Due Justice Read Free Page A

gin and let the watery liquid relax me. The tension was chemically erased from my stomach and the rest of my muscles would feel it soon, too. Along with some heat. The January sun, near the horizon, no longer warmed. How much colder would the Gulf waters be this time of year? Well below comfortable body temperatures, that’s for sure. Hypothermia kills, too.
    George emerged from the kitchen, tossing words over his shoulder that I couldn’t hear. He wore his usual uniform: khaki slacks, golf shirt, and kilted cordovan loafers, sans socks. Today, the shirt was bright yellow. It set off his deep tan and dark hair like neon. Despite all the kicking and screaming about leaving Michigan, he’d become a perpetually comfortable Floridian about twenty seconds after we moved here. It’s culturally closer from Grosse Pointe to South Tampa than geography suggests.
    He spied me, came over and bestowed a kiss, which I returned more desperately, wanting to feel something solid having nothing to do with cold water, dead doctors, and missing sisters in trouble.
    Once released, he said, “Good, you’re home early. Take a quick walk through the dining room to make sure everything’s done?”
    â€œJust sit with me for a minute. I’m sure Peter has everything under control.”
    Peter, George’s Maitre‘d, could run the place with his eyes closed. A charity fund-raiser for six hundred people was no great challenge. He’d done it all before.
    â€œI’ve had a crush on Elizabeth Taylor since I first saw National Velvet . I want to knock her off her feet.” He wiggled eyebrows like Groucho Marx to force my smile. He’s not clairvoyant, but seventeen years of marriage have given him a sixth sense of my moods. He knows which buttons to push.
    â€œYou act like all this is wildly important to you when you don’t really care whether they have a wonderful time or not,” I teased.
    â€œEvery event we have here is important to me.” Then, he relented a little, “Just because I didn’t vote for our democratic senator doesn’t mean I want the Tribune’s food critic or the Times’ society pages trashing my party.”
    The Tribune or the Times find anything less than perfect? Unlikely as snowfall during a Tampa summer. George’s chefs have won the Golden Spoon Award five times and Florida Trend magazine removed his restaurant from the annual Best of Florida issue because nothing could compete.
    â€œBring your drink. I’ll keep your mind off Elizabeth Taylor.” I leered, mocking him, and this time, he was the one who laughed.
    We moved to my favorite outside table. Wicker rockers invited us to kick back and enjoy the view. Sitting outside, watching either sunrise or sunset over the water, is one of the best things about living on Plant Key. I don’t care enough about the sunrise to get up for it. Now, if sunrise is the end of a perfect evening, well that’s something else.
    We sat quietly, words between us unnecessary. Maybe the best part of marriage is comfortable companionship every day. George has been the best friend I could ever have, although when we met I imagined lifetime romance and lust.
    Got that, too.
    Like most evenings, he chattered on about today’s events at the restaurant and asked what had happened in my courtroom. Both of us too keyed up to relax, albeit for different reasons.
    The sun disappeared at 5:49 p.m., one minute later than yesterday, one minute earlier than tomorrow. Normal Tampa sunset. No low clouds to create the spectacular effects we enjoyed in Michigan. No frigid January wind, either.
    George jumped up to complete his preparations. Guess after seventeen years, I can’t expect to compete with Elizabeth Taylor.
    As promised, I moved through the archway into the main dining room for a final inspection. The former ballroom comfortably held about thirty round tables. Tonight, decorated in fuchsia and