“I know that. You don’t have to tell me to take it easy. I’ve been telling my patients the same thing for years.”
I glanced at my watch. “I’ve got to go,” I said. “Have a good time. I’ll see you later.”
As Seth started walking toward the rec hall, I couldn’t resist teasing him. “I’ll phone you this afternoon,” I called after him. “We can go back to Portofino for dinner. Unless you have other plans.”
He batted a hand at me behind his back, and I laughed.
The station house in Foreverglades was on a side street, away from the busy shopping area, in a low brick building with a white façade. Mort was already there when I arrived.
“He said he can see us in about ten minutes. That okay, Mrs. F?”
“Sure, Mort. I’m glad he’ll see us at all.”
We took seats on a wooden bench in the narrow lobby. The desk sergeant in uniform was at a desk behind a glass partition. Working with him was an elderly gentleman who answered telephones. Behind them was a wall-size corkboard covered with papers, clipboards, visitors’ badges, and pictures of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted fugitives. A glass door off to the side allowed a view of a corridor leading to other offices.
“What do you want to talk about with him, Mrs. F?”
“I want to let him know what Gabby said about the Key West project, in case it has any bearing on the evidence. Detective Shippee mentioned an accident once, and I think that’s what he may have been referring to.”
“You mean about the crane operator and the guy who was killed?”
“Yes.”
“Could just be a coincidence.”
“It could. I’d also like to find out how they came to suspect Clarence.”
The elderly man at the desk tapped on the glass partition, and we looked up. “Detective Shippee can see you.” He waved us over to a door and buzzed us in. “Write your name on those and put them on, please,” he said, handing us orange visitors’ badges and a marker.
We did as we were asked, and he led us through the glass door to the corridor, escorting us to small room furnished only with a table and four chairs. Detective Shippee met us at the door.
“Mrs. Fletcher, how are you?” he said. “Metzger.” He nodded at Mort.
We sat at the table, and there was an awkward moment of silence.
“Didn’t see you on the news last night,” Shippee said to me.
“Just as well,” I said. “Your arrest made the demonstration even bigger news.”
“That wasn’t my intent.” He smiled. “Now, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
“Detective Shippee,” I said, “I was hoping I could talk to Clarence Shelby.”
“If he’s agreeable. You could’ve asked the desk sergeant.”
“I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Here I am.”
I told Shippee about our trip to Key West, including my conversations with Gabby and Wainscott, and what I considered the uncomfortable coincidence that someone opposing the developer had died both in Key West and in Foreverglades.
“If you’ll remember our conversation down at the beach, Mrs. Fletcher, I told you he was a ruthless man. The Key West cops were never able to pin anything on the crane operator, much less Wainscott, and the guy disappeared shortly after that anyway. Maybe Wainscott took care of him in his own way.”
“Wainscott might’ve been after Mrs. Fletcher, too,” Mort put in.
“How so?”
“Tell him about your accident, Mrs. F.”
“What accident?” Shippee said.
“Mort, I don’t have any proof that it was anything other than an accident.”
“Tell me about it anyway,” Shippee said.
I gave him a quick summary of my encounter with the dump cart but didn’t mention Mark Rosner by name. It wouldn’t have been fair to accuse someone without proof, and I’d never seen him once he’d disappeared into the building.
Shippee studied me for a moment before saying, “You’d better be careful who you irritate, Mrs. Fletcher. I don’t want to find
your
body down at the beach.”
Mort cleared his throat and jumped into the conversation. “How’d you come to suspect Clarence?” he asked.
Shippee shifted his gaze to Mort. “We found out he’d lied to us.”
“Yeah? About what?”
Shippee looked from Mort to me and smiled. “Okay,” he said. “It’ll come out in court anyway. Mr. Shelby said he’d been at home the whole evening his wife went down to the beach, and that he’d gone to bed early, expecting she’d be home shortly. He said he didn’t know she was missing till the morning.”
“And that wasn’t true?” I said.
“No. The maintenance men at Foreverglades, the twins, saw him sneak out of his apartment around nine o’clock that night. He was carrying a square box. They said he came back about an hour later without it.”
“Did you find the box?”
“We did. One of our investigators found it in the water. It had gotten caught in the tall grass under the gazebo down at the beach. Someone had tried to get rid of it by tossing it in the water, but it didn’t sink or float away.”
I leaned forward. “Was there something in the box?”
“No. It was empty, but it still had a packing slip under the clear tape, showing it had contained two bottles of diet pills, E-Z Weight Off, something like that, and it had been shipped to Clarence Shelby.”
I sat back in the seat. “Were they the same pills that killed Portia?”
“We’re getting a sample from the supplier to send to the toxicology lab, but we expect we’ll get as much of a match as we can under the circumstances.”
“Portia’s three pillboxes,” I said. “Did you take them as evidence?”
“We did, including the one your friend pocketed and returned,” he said, a note of disgust unmistakable in his voice.
“Do you mind if I ask what color they were?”
“They’re all white. Is there a significance to that?”
“No,” I said. “There isn’t.”
“We know that Shelby’s wife had poor vision and that he filled the pillboxes for her every day,” Shippee said.
“Did he confess?” Mort asked, echoing my thoughts.
“No. But we’re following up on another lead. Recently we found out his first wife died in a boating accident, and we’re looking into those records, too.”
“Did you ask him about that?” I asked.
“He says he won’t say anything more till he talks to a lawyer.”
“And when will that be?” I asked.
“There’s a Legal Aid attorney coming down from Miami this afternoon. Couldn’t make it yesterday.”
“He hasn’t hired a private attorney?”
“No. He said he couldn’t afford one.”
“Do you think money was his motive?” I asked.
“It’s a domestic case, Mrs. Fletcher. These things happen all the time. He was having an affair, and he wanted to get rid of his wife. He was a little more clever than most, but he got tripped up in the end anyway. Liars always do.”
“Who told you he was having an affair?” I asked.
“We heard it from several friends of the victim, and we have a witness who overheard an argument in which Mrs. Shelby confronted her husband, and Mr. Shelby threatened to kill her.”
“Who was he having an affair with?” I asked.
Shippee smiled. “I’m surprised Foreverglades gossip hasn’t given you her name yet.”
“Monica Kotansky?”
“The grapevine is still in working order, I see.”
“But the witness. We don’t know who that is.”
“Let me keep a few secrets, Mrs. Fletcher. Don’t want to give away my whole case.”
“Do you mind if we speak to Mr. Shelby?”
“Me? I don’t mind. But I don’t know if he’ll talk to you. He’s not talking to us.”
“Would you ask him?”
“Sure. Wait here, and I’ll see if he’ll see you.”
Shippee opened the door and called to another officer. “I gotta go fill out a form,” he said to us. “I’ll be right back.”
Mort and I looked at each other.
“Be prepared, Mrs. F. Clarence probably won’t want to talk to us.”
“I know, but I really need to speak with him. Do you think the detective would let me send him a note?”
“Sure. Maybe. I don’t know. Depends on the jail policy. But you could send in a note with the lawyer if he was willing.”
I pulled a pad from my shoulder bag and scribbled a message to Clarence. But it wasn’t necessary. Surprising all three of us, Clarence agreed to talk, but only to me. While Mort waited for me in reception, Detective Shippee brought in the prisoner.
Clarence, dressed in striped pajamas, his hands and feet manacled, shuffled to the chair Shippee held out for him, and sank down. He had aged a decade since the demonstration the day before. His skin had a gray cast to it, with dark crescents under his eyes. His face and shoulders sagged as if his body felt the tug of gravity for the first time. Being jailed is never a pleasant experience, but some people weather adversity better than others. I wavered between feeling sorry for Clarence and wanting to shake him out of it. If he was guilty, he deserved to be here. But if he was not, succumbing to depression wasn’t going to aid his cause.
“An officer will be right outside, Mrs. Fletcher,” Shippee said.
“Thank you, Detective.”
I waited quietly. Shippee closed the door, and Clarence raised his eyes to mine.
His first words were: “I didn’t do it.”
“What didn’t you do?” I asked.
“I didn’t do any of it. I didn’t give her diet pills. I didn’t threaten her life. I didn’t have an affair. I didn’t kill her.” His eyes blazed momentarily, then subsided into the dull expression he’d entered with.
“Let’s say I believe you,” I said. “I have to be honest: I’m not entirely convinced I do. But for argument’s sake, let’s say I don’t think you killed Portia. There are some things you need to explain.”
“Like what?”
“Let’s go one by one, Clarence. The police have a box that was shipped to you. They have proof it contained two bottles of diet pills.”
“It wasn’t for me. I ordered it for someone else.”
“Who did you order it for?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“I can’t help you if you won’t cooperate.”
“This is a private matter.”
“Not anymore. You’ve been arrested. All the details of your life are open to inspection. And if the press comes down and starts its own investigation, your version of events is not likely to be put forward. Your lawyer will tell you the same thing.”
He pressed his lips together, and I feared our conversation might break down on the initial point. I tried to come at him from another direction.
“Then answer me this,” I said. “Why would someone ask you to order diet pills for her?”
“Weinstein’s stopped selling them a while back.”
I noticed he didn’t correct me when I’d said “for her,” and I continued to assume this person who wanted the diet pills was a woman. “Why couldn’t she order them herself? Why did she ask you to do it?”
“Because I have my own computer. And I was doing all the research on Portia’s medications. It was easy just to type in the name of another drug.”
“Did she give you her credit card number to place the order?”
“No.”
“So you used your own card?”
“Yes.” He hung his head and shook it slowly side to side. “Looks bad, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” I said. “And if you refuse to say who you ordered the pills for, how can you convince a jury you didn’t kill Portia? Keep in mind, even if you do identify her, she may deny that she asked you to buy the pills. Did you ever think of that?”
“What do you mean?”
“The person who wanted the pills might be Portia’s killer.”
“No. No,” he said, standing and rattling the chains that bound him.
The officer outside swung open the door and glared at Clarence, who sat quickly, hunching his shoulders and tucking his chin on his chest.
I nodded at the policeman, and he closed the door again.
“She’d never do that,” Clarence whispered. “Why would she want Portia dead?”
“You tell me.”
“I can’t.”
I decided this cat-and-mouse game was getting us nowhere, and a more direct approach was needed. “Why are you protecting Monica Kotansky?” I said.
Clarence looked up sharply.
“Is it because you were having an affair with her? She wanted you for herself and Portia was in the way. Is that it?”
“No. No.”
“No, what, Clarence? No, you weren’t having an affair? No, she didn’t want you for herself?”
He sighed heavily. “She may have wanted me at one time. God only knows why. I’m no bargain. Not rich. Not young. Nothing to offer. But when I married Portia, I made it clear that she was my wife and my loyalties lay there.”
“But Monica had been your lover before.”
“When I first moved down here she latched onto me, and I didn’t know how to turn her down.”
“You didn’t know how to say no to her then, but you do now?”
“I know you won’t believe me, but I loved Portia. She was everything I’m not, strong, passionate, principled. She stood up, not only for herself, but for everyone else who didn’t have the gumption to defend themselves or what was right. She was a tiger when she got hold of a cause.”
“And were you one of her causes?”
A small smile crossed his lips. “I never really thought of it that way, but I guess I was.”
“Did Portia know you were ordering diet pills for Monica?”
“God, no! I couldn’t tell her. She would have been terribly hurt. There wasn’t anything going on between Monica and me. I swear it. But Portia knew our history, and Monica is so, so . . .” He cast around for a word and couldn’t find one.
“Sexy,” I supplied.
“I guess. I really preferred Portia’s looks, but I doubt she would have believed me if I’d told her that. Anyway, I didn’t want Portia to know and worry that I was having an affair.”