Charlotte Douglas - Holidays Are Murder

“Close the door,” Shelton snapped when I entered his pine-paneled inner sanctum.

I shut the door behind me and waited for the chief to speak. For several weeks after the city council had first broached disbanding the police department, Shelton had discarded his fireball personality and slunk around the P.D. like a whipped dog. But somehow he’d regained his pugnacious attitude, the fiery spirit that had seen him through the Vietnam War and his early KKK days in the Georgia foothills and had ultimately made him a contender in the political arena. Politics was the only reason he held his $180,000 a year position, because Shelton had the policing and personnel skills of a gnat.

“You got a lead on this rooftop burglar?” Midmorning sunlight glinted off his bald head and his pale blue eyes squinted in the glare from the window that overlooked the city park.

“Not yet. No physical evidence was recovered at the scene, and the perp was masked.”

“Dammit, Skerritt, first a serial murderer and now this. How the hell do you expect us to keep our department—”

“Crime happens, Chief. That’s why we’re here.”

Shelton’s face reddened and a vein bulged at his temple. “We’re here to keep crime from happening, and if we don’t, we sure as hell won’t be here much longer. There’ll be sheriff’s cruisers patrolling these streets instead of our green-and-whites!”

“You want me to consult a psychic?” I already knew the answer, but Shelton’s dumbfounded expression was worth asking the question.

“Hell, no. Just solve the damn case.”

“With no suspects, no leads, no hard evidence, that’s a problem. I could put the word out to our usual informants, offer to pay for info in case the perp blabs to his cronies or flashes his take around town.”

Shelton shook his head with a guttural growl. “Whatever you do, keep expenses down. Money’s the whole issue behind the council’s push to can us.”

“I’ll do my best.”

I turned to leave.

“And, Skerritt,” he added.

“Yes?”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

I knew he’d say that. Luck, after all, was free.

After fruitless hours of scanning mug shots and vital statistics in search of a runt who could fit through air ducts, I shut down my ancient computer and called it a day at 7:00 p.m.

Bill Malcolm met me at the Dock of the Bay, a restaurant and bar that overlooked the marina where Bill’s thirty-eight-foot cabin cruiser, the Ten-Ninety-Eight was moored. Bill, who had lived on board since his retirement from the Tampa P.D. two years ago, had offered to cook supper for me in his galley kitchen, but I’d turned him down. Our relationship had taken an unexpected turn during my vacation. For years he had been joking about my marrying him, but now I wasn’t so sure he was joking any longer, and I was uncertain how I felt about that change. I loved him, without question. One other fact of which I was completely certain, however, was that I wasn’t a good candidate for marriage. In reality, no cop was, hence the skyrocketing divorce rate for police officers.

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.