Free Florida Is Murder (Due Justice and Surface Tension Mystery Double Feature) (Florida Mystery Double Feature) by Diane Capri, Christine Kling

When they wanted to take a vacation, they counted up their available credit balances to see if they could drive somewhere. A mid level partner, living in a three-story Victorian home in Indian Village couldn’t afford a car and had to take the bus to work; another mid level partner had to borrow money to pay the deductible on his health insurance for his newest baby; a third, more senior partner took a loan to pay for more equity in the firm.
    All around me, people were working harder, earning more and having less. They were required to work a staggering number of hours just to earn salaries that (while in the top 1% of all salaries in the country) didn’t buy even a modicum of time and peace of mind. So I got off the merry-go-round. When Aunt Minnie died and left us Minaret, we simplified our lives, moved to Tampa, cut back on the dollar hunt. But sometimes, like today, when I saw how successful some of my colleagues were who hadn’t dropped out of the race, I wondered if I’d made the right choice.
    That evening over cocktails, I told George about my visit with O’Connell Worthington and the splendor of his offices. “It’s been pretty well known for quite some time that O’Connell has had a significant reversal of fortune,” he told me as he was turned the page of today’s Investor’s Business Daily . “Five years ago, his house was in foreclosure and he’d been posted at the Club for failure to pay dues on four or five occasions. Now it’s quite a different story and I’m glad to know what the explanation is. There’ve been some very wild stories around town about the source of his wealth. I like O’Connell. I’m glad to learn his financial reversal is due to good old American hard work and nothing else.”  Nothing else that marrying money didn’t cure, at any rate. That’s what I thought at the time.

CHAPTER TEN
    Tampa, Florida
    Thursday 7:20 p.m.
    January 7, 1999
    Later, I changed into a canary-yellow sweat suit and made myself a drink. I went out to our balcony and sat with my feet propped up, lighting up my first Partaga of the day. It was after dusk, but not dark. The sky was filled with reds and oranges. Tomorrow would be another beautiful day.  I was still sitting there, contemplating what to do about Carly’s problem when George came out to join me. I was glad to see he’d brought a larger than usual glass of Glenfiddich.
    “How do you feel about room service tonight?” he asked me as he sat down in the rocker next to mine. “I can order up some poached salmon over greens with raspberry vinaigrette and fresh sourdough rolls. What do you say?”
    “Sounds good to me,” I answered him, still contemplating.
    “I’ll give you a silver dollar for your thoughts. They look valuable.”
    “I was just thinking how really unfortunate it is that the police department never closes.”  Then, I told George, my partner in all things, about Carly’s visit.
    “What is it about you that brings everyone with a problem to your door?”  The question was rhetorical. It was far from the first time I’d been asked. Nor the first time I’d asked it of myself. For a long time I felt as if I walked into every room with a large sign around my neck that said “bring your problems to Willa.”  In every crowd, at every party, in every organization I joined, it seemed I soon became the “mother” of the group. Messy divorce?  Problems with your children?  Out of money?  Weight problems?  Drugs, alcohol, gambling?  Ask “Dear Willa a/k/a Mighty Mouse.”
    Now that I know myself better, I know I wear my philosophy on my sleeve. You see, I believe all problems can be solved. It’s that simple. And most people don’t. Most people just want to wallow in it, but they don’t want it fixed, especially if the fix requires the acceptance of personal responsibility and personal change. On some level, I like solving problems, other people’s problems anyway.
    I accepted that was why Carly had come to