Due Justice

Chapter 1

No one noticed me, Wilhelmina, standing off to the side, already five foot six and still growing. Nothing about me was petite or cute, then or now. I was gawky and awkward. Even my earlobes were big.

The only thing Carly and I had in common was red hair and double X chromosomes.

And her family.

My relationship with Carly was born in that minute. Conflicting feelings of awe, jealousy, irritation--and protectiveness. I’d always taken care of Carly and she’d always resisted. She thought she could take care of herself. Experience proved otherwise.

I like to think we’ve both matured in 29 years, but maybe not.

She was all grown up now, but still 110 pounds and 5’2”. Carly’s style was anything but cute. Sporting brightly polished artificial claws and perfect makeup, she was a proud glamour hound. “It’s better to look good than to be good” is her personal creed.

Maybe she can’t be good, or maybe she just doesn’t try.  Either way, the result is the same: whirling dervish in a small, perfect package.

I sighed loudly. Stopped playing with my watery gin and pushed it aside. As much as drinking would have helped, I’d need to keep all my wits about me to deal with Carly, and I was now dangerously short of time.

Too soon, my husband expected more than six hundred guests to attend an AIDS research benefit here in his restaurant. It’s no secret that I hate these shindigs. Not my thing. At all. George might actually have been holding me captive when he extracted my promise to act as hostess. A thousand dollars a plate.  Movers and shakers and poseurs showing up to see and be seen at what they considered their finest. I was hot, sweaty, and still wearing my work clothes.

“OK, the suspense is killing me. I don’t know what it is you have on your mind, but it can’t be that bad.” Realizing I was sticking my neck out, I asked, “What’s up?”

As if she’d been waiting for me to ask, Carly said, “It’s worse than anything you can imagine.”

She said it quietly, with none of her usual bravado.

Impatience deflated like a bayoneted blimp.

“Hey, come on. I have quite an imagination,” I joked. “Just because you haven’t talked to me in a while doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

The truth was that I cared too much. Always had. Never figured out how to toughen up my heart where Carly was concerned.

She smiled a little, sheepishly; seemed to take the edge off.

Carly slumped back in her chair and looked at the water. There were a couple of late afternoon sunfish sailors out, racing back and forth from Davis Islands to a spot 100 yards off the edge of our island, Plant Key.

About a year or two later, or at least it seemed that long as I imagined myself forced to greet senators and celebrities wearing nothing but my underwear, Carly finally started to talk. I resisted the urge to cheer.

“Did you see NewsChannel eight this morning?”

“Why?”

More silence.

She picked up her white wine, took a sip, put it down, picked up the blue paper cocktail napkin, concentrated hard while she folded it into a fan. She never looked directly at me.

I wondered if my deodorant would hold on another eight hours. Maybe I could skip my bath?

“Did you see the news story on the drowning victim?” She finally asked, in a small voice.

Drowning victim? Are you kidding me?

Maybe he drowned, but I hoped he was dead before he went into the water.

Frank Bennett had the report. He’d said pieces of a body were pulled out of Tampa Bay before dawn. The largest portion, the part the sharks hadn’t eaten, was found banging against the pilings of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge in Pinellas County. Hands and feet were bound together by clothesline and tied to heavy cement slabs. Face unrecognizable.

By now, she had shredded the cocktail napkin into tiny blue pieces and dropped them all over the deck. I remember thinking foolishly that she’d need collagen on those frown lines next week if she didn’t relax.

I nodded encouragement to keep the words flowing because I couldn’t fathom Carly involved in murder. The possibility didn’t surface.

“Let me ask you a hypothetical question,” Carly said.

That very second, I knew.  She wasn’t looking for sisterly advice. Not the usual boyfriend trouble or help with credit card bills. Carly was involved in something much, much worse. My body shivered with visceral certainty even before my brain acknowledged.

I should have stopped her right there.  Should have cloaked us both with appropriate protections. I knew what to do. I knew how to do it.

But did I even try to dodge the bullet I saw coming straight at me? No. So how much smarter had all those Detroit homicides made me?