A stool opened up next to Gelbman. Molly squeezed onto it, nodding to the men. She knew them the way she knew all of the regulars, by name and condo. She knew very little about their backgrounds, though both appeared to be retirement age. Gelbman had thinning white hair and nervous mannerisms even when he wasn’t contemplating a murder. Calhoun had the tanned, leathery skin of a man who couldn’t stay away from the beach or the golf course. They were always together and always here when she arrived.
Before she could blink, her cup of coffee was in front of her, along with the skim milk for her highfiber cereal. If she ever wanted to change her order, she’d have to shout it from the doorway. Once she was seated, her usual breakfast materialized automatically. There was something especially comforting about that routine this morning.
“What do you think, Molly?” Jacob Gelbman asked. “You live in the building. Was it one of the owners who stabbed Winecroft? There’s always some brouhaha going on over there. Maybe one of ‘em turned nasty.”
“I have no idea who did it,” she said honestly. Nothing she’d done so far had narrowed down her initial list of suspects, much less added anyone to it. Despite her desire to dig for more clues, she’d spent the previous evening helping Brian with his homework after her visit to Violet Jenko. Though on the surface Brian was nonchalant about the murder, she’d sensed a vague tension in him that she attributed to unspoken fears. She hadn’t tried to force him to talk, but she had remained available to listen. He’d spent most of the evening talking about snakes and what terrific pets they made. She’d shuddered at the very idea. Thank goodness the rules forbade it.
“But the paper says you discovered the body,” Gelbman protested. “Surely you have some theories about what happened.”
“I found Allan’s body, but unfortunately the killer didn’t linger with it. Your guess is as good as mine.” She patted herself on the back for remaining dutifully neutral. Detective O’Hara would be proud of her. Just to be sure she kept her opinions to herself, she stuffed a spoonful of bran flakes into her mouth.
“I heard there were a lot of bitter feelings after the last election, though. Who was that guy who ran against Winecroft and lost?”
“Manuel Mendoza,” Molly said, recalling that Tyler Jenkins had raised the same possibility.
“Right. That’s it. Mendoza. Maybe he’s still holding a grudge.”
“The election was eight months ago,” she reminded them. “If you ask me, he ought to be relieved he lost. The board has been catching flak from the owners from the minute they took office. They’re fighting over the assessments. They’re fighting over cable TV. They’re fighting over the decorating. When those cheap lighting fixtures went up in the halls, I thought Miriam Powell was going to have a fit of apoplexy. She said the property value was going to be ruined. I don’t think that makes her a murderer.”
“But you can’t say that for sure. You’ve got three hundred apartments, right? Every owner’s taste is different. You try pleasing them all. It can’t be done. Not a day goes by that someone’s not mad at you. If the police are on top of this, that’s where they’ll start looking, at the board minutes. See who was griping about what. Maybe somebody tried to sell and the deal wasn’t approved by the board. Could be the seller was real anxious. Or maybe the buyer resented being turned down. That’s the place to start, in the minutes.”
“Good idea.” The approving comment came from behind the newspaper to Molly’s right. Already it was a familiar voice.
She nabbed a corner of the paper and folded it down until she could peer straight into Detective O’Hara’s eyes. “It is not polite to eavesdrop.”
“It’s worse than that to defy a direct police order.”
“I’m not defying anything. I’m eating my breakfast.” She waved a spoonful of now soggy flakes in his direction.
“But the name Allan Winecroft did cross your lips, did it not?”
“Not mine, theirs.”
“A technicality.”
Both men on her left suddenly seemed totally absorbed with stirring their coffee. Molly recognized an evasion tactic when she saw one. Neither man used sugar. Or cream. Unless one of them had switched to tea and was trying to change his fortune in the leaves, they were trying to avoid the detective’s attention. Since they’d dragged her into this conversation, she saw no reason to hang alone.
“Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Detective O’Hara. He’s in charge of the Winecroft investigation. Perhaps he can answer your questions. I have to go to work.” She slid off the stool and grabbed for her check in one fluid motion. Even if it hadn’t been there, she knew the amount by heart. It never changed.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” the detective said, snagging her wrist and holding her in place. “I heard something last night that might interest you.”
The entire restaurant was not much bigger than her living room, just the right size for spreading gossip. A definite stillness fell over the row of diners. The only sounds were the sizzle of eggs on the grill and toast popping up. Michael was quick enough to pick up on the sudden fascination with their conversation.
“Not here,” he said, snatching his own check off the counter and steering her down the narrow aisle toward the door. He barely paused at the cashier to hand over a fistful of bills. “Hers, too,” he said.
“I’ll pay for my own breakfast.”
“It’s already done,” he muttered, nudging her toward the door. Molly barely had time to grab the cup of coffee she always ordered to go. It was thrust into her hand just as she scooted out the door.
When they were outside, Molly jerked her arm out of his grip and demanded, “Were you in there spying on me?”
“I was in there for toast and coffee.”
“Right.” She wondered exactly how long he’d lingered over refills of the coffee. The place had been open since five thirty. Unless he drank decaf, by now he ought to be wired for the day. She wasn’t about to risk tangling with a man whose nerves were jittery and who carried a gun. She kept a lid on any further sarcastic observations. She couldn’t help it, though, if her expression remained skeptical.
“Okay,” he muttered finally. “Maybe I thought I could pick up on a little local gossip, see if Allan was beloved or hated. I’m well aware that half the movers and shakers on the island stop in there for breakfast.” He slammed his fist against the roof of his Jeep. “Damn! Why am I explaining myself to you?”
“Guilt,” she suggested.
“Not a word you should be throwing around under the circumstances.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Word has it that Allan recently had a set-to with your son. The person who mentioned this suggested that you are a very protective mother.”
Molly regarded him incredulously. “What exactly was this set-to supposed to be about?”
“The informant seemed a little vague on that.”
“I’m sure. It never happened, Detective. Brian would never argue with an adult.”
This time the detective looked skeptical. Obviously interrogating witnesses gave him a lot of practice.
“Okay,” she agreed. “He can be a little sassy, but that’s with me. He’s been taught to respect his elders. Besides, he would have told me if Allan had been on his case over something.”
“That’s the point. He told you. You got huffy and stabbed the man. At least that’s the theory.”
“Yours or the informant’s?”
“The informant’s.”
“Good, because I’d hate to think you were that stupid.”
“Not stupid, just thorough. I have to check out everything.”
Maybe he was just being cautious. Or maybe he’d been taken for a ride once and vowed never to trust his own judgment again. Molly preferred those theories to the one giving him one more item to add to her own list of motives. “Did some sweet-talking person fool you once? Did she mess up a case for you?”
“Nope, and that’s not going happen if I
can help it. When it comes to a case, I don’t trust my parish priest. Now that we’re clear this isn’t personal, let’s stick to the specifics of this case. You’re saying the incident between Allan and Brian never happened?”
“That’s right. It never happened.”
“Could we talk to your son about that?”
“Why? I’ve told you.”
“And I’m trying to cover all the bases.”
She glared at him. His gaze met hers evenly, un-fazed by the scowl. There was enough chemistry in the air to blow up a lab. For once it didn’t have much to do with physical attraction. She was furious, resentful of the fact he wouldn’t take her at her word. He was patient, which only magnified her irritation.
“He’s at school,” she said finally.
“Later, then. I’ll stop by this evening.”
“Whatever,” she said stiffly.
“Thank you,” he said formally, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
She relented. He was just trying to do his job. “By the way, what was the consensus in there this morning?” she asked. “Was Allan loved or hated?”
“Actually, it was odd. Everyone had something to say about the murder, but very little about Allan. Except for the condo, did he pretty much keep to himself?”
“He played tennis, but those guys are already on the courts by now. Other than that I have no idea if he’d involved himself in any of the other island activities. Try the Yacht Club or check with The Islander. Someone at the paper might know if he was active.”
“Maybe I’ll just drop in on his wife, instead.”
There was an unmistakable spark of anticipation in his voice. “You’re hoping she’ll have company, right?”
“I must admit to a certain curiosity about who was expected yesterday. A lover, especially one interested in her husband’s estate, might have a particularly good motive for stabbing Allan.”
If Molly hadn’t had that damned meeting with Paramount, she might very well have begged to tag along. Instead, she drove to work at a daring ten miles an hour above the speed limit. Despite her defiance of the traffic laws, she still had to stay in the slow lane to avoid being run down by everyone else. Where the hell was a cop when you really needed one?
CHAPTER
SIX
When Molly arrived at the office, Vince and Jeannette were in the midst of a standoff. For the second time that morning she was grateful that the world around her was still so normal.
“What are you two bickering about now?” she asked as she inched between two floor-to-tabletop stacks of Variety, the Hollywood Reporter, tourism brochures, and magazines to reach her desk.
Jeannette, a tall, stately black woman with close-cropped hair, rolled her expressive eyes and launched into a soft but eloquent tirade in Creole. There was just enough English to give Molly the idea that Vince had been behaving in character. Apparently he recognized the phrase that meant son of a bitch as well. He dragged Molly into his office and slammed the door, leaving an indignant Jeannette on the other side.
“I can’t deal with this,” he said. “I’ve had it.”
“What’s the problem?”
“She refuses to do the filing.”
“Did she say that?”
“Well, not in so many words,” he admitted, “but do you see any sign of her doing it? She’s just muttering all that voodoo stuff again.”
“What on earth makes you think she’s invoking some curse?”
“It’s the way she looks at me. Gives me the chills.”
“Perhaps she looks like that because you’re behaving like a jerk. I’ve occasionally felt a need to regard you that way myself. Look, I’ll talk to her. We’ll get caught up on the filing. Maybe if the phone didn’t ring off the hook around here, she’d have time to do it.”
“It’s not my fault that they eliminated a secretarial position.”
“Nobody said it was. We just have to do the best we can. Have a cup of coffee. Go over your notes for the Paramount meeting. Daydream about your golf game. Did you make that birdie, by the way?”
“Now that,” he said with a satisfied sigh, all thoughts of Jeannette banished in a wave of pure nostalgia, “that was perfection. You should have been there, Molly. A fifteen-footer, straight into the cup.”
“Did you win?”
“Naw, but who cares? Came in six over par, the best I’ve played in months. I’m telling you, if I could hit the course every day I could turn pro.”
“Vince, by the time you’re ready for that you’ll have to go on the seniors tour. Stick with the amateur stuff. Now let me go see if I can calm Jeannette down.”
She found the clerk diligently filing. Jeannette glanced up, a twinkle in her dark-brown eyes.
“Okay, tell the truth, what’d you say to him?” Molly asked.
“I wished him many children,” she said innocently.
Molly chuckled. “So he was right. You did put a curse on him.”
A grin spread slowly across Jeannette’s flat features, her white teeth gleaming against a mahogany complexion. “He would see it that way, yes.”
“Jeannette, one of these days he’s going to fire you. Why can’t you just talk to him in plain English? You speak it every bit as well as I do.”
“But what would be the fun in that? Vincent, he has an idea of who I am. Why should I distress him by confusing the matter?”
“I have a pretty good idea of who you are, too, my friend, and you are a fraud. You have more business and political savvy than Vince would if he got an MBA. Don’t let him sell you short.”
“This is a clerk’s job, Molly. If he sees I am over-qualified, it will make him very nervous. I watch the county listings. When a better job comes along, I will apply. Until then I will do this one well, even the filing.” Her grin was back. “And have a little fun, yes?”
Molly chuckled. “Okay, yes.”
Jeannette’s expression sobered. “Now we talk about you. You are okay? I saw in the paper about the murder in your building.”
“I’m okay. I just wish I could figure out who was behind it. It makes me very nervous to think that someone in Ocean Manor is capable of murder. That means they have access to all the apartments.”
As Jeannette went back to her filing, Molly considered the suspects who had surfaced thus far: Drucilla, Manuel Mendoza, perhaps Tyler Jenkins, the fired Enrique Valdez, some unidentified and possibly nonexistent lover of Drucilla’s, some of the others who’d been there last night. She excluded herself for obvious reasons. She knew she hadn’t done it. If the police had a more solid list, weeding out the unlikeliest prospects, she wasn’t aware of it.
She glanced at her watch. She had about ten minutes before the meeting with the Paramount producer. That ought to be just about long enough for a chat with Mendoza. She looked up the number of his development company in Coral Gables.
To reach him she had to convince a receptionist and then a secretary that her business with him was important. Fortunately, dealing with Hollywood office help had given her the necessary skills to bluff her way past the most protective executive secretaries.
“Mr. Mendoza, this is Molly DeWitt. I live at Ocean Manor.”
“Right. Right. You’re the one who discovered Allan’s body, right?”
“Yes. I was wondering if you might tell me a little bit about condo politics. I’m new to the building and I’m wondering how Allan got elected.”
Although Mendoza had been speaking perfectly fluent, unaccented English, her question brought on a barrage of Spanish.
“You didn’t like him, I take it.”
“He was an interloper.”
“What an odd choice of words. Hadn’t he lived in the building for many years?”
“A few, but only recently did he become interested in power.”
“Perhaps that was because of some of the concerns about mismanagement I’ve heard.”
“You have been misinformed. The building has been run very well,” he said
coldly. “I have seen to that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am very busy.”
“Wait,” Molly said, anxious for a more definitive explanation.
“Good-bye, Mrs. DeWitt.”
Manuel Mendoza’s abrupt end to their conversation stayed with her throughout the meeting with the producers from Los Angeles. Had the ex–condo president interpreted her comment as an accusation? Had guilt made him anxious to be rid of her? Mendoza had been president of the board for three terms, and it was during that time that suggestions of impropriety had been raised. If someone had been offering sweetheart deals to contractors, who better to do it than a developer? Allan’s election would have brought an unwanted close to a lucrative side business. Was there enough at stake to justify killing him to pave the way for a new election? And how did Jack Kingsley fit in? Wouldn’t the manager have to know what was going on?
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