Buyer's Remorse

by Lori L. Lake

  "Most of our aides are certified, but the majority of these residents handle their own meds. These elderly are very high-functioning."

  Leo thanked Rowena and watched her clomp off to her office. The woman looked as tired as Leo felt. "Shall we stop in the dining room and give you the lay of the land?"

  "Sure," Thom said.

  Leo hadn't arrived at Rivers' Edge this early before, and for the first time, she saw the dining café in full swing. Three of the Merry Widows, Nettie Volk, Jade Perkins, and Willie Stepanek, were at one table swilling coffee and laughing.

  At a table in the corner, Walter Green hunched over the food on his plate like some kind of twisted gargoyle. Hazel Bellinger sat next to him, speaking earnestly. He didn't appear to be listening.

  At another table, Agnes Trumpeter, in her cat-eye glasses, faced the door, one hand patting Eleanor Sinclair's arm. Across the table from Eleanor, Franklin Callaghan buttered a muffin, nodded, and added some comment of his own.

  Silvia Garcia and the cook named Dottie Winstead circulated the room, Silvia with a carafe of coffee and Dottie carrying a plate of cinnamon rolls.

  The room smelled of maple syrup, and a hunger pang tickled Leo's stomach.

  Dottie came toward Thom and Leo. "Good morning," she said. "We've got these rolls going to waste. Would you care for one with coffee?"

  Leo was going to politely refuse, but Thom spoke up before she could. "Sure. They smell great. You make 'em yourself?"

  "I sure did." The woman smiled with pleasure and hastened over to the sideboard to collect plates and cups.

  Nettie Volk picked at her blue-gray hair with fingertips as she waved with her other hand. She called out, "Come on over here and sit at the table near us."

  Before Leo knew it, the Merry Widows had pulled a table up next to theirs, and Jade Perkins swept a chair away from the end so Thom could roll up under it. Leo seated herself to Thom's right, next to Nettie, and Dottie Winstead delivered cups of coffee and plates with the best-looking cinnamon rolls Leo had seen in a long time.

  The women made small talk for a few minutes, asking Thom about his job and why Leo had brought him. Jade said, "What on earth happened to put such a handsome fellow as you in that chair?"

  Leo was taken aback by the woman's bluntness, but Jade's expression was benign, merely curious.

  "A fall," he said. "A freak accident at college. I lost my footing and went down a flight of cement stairs. Broke my back, injured my spinal cord."

  The ladies all gasped. "That's terrible," Willie said. "Just terrible."

  "Tell me about it," he said, an easy smile on his face.

  Leo thought he must get that question fairly often because he seemed to have no trouble describing what had happened. She thought of her eye problem. If she lost her eye, she wondered whether she'd ever be able to talk about it so matter-of-factly. She was certain she wouldn't.

  "When did this happen?" Jade asked.

  "I was twenty. Middle of my junior year at Arizona State. Worst thing was that I ended up losing my football scholarship. Took over a year just to get into the swing of things again at school."

  Willie said, "It must have been terrible to be an athlete and now you can't play sports anymore."

  Thom laughed. "Who says I can't play sports? I'm in a wheelchair basketball league. We have games all over the state. Also play some flag football. It's great."

  Jade looked horrified. "What if you collide with someone? What if you fall out of the chair?"

  "Believe me, I've dumped my sports chair plenty of times. I can manage a pretty effective fall. On the basketball court, sometimes I need help, but I can right the chair. If I have something to grab on to and pull myself up, I can get back in." He made a fist and punched his bicep. "I lift weights."

  Leo was amused by the way all three of the women oohed and ahhed, batting eyelashes, and flirting with him. She sipped her coffee and ate the cinnamon roll as Nettie launched into a tale of her grandson's sports exploits.

  Agnes Trumpeter left the other table, sauntered over, and slid into the chair across from Leo, all eyes for the handsome man. "I saw a PBS show on spinal cord injuries. It was very interesting. They're doing amazing things with technology."

  Thom said, "If you want to see a movie that shows what it's like for athletes in wheelchairs, check out Murderball. It's on DVD."

  Leo had never heard of the film and made a mental note. She watched Nettie shape and style her hair one-handed, her eyes glittering with excitement. Had the room filled up with testosterone or what? Funny thing: No matter how old a woman got, a handsome man was still an enticement to talk. And preen.

  After a while, Thom said, "I'm sorry to change the subject to serious matters, but we're here about the death that took place earlier this week. I know you've all talked to Ms. Reese, but since then, have you thought of anything new?"

  Leo half-listened as the Merry Widows eagerly retold their stories and gave their impressions. Eleanor Sinclair rose from the other table and marched toward the door. Leo winced. "Excuse me for a moment," she said to Thom. He gave a nod, and she picked up her valise and strode out into the foyer.

  She didn't catch up with Eleanor until right outside the Trimble apartment.

  "Mrs. Sinclair," she called out. "Eleanor."

  The eyes that swung around to meet hers were defeated. Blank. Weary.

  "I'm so sorry you had to hear that conversation."

  "It's all right. I realize the other residents didn't know Callie like I did, so this is all an exciting novelty to them. Like an episode of Law and Order. But it's my life."

  "Yes, it is. I do understand."

  "I don't suppose the police have found out anything further."

  "Not that I've heard."

  Eleanor reached for the doorknob and closed her eyes. Leo stepped closer, worried she was going to faint. "Are you all right?"

  "I've had another shock, and I'm trying to deal with it."

  "What kind of shock?"

  Eleanor turned the knob and pushed the door open. "Why don't you come in. I don't seem to have the energy to stand out here."

  The blinds weren't open inside. Only one lamp near the couch shed a puddle of light that didn't illuminate much of anything. Eleanor made her way through the dim light and sank into an easy chair. Leo took the couch and asked, "What happened?"

  "I appear to be the victim of identity theft."

  "Really? How did this come to light?"

  "I haven't been getting my bills. Credit card and bank statements, I mean. I finally went to the bank yesterday and found out alarming news. They explained that someone who seemed credible had put in a change of address. My bills have been going somewhere else, and the information was used to rob me. The thieves ordered checks for one of my brokerage accounts and cleaned it out. They also got a credit card in my name and charged expensive things. I found out yesterday. I've been running down some of the credit card purchases, trying to find out who did this. I don't know what to do about the brokerage account."

  "Was it a substantial sum?"

  "Over two hundred thousand dollars plus close to twenty thousand on the credit card."

  "Oh, no. What about the address they forwarded your mail to?"

  Eleanor shook her head. "Some sort of mail drop. I suspect they used false ID there, so that's no help."

  "Have you gotten any mail at all since you moved in?"

  "I did. Got a postcard from a former student now living in Montreal. I know I got my June business statements. They always show up six or eight days into the next month. July seemed normal, but I've received nothing in August. I have to go back to the bank and see what other paperwork they want completed. They said something about affidavits."

  "You've found out a lot already. Have you reported this to the police?"

  "I figured when the detectives came by again about Callie, I could tell them then."

  "I wonder…"

  Eleanor looked at her sharply, more alert no
w than she had been a few minutes earlier. "What?"

  "I wonder if this has any bearing on Callie's death."

  Eleanor's eyes filled with tears, but she controlled herself. "I've got all my files. Would you like to see?"

  "That's okay. The police will want to, though. The bank will also contact the authorities, if they haven't already, but perhaps we ought to put in a call." She dug out her cell phone, dialed Flanagan's number, and left a message. Snapping shut the phone, she asked, "Have you called your credit card companies and cancelled your accounts?"

  "I did that yesterday. Just one account, though. I suppose that's lucky."

  "I occasionally got reports of this while I was working patrol. ID theft is a federal as well as a local crime. There's a federal number, a department at the Federal Trade Commission you ought to call. I'll get that for you. Has anyone called you about this matter?"

  "Only the bank and credit card company are aware, and I haven't done all the paperwork yet."

  "The thieves and their cronies know. You could get a call from some criminal posing as your bank representative or as a law enforcement official. Don't trust anything by phone. They may request your personal information under some pretext, but you have no way of verifying who's actually on the other end of the line."

  "All right. I've frozen what little is left in my accounts, and the bank is doing some checking. The credit card company is sending me something by registered mail."

  "What about Callie?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "What about her accounts? Has she been cleaned out, too?"

  "No. She had one account for her pension and social security checks to be deposited. Those accounts are frozen due to her death. The fellow who helped me at the bank said the last activities were the July and August deposits. With all that's happened since we moved here in June, I haven't touched the funds. Ted and I will have to handle that eventually."

  Leo's mind raced ahead, thinking through the possibilities, and whole new vistas opened up in her mind. She rose quickly. "Will you be all right here if I go?"

  "I'm fine. Why?"

  "I think we finally have a motive."

  Chapter Sixteen

  LEO WATCHED THOM navigate his van through traffic, one hand deftly managing the wheel, the other the brakes. He cut around a turning vehicle and whipped into the other lane to hit the on-ramp for I-94. Once he settled into the flow of freeway traffic, he glanced over. "Too bad we didn't bring all the company's reports with us this morning."

  "Wouldn't have mattered. We need the computer for some of this."

  "You're pretty sure it's an inside job now?"

  "Oh, yeah," she said. "Has to be. Only somebody who has access to the Rivers' Edge mail could do this. They had to swipe the statements."

  "Damn thieves work fast, too."

  "No kidding. I can't believe everyone in the U.S. isn't quaking in their boots. This happens all the time, and nothing much is being done to curtail it."

  "The thieves probably killed Callie Trimble, but why?"

  "She must have seen or heard something, and the killer was afraid she'd pass it on."

  "Even though she had Alzheimer's or dementia or whatever?"

  "I guess. From what everyone says, she had moments of lucidity. Maybe she confronted the person or said something that spooked him."

  Leo's phone rang, muffled by her valise. She rooted through her leather bag, her fingers finally closing on the cell. The scheduling receptionist's voice was matter of fact. If Leo could get to Dr. Winslow's office at three p.m., he'd be able to squeeze her in. She thanked the woman and clicked her phone shut. All of the fear and worry she'd effectively banished during the last couple of hours came rolling back at her like a tsunami.

  "You all right?" Thom asked. "You look like you just got bad news."

  She kept her voice light. "No big deal. I need to leave early today for a doctor's appointment this afternoon."

  "Let's nail the murderer of Callie Trimble by lunchtime, and we can both quit early today and celebrate."

  She forced a laugh. "I hope it's that easy."

  At the office, Thom detoured to check in with Ralph Sorenson, and Leo took that opportunity to call Daria's cell phone. After some cloak-and-dagger whispering by her assistant, Leo left a message and was off the phone by the time Thom returned.

  "What have we got?" he asked. He parked his wheelchair to the side of her desk and leaned an elbow on the corner.

  "I don't think any of the residents could pull this off, even though they all had access to the mail. From what I saw, the postman delivered the regular mail for the whole facility via the front slot, and whoever took it out of the basket dumped it on the counter across from the manager's office. More than once I noticed residents picking through the pile, Eleanor Sinclair included. When Rowena Hoxley had time or got around to it, she distributed it to the tenants' locked mailboxes."

  "So Hoxley might be our doer?"

  "I don't know, Thom. To be honest, she doesn't seem that bright."

  "People do hide their intelligence at times."

  "She's perfectly competent at her job, but she doesn't strike me as being the slightest bit clever. I think this crime would require a high degree of cunning."

  "She delivered the mail, but that's it?"

  "Yes, but for some of the day, all of it sat out there where anyone could get to it. That would include visitors, vendors, the nurses, repairmen, anyone."

  "I thought you said no vendors or repair contractors had been in."

  "True. It had to be someone who had access around the end of June or the first week of July. They got hold of Eleanor's mail, copied the important pieces, and returned it so that by the time the August statements were mailed, she'd no longer get anything from the broker, bank, and credit card company."

  "Wouldn't they have to open her mail, then? Wouldn't she have noticed?"

  "I don't know. Let me call her."

  Eleanor Sinclair picked up the phone before it rang a second time. She sounded like she'd been startled awake, and Leo apologized. She asked about the bills and listened to Eleanor's explanation. When she hung up, Leo said, "She did notice. The last time she received her bills, they'd been sliced open, but someone put a Post-it on that said 'This was in my mail by mistake. Sorry I opened it along with all my stuff,' and she didn't think anything of it."

  "Any signature on the Post-it?"

  "I don't think so. She says she remembers it wasn't signed, and she thought that was odd, but didn't follow up or think anything more about it."

  "We're still nowhere on figuring out who did this," Thom said, "but at least I think we're on the right track. Who do you think the thief is?"

  "The gardener is out. He comes and goes by the back gate, and someone surely would have noticed if he came tramping through. Franklin Callaghan is out there on the couch a lot. He would have mentioned seeing that."

  "What if this Callaghan is the thief?"

  "I don't think so. He's not that physically mobile now, so I'm not sure he could have killed her. Besides, he's a charming man. I can't believe he'd hurt anyone."

  "A lot of sociopaths are charming," Thom said.

  "I definitely know that. I've dealt with hordes of them on patrol. But Franklin doesn't strike me as being anything other than exactly what he appears, a nice man who's living out his last years quietly doing crosswords and chatting with passersby."

  "We could have two unrelated crimes—a theft and a murder—that are separate."

  "But why, Thom? Why kill a harmless old lady if it wasn't for the purpose of covering up this theft? They got over two hundred grand out of Eleanor Sinclair's brokerage account and twenty-K from her credit card."

  He let out a whistle. "She's got some money."

  "She had some money. The credit card company is going to eat the losses from the charges, but I'm not sure about the investment money."

  "Who would have the access and ability to swipe all that money and then
need to come here and kill Callie Trimble?"

  "I don't think it was a resident. I think Walter Green is the only one who could physically have killed her, but he doesn't have any motive. He's richer than a pharaoh."

  "What about the gold digger?"

  Leo laughed. "You catch on fast."

  "One of those little old ladies filled me in on Hazel The Black Widow and how she's chasing Wally Green's ass all over the complex."

  Leo choked back another laugh. "I hope she's more subtle than that."

  "Not according to the teensy-weensy lady with the blue cotton-candy hair."

  "Yes, that's quite the hair color, isn't it."

  "Reminds me of the treats at the State Fair, which, by the way, we ought to sneak off to enjoy next week when we've got this case in the bag."

  "You're joking, right?"

  "Of course." He beamed at her, his eyes sparkling and his smile bright. He looked like he must have been a very mischievous kid.

  She said, "If it's not Hazel, my money's on Rowena Hoxley or the son."

  "What's the son like?"

  "Overworked, overextended, and underpaid for the lifestyle he's keeping."

  "Deadly combination."

  "I rather liked him, though. He seems to love Eleanor, and they have a great rapport."

  "I hear Ted Bundy had a great rapport with people, too, especially women."

  "I hope it's not Ted Trimble. And I never believed that the aide, Habibah Okello, could have done it, either. She's a tiny little slip of a thing with a good heart. But I haven't checked out her boyfriend, Chuck. He drives one of those humongus Ford pickups and wears a lot of fancy bling and designer sweat suits."

  Thom let out a hoot. "Designer sweat suits? What self-respecting guy would dress up in those?"

  "He's quite handsome, to be honest."

  "Who else is a possible suspect?" he asked.

  "A visiting nurse, possibly."

  "Despite the news reports about nurses doing mercy killings, that's so incredibly rare. For every medical person who secretly kills a patient, I bet there's fifty-thousand family members who pull the plug, purposely or secretly."

  "And you base that knowledge on what exactly?"