Storm Season. Charlotte Douglas

I was mulling over which was the lesser of two evils when Bill’s cell phone rang.

      He answered and handed it to me. “It’s Darcy.”

      “I’ve got a hysterical woman on the other line,” Darcy said.

      My first thought was that Trish had called the office.

      “She says somebody’s trying to kill her,” Darcy added.

      “Tell her to call 9-1-1.”

      “I already did. She claims she’s talked to the police and there’s nothing they can do. She wants to talk to you.”

      “Make her an appointment for first thing in the morning.”

      “Tried that. She wants to see you now. Says she needs a bodyguard.” Darcy paused. “She’s either a total weirdo or really scared out of her mind, Maggie. I can’t tell which over the phone.”

      “Give me her address,” I said with a sigh. One dilemma, at least, was solved. If I was interviewing Darcy’s caller, I wouldn’t have to go to dinner with Bill and Trish.

      “Her name’s Kimberly Ross,” Darcy said, “and she lives in the penthouse at Sun and Sea condos on Sand Key.”

      “Tell Ms. Ross I’m on my way.” I pushed End and gave Bill his phone and a summary of Darcy’s message. “I’ll have to pass on dinner. Can you take care of Roger? I don’t know how long this will take.”

      “Of course.” He grasped my chin and tipped my face to look into my eyes. “You sure you’re okay with this Trish thing?”

      “No,” I answered honestly, “and I need time to think about it. But the woman has to eat, so I have no objection to your taking her to dinner.”

      Okay, so that second part wasn’t so honest, but with Trish back in the picture, the last thing I wanted was to come across as an insensitive jerk or rabidly jealous. I’d wait, assess the situation and then, if I thought Trish posed the slightest threat to our relationship, I’d scratch her gorgeous green eyes out.

      “You’re the best, Margaret.” Bill kissed me to back up his words.

      Leaving Roger with Bill and heading for my car, I could only hope, with Trish back in town, that I maintained that ranking.

      

      GOING-HOME TRAFFIC was heavy on Edgewater Drive all the way through downtown Clearwater and across the arching bridge that led to the causeway and the beach. I crossed the causeway, navigated the roundabout and headed south on Gulf Boulevard. Beach real estate was in a state of flux. Where mom-and-pop motels and restaurants had once stood, land had been cleared for multistory luxury condos. In the coming years, families that now swarmed the area for a last fling before going back to school would find no affordable places to vacation. Only the rich and richer would be able to afford living on the beach. That famous white sugar sand might as well be gold dust.

      I crossed the Clearwater Pass Bridge onto Sand Key and watched for the sign for Sun and Sea among the towers of condos on the Gulf side. I found the complex south of the Sheraton and turned into the drive. When I pulled up to the entrance, yellow crime scene tape flapped in the onshore breeze just inside the gate.

      Although I’d never been here, the parking lot seemed vaguely familiar. Then recognition clicked.

      No wonder the woman who’d called the office was scared. Sun and Sea had been the location of the shooting Darcy and I had seen reported on the noon news. I waited while the security guard buzzed Ms. Ross for permission to admit me, drove through after he opened the gate and searched for a parking place.

      A Clearwater police cruiser was parked in front of the visitor spaces and a uniformed officer stood outside his car, leaning against the hood. I recognized Rudy Beaton, a former Pelican Bay cop, and rolled down my window.

      “How about moving that heap of junk so a lady can park?” I called to him.

      “Maggie? Is that you?” Beaton pushed away from his vehicle and approached mine.

      “I’m here to call on a client,” I said. “Good to see you. How’s the job treating you?”

      He grinned. “You know how it is. I’m counting the days till retirement.”

      I jerked my thumb toward the yellow tape. “Did you respond to the shooting?”

      Beaton shook his head. “That was before my shift. I’m here to keep an eye on the scene until CSU has finished up.”

      I glanced around. “Looks like they’ve already left.”

      He pointed to a hotel south of the condo. “They’re processing a room over there. Fifth floor.”

      “That’s where the sniper fired from?”

      “Doc Cline and Adler are working that theory,” Beaton said.

      Doc Cline was the medical examiner. She and Adler must have calculated the trajectory of the bullet that killed the woman earlier today.

      “Did the vic live here?” I asked.

      Beaton shook his head. “She was from out of town, here to visit relatives for the weekend.”

      I looked from the hotel window to the parking lot where the woman had died. “Guess that put a crimp in their holiday plans.”

      “You ever see any of the guys from Pelican Bay…” he asked with a hint of nostalgia “…other than Adler and Darcy?”

      “Not lately. Seems as if they’ve scattered to the four winds.” Political maneuvering under the guise of saving money had shut down the Pelican Bay Police Department earlier in the year and had left everyone from uniformed officers and detectives to support personnel scrambling for new jobs.

      “Me, either. Except for Adler.” Beaton’s face reflected the sadness I felt over the breakup, like a family that had suffered through a nasty divorce. “I’ll move my cruiser,” he said, “so you can park.”

      Rudy returned to his car, drove it away from the visitor parking and I pulled into a space.

      Within minutes, I was exiting the condo’s elevator onto the penthouse floor, twenty stories above the narrow strip of beach that edged the Gulf of Mexico.

      At my knock, a woman with frizzy blond hair, wide gray eyes, stylish gold-framed glasses and tear-splotched cheeks, opened the door.

      “Thank God you’re here,” she said. “I’ve been going out of my mind.”

      “You told my secretary someone’s trying to kill you?” I glanced past her into the spacious living area and saw no other occupants. “Is everything okay here?”

      As a former cop, I’d made my share of calls to sort out domestic disputes, and I didn’t want to be surprised by a Mr. Kimberly Ross jumping out of the woodwork with blood in his eyes.

      “No, everything isn’t okay.” Her voice shook with emotion. “The woman who was killed in the parking lot this morning wasn’t the real target. That was supposed to be me.”

      CHAPTER 4

      Kimberly Ross appeared to be in her early forties, but with her face puffy from crying, I couldn’t accurately judge. She wore designer jeans that revealed her tendency toward pudginess and a gauzy tunic top. Her feet were bare. If she’d applied makeup earlier, her tears had obliterated every trace. Her square jaw and wide brow gave her a somewhat masculine appearance and, under different circumstances, her face could have been pleasant, but fear contorted her features and rolled off her in palpable waves.

      “I came as fast as I could,” I assured her in my most soothing tone, hoping to help the woman pull herself together before she lost it completely, because she was teetering on the edge of hysteria. “Why don’t you fill me in on the details?”

      “Come in.” Kimberly stepped