Charlotte Douglas - Holidays Are Murder

The home of my youth was located in Pelican Bay’s most exclusive section, Belle Terre, a waterfront enclave of mansions built in the 1920s and 1930s on a bluff above the sound, most now on the National Register of Historic Buildings.

Growing up, I’d taken for granted the Mediterranean splendor of the house designed by Misner with its soaring beamed ceilings, mosaic tile floors, central courtyard and Spanish tile roof, set on two acres of prime waterfront real estate. In the lush St. Augustine lawn, brick pathways meandered through moss-draped live oaks, orange trees and jacarandas, and ended at the bayside tennis court, where I’d spent some of the happiest hours of my childhood playing tennis with my dad. Today I couldn’t remember the last time I’d held a racket.

Bill gave a low whistle of surprise as he guided his car along the winding drive to the front of the house. “These are pretty fancy digs.”

“When I was living here, I never thought of this place as extraordinary. My friends lived in similar houses, so this was no big deal.”

He brought the car to a halt next to my brother-in-law Hunt’s Lincoln Town Car. “You miss your debutante days?”

I thought for a moment, as much to postpone going inside as to consider his question. “I miss the innocence. In spite of so many advantages, I led a very sheltered life. My friends didn’t do drugs or have drunken parties. And there was no premarital sex.” I flashed him a smile. “We were snobs, but we were virtuous snobs.”

“You’re still virtuous.” His answering smile was warm and intimate.

“You know better.” My wild and hot affair with a fellow cop my first year on the Tampa P.D. had been no secret. I’d hoped the physical intimacy would dull my emotional pain, but I’d soon discovered that hard work was a better analgesic than sex and had quickly ended the involvement.

“Our parents didn’t divorce,” I continued. “If there was scandal, it was kept so hush-hush, we never knew about it. And even though the Vietnam War was raging and the country was mired in antiwar and civil-rights protests and riots, none of it touched me. I thought I lived in a perfect world, until…”

Bill squeezed my hand. He’d heard many times the story of Greg’s murder and how the trauma and anger over that horrific event had propelled me into a career in law enforcement.

“After all this—” Bill’s gesture took in the impressive two-story house and sprawling grounds that required a team of gardeners to maintain them “—the academy must have been a culture shock.”

I nodded. “And, in the words of Thomas Wolfe, I can’t go home again. I’ll never look at the world the same.”

“You went from one extreme to the other. Maybe it’s time to find a middle ground.”

He was talking about retirement, and the prospect held a certain seductiveness, until I remembered the possibility that some scumbag might be using kids to do his dirty work. “Not yet.”

“More dragons to slay?” He squeezed my hand again and his blue eyes lit with amusement.

“How were you able to finally give it up?” I asked.

His expression sobered. “One day I woke up and knew I’d had enough, that I didn’t want to live surrounded by crime and the misery it inflicts any longer. So I just walked away.”

“You think that’ll happen to me?”

“There’s always hope.”

I noted then the other cars beyond Hunt’s and realized we’d been the last to arrive. “Speaking of dragons, we should hurry inside before the Queen Mother starts breathing fire.”

Estelle, mother’s longtime maid, dressed in her usual black uniform and an immaculate starched apron as white as her hair, opened the massive carved front door. “Happy Thanksgiving, Miss Margaret. It’s good to see you home again.”

I hugged her and kissed her smooth ebony cheek. Her scent of Ivory soap triggered a hundred memories. Mother would have had a cow if she’d witnessed my display of affection toward the hired help, but Estelle had raised me, bandaged my scraped knees, dried my childhood tears, fed me cookies after school and, years later, held me when my father died. In many ways, she’d been more of a mother than my biological one.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Estelle. I’ve missed you. This is my friend Bill Malcolm.”

Bill shook Estelle’s hand and her bright brown eyes scanned him up and down with the scrutiny of a cattle buyer in a stockyard. “He’s a keeper, Miss Margaret.”

“Thanks, Estelle,” Bill said. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her.”

“Your mamma and the rest of ’em are in the courtyard,” Estelle said. “I gots to check on them caterers before they trash my kitchen.”

She hurried toward the back of the house at a shuffling gait that indicated her bunions were bothering her, and I guided Bill through the foyer into the courtyard.

“Wow,” Bill murmured as we stepped into the soaring atrium. “Great space.”

Seeing the courtyard through his eyes made me reevaluate where I’d played as a child. A triple-tiered fountain anchored the center of the huge expanse of Mexican terra-cotta tiles. Tropical plantings of frangipani, gardenias, bird of paradise, and travelers’ palms softened the corners of the huge area. Open hallways with Moorish arches circled both the first and second floors, and an arching glass ceiling flooded the area with natural light and kept the air-conditioning in and the weather out.

Groupings of wrought-iron chairs and tables with plump cushions were scattered in conversational clusters across the open area. With unusual grace for an eighty-two-year-old, Mother rose from a nearby chair and came to greet us.

“I thought perhaps you weren’t coming,” she said in a benevolent tone that didn’t entirely hide her disapproval of our tardiness.

The coolness of her greeting was in stark contrast to the bear hug and resounding kisses my father would have offered and made me realize one of the reasons I hated coming home was the fact that Daddy was no longer there to welcome me.

A muscle ticked in Bill’s cheek, the only indication that Mother’s attitude had annoyed him. He seldom showed anger, not because he didn’t feel it, but because he’d learned over the years to effectively leash his deep rage, an appropriate response to the injustices he’d encountered on the job and in his personal life. I watched as he somehow managed to bleed the tension from his body and relax, a skill I envied.

“If we’re late, Mrs. Skerritt,” Bill said, “it’s my fault. I lingered too long admiring the beautiful grounds of your house. A fitting prelude, I might add, to its exquisite interior.”

Mother’s stiff demeanor softened slightly. “You must be Mr. Malcolm.”

“Please, call me Bill.” He gave her his warmest smile, the one that had caused hardened criminals to spill their guts in the interview rooms, and grasped her hand in both of his. I watched in amazement as the Iron Magnolia succumbed to his charm, a quality that made Bill irresistible. He had, hands down, the best people skills of anyone I’d ever met.

“And you must call me Priscilla,” she insisted.

I almost swallowed my tongue. Mother rarely allowed anyone to call her by her first name. In fact, I’d heard it so seldom, I’d almost forgotten it.

“Priscilla,” Bill said. “It suits you. Very regal.”

Mother did appear regal in her floor-length skirt of black taffeta, a high-necked, white silk blouse with long sleeves, a cummerbund in gold-and-black plaid, and her snowy hair piled high like a crown.

Leaving me trailing in their wake, she escorted Bill deeper into the courtyard to meet the usual suspects. My sister, Caroline, looking like a younger clone of Mother in both dress and hairstyle, although her tresses were a golden bottle-blond, sipped a martini and eyed Bill with interest over the rim of her glass. Her husband, Huntington Yarborough, a big man whose usual florid complexion had turned an even deeper red after a few drinks, rose from his seat by the fountain where he was nursing what looked to be a double Scotch.