Dirty Harriet Rides Again Read online

  At that moment several uniformed and plainclothes police officers arrived at the reverend’s office door with a heavy clomp of footsteps. I went over to meet them. One of the plainclothes, a stocky, ruddy-faced man, seemed to be in charge.

  “I’m Detective Reilly,” he introduced himself. “You’re the one who called this in?”

  “Yes. Detective Harriet Horowitz.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I handed him one of my business cards that identified me as the sole proprietor and operator of ScamBusters Investigations. They Scam ’em, I Slam ’em, read the inscribed motto.

  Reilly glanced at the card, then back up at me.

  “Right,” he said, somewhat sarcastically, I thought. “Now you wouldn’t be harboring any ideas about interfering with an official police investigation, would you?”

  “Of course not. You see right there, I’m a scam specialist, not a murder maven.” Hey, that was a perfectly true statement. Yes, I’d solved a homicide case for the contessa, but one murder does not a maven make.

  “Right,” he said again. “Okay, Ms. Horowitz, I’m going to ask you to step into another room so I can interview you while my officers secure the scene and collect evidence.”

  “Fine,” I replied and stepped back.

  “I take it the scene has been undisturbed since you discovered it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Webster!” he called out. “Set up the crime-scene tape. Martinez, start taking pictures. Duchamp, get the forensics going and call the medical examiner. Now, Ms. Horowitz, I understand there’s a large gathering of people in the chapel?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Hernandez, Tomaso, start the interviews in there,” Reilly barked. Then to me he said, “I see there’s a kitchen over there. I could use some coffee. Why don’t we go sit in there?”

  “Fine,” I said again. I was being uncharacteristically agreeable. But then, there was nothing for me to be disagreeable about. That is, until we entered the kitchen and Reilly looked at the empty coffeepot, then looked meaningfully at me. Did this dude seriously expect me to sashay over and make coffee for him? Yeah, right. I looked meaningfully right back at him. He walked over to do the job himself. Hey, at least we understood each other.

  When the coffee was done, he asked, “Would you care for some?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Black. No frilly stuff.”

  He poured each of us a cup, and we sat down. Now this was more like it. Being served by a man was my idea of gender equality.

  “So, tell me what happened,” he began.

  I told him, omitting, of course, my own snooping activities. When we were done, he said, “Okay, Ms. Horowitz, thank you for your statement. You may join the others in the chapel. If we have any questions for you later, we’ll be in touch.”

  He rose and then he even took the coffee cups to the sink and rinsed them out. I was impressed. Maybe under his leadership the cops could solve this case all by themselves without the aid of my own spectacular investigative acumen . . . Nah.

  I returned to the sanctuary, where the guests were all now seated apart from each other in separate pews. Two officers were interviewing Keisha LaReigne and Cherise Jubilee in separate corners of the large chapel. Apparently, they’d ordered all the guests not to leave and not to speak to each other while they grilled each one.

  Chuck and Enrique slumped a few feet apart in a pew, looking utterly defeated. My mother, drama queen extraordinaire, was sobbing hysterically. Leonard looked at her helplessly, unable to console her since talking was prohibited. The contessa sat quietly but ramrod straight, stroking Coco’s ears. She—the contessa, not Coco—was one cool cucumber. Lupe was fingering a rosary and chanting to herself. I knew she was a bruja, or Mexican witch, so I figured she was attempting to infuse positive energy into the macabre affair.

  We all sat there for two hours until the officers had talked to every single one of us. Then Reilly came in and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, you are all free to go. Except for Mr. Harrison.”

  Who?

  Then we watched in amazement as Reilly walked over to Honey du Mellon, slapped a pair of handcuffs on her, and said, “Trey Harrison, you are under arrest for the murder of the Reverend LaVerne Botay. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  The rest of the Holy Rollers started screaming,

  “Lord have mercy!”

  “Sweet Jesus, save this poor soul!”

  My mother wailed, “Leonard, Harriet, do something!”

  Chuck collapsed into Enrique’s arms and sobbed, shaking convulsively.

  The contessa and Lupe clasped hands and stared at the floor in silence. Coco leaped off the contessa’s lap and ran between the pews, yelping and whining. The church sanctuary boasted several large glass sculptures by the renowned artist Chihuly, and the little bitch ran right into one of them. It teetered precariously on its edge before one of the biker guests made a sudden dive, saving the Chihuly from being chipped by the Chihuahua. The contessa yelled for Coco to come to her side.

  The commitment pageant had turned into complete pandemonium,

  “Ladies and gentlemen, calm yourselves!” Reilly ordered. “We will not tolerate public disorder. Those who are unable to peacefully leave the premises will be taken into custody.”

  As I said, this guy was good. Silence descended like a mourning shroud.

  “Now, since you will all find this out soon enough from the media,” Reilly said, “I’ll advise you now that we have sufficient probable cause to arrest Mr. Harrison. We found his street clothes in a Dumpster just outside the church. They were covered in blood. Our preliminary crime-scene tests have determined that the blood is the same type as the victim’s. Mr. Harrison has admitted that he was wearing a pair of Tommy Hilfiger chinos, a Ralph Lauren polo shirt, and a leather motorcycle jacket and boots this morning.”

  A cop spewing off fashion-designer labels. Only in Boca.

  “Yes!” Honey screamed. “But I’m innocent! I changed from my street clothes in the little meeting room just like everyone else. I left my clothes there with everyone else’s and came in here!”

  “Shut up, Honey,” Virginia Hamm snapped.

  “But I didn’t do it! Can’t you see I’ve been framed?”

  “Zip it!” yelled Lady Fingers.

  But Honey wasn’t listening. “What about fingerprints? You know mine aren’t on the murder weapon!”

  “Not that we are obliged to share any details of the investigation,” said Reilly, “but there are no prints on the weapon. It was wiped clean. So that does not exonerate you. Furthermore, there were no witnesses to your claimed actions.”

  “Of course not, you nimwit! I told you arrived late because of bike trouble, so no one saw me change.”

  By this time the contessa had corralled Coco, and now she came up to Honey and stood regally before her, clutching the cowering canine.

  “Ms. du Mellon—I mean, Mr. Harrison—you will now cease to speak. Mr. S. Lee Dailey will be paying you a visit in the county facility shortly. All your future communications will come solely through him.”

  Yowza! The contessa’s poise and power never ceased to amaze me. S. Lee Dailey was Palm Beach County’s most notorious criminal defense attorney. He had gotten off one lowlife who’d grabbed a little old lady’s handbag and dragged her to her death with his car as she’d hung on to the bag for dear life. Another of his clients was acquitted in the murder-for-hire of his socialite wife. In other words, S. Lee Dailey was a total sleazeball completely devoid of morals and ethics. Exactly what you wanted in a defense lawyer.

  Evidently, while everyone else had been in hysterics, the contessa had gotten Dailey on the horn and gotten him to agree to see Honey. Apparently, Honey was as impressed with the contessa’s actions as I was be
cause she did finally shut her trap. The police hauled her off.

  Now I had a dilemma. Among all the distressed wedding-party members and guests, whom should I calm down first? Chuck and Enrique? My mother? The Holy Rollers?

  The hell with prioritizing, I thought, and made an executive decision.

  “Everybody, please be seated,” I stated loudly.

  There must have been something in my tone because miraculously they all obeyed. I climbed up the altar to the lectern and faced the congregation. Then this alien, authoritarian, ministerial personality took charge.

  “Let’s have a moment of silence for the deceased,” I said. Again they obeyed, after which I resumed my oration.

  “Dearly beloved, we were gathered here today to celebrate the love of our cherished friends. Now an atrocity has shattered our joy and plunged us into sorrow. But in our shock and grief, we must not compound this horrific act by relinquishing that quality that has brought us together today—our compassion for each other. Although Chuck and Enrique’s ceremony has been disrupted, their love will endure. And all of us, too, must endure.”

  I was picking up wind and sailed right on.

  “While I did not know the Reverend Botay very well, I knew her well enough to feel confident in saying that she would want all of us to go forth and live her message of the trifecta, um, I mean triumvirate: hope, charity, and faith. Faith that her killer, whoever it may be, will be brought to justice. So please, go in peace and honor the reverend’s memory through reflection on her good works and through comforting ministration to each other in this time of despair.”

  With that I stepped down from the lectern.

  “Amen, sister!” Cherise Jubilee cried out.

  “Hallelujah!” Keisha LaReigne chimed in.

  The congregation lined up to give their condolences to Chuck and Enrique.

  After the guests filed out, I went over.

  “I’m so sorry, guys,” I said.

  “Hell of a speech, Harriet,” Chuck said. “But now what are we gonna do?”

  “We’ll reschedule the ceremony,” Enrique said matter-of-factly. “Nothing can tear us apart.”

  “What about our honeymoon?” Chuck said, as fresh tears pooled in his red, swollen eyes. “We were supposed to leave tomorrow for a week in San Francisco, and the tickets are nonrefundable.”

  “You know what?” I asked. “I think you guys should go on your honeymoon. It will do you good to get out of town. Go and comfort each other. When you get back, you can start making new wedding plans.”

  “I think you’re right,” Enrique said. “Come on, Chuck, let’s go tell Mama, then we’ll take her home and pack. She’s catching her plane back to Panama City tomorrow, too.”

  Chuck rose silently, his head hanging. Enrique and I stood, and I hugged them both goodbye and wished them a healing journey. Apparently, I was still possessed by the minister’s spirit. Then I hugged Enrique’s mother, the contessa, Lupe, and each of the Rollers.

  Finally I went over to Mom and Leonard.

  “Harriet, that was such a touching oration,” Mom said, dabbing a Kleenex to her eyes. “Why, I could hardly believe that was my daughter speaking. I’m very proud of you.”

  Great. I undergo a total personality transformation and now my mother is proud of me. Thanks, Mom.

  Leonard’s eyes met mine, and he gently touched Mom’s elbow.

  “Let’s go home, Stella,” he said.

  “Yes, all right, honey. Harriet, come with us. You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

  “No, I’m okay, really,” I said. “You two go on.”

  I gave her a reassuring hug, and they departed.

  I collapsed on the altar steps. Damn, I didn’t know what had possessed me. But now that I was dispossessed, I was drained.

  Finally, I took my own advice and collected myself to depart. I went back to the small meeting room to change so I could ride home. The whole corridor was cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape, and two cops were standing guard.

  “I just want to get my clothes,” I told them.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” one replied. “We can’t release them. They’re crime-scene evidence.”

  Great. I’d have to ride my low-rider in this low-cut outfit. I didn’t like the idea of riding practically nude, but at that point I just wanted to get home.

  I stepped outside the church. Immediately, I was assaulted with a burst of camera flashes. What the hell? Blinded, I grabbed at the handrail on the church steps. When my eyesight returned, I saw that a throng of media vultures and curiosity seekers had gathered. Ignoring all the yelled requests for comments, I walked toward my hog in the parking lot. On the way, I saw a big white van labeled Crime Scene Investigation.

  “Hey!” somebody yelled. “Are you with the TV show?”

  That stopped me.

  “Huh?” I asked.

  “CSI: Miami. Didn’t you know that’s what they’re filming here? We’re looking for David Caruso. Have you seen him?”

  “Huh?” I repeated. “What are you talking about? Caruso’s been dead for almost a century.”

  “Not the opera singer, silly!” some old bag with a ton of makeup on her wrinkled face giggled. “David Caruso, that hot actor? Get with the times, chickie!”

  Okay, so I wasn’t up on the latest shows and celebrities. That happens when you don’t own a TV. But this was unbelievable. “This is not a TV set, you morons!” I snapped. “This is a real crime scene!”

  “Really?” somebody whined. “Bummer. We were so hoping to see him.”

  With that the crowd dispersed, grumbling in disappointment.

  I couldn’t take any more. I pulled my dress up to my crotch, mounted my hog, and put on the helmet that I stored in my saddlebag. I turned on the ignition, shifted into gear, and roared off toward my tranquil swamp abode. I just had to get the hell out of Boca, that weird twilight zone where reality and fantasy collide, where truth really is stranger than fiction.

  Chapter 3

  AS I RODE my hog, grooving with its V-twin vibe, I began to chill out. Wellness on wheels. The bike does it every time. By the time I reached the end of solid ground where the Everglades murky swamp sprawled before me, I was high on the hog. The greatest high there is.

  My customized airboat was docked, waiting for me. I pulled down the boat ramp, pushed my bike up onto the boat, and tied it down. Then I pulled the ramp back up, put in my earplugs, covered them with my soundproof earmuffs, and started the deafeningly loud engine. The rear-mounted fan started spinning, and I took off across the River of Grass.

  The Glades are a wetland equivalent of the Sahara: vast, foreboding, constantly changing. The river shifts like the desert sand dunes. The water level rises and falls as it’s released from Lake Okeechobee, creating new tree islands and submerging old ones. For those unfamiliar with this environment, it’s easy to get lost and disappear. And the swamp is unforgiving. A decade ago a DC-9 jet exploded over the Glades. The pieces fell into the swamp and were sucked right into the mud underneath. Barely a trace was found.

  It’s only the rare that dare to live here. Like the nomads of the desert, Glades dwellers are a breed apart, finding sustenance in a place others deem uninhabitable.

  To me, that sustenance is for my soul. I’d escaped here after the nightmare of my marriage and its deadly demise. I’d left everything behind: my humongous house, my clothes-filled closets, my Mercedes, and all the pampering perks of the Boca Babe life. I’d had to do it to recover from the Boca Babe addiction—and my ex-husband’s abuse.

  Now home is a two-room wood cabin on stilts. The little place is totally self-sufficient, with its own generator, water supply, and septic tank. All I really need to survive. My only connection to the outside world is my cell phone.

  When I got to
the cabin, I tied up the boat, went inside, and pulled off my boots. Now, as any addict knows, recovery is an ongoing process. Sometimes you get cravings for your old comforts. This was one of those times. As I poured myself my nightly shot of Hennessy in my crystal glass and sat down on the porch, self-pity started to set in again.

  I’d had one hell of a day. And I had no one to comfort me. Chuck and Enrique had each other; Mom had Leonard; the Holy Rollers had each other; the contessa had Coco; and Lupe had her witches’ coven or whatever the hell it was. Poor me.

  A splash of swamp water startled me out of my self-pity. Suddenly I felt better. Oh, yeah, I did have somebody. My next-door neighbor, Lana. There she lurked, all six feet of her, her black alligator eyeballs staring straight at me.

  The cold-blooded beast had a warm spot for me. She always read my thoughts and knew just the right thing to say. This time it was “Hey, ditch the pity party. After all, you chose this loner lifestyle, didn’t you? So deal with it.” Now, I didn’t say she always said the sympathetic thing, just the right thing.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Damn right. I did choose this and I wouldn’t trade it for all the bounties of Boca. Besides, I was more alone among all that luxury than I am now.”

  At that, she flipped her tail and took off. I finished my high-class cognac and turned in.

  I WAS STARTLED from a deep slumber by a ringing sound that kept going and going. My eyes flew open. My heart was pounding, and my sheets were soaked with cold sweat. Where was I? What time was it? What was that noise?

  Then consciousness flooded back, and I remembered. I’d been having a nightmare. A replay of the day I shot my husband at a friend’s wedding reception. I guess yesterday’s events had triggered it this time.

  The nightmare is always the same. I’m sitting at a table in a ballroom filled with five hundred guests. My husband, Bruce, yells at me, then raises his fist, something he’s never done in public before. Suddenly, after ten years of abuse, I realize it will never change. Unless I change it. I reach into the pocket of Bruce’s jacket, which is on the back of a chair that he’s knocked to the floor. I grab the gun that I know is there, the one he’s been carrying for a while now, in his cocaine-induced paranoia. I aim the gun at him and say, “Go ahead, make my day.” And when he lunges at me, I blow him away.