“Wow! It must have been on the news, but I’ve been too busy working to find out what’s happening in the rest of the world. Did Marshall give the treasurer a bad stock tip or something?”
“From what I overheard, they were instant partners in crime.”
“You overheard? Lydia, why are you suddenly in the middle of murder and mayhem? Why all the killings at your place?”
Lydia let out a mirthless laugh. “Believe me, I don’t go looking for it. Actually, I spent a quiet weekend with my granddaughters while their parents were away sharing quality time. They both came home beaming. Thank God, their marriage appears to be intact.”
“Thanks to you, in large part. You must be relieved.”
“Oh, I am.”
“Getting back to Weill’s murder, why do the cops think your HOA treasurer killed him?”
“He’s one of many suspects. I overheard him and Weill forming a thieves’ alliance to rip off Twin Lakes residents. Our treasurer’s contribution was padding contractors’ bills for the new construction on land the HOA recently acquired.”
Sam laughed. “And I thought I was the sister who dealt with the criminal class.”
“Believe me, any exposure I have to the criminal class is not of my choosing. Which reminds me—I’d appreciate it if you’d do some checking on two women who were very friendly with Marshall. One is Vivian Maguire. Her husband, Martin, died in a boating accident four years ago. They were the only two aboard. I’m curious if the police considered her a serious suspect.”
“Will do,” Samantha said abruptly, which meant she was writing. “And the other?”
“My next-door neighbor, Peg DiMarco. She’s divorced, so I don’t know if DiMarco is her married name or her maiden name. Someone—Viv Maguire, in fact—thought an expression Peg used sounded like something they’d say in Chicago.”
“What expression?”
“I’ve no idea, but when I said something about her coming from Chicago, Peg insisted she was from Indiana.”
“Indiana shares a border with Illinois. Like New York and New Jersey.”
“Really? I didn’t realize. My sense of geography west of Pennsylvania is a bit sketchy.”
“So was mine, till I moved here. Does Peg stand for Margaret?”
“I would imagine. Doesn’t it always?”
“Who knows. Nicknames are an interesting phenomenon. For example, nicknames for Margaret can be Meg, Maggie, Peg, Peggy, Mag. Even Greta and Marjorie are derivatives of Margaret.”
Lydia yawned. “Very interesting.”
“I’ll find out what I can, but I wish you’d leave the police work to the cops.”
“I won’t act on what you dig up, I promise. I’ll merely hand over the information to Detective Molina.”
“How is Detective Molina?” Sam asked in a provocative tone.
“He looked fine when he spoke at our residents’ meeting tonight. Told us to be careful and all that.”
“Take his advice, big sister, and don’t do anything reckless.”
“Of course not. I’ll watch some TV and get to sleep early. I have to work tomorrow, thank God.”
* * *
Wednesday started out as a chilly, rainy day. Lydia woke up in a glum mood and drove to the clubhouse for her daily swim. Though the activity left her physically invigorated, her spirits remained as gloomy as the weather. It was a downer, living in a place where every other resident was a potential murderer or thief, or harbored a deep, dark secret. Her mood changed remarkably when she caught sight of Sol Molina’s car outside her house. He waited for her to pull into the garage, then he parked in the driveway and followed her into the house.
“Good morning! Any chance a copper can get some decent coffee around here?”
“Come right this way,” Lydia instructed, pleased that she’d showered and changed into well-fitting jeans and a sweater in the locker room instead of her usual sweatsuit.
Sol sank into a kitchen chair and yawned. He rubbed his eyes, making them even more bloodshot than they’d been. “When this case is closed, I’m going to sleep forty-eight hours straight.”
Lydia ground beans and measured out coffee. “What’s happening?”
“Nothing earth-shattering. We’re checking through Weill’s papers and interviewing everyone connected to the Weills. Incidentally, that list he drew up for you came in handy.”
“Glad to be of service.” Lydia plunked down two mugs and placed cookies on a plate. “Any suspects?”
He ran a hand through his wiry salt-and-pepper hair. “A few possibilities. Unfortunately we’ve nothing solid—yet.” He bit into a chocolate-chip cookie. “Mmm, good.”
Over the sound of water filling the carafe, she asked, “Did you learn anything interesting from Roger Patterson?”
“You mean aside from the fact that he’s tried the same funny business before?”
“Really! Did he serve time?”
“No. Made restitution and paid a fine. I don’t know if he’ll be arraigned this time, either, since he hadn’t gone much beyond the planning stage.”
“That’s too bad,” Lydia said. “It’s too bad so many con men prey on retirees, assuming we’re easy pickings.”
Sol winked. “I wouldn’t worry. By now all con men must have gotten the word to steer clear of the formidable Lydia Krause at Twin Lakes.”
She smiled and said nothing, but inwardly she savored his compliment. It was a salutation to the take-action kind of person she was. If Sol viewed her involvement with the Weill murders as interference, their future relationship didn’t have a ghost of a chance.
Relationship? Suddenly nervous, she poured coffee into both mugs and sat.
Sol said, “As for the murder, Patterson has a pretty good alibi if everything checks out. He says he drove to his girlfriend’s home in the afternoon and in the evening they attended a family party. Then they went back to her house, where he spent the night. He claims it’s a forty-minute drive from here. One of my men is interviewing her and timing the drive. But hey, that’s our job—to check and recheck.”
She watched him down half his mug of coffee and devour two more cookies. “Anything on Andrew Varig?”
“Interestingly enough, he had words with Weill Saturday evening, according to Mrs. Maguire.”
“Did she hear what it was about?”
“She only heard Weill’s side of the conversation. She and Weill were on their way to a restaurant when Dr. Varig called Weill on his cell phone. He shouted loud enough for her to hear the word ‘restitution’ repeated several times.”
“That’s interesting.” She told him what Barbara had told her about Viv’s husband’s death and the fact that Peg came from Indiana, which wasn’t far from Chicago.
He smiled. “Uh-huh. We’ve got all that.”
“Oh.”
He laughed at her crestfallen expression. “Did you imagine we spent our time checking out footprints with magnifying glasses? We’ve all sorts of newfangled tests and equipment, and we’re in communication with every police force in the nation. Not to mention the FBI, the armed forces, Interpol and—”
Embarrassed, Lydia reached over to cover his mouth to stem the flow of words. He took her hand and kissed the palm.
“Did I mention that once this is over we’ll go out for a nice, romantic dinner?”
She shivered. “Mmmm, yes.”
He kissed the veins pulsing on the inside of her wrist. “We’ll do some other things as well.”
Flustered, she said, “That sounds—interesting.”
Sol’s cell phone rang. He released Lydia’s hand and spoke to one of his men.
“Right! Great! Be right there.”
“What did they find?” Lydia asked.
Instead of answering, he strode to the front door and she scrambled to follow after him. “Have to check something out. Remember, don’t play Miss Marple.”
“Miss Marple?” she echoed, not at all pleased with his choice of sleuths. But Sol was opening his car door, his mind focused on whatever new developments she wasn’t privy to.
Still, she noted as she watched him drive away, the sun had come out and her mood was considerably improved.
She spent the next two hours waiting for a furniture delivery. Abbie called with an update on the wedding plans. Then Peg phoned, her voice weak and raspy.
“I woke up with this awful sore throat,” she told Lydia.
“I can hear it. Do you need anything from the store? Though I can’t run out right now. I’m expecting a furniture delivery within the hour.”
“I could use a few cans of soup. Chicken or tomato would be terrific.”
Lydia laughed. “No problem. I’ll bring over a few cans. Anything else?”
“No, thanks,” Peg croaked. “Just the soup will be fine.”
“I’ll come over as soon as I’ve phoned the security guard at the gatehouse to have him call me at your house if the delivery men should arrive.”
Peg laugh turned into a cough. “You sure you want to give him such complicated instructions? Some of the bozos they’ve hired get everything wrong. Either they phone you about guests you’ve instructed are to be let in, or they call another resident about your delivery.”
“In which case, I’ll call and give the guard my cell number and bring the phone with me.”
“Good idea. I’m in bed, but the door to the garage is unlocked. Do you remember my garage door code?”
“No, but I’ve written it down. Be over in a few minutes.”
Twenty
Lydia filled a bag with four cans of soup, a few bagels and several slices of cheese and turkey, and carried it across the lawn to Peg’s house. She waved at the security patrol car as it slowly drove by. The driver—she couldn’t make out who it was—waved back. Personally, Lydia considered the volunteer patrol a waste of time and gasoline, though it served some purpose if it gave nervous residents peace of mind.
She punched in Peg’s six-digit code on the pad beside her garage door. The great thing about living in a gated community—when one didn’t have to worry about murder and getting fleeced by the board treasurer—was the freedom to go for a walk or visit a neighbor without having to schlep along a pocketbook or keys. Until the recent tragedies, many Twin Lakes residents left their garage doors up and the connecting door to the house unlocked, at least during the day.
“Hi, Peg, I’m here,” she announced.
“I’m in bed. Come on in.”
Lydia left the bag of food on a kitchen counter and walked through the narrow hallway to the rear of the house. Peg’s unit was smaller than hers. It had two bedrooms instead of three, and each room was scaled down in size. Propped up against the headboard of her queen-sized bed, Peg appeared small and pale in the dim light. Had Lydia ever been in this room? No, she would have remembered the hideous maroon and beige walls, drapes and matching bed linens, so oppressive and contrary to Peg’s lively personality.
Peg flicked off the TV and turned on a lamp as Lydia entered the room.
“Hi, there. It’s so nice to see a human face.”
“Would you like me to heat up some soup?”
“No, thanks, but I’d love a cup of tea with milk and sugar,” Peg said wistfully. “And bread lightly toasted, if you wouldn’t mind. It’s in the freezer.”
“Of course,” Lydia said. “Shall I open the drapes?”
“Please.”
Sunlight spilled past the venetian blinds, striping the bed.
“Have you called your doctor?” Lydia asked.
“He said half his practice has this sore throat. He called in a prescription at the drugstore.”
“I’ll pick it up for you if you like.”
Peg smiled. “You are too kind.”
“Not at all.” Now that the room was light, Lydia observed that Peg didn’t look well at all. Her face was drawn; her eyes and nose were red as if she’d been crying.
“Be right back,” she announced, and went into the kitchen to prepare the tea and toast.
Minutes later she returned with a tray she’d found in Peg’s narrow pantry. Peg offered a wan smile. “What a treat! It’s like a picnic.”
“I put cheese and turkey in the refrigerator for later.”
“Bless you.”
Lydia leaned against the armrest of the corner chair, also upholstered in the hideous maroon and beige fabric, while Peg finished off the three pieces of toast. The poor thing must have been starving and too ill to get out of bed. Peg sipped her tea. “Mmm, strong and sweet, just the way I like it.”
Lydia glanced around the room. Three framed photos on the shelf above the TV caught her attention. She picked up one of them.
“That’s my son, his wife and their children.”
“A nice-looking family,” Lydia mused, gazing at the two laughing children, a girl around eight and a boy some years younger.
“They were, several years ago when that photo was taken. Since then my daughter-in-law has blown up to a size eighteen.”
Not knowing what to say to that, Lydia replaced the picture and feigned an interest in the small ceramic birds crowding the surface of the long bureau.
“You’ve quite a collection of magpies,” she commented.
“They come from all over the world.” Peg sounded more proud of her collection than she had of her own family. “How did you know they’re magpies?”
“Marshall kept a large statue of a magpie in his office. When I admired it, he told me quite a bit about the species—how they’re a menace to other birds but help control garden pests.” Lydia gave a little laugh. “But then you’ve probably seen it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I thought since he handled your finances—” Lydia stopped, wishing she could call back her words. She knew from Marshall, not Peg, that he’d been managing her money.
Peg gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Yes, he showed it to me once. I thought it was a monstrosity that looked more like a crow than a magpie.”
“I wouldn’t know. This one is beautiful.” Lydia reached out to pick up a yellow-billed magpie. Peg’s voice cut across the room.
“Put that down—please!”
The fierceness of her tone startled Lydia, and she almost dropped the little bird.
“Sorry! It’s just that they’re delicate and I don’t like anyone to touch them.” Peg let out a brittle little laugh. “Actually, I’m thinking of selling them. A new broom sweeps clean and all that.”
“Yes, I can understand,” Lydia said, though she had no idea what Peg was talking about. In fact, Peg was acting weirder by the minute. “I’ll get rid of these.” She retrieved the tray of dirty dishes, glad for an excuse to leave the bedroom.