Hot Property

by Sherryl Woods

  Molly smiled a greeting, which drew only a cursory nod and a terse, “Mrs. DeWitt.”

  “Mind if I join you?”

  He stopped and studied her, his suspicious blue eyes intent. “Why?”

  “I’d like to talk to you a little about Allan, if I could.”

  “The man’s dead,” he said, resuming his pace. “No point in talking about him.”

  “He was a friend of yours. I’m sure this has been a terrible shock.”

  “Damned fool,” he muttered.

  Molly wasn’t sure if he was referring to Allan or to her. “Why would you say that?” she asked.

  He waved aside the question. “Don’t mind me. You’re right. This has been a shock.”

  “Drucilla says you worked very hard to get Allan on the board.”

  “Thought he’d be good. Not like all those others who were greedy and power hungry. Man had business sense. Ran a huge corporation. This should have been a piece of cake for him.”

  “Should have been? Wasn’t it?”

  “Different kettle of fish altogether, he told me. Might have been president, but he wasn’t really in charge. Board outvoted him at every turn. Should have thought of that,” he said, stepping up his pace until Molly practically had to run to keep up with him. For a man still recuperating from surgery, he seemed awfully fit to her.

  Molly was also having some difficulty in reconciling the image of Allan as kindly businessman out to do good with the petty tyrant he’d appeared to be to others. The sheet of rules, circulated less than a week ago, came to mind as did a few incidents she’d heard about.

  “Wasn’t there a suit of some sort?” she asked. “Something about a cat?”

  Faded blue eyes snapping with indignation glowered at her. “A lot of damned nonsense,” Tyler decreed. “Can’t have animals roving all over the place. The rules are clear. No pets. Allan was just enforcing them.”

  “But as I understand it, Mrs. Jenko had owned that cat for nearly fourteen years. She brought it with her when she moved in. No one told her she couldn’t. Besides, it never left her apartment. What possible difference could it make if she kept it?”

  “A rule’s a rule. Can’t have exceptions. Leads to chaos.”

  Molly was beginning to get an idea of where Allan had gotten his notions about condo law and order. Tyler Jenkins was a crotchety old man. He’d probably instigated the incident over the Firths’ child being barefoot in the lobby. Liza Hastings, who lived across the hall from Molly, had told her all about it. Four adults—the Firths, Allan, and Tyler—had stood in the middle of the lobby shouting, while two-year-old Hettie Firth screamed, probably in a rage over being singled out for her tiny bare feet. It had taken Nestor and another guard to calm things down.

  “Mr. Jenkins, Drucilla seems to think that Allan was being threatened because of something he’d done as condo president. Is that possible?”

  “World’s a terrible place when a man’s condemned for just doing his job.”

  “Does that mean yes?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. That guard threatened him. He’s probably the one. That policeman won’t go after one of his own, though.”

  It took Molly several minutes to figure out what Tyler meant. The guard in question, Enrique Valdez, had been fired over some incident at the front gate. He’d admitted someone without noting it in the log. The guest happened to be visiting Allan. Allan had fired Enrique, setting off a barrage of criticism from those who thought he should have been given a second chance.

  “Have you told Detective O’Hara about the incident?”

  “Haven’t seen him. Doubt he’ll listen, though. Those Cubans protect each other. That’s a fact.”

  Molly refrained from offering her own observation about the detective’s impartiality. He liked her—at least she thought he did—and that wasn’t keeping him from putting her on his list of suspects.

  “Did Allan suggest that Enrique was making those calls?”

  “No.”

  “Did he mention what the calls were about?”

  “Said they were a damned nuisance, no more than that.”

  “So he wasn’t frightened?”

  “Take more than an anonymous call or two to scare a man like Allan.”

  Molly wasn’t so sure about that. It had taken only one hang-up to make her jittery. She was about to comment on that when Michael O’Hara himself fell into stride beside them. She doubted he was there for the exercise.

  “Is this a private conversation or can anyone join in?” he inquired. His expression indicated that any hint of exclusivity would not be appreciated.

  The old man’s eyes narrowed. “You that cop?”

  “Michael O’Hara.”

  Tyler looked as if he’d been offered a dose of castor oil. “Time for my nap.”

  “I’m afraid your nap will have to wait for a few more minutes,” Michael said, following him as he headed toward the building. Molly stayed in stride partly out of habit, but mostly out of curiosity. Why was Tyler Jenkins so afraid of talking to the police?

  “Doctor says I have to rest. Can’t change the schedule.”

  This from a man who’d just done twenty laps around a very large pool at a pace just under a trot. Molly had her doubts. Apparently Michael did as well. His determination never faltered. “Perhaps if we sit here in the shade,” he suggested.

  Still grumbling under his breath, Mr. Jenkins sat. Michael sat opposite him. Molly lingered hopefully.

  “Sit,” Michael said finally. She pulled up a chair before he could change his mind.

  “Mr. Jenkins, tell me about your relationship with Allan Winecroft. Was he a protégé of yours?”

  “Got him to run for the board, if that’s what you mean. Saw that he got elected.”

  “You must have a lot of influence in the building then.”

  “Some.”

  “Why didn’t you run yourself?”

  “Bad heart. Doc said I couldn’t take it.”

  That hadn’t kept him from running a vitriolic campaign, however. Molly had read some of his campaign letters on Allan’s behalf. The Republican National Committee couldn’t have taken nastier potshots at the Democrats.

  “Once he was elected, was he panning out the way you’d hoped he would?” Michael asked.

  “He was tough. Given the chance, he would have made a damned fine president.”

  “Any idea who might not have wanted him to have that chance?”

  “Always a few malcontents. Doubt they’d have killed him, though.”

  “Why not let me be the judge of that? I’d like their names anyway.”

  “Talk to Manuel Mendoza.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s the man Allan beat in the last election. Thought he had a lock on the position. Damned Latin coalition. Always talking Spanish in the elevators. Wouldn’t know we’re still in America, if they had their way.”

  Even though there was no sign of a reaction on Michael’s face, Molly winced. She’d heard Tyler Jenkins’s frustration from an increasing number of Anglos as the Hispanic population began to dominate the county. Apparently Tyler didn’t care that the man he was talking to was also Hispanic. Nor was he worried about sharing the depth of his bitterness over the community’s changes.

  No doubt Michael had heard similar complaints before. Ignoring the prejudiced comment with admirable restraint, he asked, “Mr. Jenkins, where were you between midnight and eight this morning?”

  The old man didn’t even blink. “In my apartment.”

  “Anyone with you?”

  “My wife. She’ll tell you I never left.”

  Michael closed his notebook. “Yes. I’m sure she will. And she was at the bridge game as well, is that right?”

  “Yes. We play every Tuesday. Won last year.”

  “Congratulations and thank you for your time, sir.” He stood up and gestured to Molly. From the stern expression on his face again, she decided it wouldn’t be wise to argue.


  Before he could launch into a tirade, she said, “I got a call this afternoon. I wasn’t going to say anything, but maybe you should know about it.”

  “What sort of call?”

  “A hang-up, but I could tell someone was there at first. I’m sure it was nothing, probably just a wrong number. I mean no one would expect me to be home this time of day, right?”

  “Did anyone see you come in?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “There were at least a dozen people in the lobby.”

  “Any of the people who were playing cards last night?”

  She tried to recall if she’d seen anyone she recognized. “No,” she said finally. “Other than the guards and the manager, they weren’t people I knew.”

  He nodded. “Did the call upset you for some particular reason?”

  “No. Not really. It’s just that I went through something like this a few years ago. It gave me a start to have it happen again.”

  “It was probably nothing, but let me know if you get another call, okay?” He took a card out of his shirt pocket and jotted a number on the back. “Call anytime. My home number’s on the back.”

  “Why was I less nervous before I told you?”

  “Because I’m taking it seriously?” he suggested. “I have to. In situations like this it’s never smart to overlook anything. I tend not to believe in coincidence. You have a cute kid to worry about, too. It might have been nothing more than a wrong number, but don’t take any foolish chances if it happens again. Call.”

  Molly nodded.

  “And one more thing,” he said, his tone light. It contradicted the cold look back in his eyes. “Stay away from the other suspects. Finding you with them is really getting on my nerves.”

  “Maybe you ought to be quicker,” she said, then wished she hadn’t. Michael O’Hara was definitely not in any mood for jokes. If anything, he looked like someone who was only a frayed strand of self-control away from throttling her.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  For all of Tyler’s obvious bias in bringing up Enrique Valdez as a suspect in the first place, Molly couldn’t help wondering if the security guard had harbored a grudge against Allan. It would have been natural under the circumstances. For that matter, what about Violet Jenko? Since the elderly resident was essentially housebound, Molly decided to stop by her apartment en route to her own. A social call, in case Detective O’Hara asked.

  Molly tapped loudly on the door of the first-floor apartment and waited patiently. Mrs. Jenko was both hard of hearing and required the use of a walker to get around. The combination slowed her down. Finally Molly heard the soft thud of rubber against tile as Mrs. Jenko neared the door.

  “Who’s there?” she said, her voice clear and sharp.

  “It’s Molly DeWitt, Mrs. Jenko, from upstairs.” She spoke loudly enough to be heard over the argument on Geraldo.

  The door opened a cautious crack, revealing a frail, bent woman with flyaway wisps of white hair. She was wearing a flowered housecoat and fuzzy pink slippers. Assured that it was indeed Molly, she removed the chain and opened the door wide. She waved Molly inside, then replaced the deadbolt and the chain.

  “Would you like some tea?” she offered, obviously glad of the unexpected company.

  “I would love some,” Molly said, adapting her steps to Mrs. Jenko’s slow progress into the kitchen. “Could I help?”

  “What’s that?”

  Molly raised her voice. “Do you need any help?”

  “No need. Just sit there at the table. This won’t take a minute.”

  The walker thumped across the tiles as she moved from sink to stove to cupboards. The room had been painted a bright sunshine-yellow once, but the color had dimmed with grease and time. Maybe Mrs. Jenko couldn’t see all that well to clean.

  The elderly woman carefully placed two English bone china teacups on the table. Next she brought over a plate with wedges of Scottish shortbread, the kind made with enough butter to clog the heartiest arteries. Molly loved it. She was just sorry there were only four pieces on the plate. When the tea had been poured and she’d taken her first sip, Molly said, “How are you doing, Mrs. Jenko? Have you been getting out at all?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Have you been out?”

  “Just to the mailbox. That takes most of the afternoon,” she said wearily. “Can’t move the way I used to. Why, when I was a girl …”

  Sensing the start of a long session of reminiscences, Molly interrupted. “You haven’t been too upset over Mr. Winecroft’s murder, have you? Are you nervous being here alone?”

  “Doesn’t have a thing in the world to do with me,” she said adamantly, thumping her walker for emphasis. “The man deserved to die.”

  “Because of that suit you had over your cat?”

  Her nut-brown eyes misted over. “It was a cruel thing, what he did. Prissy was all I had in this world. She barely made a sound, never even left the apartment.”

  “How did he know about her then?”

  “That hateful Tyler Jenkins told him. Tyler used to come nosing around, pretending to be concerned about how I was doing. He knew what that cat meant to me, but he told Allan about her anyway. Next thing I knew I was told Prissy had to go. I fought it as long as I could, but my son finally insisted I stop. Said it wasn’t good for my blood pressure. Wish I had dropped dead. Then we really would have had a claim against the old coot.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Course I do. You think it’s any fun living like this? Might as well be dead. Only thing worth staying alive for was seeing Allan Winecroft with that knife sticking out of him.”

  “You saw him?”

  “You bet. The minute I heard the news. Went right over there to see for myself that someone had done him in.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “No, but if I did, I’d surely thank them.”

  Molly finally excused herself and left, after seeing Mrs. Jenko settled in the living room again, her television tuned to the early evening news. The sound followed her all the way down the hall. Her talk with the old woman had confirmed the depth of the bitter feud she’d had with Allan, but it also had proved, to Molly at least, that she wasn’t capable of plunging that knife herself. She wouldn’t have had the strength for it.

  Enrique, on the other hand, was a powerfully built man. Molly spent an hour trying to track him down, to no avail. His wife claimed he was working somewhere as a painter. She had no idea where. Her grasp of English conveniently faded in and out. Molly left a message, but she wasn’t surprised that Enrique never returned the call. She went to bed every bit as confused as she had been when she’d discovered Allan’s body that morning.

  • • •

  Once Molly dropped Brian off at school in the morning, she turned automatically into Harbor Plaza Shopping Center. Down at the end, an R missing from its restaurant sign on the overhang, was the Doughnut Gallery, or the DG, as it was fondly known by the regulars. Long and narrow, the place was an island institution, its back wall decorated with snapshots of customers. Even the Miami Herald knew to send its reporters here when it wanted the latest word on Key Biscayne happenings.

  Naturally, this morning the talk at the crowded counter centered on the Allan Winecroft murder. As she waited for a seat to open up, Molly listened as two other condo presidents worried aloud. They were less concerned with Allan’s fate than with the possibility that their own lives might be at stake.

  “You should have heard that guy last week, when the board turned down his renters,” Jacob Gelbman said as the waitress set his daily breakfast of juice, cereal and a banana in front of him. He was so nervous he nearly poured his juice on his corn flakes. “He threatened to get us all for depriving him of his livelihood. I sympathized with the guy, but I couldn’t vote to let the prospective tenant in. He had too many kids for a two-bedroom apartment. The owner was furious, practically turned purple, said we were ruining him.”

&nbs
p; “That’s just talk,” George Calhoun retorted, going against medical guidelines to douse his scrambled eggs with salt. He picked up a piece of crisp bacon in his fingers and waved it between bites. “If I had a nickel for all the threats made against our condo board, I’d be a rich man.”

  “You are a rich man,” Gelbman reminded him. “Maybe you and I can afford to take a few knocks. What if this guy in our building couldn’t? What if he goes berserk like that guy up in Broward County last year? He allegedly shot the condo president, then went home and had a drink. That’s where they found him, out by his pool, a drink in his hand, calm as you please. Desperation makes people do crazy things. Now this thing with Winecroft. Who knows what’s behind that? I tell you, I’m thinking of getting off the board. Let somebody else take the heat. What do you get for doing it? A lot of aggravation. That’s it. Nothing but aggravation.”