Chapter 7
"So you recognized the man?" I said.
"How long has this been going on for?"
She shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. A few months now. Put me in an awkward position.”
"How so?”
She looked at me like it was a silly question. "What am I supposed to do? Do I keep her secret, or do I tell Mr. Hollingsworth? I don’t like sticking my nose in other people's business, mind you.” I had no doubt she loved to stick her nose into other people's business.
"Did you recognize the gentleman?" I asked.
"I'm pretty sure it was her pool boy." A disapproving frown tugged her lips, and she shook her head. "I'm sure Mr. Hollingsworth would like to know he was cleaning more than the pool filters." Then she asked, "Do you think he had something to do with Whitney's death?”
"I can't say at this time.”
"Sure. I understand.”
I dug into my pocket and handed her a card. "Get in touch if you remember any other details that might be helpful."
"I sure will. Such a tragedy. Whitney was such a beautiful woman. And those kids…" Sadness tortured her face. "My heart goes out to them. Please let Mr. Hollingsworth know that if he needs anything, just ask.”
“I will," I said.
Brenda and her crew rolled the body out on a gurney. Paris got her money shot, and the neighbors looked on with a mix of curiosity and horror.
JD and I walked across the lawn and joined the sheriff as he stepped out of the home.
A frantic blonde woman approached, her eyes wide as she looked at the body bag atop the gurney. "What's going on here?"
She was with a man in his late 30s, early 40s. He had short dark hair, dark eyes, a square jaw, and an athletic build.
A deputy blocked their path. "I'm sorry, ma'am. You’ll have to step back."
Her face contorted with sorrow, and her eyes misted. "Who is that?”
The deputy said nothing.
"Who's in the bag? Is that Whitney?"
"Ma'am, like I said, you'll have to step back.”
The sorrow turned to rage. "I'm not stepping back. Whitney was my best friend. I demand to know what's going on.”
The commotion caught my attention. JD and I approached the attractive woman. She was mid to late 30s with wavy golden hair that dangled to her chest. She had brown eyes, full lips, and soft skin.
I flashed my badge. "You were close to Whitney?”
She nodded. "Yes. Her kids stayed with us last night. What happened?”
"You must be Ainsley.”
Her brow wrinkled with confusion. "Yes. How did you know?”
Her husband, Dylan, introduced himself, and we shook hands.
"We've got a few questions for you," I said in a casual tone. "Would you mind stepping aside for a moment?”
Flustered, she said, "Sure."
I wanted to get away from the crowd and the horde of media that had arrived. We moved around the side of the house and up the driveway. Of course, the cameras moved with us and tried to get an angle. Two uniformed deputies kept anyone from getting close.
"Who died? Is that Whitney?” Ainsley asked, pointing to the ME’s van as they loaded the remains inside.
I gave her limited details, and tears spilled over her lids.
"Were you aware of her drug use?”
Her brow wrinkled. "Drug use?”
"We found cocaine, along with prescription narcotics."
Ainsley played dumb. "That's news to me."
She exchanged a glance with her husband to gauge his reaction.
"She was your best friend, right?”
Ainsley nodded.
"Were you aware she was having an affair?"
Ainsley froze and swallowed hard. Her look wasn't one of surprise. More like panic. "No. What makes you think she was having an affair?”
Ainsley clearly wasn’t going to spill the tea in front of her husband.
"Lying to me is not going to help your friend."
"I really don't know what you're talking about,” she said, growing defensive. “I'm not lying.”
“What are you getting at?” Dylan asked.
"Did she ever talk to you about someone named Jett? Her pool boy."
Ainsley swallowed hard again. "Jett does a lot of pools in the neighborhood. Does fantastic work. Why?”
"Does he service your pool as well?"
She shifted and looked uncomfortable. "Yes. What does that have to do with anything?”
I shrugged. "Maybe nothing. We think he might be the last person to see her alive.”
"Well, I talked to her last night around 10 o'clock, and she never said anything to me about a visitor," Ainsley said.
"Why were her kids at your house?"
"Because our children are friends and they wanted to do a sleepover. Whitney said she could use a little me time. I took it at face value. We all need a little time to ourselves." Ainsley paused. "Are you saying that Whitney died of a drug overdose?"
"The medical examiner hasn’t made a determination yet.”
From Whitney's phone records, Ainsley had called around 10:00 PM. That was the only thing about her story I believed. She knew a lot more than she was willing to admit in front of her husband.
I gave them both a card and told them to get in touch if they had anything insightful to add.
Paris closed in with the camera as we walked back to the Porsche.
I gave her the standard line about not discussing ongoing investigations and asked for any witnesses to contact the Sheriff's Office.
Whitney had a lot of secrets to keep, but her death may have been as simple as what it appeared to be—a tragic overdose. We’d find out soon enough.
JD and I hopped into the Porsche and set out to find Jett.
I had Isabella track his phone.
We caught up with him at the Platinum Dunes, cleaning the pool of another sprawling mansion. It seemed his clientele wasn't limited to Stingray Bay.
Jett was a sun-worshiping surfer type with a tanned body chiseled from stone.
His medium-length, curly blond hair dangled into his brown eyes.
He was the kind of guy who had a permanent smile etched on his face.
With his life, who could blame him? Low stress, desperate housewives, lots of fringe benefits.
Florida wasn't exactly the surfing capital of the world, but from time to time, you could catch good swells if you knew where to look.
It seemed like Jett rode most of the good waves inside the luxury bedrooms of the elite.
According to the registration records, he lived on his 40-foot sportfish. He had a storage unit full of pool cleaning supplies and chemicals that he officed out of. A white truck, wrapped in his company logo, was his only street-legal vehicle.
Jett was just getting by, but getting by was enough for him.
His truck was parked at the curb at 738 Crescent Way. Jack parked behind it. We ambled up the driveway to the backyard and stepped through the wrought-iron gate. I flashed my badge as we approached.
Jett smiled. "Afternoon, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
"You can tell me about your relationship with Whitney Hollingsworth."