Due Justice

Chapter 4

Tampa, Florida

Wednesday 7:00 p.m.

January 6, 1999

Water splashed hard and fast into the enormous claw-footed tub in my bathroom like Yosemite’s Illilouette falls. Gotta love modern plumbing. I poured avocado oil bath gel in the water and while it bubbled into snowy white mounds, located piano nocturnes on the player and lit two gardenia-scented candles.

Lowered gingerly into steamy water, head rested against bath pillow, stretched out my full five feet eleven and a half inches and wiggled ten toes. Eyes closed. Tried to stay in the present, blissful moment.

No luck.

Kept coming back to Carly, catastrophizing her situation. Mine, too.

Inactivity is hard for me. My karmic purpose must be to learn patience. Regardless of how I redirected my attention, Carly and Dr. Morgan occupied my mind. The more I tried to push the problem into tomorrow like an earlier Southern mistress, the more the situation menaced.

Both Carly and I could end up not only unemployed, but disbarred. Or worse.

Scarlett O’Hara was an idiot; the Bay Body, as Bennett called him, would still be dead tomorrow, too.

The water had grown as cold as the Gulf.

I gave up the effort to avoid bad news, pulled the plug, wrapped myself in a robe, and turned on the television.

Again, the lead story was ongoing non-identification.

Frank Bennett recapped the few facts he’d previously reported, then said, “Dental records have been requested and may take several days to locate.”

His next words gave me hope.

“One source close to the investigation told us the victim could be a tourist who disappeared last year after what survivors claimed was a boating accident. Our source also said authorities are evaluating evidence of a copycat killing.”

Bennett aired old film clips next. I realized why the Bay Body seemed so familiar to me. An eerily similar killing had occupied the news media for months four years ago and repeated endlessly when the killer was convicted last fall.

Two possibilities, both chilling: a serial killer, or maybe the wrong man was convicted. I shuddered.

Bennett ran old interviews following the two prior deaths.

I noticed the lateness of the hour, pressed the mute button, and began drying my hair.

Bent over from the waist, head upside down, I glanced at the screen.

Senator Sheldon Warwick and his wife, Victoria, disembarking from a plane at Tampa International Airport. I restored the sound and heard that the senator and his wife were in town for tonight’s benefit. Kind enough to plug the fund-raiser and George’s restaurant, which was nice. I didn’t see Elizabeth Taylor. Was she there?

When they began the sports report, I pressed the off button and finished up my hair.

I was standing in my closet when George came upstairs, patted my bare ass, and said, “Cute as that is--”

I pulled the creamy cashmere shift out of its garment bag, and held it shoulder level while examining my reflection in the full length mirror. No shape, no style, no color. “It seems like a perfect opportunity for this.”

“How about one of your cocktail dresses?”  He suggested, continuing through to his bathroom and shower. The secret to a long marriage, I’d learned eons ago, was separate bathrooms and separate closets, but never separate beds.