Curb Appeal: a CW McCoy Novel

By Jeff Widmer

Appearances aren’t just deceiving. They can be deadly.
While showing a mansion on Florida’s tony Spanish Key, former detective CW McCoy discovers the naked body of a rival real estate agent, a black bra wrapped around her neck.

It’s the least of CW’s problems. The hot new cop she’s dating may face assault charges. Relations with both her best friend and mentor have frayed. And back-to-back hurricanes threaten to flatten the coast.

As the deception and bodies mount, CW must uncover the truth about her friends, her lover and a serial killer bent on murdering fellow agents . . . before she becomes a victim herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Widmer
• Release date: Jun 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370032839

Jeff Widmer

Jeff Widmer is the author of the CW McCoy and the Brinker series of crime novels and well as numerous standalone novels and non-fiction books. A former journalist, advertising executive and nationally syndicated reviewer, his work has appeared in publications ranging from Advertising Age to US Airways magazine to National Geographic World.

Book preview

IT WAS EARLY September on the Gulf Coast of Florida and temperatures still hung in the nineties. Tropical Storm 7, which had drenched the Caribbean, turned the sky the color of motor oil. Wind gusts were hitting thirty-five miles an hour and dark clouds of humidity clawed their way across the mainland. Everyone felt on edge.

My clients, Mr. and Mrs. Henderson, didn’t seem to mind. They hadn’t flinched when the local radio station announced a storm watch. They sat in the back seat of my SUV and chatted about their bloodwork.

As we pulled through the gates of the property, I said, I’m afraid the weather doesn’t look promising. Are you sure you want to see the house? We could come back another time.

That is so sweet, Miss McCoy. Mrs. Henderson plopped a thick purse onto her lap. But I brought an umbrella.

If TS7 drew any closer, its winds would turn the umbrella and half the houses on the barrier islands inside out. But I needed the sale, and the Hendersons seemed willing to risk the rain, so I put the SUV in park, trotted around the side, opened the door for Mrs. Henderson and looked up at our quarry.

From the outside, the house on Spanish Key looked immaculate. The former home of a controversial TV talk-show host, it reeked of luxury and scandal. A circular driveway of multi-toned pavers echoed the color of the barrel-tile roof. Twin white staircases ascended to a two-story portico and double red doors, providing access to living quarters elevated above flood stage. Nestled against the house, thickets of bougainvillea, hibiscus and plumbago produced a riot of green, red and blue.

I’d shown this home before, at dusk, when the landscape lights bathed the palms and gently washed the stuccoed walls. The property looked every bit as luxe during the day, with dramatic rooflines and manicured grounds and an unencumbered view of the Gulf of Mexico.

The property had what real estate agents called curb appeal, that look of the well-groomed heiress dripping with jewels and seduction. The inside could harbor a meth lab or, in this case, offer the privacy of an aquarium, with neighbors and boaters able to peep in every window. But as long as the property looked good from the street, God was in his heaven and ready to deal a slice of paradise to the frostbitten residents of the North.

The Hendersons fit the profile. They were retired industrialists from the Chicago area who, by their sixties, had decided they’d rather take their ice in daiquiri glasses than on the roads. I’d been toting them up and down the coast for two days. They were looking for a show place with style, a move-in mansion complete with restaurant-grade kitchen, Roman bath and parking for six beneath the elevated living area. This one, with its scent of celebrity, seemed to please them from the start.

We mounted the stairs. Smiling with the tolerant look of Midwesterners, the Hendersons stood in the alcove as I used my smartphone to open a lockbox that hung like a giant padlock on the front door.

The smartphone app fought back. The Spanish Point Association of Realtors, affectionately known as SPAR, had mandated a switch from the old combination locks to the newest technology. While the struggle with the phone kept my back to the Hendersons, I didn’t feel anxious, even with the murder of a Midwestern real estate agent fresh in my memory, a crime that had changed the way agents thought about personal safety. There was something reassuring about the couple. They reminded me of my grandparents, ordinary, almost frumpy.

Henry had a face like an untied shoe, with age spots dotting his temples and a tongue perpetually rooted in the corner of his mouth. About five-five and nearly as round, he wore a plaid shirt and a bolo tie with the image of a horse etched into the fastener.

Connie barely topped five feet, her dark hair teased into cyclonic swirls about her ears like her namesake, Connie Francis circa 1961. She had a narrow, dimpled face that always looked surprised. Her outfit consisted of an orange blouse, white capris, thick sandals and a dull brown purse with interlocking letters that made her look less designer than dowdy.

When the app finally produced the code, I punched it into the keypad and the lockbox lid dropped like a jaw. Extracting the key, I swung open the double doors with a flourish and felt a wave of cool air wash over me, along with a faintly acrid smell not often found in homes of people who can afford cleaning crews.

I made a mental note to ask the seller’s agent when the house had last been serviced and turned to Connie. Would you mind waiting here for a minute?

Is there a problem? Henry raised his eyebrows above aviator-style glasses that thankfully were taking their time adjusting to the dim light of the interior.

I smiled. I need to disable the alarm system, and you’ll be more comfortable in the alcove than in the drive.

Oh, yes, of course. Connie flapped a hand in a motion that made her charm bracelet jingle. Should we take off our shoes?

No need, I said and partially closed the doors.

Even in the subdued light of the interior, the marble floor looked iridescent. The furniture glowed and the walls radiated rich shades of hunter green. In the great room, the throw rugs looked clean and perfectly aligned. The honey gold of the kitchen countertop seemed phosphorescent. I moved toward the back of the house, the odor becoming stronger and more biting. As a former police detective, I’d smelled it before, in mansions and row houses alike—the unmistakable tang of human waste.

Glancing at the Hendersons, I held up a finger to signal that I’d be with them in a minute and turned toward the Gulf side of the house, passing a wall of sliding glass doors that gave way to a glistening pool.

Moving more cautiously, I opened the door to the guest bedroom. A set of clothes lay on a taut bedspread—navy capris, paisley blouse, powder blue boy shorts and a padded bra in the same color, a pair of cork wedges squared with the side of the bed. The clothes were neatly folded, their alignment precise. Odd, I thought. We always told homeowners to stow anything personal.

Nothing in the room seemed disturbed. The lampshades were straight, the plantation shutters closed. But the scent I’d detected earlier was stronger, an acrid odor that even the AC couldn’t moderate.

I looked down again. In the carpet near the bed, two faint drag marks led to the louvered doors of a closet. Slowly I opened them and looked in. On the floor lay the body of a woman in profile. Taking a breath, I bent for a closer look. She was naked, bent in a fetal position, a dark liquid soaking the carpet beneath her hip. Her brown hair rose from a widow’s peak, a painted eyebrow arched as if in surprise. Her bottom lip had split.

Around her neck, just under the hyoid bone, a lacy black bra cut into the skin.

I must have been holding my breath against the smell. Rocking back on my heels, fumbling for the phone in my pocket, I thought of the Hendersons, strangers idling outside in the heat, and the dead woman’s family, people I knew all too well.

Rest in peace, I said to the body and dialed 9 1 1.

2.

THERE ARE DAYS when working as a real estate agent feels like the most rewarding job in the world. Like the time you hand a young couple the keys to a starter home and even their dog thanks you. Or when buyers anxious about their declining health get a hero’s welcome in a maintenance-free community.

This wasn’t one of those days.

I called my new broker, Mary Margaret Landry, and said that in light of the day’s events we should postpone tonight’s presentation on agent safety. She wanted to know why. I told her someone had killed Angela Finzi and felt that my part of the seminar was too little, too late.

Her small voice came through the smaller speaker. Oh, my God, I am so sorry, Candace. What happened?

Normally I threaten bodily injury to people who use my first name, but this wasn’t the time. I gave her the abbreviated version of events.

Isn’t she the agent for Laine & Company?

Yes, I said. She worked for the big real estate factory I’d fled.

It’s truly a shame, Mary Margaret said, but it goes to show how much we need this seminar.

Maybe we should cancel, I said. As a sign of respect.

CW, this is a time for strength, not gloom and doom.

I’m not gloomy, I said. To tell the truth, I’m in shock.

So am I. To think something this terrible could happen in a safe haven like Spanish Point. . . .

It can happen anywhere, I said. No one’s immune.

Which is why we need this seminar more than ever. And with your background, I know you are just the person to conduct it.

I listened to the sirens and watched the rack lights flash as a Spanish Point Police cruiser pulled to the curb and Officer Cheryl Finzi stepped out in full battle dress, dark blue from head to foot, her utility belt loaded with everything except air freshener. Popping the trunk lid, she grabbed a roll of crime-scene tape and a reflective vest and headed my way.

I met her at the top of the drive and, despite the thickening clouds, squinted through my sunglasses.

Cheryl was a few inches shorter, and a few pounds lighter, than me, about five-eight and still slim after having a child seven years ago. She was also my best friend and neighbor. Her sunglasses hid her eyes but not the fine lines etched around her mouth.

She propped her hands on her belt. Dispatch said somebody found a body.

I hooked a thumb toward the house. I did. It’s Angela.

Despite the glasses I could see her eyebrows lift. Finzi? she said. My sister-in-law?

I touched her arm. I’m sorry. I know you two didn’t always get along but she was family.

Cheryl crossed her arms. I don’t believe it. She was in our wedding, you know? What happened?

I described the scene, including the garrote.

Was the bra hers? Cheryl asked.

I don’t think so. It looked like her clothes were on the bed.

Cheryl glanced at the house. She was showing the place?

That’s what it looks like. I heard Tony talking to her broker.

Tony, now? You and the lieutenant on speaking terms?

Her tone and stance, the constant movement of her head, showed a woman upset at more than the death of a relative. It’s a bit of a one-way street.

He got here fast.

He said he was in the area.

Cheryl continued to scan the grounds. So we’re looking for Angela’s client.

I took in a lungful of humid air, definitely not a cleansing breath, and watched the clouds roll over the Gulf. Delgado said he’d get someone to run them down. OK with you if I use his last name?

She finally turned her face toward mine. What’d he say when you found the body? Keep your nose out of it this time?

I didn’t like where this conversation was going, Cheryl behaving more like a cop than a neighbor. I held up both hands. No argument here. I only get involved if it’s a relative or a friend—although the way you’re acting today, I might make an exception.

I smiled. Cheryl gave an imitation of one, then turned her back and swept the drive at a glance.

So, she said, if Angie was showing the house, where’s her car?

I followed Cheryl’s gaze. What’s she driving these days?

You remember. Big yellow Hummer knockoff. Parked it outside my house for a week after the divorce.

She was never one for subtlety.

Her problem, Cheryl said, she couldn’t keep her nose out of other people’s business.

She wasn’t married, right? So who’s the next of kin?

Cheryl snapped her gum. Well, it isn’t the late, great Sal Finzi, if that’s what you mean.

I’m sorry.

Forget it. He’s the sorry one. Of all the exes in the world, he was the worst. Angie’s brother got what he deserved, even if you didn’t do it.

That’s not what Lieutenant Delgado thought when he found your former husband face down on my living room floor.

The state attorney said you had nothing to do with it, although that didn’t keep my lovely sister-in-law from filing suit against the two of us.

I don’t see how she could blame you. It was my house. Well, Pap’s house.

A fire/rescue truck with gold lettering on its boxy red flank arrived and two EMTs rolled a gurney over the pavers and through the parking area under the house, eighteen feet above flood surge, where an elevator would take them to the main floor.

Cheryl scanned the property, her head in constant motion. Nice location. Right next to America’s Number One Beach. Someone ought to notify TripAdvisor. Maybe they’ll give it another award.

I knew the source of her animosity and could sympathize. Cheryl wasn’t Catholic. Choosing me as Tracy’s godmother over a blood relation had ignited Angela’s fury.

Cheryl gestured with the roll of crime scene tape to encompass the two-lane road that snaked through the northern part of Spanish Key. Be the first on your block to see the hurricanes roll in . . . if you’re not stuck in traffic trying to escape.

Sweat gathered behind my ears and headed south. Remind me not to bring you to my next showing.

She focused on the house. How much are they asking for this dump?

Four-point-eight million.

No wonder working people can’t afford to live in this town. What’s the inside like?

I glanced at the open front doors. A bit trampled right now.

So what were you doing here, or is that too obvious a question?

Her tone still jarred but I’d ask later about how she felt, when she was off duty with a glass of Merlot in her hand. I had a showing. A couple from the Midwest.

We talk to them yet?

Delgado has. He told me to stick around, so I called Walter and asked if he could drive the Hendersons to the marina. That’s where they left their car.

Walter Bishop was a friend and mentor, a former Pennsylvania State Police commander who’d helped investigate my grandfather’s kidnapping.

What was he doing here?

Walter? I said. He was in the neighborhood, training some of the recruits. His company runs security for half the communities on the barrier islands.

Good thing he’s got your back.

She nodded toward the street as a white van with Gulf Coast News Network stenciled across its side blocked one lane. A slender woman with bright hair slid from the passenger side, followed by a crew of two. The lesser stars in the television universe had to grapple with camera and subject at the same time. I should have been flattered that we rated the full treatment, but any goodwill evaporated as Tony Delgado tromped down the stairs and headed for the TV anchor as soon as her sandaled foot touched the pavement.

The lieutenant looked sharp in a white button-down, khakis and loafers, a paddle holster riding his hip. He had high cheekbones and small ears and hair so black that even in this light it resembled the iridescent blue of a crow’s wing.

Don’t tell me, I said. Leslie Ann Walker.

Roberts. You missed the last divorce. Cheryl wrapped her gum in a piece of crime-scene tape and put the tape in her shirt pocket. She goes through husbands like some women go through shoes.

The TV crew set up quickly and, with an arm on his elbow, Roberts guided the detective into the shot. From where we stood I couldn’t see his eyes but his voice, dark and smooth, carried across the drive like the low rumble of thunder. Angie and I worked for different brokers but I knew it was only a matter of hours before the media would run me to ground.

Tipping her head so that her hair lifted from a shoulder, Roberts asked Delgado to describe what had happened. He did. She wanted to know the identity of the victim. He couldn’t release the name of the deceased until next-of-kin had been notified. They went back and forth—male or female, young or old, dressed or undressed?—but Delgado stuck to the facts. Not that he had many.

Extending the microphone like a sword, the GNN anchor wanted to know who had discovered the body.

Neck suddenly stiff, I began rehearsing a response when Delgado said they weren’t releasing the name, just that it was a local real estate agent who was conducting a tour of the property.

I’d started to breathe again when Roberts pointed toward me and asked, Do you mean her?

Oh, no, I said and took a step back, nearly toppling into the shrubs.

Delgado sidestepped to block her progress and escorted Roberts off the property, saying she couldn’t walk the drive without contaminating the scene. Off camera now, cars snaking around them, they chatted about the ways homeowners could protect themselves. Thanking the lieutenant for the interview, she let her handshake linger before wondering aloud how a tragedy like this could strike in such an upscale neighborhood.

She would say that, I told Cheryl.

Aren’t we a little catty.

I tried to think of a response as Delgado hove into view, eliciting that familiar tingle in my nether regions.

Thanks for saving me, I said.

He’d lowered the sunglasses and presented an expression that thinned his generous lips and made his ears fold back. You’re welcome. He had a trace of an accent, as if there were small picket fences in his diction. And while his voice usually carried a warm tone, today it sounded sharp. Thanks for waiting, but I think we can handle it from here. He headed toward the house.

Propping her hands on the utility belt, Cheryl stared at the growing snarl of rubberneckers on the two-lane road. Gotta go. You gonna be OK?

I have to prep for that agent safety workshop tonight. I tried to get Mary Margaret to postpone, but after today. . . . I took in a breath. Who’s the department sending for the self-defense demo?

Whoever’s available.

Where will you be?

Cheryl inserted another piece of gum. I’m assigned to the community center. Another of the chief’s town hall meetings.

Coffee with a cop, breakfast on the beat. Seems like you guys have a mixer every week.

It ain’t easy being blue.

A whirring noise caught my ear and I looked up to see an officer bicycle toward the house and dismount in the drive. He looked compact, with a rectangular face and a boyish grin that reminded me of a younger version of Walter. Dressed in Spandex top and shorts, he stood with hands on hips, shoulders squared, his eyes hidden behind wraparound sunglasses. The bike shorts bulged with thigh muscles, with a little extra in between.

I don’t see a ring, I said. Is he married?

How should I know? She spooled crime scene tape around her hand.

Dating anyone?

What do I look like, his secretary?

The reaction was short and swift and out of character. Cheryl, I said, It’s a small department.

He works the beach. I never see him.

No offense, I said, but you sound a little defensive.

Who’s defensive?

I held up