by Lois Winston
I swatted his arm but not too hard, given that he was driving.
“The point is that Not-Sid knows his designer handbags. He wanted to meet Mary Louise because of her money, not her casabas.”
“Casabas?”
Oops! I’d never told Blake about the casabas. “Not-Sid liked his dates with what he called ‘large melons.’”
“He actually told you this?”
I nodded.
“Not Rubenesque?”
I shook my head.
“You know, Gracie, it’s a good thing the guy is dead.”
“Why’s that?”
“If he weren’t, I’d have to kill him myself. Why didn’t you ever tell me this?”
“Because I knew you’d act exactly the way you’re acting right now.”
By this point Blake had pulled up in front of Mary Louise’s house and parked. I jumped out of the car to put an end to the conversation. Not-Sid was dead. Blake didn’t need to get all Sir Galahad on me, defending my honor after the fact. He should only know how many dirty old men I dealt with for years in the garment industry. No, actually, he shouldn’t. And he never would.
“No police cruiser,” I said, stating the obvious and changing the subject at the same time.
Blake grunted.
“And no garden gnomes,” I added. “If we’re lucky, we won’t have to sit on plastic slipcovers.”
Blake grunted again as he rang the doorbell.
“Why hello there!” said Mary Louise after swinging open the front door. “What a pleasant surprise. Please come in.”
She ushered us into a living room devoid of kitsch and indicated that we should sit down on a plastic slipcover-free sofa. The woman had taste. Expensive taste. The room, more showplace than living space, definitely shouted designed-by-decorator. And recently.
So did Mary Louise. From her expertly highlighted head of bronze waves down to the Alexander McQueen ballerina flats, complete with their signature gold metal skulls, on her feet. An odd choice of footwear for a woman in her late sixties. I wondered if Mary Louise sported any hidden tattoos or piercings.
For all her obvious money, though, Mary Louise Franklin lacked even an ounce of beauty. The woman had a face that would stop traffic. And not in a good way. For Sid, casabas may have taken precedence over other features, but no casabas and butt ugly? I should have known something was rotten in Sidville, but I’d been blinded by Mandelbaum Moolah.
“I’ve been having such a lovely time with Sidney,” she said. “I’m so happy you introduced us. We’re having dinner tonight in the city. Our fifth date.”
Blake and I exchanged glances. “Then you don’t know?” I asked.
“Know what, dear?”
I took a deep breath, not knowing what to expect after I relayed the bad news. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. Franklin, but Sidney died Thursday evening.”
“Oh,no!” she wailed. “Not my Sidney!” Huge mascara-laden tears cascaded down her cheeks and plopped onto her raw silk pants, leaving black blobs against a celery green background.
She raised her head and swiped at her eyes and cheeks, transforming her raccoon look into that of a coal miner. “How?” She snuffled. “Was it his heart? I told him he should lay off the caviar and foie gras. Between the salt and the fat, I worried he’d eat himself to death.”
“The police haven’t been here to question you?” asked Blake.
“The police? Why on earth would the police come here?”
“Sidney Mandelbaum was murdered,” I said. “The police are interviewing—”
“All his acquaintances,” broke in Blake, placing a hand on my knee.
I got it. This was not the time to blurt out to Mary Louise that her Sid wasn’t a monogamous relationship kind of guy. “Yes, all his acquaintances,” I repeated.
“No,” she said. “I haven’t spoken to anyone.”
This struck me as odd. By now, either the real cops or the fake cops or both should have arrived to question Mary Louise. I had one more topic I needed to broach with the grieving woman.
“Mrs. Franklin, did Sidney ever discuss any sort of business deals or investments with you?”
“Of course not. Why would you ask such a thing?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just trying to figure out why someone would want Sidney dead.”
“I can’t imagine. He was such a wonderful man. So generous.” She released another torrent of tears, then blubbered, “He treated me like a queen. No, better than a queen. Like an empress.”
*
“To quote Alice,” I said to Blake after we took our leave of a very distraught Mary Louise Franklin, “curiouser and curiouser.”
“In multiple ways.”
“I’m finding it hard to believe that the same guy who stiffed Charlene Koltchefsky for a sixty-eight dollar dinner, not to mention trying to stiff her a second time, forked over the funds to dine on caviar and foie gras with Mary Louise Franklin.”
“Apparently more than once.”
“Maybe Not-Sid did suffer from multiple personality disorder.”
“Or maybe someone is lying to us,” suggested Blake.
“To cover up killing Not-Sid?” That made perfect sense, but I had a slightly different theory rattling around in my head. “Or maybe the liar is lying not to cover up her dirty deed but to protect the true killer.”
Blake mulled this over for a moment. “Do you think the prim-and-proper retired school marm would lie to protect her granddaughter?”
“I don’t think we can discount the primordial instinct to protect one’s offspring. Or in this case, one’s offspring’s offspring. Tiffany expressed outrage at how Not-Sid had scammed Charlene. We already know she hacked into my computer and tried to implicate me in a financial scam. How much of a stretch is it to make the leap to murder?”
“I think it’s a huge leap, sweetheart. You’re suggesting every white collar criminal is capable of committing acts of violence.”
“Who’s to say they’re not, given the proper set of circumstances? Tiffany certainly struck me as someone quite capable of killing, especially if she believed the victim deserved to die.”
“But is her grandmother capable of a cover-up to protect her?” Blake shook his head. “I’m not buying it, Gracie. Charlene struck me as the kind of woman who would insist on Tiffany paying her dues to society.”
“Maybe.” Or maybe not. If someone wanted to lock up one of my kids, I’d do everything in my power to prevent it, no matter what. And as previously mentioned, I’m a law-abiding citizen who’s never even had a traffic ticket. So who’s to say how far Charlene would go to protect Tiffany?
TWELVE
From Mary Louise Franklin’s home, Blake and I headed over to pay a visit to Leila Raffelino. Leila also lived in the borough of Fanwood but at Dakota West, an upscale condo community designed to resemble the iconic Manhattan apartment building from which it took its name. Only Dakota West was a scaled down version of the real thing. Still, the building was damned impressive.
Blake blew out a whistle after we drove down a long, tree-lined driveway and pulled into a visitors’ parking lot adjacent to the building. I didn’t know whether to interpret the sound as one of appreciation, envy, or a little bit of both. Neither of us had previously seen the newly completed structure up close and personal, although we’d seen photos in the newspaper. The photos didn’t do the place justice.
A cross between German Renaissance and French architectural styles, the square building with a central courtyard sported gables, dormers, niches, and balconies galore. It positively screamed money. “According to sales I’ve seen listed in the paper, these babies start at just under a million bucks and go up to seven million. The monthly condo fees are more than our mortgage.”
Blake blew out another whistle. “I’m betting Leila Raffelino received the caviar and foie gras treatment from your Client Number Thirteen.”
“If she did, we’d have a
pattern emerging. Not-Sid wined and dined the ones with money, stiffed middleclass Charlene Koltchefsky after she rebuffed his offer of an investment opportunity, and beat a hasty retreat from Kitty Pichinko’s mothball abode.”
We stepped from the car and headed toward the main entrance. “I wonder why he didn’t dangle any investment schemes in front of Mary Louise,” said Blake.
“I’ve been wondering that, too.”
“Got a theory?”
“I’m working on one. Maybe Not-Sid saw Mary Louise as his Golden Ticket and had decided to marry her to gain control of all her money, rather than scamming her out of a small chunk of funds.”
“Plausible but from the looks of this place, I’d say Leila Raffelino’s portfolio makes Mary Louise’s portfolio look like chump change.”
“Unless Leila sank her entire portfolio into her new digs. Maybe Mary Louise has more in the way of liquid assets. What I don’t get, though, is if Not-Sid was Sheldon Becker, what happened to all those millions he embezzled?”
“He probably blew through them,” said Blake. “Twelve million dollars doesn’t go as far as it used to.”
I sighed. “I wouldn’t know.” Then again, neither would Blake. “So you think he returned to replenish his depleted coffers?”
“That’s one possibility.”
“Not a very well-thought-out one. Why be stupid enough to return to the scene of his original crime? Wasn’t it risky for him to return to New Jersey?”
“He obviously didn’t think so. He’d changed his looks, taken on a false identity, even obliterated his fingerprints. What were the chances he’d run into Blanche, and she’d notice his birthmark?”
“He may not even have known about his birthmark. Blanche said it was located behind his ear. His sons weren’t even aware of it.”
“There were probably only two people in the world, let alone the state, who could have outed Sid as Sheldon.”
“Two? Blanche and who else?”
“His barber.”
Blake was certainly getting the hang of sleuthing. I smiled my appreciation of his Dr. Watson skills. “Still, why not target wealthy widows someplace where no one knew him, like Palm Beach or Palm Springs?”
Blake pondered this for a moment. “There’s something we haven’t considered.”
“What’s that?”
“Perhaps he deliberately returned to New Jersey.”
“Why would he do that?”
“What if he hadn’t been able to move the entire twelve million dollars out of the country ten years ago? He may have had to stash some and returned to retrieve the rest of the money when he ran through what he initially absconded with.”
I didn’t buy it. “Then why get involved with Relatively Speaking? Why not just grab the money and dash back to wherever he’d been hiding all this time?”
“Maybe that was his original plan, but someone found his stash while he was holed away on some remote island in the Bahamas.”
“So Not-Sid instituted Plan B? Find a wealthy widow to wine, dine, and wed?”
“Works for me,” said Blake.
“Only we’d never know for sure because corpses don’t talk. Or maybe they do but only to pathologists and forensic anthropologists like Temperance Brennan. And I doubt even Temperance Brennan could figure out Not-Sid’s motives from examining his dead body. What sort of clues could she possibly find?”
Blake let loose a deep sigh, then tossed me The Look before we stepped into the lobby. I took the none-too-subtle hint and stopped babbling, even though I knew I was right.
Not surprisingly, Dakota West employed a security guard who stopped us the moment we entered the lobby. He gave us the once-over, his expression leaving no doubt we didn’t qualify as future residents, even though I carried my mustard Milly Caroline Tote and wore a pair of Tory Burch wedges. This from a rent-a-cop who probably lived in Kitty Pichinko’s apartment complex in Plainfield. He certainly didn’t know his designer handbags and shoes.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“We’d like to see Leila Raffelino,” I said.
“And you are?”
“Blake and Grace Elliott,” said Blake.
Rent-a-cop glanced down at his podium, then asked. “Do you have an appointment?”
Appointment? We were here to see a suburban widow, not Donald Trump. “No, but if you’ll give her a buzz, I’m sure she’ll see us.” I hoped.
Rent-a-cop picked up a receiver and pushed a button on his console. After a short wait he said, “Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Raffelino. There’s a Blake and Grace Elliott here to see you.” He paused for a moment. “I see. Yes, ma’am.” He hung up the phone and turned to us. “Mrs. Raffelino said this is not a convenient time.”
Snubbed by a rent-a-cop! How embarrassing! Blake, ever the gentleman, muttered a thank-you, took my arm, and escorted me out of the building. I think he might have been afraid of what I’d say to rent-a-cop. Or do. If I’d known Leila Raffelino’s apartment number, I would have stormed right past rent-a-cop and banged on her door. Too bad I didn’t know which of the dozens of apartments was hers.
“Remind me where you introduced Leila Raffelino to Sidney,” said Blake as we headed back to our car.
“TGIF.”
Blake tossed me The Look. “I’m glad it’s Friday, too, Gracie. Now, is there some reason you’re refusing to answer my question?”
“Huh? I did.” When The Look intensified, I realized Blake didn’t realize I’d answered his question. “TGIF is a seniors’ program at the Westfield Memorial Library on Friday afternoons. Well, not exclusively for seniors but geared toward them. They do allow people of all ages to attend. Although few do, other than seniors. I suppose because the programming targets seniors—”
“Gracie.”
“Yes, Blake?”
“Do you remember what the program was the day you introduced Client Number Thirteen to Leila Raffelino?”
“Of course I remember. I’m not going senile.”
“And?”
“Something about financial security in tough times.” I rooted around in my Milly Caroline Tote, and pulled out my iPhone. After accessing my calendar, I found the information on the TGIF event. “Protecting Your Nest Egg from Vultures.”
“And you brought a vulture right into their midst.”
I sighed. “You think Not-Sid tried to scam Leila, and that’s why she wouldn’t speak to us?”
“It’s a damn good possibility.”
I was quickly but reluctantly coming to the same conclusion.
“Would you blame her?” asked Blake.
I sighed again. Damn Sidney Mandelbaum and his Mandelbaum Moolah. I wish I’d never met the conniving con artist.
Only one date remained for us to interview. Suzette Stephanovich lived in another upscale retirement community, this one in Bernards Township. I hoped we’d have a better reception. I gave Blake the address, and we headed toward Rt. 78.
“She lives quite a distance from the others,” said Blake. “Where did you introduce her to Sidney?”
“Not-Sid,” I corrected him. “And they met at that reception for the Westfield Symphony.” Blake had attended the event with me, but like all the others, he primarily stood off to the side while I chatted up the women Not-Sid zeroed in on for introductions. If he ever had to pick out any of my clients’ dates in a line-up, he’d fail miserably. Blake accompanied me to these events with one purpose in mind: Keep Gracie out of trouble. He kept his eyes on me and no one else.
“Why would a woman who lives in Bernards Township attend a performance of the Westfield Symphony?” he asked. “It’s hardly around the corner.”
I shrugged. “Any number of reasons. She likes attending such events. She knows someone who plays in the symphony. She wanted to hear the guest performer that night. She has friends or family in Westfield. What difference does it make? She attended, and I introduced her to Not-Sid. That’s all that matters.”
“I suppose she has casab
as?”
“They all have casabas. Not-Sid was all about the casabas.” And apparently, the portfolios.
“Except for Mary Louise.”
“Mary Louise’s portfolio obviously out-trumped her relatively normal sized casabas.”
Blake muttered something under his breath that I didn’t catch and decided I didn’t want him to repeat. Blake doesn’t mutter often, but when he does, the mutters are best left muttered.
We continued driving in silence until we turned into a sprawling community of semi-detached red brick town homes. Only the painted shutters and front doors, along with the plantings in the small front yards and the variety of cars parked in the driveways, differentiated one from another.
“Doesn’t look like Suzette Stephanovich has a Leila Raffelino-or Mary Louise Franklin-sized portfolio,” said Blake.
Which didn’t mean Not-Sid hadn’t tried to scam her. “At least we don’t have to contend with a rent-a-cop running interference.”
“And judging from the car in the driveway, I’d say Suzette Stephanovich is at home.”
Only how many women in their seventies drive humongous black Mercedes SUV’s? From what I remembered of the diminutive Suzette Stephanovich, she wouldn’t reach the pedals of the steroid-infused mega-monster parked in her driveway. “Blake, I don’t think that’s Suzette’s car.”
“Remick and Craft?”
“Maybe. Pull behind it.”
Blake maneuvered our Camry to block Suzette’s driveway. “Yes, that’s the license plate.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
He whipped out his phone and started to place a call to Detective Menendez, but before he could punch in the first number, three Bernards Township patrol cars, their lights flashing, pulled up and surrounded us.
Three officers jumped from their cars, their guns drawn and pointed directly at us. “Step out of the car,” yelled one. “Hands where I can see them.”
“Do as they say,” Blake told me. “Don’t say a word. Let me handle things.”
My knight in shining armor didn’t have to tell me twice. I have a deep-seated aversion to guns, especially when someone is pointing one at me. And right now three someones were pointing three exceedingly scary-looking guns at me. I stepped from the car, my hands raised over my head, my legs trembling so much I feared I’d collapse to the ground. I glanced over at Blake. My unflappable husband looked anything but his normal unflappable self.
