Mother’s expression softened. “It’s lovely.” For an instant her eyes glistened with moisture. “Sometimes you remind me so much of your father.”
Dear old Dad had been too busy at his cardiology practice to indulge in cross-dressing, so I knew she referred to my physical resemblance, not my Bonnie Lassie duds. “I miss him, too.”
With a self-conscious sniff and a straightening of her thin shoulders, she morphed into her former terrifying self. “Just keep a low profile, please. I don’t want people…getting the wrong impression.”
“I’ll try not to spill anything,” I promised.
With a shake of her head and the look that always made me believe she thought I was a changeling, switched at birth by evil fairies, she returned to the receiving line.
With my antimurder hives further irritated by Mother, lace and panty hose, I headed for the tea table with very careful stiletto steps. Mother would never forgive me if I tripped and dived headfirst into the eggnog. I filled a plate with canapés and cookies, found a deserted corner within earshot of the refreshment table and sat down, all ears.
Ladies from teens to eighty and dressed in finery whose cost would have supported a Third World country sauntered past. I’d attended high school with some of these women and, although I recognized a few faces, didn’t recall their names. Even in my youth, much to Mother’s dismay, I’d been a bookworm, not a social butterfly.
“Poor Samantha.” A woman close to my age paused at the punch bowl. “How sad to be a widow so young.”
With a wicked twinkle in her eye, her companion lowered her voice. “But she has Alberto to console her.”
“The tennis pro? You’re not serious?”
“Of course I’m serious, darling. Everyone knows she’s been carrying on with him for months. They haven’t been very discreet, the way they disappear into her private cabana after every tennis lesson. It’s almost as if she were flaunting the fact. I wouldn’t be surprised if poor Vincent drowned himself in despair.”
I took a bite of a water chestnut wrapped in bacon. The media hadn’t gotten hold of the fact that our vic was murdered, so that information hadn’t hit print or the airways yet.
“His poor girls,” the second woman said.
“Devastated, but not poor,” her friend corrected. “Vince was worth a billion. My husband’s his accountant.”
“Isn’t that information privileged?”
“Only the specifics. I’m just giving you a ballpark figure.”
“Wouldn’t mind playing in that ballpark myself,” her friend murmured. “Don’t look now, but did you see the dress Frances Bailey is wearing? It’s so tight, she looks like a sausage.”
I waded through a couple plates of hors d’oeuvres, some eggnog and a cup of Russian tea while listening to variations on the same theme. Samantha, it seemed, had made no effort to hide her affair with Alberto. If anything, she had played it to the hilt, making me wonder if she had been trying to make her husband jealous, just to get his attention. Isabelle had warned that I couldn’t speak to Samantha again without her lawyer, so I decided to call and set up an appointment for tomorrow, giving them time to arrange for the attorney to be there during my interrogation.
On the surface, Samantha was a prime suspect, an unhappy wife with a lover on the side and a fortune to inherit, but something was wrong with the picture and I couldn’t make the pieces fit. If she had whacked Vincent with a deck chair and held him under with the pool skimmer until he drowned, who had raked the beach to make it look as if the assailant had approached by boat? And where had the rake gone? If she’d tossed it into the water, it hadn’t washed up on any of the nearby beaches that the crime techs had combed. Had a lovesick Alberto, wanting Samantha for himself, been her coconspirator?
I handed my empty dishes to a passing waiter and slipped out the French doors. The salt air was refreshing after the perfume-heavy atmosphere of the clubhouse, and the ping of tennis balls against rackets carried on the breeze.
I followed the neatly swept brick walkway around the clubhouse past the Olympic-size pool and a row of private cabanas to the tennis courts, conveniently fenced along the waterfront so there was no need for a water spaniel to retrieve errant balls. Alberto stood on the service line of the nearest court with his arms around a young woman in her twenties. He was allegedly demonstrating the proper grip and follow-through for her backhand, but they weren’t keeping their eyes on the ball and Alberto’s hold on the woman was too intimate for tennis. He was up to some other game.
The woman’s throaty laugh floated on the wind and she released her two-handed grip on her racket to caress Alberto’s cheek. He responded by fondling her backside and dropping a quick kiss on her upturned face.
I found their involvement interesting. Alberto apparently was playing the field and I wondered if Samantha was aware of his philandering. The fact that he was romancing at least one other woman, of course, didn’t rule out his involvement in the Lovelace murder. A man with a heart black enough to kill would have no qualms about infidelity.
I stood for several more minutes, taking in the spectacle of a woman making a fool of herself and scratching the hives on my arms with blessed relief. As on Thanksgiving Day on the Lovelace terrace, something was wrong with this picture. If Alberto had conspired with Samantha to whack her husband in order to marry the widow and claim her inheritance, he was being inordinately cavalier about his involvement with another woman. Wouldn’t a man who had planned such a scheme that carefully at least play the part of faithful lover until he had the cash in his hands?
I returned to the clubhouse by the same French doors and spotted Caroline across the room, laughing with a group of her friends. Eight years had separated us as children, so that we had never been close. I had always been too young to tag along, too much of a pain in the butt for Caroline and her cronies. When Caroline had married, I was only fourteen. I’d hoped that once I reached adulthood, our age difference could be breached, but after entering the police academy, I recognized that my mother and sister lived in a different world, as strange and alien to mine as the other side of the moon. They were my own blood, but my police partners were my family.
Especially Bill.
Standing amid the rich and famous of Pelican Bay, I was overcome with a longing that frightened me with its intensity. With Bill, there was no pretense. I could be myself and he accepted me, made me feel good about who I was. With Mother and Caroline, unless I played the part of society dame, I was persona non grata, an embarrassment, a disappointment.
Choking on the rarefied atmosphere, I hurried to the entrance and asked the valet to bring my car.
At home, I changed my Scottish costume for jeans and a chambray blouse before returning to the station. Shelton would return from vacation on Monday, and I was no closer to solving Vincent Lovelace’s murder than I had been the day he drowned. It was going to be a long night.
I pulled out a legal pad and began drawing up a case grid. Names of suspects down the left-hand side. Columns for motive, means, opportunity and unanswered questions across the top. Samantha led the suspect list, followed by Alberto, Dan Rankin and Lovelace’s disgruntled employees. At the bottom of the list I added a question mark.
The majority of murder victims are killed by people they know, but a handful are random victims, folks in the wrong place at the wrong time. I had to consider the possibility that some twisted psychopath, who hadn’t known Vincent at all, had seized the opportunity to kill unobserved. The murderer could have been someone with a general grudge against the rich, a simmering hatred based on envy of all who lived as Lovelace did. If the latter were the case, without a stroke of amazing luck, I had little hope of solving the crime before Chief Shelton returned—if at all.
Footsteps in the hall announced Adler’s arrival and he appeared at the door. “I thought you were going to the yacht club.”
“You said you would be at your in-laws.”
His face crinkled in a boyish grin
. “Guess we’re living proof that some things are worse than work.”
He shrugged out of his bomber jacket, straddled his desk chair and booted up one of the computers we’d taken from the Lovelace house.
“Find out anything useful?” he asked.
“Maybe. Alberto Suarez and Samantha definitely had a thing going. But lover boy has a roving eye—and hands. If he plotted to kill Lovelace to clear the way to Samantha and Vince’s money, he’s jeopardizing his chances if Samantha finds out she’s one of many.”
He glanced at my grid. “You’ve put their names down as prime suspects.”
“For now. I need to talk to Samantha again. I’ll call tonight to set up a meeting tomorrow.”
“A meeting?”
“With her and her lawyer.”
“Right. I forgot that her old man was an attorney and a judge. You want something to eat?”
“No thanks. My stomach is still roiling from the rich food at the club.”
Adler went to the break room and returned with a can of Coke and a bag of chips. He opened a computer file and started reading while I called the Weston household and asked Twanya to tell Samantha that I’d meet with her and her lawyer at two o’clock tomorrow.
“Don’t you want to talk to Miss Isabelle?” Twanya asked.
“No.” After my afternoon at the club, I’d suffered all the rejection I could tolerate for one day. “Just have her call me at the station if she needs to change the time.”
I hung up, and Adler let out a low whistle.
“What?” I asked.
“I’ve been studying Lovelace’s Quicken files. This one lists his assets.”
“I heard his accountant’s wife blabbing at the club this afternoon that Lovelace was worth at least a billion.”
“She got that right,” Adler said, “but that’s not all. The man has a ten-million-dollar insurance policy.”
I thought for a moment. “If it’s double indemnity and Lovelace’s death had been ruled accidental drowning, someone would have received twenty-million smackers. Does that file give a beneficiary?”
Adler shook his head. “Just dollar amounts.”
I glanced at my watch. Caroline was probably still at the club, supervising cleanup after the tea. “It’s time I paid a call on my brother-in-law.”
Adler raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Aren’t you taking this family togetherness a bit far?”
“This isn’t family. It’s business. Hunt wrote Lovelace’s policy. He knows who collects the ten million.”
CHAPTER 9
Hunt and Caroline lived in the same neighborhood as Mother and Isabelle, but in a smaller house a block from the water. The sun had already set by the time I rang Hunt’s doorbell and the western sky was ablaze with shades of magenta and tangerine.
Hunt answered the door. “Margaret? What’s wrong?”
The fact that he considered my presence on his doorstep an indication of trouble was an interesting commentary on my status in the family.
“Nothing. I—”
“Caroline’s still at the club.”
“No problem. I came to see you.”
“Me?” He eyed me with suspicion. “If it’s about some family squabble, I refuse to get involved.”
“I don’t need a referee,” I said, although, Lord knows, there’d been times when I could have used one. “I need facts. For the Lovelace investigation.”
Hunt hesitated, ambivalence written all over his heavy face. On the one hand, he was world class at kissing up to his mother-in-law and probably wanted no part in any association that would tick Mother off. On the other, however, was his favorite hobby. Hunt was addicted to mysteries, Spenser mysteries in particular. He’d read every book—several times—that Robert B. Parker had ever published, had videotapes of every televised version, and years ago had even bought a dog he’d named Pearl. He delighted when the weather chilled so he could don his worn leather jacket, jeans and running shoes for his best Spenser imitation. The only thing missing was Hawk, Spenser’s intimidating sidekick. But I supposed Caroline was intimidating enough.
I understood his fascination. The man spent his days with dry actuarial tables, insurance policy legalese and spreadsheets. He needed a diversion. And now I was offering him a part in a real investigation.
He glanced at his watch. “I can only give you a few minutes. Caroline will be home soon.”
Hunt’s thirst for excitement had prevailed. He opened the door and motioned me toward his den. Apparently Caroline had allowed him to dress himself today. He was attired in baggy Bermuda shorts, a safari shirt and Birkenstocks with black dress socks.
He gestured toward a club chair in his paneled retreat, filled with bookcases crammed with mystery books and videos. My feet still ached from the torture of several hours in stiletto heels and I sank into the leather embrace with gratitude. Hunt sat across from me in a matching chair and crossed his legs. His exposed white shins flashed in the dim light. They were not a pretty sight.
“So,” he began, “you’re saying Vince was murdered?”
“I’m not saying it. The evidence does.”
“It’s unbelievable. Vince sat in that very chair just a few weeks ago.” Hunt shook his head and reached for a crystal decanter on the table beside him. “Want a drink?”
“No, thanks.” Benadryl had loaded my system with enough foreign substance for one evening. “Was that when he increased his insurance coverage?”
Hunt had poured himself a Scotch, but he suspended his glass halfway to his mouth. “How did you know?”
“I’ll know everything there is to know about Vincent Lovelace before I’m through. I’m aware that he increased his life insurance to ten million dollars. Was it double indemnity?”
“Of course,” Hunt said, and his nearsighted eyes widened behind his bifocals as the implication hit him. “So if his drowning had been accidental, the policy would pay out twenty million.”
“My question is, to whom?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I can’t share my client’s confidential information.”
“Your client’s dead. Someone killed him. And if it wasn’t Samantha—”
“Not Samantha! Of course not.” He coughed, choking on his whiskey.
“—then she and her girls may be in danger, too. I need info, Hunt, and I need it fast.”
He hesitated, took another swallow and set down his glass. “I urged Vince to change the beneficiary when he upped the coverage. Until then, Vince had named his estate as beneficiary. That meant the payout from the policy would be subject to estate taxes. However, money going directly to an individual doesn’t go through probate and avoids the tax.”
“So who gets the ten million?”
He hesitated only momentarily. “Samantha, naturally.”
“And who gets his billion-dollar estate?”
“I would assume Samantha and the girls, but you’ll have to ask Ted Trask. He handled Vince’s will.”
“Did Lovelace have any other policies on his life?”
Hunt shook his head. “Not that I wrote.” He looked at me as if I’d just crawled from under a rock. “You don’t really suspect Samantha of killing her own husband?”
“You’ve read enough mysteries to know everyone’s a suspect until the actual killer is found.”
“That’s how Spenser works,” he agreed. His expression turned thoughtful. “Speaking of mysteries, I’m thinking of writing one myself.”
“Why not?” I didn’t take him seriously. In my former life as a librarian, I’d heard dozens of people claim they were going to write a book, but I couldn’t remember anyone who’d actually carried out their intent.
“Would you serve as my law enforcement consultant?”
I eyed my brother-in-law with fresh interest. “You sound serious.”
“I have a great idea for a plot. My protagonist is a mild-mannered insurance agent.”
I tried not to yawn. “That’ll have the books f
lying off the shelves.”
Not recognizing my sarcasm, he smiled. “I’m basing the story on a real event that happened a couple decades back. An unscrupulous agent was taking out huge policies on elderly people without their knowledge and naming a church as the beneficiary.”
“And he killed people so their life insurance would go to a church?”
Hunt shook his head. “There was no church. And he didn’t have to kill them. They were all within years of dying of old age. The church was merely a front for the agent who faked the applications. The main character in my story is another insurance agent who uncovers the scam. What do you think?”
“You really want to besmirch your own profession with a book that has an insurance agent as the villain?”
He laughed. “Get real, Margaret. Insurance agents rank right up there with used car salesmen, the media and politicians on the who-don’t-you-trust list. I doubt a book by me would drag them any lower.”
An antique clock on the mantel chimed the hour. “I should go,” I said, “before Caroline gets home.”
At the mention of his wife’s name, he ejected from his chair like a fighter pilot with fire in the cockpit. “I’ll see you out. And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell Caroline or your mother that I talked to you.”
“Sure,” I said out loud, adding to myself, Yeah, guy, they scare me, too.
I returned to the station and was passing the dispatch desk when Darcy called my name.
“You have a visitor,” she said.
“In my office?”
She shook her head and rolled her dark eyes. “In the chief’s office. Councilman Ulrich.”
Ulrich was the man behind the move to disband the department and the last person I wanted to see. “Did you tell him I was out?”
“He just got here. I was dialing your beeper as you came in.”
I glanced around for an avenue of escape.
“Might as well get it over with,” Darcy said. “Ulrich said he’d wait, no matter how long it took.”
My hives were giving me fits, so I stopped at the water fountain and popped another Benadryl before entering the chief’s office. Better living through chemistry.
Holidays Are Murder Page 9
