4 Decoupage Can Be Deadly (20 page)

I walked into the living room and glanced out the window in time to see a Pollack Motors panel truck pulling away from the curb. Behind it sat a silver Jetta.

Ira came up beside me and dangled a set of keys in front of my face. “Take it for a test spin. If you’re happy, I’ve got all the paperwork here.”

I held out my hand. Instead of dropping the keys into my palm, Ira gently placed them in my hand and folded my fingers over them, holding my hand in his. I pulled away.

Ira followed me into the kitchen. Zack was loading the dishwasher. “Leave that,” I said. “Let’s go for a ride.”

Zack grabbed a towel to dry his hands. We’ll be back soon,” I said, dashing out the back door.

“I think Ira expected to accompany you on the test drive,” said Zack after we settled into the car. “He looked downright crestfallen.”

I slipped the key into the ignition and turned it. Unlike the Hyundai which coughed and rattled each time I’d start it up, the Jetta purred. As I pulled away from the curb, I told Zack about the keys-in-hand incident.

“That man has developed a serious crush on you.”

“I’m afraid you’re right.”

“Should I be worried?”

I rolled to a full stop at the corner and turned to him. “You’re joking, right?”

He grinned. “You know me so well.”

Not really. Nothing Zack said would ever totally convince me he was
just
a photo-journalist, but that was an ongoing conversation best left for another time.

“The more I get to know Ira,” I said, “the more he creeps me out. Between his obsessive compulsion to please and the way he’s raising his kids, I’d really like to distance myself and my family from him and his brats.”

“That’s not going to be easy with Flora about to marry Lawrence.”

“Let’s hope Ira’s next wife has a father who will replace Lawrence.”

“Don’t count on it. Ira holds the mortgage on that condo. Lawrence and Flora will be sucking up to Ira for the rest of their lives.”

“My worst fear. And exactly why I didn’t want to become indebted to Ira for a car.” I sped up as the speed limit changed, and the Jetta adjusted without so much as a sputter. “It’s a nice car, though, isn’t it? Clean. Low mileage. Guaranteed.”

“And affordable. You’d never get a deal like that from anyone else.”

“That’s the problem.” I sighed. “I’m not thrilled with the invisible strings attached to this deal. I may only be paying under five thousand dollars for a car worth twice that, but I’m afraid I’ll be paying a much steeper price for years to come.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“What choice do I have? I’m forced to deal with the devil I know, rather than risking getting stuck with another lemon. I’m just not happy about having to make the choice in the first place.”
 

Yet something else I could blame on my dead louse of a spouse.
Thank you once again, Karl Marx Pollack, from the bottom of my poverty stricken heart.

~*~

Ira arranged for several of his mechanics to move Lawrence and Mama on Sunday. I was certain they hadn’t given up their day off out of the goodness of their hearts. Ira bought their help the same way he continued to buy his way into our lives.

In that respect he was no different than his half-brother. Karl had manipulated me into believing he was someone he wasn’t; Ira tried to manipulate me with his wealth. I couldn’t help but wonder about the dearly departed Isidore Pollack. Had he, too, been a manipulator, or did both his sons inherit some long dormant manipulator gene?

As much as it bothered me that Ira was insinuating himself deeper and deeper into my family, I was grateful that I didn’t have to spend the day lugging cartons and hauling furniture. I only had to help Mama unpack, sort, and find places for all her belongings.

To my surprise, Lawrence arrived at the apartment with little besides a few suitcases of clothing and a carton of books. “Where are all Lawrence’s things?” I asked Mama as we unpacked and washed her china.

Mama screwed up her face. “Cynthia donated all his belongings to charity after she moved him into the McMansion. She didn’t even tell him until the Salvation Army had hauled everything away.”

“That’s awful!”

“That’s Cynthia. Lawrence said if he had to do it all over again, he would have raised her with a lot more discipline and a lot less giving in, no matter how much she whined. You know the worst part?”

“What?”

“He sees Ira making the same mistakes.”

I glanced into the living room where Ira’s kids sat zombie-like on the sofa, watching a movie. They were the only ones not helping unpack the apartment. Ira and Lawrence were in the bedroom, assembling the bed, while Alex placed towels and sheets in the linen closet, Nick filled the hall coat closet, and Zack hung pictures for Mama.

Surely, Ira could have assigned some task to his kids. Even nine and eleven-year-olds are capable of drying dishes or unpacking and shelving books. Instead, the moment he arrived with his kids, Ira set about connecting the television to the cable box to keep Melody, Harmony, and Isaac from dying of boredom.

Is there a Twelve Step Program for over-indulgent parents? I wondered what Ira was like before his first wife became ill and died. Maybe his obsessive need to please came from insecurity and the fear of losing another loved one, not simply from poor parenting skills. Either way, the man needed professional help before his kids turned out like Cynthia. Or worse.

We didn’t finish unpacking, assembling, storing, and hanging Mama’s possessions until dinnertime. Ira clapped his hands together and said, “Let’s all go out for burgers. My treat.”

“With them?” asked Melody/Harmony, an expression of disgust directed toward me and my family.

“Do we have to?” asked Isaac.

I’m a non-violent person by nature. I had never spanked my kids when they were little. However, I now found myself fighting an uncontrollable urge to smack the smirks off those kids’ faces.

I balled my fists behind my back and bit down on my tongue until the urge passed. After this weekend, I had no desire to spend any more time than necessary with Ira and his kids. Ever. I pasted a smile on my face and lied, “Another time, Ira. I still need to do laundry and run to the supermarket tonight.”

Ira turned to Alex and Nick. “Boys? Why don’t you come with us?”

“Can’t,” said Alex. “I still have homework to finish.”

“Me, too,” said Nick.

“Flora? Dad?”

“Sorry, son,” said Lawrence, “Flora and I are bushed. We’ll take a rain check.”

Poor Ira looked like he’d just been picked last for the team. Again. With a resigned sigh, he told his kids, “I guess it’s just the four of us.”

“Good,” said Harmony/Melody. “Let’s go.”

“I want a milkshake with my burger,” said Melody/Harmony.

“Can we stop at Toys R Us on the way home?” asked Isaac.
 

“Sure,” said Ira.

The rest of us rolled our eyes at his departing back.

SIXTEEN

Monday morning I almost didn’t mind the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Route 287. Thanks to Ira and his need to please, my new (well, new to me) silver Jetta came not only certified for a year but with twenty-four hour roadside assistance, compliments of Pollack Motors. I no longer had to worry about breaking down in my old rust bucket Hyundai.

Best of all, the air-conditioning hummed along, enveloping me in a cool breeze. Although the calendar claimed we were more than a week into autumn, Mother Nature had apparently missed the memo.

The weekend news made no mention of either progress in Philomena’s murder investigation or the discovery of embezzlement at Trimedia. Same for 1010, the all news radio station I tuned to in the car. However, when I turned down the access road that led to the Trimedia parking lot, I noticed Batswin’s unmarked Crown Vic and two Morris County patrol cars parked in front of the walkway leading to the main entrance. I pulled into the parking lot expecting to find Tino waiting for me in his usual spot. He wasn’t.

Two Morris County patrolmen blocked the doors of the main entrance. I recognized them at once. Officers Simmons and Garfinkle had responded to my panicked phone call the night I discovered Marlys Vandenburg’s body glue-gunned to my office chair and keyboard.

“Sorry, ma’am, but you can’t go inside right now,” said Garfinkle. The nearly seven foot officer had shaved his walrus mustache and gained a few pounds since our last encounter.
 

I don’t think he recognized me. I craned my neck in an attempt to make eye contact. “Why not?”

“Police business, ma’am.”

“Did something happen?”

“We’re not at liberty to say,” said Officer Simmons.

I turned my attention to him. At less than half a foot taller than I am, he didn’t cause me neck spasms during a face-to-face conversation. “How long before I can go inside? I have work to do.”

Simmons shrugged. “Shouldn’t be too long. Step aside, please.”

I whipped out my phone and called Cloris as I walked back to my car. She always beat me into work unless she had a morning meeting. With a maximum of six officers, judging from the three county vehicles present, no one stood guard at the other doors. They only opened from the inside outward, but Cloris could open one for me.

When she answered, I explained the situation.

“If something’s up, it’s very hush-hush,” she said. “And definitely not on our floor.”

I leaned against my car, keeping an eye on the front door. “I wonder if it has to do with the embezzlement.”

“Could be. Are there any reporters milling around?”

“None.”

“If this is breaking news, someone forgot to break it to the media.”

The front door opened. “Wait a minute. Something’s happening.” I inched closer to the building. “Two patrolmen are exiting. They each have a handcuffed suspect.”

“Who?”

“Hold on. Batswin and Robbins are now coming out, and they’re also each leading a suspect. Damn. You’re not going to believe this.”

“What? What’s going on?”

“They’ve got the entire Human Resources department in handcuffs!”

The first two officers led Catherine Chenko and Sandy Sechrest to one of the patrol cars and settled them into the backseat. Batswin and Robbins ushered Nita Holzer and Gwendolyn Keene into the backseat of the second patrol car. The four patrolmen drove off with their suspects.
 

“Gotta go,” I said to Cloris. “Batswin and Robbins are headed my way.”

“Mrs. Pollack,” said Batswin, “I want to thank you for the tip.”

I smiled. “Happy to help, detective. And it appears your day is off to a busy start. All four of them were in on the embezzlement?”

“The evidence we’ve uncovered so far suggests so. We’ll know more after a forensic accountant audits the books.”

“Who was the guy in the black Escalade?”

“Holtzer’s husband,” said Robbins.

For someone who was such a stickler for rules, the Human Resources Nazi certainly didn’t practice what she preached, writing us up for coming to work ten minutes late while she plunged her greedy fists into the corporate till.

“Are they responsible for Philomena’s death?”

“My gut tells me no,” said Batswin, “but one of them might surprise us during interrogation, assuming they don’t lawyer up before we have a chance to question them.”

“My gut agrees with your gut.”

She raised her bushy eyebrows. “What else does your gut tell you?”

“Nothing but common sense. Killing Philomena would kill the scam. They’d have nothing to gain and everything to lose. I thought at first maybe Philomena found out about the embezzlement and confronted one of them, but that seems unlikely.”

“Why?” asked Robbins.

“Philomena had nothing to do with anyone at Trimedia other than Gruenwald and her staff.
Bling!
’s editorial director didn’t know about the bogus employees. So how would Philomena find out? According to the other members of the
Bling!
staff, Philomena rarely showed up at the office, and when she did, she didn’t stay long.”

“They did all the work, and she got all the credit?” said Batswin.

“Exactly. Which is probably why Gruenwald is convinced the killer is someone at Trimedia. The motive might be jealousy.”

“Why do I get the feeling you disagree?” she asked.

“I’ve spoken to those people. They’re all really upset about losing their jobs.”

“Why are they losing their jobs?” asked Robbins.

“The magazine is folding. Philomena was
Bling!
Without her, there’s no magazine. They knew that. None of those people would kill her for the same reason none of the HR women killed her. No Philomena means no money.”

Batswin chuckled. “Very good, Mrs. Pollack. We’ll make a detective out of you yet.”

With that she and Robbins headed for her Crown Vic, leaving me staring at their retreating backs.