Death by Association

by Paula Darnell

  As Bear and I moved closer to the emergency vehicles, I could see several residents looking on, while others, some dressed in robes, were coming out of their houses to see what was happening. I noticed a few other curious neighbors unabashedly peering out of their windows, not bothering to hide behind curtains. I spotted Cynthia standing next to a police cruiser and joined her.

  “Hi, Cynthia. I was walking Bear and heard the sirens. Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

  “Oh, hi, Laurel. I have no idea. I was drinking my morning coffee when I heard the sirens. Say, there’s Amy. Maybe she knows something.” Threading our way through the growing crowd, we moved toward Amy, who was standing on the other side of the street.

  “Amy, you look pale,” I observed. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “After what I saw, I feel kind of sick, actually,” Amy replied. “Let’s go inside, and I’ll tell you all about it,” she invited us. “Bring Bear along, Laurel.” Reaching down, she absent-mindedly petted Bear. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Bear?”

  “Are you sure it’s all right to bring him into the house? I could put him in the backyard.”

  “Sure, no problem. He’ll be fine. I love dogs, but Jim was allergic to them, so we could never have one, but now that he’s gone . . . ” she trailed off wistfully. Her husband Jim had passed away six months ago, and she’d spent much of that time staying with her daughter, who lived somewhere on the East Coast. During the past month, she’d been trying to adjust to life in Hawkeye Haven without her husband. I knew from painful, first-hand experience that she must be terribly lonely. She didn’t work, but she was keeping herself busy with a whirlwind schedule—she took every class that I offered, and she was taking golf and tennis lessons, too.

  “How about some tea, ladies?” Amy offered.

  “I’ll make it, Amy,” the ever-efficient Cynthia volunteered, and she bustled into the kitchen while Amy and I sat down on the sofa in the living room, and Bear settled himself at my feet.

  In a few minutes, Cynthia came back, carrying a tray with a flowered teapot and three matching cups and saucers.

  “Sugar or lemon?” Cynthia offered as she poured the tea.

  “Just plain, thanks,” I said, and she handed me a cup of tea.

  “Amy?”

  “A slice of lemon, Cynthia, thanks,”

  I knew that Cynthia was as curious as I was to learn what had happened, but we waited until Amy was ready to tell us. Despite her shaking hand, Amy managed to squeeze the lemon wedge, and its juice spurted into her tea. She stirred it slowly and took a few sips. Then, still trembling, she set her cup down on the tray. “Victor is dead,” she announced.

  Shocked, I sensed that there was more to the story than a natural death.

  Amy’s next words confirmed my suspicion. “He was shot!”

  “Suicide?” Cynthia questioned.

  Amy shook her head. “No, he didn’t shoot himself. He was murdered.”

  “How do you know, Amy?” I probed.

  “I was going out to pick up the paper from the driveway a few minutes ago when I heard Victor’s daughter, Courtney, scream. I knew it was Courtney who was screaming because she’d just pulled up in front of the house and walked up the sidewalk a few seconds earlier. Well, Karl—you know, he lives right across the street from Victor—was out in his front yard, tending to his roses as usual, and he heard it too. We both rushed over there and saw Courtney standing at Victor’s feet. He was sprawled just inside the doorway, lying on his back, and he had blood all over his chest. His eyes were open, and I’ll never forget the vacant look in them.”

  “Could he have possibly shot himself?” I wondered.

  “There was a gun lying on the sidewalk, but it was at least six feet away from Victor’s body. He couldn’t have been holding that gun. Someone else must have shot him. I didn’t even see the gun at first, and I tripped over it when I ran up the sidewalk. Finding him there, like that, was so shocking. Poor Courtney was still screaming, and Karl grabbed her and tried to calm her down while I ran back home here and called 9-1-1. When I went outside again, Karl was leading Courtney over to his house, and Eva opened the door for them. She was already dressed for the day—even had her shiny jewelry on—unlike most of us neighbors. She must have heard the commotion, and she probably saw Karl run to Victor’s place, but she couldn’t have known what was happening because she never came out of the house.”

  “Not too surprising—I haven’t seen her leave her house in over a year,” Cynthia observed.

  “I often notice her gazing out at the street from the front bedroom window. Sometimes she watches Karl when he’s taking care of his flowers. It’s kind of creepy really,” Amy said.

  I thought it was more sad than creepy, but Amy had had a terrible shock, so I didn’t say anything. Eva was Karl’s agoraphobic wife. I knew her because she had taken a few of my classes back in the days before her self-imposed confinement. As long as Eva stayed home, she seemed perfectly normal, but she refused to venture beyond the front door or go outside the screened patio in her backyard.

  “Poor Courtney, finding her father like that,” I said.

  “Yes, she’s had a rough go of it, especially since her mother died. Honestly, I don’t know why Diana stayed with Victor. He really wasn’t very nice to either his wife or Courtney—always criticizing and belittling everything they did. He seemed to care only about two things back then—playing golf and making money. I never did have much use for that man.” Cynthia shook her head in disgust.

  “You’re not the only one. Since he took over as president of the HOA, he certainly hasn’t been winning any friends,” I said. “I wonder who could have hated him enough to kill him.”

  “That might be a long list. He’s managed—with the help of that awful woman Patty—to alienate half the people in Hawkeye Haven, what with all the citations the HOA has been issuing. Why just yesterday, I got a notice from the HOA in the mail citing me for not maintaining my back wall that faces the golf course. (HOA Regulation 59 states that “homeowners shall properly maintain their property and not allow it to fall into disrepair.”) What’s so crazy about the citation is that I don’t even live next to the golf course! I tried to explain the situation to Patty, but she refused to listen, so I went to the meeting last night to protest, but I never got a chance to speak.”

  “I was there too, Cynthia. I guess I didn’t see you,” I said.

  “I arrived late and had to wedge myself into a back corner, so I didn’t see you either until you stood up to leave. Your friend Liz was really up in arms, wasn’t she, Laurel?”

  “She sure was. The HOA demanded that she paint her house, but she’d had a new paint job done less than two years ago.”

  “That’s exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about. No wonder so many people hated Victor,” Cynthia declared.

  Our conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “That’s probably the police; they told me they’d be taking my statement,” Amy said.

  “We’d better get going then,” Cynthia suggested, and I agreed. Bear was becoming restless, and we’d only be in the way if the police wanted to talk to Amy. Waving goodbye to Amy, Cynthia and I slipped past the two officers who had arrived to take Amy’s statement. Outside, several uniformed police officers were canvassing the residents who were still standing in small groups, abuzz with curiosity. One of the cops approached Cynthia and me, and although we told him that we hadn’t witnessed anything, he insisted on taking our names and addresses in case the Center City detectives wanted to question us.

  “I should run,” Cynthia told me. “I was supposed to meet Vivian at the golf course ten minutes ago. If I hurry, I can just make our tee time. Viv’s going to be shocked when I tell her that there’s been a murder right here in Hawkeye Haven.”

  Chapter 5

  Vivian wouldn’t be the only resident to be shocked at the news of Victor’s untimely demise. If I didn’t miss my guess, the
Hawkeye Haven grapevine would be working overtime today. What with Victor’s murder and the attack on Bessie, the residents would definitely be feeling on edge until the mysterious crimes had been solved. I only hoped that their solutions would happen soon. Murder in a guard-gated community couldn’t happen too often, I thought, and neither did attacks on armed security guards. Could the two crimes possibly be related? Although I could think of plenty of people who wouldn’t be mourning Victor, I didn’t believe that Bessie had any enemies.

  Luckily, I’d have time today to visit Bessie. It wouldn’t take me too long to prepare for tomorrow’s monthly Make-Your-Own-Earrings class, one of my most popular offerings. Once a month, on a Saturday morning, the class met, and we always made at least three pairs of earrings. Because I featured new styles each month, several students came to every class. As soon as I assembled my class supplies, made my sample earrings, and put together project directions, I’d be free for the rest of the day. To avoid interruptions, I turned off both my cell phone and the house phone, and then I set to work.

  It was late morning by the time I finished my preparations, and I called the hospital to ring Bessie’s room. The phone had rung only once when Bessie herself answered.

  “Hi, Bessie. It’s Laurel. Are you feeling up to having some company?”

  “I sure am. It’s pretty boring lying around here.”

  “Is now a good time? I can be there in a few minutes.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Can I bring you anything?”

  “Maybe Celebrity Spy. I can keep up on all the gossip.” Bessie chuckled. “At least, that’ll give me something to do. I guess they’re going to keep me here for another day.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re going to be able to go home soon. I’ll be sure to pick up the latest issue for you.”

  I was happy that Bessie seemed to be in good spirits. Leaving Bear to his afternoon nap, I drove the short distance to the hospital, stopping at a supermarket along the way to pick up the latest issue of Celebrity Spy and a big jar of cashews, one of Bessie’s favorite snacks.

  When I arrived at the hospital, I was lucky enough to snag a parking spot not too far from the main entrance. The Center City Regional Hospital, a new ten-story structure, bustled with activity. I bypassed the busy reception desk since I already knew Bessie’s room number and took a crowded elevator to the fourth floor, where I followed the arrow pointing towards rooms 400 –420. As I walked down the hall to number 418, I noticed that all the rooms had just one occupant, which surprised me. It had probably been at least twenty years since I’d been inside a hospital, and I remembered that, at the time, most of the patients had had to share a room with a stranger because few rooms were private.

  As I approached Bessie’s room, I could see her sitting up in bed. She was wearing a pink, quilted bed jacket that reminded me of something my great-grandmother had worn when I was a child. On the shelf next to the window, three bouquets of flowers and several get-well cards were arranged neatly in a row. The lavender DIY card that my jewelry class had made was displayed prominently next to a fall bouquet that Cynthia had personally delivered to the hospital.

  “Bessie!” I exclaimed, carefully giving her a gentle hug, “I brought you some cashews, and here’s the latest issue of Celebrity Spy.”

  “Great! Thanks, Laurel. The hospital food is okay, but cashews sure aren’t on the menu, and you know they’re my favorite snack.”

  “You look like you’re feeling better,” I said, remembering how pale she’d been when I’d found her lying on the floor in the guardhouse. Her color had returned to normal, and someone had styled her hair, although the hair-do couldn’t hide the bandage on the back of her head.

  She patted her head and nodded. “I feel better. Debby was here early this morning, before she went to work, and she fixed my hair.”

  “Tom’s wife?” I couldn’t remember the name of Bessie’s daughter-in-law.

  “Uh, huh. She works at Le Style Salon. Fridays are her busiest days, but she took the time to come over here before work.” A tear trickled down Bessie’s face.

  “I’m sure she was happy to do it.”

  “We haven’t always gotten along, but she’s been a real rock these past few days. Poor Tom has been so upset, and he’s been begging me to move in with them, but I don’t want to rock the boat with Debby, and I don’t want to live with them, anyway. Doc says I can go home tomorrow morning, and I told Tom that’s exactly what I’m going to do—go home, to my own apartment. I’m champing at the bit to get out of this place.”

  “In that case, I know you’re feeling better. When do you think you’ll come back to work?”

  “Well, that’s another story. I may not be coming back.”

  “Oh, Bessie,” I murmured. I would miss Bessie if she didn’t go back to work, but I couldn’t really blame her for not wanting to return to the place she’d been attacked.

  “I’ve been thinking about it a lot—not much else to do here anyway. To be honest, I’m really feeling my age. You know I’ll be eighty next month.”

  “No!” I really was surprised at this revelation. I’d thought that Bessie was in her mid-seventies at most.

  “Yup, it may be time to retire. For the first time in my life, I really feel old. I’m still sore from the mugging, and now I can’t move my arm too well—I had a little stroke, you know—but the real kicker is that I’m kind of scared to go back. Hawkeye Haven used to be such a nice place to work, but now…” she trailed off.

  “I can understand your concern. Everyone was shocked by what happened to you.”

  “It’s not just the possible danger, Laurel. It’s the management, too. Luke’s a great guy, but he has his hands full trying to deal with those two idiots who are running the place now.”

  “You mean Victor and Patty?”

  “Yup, those two. What a pair! If I decide not to come back to work, I sure won’t miss them,” she said vehemently.

  I realized that Bessie probably hadn’t heard about Victor’s murder, so I filled her in on all the details I knew.

  “Can’t say I’m surprised. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.”

  “Bessie!” Although she was expressing the same sentiment that I was sure a lot of people were feeling, it was a bit shocking to hear it out loud. Victor had not been a popular man. I wondered how he’d managed to get himself elected as president of the Hawkeye Haven HOA.

  “I know that sounds cruel, Laurel, but he wasn’t a good man. It was terrible the way he treated his poor wife, even before she got sick. He was nasty to his own daughter, too. Courtney was their only child, so any normal guy would have doted on her, but he was always yelling at her and putting her down, like it made him a big man or something.”

  “I understand that Courtney was still living at home with him. I wonder why she’d do that when he was so mean to her.”

  “She was about to move out. She told me last week that she’d lined up a roommate and an apartment. I think she only stayed with Victor so that she could save enough money to go out on her own. She just turned twenty-one a few months ago, and she’s been trying to save money since her high school graduation, but it’s been tough. Until a few months ago, she’d only worked at minimum-wage jobs, but when the new canning factory opened, she was able to get a job there on the night shift.”

  “How awful for her to be the one to find him dead.”

  “Terrible,” Bessie agreed. “Now she’s an orphan. He wasn’t much of a father, but he’s all she had after her mom died.”

  “No other relatives?”

  “She never mentioned any.”

  “Here’s your lunch, Mrs. Kessler.” We were interrupted by a hospital aide who hurried into the room and plunked a tray down on Bessie’s bedside table. “I’ll leave it right here for you.”

  As I wheeled the arm of the bedside table over her lap, Bessie struggled to sit up straighter. I removed the covers from the food—cream of mushroom soup a
nd a turkey sandwich with a peanut butter cookie for dessert and a carton of milk to drink.

  “Not too bad,” Bessie commented, taking a bite of the sandwich, “but I like my own homemade bread a whole lot better than this stuff.”

  “You’ll be home making a loaf before long,” I assured her, sounding more cheerful than I felt. I didn’t want Bessie to guess that I was still worried about her. She seemed much like her old self, except for the admission that she was frightened. The old Bessie had been fearless. I couldn’t really blame her for feeling scared. Who wouldn’t be, after the ordeal she’d gone through?

  “Bessie,” I asked as she sipped her milk, “do you remember anything about what happened when you were attacked?”

  “At first, I didn’t, and the doctor told me that I might not ever remember, but it’s starting to come back to me. I remember putting a cup of coffee in the microwave, and then I heard a noise. By the time I turned around, the attacker was only a few feet away.”

  “A man?”

  “I think so, but I’m not really sure. Whoever it was wore a ski mask. I got the impression that he was a few inches taller than me. There was something about the way the person moved—it seemed kind of familiar, but I can’t think how.” Bessie seemed agitated, and I was sorry that I’d broached the subject.

  I patted her hand, “That’s all right, Bessie. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  “It’s just that I get so frustrated when I can’t remember something.”

  “You have a better reason for not remembering something than the rest of us, but I know what you mean. It’s frustrating. Just yesterday I couldn’t find my car keys. I must have looked for them for at least twenty minutes before I realized that I’d left them in my jacket pocket.”