Hothouse Orchid

22

Lauren Cade got out of her car and walked the forty yards to where the medical examiner’s wagon and an unmarked police car were parked. Detective Jimmy Weathers stood, wearing latex gloves, looking at the front of a Tahoe SUV parked in the middle of the Jungle Trail.

“Morning, Jimmy,” she said. “Thanks for the call.”

“Morning, Lauren.”

“What have you got?”

“Another woman, dead, probably raped. This time, she’s been posed naked behind the wheel.”

Lauren looked through the passenger window and saw the corpse, a middle-aged woman. Her handbag was lying on the floor next to her.

“Looks like she had a flat,” Jimmy said. “Right front wheel, but there’s no nail in the tire and, walking back down the trail, there’s nothing there that would cause the flat. Slow leak, maybe.”

“Spike strip?” Lauren asked. A spike strip was something that the police could throw in front of a car being pursued to blow out its tires.

“Good thought,” Jimmy said. “Another cop thing to add to the rest.”

“Have you been through her bag?”

“I just got here myself,” Jimmy said.

“Mind if we do it together?”

“That’s good.”

Lauren donned her latex gloves, lifted the large leather bag from the car and emptied it on the hood.

“Lots of stuff,” Jimmy said.

“She’s a woman,” Lauren replied, picking up a big diary with a card stapled to the front. “Adele Mason, Beachfront Realty, Vero Beach,” she read.

“Yeah, they’re across from the Holiday Inn,” Jimmy said, picking up the woman’s wallet. “Here’s her driver’s license. She lives not far from here, if the address is current.”

Lauren opened the diary to where it had been marked with a rubber band and read the last entry of the day. “Dinner, Jack Smithson.” She flipped open her cell phone, called information and asked for the number, then closed it. “No such listing,” she said. She began going backward in the diary. “Here’s another dinner with Jack, three nights ago. He’s also down for two that afternoon at SunJet. What’s that? And the words ‘Bingo, the Wald property!’ are entered for that afternoon.”

Jimmy went back to the rear of the car and came back with a plastic-covered book. “Looks like her listings,” he said, then began flipping through the book. “Here we go: J. M. Wald, 2202 Ocean Close, Vero.”

“She sold the Wald house, then. To Jack, maybe?”

“Let’s go find out,” Jimmy said.

Teddy Fay was surfing the Internet, looking for a local source of outdoor furniture, when there was a rap on the front door. Teddy started, alarmed that someone could approach the house without his noticing. Relax, he told himself. He took a deep breath or two, then got up and went to the front door.

An attractive blond young woman stood on the other side of the screen door, a bag slung over one shoulder, a badge in the other hand. “Good morning,” she said. “I’m Lauren Cade, with the Florida State Police. Mr. Smithson, is it?”

Teddy’s mind was working a mile a minute: something to do with the new license, maybe? “Good morning. Yes, I’m Jack Smithson.”

“May I come in and speak to you for a moment, Mr. Smithson?”

“Of course,” Teddy said, opening the door for her. As he turned, he found a young man standing behind him in the living room. He had come in the back door, and Teddy had heard nothing. He was slipping. Brazen it out, he thought. Be cooperative. “I’m sorry, you startled me,” Teddy said.

“I’m Detective Weathers, Orchid Beach Police Department,” the young man said.

“Won’t you sit down?” Teddy asked, indicating the living room sofa.

They sat down, and Teddy took a chair on the other side of the coffee table.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

“Mr. Smithson,” Lauren said, “are you acquainted with Ms. Adele Mason?”

“Yes, I am; she’s the real estate agent who found this house for me.”

“You bought this house?”

“Rented. The Walds, who own the property, don’t have many guests, so they rent the guesthouse. They’re not in Florida at the moment.”

“I see,” Lauren said. “And when did you rent it?”

“Three days ago. It was the first property she showed me, and I thought it was ideal.”

“Where are you from, Mr. Smithson?”

“Here, now. I more recently lived in north Georgia, but I retired and moved down here.”

“When was the last time you saw Ms. Mason?”

“Why, last night. She came for dinner here; I cooked for us.”

“And what time did she leave?”

“Shortly after midnight, I believe.”

“Mr. Smithson, would you submit to a DNA test?” She removed a plastic tube from her purse. “It’s just a swab of the inside of your cheek.”

“Wait just a minute,” Teddy said. “DNA test? For what purpose?”

“For a comparison.”

Teddy’s face fell, and he wasn’t acting. “Has something happened to Adele?”

“I’m afraid so,” Lauren said. “She was murdered some time last night and possibly raped. That’s why we need a DNA sample, to eliminate you as a suspect.”

“My God, she was here only last night. Is this to do with those murders I read about in the local paper?”

“It seems likely.”

“Well,” Teddy said, “we made love last night, so you might very well find my DNA on her… person.”

“Thank you for that information, but what we need to learn is if someone else’s DNA is present, and we’ll need your sample for differentiation.”

“Of course,” Teddy said. “I mean, I watch those forensics shows all the time. I understand. Go ahead and take your swab.”

Lauren uncapped the tube, removed the swab, ran it around the inside of his cheek and replaced it in the tube.

“When did you move in here?” Jimmy asked.

“Three days ago. I had found Adele’s name on the Internet, and we had had a phone conversation about what I was looking for. She met me at the airport on Wednesday afternoon and drove me here.”

“Which airport, sir?”

“Vero Beach. I fly a small airplane.”

“Where is it parked at the airport?”

“At SunJet Center; I arranged in advance for tie-down space there.”

“Is that your Toyota parked outside?”

“Yes, I bought it the same day from the local dealer.”

The detective was writing in his notebook. “Name of the salesman?”

“Ah, Meadows. Leonard Meadows.”

“What sort of work do you do, Mr. Smithson?” Lauren asked.

“I’m retired. I’m sort of an engineer. I invent small gadgets, the kind of thing you see on infomercials late at night.”

They asked a few more questions, then thanked him and left.

Before they drove away, Jimmy called the airport and the Toyota dealer. “His story holds up,” he said.

“He certainly looked shocked when we told him she was dead, and our perp’s MO doesn’t include having dinner with his victims before he kills them. I don’t think Smithson is our guy.”

“Neither do I,” Jimmy said.

Teddy lay down on his bed and rested. He was disturbed that Adele seemed to be the latest victim of a local criminal. And he was deeply angry.