratt said. “She’s like this physical fitness freak, does a couple hundred laps a day.”

  Judging from his long look, Ott didn’t mind her at all.

  “So ask away, and contrary to what you may have heard, I am not happy that Knight Mulcahy was killed,” Pratt said.

  When Crawford had spoken to Pratt on the phone, he’d told him he wanted to ask some questions about his relationship with Mulcahy. Pratt responded matter-of-factly, and without apparent grief, that he had gotten word Mulcahy had been killed. He’d also added, quite forthrightly, that they’d had their differences and weren’t really friends anymore, but Pratt was still sorry he was dead.

  “Mr. Pratt,” Crawford started out, “Knight Mulcahy’s wife, Jacqui, said you threatened him after he told a story about you during his radio show. Is that—”

  “Absolutely true,” said Pratt. “What that bastard did was inexcusable. You don’t go around maligning a purported friend of yours, based on some bullshit locker room rumor.”

  “So it wasn’t true?”

  “‘Course it wasn’t true,” Pratt said. “Here’s the long and the short: those goddamn Poinciana locker-room gossipmongers were the source of a bunch of Knight’s half-assed stories. His Bloody lunches were where they came from.”

  Crawford moved closer to Pratt.

  “Bloody lunches?”

  “Yeah, see what happened was Knight would play eighteen first thing in the morning, before his show. Then he’d hang out in the locker room for a while, shootin’ the shit, hearing whatever cocked-up rumor was making the rounds. Then he’d have lunch. His lunches were notorious—a chopped salad and three big, ol’ Bloody Mary’s—this is before he quit the booze a month ago or whenever. Then he’d drive up to his house—weave up is more like it—go into his studio, and do his show. Half the time at least semi-shitfaced.”

  Crawford glanced over at Ott, who had shot a look over at the nude swimmer. Ott turned—caught in the act—a guilty look on his face.

  “So they let him go and do his show like that?” Ott asked, to let Crawford know he was paying attention, “Semi-shitfaced?”

  “Who’s they?” said Pratt. “Not like there was someone with a breathalyzer up there. Only two people were his retard son and his sidekick, Skagg Magwood.”

  “Skagg Magwood? Never heard that name before,” said Crawford. “Who’s he?”

  “He’s Knight’s redneck buddy from Alabama or wherever the hell they came from. The two grew up together. Skagg was—I can’t believe I’m saying was—Knight’s one-man posse.”

  “How you spell his name?” Ott asked.

  “S-k-a-g-g M-a-g-w-o-o-d,” Pratt said. “Pretty sure there are two G’s anyway. He’s the guy on the show who Knight refers to as ‘Cousin.’ You know…the guy who never speaks, but who Knight talks to in those asides of his.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Ott said. “Never listened to the show.”

  “I know who you mean,” Crawford said, nodding.

  “You might want to talk to him,” Pratt said. “Word was Knight paid him McDonald’s wages even though Skagg felt he was a big part of the show.” Pratt laughed. “Even though all he did was sit there. Same goes for the retard son. Got paid peanuts, too.”

  Crawford was glad to get a new suspect, though aware Pratt might be trying to take the spotlight off himself. “So did you happen to notice anything unusual last night at Mulcahy’s party?”

  “I don’t know what you mean by unusual. It was the standard Palm Beach circus. I didn’t even talk to Knight,” Said Pratt. “Gave him a nod from across the room. That was about as close as I got.”

  “Never went down to his pool house then?” asked Ott.

  “Never left the house, until Laurie”—Pratt flicked his head in the direction of the swimmer— “dragged me out of there. Told me she had had about enough Knight trying to grope her.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Crawford saw Laurie walk up the steps in the shallow end of the pool, completely naked, then towel off.

  Pratt looked o
ver at her and seemed to chuckle to himself. Like his wife parading around in the nude was just part of the Palm Beach circus.

  Ten minutes later, Crawford and Ott walked out of Sam Pratt’s house to their car.

  “He Canadian or something?” Ott asked, opening his car door.

  “Oh, you mean when he said his wife had ‘a-boot’ enough of Mulcahy trying to grope her?”

  “Yeah, said it another time, too,” Ott said, sliding into his seat.

  “I don’t know maybe,” Crawford said, snapping his seat belt. “He our killer?”

  “I think, based on what we got so far, he goes down as an ‘unlikely.’ What do you think?”

  “I agree,” said Crawford.

  “I also think,” Ott said, “speaking of killer, ol’ Laurie’s got herself a killer body.”

  Crawford shook his head and chuckled. “As usual, Mort, your powers of observation are next to none.”

  Seven

  It turned out that Skagg Magwood lived exactly a block away from Crawford’s place in West Palm Beach. Which is to say, a middle-class neighborhood two miles away from Palm Beach, but similar to the socio-economic distance between Manhattan and the Bronx.

  If you didn’t know any better, you’d think Skagg Magwood was a redneck hillbilly. He had a beat-up trailer in his back yard and answered the door wearing a cowboy hat and a work shirt with fake pearl snap buttons.

  “Yassir,” he said, looking out at Crawford and Ott from his front door.

  “Mr. Magwood?” Crawford said, squinting up at him. “Skagg Magwood?” Crawford liked saying the name. It had a certain ring.

  “Yassir, that would be me.”

  “I’m Detective Crawford.” He gestured toward his partner. “This is Detective Ott.”

  “Ott,” said Magwood, glancing up at Ott, “that’s a kinda peculiar name. Scandinavian?”

  “German, actually,” Ott said.

  “I think there’s an alt band by the name of Ott.” Magwood said.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Ott said. “Mr. Magwood, you’ve heard that Knight Mulcahy was killed last night, right?”