I was a trust fund baby, but that didn’t mean I didn’t need my police detective job. Twelve years ago, I was a college freshman at the University of Miami when a murderer carjacked my family. His ski mask exposed only his evil eyes and maniacal grin. He ordered us out of the car and laughed when he shot us. I watched my parents die beside me in the street.
The killer was never caught. Grief transformed me into a crusader for justice. I changed my major to criminology and earned a master’s degree in forensic science.
I spent the past seven years on patrol duty with the Welton Police Department in Palm Beach County, Florida. On my days off, I trolled for the killer in my diamond-white Mercedes roadster with my Glock 40 cocked. The badge was my ticket to justice. The flashy car was the bait. Coworkers assumed I was just a spoiled rich girl. They didn’t know what drove me.
Three days ago, I became the newest detective on the force. On Sunday, my day off, I drove west over the Blue Heron bridge, made my way south onto Flagler Drive, and glanced at my watch. Uncle Clive and Aunt Elizabeth, the Duke and Duchess of Colchester, had invited me for cocktails and dinner at The Seafood Bar in The Breakers Hotel. One of my favorite restaurants, the oceanfront view was similar to a dining room on a posh cruise ship.
The late-afternoon drive from my condo on Singer Island to Palm Beach was proceeding ahead of schedule when my cell phone rang.
Detective Rod Malone’s slightly slurred voice boomed into my ear. “Gwen, get your butt to the Polo Club pronto. We’ve got a DB in a Rolls on the southeast side.”
My boss since Friday was a man of few words. Just as well, considering he never had anything good to say to me.
I continued south on Flagler Drive and turned west On Okeechobee Boulevard. Twenty minutes later, I turned south on Highway 441 to Pierson Road. A few miles down the road, I pulled into the tailgating area, and spotted a Rolls-Royce Corniche, top down, parked beside the polo field under a banyan tree surrounded by yellow crime-scene tape. An elaborate party tent crowded with elite residents from Palm Beach anchored the site. The aromas of grilled meat and horses filled the air.
I weaved my Mercedes through the tailgaters and parked beside a squad car. An approaching siren overpowered the thundering hooves, drunken revelers, and the loudspeakers booming the play-by-play calls.
After one whiff of Rod’s breath, I knew he’d been hitting the sauce. I took a step back.
“What? It’s Sunday. I was off duty watching the play-offs when the call came in.” He checked out my black Dior cocktail dress and five-inch Manolo stilettos. “Hot date, eh, Gwen?”
I rolled my eyes and walked closer to the handsome guy who appeared to be sleeping in the Rolls. Early forties with a blond crew cut, fit physique, and mirrored aviator sunglasses.
“Are you sure he’s dead?” I said without thinking. “Maybe he drank too much.” I pulled on latex gloves and nudged his shoulder. Big mistake. His body fell like a rag doll over the center console, and his sunglasses slipped off, revealing dull, sightless blue eyes.
Rod shook his balding head. “Real smooth, Gwen. The ME is going to have your ass. Didn’t your fancy finishing school teach you not to touch dead bodies?”
Big sigh. Blushing, I pulled back my long auburn hair and focused on the body and the convertible’s interior. No signs of a struggle. No visible marks on the body. No obvious cause of death.
Rod thrust his hands on his hips. “I should’ve known this case is too high profile for a newbie. Jet Donley is a Palm Beacher with deep pockets. The press will be all over this.”
“Jet Donley? Isn’t he the bastard who raped those girls last year?” I Googled him on my iPhone.
“Expensive lawyer got him off.” He stared at the body. “Guess too much high living did him in.”
When the medical examiner arrived, Rod stepped aside.
The ME pulled on his gloves and opened the car door. He glanced at Rod. “Is this how you found him?”
“Our brand-new detective knocked him over.” Rod glared at me. “He was found behind the wheel with his body slumped back against the seat. His guests assumed he was taking a nap. Eventually, they needed to pop the trunk to get to the Champagne cooler. That’s when they realized he didn’t have a pulse and called 9-1-1.”
The short, gray-haired man turned to me. “What the hell were you thinking?” He turned back to the body. “Never mind. Probably natural causes anyway.” He pierced the body’s liver area with a device that resembled a meat thermometer. “Yep, died about two hours ago. Is he high profile?”
Rod nodded. “Jet Donley. Big money. We’ll need an expedited autopsy.”
Several news vans raced up to be first on the scene. An overeager young female reporter stuck her microphone in my face. “What happened to Jet Donley? Did one of his alleged victims exact justice?”
Rod gave me a let’s-see-you-handle-this look, so I jumped into the fray. “Mr. Donley died two hours ago in his car. An autopsy will determine the cause of death. Please step back so the medical examiner can remove the body. Thank you.”
Cameras flashed behind me as the ME zipped the body bag over Jet’s face. After he was wheeled away, I turned to my partner. “Where’s the crime-scene truck? The Rolls should be swept for evidence.”
“I already took lots of pictures. There’s no crime here. No sense wasting police resources. I’m heading in to file the report.”
After calling my aunt and uncle to apologize for missing cocktail hour, I searched the Rolls, hoping to find a significant clue Rod had missed. No such luck. I wiped the soft dirt off my heels and fired up my flashy bait car.
Thirty minutes later, I turned onto the stately entrance drive for The Breakers. Majestic royal palms flanked the wide road, which split near the front of the hotel to circle a massive fountain. Under the portico, a valet briskly opened my door and handed me a claim ticket. I straightened my dress and breezed into the magnificent lobby.
The hotel was a picture of Old World elegance with thirty-foot ceilings adorned in unique artistic designs. My heels clacked on the polished marble corridor as I walked south through the lobby and turned east into the long hall leading to The Seafood Bar. My elderly aunt and uncle were in the restaurant at a table overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.
“Auntie Liz and Uncle Clive, it’s good to see you.” I leaned over and kissed Aunt Liz on the cheek. When Uncle Clive rose to pull out my chair, I hugged him. “How long will you be in Palm Beach?”
My aunt smoothed her elegant white hair. “We’re here for the season, my dear Gwen. I do hope we’ll see you often. Is your new job keeping you busy?”
“Not until today. A wealthy Palm Beacher died at the polo match. Did you know Jet Donley?”
The waiter poured me a glass of Opus One, a sumptuous red wine blend, and presented the menu. Life was good in the company of a wealthy duke and duchess.
“We sipped vintage Krug Clos du Mesnil in his tent this afternoon.” Uncle Clive glanced at Aunt Liz. “We left the match early so we’d have plenty of time to relax and dress for dinner. He seemed fine when we left.”
His answer surprised me. “Did you know him well?”
“He was quite the womanizer,” Aunt Liz said. “You know the type. I wasn’t fond of him, but we fulfilled our social obligation. I heard he raped three girls last year and escaped prosecution.”
I sipped the red elixir, savoring the delicious blend from the Rothschild and Mondavi vineyards. “They were merely the tip of the iceberg. He should’ve spent the rest of his life behind bars. Our legal system failed. At least he can’t hurt anyone else now.”
My uncle swirled the fifty-year-old Macallan whisky in his glass. “Do you think someone seeking justice caused his demise?”
“Murder?” I bit my lip. “There was no evidence of a homicide.”
“Considering his crimes, you shouldn’t rule out the possibility someone killed him.” He downed his drink.
“Enough about Jet.” Aunt Liz patted my hand. “You look fit and fabulous in your little black dress.”
“Thanks, Aunt Liz. You and Uncle Clive always look regal no matter what you’re wearing.” I couldn’t help thinking I’d never look good in a bikini again with my ugly scar front and center, courtesy of the killer.
She studied my face. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”
“Sorry, I was thinking about my scar.” I took a soothing sip of wine. “I’m looking forward to our opera night at the Kravis Center on Tuesday. Carmen, isn’t it?”
She smiled warmly. “Yes, dear, we have fifth-row orchestra seats. Plan to meet us for cocktails thirty minutes before the curtain.”
After a pleasant evening, I returned home and checked my messages. Rod had left an update that Jet’s family physician reported he’d been in perfect health.
I went to bed and slipped into my recurring nightmare of the carjacking.
I spent Monday researching Jet Donley. Rod and I interviewed the rape victims and their parents. They all had alibis.
Jet’s death appeared natural until the autopsy report changed everything. Enough sedative was found in his body to drop him into a deep sleep, and a tiny puncture wound was discovered over the right carotid artery on his neck. No poison. No toxic residue at the puncture site.
Another mystery.
Rod ordered me to spend Tuesday interviewing Jet’s buddies, which resulted in multiple passes, lewd suggestions, and no clues to help catch the killer.
After a long frustrating day, I relaxed in a hot shower, dressed to the nines, and drove to the Kravis Center in West Palm Beach.
Opera night with the duke and duchess was fun and festive. I enjoyed a superb glass of Blackstone merlot in the lobby bar before the show and another during intermission. My aunt and uncle knew how to work a room and have a good time. I must admit I enjoyed the celebrity treatment with everyone crowding around us.
After the opera, I returned home happy and relaxed. No nightmares this time, thank goodness.
The headline in this morning’s paper hit me like a sucker punch. Young Palm Beacher, Bradford “Binky” Worthington, was found dead on the terrace of the Kravis Center last night. Binky died during the intermission, according to the medical examiner. He’d gone outside to smoke a cigar with his cocktail. No obvious cause of death and no signs of foul play. It looked a lot like the Jet Donley case.
How could I have been at the Kravis and not known? The ME must have hauled him away during Act Three. I called my boss’s cell.
“I’m eating breakfast, Gwen. This better be important.”
“A rich Palm Beacher was found dead last night at the Kravis Center. Same M.O.”
“Check it out. Could be a connection. I’ll see you at the station.”
I called the lead detective on the case at the West Palm Beach Police Department.
“Detective Palmer here, how may I help you?” a deep voice said.
“I’m Detective Gwen Stuart from the Welton PD. I believe your rich dead guy has a lot in common with my rich dead guy. I’d like to compare notes over lunch today somewhere on your turf. How about E.R Bradley’s?”
“Sounds good. I’ll meet you there at noon.”
Three hours later, I walked into E.R. Bradley’s fifteen minutes early and snagged a water-view table. The wide part of the Intracoastal Waterway known as Lake Worth sparkled in the noon sunlight. A balmy saltwater breeze out of the east mixed with the pleasing aroma of food in the open-air restaurant. I ordered an ice tea and gambled on a coffee for Detective Palmer.
Feeling confident I could spot a detective among the lunch crowd, I focused on the only man who surveyed the restaurant like a lion hunting prey. The attractive man in his early forties wore gray polyester pants and a sport coat. I waved.
“Thanks for coming, Detective Palmer. Please, call me Gwen.” I gave him my best smile and shook his hand. “I ordered coffee for you. Hope that’s okay.”
His alert eyes glanced at the coffee and focused on my face. “Thanks, Gwen. Call me John. Been on the force long?” He settled across from me.
I smoothed my hair. “I was promoted to detective last week. Jet Donley is my first murder case.”
“The rich rapist?” He scanned the menu. “I heard he was found dead in his Rolls.”
A waitress appeared with her pad and pencil ready. I ordered the grilled chicken salad, and John got a burger with fries.
He smiled at the waitress and flashed his badge. “We’d appreciate it if you’d expedite our food order.”
I waited until the waitress walked away. “He’s like your rich dead guy—a relatively young Palm Beacher in good health with no obvious cause of death. He was charged with several rapes but never convicted. The ME found a pinprick in his neck and enough sedative in his system to put him to sleep. We don’t know what killed him, but it looks like murder.”
John drained his coffee and waved for more. “Binky also avoided criminal convictions, but his crimes were white collar. He cheated hundreds of middle-class people out of their retirement funds and got off through legal loopholes. He ruined many lives.”
“Has the ME finished his autopsy?” I took a long sip of ice tea.
“He worked all night and finished early this morning. Found a pinprick in Binky’s neck and a strong sedative in his system. No poison. No cause of death.”
My eyes widened, and my heart raced. “Sounds like the same killer. I’d like to know if it was the same sedative. Was it injected into his neck?” I leaned back as our waitress placed my meal in front of me.
John waited until the waitress served him and walked away. “The ME found traces of the sedative in his cocktail glass. I checked out the bartender. He’s clean.” He bit into his burger.
I swallowed a bite of grilled chicken. “Any chance Binky and Jet were partners in a shady deal with the mob?”
He reached for the ketchup. “Binky hung out with spoiled rich guys. I didn’t find any mob connections.”
I stabbed my fork into the salad. “The mob angle was a long shot. The deaths are clearly connected. If we can figure out the connection, we’ll catch the killer.”
“Both men did terrible things and got away with it. That’s the connection.” He dipped a fry in a small pool of ketchup. “I’m guessing some of their victims got together and hired a pro.”
I paused with my fork halfway to my mouth. “A hit man?”
“Gwen, I’ve worked plenty of murder cases. Both of these have the earmarks of professional hits—deaths that appear natural with no evidence of the killer. I’ll ask around if a heavy hitter’s in town.” He focused on finishing his burger.
“I know I’m new and a little naïve, but I’m confident if we keep digging and go by the book, the killer will end up behind bars along with the people who hired him.”
He looked skeptical as he summoned the check. “I hate to burst your bubble, but I’ve seen lots of bad guys walk, even though the cops did everything by the book. We have no cause of death, no murder weapon, and no suspects. See if you can turn up evidence proving their victims communicated with each other. If we can find a link there, we can squeeze them and see who caves.” He dropped money on the table and stood.
I rose to shake his hand. “Thanks for your help. I’ll let you know what I find on the victim angle. Call me if you hear anything about a hit man.”
Disappointment marred the next two weeks. I couldn’t find any evidence that the rape and fraud victims had plotted to hire a hit man. John’s confidential informant reported no hitters in town. Every investigative avenue dead-ended. Still no cause of death for either man.
I was batting zero when I headed for the grand ballroom at The Breakers on Saturday night. It was the season’s most popular charity ball. I was ushered into a seat next to Aunt Liz at the guests-of-honor table.
“Thanks for inviting me. I love seeing all the beautiful gowns.” I kissed her cheek.
She squeezed my hand. “Gwen, darling, we wouldn’t dream of coming without you. You look lovely in that rose Versace.”
Uncle Clive raised his glass of Ruinart Blanc de Blancs Champagne. “To our dear Guinevere, the most beautiful girl in the room.” He tapped his glass against mine and Aunt Liz’s. “How is your murder case progressing?”
“It’s a dead end. Not a good way to launch my detective career.” I glanced around the room. “Have you seen my designer friend, Cam Altman?”
She smiled. “Yes, dear, he’s floating around the room, fussing over all his clients.”
An hour later, I refreshed my lipstick in the ladies-room mirror before returning to the table. My relatives had disappeared, no doubt circulating among the five-hundred guests. Quite the social butterflies. I scanned the room and spotted Cam gliding toward me dressed like eighteenth-century royalty.
“OMG, Gwen, your aunt and uncle are divine! I’d love to get my hands on that extraordinary antique brooch and matching ring the duchess is wearing. I’ve never seen anything like them—gold and crystal with rubies and sapphires.”
“Aunt Liz wears them everywhere.” I hugged him. “You look dashing, Cam. What’s new in the fashion world?”
“Oh, you know, the other designers kiss my face and stab my back—business as usual. My line of antique-style jewelry and gowns is all the rage.” He pointed at a woman in a satin-and-lace cream gown. “That’s one of my creations. Isn’t it fab?”
“It’s lovely. Did you design the matching pearl-and-diamond necklace and earrings?”
“I design all the jewelry for my unique gowns. My clients love dressing like Renaissance royalty.” He touched his hand to his lips as he gave me the onceover. “I could make you look like a princess. I see you in an emerald satin gown with a diamond-and-emerald tiara and matching earrings. The corset bodice would accentuate your robust cleavage and help you snare a rich husband. We should do something soon, girlfriend. You’re rapidly approaching old-maid territory.”
“Thanks, Cam, but I don’t want to blow my trust fund on diamonds and emeralds. My new job is my top priority. I’ll focus on catching a husband after I collar some major criminals.”
“Oh, Gwennie, I know who you’re hunting. He’s long gone, dear. Forget him and enjoy life. Your parents would want you to move on.”
“And let that murderer destroy more families? Never. I’ll get him. You’ll see. But first I have to catch the person who killed Jet Donley and Binky Worthington. I don’t want to fail on my first case.”
Cam shook his head and scanned the room. “Here comes the duchess. I’ll have another chance to gush over her jewelry.”
Aunt Liz beamed and clasped his left arm. “Cam, darling, you simply must design a gown for Gwen. Your creations are superb.”
“We were just discussing that very thing. Unfortunately, your niece is more interested in catching criminals than a husband.” He focused on her brooch. “Your jewelry fascinates me. May I remove your brooch for a closer look?”
She placed her hand over the large antique pin. “Sorry, darling, Lloyds of London has strict rules. It must remain on my person or locked in my safe if I wish to keep my insurance. The brooch and ring are centuries-old heirlooms.”
Cam glanced over my shoulder. “Oooo, hottie alert! Check out Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome behind you.”
“That’s Lance Logan,” my aunt said as I turned. “He’s a detective with the Palm Beach Police. I met him earlier this evening. Would you like an introduction?”
“Yes, indeed.” Cam grabbed my arm. “Come along, dear Guinevere, and meet your Lancelot.”
“Geez, Cam, dial it down a few clicks. You’re salivating.” I pulled my arm free. “He’s probably married anyway.”
Aunt Liz turned to me. “No ring on his left hand. I checked earlier.”
Cam grinned at her. “Well done. I love a woman with an eye for details.” He shifted his glance to me, giggling. “FYI, I can have your dress ready in time for a June wedding.”
I rolled my eyes. “Let’s get this farce over.”
Just then, the object of Cam’s desire smiled at my aunt.
She stepped forward. “Lance, darling, I want to introduce my niece and her friend.” She half-turned to me. “Detective Gwen Stuart, meet Detective Lance Logan.”
I extended my hand and looked into the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. “Pleased to meet you.”
He lifted my hand to his lips, his eyes piercing me like a laser beam. “The pleasure is mine. Are you a private detective?”
“No, I’m with the Welton Police. I understand you’re with the Palm Beach Police.”
Cam cleared his throat and looked expectantly at my aunt.
“Lance, I’d like you to meet Cam Altman. He’s with the fashion police.”
The men shook hands as Cam said, “I’d arrest you for stealing James Bond’s fabulous tux, but you look better in it than he did.”
“Thank you, I …” Lance pulled out his vibrating cell phone and read the text. “Excuse me, duty calls. It was a pleasure to meet you both.” He smiled and walked to the exit.
Cam smirked at me. “That smile was for you, girlfriend. I’m thinking satin and antique lace with lots of pearls for your wedding gown.”
My gut told me Lance’s call was connected to my case. “I’m going after him.”
“You go, girl.”
I rushed outside and saw Lance heading for the oceanfront walkway that ran along the seawall behind the hotel. He followed the brick path north sixty feet and stopped at a bench where a man sat slumped against the seatback. Two uniformed officers were taping off the area.
I caught up with him. “Check his neck for a tiny puncture wound.”
He spun around and thrust his hands on his hips. “Excuse me? You look like you’ve been a detective for maybe five minutes, and you’re telling me what to do? This is my case. Go back to the ball.” He turned away.
“Is he a wealthy criminal who escaped prosecution and appears to have died of natural causes?”
He hesitated before facing me again. “What if he is?”
“I’m working the Jet Donley/Binky Worthington cases—wealthy criminals with no obvious causes of death. Both men had pinpricks over their right carotid arteries.”
Before he spoke, the medical examiner arrived. “Check his neck for a needle puncture near a carotid artery,” Lance told him.
The ME examined the man’s neck with a bright light and a magnifying glass for about a minute. “Yep, found a puncture mark over his right carotid. Are you thinking poison?”
Lance glanced at me.
I shook my head. “Not poison. His condition mirrors two recent murder victims. They both had non-lethal doses of sleep sedatives in their bodies.”
The ME arched an eyebrow. “Who are you?”
“Detective Gwen Stuart, Welton PD,” I said.
“All right then.” The ME checked the body. “No injuries or signs of a struggle. Liver temp indicates he died about an hour ago.” He bagged the man’s cocktail glass and cigar. “I’ll check these for toxins. Is this a high-profile case?”
Lance nodded. “He’s Barrett Branson, a wealthy Palm Beacher and alleged pedophile. He escaped prosecution several times by buying off the parents. Somebody did the community a big favor here.” He turned to me. “Eh, Gwen, wasn’t it? Sorry about earlier. Looks like our cases are connected. Let’s plan to meet after the autopsy to compare notes.”
I stared into his handsome face for a long moment, giving him time to regret his earlier snap judgment of me, then pulled a card out of my purse. “Apology accepted. Call me when you’re ready.”
I walked back to the ball feeling superior for the first time since I made detective.
The next morning, I switched on my police computer and read the files on Barrett Branson’s numerous pedophile arrests. Each case was dropped shortly after the parents of the alleged victims suddenly became millionaires. The pattern of payoffs was obvious, but the district attorney couldn’t prosecute Branson without the victim’s cooperation. The injustice churned my stomach.
My cell phone rang.
“Hello, Gwen, it’s Lance Logan. The autopsy results are in. Can you meet me at The Colony for dinner tonight at seven o’clock?”
I did a quick mental scan of my schedule. “Ah, yes, Lance, seven o’clock should work.”
“Good, see you then.”
A hint from the autopsy report would’ve been nice. He must be the strong silent type. He must have money too. Meals at The Colony were expensive, even if we split the check. I flashed back to his brilliant blue eyes. Then I reminded myself this was for police business, not romance. That didn’t stop me from agonizing over what to wear. I wanted to see approval in his sexy eyes.
Down, girl.
Rod approved my dinner meeting, and I spent the rest of the day organizing my notes. A clever theory to impress Lance with my detective skills eluded me. Guess I’d have to depend on my electric-blue cocktail dress. I convinced myself my usual detective attire wouldn’t be fancy enough for The Colony.
It was exactly seven o’clock when I strolled into the restaurant where Lance waited for me at a secluded table in a dark corner. His navy suit fit perfectly on his tall, muscular physique as he rose to pull out my chair. Whoa, he looked like a movie star. I sucked in my breath and attempted to control my heart rate.
“Good to see you again, Gwen. You look amazing in that dress.” He gave me a dazzling smile.
“Lance, you look dashing in Armani. We don’t look like detectives, do we? Then again, this is hardly a restaurant for cops.”
“I’m trying to make amends for being a bit of a jerk at The Breakers. I shouldn’t have judged your detective skills based on your youthful appearance. Care for a glass of Bordeaux?” He signaled the waiter.
The waiter deftly poured us glasses from a bottle of vintage Pavillon Rouge du Chateau Margaux and presented us with menus.
“Wow, dinner at The Colony and a legendary wine. This is too much. I already accepted your apology at The Breakers. Let me split the check with you.” I took a sip of the divine wine.
“No way. You’re my guest tonight. Don’t worry about wiping out my bank account. My lucrative stock portfolio makes up for my meager detective salary. Relax and order whatever you like.”
“You’re too nice, thank you.” I glanced at the jazz quartet across the room. “I love the mellow music here.”
“It helps me unwind. That triple murder case has been vexing me. Palm Beachers aren’t known for their patience.” He breathed in the wine’s bouquet and drank the ruby liquid.
I gazed into his intense blue eyes. “Dare I ask what Branson’s autopsy turned up?”
“Same as the others, but this time the ME figured out what killed him—a massive stroke triggered by an air embolism. It was caused by injecting a large volume of air into the carotid artery.” He sat back and waited for my response.
“Brilliant—instant death with no obvious cause. The killer must be a clever pro.”
“The ME suggested we look for someone with medical expertise. Too bad we didn’t find a hypodermic syringe at the scene.”
I pulled out my case notes. “This is a list of Jet’s, Binky’s, and Barrett’s victims and their family members, including their occupations.” I scanned the list for medical personnel. “The father of one of Jet’s victims is a brain surgeon. I see a veterinarian and two nurses among Binky’s victims. The mother of one of Barrett’s victims is a phlebotomist.” I handed him the list.
“Looks like we hit the mother lode.” He stared into space, then smiled. “I wonder if they got together and agreed to a Strangers on a Train scenario.”
“Like Hitchcock’s movie? Two strangers meet on a train, discover they each want someone dead, and agree to commit murder for each other. No one would suspect them of killing someone they didn’t know.” I pondered the idea a moment. “A simple yet brilliant plan, just like the murder method.”
Lance turned his attention to me. “Well, now that we know who to investigate, we can dispense with the cop talk. Would you like to enjoy some decadent red meat with our delicious red wine?”
“Sounds good. What do you suggest?” I scanned the steak section on the menu.
“How about chateaubriand béarnaise for two?” He signaled the waiter.
“That’s my favorite beef entrée, and the Chateau Margaux will complement it perfectly. I’m in gourmet heaven. How is it you know my favorite wines and foods?”
“A lucky coincidence. They happen to be my favorites too. I guess we have a lot in common.” Lance gave our order to the waiter.
We enjoyed a scrumptious meal, fine wine, and lively conversation. Turned out we did have a lot in common. The climax was when he walked me to my car and gave me a gentle kiss I’ll never forget.
Maybe a girl can catch criminals and a husband simultaneously.
Lance and I pursued the Strangers-on-a-Train suspects each day with the same zeal we pursued each other at night. Our days were strikeouts, but our nights were home runs. We couldn’t find any evidence the medical professionals had ever met or communicated with each other. They all had rock-solid alibis. We were left with no leads.
The Palm Beach social season ended in mid-April, and my aunt and uncle returned to their castle in England.
I sat at my desk in the cop shop and stared at the files, trying to spot something I’d missed, when my cell phone played, “If I Could Turn Back Time” by Cher. Cam was calling.
“Hey, girlfriend, how’s it going with Mr. Hottie? Should I get started on your wedding gown?”
“It’s going great, but it’s too soon for wedding bells. What’s new with you?”
“I was researching antique jewelry, and I found a drawing of your aunt’s fabulous brooch. Turns out it dates back to the reign of King Arthur. Legend claims Merlin himself created the brooch and matching ring with magical properties. King Arthur asked Merlin to forge the enchanted jewelry for his queen’s protection after Queen Guinevere was kidnapped by Mordred and rescued by Sir Lancelot.”
“I had no idea. How do they work?” I tried to visualize her ring and brooch doing something magical.
“Unfortunately, I couldn’t find anything on that, and I’m dying to know. Would you be a dear and ask your aunt?”
“I’ll ask her, but chances are the secret was lost centuries ago.”
“Well, you know what they say, ‘Nothing ventured ...’ Anyway, call me after you talk to her. TTFN.”
I checked the time. Almost 11:00 p.m. in England, too late to call my aunt.
The next morning, I was assigned a robbery investigation and forgot to call her.
The more time passed, the more I became obsessed with solving the triple homicides. A month later, I was slowly scrolling through the case files mid-morning when my cell played, “God Save the Queen.” It was Uncle Clive.
“Gwen, Liz has become quite ill. She may not last long, and she’s asking for you. Can you come right away?”
“Yes, of course, I’ll catch the Miami-to-London flight tonight. I’ll call you when I know my arrival time.” I booked the British Airways flight to London online and waited for the printer to spit out my boarding pass. How had Aunt Liz changed from vibrant to terminal so quickly? She was only sixty-five. Surely the doctors were mistaken.
The police captain was very understanding and told me to take as much leave as I needed. What a relief. My next call was to Lance.
“I have to cancel our date. Aunt Liz is seriously ill, and I’m flying out tonight.”
“Sorry about your aunt, sweetheart. I’ll drive you to the airport. What time should I pick you up?”
“We’ll need to leave by three o’clock to avoid rush hour traffic on I-95. Thank you for taking me.” I hung up and drove home.
The next morning, I awoke to the scent of warm croissants and coffee in the first-class section. My flight landed in Heathrow on time, and Uncle Clive’s chauffeur was waiting for me in the arrivals area outside of Customs. He ushered me into the back seat of the Bentley and deposited my luggage in the trunk. I fell asleep on the way to the castle.
My uncle awakened me with a kiss on my cheek. “Thanks for coming, Gwen. I fear I’m losing my dear Elizabeth. The doctor said her heart is failing, and there’s nothing he can do.” He looked sad and exhausted. “She’s been asking for you.”
“I’d better see her right away.” I hugged him and followed him into the centuries-old castle perched on a hill overlooking Colchester.
In a large bedroom on the second floor, a massive antique four-poster bed seemed to swallow my frail aunt. An oxygen mask was strapped to her face.
I sat on the edge of her bed and took her hand. “Aunt Liz, how are you?”
She pulled the mask off and spoke in a weak voice. “My dear Gwen, we need to talk.” She turned to her husband. “Leave us, darling. We won’t be long.” She gave him a reassuring smile.
Uncle Clive squeezed my shoulder. “Look after her. I’ll wait outside.” He walked to the heavy oak door and gently closed it.
Aunt Liz pointed at her nightstand. “Open that drawer and hand me the red leather-covered box with King Arthur’s royal seal.”
When I handed her the box, she opened the oval-shaped locket she wore on a chain around her neck and took out a small key. She unlocked the box and removed her ring and brooch.
“Gwen, I haven’t much time, so listen carefully. You’re next in line for the secret weapon passed down from Queen Guinevere.” She pulled a leather pouch filled with white powder from the box. “This is a powerful sedative.” She pressed the center ruby on her ring and the jeweled top popped open. “Fill the ring with this powder and snap it shut. The sedative is tasteless and dissolves instantly in a beverage. Use it to immobilize your target.”
“Aunt Liz, what are you talking about?”
“Patience, my dear.” She held the large antique brooch, pressed the ruby center, and withdrew a broad crystal tube that ran horizontally through it. A gold needle was connected to one end of the crystal syringe, and a ruby was embedded in the handle. “This is Guinevere’s lance. Use it to inject air into your target’s carotid artery. Death is almost instantaneous. Choose only criminals of great evil who have escaped justice.”
I was shocked. “Aunt Liz, did you murder the three Palm Beach men?”
“No, dear, I fulfilled my sacred duty and executed them. Now it’s time to pass the honor to you. Will you accept your inheritance?” She slid the crystal syringe into the brooch where it blended into the design, placed it in the box with the ring and pouch, locked the box, and offered it to me.
My mind reeled. “Did my mother know about this?”
“The woman who wields Guinevere’s lance must bear the burden alone. I couldn’t share the secret with my younger sister or with my dear husband. I told you because you’re the heir. I realize this must come as a shock, but surely you know this is your destiny. You’ve always been keen for justice. You’re the perfect woman to wield the ancient weapon designed by Merlin himself.”
“Aunt Liz, I swore an oath to uphold the law. I can’t go around executing criminals.”
She sighed. “There’s something else. I know who murdered your parents. My private detectives have been following his trail of crimes. They’re sure it’s him, but they don’t have enough hard evidence for the police. If you accept Guinevere’s lance and agree to continue the noble commission, I’ll give you his name and address.”
“And if I don’t accept? You’ll allow the man who killed my parents to remain free?”
“No. If you refuse, I’ll pass the box to your cousin, Juliet, and send her after him. The authorities will never prosecute him. He tossed the gun and shipped your parents’ car to a foreign country years ago. You told the police he wore a ski mask, so you can’t pick him out of a lineup.”
“I’d recognize his evil eyes. They’re burned into my brain.”
She coughed. “You’re a cop. You know that’s not enough for a conviction. Meanwhile, he continues to destroy families. Guinevere’s lance must put an end to him. Shall I give the sacred weapon to your cousin?”
I couldn’t imagine meek little Juliet becoming an executioner, especially using a weapon as up close and personal as the crystal syringe. I flashed on the horrific carjacking scene and felt the searing pain of the bullet ripping through my midsection. I looked once again into his evil eyes and heard his sick laughter. How many people had he killed? How many more families would he destroy if I refused my inheritance? Justice demanded action.
I knew what I had to do. I accepted the box and the locket with the key.
It had been three months since Aunt Liz’s funeral. I decided it was time to leave the Welton Police Department and take a different path. I wanted to help people the criminal justice system had failed. In accordance with my aunt’s directive, I agreed to only use Guinevere’s lance in extreme cases where criminals of great evil had escaped justice.
I traded my fancy roadster for an SUV and a pile of cash to start my own private detective agency.
But first I had to fulfill my sacred duty.
The address Aunt Liz gave me was in North Miami. I spent most of my free time tracking the killer’s movements and planning my mission. He frequented a sleazy bar in Hialeah. I decided to meet him there.
On a warm foggy night, I sat next to him at the bar and pretended I’d had too many glasses of Chianti as I smiled at his acne-scarred face. I whispered naughty suggestions in his ear to distract him while I dropped the sedative into his bourbon. With a saucy swagger, I strolled to the restroom in the dimly lit dive.
Alone, I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My long black wig looked so real I barely recognized myself. The fancy brooch, pinned to a red sash tied around my waist, added a touch of class to my low-cut top and tight mini-skirt. I took one last look at the stranger in the mirror.
The middle-aged murderer with straggly brown hair and tanned leathery skin waited for me at the bar.
I nibbled his ear. “Finish your drink and take me to your place.”
He downed his bourbon and led me to his car. I sat inside and took a deep breath as he slid behind the wheel, fastened his seatbelt, and passed out.
I studied his face. The evil eyes that had haunted my dreams were closed in deep slumber. Twelve years of repressed anger and hate boiled to the surface. My right hand rested on the ancient brooch. A fierce passion for justice, inherited from noble women across the centuries, burned inside me. I drew Guinevere’s lance and sent the monster to Hell.
There were no security cameras, but I kept my head down as I wiped the door handle and walked two blocks to my SUV.
During my drive home, I pulled off the road, opened the door, and vomited.
Not because I had slain the dragon—because my lips had touched his ear.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Look for my new mystery series based on Guinevere’s Lance in late 2019 or early in 2020.