Nicole answered after three rings. “Hello?” she said over a cacophony of music and screams in the background.
“Hi, Nicole? This is Roz Melander. We met at the book signing on Saturday.”
“Roz. Of course, Roz! You almost got drafted into babysitting. Sorry about that.”
Roz chuckled. “I wouldn’t have minded for five minutes. Anything longer than that, we’d have to negotiate. Besides, I’m way out of practice.”
“Be careful what you volunteer for! Teens are so busy these days, it’s hard to find one free on a Saturday. I’m always looking.” Her voice dropped in volume as she apparently held the phone away from her mouth. “Gabriela! Stop screeching and turn down the TV! I don’t want Diego to wake up!” Then she was back to Roz. “Sorry about that. I just got him asleep, and she’s all wound up after VPK. What can I do for you?”
“I work for the paper, as I think you know, and I have some questions you or your husband might be able to help me with. Do you think I could drop by?”
Nicole waited a moment to answer. “Can you tell me what this is about?”
“Sure. We’re trying to figure out who might be doing a construction project by the airport and thought someone in the Esquivel family might know. I immediately thought of you.” That was good, Roz thought. Truthful but vague—acknowledging Nicole as a valuable source—and no mention of a possible murder.
“OK.” Nicole’s reply held a note of relief. “Seb is working from home today. You might as well come over.”
Roz wondered how anyone could work with that din—the TV and screeching only slightly less loud than before—but she jumped on the offer, got the address and was soon driving toward Saturn Shores, one of the nicer southside neighborhoods. She glimpsed a few of its waterfront houses as she crossed the bridge over Star Inlet. Saturn Shores’ most palatial homes loomed on the curving shoreline where the inlet met the Indian River Lagoon.
A couple of canals also cut into the neighborhood, ensuring maximum properties with boat access to the river. During the holidays, a boat parade started at Southside Wharf, a bit south of Saturn Shores, then crawled up the lagoon and through the canals before dipping into the inlet and ending up at Star Harbor on the north side. It was good cheesy fun, the boats sparkling with colorful strings of lights and people picnicking and partying along every waterway. It was also several months off, Roz reminded herself, and they had summer and hurricane season to get through before the delights of Florida’s winter returned.
She was still damp from the spring shower that had doused her—April rains indeed—so she took a quick detour south to her neighborhood, made a Clark-Kent-worthy speed change into a black V-neck and jeans, and tamed and put up her hair. Then she was back on the road, heading to the home of Nicole and Sebastian Esquivel.
Saturn Shores had a gatehouse, but it hadn’t held a guard in some time, and no gate stood in her way. At some point, the homeowners’ association had given up on the extra cost of security. She’d written recently about their plan to bring it back, prompted by the celebrities buying into the place. Though mostly, security people for these upmarket enclaves seemed to spend their days waving through service vehicles, not stopping home invaders.
Guided by the GPS on her phone, Roz wound through impeccably landscaped, rococo McMansions with big front yards, paver driveways and hints of hidden screened-in pools. The lucky ones backed up to canals or the lagoon. Most of them were at least two stories, presumably to take advantage of the views and, of course, maximize the square footage.
The Esquivels’ stucco home, two stories with a steep roof and a jumble of jutting pseudo-wings and architectural adornments, was painted a subtle cream color and trimmed in white. Even its barrel-tile roof matched the light colors, saving energy by reflecting Florida’s heat. Or maybe someone just thought it was pretty.
Roz parked in the wide driveway, which ran to a large attached garage and a side door. It was probably the door the family used most, but she figured she’d better hike the mile-long sidewalk around the front of the house to the main entrance. She skirted a great deal of extravagant tropical landscaping before she got there.
The entryway was recessed under an arched overhang. The double doors were of dark carved wood. Into each were inset frosted, leaded glass crescents that mirrored each other, creating a split circle. The package screamed “successful housing developer who could afford top wholesale prices.”
Suitably impressed, Roz found the camera doorbell on the wall and pressed the button. A complex Westminster-level chime sounded beyond the door, though she didn’t hear any screaming as she had on the phone. That was a good sign.
Nicole didn’t answer the door, but a pleasant, good-looking guy—tan with dark hair and eyes and a bit of a dad bod—did. He wore a white golf shirt, plaid shorts and boat shoes, and he smiled when he saw her. “You must be Roz.”
“Yes, I am. Mr. Esquivel?”
“Sebastian, please. Come on in.”
The round two-story entrance hall held a sweeping staircase that curved up one wall, a central round marble table sporting a towering fake flower arrangement, and a tiny plastic tricycle in bright yellow and blue. At least someone was using all this floor space for fun.
Roz shook off the nerves she always felt meeting someone new. “Thanks for taking the time. I thought Nicole might greet me.”
“She figured I could help you, so she’s taken Gabby next door to play with a friend while Diego takes a nap. This is about as quiet as it gets.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “Once Mateo gets home from kindergarten, all bets are off.”
Roz chuckled. “Not a problem. I won’t take that long.”
“Fine. How about we go to my office?” He turned away suddenly and sneezed loudly into his arm. “Sorry. My allergies are the devil right now.”
“Bless you.” What else could she say?
A minute later, after a track up the stairs and through a mini maze of hallways, they entered a room that felt like the inside of a small barn, with sloped gable walls on the sides. A sectional couch lined one of those walls, facing an entertainment center with a TV the size of an aircraft carrier. A small bar was tucked in an alcove in one corner by the door. Now this was an office!
Against the wall with the door, a vintage pinball machine glowed. Its back glass featured cartoon baseball players and a blinking blimp and said “BIG HIT.” Hanging on the wall all around the machine (and the door) were signed collectibles: photos, baseball cards, a leather glove and baseballs in shadow boxes. The centerpiece was a Tampa Bay Rays jersey covered in autographs.
“Would I be making an assumption to say you like baseball?” Roz asked.
