Murder Comes to Elysium: The Addie Gorsky Mysteries, #3

By Daryl Anderson

Tender Mercies Psychiatric Hospital is one of the darker places in the Sunshine State, so no one is surprised when young college student Elena Santos dies while under its care.

Even though Elena's death appears to result from a severe allergic reaction, the family asks PI Addie Gorsky to investigate. Though still mourning her father's death, Addie takes the case.

But soon the inconsistencies surrounding Elena's death start piling up, with the tight-lipped and paranoid staff blocking Addie's investigation at every turn. After discovering that Elena was not the inexperienced college student described by her family, but a woman with a haunted past, Addie takes drastic action to unlock the secrets of the Tender Mercies.

Soon Addie is plunged into a deadly chess match with an unseen opponent, a grand master of murder always one step ahead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mob City Books
• Release date: Mar 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393651550

Daryl Anderson

DARYL ANDERSON is a USA Today Bestselling mystery writer and author of the Addie Gorsky Mysteries as well as the new series of supernatural mysteries The Murderer’s Apprentice. For Daryl, the road to becoming a writer was pretty twisted—not unlike one of her plots. After burning through several careers—including teaching English and a stint as a psych nurse in a crisis stabilization unit—her husband suggested she try her hand at writing fiction. Being nobody’s fool, Daryl jumped on the offer. A couple of manuscripts later, she was over the moon when her debut mystery Murder in Mystic Cove hit the USA Today Bestseller list. Since then, Daryl hasn’t looked back. Though a longtime resident of Florida, Daryl recently traded all that heat and sunshine for the cool, rainy vistas of Washington state. When not plotting her latest homicide, you might find her hiking a lonesome woodland trail with her nutty dog Pitch, always on the lookout for where the bodies are buried.

Book preview

Chapter 1

AN OCTOBER WIND BLEW the clouds away, revealing a pale moon in a black sky. Staring like a Cyclopean eye, it sent shivers of opalescent light over the dark woods and hammocks of China Rose. I reached for my beer, then remembered I’d finished it. There was more in the fridge, but I didn’t move.

Why was loss more keenly felt at night?

Maybe because days were more easily filled. Filled with putting in your eight hours on the job or getting the car fixed, or binge watching Game of Thrones. But daylight didn’t last forever, not even in the Sunshine State. At some point we all had to face the long night alone.

I miss you, Pop, I whispered. The small dog curled at my feet looked up.

You miss him, too, don’t you, Jinks? I scratched the old pug’s knobby head as a burst of raucous laughter drifted over the woods from China Rose Bar, mocking my solitude.

As a former homicide detective in Baltimore and now a private investigator in Florida, I was no stranger to death, but the events of last July refused to stay buried. Last night, after working through the better part of a fifth of bourbon, I’d taken the desperate step of phoning my sister Angie back home in Baltimore. After I’d vented, Ang had trotted out the platitudes.

I know it’s hard, Addie. You and Pop were so close.

He was a good father to all of us, I said, my jaw tightening. Pop had loved all five of his daughters.

Angie sighed. All I meant was that you took care of Pop these last two years. It’s going to take time for you to get used to his being gone.

Angie had the facts, but not the truth. It was Pop who had taken care of me. When my career with Baltimore City Police had unraveled along with the economy, I’d hightailed it to north Florida. Ostensibly to be with my ailing father, but really I was just running away. Still, with Pop in my corner, I’d put the pieces of my life together. Now he was gone.

And it’s not just losing Pop, Ang was saying, your whole life has changed.

No shit. Last July when I’d found the person who killed Harry Pitts, the owner of China Rose Fish Camp, Harry’s grateful sister signed over the aging fish came to me as payment in full. I almost refused the deal—China Rose was more money pit than financial opportunity—but after Pop’s death I needed to go somewhere. China Rose seemed as good a place as any.

The thing is, I feel I owe Pop.

Angie tsked. This isn’t about debt. You need to give yourself time to grieve. It’s that simple.

At that point I gave up trying to explain. My sister meant well, but she was wrong on both counts. Grief wasn’t simple, and any relationship—even that between the living and the dead—always involved a debt.

I was about to go inside for that other beer when my cell signaled a call. It was Moss, calling from China Rose Bar. Most Saturday nights Moss was up to his elbows in drunks and weekend warriors. This wasn’t a casual call.

I got trouble, Addie, Moss said, sounding like a man down to his last dime.

What kind of trouble?

Your kind.

Not good. My kind of trouble usually involved a body count.

I’ll be there in five.

No, I’m already on my way home, Moss said. Can you stop at the bar around nine tomorrow morning?

Sure, but first tell me what’s wrong.

A heavy breath and he said, It can wait.

Like hell. After ending the call, I shrugged into my jacket and grabbed the car keys. If this really was my kind of trouble, delay wasn’t an option.

Parking was tight at China Rose, so I drove to the employee lot on the far side of the building. I eased my coal-black vintage Crown Victoria in Moss’s usual spot and walked to the entrance.

China Rose Bar had sat on its perch overlooking Lake Okpulo since the twenties. Tonight the old gal looked pretty damn good. With its fresh coat of white paint and twinkling fairy lights, it glowed like a lighthouse in the vast Southern darkness.

At first I thought I’d have to shut down the bar, much as I liked the idea of a watering hole in my backyard. That’s when Moss, who’d worked for Harry Pitts for years, offered to manage the place for me. Instead, I took him on as partner, with the understanding he’d buy me out as soon as possible. So far it’s worked out. I have a place to drink, and Moss has a thriving business.

If not for Moss, China Rose would have been shuttered, just another haunted house in a haunted land. I owed him big-time. Like I said, there’s always a debt.

I exited the Vic and headed inside. The employees at China Rose were a gossipy bunch. I hoped one of them might give me the lowdown on Moss’ trouble. The joint was packed. Folks lounged on chairs and rockers on the wraparound porch of the cracker-style house. Easing out the wrinkles from a long week of work with beer and conversation. I scanned for a familiar face, but the barman and waitress were both new hires. When I peeked in the kitchen, the only person there was the kid washing dishes.

Jorge’s English wasn’t so great, but right now he was my only option. I was trying to get the kid’s attention when the waitress pushed through the double doors.

A trim, forty-something woman in jeans and a tight China Rose polo top, her arms were laden with dirty plates. Seeing me, she almost dropped her load, but quickly recovered. The dishes clattered onto the metal counter. She wiped her hands on the side towel tucked into her apron.

You’re Addie, she said with a crooked grin.

Have we met? I asked, certain we hadn’t.

My name’s Lou and no, we haven’t met. But I’d know you anywhere.

This made sense, though there was nothing extraordinary in my appearance. I’m in my thirties, on the short side of average height, with dark brown eyes and short black hair. But my Baltimore accent and city ways made me stick out like a fly on a wedding cake in rural Grubber County.

Have you a minute? I’d like to talk to you.

Her lips turned downward, the temperature dropping several degrees. Depends what you wanna talk about, ma’am.

I sighed at the ma’am. I thought I’d gotten used to the Southern propensity for ma’am, but not from a woman who wasn’t that much older than I. Sometimes I really missed Charm City.

I spoke to Moss. I know he’s in trouble. I’d like to help, but first I need to know what’s happened.

Lou’s brows knitted. She blew back a strand of dyed blonde hair that had worked loose of her ponytail, her gray eyes thoughtful. I waited. Sometimes people just needed a little time to make the right decision. Which was what Lou did.

It started during happy hour when the lady called. Lou gestured at the ancient phone on the wall. She said her name was Talia Santos. Lou paused. I shook my head at the unfamiliar name.

Anyways Lou continued, she said she had to talk to Moss right away. She sounded real upset, so I did like she asked. At first the boss didn’t want to take the call because we were getting slammed. But when I told Moss her name, he turned kinda white. Lou strangled a nervous laugh. Sorry, it’s just I never seen a black man turn pale.

Moss was a light-skinned African-American whose copper complexion was a legacy of his Seminole forebears. I nodded for Lou to continue.

Well, Moss ran to the phone like a man on fire. The conversation didn’t last long, but whatever that woman said hit him like a ton of bricks. A blush crept over her cheeks. Uh, I happened to be in the kitchen when he took the call.

I understand. Far be it from me to criticize. Eavesdropping was a PI’s bread and butter.

It was mostly a one-sided conversation, all on the other side. When he hung up, I asked him what was wrong and Moss said his little girl got killed.

Little girl? I didn’t know he had a little girl.

Me neither. Turns out the girl was his niece Elena.

Did he say how she died?

Not exactly, Lou said, chewing her lip. But before the boss locked himself up in his office, he said that the Mercies had killed his little girl.

That doesn’t make sense. Are you sure those were his words?

Lou pulled a face. Of course I’m sure! And I know your friends at the Sheriff’s Office must have told you about Tender Mercies Psychiatric.

That a woman I’d never spoken to before knew of my special relationship with the Grubber County Sheriff’s Office proved again that there were no secrets in a small community like Mineola, the town I now called home. But at least I made the connection with the Mercies.

Tender Mercies Psychiatric was a mental health facility in Mount Pleasant, another tiny dot on the map of Grubber County. I’d never seen the place, but every cop in the tri-county area had a bad story to tell about their Acute Care Unit.

Thanks, Lou. I’ll be in the office for a while if you think of anything else, I said, referring to the small office that Moss and I shared.

Harry’s old office? Lou asked, her eyes big.

Yes, I said, resigned that for most folks in Mineola, the office would always be Harry’s.

I poured a cup of coffee and trudged to the office in the rear of the building. Moss had left in a hurry, uncharacteristically forgetting to turn off both the desk light and computer. I sat behind Harry’s old wooden desk to ponder my next move.

As the Mercies was in Grubber County, I could call my friends at GCSO for the story on Elena’s death, but first I needed basic information. As it stood, I didn’t know Elena’s last name or age, or even when the girl had died. But a death at the Mercies would be big news in Grubber County. An internet survey of the local media should provide some answers.

When my hand closed over the mouse, the dark screen came to life. A moment later a pretty young woman smiled from her Facebook page. I couldn’t believe my luck when I read the accompanying name: Elena Santos. Moss had been looking at Elena’s page and forgotten to log out.

God, the girl was beautiful. She shared Moss’s bright coloring, though her hair was a deep auburn. She reminded me a bit of Angie’s eldest girl Tess, a spirited teenager who was the image of her Irish father. But Elena’s shy smile was touched with sadness, as if she’d known what life held in store.

Slouching back in the chair, I sipped my coffee and debated what to do. Now that I had Elena’s name and access to her Facebook page, I could connect the dots of her life. Though judging by her measly eleven friends, there might not be much to glean from Facebook. But a few hours on the internet would tell me much more. Or I could just wait and talk to Moss in the morning. That would be the tactful thing to do.

I grabbed the mouse and got to work. Tact had never been my strong point. A few hours later, I’d cobbled together the outline of a lost life.

Elena Santos was the only child of Talia and Roberto Santos. Because Talia called Moss with the news, I assumed Moss’s relation to his niece was through Talia, though she was pretty young to be Moss’s kid sister.

When Elena was eight, the family relocated to Elysium, another Florida small town. Earlier this year, Elena returned to the area when she started college in Newnansville, a college town in neighboring Okpulo County to the north.

Now that I knew something of Elena’s life, it was time to learn about her death. Though China Rose was shutting down for the night, I knew a place where the fun was just getting started.

I grabbed my cell. A moment later, a gruff voice answered.

Jesus, Addie! Berry bellowed. From the background noise, The GCSO officer was at Donovan’s, a cop bar that was his second home. Tell me you’re not going to ruin my night.

Ignoring this, I said, Congratulations on your promotion, Sergeant.

Dealing with Berry always involved a lot of grease, or butter, as the case may be.

No big deal, he said, then explained why it was such a big deal. When he finished blowing his own horn, Berry said, Funny you should call—Sheriff Spooner asked where you been hidin’ these days.

My pulse jumped at the mention of Brad Spooner. He was the first real friend I made in Florida, but somewhere along the way the friendship had gotten . . . well, complicated. Figuring my life was complicated enough, I started avoiding Brad. Which was really fucked, because there’s no one else I’d rather spend time with.

I’ve been busy getting settled at China Rose, I said, though Berry’s pointed silence told me he knew this was BS. I have something I’d like to talk over with you. Want to stop by my place for a nightcap?

Berry was agreeable until he realized I meant my bungalow and not China Rose Bar. Like most people in Grubber County, he was reluctant to pay a social call at the house where Harry Pitts was murdered. What’s on your mind, Addie?

Elena Santos, she’s—

I know who she is, Berry said, his tone several degrees cooler. What about her?

Were you at the scene of death? I had a fifty-fifty shot at being right as Berry was one-half of Grubber County’s detective squad.

Yeah, I got there when the paramedics were working on her, but she was already gone. Berry slurped something. Probably scotch, his poison of choice.

Any word on cause of death?

Dolores did her preliminary and said COD was most likely anaphylactic shock, though she’ll finish her autopsy tomorrow.

Grubber County Coroner Dolores Rio was a careful professional. If she was comfortable in citing cause of death, I could put money on it.

The poor kid was eatin’ a chocolate bar when it happened, Berry continued. Her mother said she’d been allergic to peanuts since she was a kid. Trust me, there’s nothing fishy here, unless you count what came after.

I sat up straight. What came after?

Berry made a sound, as if he’d let something slip he would have rather kept hidden. All hell broke loose.

When Elena collapsed inside the van, the other recently discharged ACU patients went into free fall. While an aide administered CPR, the frightened driver pulled onto the side of the road. He herded the panicked passengers from the van where they collectively freaked out.

One of them—a girl who couldn’t be more than eighteen—went bananas. Finally, we had to Baker Act her. I hated sending her back to the Mercies, but she was gonna hurt herself.

In Florida, the Baker Act was a means to commit individuals to a psych facility for observation. After commiserating with Berry about the unfortunate girl, I asked what the witnesses said.

The driver and aide pretty much said the same thing. Elena ate the chocolate and collapsed.

And what did the passengers say?

A pause, then Berry admitted he didn’t get statements from the former patients.

Oh, I said, which got Berry’s defensive juices flowing.

"In an ideal situation, I woulda gotten statements, but things were pretty chaotic! Then on top of everything else, this idiot reporter from the Chronicle showed up."

I stifled a laugh. Usually Berry went out of his way to accommodate the media, but the Grubber County Chronicle was a rinky-dink online publication with a readership in the double digits, unworthy of his attention.

Can I have a look at the witness statements? I asked.

Some heavy breathing and Berry said, I guess, but I’ll have to redact their names.

You’re kidding.

I’m serious as a heart attack. Those jerks at the Mercies are Nazis when it comes to their privacy. The last thing I need is them on my ass.

Fine, I said, tired of jousting. Just give me what you can.

I’ll poke around tomorrow and see what else I can find out. Anything else? You’re really cutting into my drinking time here.

What brand of chocolate bar caused Elena’s attack?

What the fuck you care? Berry said. It was one of those dark chocolate jobs. The name was kind of ironic. It’s on the tip of my tongue. Nope, it’s gone. If it’s really important, I’ll check and let you know tomorrow.

I told him it was important. Berry was a hardworking cop, but if the superficial details fit the narrative, he didn’t dig too deeply. That he’d forgotten the name of the candy bar that precipitated Elena’s death was a case in point. You see, all Berry saw was a candy bar.

I saw the instrument of death.

Chapter 2

I WOKE BEFORE DAWN, and though more sleep would be nice, I knew it was no good. Rather than toss in bed, I got up.

A shower and a cup of java juice jolted tired synapses while a toasted bagel filled the hole in my stomach. I took my coffee and laptop and headed for the patio as the sun rose over the woods of China Rose.

First stop was the Tender Mercies website, which included a personnel page for administrative big shots. The Mercies ran a slew of psychiatric programs, including detox, methadone clinic, and outpatient services. After a brief hunt I found two names connected with the ACU: Dr. Alphonse Crevasse, the head shrink, and supervisor Tammy Gunn.

I entered their office numbers into my cell and moved on.

To my surprise, none of the local media had noted a death at the Mercies. But Berry had mentioned a reporter from the Grubber County Chronicle on the scene. Fingers tapping, I found the online edition of the Chronicle. Although the issue had today’s date, there was nothing about Elena.

I sat back and drank my coffee. Before I jumped to conspiracy theories, I needed to think this through. As there was no way a publicity hound like Berry had mixed up his reporters, the reporter—for whatever reason—had not filed the story. I wanted to know why. With nothing to lose, I tried the number for the Chronicle and was surprised when someone picked up.

Jubal Ball, Editor. The speaker’s husky voice made it impossible to tell whether Jubal was a miss or a mister.

Hello, my name is Addie Gorsky.

The private eye?

That’s right, I said. Before I could say why I was calling, Jubal Ball beat me to the punch.

I bet you wanna know about the girl who died, the one from the Mercies.

Well, yes. I have a few questions.

I’ll be glad to scratch your back, but you got to be willin’ to return the favor. I’ll be at the Dixie Diner at eleven, if you’re interested.

Though well aware I was being hustled, I took the bait. How will I know you?

Oh, honey, Jubal said with a throaty chuckle. You can’t hardly miss me.

At China Rose, Lou stocked glassware behind the bar.

Did you sleep here? I asked, heading for the coffeepot. Since taking over, Moss had started buying beans from a local roaster in Newnansville. Today’s coffee was Sumatra.

I could say the same about you. Lou straightened and rubbed the small of her back.

I told her I was expecting Moss, and that I’d be on the back patio.

It was a clear morning, the sun sparkling over Lake Okpulo’s mirrored surface. I leaned over the rail, searching for Big Ben. Although two small gators lazed on the far shore, Lake Okpulo’s biggest and baddest reptile was nowhere in sight—and twenty-foot bull gators were hard to miss.

At that moment, the skies erupted into raucous cries. An armada of great birds formed a lazy V against the morning sky, a winged horde of silvery blue and white birds with wingspans of over six feet. Their deep-throated trills passed over the land like rolling thunder.

The sandhill cranes are back, a soft voice said.

I turned. Until that moment, I’d never considered Moss as old, but now I noticed the gray hairs among the copper and the deep lines around his face. He joined me at the rail.

Each year the sandhills fly south to spend the winter with us at China Rose. Not as many as they used to be, though.

Lou told me about Elena, Moss. I’m so sorry for your loss.

A sorrow beyond words passed over his face. Come in the kitchen, and I’ll scramble us up some eggs. Then we’ll talk.

Though I was tired of delay, my stomach growled assent. Moss threw several slabs of thick bacon on the grill and started cracking eggs into an aluminum bowl. When I reminded him I didn’t eat bacon, he showed a little of his customary fire.

I know you don’t eat hog. Moss’s fork whipped against the bowl in machine-gun rhythm. I thought you could take some bacon home to your dog.

As I scooted a stool to the counter, it occurred to me that Jinks was an old man’s dog. He liked me all right, but he had loved Pop. And now Moss had found a place in his Pug’s heart—and vice versa.

Are you serving breakfast now? I asked, waving at the flat of brown eggs.

A loud hiss as the eggs hit the pan. Those are for the blood moon.

Damn, I’d forgotten about the blood moon. For reasons I didn’t care to understand, Tuesday night’s full moon would be rimmed in red, and the Astronomy Association of Newnansville had paid Moss hard cash for the privilege of viewing it from China Rose’s back patio. Moss planned to cap off the festivities with a breakfast buffet. As Moss plated, I made a mental note to be somewhere else on Tuesday. China Rose had seen its share of blood without the fucking moon getting into the act.

We ate in silence for several minutes. I did the food justice, but Moss mostly rearranged his on the plate. Finally, he gave up and pushed the plate away.

I suppose you know what I’m going to ask. I want you to look into Elena’s death.

I nodded. As a matter of fact, I spoke with Berry last night. He insists Elena’s death was an accident. She ate a piece of chocolate that contained peanuts and went into shock.

Berry’s wrong, Moss said, his voice implacable. Elena’s dealt with her allergy all her life. She never went nowhere without her EpiPen. And it’s my understanding the pen wasn’t found with her belongings. So where is it?

Good question.

Second, Elena would never eat anything with peanuts. Why would she eat something she knew would kill her?

I nodded, but didn’t buy Moss’s second point. Maybe Elena wouldn’t have knowingly eaten peanuts, but what about unknowingly? If the chocolate had been processed at a factory that also handled nuts, then that trace amount of peanuts might have been enough of a trigger. I once read about a young woman who went into shock right after kissing her boyfriend, who’d eaten a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup several hours earlier. And there was another factor Moss conveniently glossed over.

Elena had just been discharged from a psych facility so there were questions about her mental state. For now, I kept these concerns to myself and cut to the chase.

Give me a dollar, I said, holding out my hand. Moss gave a little head jerk, but silently extracted a single from his wallet. I pocketed the bill.

You’ve hired yourself a PI.

Thanks, Addie.

It was a small favor, though Elena’s status as a psychiatric patient complicated the job. The privacy protections attached to the mentally ill were the equivalent of a moat filled with hungry crocodiles. If I’d known how many crocodiles, maybe I would have asked for more than a buck.

Moss frowned when I told him I needed background on his niece, beginning with his exact relationship to her.

Truth to tell, Elena’s my great niece.

Moss explained that his brother Rodney married a woman named Jewel, who had grown up with the Moss family as a sort of informally adopted daughter. Talia was Jewel’s only child. It’s a blessing she didn’t live to see this.

And your brother?

He died with Jewel, he said, his voice tightening. A car accident, a long time ago.

Maybe so, but the loss still burned. And there was something else in Moss’s eyes, something like the drawing of a curtain.

"I’m curious. Why did Robby and Talia leave Grubber County in the first place?

Moss’s frown deepened. Ancient history, Addie. Not important.

I’d still like to know.

Moss ran a hand through his cropped hair. Robby worried about the gang element in Grubber County.

Gang element? I’d worked homicide in Baltimore, where gangs weren’t an element but a way of life. The closest I’d seen to a gang element in Grubber County were the teenage boys who hung out at the Stop and Shop in downtown Mineola on Saturday nights, ogling girls and making smart-aleck remarks to the oldsters.

What gang element? I asked Moss, who laughed.

I always thought Robby really moved to Elysium because there weren’t too many Santos or Garcias in Grubber County back then. Him being from the DR, I think he wanted to be around his people. Belleview County has a lot of agriculture, so there are more Hispanic folks there. Moss dumped his cold coffee and poured a fresh one.

How did the move work out?

Okay. Robby and Talia opened a Mexican restaurant that’s done pretty good.

A typical American success story, I thought with a smile. An African-American woman and a Dominican man open a Mexican place in a chicken-fried town. But successful restaurant aside, my friend hadn’t like them leaving. When I said as much, Moss admitted he missed his niece.

"That little girl used to stop by the Double D every day after school