Storm Season. Charlotte Douglas
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the twentieth story, and floor-to-ceiling glass on both ends of the living area presented endless views of the Gulf on the west and a panorama of Clearwater Harbor on the east. The walls and plush carpet were pale lavender, the same tone as the modern upholstered furniture. Throw pillows in pastel pinks, yellows and blues and an oversize oil painting in matching hues above the pink marble fireplace were the only visual relief from the unrelenting lavender. I felt as if I had stepped into a gigantic Easter basket. The only things missing were fake grass and chocolate bunnies.
Kimberly waved me to a chair and curled into the corner of the sofa nearest me. My presence must have eased some of her fears, because she’d calmed somewhat, even though her hands still trembled. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
I nodded. “You want to tell me what this is about?”
“Detective Adler recommended you.”
“You spoke with him?”
“I didn’t know about the murder in the parking lot until he knocked at my door. He said they were questioning everyone in the building, but I hadn’t seen or heard anything.”
“Did you know the victim?”
The muscles of her face flinched, and her lower lip quivered, threatening fresh tears. She nodded. “Sister Mary Theresa, such a sweet woman.”
“Somebody shot a nun?”
Kimberly nodded again and hooked strands of kinky hair behind her ears. “Her parents, Dennis and Eileen Moynihan, live on the second floor. Their daughter was here from Boston for her annual visit. Now they’ll be taking her back to Massachusetts to bury her.”
If Doc Cline and Adler’s theory was correct, the killer had waited in a hotel room next door for his victim. The shooting appeared planned, not random.
“Who’d want to kill a nun?” I asked.
“Nobody. They wanted to kill me, but poor Mary Theresa died instead.”
Hoping to nip her waterworks in the bud, I asked, “Why are you so certain you were the target?”
Kimberly took a deep, shuddering breath. “Mary Theresa and I look enough alike to be twins. Dennis and Eileen were struck by the resemblance the first time I met them when I moved in three years ago. In fact, they call me their other daughter and fuss over me as if we really are related. And, like you said, who’d want to kill a nun?”
“The better question, then, is who would want to kill you?”
She unfolded her legs from beneath her and stood. “Come with me.”
I followed her through the lavender and pastel haze to a set of frosted-glass double doors. She threw them open and motioned me inside the large but windowless room, illuminated by a huge skylight. A customized maple workstation curved around one corner and was topped by a computer, fax machine, printer, scanner and multiline telephone. Bulletin boards above the work area bristled with papers and notes of every size and color, held in place by pushpins. A set of ceiling-high shelves, crammed with books, filled the opposite wall, and tall file cabinets flanked both sides of the workstation.
I was the detective, but I didn’t have a clue. “Someone wants to kill you because you work at home?”
Kimberly brushed past me, picked up a newspaper clipping from the desktop and handed it to me. It was the latest copy of “Ask Wynona Wisdom,” a syndicated advice column that ran in newspapers all over the country. More than simply advice to the lovelorn, the column fielded questions on every aspect of life, from decorating and pet problems to etiquette and family relationships. Wynona Wisdom was an expert on everything, and the reading public had devoured her opinions for more than fifteen years. I’d felt moved on several occasions to write to her concerning my overbearing mother but, so far, had resisted the temptation. A few words on a page couldn’t do justice to the complexity of my maternal parent, a travel agent for guilt trips.
I glanced at the column again, and Wynona’s picture, a thumb-sized cut, stared back at me.
“That’s you,” I said.
“I’m Wynona,” she admitted. “And along with hundreds of letters every day asking for advice, I also receive death threats. I bet Sister Mary Theresa never had a death threat. Hell, she probably never had anyone raise a voice to her. So which one of us do you think is the likeliest candidate to be murdered?”
The woman had a point. “Did you explain all this to Detective Adler?”
Kimberly nodded. “And I told him I needed round-the-clock protection. That’s when he suggested I call you. As soon as the media get hold of Mary Theresa’s identity, the killer will know he missed his target and will come back after me.”
She left her office, closed the doors, and I followed her into the living room. By now the sun was dipping lower in the west, casting blinding light straight through the penthouse. Kimberly pressed a remote control on the table beside the sofa, and sheer lavender draperies swished closed against the glare.
I returned to my chair. “You can’t rule out completely that the nun was the target. Or that the killing was random. Remember the snipers in the Maryland area a few years back? Or, more recently, in Phoenix? They didn’t know their victims. They just shot whoever was handy for the sheer terror it caused.”
“I know.” Kimberly plopped onto the sofa. “But while the police are sorting this out, I don’t want to take a chance.”
“Understood,” I said. “Our firm can arrange to have someone with you 24-7.”
With other clients, I would have mentioned how costly that level of protection would be, but judging from Kimberly’s lucrative profession and lavish penthouse, I figured she could afford it.
“Starting now?” she asked.
“Starting now. Can I use your phone?”
She pointed toward her office. “It’s in there.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER after completing my calls, I found Kimberly in the kitchen.
“You hungry?” she asked.
“Sure.”
Mainly I was being sociable. Thinking about Bill and Trish heading out to dinner together right about now had taken the edge off my appetite. I only hoped he wasn’t planning on sitting with his ex-wife in our special booth at the Dock of the Bay. It was bad enough that the woman was living in our house.
I’d called Darcy and asked her to go by my condo and pack me a bag. She had a key for emergencies such as this and, happy to log in the overtime, would deliver the clothes and toiletries I’d requested to the penthouse later. I’d also instructed her to tell Bill where I was and that I’d be here overnight. I could have called Bill myself but hadn’t wanted to interrupt his dinner plans with Trish. Call me crazy, but I’d rather not know where they were and what they were doing.
I climbed onto a high stool at the breakfast bar and watched Kimberly remove food from the refrigerator and pantry. She piled cold cuts onto thick slices of bread, smeared them with mayonnaise, heaped the plates high with chips and pickles and opened a bag of chocolate chip cookies and another of oatmeal-raisin.
She set one of the gargantuan sandwiches and potato chip mountains in front of me. “Iced tea or soda?”
“Diet Coke or water’s fine.”
She must have seen me eyeing the feast that would have fed four linebackers.
“When I’m anxious, I eat,” she explained.
“I’d be the same way, but there’s usually no food in my house. I hate to shop.”
She sat across the bar from me and dug into her sandwich. If how much she consumed was a true sign of anxiety, Kimberly was almost ready for the psych ward. Between bites, she asked, “Do you carry a gun?”
I nodded.