Hot Property

by Sherryl Woods

  “I’m trying to conduct a murder investigation.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to insult a witness.”

  Amusement dashed across his lips so quickly, she almost missed it. Fortunately, since she’d been considering slugging him in the teeth at the time, her gaze had been fastened on her target. “Unless I missed something earlier, you didn’t actually see the murder, right?” he said.

  He had her there. “Well, no,” she admitted with great reluctance. She could see where this was headed. It was not going in her favor.

  “Then as a witness, you’re of limited value to the case. I can spare you.”

  “The state attorney might not see it that way.”

  “Then let that office deal with you.”

  The housekeeper’s round, dark eyes were following this exchange with evident fascination. “Look,” Molly said finally. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. You don’t want me here. My son needs to get to school. I’m off.” She meant to appear gracious about it. She sounded miffed. Which she was. A savvy detective wouldn’t miss it. From the amused expression back on Michael O’Hara’s face, he hadn’t.

  Before she could take the first step, she heard Drucilla inquire sleepily, “Conchita, who’s out there at this ungodly hour?”

  Ungodly? Ten o’clock? Molly hadn’t slept that late since college, when she’d scheduled all of her classes after noon to accommodate her need for rest after waiting tables until midnight. She delayed her departure to catch a glimpse of the woman who thought their midmorning arrival so ill timed.

  Pulling a bright orange silk wrapper around her, Drucilla swept into place at the housekeeper’s side. Though she appeared only half awake, her makeup was flawless and not one strand of her auburn hair was mussed. Unless her hairdresser lacquered it with acrylic, she’d worked to achieve that perfection.

  “Molly, what on earth?” Her gaze traveled from Michael O’Hara’s polished loafers to his rumpled hair … approvingly. Another casualty, Molly thought. The man probably had an ego the size of Texas.

  “Who are you?” Drucilla inquired.

  Her eyes flared slightly when he introduced himself and flashed his badge for her inspection. “A policeman? How fascinating. Come in, won’t you? Café, por favor, Conchita.”

  Molly hesitated, uncertain of her own welcome. Drucilla waved her inside. “Come, Molly. I assume you’re together. Did someone steal a deck of cards last night?”

  As she stepped inside, Molly cast a triumphant look at the detective. She wasn’t actually thrilled at the prospect of being there when Drucilla came unglued at the news of her husband’s death, but the idea of being a thorn in Michael O’Hara’s side made her morning. For an instant she thought he was going to dismiss her, but instead he motioned her toward the living room, graciously, as a matter of fact. Molly took it as a deliberate comment on her own surly manners.

  In the huge, sunny room, which offered sweeping views of the ocean, Molly had to control the desire to wander. She felt as if she’d stumbled into an art exhibit. Competing with the Atlantic on the east was an entire wall filled with a single modern painting in splashes of sea green, sky blue and sunset orange. It lacked subtlety. It did, however, provide the room with its color scheme, all shades of blue, green and orange designed to enhance Drucilla’s own vibrant coloring. Lush plants decorated the balcony. Inside, more plants provided the backdrop to pedestals topped with sculpture. Every surface was crammed with jade carvings, twists of copper, and hammered tin. Though she couldn’t identify the abstract designs, Molly suspected none were ashtrays. She stared at an ivory piece that appeared to be … intimate. She blushed when Miciael O’Hara caught the direction of her fascinated gaze. It was the second time that morning she caught the faint twitch of stubborn lips as he fought a smile. It was the second time she considered assaulting a police officer.

  He turned back to their hostess. Or his chief suspect, to be more precise. “Mrs. Winecroft, I understand you were playing bridge with Mrs. DeWitt and several others last night.”

  “Yes.”

  “What time did you leave the cardroom?”

  “Shortly before midnight, I would say. Why?”

  “And what did you do then?”

  “I came upstairs and went to bed. Why?”

  “Was your husband with you?”

  “No. He stayed behind to talk business.”

  Molly noticed that Drucilla didn’t bother to ask why. Apparently she’d finally realized this was going to be a one-sided interrogation. The parameters had been set. She’d been assigned to give the answers. The detective was the only one who got to ask questions.

  “With whom was he talking?” O’Hara continued.

  “I don’t recall. Henry Davison, I suppose. Juan Gonzalez stopped by for coffee. He doesn’t play bridge.” She glanced at Molly. “Who were the other men there last night?”

  “Tyler Jenkins and Roy Meeks,” Molly responded, then wondered why Drucilla was being so deliberately vague about a group of people who obviously played together regularly.

  “Yes, of course.” Her dismissive tone indicated the two were of little importance. Since Roy Meeks had been Molly’s winning partner, she could undeistand the reluctance to acknowledge him. As for the others, her forgetfulness made little sense.

  “And did your husband have business with those men?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. They were just chatting about the stock market, the new hotel here on the island, things like that. General conversation. Really, Detective, I don’t understand what you’re getting at here.”

  “Did you and your husband argue last night?”

  This time Drucilla cast an anxious look at Molly. Long, smooth, ageless fingers, tipped with bright-red nails and adorned with impressive chunky diamonds, worried the sash of her dressing gown into a knot. “No more than usual. After thirty-five years of marriage, we have our ups and downs.”

  “Which are you having now?”

  Drucilla calmly picked up her cup of coffee, but couldn’t disguise the shaking of her hand. The hot liquid splashed on her silk gown, staining it in a way that reminded Molly all too vividly of the brown stain soaking Allan’s shirt. Drucilla bit back an oath, waved off the detective’s offer of a handkerchief, and with supreme effort gathered her composure around her as if it were a mink stole. There was barely a tinkle of china against china as cup met saucer.

  “Detective, I have a luncheon to go to today. If you’re finished.”

  “Not quite yet. What time did your husband return to the apartment?”

  “I have no idea. As I said, I went to bed. Now, really, I must get ready.”

  “You may want to change your plans.”

  Drucilla stared at him in astonishment. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. Winecroft, but your husband is dead.”

  The blurted announcement, coming during questions that under other circumstances might have been no more than polite chitchat, took even Molly by surprise. The man’s timing sucked. She stared at Drucilla, expecting hysterics. When none came, she decided maybe O’Hara had accomplished exactly what he’d set out to do: get a completely honest reaction.

  Drucilla appeared to have been stunned into silence. Time stood still for a heartbeat. Then confusion flickered in her green eyes. The announcement was either news or she was a better actress than the celebrity model currently starring in the television pilot being shot on Miami Beach.

  “Allan? Dead? That can’t be.” Her voice was barely above a murmur. There was a distinct catch in it. “His heart is fine. He just had his physical. I’m sure, absolutely certain the doctor said he was okay. Where …?”

  She stared helplessly at Molly, as if looking for confirmation. At this hint of vulnerability, contrived or not, Molly was suddenly overcome with more compassion than she’d expected to feel. She moved to Drucilla’s side and clasped her fidgeting hands. They were icy cold. There were sti
ll no tears.

  Though his voice had softened, Michael O’Hara was relentless now, imparting information faster than the just-bereaved widow could accept it. “It wasn’t a heart attack. Your husband was murdered, Mrs. Winecroft. He was stabbed, right here at Ocean Manor. I really need you to help me discover who did it.”

  Drucilla trembled as his words hit home. Any help she was likely to offer was going to be delayed. With one quiet gasp, she proceeded to faint in Molly’s arms.

  “Well, that was certainly tactful,” Molly said, as she patted the woman’s wrists.

  He shrugged off her indignation. “I’ve learned it’s better just to get the bad news over with.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell her the minute you walked in the door. ‘Hello, your husband’s dead.’ That sort of thing?”

  “I wanted a couple of uncensored answers first.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Legal enough.”

  Molly cast a skeptical glance at him and wondered what the Supreme Court had to say about that. She decided—wisely, probably—to keep her inexpert legal opinions to herself.

  “Get Conchita. Maybe she has some smelling salts or something. Unless, of course, you have time for her to languish like this until she comes to on her own.”

  He started to argue, then shook his head and headed in the direction of the kitchen. Molly heard him and the housekeeper conversing in fluent Spanish. When he reappeared, he was carrying a damp cloth and smelling salts. Conchita was trailing along behind, wringing her hands and muttering what sounded like prayers in rapid-fire Spanish that eluded Molly’s comprehension.

  As much as she wanted to stay and see the scene played out, Molly knew if she didn’t get to work in the next half hour, she was very likely to end up every bit as dead as Allan Winecroft. She didn’t want to look that bad the next time Michael O’Hara saw her.

  Before she could go, though, Drucilla began to come to. She blinked once, then impatiently pushed away the smelling salts.

  “Damn Tyler Jenkins,” she said. She said it fervently enough that there was little doubt about who she thought had murdered her husband.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Michael O’Hara didn’t have the smug look of a man who’d just wrapped up a murder case in less time than it usually took to get a car emission system inspected in Dade County. Molly could practically see him mentally ticking off the evidence and comparing it to his own gut instincts. She certainly was.

  Tyler Jenkins had access to the murder weapon. He had the opportunity. The only thing missing was a motive powerful enough to incite a sixty-eight-year-old man who’d once marched for peace to commit a cold-blooded murder. Personally, Molly was also struggling with the concept that a man just recovering from bypass surgery had enough strength to wield that knife in a deadly manner. The detective seemed equally skeptical without ever having met the man. Experience had apparently taught him to beware of quick, tidy solutions.

  “Tell me why you think Tyler Jenkins is responsible for your husband’s death,” he suggested to Drucilla.

  Drucilla appeared startled. “Oh, I doubt that Tyler killed him,” she said. “The old goat wouldn’t have the gumption.”

  Not by so much as the flicker of an eyelash did O’Hara indicate that he was disappointed or even surprised. Molly, however, had been hoping to have this whole thing wrapped up before she left for work.

  “What then?” he said to Drucilla.

  “Tyler was responsible for getting Allan to run for the presidency of the condominium association,” Drucilla explained. “We haven’t had a peaceful moment since that awful election. Just last week someone called in the middle of the night and threatened Allan.”

  Molly was stunned. She couldn’t imagine any of her neighbors stooping to late-night threats. The residents of Ocean Manor were all relatively well-to-do, well educated, and presumably civilized. Her own modest income was probably pocket change to a majority of the owners. Many of them owned two residences, this one and an old family home up north or a summer place in a resort area such as Aspen or Vail or Newport. Many were South American or European. Most seemed too busy perfecting their tans to indulge in such skulduggery.

  Of course, she admitted, the election had been every bit as nasty as some hotly contested senatorial race. Campaign diatribe had been slipped under the doors on an almost nightly basis. And the contentious annual meeting had proved beyond a doubt that possessing money did not always imply an understanding of social niceties. Her good neighbors had fought like hellions over everything from wall sconces to cable TV. On second thought, perhaps Drucilla’s claim wasn’t so farfetched after all.

  “Did he recognize the caller?” Molly asked. “Was he certain it was another resident?”

  “That’s what he said, but he didn’t explain how he knew. He didn’t want me worrying. He dismissed it as a childish prank by someone old enough to know better.”

  “And he didn’t state the nature of the threat,” Michael O’Hara said.

  “No.”

  “Did he say whether it was specific, like a threat to slash his tires, or just a vague threat to get him in some way?”

  “He didn’t say, but it must have been a death threat. Isn’t that obvious now?”

  Molly certainly thought it was. The detective looked less convinced. The department must issue skepticism along with the badge, or maybe the fact that it was ingrained was what had made him choose to be a cop.

  “Any other enemies?” he asked. “Old business rivals? Maybe he clashed with someone over a debt or gave someone bad business advice.”

  “I can’t think of anyone. Allan was capable of irritating people. He had an abrasive personality, but I can’t imagine him making anyone angry enough to drive them to murder.”

  The detective nodded. “If you think of anyone, you’ll let me know.”

  “Certainly.”

  At the door, he paused for just an instant. “I really am very sorry, Mrs. Winecroft.” There was a warmth in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, a hint of genuine compassion. Molly had to revise her opinion of him all over again. He might be suspicious and cynical, but that was what he was paid for. Underneath the official act, he was not without sympathy.

  He was, however, all business when he turned back to Molly. “Coming, Mrs. DeWitt?”

  It sounded more like an order than a question. Because she had to get to work anyway—and only because of that—Molly dutifully followed him into the corridor. There was no point in lingering. Within the next hour there would be an endless parade of curious people along to console Drucilla. No doubt she’d want to change into more subdued attire before they arrived. Her scanty tears had barely streaked her makeup, and every coat of mascara was still right where she’d put it before greeting them, but that orange wrapper was a jarring note. Molly wondered if the killer would be among those offering condolences. The very thought made her shiver.

  When the door had closed behind them, Michael stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned to Molly. “So, what’d you think?”

  “You’re asking me?” She was torn between shock and the heady sort of pleasure she always felt when some producer asked her opinion about his milliondollar script.

  “You know her better than I do. Was it all an act?”

  “If it was, it was a good one.”

  “Good, not perfect,” he corrected. “She was supposedly asleep when you arrived, right?”

  “That’s what the housekeeper said.”

  “Then is it only the women I know who take forever putting on their makeup?”

  Molly shot him a look of grudging admiration. She saw exactly what he was getting at. “You think she was actually awake and expecting company. The police?”

  “I was thinking more in terms of a lover.”

  Once again Molly understood why he’d reached detective status and she was an amateur. Her mind wasn’t nearly devious enough.

  “Have you heard any rumo
r to that effect?” he asked.

  “No, but I’ve lived here only a short time. With my hours at work, I try to spend most of my evenings with my son. I know only a few neighbors really well and they’re mostly the year-round folks.” Once again it occurred to her to invite them all over for tea and an informal chat. That was what Nero Wolfe might have done, though he usually waited until he had the evidence to pin the murder on one of his guests.

  As if he’d read her mind, Michael O’Hara said, “Don’t go snooping around on your own. What were you doing at Mrs. Winecroft’s apartment anyway?”

  “I explained that. I wanted to pay my respects.”

  He regarded her skeptically. “So you said. At least you’re consistent. You intrigue me, though, Mrs. DeWitt. For a woman who stumbled on a body this morning, you’re awfully calm.”