Due Justice

Chapter 37

Tampa, Florida

Thursday 5:45 p.m.

January 28, 1999

Sunset tonight was projected for 6:07 p.m. Now, the huge orange ball lingered near the horizon, glowing around Ben where he stood propped against the rail, head bowed. O’Connell had stood precisely there many times. Was it possible he’d never do so again?

Squeezed my eyes shut to hold tears in check; felt the hot trickle on my cheek and brushed it away. Crying would be done in private.

Ben had raised his gaze to mine when I’d controlled myself well enough to look again. When he spoke, I glanced away immediately.

He said, “I hate to ask you this, but would you come with me when I tell his wife?”

“Pricilla doesn’t know yet?” George asked.

Ben wagged his head slowly, side to side. “Someone she knows should be there. She’s bound to take it hard.”

I definitely did not want to witness when Cilla learned O’Connell was gone; I could tell George didn’t, either.

George stood, pressed my shoulder. “Willa, you’ll want to wash your face. Let me get my jacket, Ben. We’ll be right back.”

George held my hand and we went upstairs to make ourselves somewhat more presentable. I don’t know why we felt we had to look composed to deliver such terrible news, but we did.

George drove and Ben followed in his own car. Behind us, orange sun fell below blue horizon as we crossed our bridge onto the mainland.

We held hands for the three-mile trip to the Worthingtons’ Bayshore mansion. Absently, George stroked my palm with his thumb pad. I remembered happier visits; balls and cotillions, old-fashioned parties; Cilla’s southern charm and O’Connell’s courtly manners. None of this could I voice and retain composure.

George parked in the circular drive. We emerged from his Bentley into the breezy dusk as Ben Hathaway drove up.

He joined us, touched my arm gently, patted George’s shoulder, straightened his own posture and buttoned his jacket.

“Thank you both for doing this,” he said, quietly, as if he couldn’t have faced Pricilla alone. Ben was a cop. Delivering bad news was a part of the job. But our mission tonight was different.

No matter what had come before, from this point forward, Ben Hathaway would be counted among our friends as long as he would have us be so.

Three abreast, feeling nothing like crusaders, we trudged the long driveway and reached the front door much too quickly.

Ben rang the bell.

The housekeeper opened the door as she had a thousand times before.

George said, “Good evening, Mrs. Beason”

“Mr. and Mrs. Carson. Was Mrs. Worthington expecting you?” Lucille asked.

Ben replied, “We’d like to see Mrs. Worthington, if we may.”

Lucille must have been curious, but she was impeccably trained. “Certainly,” she said. “Please come this way.”

She escorted us into the old-fashioned parlor where Worthingtons had greeted guests for more than a hundred years.

“Mrs. Worthington will be right down” she said, as if we were welcome visitors. She departed, leaving the door open. I heard her footsteps on the stairs.

A few moments later, from the second floor, the housekeeper’s screams reached our ears. George and Ben ran up the staircase toward Lucille’s screams.

I reached the master bedroom seconds behind George, but light-years behind O’Connell Worthington.

Lucille Beason’s face was buried in George’s shirt while he made vain attempts to calm her.

Ben stood beside the four-poster where Cilla reclined fully clothed in the dress she’d worn to Michael Morgan’s funeral.

Ben checked Cilla’s carotid artery for a pulse while deliberately punching buttons on her phone with his left thumb. He made no effort to resuscitate. He responded to quick questions, finally saying, “No need to hurry.”

The room was high ceilinged and spacious. Front windows overlooked Hillsborough Bay, and I could see our home, Minaret on Plant Key, clearly.

Cilla was born in that bed, as all four of her children had been. It was there she’d slept with O’Connell for forty-seven years. Maybe she just couldn’t sleep there without him.

Did Cilla kill herself because she knew her husband was dead? Or had she thought to prevent him from suicide? Or had they planned joint suicide? We’d never know.

Two envelopes and a wrapped package rested on Cilla’s dressing table. I slipped the envelope addressed to Carly and the small package with my name on it into my pocket.

The other envelope was addressed to Ben Hathaway. It contained a full confession, executed and notarized by O’Connell Worthington, a gentleman even after death.

O’Connell provided the hard evidence of his guilt that Chief Hathaway had been unable to find. Motive: O’Connell said he’d killed Morgan because Morgan’s theories were timed to insure his financial ruin. Means: He’d included a purchase receipt showing his ownership of the murder weapon. But he said he’d thrown the gun into the Gulf at the same time he’d thrown in the body. Opportunity: Well, we had Carly’s eye-witness account for that. He apologized for the inconvenience.