Palm Beach Perfidious, page 1
Also by Tom Turner
Charlie Crawford Mysteries
Palm Beach Nasty
Palm Beach Poison
Palm Beach Deadly
Palm Beach Bones
Palm Beach Pretenders
Palm Beach Predator
Palm Beach Broke
Palm Beach Bedlam
Palm Beach Blues
Palm Beach Taboo
Palm Beach Piranha
Nick Janzek Charleston Mysteries
Killing Time in Charleston
Charleston Buzz Kill
Charleston Noir
Savannah Sleuth Sisters Murder Mysteries
The Savannah Madam
Savannah Road Kill
Dying for a Cocktail
Broken House
Dead in the Water
Copyright © 2022 by Tom Turner. All rights reserved.
Published by Tribeca Press
This book is a work of fiction.
Similarities to actual events, places, persons or other entities are coincidental.
www.tomturnerbooks.com
PALM BEACH PERFIDIOUS
_______________
CHARLIE CRAWFORD PALM BEACH MYSTERIES BOOK 12
TOM TURNER
TRIBECA PRESS
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CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
DYING FOR A COCKTAIL
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
Audio Books
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank the following for their support, feedback, opinions, and—in several cases—just being incredibly loyal readers: George and Betsy Longstreth, Kathy Lombardo, Phoebe Dean, Maria Gerrity, Henry Hagan, Peter Farnum and John Gorsline.
ONE
The headline in the Palm Beach Daily Reporter, known locally as The Glossy, read: “Palm Beach Society Matron Brutally Murdered.” Two observations: one, forty-three-year-old Antonia von Habsburg would have objected mightily to being referred to as a “matron”—society or otherwise—and, two, the phrase “Brutally Murdered” had to have been among the biggest understatements of any headline ever to appear in the august publication.
*****
You needed to have an exceedingly strong stomach to have been present at the crime scene on Dunbar Road where Antonia von Habsburg’s body was found. Fact is, one relatively new crime-scene tech had already bolted from the room looking for a handy toilet to retch in. Charlie Crawford knew instantly that it was, by far, the most gruesome crime scene he had ever presided over. And he had been around some pretty grisly ones. Crawford had a theory, right off the bat, about what had inspired the horrifying murder of Antonia von Habsburg, and it was quickly confirmed by his partner, Mort Ott, when he arrived at the crime scene a little after Crawford.
Normally, Ott would get down in a crouch and studiously examine the body of a victim of foul play. He’d carefully study all the possible causes of the death and available clues before coming to any conclusions, but in this case, he took one long look at the victim from a standing position. There was no need to crouch, no need to hear the snap, crackle, and pop of Ott’s football-injured knee as he lowered himself to the victim. No, this time, a standing observation from a few feet away was all he needed.
He glanced over at Crawford. “Game of Thrones, huh?”
“Yeah, Dominica thinks they used it in one of those Fast & Furious movies, too,” Crawford said, looking over at Dominica McCarthy, crime-scene tech extraordinaire and his special friend.
Ten feet away, Dominica was down on all fours and clad in unflattering blue pants and a Crime Scene T-shirt. Wearing vinyl gloves, she had just picked up something with tweezers and placed it in an evidence bag. Hearing Crawford’s comment, she nodded, but didn’t look up. “I forget which episode. Pretty sure Vin Diesel wasn’t in it, though,” she said.
Ott glanced over at her. “Maybe 2 Fast, 2 Furious, the second one?”
Dominica shrugged. “Coulda been,” she said and went back to her tweezer work.
They were referring to rat tortures, in which a victim is tied up and immobilized on their back and a rat is placed in a metal bucket on the victim’s chest or stomach. Then the bucket is heated up by way of a blowtorch or other source of heat. The rat, eager to escape the heat… well, you get the idea.
In this case, Antonia von Habsburg—naked—had a blue paisley necktie stuffed in her mouth. Right below her breasts and rib cage, the frenzied rat had punctured, invaded, and rendered her small and large intestines, pancreas, liver, and gallbladder inoperative.
Confirmation of the method used was a tipped-over aluminum bucket on the marble floor several feet away from the victim.
“Never seen anything like it,” Ott said, shaking his head. “Movies don’t do it justice.”
Crawford nodded. “Not even close.”
Crawford glanced over at Dominica who was now on the floor dusting the bucket for fingerprints.
“Anything there?” Crawford asked her.
“Nah,” she said, looking up. “It was wiped clean.”
“Question is,” Ott said, “what happened to the rat?”
“Front door was left open,” said Crawford. “He could be in the next county by now.”
“So what do we know about her?” Ott asked, flicking his head in the direction of the victim.
“Not much,” Crawford said. “Just that her name is Antonia von Habsburg, and her cleaning lady found her.”
“She like royalty or something?” Ott asked.
“Oh, the name? I don’t know,” Crawford said. “I looked around a little. Saw a Poinciana Club book which lists all the members in her library, a letter from The Four Arts, and another one from the Norton Museum on her desk.”
“Sounds like a bona fide member of the old guard, huh?”
Crawford pointed. “Except how many society women have a Harley-Davidson logo tattooed on their upper thigh.”
“What?” This time Ott did get into his crouch for a closer look. “Ho-ly shit. Looks like she tried to have it removed.”
“I agree, but the fact that it was there in the first place doesn’t add up at all.”
“Yeah,” Ott said, “and the way she died is like something a Mexican drug cartel would come up with.”
TWO
Beneath the glaring headline in the Glossy, the article began: “Antonia von Habsburg, 43, was discovered at her mansion on Dunbar Road this Monday morning, the victim of a sadistic murder, according to Palm Beach Police. Ms. Habsburg was thought to have been raised in the Austrian countryside, though no records have been found to confirm this. It appears further that she had been married once but it is not known whether she had children. It has been confirmed that Ms. Habsburg was a member of the Poinciana Club, the President’s Circle of The Society of the Four Arts, and a board member of the Norton Museum, where she was known to be a generous donor and had an exhibition room named in her honor. Homicide Detective Mort Ott noted, ‘It’s too early to comment on the case,’ but said the department would keep us informed as the investigation unfolds.”
In truth, Ott never said he’d keep anyone informed of anything. And, fact was, the only ones he would keep informed would be his boss Chief Norm Rutledge and partner Charlie Crawford, who’d be up to speed on everything anyway. Thus far, the crime-scene techs—who Crawford and Ott agreed were as good as or better than any either had worked with in New York or Cleveland, their respective old stomping grounds—had come up with zilch. No fingerprints, no clothing fibers, no DNA whatsoever. Nothing but the found items relating to the victim herself.
So, at just past five thirty that afternoon, Crawford and Ott planned to hunker down in the palatial Mediterranean at the corner of Dunbar and North Ocean Boulevard for as long as it took to find something—anything—that would shed light on the life and death of Antonia von Habsburg. Ordinarily, they would have gotten permission to go through the house from next of kin, but no one had come forward or been found who claimed to be
Thus far, they had combed the ground floor of the von Habsburg mansion and had yet to come up with anything of value. They then decided that Ott would cover the upstairs while Crawford would look inside the substantial guesthouse located on the other side of the pool and tennis court.
A bedroom in the guesthouse turned out to be a gold mine. Von Habsburg had a large antique Victorian twin-pedestal desk under a portrait of an unsmiling couple dressed in costumes that Crawford guessed were from the nineteenth century. He further suspected they might be the victim’s Austrian relatives… but then there was that Harley tattoo. That just didn’t jibe at all.
The old desk had four drawers on either side and one in the top center. Crawford’s instinct was to first start at the back of the bottom drawer on the right. Over the years, that’s where he’d found people filed things that they least wanted others to see. Although in Palm Beach, many of its residents deposited their valuables and secret documents in wall safes—typically in large walk-in closets—or safe-deposit boxes at their banks. Crawford hit the jackpot at the back of the bottom drawer all right, but it was the one on the left, which led him to believe that von Habsburg might have been left-handed. Inside a green Pendaflex hanging file he found more mysteries than answers. First thing he came across was a birth certificate from the state of New Hampshire that said one Antoinette Huber had been born forty-eight years ago at the Elliot Community Hospital in Keene, the daughter of Tobias and Emilia Huber.
Something told him that Antoinette Huber was, in fact, Antonia von Habsburg, the victim of the rapacious rat, and that she had at some point morphed into the daughter of royalty, totally reinventing herself. Not to mention that (as people often do) she had shaved five years off her age.
Next thing he found was a marriage certificate. The bride was, once again, Antoinette Huber, and the groom a man named Larry Victor Wurfel.
Crawford had his phone out ready to dial when he heard a door open downstairs.
“Mort?”
“Yeah, where you at?”
“Bedroom upstairs, left at the top of the stairs.”
Crawford heard Ott’s thudding footsteps as he dialed his cell phone.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Bettina, it’s Charlie,” he said to the Palm Beach Police Department receptionist, who always complained she never had enough to keep her active mind busy. She also got mad if you shortened her name to Betty. “Do me a favor and run a background on a woman named Antoinette Huber. See if Antonia von Habsburg and Antoinette Huber are the same person. I’m ninety-five percent sure they are. And while you’re at it, check out her husband or ex-husband, too,”—he read the name on the Certificate of Marriage—“Larry Victor Wurfel.”
“On it,” Bettina said, new purpose invigorating her at the end of a long workday. She loved to dig and always got back to him fast.
“What’s up?” Ott asked, walking into the bedroom.
Crawford held up the birth certificate and Certificate of Marriage. “Surprise, surprise. Somebody else in Palm Beach who reinvented themself.”
“What a shocker. Our Antonia?”
Crawford cocked his head. “Is that a literary reference, Mort?”
“Only book I ever read at Cuyahoga Community College.”
“I’m impressed,” Crawford said. “So, it appears likely she started out life as Antoinette Huber in a small town in New Hampshire.”
“So not a castle in Bavaria?”
Crawford shook his head and laughed. “Remember that time when you told me Andorra, between Spain and France, was an island in the Caribbean?”
“Kinda.”
“Well, another geography correction: Bavaria is in Germany, not Austria.”
Ott shrugged. “So shoot me.”
“I got Bettina doin’ a background on Antonia or Antoinette. Meantime, I was about to take a look at this,”—he held up a document—“her will.”
“Shit, man, we allowed to look at that?” Ott asked. “Without permission?”
“Sure. Judge said everything in the house was fair game,” he said, slipping the document out of a thick, open-ended envelope and reading, “‘The Last Will and Testament of Antonia von Habsburg.’ Wow, check out that coat of arms after her name.”
Ott leaned closer. “A red lion with blue claws and a blue crown. Looks a little hokey to me.”
“Yeah? What’s the House of Ott coat of arms look like?”
Ott thought for a moment. “A pizza with a Budweiser can on either side,” he said. “But I think we’re looking for her beneficiaries, right?”
“Yeah, but we’ll take whatever we can get at this point.”
“Agreed,” Ott said, as they hunched over the first page of the will.
“Ready?” Crawford asked as he finished page one, which was ninety percent boilerplate.
Ott nodded, and Crawford turned the page.
Nothing of any consequence on either page 2 or page 3. But on page 4…
“That’s a church?” Ott said, dumbfounded.
He was referring to the “give and bequeath” line, which stated that virtually everything Antonia von Habsburg owned went to a church named The Five Wanderers of Gethsemane, located at 200 Crestwood Boulevard in Royal Palm Beach, Florida. Stocks, bonds, real estate, paintings, stamp collections, art, clothes, electronics, appliances, books, musical instruments—a list of more than thirty items were individually named and were part of the haul that The Five Wanderers of Gethsemane would receive when Antonia’s estate was probated.
“Christ,” Ott said. “She couldn’t keep it simple and just give it to Bethesda?”
He was referring to the historic Episcopal church in Palm Beach, Bethesda-by-the-Sea, located only a few blocks from the von Habsburg estate.
“Question is, why the hell would she drive all the way out to East Jesus to go to church?” Crawford asked.
“East Jesus? You mean, in keeping with the religious theme?” Ott said, then added, “You know, I always thought ‘give and bequeath’ was kind of redundant. I mean, ‘give’ or ‘bequeath’ is enough, isn’t it? No way you need both.”
But Crawford was back to reading the will. “Well, that’s it. The church is the only beneficiary,” he said, looking up at Ott. “By the way, you find anything in the main house?”
“Found her computer and cell phone in the master,” Ott said. “I’m guessing they might have a clue or two on ’em. Problem is, they’re both off.”
Crawford frowned. “Meaning we need passwords.”
“Exactly.”
“Damn.”
Crawford’s cell phone rang. He clicked on speakerphone so Ott could hear. “Hey, Bettina, whatcha got?”
“Well, first of all, as you suspected, Antonia von Habsburg and Antoinette Huber are one and the same. Born in some town in New Hampshire—”
“Yeah, that I know.”
“Seems like she and her ex-husband, Larry Victor Wurfel, moved to Riviera Beach back in 2001. He has a sheet for a couple pretty minor things—”
“Like what?”
“Impersonating a police officer, falsifying documents, and—wait a second—criminal mischief, whatever that might be.”
“How about her?”
“Clean as the proverbial whistle. Nothing. Not even a traffic ticket.”
“So when they moved down here in 2001, was her name Huber or von Habsburg?”
“I was just getting to that,” Bettina said. “She had it legally changed in 2002. That same year she set up an LLC called Distinguished Consorts, LLC.”
Ott creased his brow and said, “What the hell is that?”
Bettina heard him. “Oh, you got Mort there,” she said. “Hey, Mort.”
“Hey, Bettina,” Ott said. “A consort is like a… companion, right?”
“Yes,” Bettina said. “Sort of a highfalutin word for it.”
“What else you got?” Crawford asked.
“Jeez, Charlie, that’s it. You only asked me to do this like ten minutes ago.”
