Definitely Dead (An Empty Nest Mystery)

by Lois Winston

  “A Mercedes SUV. Black with tinted windows.”

  She scribbled in her notebook. “Anything else you remember?”

  While I offered what I remembered of the phony agents’ physical traits and attire—which didn’t seem to impress Detective Menendez, judging from her lack of jotting—I printed out a second set of Not-Sid’s records. “He wasn’t Sidney Mandelbaum, by the way,” I said, handing her the sheets of paper. “But I’m guessing you already figured that out.”

  Menendez went all stony-faced on me. “How do you know that?”

  I motioned to the computer. “The marvels of Google. I only wish I’d checked him out before I accepted him as a client.” I should have known all that Mandelbaum Moolah was too good to be true, especially with the financial U-turn my life had taken over the past year. “So who was he? And why was he pretending to be someone he wasn’t?”

  Menendez remained stony-faced. Her lips barely moved as she spoke. “I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation. Thank you for the files, Mrs. Elliot.” With that she turned on her low, sensible heels and headed for the stairs.

  “That’s it?” I asked, trotting down the steps behind her.

  She stopped in the foyer and turned to face me. “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean? Jeez, it doesn’t take an Olivia Benson to see there’s something odd going on here, Detective. I have some goons posing as FBI agents show up at my door, asking for stuff only you, me and my husband should know about, and all I get is a ‘thank you for the files, Mrs. Elliot’? I’m a little creeped out here, and I’d like to know what you guys plan to do about it. Is my phone tapped?”

  “Not by us.”

  “But maybe by the goon squad?” I planted my hands on my hips and went on the offensive. “Who are those guys? What do they have to do with Sid’s murder? Why did they want my files on him? If they’re not the good guys, I have a right to know what’s going on here. Was Sid—or whoever he was—involved in something illegal?”

  She stared at me for nearly a full minute. Or at least it felt that long. In reality, maybe only a few seconds elapsed before she waved toward the living room and heaved yet another huge sigh. “Sit down, Mrs. Elliot. I could wind up with my butt in a sling for this, but I suppose I can answer a few questions.”

  Crap! I didn’t like the sound of that. My legs wobbled as I made my way over to the living room, and it wasn’t from wearing too-high Manolos or Jimmy Choos. I was barefoot due to the fact that more often than not, my feet rebelled against my fashionista sensibilities. Along with designer handbags, I loved designer shoes; they hated my slightly chubby feet. A fact I was always reminded of too late—after I’d bought a pair and worn them for a few hours. I slumped onto the sofa and held my breath, waiting for Detective Menendez to drop a bombshell or three.

  She perched on the edge of the oversized tufted leather ottoman that served as our coffee table. “We don’t know who the victim was,” she said, letting loose the first bombshell. “We’re working on it.”

  This filled me with all sorts of confidence about the local constabulary, especially considering Remick and Craft obviously knew Sid’s real identity. “Did you run his prints?” I asked, applying some of my NYPD, CSI, and Law & Order knowledge.

  Menendez scowled. “The deceased had no prints.”

  “Everyone has fingerprints. Even I know that much.”

  “True, but some people go to great lengths to eradicate them. In the victim’s case, the evidence points to the use of acid.”

  Acid? Bombshell Number Two. Why hadn’t I noticed Not-Sid’s lack of fingertip whorls? I certainly had a more than passing association with the man’s hands.

  “So whoever he was,” Menendez continued, “he went to drastic lengths to conceal his identity. And that’s all I can tell you.”

  Which wasn’t much. “Am I in any danger?”

  She tapped the papers in her hand as she stood. “I doubt it. Whoever Remick and Craft are, they got what they wanted. I don’t think you’ll hear from them again.”

  I rose. “But how did they know about me?”

  “They could have been tailing the victim for some time.” She headed for the front door.

  “So you think Remick and Craft killed Not-Sid?”

  Menendez stopped. Her hand poised on the doorknob, she turned to face me. “That’s one possibility.”

  Great! Not only had I let possible killers into my home, I now had to warn Blake about my morning visitors, something that until now I’d thought I might be able to avoid.

  As I headed back upstairs after Menendez left, I glanced into the living room. Something half hidden beneath the back rung of the mission oak rocker caught my eye.

  I headed back downstairs, picked up the snapshot, and pulled the photo album it had fallen from off the shelf. When I flipped opened the album to return the photo, Bombshell Number Three hit. Several pictures of Blake, me, and our twins were missing.

  Blake was going to have a cow, and I wouldn’t blame him. What had I gotten us into?

  I didn’t have to wait long for Blake’s reaction. He arrived home about half an hour later.

  “Want a latte?” he asked after dropping his briefcase on his desk and planting a kiss on my lips.

  I had spent the last thirty minutes staring at Not-Sid’s file, trying to figure out who the man was and why he wanted to meet so many women. What would a man who went to such lengths to disguise his identity want with me and Relatively Speaking? No matter how long I studied the pages, I came up blank. Some huge chunk of the puzzle was missing, a huge chunk that somehow involved Remick and Craft. And not in a good way.

  “Sure,” I said and followed Blake downstairs. “You might want to spike those with something,” I suggested as he headed for the espresso machine we kept on the kitchen island.

  He gave me The Look.

  I opened a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Hiram Walker. “I had a few visitors today,” I said, passing Blake the bottle.

  “Am I going to want this straight up?” he asked.

  “What I have to tell you or the whiskey?”

  “Both.”

  I cringed. “Maybe?”

  Blake set the bottle on the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “Let’s have it, Gracie.”

  I took a deep breath and blurted out everything that had happened since he left that morning. Halfway through my tale, he sank onto one of the bar stools at the island, buried his head in his hands, and began cursing under his breath.

  And I hadn’t even gotten to Bombshell Number Three yet. “You didn’t by any chance take any photos out of one of our albums, did you?”

  Blake raised his head and stared at me. “That’s a pretty odd non sequitur, even for you.”

  I bit my lower lip. “Not really.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Craft stole half a dozen snapshots of us.”

  Up until that moment I hadn’t realized my husband could swear in seven different languages. I knew he was fluent in French, Italian, and Spanish, and the man could bluff his way around a German knockwurst or opera. But who would have guessed his repertoire of foreign profanity included what sounded like Hungarian and Farsi? Granted, I didn’t know Hungarian from Bulgarian and Farsi from Afghani, but some of those words certainly sounded Slavic and others were definitely Mideast in flavor. At any rate, after all these years, my husband still surprises me.

  “Finished?” I asked after he’d run through his entire repertoire of four-letter words three times.

  He reached for the Hiram Walker and unscrewed the cap. “Not quite.” After taking a swig from the bottle, he passed it to me and reached for my hand. “Sorry for the outburst, Gracie, but you’ve scared the shit out of me.”

  “I’m not doing so well myself,” I said. Then I took a swig. “I’m frightened, Blake. And the police don’t seem to be too concerned about our safety. I called Menendez as soon as I discovered the missing photos. She sa
id she’d make sure someone patrolled the house, but she thinks Craft deliberately left the photo where I’d find it, so I’d notice the missing pictures. She thinks they just want to scare me, that they got what they came for.”

  “I get the feeling you don’t agree with her?”

  “Hell, no! They have no clues, no leads, other than my files. So how can she be so sure about Craft’s reason for stealing the photos?”

  “There’s another possibility,” he said. “The files may have nothing to do with the murder.”

  “Then why would Remick and Craft go to such lengths to get their hands on them?”

  “To misdirect the police? Create false clues?”

  I mulled over that for a minute. “Or maybe Remick and Craft are after something Not-Sid had and think he may have hidden it with one of the women he met through Relatively Speaking.”

  “Or with us. Maybe this would be a good time for you to go visit your sister in Florida.”

  “What? And leave you here alone? Absolutely not! Besides, what guarantee do we have that I won’t be followed to Florida?”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  I tossed Blake my most endearing smile. “You and I solve Not-Sid’s murder.”

  He let loose with another string of foreign obscenities.

  “Was that Russian, Ukrainian, or Serbian? And that last one…Greek? I swear, you never cease to amaze me.”

  He groaned. “Gracie, what the hell do we know about solving murders?”

  “Apparently about as much as the police in this county. And I’m not willing to sit back and wait for them to blunder their way to a solution, are you?”

  He mulled over my words for a moment. “No. Not when my wife’s safety is at stake. So what did you have in mind?”

  “We start with MOM.”

  Blake stared at me as though I’d suggested we take a swim in a tank full of killer sharks. “What the hell does your mother have to do with this? And why on earth would you want to get her involved?”

  “Nothing. And I don’t.”

  “But you just said—”

  “MOM. It’s an acronym for motive, opportunity, and method. Mystery writers use it to plot novels.”

  Blake shook his head. “Mystery writers make up murders and suspects. They don’t solve real crimes. You can’t apply the same logic.”

  I shrugged. “Why not? We already know two pieces of the puzzle: We know what the murder weapon was, and the killer found his opportunity when Not-Sid stepped outside for a cigar. All we need to do is figure out the motive, and we’ll find the killer.”

  Blake raised an eyebrow, accompanied by The Look and The Voice. “Oh, is that all? Well, what are we waiting for? We should have this case wrapped up by dinner.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, darling.”

  “And deductive reasoning isn’t one of your strong suits, sweetheart. There are more holes in your logic than in a brick of Swiss.”

  I smiled at him. “That’s why I have you to help me. I’ll do the creative thinking; you plug up the holes with that left-brained logic of yours. Between us, we’ll make a terrific team. And catch a killer.”

  Blake reached for the whiskey bottle. Before he took another swig, he muttered something that sounded like a mix of Japanese and Portuguese.

  FOUR

  I grabbed Hiram out of Blake’s hand and placed him back on the shelf. “Lattes,” I said pointing to the espresso machine.

  My husband wasn’t prone to binge drinking. He wasn’t even prone to social drinking other than an occasional glass of wine at a restaurant or faculty cocktail party. The last time we’d engaged in a threesome with Hiram was the day I learned my job had packed up and moved to China, leaving me with a zero balance in my 401K and no prospect of a pension. But I wasn’t taking any chances. We both needed sober wits about us if we were going to solve Not-Sid’s murder.

  After Blake added steamed milk to the espresso, I grabbed the two glass mugs and headed for the stairs. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Upstairs to start sleuthing.”

  He followed after me. “I’ll admit I’m new to the Sherlock Holmes thing, Gracie, but I’m pretty sure Sid’s killer isn’t hiding under one of our beds.”

  I shoved his latte at him and settled into my desk chair. “Very funny, Dr. Watson, but since you brought up Sherlock Holmes—”

  I reached for one of my how-to-write-a-mystery books. Even though I knew I was a romance writer at heart—due to a desperate need for every story to have a happily-ever-after—when I first began researching the ins and outs and ups and downs of romance writing, I had also familiarized myself with the whys and wherefores of other genres. Given that I’d now decided to transform my romantic comedy into a romantic suspense or mystery, my research was paying off.

  After leafing through the first few pages, I shoved the book into Blake’s free hand and pointed to a line of text. “Read what the master says.”

  Blake read out loud. “‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’” He lifted his gaze from the page and directed his attention back to me. “Setting aside the fact that your master is a fictional character, your point?”

  “Don’t you see? One of the women Not-Sid met through Relatively Speaking probably holds the key to his murder. All we have to do is eliminate all the ones who don’t, and we’ll have our answer.”

  Blake took a sip of his latte. “Or not.”

  I grabbed the book out of his hand and snapped it closed. “Don’t be so negative.”

  “I’m not being negative. I’m being logical. Isn’t that my role in your sleuthing scheme? Who’s to say any of the women know anything? Sid was a randy old goat living a double life. For all we know, he’s got a wife in Piscataway and a mistress in Parsippany. Maybe he’s a retired printer and destroyed his fingertips from decades of pulling zinc plates out of etching baths.”

  I stared at my own fingers. Four years of printmaking classes in college hadn’t affected my whorls, but maybe after a lifetime of working with corrosive chemicals without protective hand coverings, some professional printers had little left of their fingerprints. I had no idea if that was possible. I also had no clue about Not-Sid’s preretirement occupation. He’d never mentioned anything about his past.

  “And don’t you think the police are already questioning the women he met through you?” continued Blake. “If there’s anything to find out, they’ll find it.”

  Damn him and his logic. The world didn’t operate on logic; it operated on random whim, passion, and chaos. But Blake had started his career as a math major before he’d realized his true academic calling. Unfortunately, too many logarithms, cosines, and hypotenuses still floated around in his brain.

  I shook my head. “I’ll bet Menendez intimidates those women. She’s not exactly all warm and fuzzy, you know? And an intimidated person is one who either clams up or conveniently forgets things.”

  “Says who?”

  “I read it in one of my research books.”

  “I’m guessing that wouldn’t be a police procedural manual on interviewing witnesses.”

  “I think it was the book on character traits.” I took a step toward the bookcase that housed all my research books. “Want me to find it for you?”

  “That’s okay. I’ll take your word for it.” He waved his half-empty mug in my direction. “Lead on, Holmes. I’m at your service. Where would you like to begin?”

  I grabbed the list of women Not-Sid had dated and gave it a quick glance. Upon earlier perusal, nothing had jumped out at me, but I’d only spent a short amount of time with each of the women before introducing them to Not-Sid. I had no idea how much time they’d spent with him afterwards. If any. Some of them may have had second thoughts and declined what I imagined, knowing Sid, was his invitation for bagels and lox au natural.

  Then again, most of these women had struck me as the type who’d suggest the au natural themselv
es. One thing I’d learned in the short time I’d operated Relatively Speaking—these were not my grandmother’s septuagenarians. Today’s senior women were either living active sex lives or hoping to. And not shy to speak about it. Made me shudder to think how my mother was spending her retirement down in Del Rey Beach, Florida. Yikes! Don’t go there, Gracie.

  I glanced up at Blake. “Promise me I can die first.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll even give you permission to take up with one of your sexy students afterwards. I don’t care.”

  Blake pulled me toward him and kissed the tip of my nose. “Do I want to know what precipitated this out-of-the-blue concern?”

  “I don’t want to wind up desperate enough to get the hots for someone like Sid.” I swatted his chest with my palm. “Now promise me.”

  Blake sighed. “I promise. Happy?”

  “Okay.” I wriggled out of his arms and turned my attention back to the list of Not-Sid’s dates. “Let’s start with Sylvia Schuster. She was Not-Sid’s last hook-up this past Tuesday evening.”

  “Hook-up? You do know what that means nowadays, don’t you?”

  Did I?

  “Friends with benefits hook-up.”

  Okay, so I’m not the quickest bunny in the warren. It took a minute for Blake’s words to process. “That’s not what I meant!” Ugh! Septuagenarian sex. The thought grossed me out. And made me wonder again just what my sweet widowed mother was doing down in Del Rey Beach.

  But maybe Sylvia and Sid did wind up doing the horizontal jitterbug Tuesday night, thanks to me and my grand idea for a business.

  *

  Sylvia Schuster resided at Larchmont Gardens, an upscale adult community tucked away on the edge of the Watchung Reservation in Union County. No Indians. The reservation is a park and wildlife preserve in the Watchung Mountains, but Indians probably roamed the trails at one time. If I’d paid more attention back in elementary school instead of doodling in the margins of my loose-leaf notebooks, I’d probably know for sure.

  Now the Reservation is the hub of a wheel whose spokes branch off into some of the priciest communities in the state, pricey enough that Wheel of Fortune often gives away shopping spree vacations at the local Mall at Short Hills, a mall I once loved but where I can no longer afford to shop, thanks to my current pathetic financial situation. Au revoir Neiman Marcus, Saks, Bloomie’s, and Nordstrom. Hello (ugh!) WalMart, KMart, and Dollar Store.