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CHAPTER ONE
Death of A Prince
Copyright © 2003 Susan P. Baker
The only thing more miserable than wearing pantyhose in the summertime on the Texas gulf coast is being dragged into a murder case when the decedent is your mother’s best friend and the corpse has been out in the sun for several hours. That’s what happened to Sandra Salinsky. One Saturday morning, she drove out to Phillip Parker’s high-raised beach house. It stood in the middle of a cul-de-sac at the western tip of Galveston Island. When she arrived, yellow crime scene tape stretched across the pillars. Although her first inclination was to do a quick U-turn and head back in the other direction, Sandra pulled up to a Galveston police unit that blocked the entrance and put down her window. Billowing dust thrown up by driving over the oyster shell road made her cough. When she looked up, a uniformed cop confronted her.
“Sorry, but you can’t pass, Miss Salinsky.”
“What’s going on, Jorge?” Officer Jorge Gonzales was a former divorce client of hers, as were many of the members of the police department and the sheriff’s office. She nodded at the Parker house and the police in the distance. “Somebody get hurt after I left last night?”
“You a friend of Attorney Parker’s?”
“Sure. Known him since I was a kid. He’s my mother’s best friend.” She tried to see past Gonzales at what the other police officers were doing. At the entry to the cul-de-sac, at the first house, two people leaned over a deck and watched. Across the small canal, she could see others standing in their yards. The scene hadn’t quite reached circus proportions, but looked like it was only a matter of time. “I’m supposed to have brunch with Stuart Quentin, his partner.”
“I don’t guess it would hurt to tell you, being as how you was a D.A.” His unwavering eyes met hers. “Attorney Parker is dead.”
“Yeah, right.” She thought he must be kidding, but he didn’t smile. “You mean it?”
He nodded. “You were here last night and you didn’t know?”
“What was it, Jorge? A heart attack? A stroke? No, y’all wouldn’t be here if it was that.”
“A fall, Miss Salinsky. He fell off his balcony.”
“No way.” Sandra stared at his lean face for some sign that would betray those words, but found nothing. Her body seemed to radiate heat. She twisted her long hair up for a minute, hoping a breeze would dry her damp neck. She felt woozy, like all the blood had rushed out of her head. Turning the air-conditioning up full blast, Sandra directed the vents at her face. In a moment’s time, many of the ramifications of Phillip’s death rushed through her mind, including the possible effect it would have on her mother, Erma Townley.
“I’m just giving you the official version until the medical examiner says different.” His mouth wore a grim line as they continued to stare at each other.
Realization settled over her like the oyster shell dust on her car. “I need to go inside. I’m not feeling well.”
Shrugging, he said, “Let me ask the lieutenant.” He stepped away and spoke into the tiny transmitter attached to the epaulet on his shoulder. When he turned back, he said, “The lieutenant wants to see you.”
“Thanks.” She gunned her engine.
“But you got to leave your car outside the gate. Pull it over to the side in the grass there.” He pointed to a place on the far side of Phillip Parker’s driveway. “The lieutenant don’t want people all over the property disturbing the scene.”
She followed his instructions, locked her car, and hurried toward the house. Just getting out and walking, she began to feel a bit better. It was probably just the island’s heat and humidity. Searching through her purse, she found a barrette and clipped her hair up as she walked toward the crime scene.
She didn’t see how Phillip could be dead. He’d been so full of life the night before, celebrating a great victory. But isn’t that what people always said? He can’t be dead, why I just saw him the other day.
Lieutenant Dennis Truman, in plainclothes, conferred with two uniformed officers. While Sandra waited, she eyed the blanketcovered body that laid halfon, halfoff the concrete patio under the house. Flies circled in the still, breezeless air. A sweet, sickly smell wafted from the honeysuckle that covered the awning.
Phillip’s left arm, which sprawled at a right angle to his body, protruded from under the blanket. His pudgy fingers were drawn up like the claws of a frightened cat and were embedded in the deep pile of grass.
She edged closer and stared down at his hand. It looked alien. Immediately she realized that his two-carat diamond pinkie ring and his diamond Rolex were missing. She had known Phillip almost all of her life and certainly well enough to suspect that his jewelry had been stolen. He never removed it except to go swimming in the Gulf of Mexico.
Stepping onto the grass, Sandra looked up at the balcony to see if he could have fallen and landed where his body lay. It was three stories up, his master suite on top, as high as a widow’s walk. Sandra brushed her hair out of her eyes. No way. Phillip had never gotten so drunk or rowdy that he wasn’t in control of his faculties, at least not at any party she’d ever been to, and she’d been to more than a few. When she’d left the night before, he hadn’t seemed any different than at any other time. He would never fling himself over a balcony railing.
Sandra stooped over the body and lifted the blanket. Just to confirm the identification of the victim, she told herself. So she could tell her mother. Right. But inside, she knew she needed to satisfy her morbid sense of curiosity.
When she got a look at Phillip’s body, she saw one of the worst corpses that she’d ever seen. That included all the ones she’d had to view during her stint in the district attorney’s office. It was hard to tell if it really was Phillip. His mouth was a gaping, bloodencrusted hole. One side of his face was mostly bloody mush. Gray matter had oozed through a gash above the brow. His nose was all but missing, flattened to the bone. A dried pool of auburn blood lay like a flat pillow under his head. The breast pocket of his open dressing gown hung by only a few threads. Underneath, he was naked.
“What the hell are you doing?” Dennis Truman knocked the blanket out of her hand. “You’re not with the D.A.’s office anymore.” Truman was a thickbodied black man with skin the same color as a fulltime surfer’s. About fortyfive, he had a squareshaped head, chocolate eyes, graying closely-cropped hair, a strong chin, and a suspicious mind.
Dennis and Sandra had a long history. They’d been friends when she’d been in the prosecutor’s office, having worked on many cases together. When she left to go into private practice with her mother, to do defense work, they’d argued; he’d called her a traitor. They didn’t see each other for a long time, neither seeking the other out. When they finally ran into each other at the courthouse, their conversation had been stilted. Even after a lunch together and some discussion about it, the relationship just wasn’t the same. Now, several years later, Dennis still wasn’t over it, though they occasionally got together for a meal.
Even with their history, Sandra didn’t like anyone to think they could push her around. She pulled herself to her full five feet ten inches and faced him as she brushed off her knee. “I just wanted to confirm his identity. God, what a mess. Somebody must have been really angry.”
“Didn’t you see that yellow tape? I could charge you with tampering.” He grunted something else, but it was unintelligible.
“Gonzales said you wanted to see me. If that’s not the case, I’ll just go upstairs.” She turned to leave.
“Get back here, Salinsky.” He grabbed her arm. “What do you have to get all pissed off about? I’m the one who caught you tampering with a corpse, not the other way around. Get over here and sit down.” Truman led the way to a cast-iron patio table and chairs.
“So you don’t think the fall killed him?” she asked. “Was he drunk? He seemed okay when I left. Maybe he was drugged. I don’t think that kind of damage was done to him just by falling off the balcony.”
Dennis glanced toward the street. “I’ll wait for the verdict from the M.E. That’s his job. Mine is to investigate. What are you doing here? Someone call you to defend them?”
She laughed. “No. Supposed to have brunch with Stuart.”
Dennis glanced at a slim notebook. “That would be Stuart Quentin?”
“Yes, sir.” She crossed her arms and stared at him.
“Want to tell me what went on here last night?”
“Could we do that upstairs? I think I’m having a heatstroke.” She pushed away from the table to try to catch a little breeze, her chair making a loud metallic scraping sound. It was a still, dank day. Her shorts and blouse stuck to her body. The roar of the surf in the distance would have been soothing under other conditions, but echoed loudly in her ears. Dennis wasn’t faring much better. Rings of sweat under the arms, moisture across his forehead, and his apparent bad temper told her that he wasn’t experiencing the most pleasant day of his life either.
“I’ll be going up as soon as the medical examiner gets here. Right now I’m going to stay down here to protect the integrity of the crime scene.” He glared at her. “You can give me a statement after I interview everyone upstairs.”
“Dennis, that could be several hours. I need to get to the office. What do you need to know?”
“Can’t be helped.” He slipped his notebook into the breast pocket of his shirt.
Sandra had not planned to spend her day out here. She had a ton of work on her desk that needed to be tackled after what would have been brunch, but might now become lunch. “They were celebrating because Phillip won that asbestosis case against the county. Stuart Quentin asked me to join them out here last night. By the time I arrived, there weren’t many people left.”
“Fine. You can fill in the details when I get around to you.”
“C’mon, Dennis. I have a shitload of work on my desk.”
“Tell you what. You can go upstairs and when I’m ready for you to give a statement, I’ll let you know. Only don’t discuss this case with anyone while you’re up there.”
Sandra felt her anger mounting. She pushed back her chair as hard as she could, hoping the noise irritated him. With a glance over her shoulder, she walked around to the enclosed staircase.
“And that’s what you get for messing with a crime scene,” Truman muttered under his breath at her departing back.
Cool air enveloped Sandra as she opened the door. Her damp clothes felt sticky. Her skin was hot to the touch. Her mouth dry, she headed for the kitchen and a glass of water. The mixed aroma of frying bacon and cigarette smoke permeated the atmosphere.
Raymond Rivers, an associate of Phillip’s, and Kitty Fulton, Raymond’s girlfriend, sat on the sofa. Kitty’s face was buried in Raymond’s shoulder; his arms encircled her. Their shorts and T-shirts looked like they’d slept in them. “He’s in the kitchen,” Raymond said before Sandra got a chance to ask about Stuart. Raymond looked despondent, his face pale with red blotches, his hair disheveled like he’d just gotten out of bed. Kitty’s soft cries were like that of a mewing animal.
Everyone at the party probably had some small affection for Phillip. His death would alter all of their lives, some in small ways, others in significant ones. Since Raymond was an associate, Stuart would probably keep him on. Sandra couldn’t figure out Kitty, though. She didn’t know her very well and didn’t think Kitty had known Phillip very long.
She didn’t see Lizzie, Phillip’s long-time, practically live-in girlfriend. Bubba Carrothers, the caretaker, lounged in an easy chair in front of the television. He was in the process of lighting a cigarette from the stub of another when she spotted him. Their eyes locked as he puffed away. Cigarette smoke hung overhead like ghostly wisps. After stubbing out the butt, Carrothers leaned back, his eyes following her.
Sandra had never liked him. She couldn’t stand it when his weasel eyes scanned her body. It gave her goosebumps. She turned her head away as she reached the kitchen.
Stuart stood over the griddle on which at least a pound of bacon sizzled. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention to it.
“You look like hell,” she said. Normally he was better groomed than ninety-five percent of the population. His graytinged, curly brown hair stood on end. His shirt and shorts were as wrinkled as Raymond and Kitty’s. He wore no shoes. Deep shadows enveloped his eyes.
“I had planned to sleep in,” he said as Sandra stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. His unshaved whiskers tickled her lips. He had coffee breath.
She filled a glass with tap water and drank it down quickly. “Who discovered the body?”
“Bubba. He’d already called the police when he came up here hollering and waking up everyone.”
“Well, you had to get up anyway.”
“Yes, but not that early.” He rubbed his eyes. “And I would have liked a shower. I went down there and saw Phil and came back and got a blanket. Did you take a look at the body?”
“Pretty gross.”
“I didn’t care if the cops liked it or not. Lizzie was hysterical. I didn’t think he should just lie there like that with flies crawling all over his face.”
“You don’t have to be so descriptive.”
“Sorry.” He chased the bacon around on the griddle with a barbecue fork.
Sandra felt an inexplicable urge to laugh, but didn’t. It was one of those awkward times when nothing but laughter will relieve the tension. She slipped her arms around Stuart’s waist. They stood watching the bacon for a few moments.
Stuart buried his face in her hair and drew a deep breath. “Umm, you smell good.”
“I did until I sat downstairs and talked to Dennis Truman.”
“The lieutenant? You know him?”
“Only for a hundred years.”
“He question you?”
“Not yet, but he’s going to. I pissed him off by looking at the body so he’s making me wait until after y’all give your statements.”
“Sounds like he knows you well.”
“Very funny. I tried to tell him what I knew, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s waiting for the medical examiner and then he’ll be up.”
“He gave us strict orders not to discuss the case until he returned,” he said into her hair. “I could use a shower and a shave first. Would you mind?”
“Finishing breakfast?” She shrugged. “For how many?”
“Everybody, I guess. You can ask them.” He handed her the barbecue fork. “Thanks, Sandy.” He leaned down and planted a kiss on her mouth.
Sandra wondered how long it would be until there was a followup to that kiss and then realized that she should feel badly for thinking of sex when Phillip lay dead on the grass outside. She smiled at Stuart’s back and said, “While you’re at it, give yourself a manicure, babe. You just snagged my silk blouse.”
“Sorry,” he said over his shoulder.
She watched his back as he went up the stairs. His body was well-proportioned for his height. Physically, they seemed a good fit. She liked spending time with him. He was a talented lover. She just didn’t want to make the relationship legal. He didn’t seem to understand that. He’d been doing some serious hinting lately, but it was out of the question. One of her husbands had divorced her for being a workaholic and neglecting him and their child. She wasn’t ready to be the recipient of the same behavior. She didn’t need a permanent relationship with a man like Stuart who often seemed to have trouble fitting her into his schedule. She made a good living, loved living alone in her condo, and didn’t need to be married to be happy. It had taken her a long time to learn that. Stuart didn’t yet realize that she wasn’t about to change her mind and arrange her life around him.
She turned the bacon, reduced the heat, and started to go talk to the others when she thought of her mother. Erma and Phillip had been best friends ever since Sandra could remember. In fact, one of her earliest memories was of Phillip coming to the house to what she now called her mother’s “Salon,” a regular bullshit session that took place in their living room, which in the early years had been on the other side of the wall from her mother’s law office.
Fearing that her mother would find out about Phillip and become so upset that she would suffer another heart attack, Sandra realized that she had to alert her. But how? Drive over there? Telephone? On Galveston Island, bad news traveled faster than a sexually transmitted disease in a red light district. If she didn’t notify Erma quickly, it might come from someone else. She couldn’t risk the fifteen-minute drive. Longer, since it was a Saturday and the seawall would be full of tourists driving like they were on a Sunday stroll. She reached for the phone, hoping that she could break it to Erma gently, crossing her fingers that her mother wouldn’t have a relapse.
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