The Serenity Murder: A Luca Mystery Crime Thriller: Book #3

Book 3: A Luca Mystery

by Dan Petrosini

Genres: Action & Adventure; Police Procedurals; Noir; Crime & Mystery; Crime Fiction; Love Triangle; murder; greed

Synopsis

When a detective second-guesses his gut, he'll have to get creative to catch the killer.

Luca worries cancer and divorce have dulled his razor-sharp instincts. So the detective is relieved when his next murder case seems like a no-brainer.

When the wealthy victim is found dead in her private-island home, the gold-digging husband seems like the obvious killer.

As Luca digs deeper and follows the clues, however, he uncovers a whole new line-up of possible suspects. No longer able to rely on his gut feelings, Luca puts the victim's sordid affairs and her rivalries under the microscope.

With time running out, Detective Luca must find a way to regain his swagger and solve the case before the killer strikes again.

The Serenity Murder is the third book in the riveting Luca Mystery police procedural series. If you like hardened detectives, unexpected plot twists, and seeing the crime from multiple points of view, then you'll love Dan Petrosini's gripping whodunit.

Buy The Serenity Murder today and hold on for a white-knuckled police procedural!

Release date: April 20, 2018

Print pages: 231

Sample

Chapter 1

Gideon Brighthouse

I heard the yacht reverse engines as it maneuvered into the dock and got off my lounge chair. Walking to the end of the wraparound deck, I wanted to be sure it was Marilyn. Sure enough, she stepped on the dock, trailed by two white-uniformed deckhands laden down with the day’s bounty. Her shopping addiction was the only thing that hadn’t changed since the day we met.

Knowing her temporary high would ebb once things were put away, I bathed in the beauty of Keewaydin Island for a minute longer before heading to the main house. Padding down the stone path, I surveyed my slice of paradise; it was the only place I felt at peace since the panic attacks started. I didn’t mind spending days alone here; in fact, I relished it. During the days I’d listen to music on the deck, peruse art books, and alternate dips in the pool with swims in the shimmering gulf. The days would melt away, and when the sun began to ease into the horizon, I’d have dinner on the deck before heading to hang out in the art building.

It was a fulfilling existence, and the fact was, I’d never had a panic attack on Keewaydin in all the years I’d lived there, even after my heart attack. However, once I was off the island, all bets were off. I prayed the streak would stay intact today with the stress of confronting Marilyn.

The main home, dubbed Serenity House, was a light blue, two-story building in the Key West style. It was capped with a silver-gray metal roof and sported generous porches on each level. Over the past five years I’d spent less and less time in Serenity House. Eventually I traded sleeping there for the guesthouse by the pool when things with Marilyn deteriorated about two years ago.

Reflecting on our relationship, I honestly could say I don’t know how we went from happily in love to hating each other. It wasn’t me, at least at first, who’d upended things.  My career as a senior advisor to Senator White was peaking when Marilyn and I met.  It had taken me a while to find something satisfying to do outside the art world. Though politics and art are universes apart, I was able to use my creativity during the campaign and quickly rose through the ranks.

The combination of power and access was a drug that energized our relationship. While we both relished the endless stream of events, parties, and White House state dinners, I didn’t realize at the time that it was central to our marriage. When Senator White stumbled into a scandal during his bid for reelection, Marilyn distanced herself from me. I initially misread it, believing she was disappointed and that it would pass. However, as polls showed White trailing the upstart challenger, she became increasingly testy and changed into an ice queen before the last ballots were counted. We never really recovered.

I climbed the stairs to the porch where, shaded and aided by a steady gulf breeze, it was twenty degrees cooler. Despite the Boggs family’s formality and wealth, the home had a welcoming, relaxed feel. It was that vibe that had me convincing Marilyn to move from Port Royal to the island. She initially resisted, but later agreed, saying it was to please me, but I knew what ultimately swayed her was the fact that no one else lived on their own private island. She used the isolation card to justify spending fifteen million on a Gulf Shore Boulevard penthouse and added a Fifth Avenue apartment that checked in at three million. It was excessive and sickening at times, but there was no doubt it was convenient and fun as all hell for a little while. 

Marilyn was in the kitchen giving instruction to Shell, a housekeeper. It was a Tuesday. The household staff were off Wednesdays, as Marilyn wanted the house empty for her midweek interludes. I stopped and admired the Jasper Johns piece that hung over the white limestone fireplace. The painting, known as Map, was a vibrant, richly worked expression that defined Johns’ move from abstract to things more concrete. It was one of the first pieces I recommended buying, and it had risen in value like all the others, providing me with a tiny sword to defend my so-called laziness.

Before I could fully absorb a whimsical flower painting by Murakami, Ruby, another housekeeper in black uniform and crepe-soled shoes, came down the stairs. Knowing our greeting would alert Marilyn to my presence, I walked into the kitchen. Mid-sentence, Shell nodded and left.

Her back to me, Marilyn was outfitted in deep blue athletic wear that clung to her thin frame. The silence was broken when she turned on her latest obsession, a fancy juicer. It bought me thirty seconds to reconsider, and I had to inch forward to prevent myself from leaving.

Produce duly liquefied, she turned and said, “My, my, what─the air conditioning’s broken in the pool house?”

“We have to talk.”

“About what?”

“Us.”

She stuck a straw in the green soup and took a sip before saying, “Now is not a good time. I’ve got a yoga class with Gerard in a few minutes.”

“Come on, Marilyn, we both know it’s not working.”

Green eyes glaring, she said, “Perhaps if you engaged in a useful activity instead of moping around the property like a lunatic, things might be better.”

“That’s not fair. You know how hard it is for me to leave Keewaydin.”

She muttered, “How convenient and pitiful.”

I wanted to shove the drink down her throat. “You think so? Well, did you ever consider the attacks I suffer started right after the first time you cheated on me?”

“So, it’s my fault you’re dysfunctional?”

“Please, I don’t want to argue.”

“Fine by me.”

Marilyn took a long sip, set the drink down and walked out, saying, “I got to go.”

I trailed after her. “Come on, Marilyn. Can’t we talk this over?”

“I don’t like this arrangement any more than you do, Gideon.”

She threw the door open to a mirror-walled studio and headed to a rack filled with colorful mats. She grabbed a red one and unrolled it as I said, “Okay, okay. Why don’t we negotiate a divorce settlement?”

Putting her hands on her hips, she said, “What do you want in a so-called settlement, Gideon?”

I couldn’t look her in the eye and peered over her head at the endless mirror images of the two of us. A tightness grew in my chest.

Smiling, she said, “Tell me, I’m so interested to understand what it is that my beloved Gideon desires. It’s certainly not sex, is it now?”

She was right. I’d found myself sufficiently revolted by her that we hadn’t had sex in three years.

“I don’t know why you always have to be so, so . . . cruel.” I couldn’t get enough air in. “Just forget it.”

“Don’t run away now, Gideon. You started this, so let’s finish it.”

Sucking in a deep breath, I said, “I don’t want anything but the right to live here, and some of my art.”

“Your art? You mean the pieces the trust paid for?” She laughed. “I don’t think so. And as far as the island goes, that’s completely out of the question.”

My mouth was bone-dry. “So, you’d rather go on living this way?”

“I’ll take the hit and agree to a divorce, but you’ll only get what the prenuptial provides. That’s all you're entitled to, and I’m not giving up a dollar more, especially to you.”

Her old man, Martin Boggs, founded America’s third-largest mutual fund company and had built a multibillion-dollar fortune that was protected better than the nuclear code. The six-billion-dollar trust currently benefited Marilyn and her two brothers and contained clauses that allowed the old man to control his kids from the grave. He rightly knew that bad marriages ruined lives—and fortunes—and had a clause inserted that carried a ten percent penalty for divorcing and a crippling fifty percent reduction if the required prenuptial agreement was violated.

Scaling Mount Kilimanjaro barefoot with a giraffe on my back would be easier than getting Marilyn to move off the mark.

“I . . . I guess we’ll just keep things like they are.”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going to file for divorce, Gideon. It’s what we both want, and you’ll have to leave the island.”

Throat closing, I reached for the counter as Marilyn’s voice began to fade. My mind scrambling amid the rising panic, I tried to recall the instructions my coach had told me. What was it? A doll, yes, make like a ragdoll, a limp ragdoll.

I slumped my head forward, sagged my shoulders and sucked in a deep abdominal breath. I held it for a count of five, releasing it slowly through my nose. As I began repeating the process, Marilyn’s voice came into focus and I heard her say, “You’re pathetic, you know that?”

Bile splashed against the rear of my throat. I’d hated her for years and thought endlessly about killing her. It was time to finally do it.

 

 

 

Chapter 2

Barnet Wines and Spirits was spread over three Waterside Shops storefronts. It was an unusual place for a liquor store, representing a gamble to offset the astronomical rent with sales of boutique wines and an entrée into serving the thriving charity scene in Naples. No expense was spared in building out the store’s space. In a bid to rank with the philanthropic set, it featured a cave for private tastings and small events, along with luxurious retail space that looked like a world-class collector’s cellar.

John Barnet closed the door to his office and sorted through the mail. A solid quarter of the stack were past-due notices, reinforcing the fact he’d placed his chips on the wrong horse. He pulled two of the oldest out and wrote checks dated a week ahead. Confident he’d find a way out, he pulled his six-foot six-inch frame out of his chair and headed to the bathroom to freshen up for his meeting.

Barnet was running a tiny comb through his Van Dyke when Marilyn knocked on the door. Wearing a white skirt and red blouse and dripping with jewelry, she immediately lifted Barnet’s spirits.

“Mrs. Boggs. It’s so nice to see you again.”

He closed the door behind her and caressed her face. Pushing her pixie hair back, he hungrily kissed her. Marilyn returned the affection but pulled away when Barnet ran his hand up her skirt.

“Don’t be such a bad boy, Johnny. This isn’t the place.”

Barnet smiled. “We still on tonight?”

Marilyn silently nodded and pouted her lips.

“I just got in a wonderful grower Champagne. It’s highly allocated, but I know you’ll love it. Nobody outside of New York’s got it.”

“Sounds special.”

Barnet took her hand. “Not as special as you. I can’t wait to see you later.”

“Let’s make it at the penthouse. I’m going to be downtown for a Leukemia Foundation meeting. Did you know I’m chairing the ball this year?”

“Very nice. Is it going to be at the Ritz again?”

She nodded.

“You know they don’t allow outside beverage vendors.”

“It’s only one event, John.”

“I know, but it is not fair. Besides, they serve second-rate plonk, and at crazy prices to boot. You know better than me, if you want folks to open their wallets you have to run a top-shelf event. I could put together something unique for you, maybe a nice mix of older Bordeaux and Napa cult wines that’ll have people talking about the event a month later.”

“You’re probably right. I’ll speak with them.”

“You think they’ll agree?”

She smiled. “Are you doubting me, Johnny?”

“Not in a zillion years, darling.”

She looked at her watch. “I have a facial at two, so let’s go over the St. Matthew House event.”

“Sure.”

Barnet pulled a file out and sat next to Marilyn, who said, “I hope you remembered that the majority of attendees aren’t, shall we say, as sophisticated as usual.”

“You forget I’ve been doing this for a while? Not to worry, I put together a nice selection, nothing over the top, that suits the crowd. Even the cheese selections are upper midrange.”

“Sounds perfect. You’ve got the mimosa bar, right?”

“Yep. Though I think it would be a nice idea to add a tray of chocolates to every table.”

“But the package from the Hyatt includes dessert.”

“They’re just going to give you a cheesy sheet cake. Having premium chocolates is a nice touch that they’ll remember.” He snapped his fingers. “It just hit me; what about giving every attendee a little box, nothing big, say a selection of four chocolates?”

“I like it, but I don’t want to give the impression that we’re spending too much money on the affair.”

“Leave it to me. I’ll have the boxes printed with something like, ‘Courtesy of the Boggs Foundation,’ or something like that.”

“I like that idea. How much do you think it will run?”

“Asking prices? What, are you on a budget all of a sudden?”

“Of course not, just curious.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll work it out for you.”

“Thanks, Johnny. I’ve got to get moving.”

“By any chance did you bring a check with you? I don’t want to give my people the impression I’m not following company procedure.”

 

Nodding, Marilyn pulled a matching Hermes checkbook out of her pocketbook. “How much you need?”

“Uh, let’s make it an even fifteen thousand.”

 

Marilyn’s perfume was still in the air when he summoned his store manager into his office.

“What’s up, John?”

Barnet held out Marilyn’s check. “Run this right over to the bank.”

“No problem.”

Bridgette took the check but didn’t leave.

Barnet said, “That’s all I needed.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“It’s personal, but I don’t have a brother or anyone to ask about it.”

“It’s okay, what’s going on?”

“Well, there’s this guy, Gary, and he won’t leave me alone. He’s always coming by my place and he makes me uncomfortable.”

“Were you involved with this guy?”

“No, never. He creeps me out. He’s like stalking me. And I don’t know what to do about it. What should I do?”

Barnet leaned back in his chair. “Back in L.A., we had this preacher type guy who used to hang around in front of my Cienega Boulevard store. He’d try to tell the winos to stop drinking and just kept interfering with the customers. I told him to stop, but he’d be there rain or shine, and it started to hurt sales.”

“Wow, what did you do?”

“He’d park in Randy’s Donuts lot, and one night I waited in the dark for him and he never came back again.”

“What’d you tell him to get him to stop?”

“There wasn’t much talking, but I hear he spent a couple of weeks in ICU.”

 

 

Chapter 3

Barnet had been to the Fifth Avenue penthouse a couple of dozen times. He parked below the building, putting his white Porsche next to Marilyn’s baby-blue Bentley. The garage was nicer than his first place in Los Angeles, but, as the elevator door shut, he couldn’t help thinking that the prices these places commanded were ridiculous. He checked his hair in the chrome doors’ reflection just before the doors opened into her spacious apartment.

Greeted by Simon and Garfunkel crooning at full volume, Barnet made a beeline to the kitchen’s audio console and lowered it. As usual, Marilyn was never ready on time. He knew she used every opportunity to prove she was better than the rest of the world. She had it too damn easy, he thought. Never worked a day in her life. Marilyn was spoon-fed all right, and it was a platinum one, not silver.

She didn’t understand how lucky she was, Barnet thought, surveying the penthouse of seven thousand square feet that was a 180 from Keewaydin Island. The designer here used an edgy combination of Miami, New York, and Los Angeles styling that made you feel like you didn’t know where you were. Barnet liked the feel of the place and loved that he could head downstairs and roam along Fifth when he hit his limit of Marilyn.

He took a glass ice bucket from a sleek cabinet in the bar, put the Champagne in and filled it with ice. Grabbing a bottle of Aubert Chardonnay out of the cooler, he reminded himself that the weekly rendezvous was vital to keeping things together. Noting the wine was from the Ritchie vineyard, Barnet pulled the cork. After a deep sniff and a sip, he poured a healthy glass.

A light buzz is what he needed to get through the night. Sipping his wine, he circled the room, appreciating the contemporary art that graced its walls. He wondered how much they were worth, marveling at how perfectly they fit the place. He tipped back the remains of a second glass as Marilyn made her entrance.

“Starting without me?”

Barnet put an arm around her and kissed her.

“Let me pop the Champagne. This is something special. You’re gonna like it.”

“What is it?”

As he took the foil and cage off the cork, he said, “Le Mont Benoit Extra Brut. It’s what is known as a grower Champagne. Emmanuel Brochet is the producer and the grower, and their Champagnes are made only with grapes from his vineyard. Most Champagnes, like Moet and even Dom Perignon, buy grapes from across the region and blend them. They also blend Champagnes from different vintages to make a Champagne that fits the style they’re known for. The growers don’t do that; they make Champagnes that represent the property and the weather of that year.”

“They’re more expensive?”

He popped the cork, saying, “Sometimes, and they should be. I mean, if the weather is bad, they have it all on the line. It’s risky, and I like that commitment. Here, try some.”

 “It’s good.”

“Can you tell how fresh it is? It’s amazing.”

“I think so.”

“Brochet is a genius, and the place is totally organic.”

“That’s good. Maybe we should get a winery.”

“That’d be nice, but you can’t do it in Florida.”

“Why not?”

“The climate. Anyway, what’s for dinner?”

“Gemma made rosemary chicken and grilled vegetables for us.”

***

After dinner Barnet pulled the cork out of a Biondi Santi Brunello and poured a glass.

“You want some?”

“Not now, I can’t keep up with you.”

“It’s one I procured for you.” He held up the glass. “And it’s lovely.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

“I gotta say, I just love the artwork here. Especially that pink one.”

“That’s by a German artist. I can’t remember his name. I think it’s Richter or something.”

“Where’d you find that?”

“Gideon picked it up at a Sotheby’s auction.”

“Real nice one. Did he get the others as well?”

“Yeah, all of them. He’s really into his art.”

“He did an amazing job. I wouldn’t have bought any of them, if I had the money to spend on art, but they work so well here.”

“It’s the only thing he’s good at these days.”

“Well, he got it right.”

“Gideon said he wants a divorce.”

“So? Why not?”

“The trust will reduce my benefits if I divorce.”

“Wow. So, Daddy’s still calling the shots while the grass grows over him.”

“I know it’s crazy, but what can I do? I want to get away from him, but it’s going to cost me.”

“Maybe Gideon could disappear.”

“What? What are you saying, John?”

“Just that. If he were to disappear, you’d be free from him and you wouldn’t take the hit. That’s a nice solution, don’t you think?”

 

 

 

Chapter 4

Gideon Brighthouse

The more I thought about it, the more the idea grew, like a weed. I had to find a plausible way to kill Marilyn, one that wouldn’t implicate me. There, I said it, and it didn’t feel bad. It really wasn’t my fault; she’s the one who’s forcing me. I don’t really have a choice.

If there was another way out of this marriage that allowed me to stay on the island, I’d grab it in a heartbeat. It’s not the money, it’s really not. Naturally, people would think that, but they’d be wrong. Most people don’t understand what someone like me has to endure. The panic is crippling. Nothing gets through. You could shoot a gun next to my ear and I’d still hear nothing but the blood pounding in my head. I can only imagine what they say when it overwhelms me.

Whatever method I decide on, it can’t be violent, nothing like shooting her, unless I can set it up to look like a robbery. She has massive amounts of jewelry and was careless, make that stupid, about it. Bottom line was she lost things all the time, or maybe her boyfriend stole some of her things when they got together. Except for a piece or two her daddy got her, Marilyn didn’t care if something got lost or was stolen; she’d just replace it.

What if it looked like a drug-crazed addict had broken in? They’re everywhere, but they’d need a boat to get here. What if it happened in town? But how would I accomplish that? Forget that idea. I picked up the da Vinci biography I had been reading.

A huge formation of gray clouds rushed in from the south, darkening things as the wind picked up. I kept reading until I felt a drop and headed inside the pool house as the sky opened up. The TV was blaring nonsense from one of those ridiculous reality court shows and I flicked the remote, landing on an episode of American Crime Story.

I stood, book in hand, watching as a husband said he’d gotten away with killing his wife. The guy looked like an average Joe and spoke like he’d barely finished high school. The show shifted to an image of a smoldering site, the sole hint it had been a house being the brick chimney was still standing. I inched closer to the screen as an actor reenacted the crime.

The actress playing the wife left the house during the afternoon, and her estranged husband slipped in and went to the den where she watched television each night. He explained that the lamp he was standing before went on automatically each night at eleven as a security light. He removed the bulb from the lamp, pocketed it, and replaced it with one of a dramatically higher wattage. The narrator explained that the lamp was rated for a maximum 100 watts, and that the husband had replaced it with a 200-watt bulb.

Bulb replaced, the husband took a couple of tissues from the bathroom and laid them over the new bulb, ensuring that if the inappropriate bulb didn’t cause a fire that the heat would ignite the tissues as his wife slept. I couldn’t believe it when the narrator mentioned that nearly thirty thousand homes per year were damaged by electrical fires. Tens of thousands of fires would provide a lot of coverage.

As the husband exited the home, the show cut to an interview with a forensics expert who speculated it was the tissues that had caught fire, doubting the overload was responsible for the blaze that killed the wife. The expert said the heat had made it impossible to determine the cause, and had the husband not confessed, it would have been attributed to an accidental fire. It was then that a blood rush coursed through me. I took a couple of deep breaths and sat down.

Closing my eyes, I recalled what the lighting looked like around midnight at Serenity House. The porch lights glowed from dusk to dawn, but they were LEDs, I was sure. Since Marilyn hated the color of LEDs, I knew all the lamps and art lighting were incandescent. Damn, the art! I couldn’t turn all those wonderful pieces to piles of ashes. Even with insurance you just couldn’t replace them. I couldn’t do it. An electrical fire was out. I’d have to find another way.

After showering, I searched Netflix for American Crime Story and started going through the first season. There were no spousal killings, and most of the cases involved distancing the killer from suspicion by hiding the body. I did pick up one tip, and that was to make it look like someone in particular did it.

I headed to the guesthouse, where I’d been living for over two years now, to get some dinner. The humidity was high as the evening sun soaked up the remains of the rain. Most people can’t stand the humidity, but it never bothered me. I liked the way it loosened me up. Passing the pool, I noticed the water level was high from the downpour. The idea of drowning Marilyn cascaded through my head.

Doing it in the pool would be tough—too many people on the property during the day. She rarely went in the pool at night, but every now and then she went into the gulf and did her yoga on a wakeboard. The boards were hard enough to knock you out if you hit it right, but the gulf was calm. It’d have to look like she’d fallen off and hit her head on a rock or something to make it plausible. I’d double-check in the morning, but I didn’t know of anything off the beach that would fit logically.

The stress of trying to decide how to kill her without implicating myself was getting to me. I wanted Marilyn to know I was the one killing her. Ideas were circling in my head and I needed to shut things down. I wasn’t supposed to be mixing alcohol with my meds, but I needed something and poured myself a tumbler of cognac. It burned going down, but the spreading warmth was relaxing. Grabbing the bottle, I sat in a recliner and put the TV on, trying to force Marilyn out of my head.

***

“Sir, sir, is everything all right?”

I struggled to open my eyes. Shell, the housekeeper, was shaking my shoulder. “Uh, yeah, I must’ve fell asleep.”

Shell helped me sit up. “Are you sure, sir?”

“I’m okay.”

“I know it’s none of my business, sir, but you can’t keep drinking with them medicines you’re taking.”

Shell stood up and I couldn’t believe my eyes. The cocktail table was overthrown and there was glass everywhere. A John-Richard lamp was laying in pieces by the sliders. Holding my breath, I checked the walls, exhaling when it appeared all the artwork was undamaged, unlike the last time. The smell of cognac steered my eyes to the shattered bottle of Courvoisier scattered across the fireplace hearth. 

“Don’t get up Mr. Brighthouse. Wait till I get you some shoes.”

What had happened? This was the third time in two months I had blacked out, leaving a trail of destruction and no recollection of my violent behavior.