Buyer's Remorse

by Lori L. Lake

  "I'm the DHS investi—"

  "Yeah, yeah. Heard all about you. What do you want with me?"

  "Could we talk for a few minutes in the dining room?"

  "I've got work to do."

  "So do I, and it involves getting a statement from everyone here, so please help me out. This won't take long."

  Hazel let out a huff and marched past. Leo glanced at Franklin Callaghan. His eyes were twinkling and in sotto voce he said, "Go get her, lass."

  Leo set her valise on the table. She went quickly through the formalities. Hazel wasn't keen on being taped, but she reluctantly agreed. "I suppose you'll report everything I say to the others here."

  "Actually, what you tell me is kept private, for the most part, except for the summary data that goes into the reports. Any relevant information you give might be made available to a criminal defense attorney if someone is charged with the murder, but none of your peers has access to it."

  "They're not my peers."

  "Oh?"

  "Just a bunch of cheery, young, do-nothin's and people who don't speak English all that good."

  "You're referring to?"

  "The Kenyans and those Spanish girls. Well," she grumbled, "Silvia speaks okay English, but that Ernesta has such a thick accent that I want to smack her sometimes. I can't tell what language she's talking. And those girls from Kenya laugh and babble to each other like magpies, probably making fun of everyone."

  Leo flipped through her notes. "What about the aide named Sherry Colton?"

  "She's okay. A little too sickening sweet for my tastes but mostly pulls her weight."

  "And the housekeeper?"

  Hazel's dark eyes narrowed. "Missy and I don't see eye to eye. She whines too much, so I ignore her."

  "The cooks?"

  "Lorraine's okay. Dottie can be stingy with the snacks, but neither of them whine like Missy does."

  "Let's back up for a moment. How long have you worked at Rivers' Edge?"

  "Here? Or for Mr. Rivers?"

  "Both."

  "I've been here since this complex opened. Before that I worked at one of Mr. Rivers' other places. Me and Walter Green been here since the beginning. We're the foundation of the place. Rest of these people come and go like we ought to install a revolving door."

  "Did you know Callie Trimble?"

  "Sure. Talked to her all the time. She was pleasant, though her mind was scatty. She didn't deserve to die, and before you go and ask me, I've got no idea who would have done that to her."

  "Have you noticed anything unusual around Rivers' Edge lately?"

  "You mean other than Habibah Okello's scary boyfriend coming and going like he owns the place?"

  "Who's he?"

  "A huge guy. Must be seven feet tall. She looks like a little peanut next to him."

  "In what way is he involved?"

  She scowled. "I didn't say that. You asked if I've seen anything unusual. He definitely qualifies. He drives a Ford F-150 pickup truck with some of those blasting music speakers. The bass thumps so damn loud, everybody knows when he gets here to pick her up. Sometimes she gets off duty after bedtime. Woke me up at midnight a week or so ago."

  Leo struggled to hide her irritation. Did this woman know anything at all that might prove useful? Or was she dumb like a fox and successfully managing to divert attention from her own situation?

  "Where were you Monday night, Ms. Bellinger?"

  "Look here. The police already went over that umpteen million times. I was off work on Friday and didn't come back here until today."

  "Tell me about Monday night between about seven and nine. Where were you?"

  "That's nobody's business but my own. I told the cops, and that's good enough."

  Leo had to assume Flanagan would have done something by now if Hazel didn't have an alibi, so she let that pass. She could check with Flanagan later.

  "Have you got any idea at all why someone would want to kill Callie Trimble?"

  "No. She was nice. The woman across the hall, that uppity Eleanor, she might've had some reason. She was always bossing Callie around, telling her what to do, not letting her go places."

  "What do you mean? Like where?"

  "Out. Callie was a grown woman, so she should've been able to take off when she wanted to."

  "She had a kind of dementia, didn't she?"

  Hazel rolled her eyes. "She was mostly okay. Sure, sometimes she got spacey, but it wasn't anything all that terrible."

  "I gather you don't care for Eleanor Sinclair?"

  "She's not very friendly. She had some hold over Callie. Kind of unnatural, if you know what I mean." Hazel gave Leo a knowing glance, crossed her arms, and hunched down. "I don't know what to tell you. I come here for every shift, do my job, and hightail it home. I've worked for Martin Rivers since his apartments started opening eight-plus years ago, and I oughta be the manager here now. But oh, no, he brings in that Hoxley woman, and she's in charge. Doesn't know her head from a hole in the ground. She may know how to do the paperwork, but that's about it. She don't know people. Somebody gets a little mixed-up, and poof! She gets them sent away."

  "Oh, really?"

  "Why d'you think we've got vacancies? She got rid of old Mrs. Brodsky because she had a couple of incontinence accidents. Big deal. Like us aides couldn't help her with a pee pad now and then?"

  "When did Mrs. Brodsky leave?"

  "Right around Mother's Day. Mrs. B's grandkids were here and everything, and next thing you know, Mrs. B was crying and telling them she was being shipped out." She lowered her voice. "Heartless cruel bitch, that's what Rowena is. Didn't give her a chance."

  "How long had Mrs. Brodsky been here?"

  "Came shortly after Walter and me. This was her home. Now I don't know where the hell she is. She could've died for all I know."

  "Would anyone in the Brodsky family hold a grudge—maybe decide to do something here to get back at Mrs. Hoxley?"

  "I doubt that. If you wanted to torture Rowena, the best way would be to take a nice pointy beer-can opener to the side of her car. You see what she drives? The woman's in her forties and still tooling around in a race car. You ask me, she's forty-something going on sixteen. Hasn't she bragged to you about her car?"

  Leo shook her head.

  In falsetto, Hazel said, "My Corvette this, my Corvette that." She waved a hand as if to dismiss Leo. "Ridiculous. The woman's a menace. Drives like a bat outta hell, too. She probably ran over poor Miss Trimble in the parking lot and dragged her in to cover her tracks."

  Leo bit back a smile. Hazel Bellinger wasn't particularly nice, but she certainly had spirit.

  Hazel rose. "That's probably more than I oughta say, but it's the truth, and if I have to testify on the witness stand, I'll stick to my guns, so help me God."

  She stamped off, her fists tight against her hips, as Leo sat back to consider what a remarkable interviewee Hazel Bellinger had been.

  LEO SPOKE TO the cooks, Dottie Winstead and Lorraine Peebles, but neither had anything interesting to add. They maintained they'd observed nothing unusual and that Callie Trimble had a perfectly normal appetite right up to her last meal. "Swedish Meatballs, mashed potatoes, and green beans," Dottie said. "With yellow cake for dessert."

  Noting the foyer was empty, Leo went in and sat on the couch nearest the door. She took time to make notes and list who was left to interview. Sherry Colton. The housekeeper, Missy McCarver. And Habibah and Shani Okello, who she'd learned were sisters. The housekeeper had left for the day and didn't answer the phone at home, so Leo decided to talk with her in the morning. Sherry and Habibah would be on duty later in the evening, and she resolved to return after dinner when she could make another round of the residents.

  Walter Green, in particular, might have something relevant to say. Besides Habibah Okello, he'd been the only resident who might have had access to Callie Trimble. Nobody had suggested that Walter had anything to do with the murder, but Leo needed to talk to him and decide
that on her own.

  For the first time all day, she allowed herself to relax. Her shoulders were tight, and the low-grade headache she'd been ignoring was calling for another couple of aspirin.

  A whish of air came through the vent carrying the distant tinny sound of a TV. Otherwise, all was quiet at Rivers' Edge. What the hell was she doing here? Not even forty-eight hours had passed since she'd been uprooted from her police work and tossed into this bizarre world of investigations. She didn't belong here. If she'd wanted to be a detective, she could have long ago applied for a Major Case position in Saint Paul. She'd never been fond of puzzles or people who lied or the mountains of paperwork and file-combing tedium she associated with the work done by officers with their gold shields. And the hours! Nobody committed serious crimes on a convenient schedule. At least on patrol she could rely upon regular hours, even if shifts changed periodically.

  No, investigative work was not something to which she'd ever felt drawn. So how could she get out of it?

  She dug her phone out and dialed Range Master Daniels. He wasn't in, so she left a voicemail to ask when they could get together to work on remedial training.

  The phone blinked that she had messages, and she listened to the first one.

  "Leona, Thom Thoreson here. Fred called in to say he'd be out sick tomorrow. Something about the flu. Yeah, right. I've reviewed all the complaints that came in today, and there's nothing urgent. If you could finish up the one you're on, I've got some priority items that need review. Let me know if you have questions. Otherwise, talk to you tomorrow."

  Leo snapped the phone shut feeling she'd been well and truly abandoned, completely deserted. How did these people expect her to handle this mess without more support? She rose, unable to get over how cavalier Baldur was and how little supervision she'd received. No wonder her colleague didn't get much done. Nobody was watching his back or his work. He'd have never made it as a cop.

  On the way out to her car, she couldn't get rid of the feeling of disgust. One thing she liked about police work was that her fellow cops rarely minced words, and if she gave an officer an upbraiding, he knew he deserved it. Her team worked hard for her, and even though they often dealt with the aftermath of people being stupid and violent, she and her officers felt they made a difference every day. How was she going to get any sense of satisfaction with this assignment?

  THE ELECTRIC GARAGE door ground slowly to a close as Leo marched toward the house and let herself in the passage to the kitchen alcove. She ignored the doggie bed below the coat pegs on the wall. Her little dog, Beau, had died after the first of the year, and she still missed him. The part Scottie/part Boston Terrier mutt had been a college graduation gift from her foster parents. Beau saw her through police academy, and a series of two's: two relationships; two break-ups; two moves; and two major work assignments, first as patrol officer, then as sergeant.

  Unlike her first two girlfriends, Beau had been wild about Daria. Leo met Daria five years earlier at a Continuing Legal Education seminar the police department gave for lawyers, and she was immediately attracted to her dark looks and sense of humor.

  When Leo saw how loving Daria was with Beau, she'd known she was someone special. Apparently the third time was a charm, and they quickly moved in together with Beau as a sweet third wheel that never got in the way.

  She hadn't expected Beau to die. She'd come home from work, and there he was waiting for her on the deep front window ledge, asleep forever in his favorite spot. After these many months, she had finally stopped automatically looking for him. Everyone kept telling her that getting another dog was the best way to fully assuage the pain, but she wasn't convinced.

  When Daria pulled up to the garage at seven, Leo fired up the propane grill for pork chops she'd marinated. Two baked potatoes were roasting in the oven, and she'd tossed a green salad.

  "Supper will be on the table in about fifteen minutes."

  "Sorry, Leo, I grabbed something already. I'm not hungry at all."

  "How come you didn't call?"

  Her disappointment must have been obvious because Daria said, "Don't get all upset. It's been one hell of a day."

  "I'm not upset, Daria. I just wish you'd let me know."

  "Let me change first, and I'll have a drink with you while you eat."

  She stood at the sliding glass door, a grilling fork in one hand, watching smoke waft away from the grill. Daria had never handled stress well. She wasn't a Type A personality, but many of her colleagues were. They could take the pace, the constant pressure, but she'd been watching it wear Daria down like ocean water over a sand castle. She'd often encouraged her to quit criminal law and take up some sort of foundation work with a lot less strain and frustration. She wouldn't consider it because the income wasn't as substantial.

  She didn't understand Daria's focus on money. Her family had always been wealthy. In contrast, Leo and her mother, Elizabeth Reese, had lived their lives counting pennies and cutting corners. When her mother died, Leo had been placed in a series of four foster care homes, none of them with much income. She eventually ran away from each home, always returning to her old neighborhood with the unrealistic hope that she'd knock on the door of her old house and magically find her mother restored to life and making something—waffles, fried chicken, Irish stew, anything—for dinner.

  This went on for over a year. Social Services didn't want to skirt any rules, and somebody always retrieved Leo and took her to the county welfare building where she'd spend hours waiting for them to make decisions. But Leo still remembered the day Dad Wallace and his police captain arrived at the county welfare building in full dress uniforms. She didn't know how he did it, but she went home that day to the Wallaces in the front seat of a brand-new police cruiser. She wasn't quite twelve years old, but she was impressed that cops got things done.

  Leo moved in with the Wallace family and was eventually placed there permanently. Money was tight for a police sergeant who supported a stay-at-home wife and five kids on his police salary and the pittance the county provided for foster care reimbursement.

  So Leo was used to economy. She didn't desire many material things, yet here she was, ensconced in a giant house in the ritzy Kenwood neighborhood of Minneapolis. Daria's wealthy parents gave them the gift of a significant down payment for the house at their commitment ceremony four years earlier. The Wallaces' present, a lovely Oriental rug Leo used in her office/sewing room, had cost a few hundred dollars.

  She liked the rug better than the house.

  The wedding gift from Daria's well-to-do parents still felt excessive, and truth be told, the house the Emersons selected wasn't the choice she'd have made. It was far too big for two. Of course, Daria's mother let it be known that she expected small children to rove the house—and soon.

  Daria had recently taken out a fifty-thousand-dollar mortgage to build the garage, finish the basement, and upgrade the bathroom on the main floor. The garage was done, but work inside the house hadn't yet started. Leo dreaded that day. Nothing worse than workmen tramping through the house, dust and tools littering their work areas. The noise alone would drive her crazy, especially when she was on night shift and trying to sleep during the day. Might as well go to a hotel.

  But she was on day shift, and she'd probably continue to be stuck on days for the rest of the year. The thought made her want to sit down and cry. She thought Daria was just as worn out as she was. The last two nights, Leo had gone to bed early and Daria didn't join her until sometime in the wee hours of the night. The long hours were killing her partner, and there was nothing Leo could do to encourage her to get more sleep. Oh, well, she thought, Daria's a big girl. She'll have to take care of herself.

  She opened the barbecue cover and flipped the chops on the grill.

  By the time Daria poured herself a Scotch and joined her in the dining room, she'd already buttered her baked potato and eaten her salad. "So," she asked, "your day was bad?"

  "Yes."

 
"How bad?"

  "Hellaciously awful. My dumb-ass client made an offhand comment to a reporter in the elevator, and with my luck, it'll show up in the newspaper."

  "What'd he say?"

  "Something to the effect that he'd had plenty of experience heisting things when he was younger, and if he'd done the robbery, he never would have been caught."

  "Oh, I see. So, people are supposed to believe he's innocent now because he's always been too smart to apprehend?"

  "Apparently. But if he was so smart, he wouldn't have admitted there are burglaries and robberies out there that could be pinned on him. The police will probably pull all the open files and compare every damn fingerprint and M.O. to see if they can nail him for other offenses."

  "That's what I'd do."

  "Yeah, I bet." She took a swig of the Scotch and sat shaking her head, then set the glass on the table.

  "You still get paid the same whether you win or lose."

  Daria glared. "It's not about the money, Leo. I don't think the guy did it, and if he didn't but still gets convicted, his whole life is ruined."

  "You've got investigators working the details, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "Maybe they'll turn up something."

  "I've got a bad feeling about it." With a sigh, she shook herself. "Why don't you tell me about your day. Anything good there?"

  "I wish." Leo looked into Daria's dark eyes, hardly knowing where to begin. "I went to the range and tried to work on my shooting again."

  "Any success?"

  "Not so much. My vision is clear and sharp when I start, but it goes straight to hell when the headache hits."

  "Why don't you just go see the eye doctor?"

  "Dammit, my vision is fine."

  Daria was obviously taken aback by the venom in her voice. "But—but—I'm just saying—"

  Leo interrupted. "What are you going to do tonight?"

  "Case prep, what else."

  "I've got to go back to work, too."

  "What? I thought this was a regular eight-to-five job."

  "Ran into some difficulties, and I still need to interview some evening employees. I left early so I'll finish out my eight hours tonight."