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“What was the message?”
“She said she was sorry about any misunderstanding we’d had and was looking for her job back.”
“You return her call?”
“Certainly not, and I erased the message.”
“What day was that?”
“Saturday? Sunday?”
“Where were you Sunday?”
Mize thought about that. “Worked here the whole afternoon. Had early sushi with Coco and her sister, went home around eight, watched old movies on Netflix for a bit. The Thomas Crown Affair, have you seen it?”
“No.”
“You should. It’s very good. The original, not the remake. But anyway, after drooling over Faye Dunaway and Steve McQueen, I went to sleep around ten. I like to go to bed early and get up early. You?”
“Same,” Johnson said. “Do you know Ruth Abrams or Lisa Martin?”
“After I saw the stories in the paper, I racked my brain. I’m sure I’ve met them both at one social function or another. Terrible, though.”
“Francie Letourneau worked for both women.”
“Really? Do you think she was somehow involved in their deaths? And then, what, got killed herself?”
“It’s possible,” Johnson said, and he felt his cell phone buzz.
It was Drummond again.
“Get your ass to the Crawford place,” the sergeant growled. “The missus is dead.”
Chapter
64
Detective Johnson was climbing out of his car when Sergeant Drummond pulled us up beside him and parked on Ocean Boulevard between two patrol cars flashing their blue lights.
The heat had been stupefying when I joined Drummond in the parking lot of the Hampton Inn over in West Palm, but here, so close to the beach and water, there was a beautiful shore breeze. No wonder this had been the winter spot for the super-rich for, what, more than a century? Isn’t that what the sergeant had said last night?
Before I could make sure the three beers hadn’t addled my memory, Johnson started telling Drummond about his trip to Mize Fine Arts as they walked onto the grounds of the Crawford residence, a rambling white Mediterranean with a red-tile roof. The gardens inside the gate were stunning and gave way to a waterfall in a Zen-like setting.
The house was…well, I’d never been in one like it. Then again, I don’t get the chance to roam around in Palm Beach mansions a lot. Let’s just say that every room was designed for Architectural Digest.
The kitchen was over the top, with Swedish and Finnish appliances that gleamed like they’d been installed the day before and gorgeous Italian tile work. The library looked stolen from some abbey in southern France. And the bedroom where Maggie Crawford lay was as bright as a Florida day.
I scanned the room, saw the pills, the Patrón bottle, and the tumbler on the bed stand by the blowsy woman tucked under the covers. She must have been stunning once. She could have been sleeping there had her skin not been blue.
“Let’s not be touching anything,” Drummond said. “This will be a forensics case through and through.”
I couldn’t argue with him. There was no sign of struggle. It would be up to the lab people to tell us how she died.
A deputy appeared at the door, said, “The deceased’s personal assistant is downstairs. She called it in.”
We found Candace Layne in a miserable state in that beautiful library.
“This was what everyone feared would happen,” Layne said. “It’s why John, her soon-to-be ex, left. He couldn’t watch her self-destruct anymore.”
