She glanced at the clip and handed it back. “Sure. That's Peter's hero picture.”
I remembered that Clarice had told me she'd known Abby since they were babies, that their nannies had been friends and had strolled together in Central Park. “And Gloria Covarrubias is also in it.”
She wasn't at all surprised.
“You never mentioned that she grew up with Abby and Peter.”
“Well, frankly, it really wasn't like that. Glory didn't live there or anything. She stayed with an aunt in the Bronx while her mother worked. She really wasn't involved in Abby's and Peter's lives so I guess that's why I forgot to mention it. It was only after Lala Chukker died—that was her mother—that she came to work for Abby. Maybe ten, twelve years ago.”
“But you led me to believe that Madeleine Van Thiessen died of cancer.”
“No.” She was very definite. “Honey, I told you she had cancer in her jaw and that she died when we were thirteen. That's all I said. After the fire, none of us ever talked about that day again.”
Of course she was right. I was the one who had stupidly made the assumption that the cancer had killed her.
As I drove out her driveway, I was haunted by the irony of all of it. Jackie Doo Dahs, J.B.'s ex-wife, had lured him to meet with her under the pretext of illness. Yet Abby, his wife, really was ill and hadn't shared that with him.
By the time I hit Oracle Road I'd thought a lot about Abby's disease and come to the conclusion that like many people with troubling news, she might have shared it with her minister. Since I had a little time to kill I drove out to the Church of Brotherly Love.
I found Lateef Wise standing next to a tall ladder in the chapel. I was again struck by how absolutely huge he was. The skinny young girl with braces was on top of the ladder holding a wire basket with what looked like an industrial size light bulb in it.
“You're a day late,” Wise said, but he was smiling.
“And a dollar short,” I said. “I thought of a few things I wanted to go over with you.”
“Sure. Marly, you can come down now, we'll change it later.”
The girl climbed down from the ladder. When she dropped from the last rung, instead of hitting the floor, she landed on Reverend Wise's foot.
“Watch it!” He snarled in what I thought was an overreaction. He had to have a hundred pounds on the skinny little thing.
“Sorry,” she smiled, showing a mouthful of metal. “I'll go finish those letters now,” she said as she skipped out of the chapel.
“Doggone thing won't hold me,” Wise said, nodding at the ladder.
“Well that wouldn't be a graceful fall,” I said, pleased with my pun.
“Shall we go to my office?”
“This won't take long.”
“All right.” As he dropped onto the front pew the wood creaked with his weight. He motioned for me to join him.
“During the course of my investigation I've run across a few things.”
His hooded eyes were focused on my face, but they gave nothing away.
“Did Abby ever mention to you that she was sick?”
“Well, I knew she was depressed about that business with her husband, if that's what you mean.”
“No. She had Lou Gehrig's disease.”
One of his eyebrows shot up. “That's terrible. I had no idea, none at all.”
“I thought with you being her minister and all, that maybe she would have talked to you about it. It's a very debilitating thing.”
“Yes, I know. But as I told you last week, Abby's church attendance had fallen off lately. We weren't as close as we once were.”
“But she was still sending money to the church,” I said, remembering the healthy checks she'd written.
“Yes.”
I wondered if her disinterest in his Sunday services had worried him. Of course if he'd killed her the giving would have stopped entirely. But what if he'd known about her will and the five million dollars before her death? Wouldn't he be concerned that if she wasn't going to church that she might change her mind about that? Five million bucks any way you cut it was a pretty good motive for anything. Even murder.
“Before she died did you know the church was in her will?”
“Yes.” He was leaning on his knees and he rubbed his face with his huge hands, his gold and diamond Super Bowl ring sparkling, caught by the light from the windows. “But I didn't know the amount.”
It was quiet in the chapel with only the occasional hum of the air-conditioning refrigeration as it kicked in.
“Aren't you going to ask me?” He trained those dark eyes on me once again.
“Ask you what?”
“About Cherry.”
I exhaled. “Yeah, I was going to get to it.”
“I supposed you would. I've been waiting for you to return. There have been some things that I have done in my past that I'm not proud of, the good Lord knows. And my treatment of my ex-wife is at the top of the list of the sins I will have to one day atone for.”
Ten days in intensive care. I sure hoped he was going to have to answer to someone for that.
“I was an angry young man back then. Full of fear and hate. It was before I found the Lord.”
“There haven't been any other incidents?”
“No.” His head was back in his hands. “Nothing. I have learned to channel my energies in more productive ways.”
Since I'd just witnessed his overreaction to the teenager's accidentally stepping on his foot a few minutes earlier I was skeptical.
“I still attend anger management classes once a week,” he admitted before standing up. “And now, Miss Ellis, unless you have further questions, I believe I should get back to doing the Lord's work.”
I'd called Peter Van Thiessen before leaving Clarice's and he'd agreed to meet me for lunch at the Tohono Chul Tea Room on the northwest side of Tucson. I got there early and strolled through the gift shop.
It turned out he was late. He'd been running again up on Mt. Lemmon. It was too hot to eat in the front courtyard or the back patio so we were seated inside.
We'd just ordered when I got down to business.
“I'd like to talk to you about your sister's relationship with Gloria and José Covarrubias,” I began.
“She was fond of both of them.”
“But more fond of Gloria than her husband?” I prodded, seeing if he would bring up the fire.
“You're looking at the extra money Abby left Gloria, aren't you?”
“That's one thing.”
“She'd been working for Abby for several years before she married José so my sister was closer to her. I think that's probably why she left her more.”
“Twenty-four thousand dollars more?”
“And because Laurette didn't work very long for her, she only got five thousand.” He glanced at his watch.
With the mention of Laurette Le Blanc's name I was tempted to delve into his relationship with her, but decided against it. Until I was sure who the players were, I was going to hold my cards pretty close to my chest.
I stayed quiet as the waitress deposited our sandwiches.
“Gloria Covarrubias opened a separate bank account about three months ago.”
His hands, with the sandwich in them, stopped inches away from his mouth. “What bank account?”
“One separate from the one she had with her husband. The interesting thing is that about the same time, large deposits started appearing in that account.”
“Well, that's certainly surprising.” His eyes narrowed. “How large?”
“About twenty-eight thousand dollars all together. So I'm wondering if there's a connection between that money and Abby's death.”
“You think Gloria might have had something to do with it?”
“I'm not saying that, not yet.” I held up my hand.
“Maybe someone died and left her money,” Peter offered before taking another bite of his basil, tomato and fontina cheese sandwich.
&nb
sp; “When that happens there's usually a large single deposit, not money trickling in in different amounts over three months.”
“I'm sorry, but I don't know anything about the Covarrubiases' financial arrangements with my sister, or any of their other sources of income. Maybe you should talk to Gloria about it.”
“I'll do that.”
We ate quietly for a few minutes before I changed my approach.
“Peter, why didn't you tell me that Gloria's mother was your nanny?”
“Why would I?” He took another bite of his sandwich, not missing a beat.
“Well, when I asked you how long Gloria had worked for Abby you just said a long time. I was surprised when I learned you that you all grew up together.”
“Not hardly.” He laughed, and looked at his watch again. “She was our nanny's daughter, that's all. We weren't encouraged to play with her and she was rarely around anyway.”
“But you were a boy hero,” I said, smiling. “From the picture I saw it looks like Gloria suffered some pretty serious burns on her hands.”
“That was an awful day. I don't talk about it.”
I suppose I could have prodded him, but didn't see the need to. At least he hadn't lied about the fire when I'd asked. That was better than nothing, but not as good as telling me about it from the get-go. I switched direction again.
“Did you ever notice that Abby was sick in any way, maybe taking medications or dropping things?”
“God, we've been through this,” Peter Van Thiessen said, an edge to his voice. “You were with me when we found the Prozac. I didn't know my sister was taking that or anything else for that matter. What's this about dropping things?”
“Well, Ramona Miller mentioned that Abby was having trouble. Then at the bar the night before her death the bartender said she'd dropped a bottle.” I watched him carefully. “She was having trouble holding on to things. Her hands were getting stiff and cramping.”
“I never noticed anything like that.”
“So you didn't know your sister had Lou Gehrig's disease?”
“What?” He coughed and pieces of his sandwich flew out of his mouth. He wiped his lips with his napkin. “My God, what are you talking about?”
“Lou Gehrig's. Your sister was sick.”
“That's impossible. She would have told me.” His hand trembled as he lifted his iced tea glass. “I would have known.”
“According to my sources”—I used the plural to cover Clarice—“only her doctor and a few friends knew about it.”
“Lou Gehrig's. That's the one that paralyzes you, isn't it?”
I nodded.
“I can't believe she wouldn't have told me.”
“You were close,” I said, remembering my first conversation with Clarice. What had she said? They were tighter than ticks, because of that mother they had.
“Obviously not as close as I thought we were,” he said dryly. “I guess you've talked to her doctor.”
“Unfortunately not. He was killed the same weekend Abby died.”
“God. How did that happen?”
“He was shot at his home.”
“But you know for sure that she had this disease?”
I nodded. It was kind of a bluff, but coupling Hornisher's specialty with what Clarice had told me, I felt that I was on solid ground.
“She told one of my sources that she'd rather be dead than debilitated.”
“What are you saying, Trade? Do you think she drowned herself?”
“Not likely.”
“So I don't get it.” His voice was harsh. “Am I supposed to feel better about my sister's murder because she was going to die anyway?”
36
AFTER LEAVING PETER I DROVE UP TO ORACLE AND DROPPED in on the Covarrubiases at the Brave Bull.
It had been impossible to physically separate José and Gloria, so I'd had to ask them about Abby's disease together. Gloria had her stonewall act down cold, and her husband, never a chatterbox to begin with, also pled ignorance. I kept my mouth shut about the deposits that Gloria had been making to her private account. There was no sense tipping my hand any earlier than I had to.
“I understand your mother was Peter and Abby's nanny,” I said. “That you grew up with them.”
If Gloria was surprised, she didn't show it. Unlike Peter, she saw no need to clarify my assumption that they had grown up together. She said nothing.
“What can you tell me about the fire that day?”
“What's to tell? Is this what you want to see?” She jerked off one of her thin cotton gloves.
Her right hand was shriveled with a cicatrix of gnarly rivers of faint pink scars and ridges of thick, ropy scar tissue running wild. The deformities ran up her wrists, finally disappearing under the fabric of her long-sleeved shirt. I noticed webbing between her fingers and her index finger was significantly shorter than her middle one. She had no fingernails.
Gloria held her hand in front of my face. Too close.
“What do you mean asking me, what happened that day? I was a little girl, playing with matches when and where I should not have been.”
José Covarrubias studied his hands in his lap and said nothing.
“And God in his grace spared me.”
“I understand Peter had something to do with that too.” It wasn't particularly kind, but then I was no fan of Gloria's. “You must be very grateful to him.”
“Grateful? And who wouldn't be? I have nothing more to say to you.” With that she walked off.
“Adiós,” José said quietly as he followed his wife out of the room.
On the drive home I had to admit I didn't really like Gloria Covarrubias and failed to find what Abby had found so endearing in her. While that didn't necessarily make her a murderer, I couldn't overlook the fact that she was the one who had packed all of J.B. and Abby's food for their fateful camping trip, and more importantly, their whiskey. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that both of them had been drugged.
Of course there was the possibility that the ketamine had belonged to J.B., but even so, that would have made it accessible to Gloria. José, in his position as handyman-chauffeur, could have easily spotted the drug in the bull barn and given it to his wife.
And of course the big bombshell was that she and Abby and Peter had all known one another as children. I thought about what Gloria's childhood must have been like. It had to have been hard to have your mother work for really rich people, to be a nanny to children whose every wish was granted while you were shunted off to an aunt in the Bronx. How had she felt, deprived of her mother's company, week after week, while Lala Chukker had tended Peter and Abby? Would she have gotten the message that her mother thought the Van Thiessen children were more important than her own daughter? That she was somehow less important, less deserving?
I found myself doubting that little Gloria had intentionally set the fire that had taken Madeleine Van Thiessen's life. What was the percentage in that? Wouldn't that make the nanny's services even more in demand? The fire probably had been an accident. But again, an accident in the house that took Gloria's mother away from her day after day of her young life. And what did she have to show for it? Terribly scarred hands and arms, a big collection of soft cotton gloves and mental scar tissue that could probably never be debrided.
While I'm no psychologist, it seemed to me that such a background could foster a lot of pain, anger and resentment. How much was the question. Had she killed Abby? And was Peter next?
When I got back to the stage stop I tried the number that Charley Bell had dug up for Laurette Le Blanc in St. Martin.
I couldn't afford to overlook her. There was a lot going on there. Her suspicious hiring by either J.B. or Abby on their honeymoon, her easy access to Abby's accounts and business affairs, and her romantic involvement with Abby's brother all implicated her. Throw into the mix the womanizing J.B.—although I had no evidence of his having fooled around with her—and Laurette Le Blanc also t
urned up high on my suspect list.
When I finally reached her, Abby's personal assistant shed no new light on my investigation, although she did admit she knew that Abby had been taking Prozac for depression. She said she knew nothing about the Lou Gehrig's disease.
I had to keep asking myself, why would anyone want Abby dead? And that question led to the Big Three. Who had the desire, the opportunity and the motive?
Unfortunately, a lot of people would profit monetarily from Abby's death. Her husband clearly had the most to gain. Then there were the Covarrubiases. Their combined inheritance of $58,000 might not mean much to a wealthy man like Peter, but to a poor family, it would seem a fortune. Perhaps enough to kill for.
And if Gloria was in it, there was a good chance that she was not alone, judging from the money that had been deposited in her separate account. Where had that additional $28,000 come from? Could Gloria or Laurette somehow have wangled it out of Abby's accounts? Or how about J.B.? Could he and Gloria have conspired to kill Abby, and the additional money to buy Gloria's silence had come from the million dollars that Abby had given her husband?
Thinking of J.B., I certainly couldn't overlook Jackie Doo Dahs. She'd convinced herself that she wanted her husband back. How badly did she really want him and his money? Enough to kill for? I stared at my bruised left wrist.
And of course, out in left wing was the not so pure Lateef Wise aka Bobby Bangs. Wife abuser, now born-again preacher who hadn't begun to strike it rich until he had met Abigail Van Thiessen. Five million dollars could definitely be a great motive.
Now I'd hit a real snag. The Lou Gehrig's. What did it mean? I was convinced that there had to be a connection between Abby's death and that of Samuel Mullon, her doctor. But what was it? Who wanted him dead? And what had he known?
If no one knew about Abby's disease, other than her doctor and Clarice Martínez, did that implicate Clarice? What would she stand to gain if Abby died? As far as I knew, Abby had left nothing to her, so why would she want to kill her? No, Clarice was not in the mix, other than I was truly worried about her. If whoever had killed Dr. Mullon did so because he knew of Abby's diagnosis, then Abby's best friend could definitely be in jeopardy.
Rode Hard, Put Away Dead Page 24
