• • •
Mr. and Mrs. Irv Loeffler were just about to go out for the evening when Molly knocked on their door. Mrs. Loeffler, Tess, was a tiny woman with keen, animated eyes. The minute Molly introduced herself as a friend of Liza’s, those eyes sparked with lively curiosity.
“Irv, call the restaurant. Change the reservation.”
“We’ll miss the early bird special,” he grumbled, but he took his plaid jacket off and hung it neatly in the closet. The instincts of a man who’d pressed too many rumpled coats in his day, no doubt.
“So we’ll pay full price for a change,” Mrs. Loeffler countered. “We can afford it. You cleaned enough suits to pay for dinner out once a week.”
Despite his grumblings, Irv Loeffler had a twinkle in his eye when he went to phone the restaurant.
“Now, you come right on in, dear, and tell me why you’ve come.”
Once she was seated, Molly hesitated. It wasn’t exactly tactful to suggest that the couple was in the habit of spying on their neighbors. “Actually, it’s about the Winecrofts. Did you see them often?”
“Socially? Oh, my, no. Irv and I mostly keep to ourselves. We both like to read. Probably a habit from living in Cleveland. In the winter about the only thing the place was fit for was curling up in front of a fire with a good book. Our children skiied, but not Irv and me. What with one thing and another we were always too busy to learn. Besides, there’s nothing I like better than a good mystery.”
“Then you must be fascinated with Allan’s murder?”
“Actually, that’s a little too close to home for my taste,” she said nervously. “A good puzzle in a book, that’s the ticket.”
“Have the police questioned you at all?”
“That nice detective with the Irish name came by, but I told him the same as I’m telling you. Irv and I didn’t see the Winecrofts much, except at the elevator occasionally.”
“But you knew about Ingrid?”
She shook her head. “Can you believe the nerve of the man? Parading that woman right in front of his wife. If Irv ever did something like that, I’d give him what-for, I can tell you that.”
“Did Mrs. Winecroft have much company?”
“You mean men, of course. Well, I can’t say for sure, not the way I could with Allan and Ingrid, but it did seem to me that she and that attractive Hispanic man were awfully chummy. My mother always told me that appearances are everything. You just don’t have a man who’s not your husband dropping by in the middle of the morning. Unless he’s just there to fix the sink, it doesn’t look proper.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“José, maybe. Or Jesús. Is that it, Irv?”
“What’s that, dear?”
She waved her hand impatiently. “The man who was always dropping by to see Drucilla. Is his name José?”
“That’s gossip, Tess. You know how I feel about that.”
“Irv,” she said in that quiet, warning way that women for centuries had used to suggest dire consequences.
He heaved a sigh of resignation. “Juan,” he said. “Juan Gonzalez. Lives upstairs in the penthouse. If you’re going to talk about these things, I don’t know why you can’t keep the names straight. Now can we go to dinner before we miss the second reservation?”
Molly stood up. “Thank you both so much for taking the time to talk with me. I hope you enjoy your dinner.”
Tess followed her into the hall. “Don’t mind Irv. He’s a regular old grouch whenever he has to pay full price for anything. Comes from living through the Depression, I suppose.”
“It never hurts to be cautious when it comes to finances,” Molly agreed. “How does he feel about the way these assessments keep going up?”
“Oh, please, don’t even mention it. He gets apoplectic. Him and Ralph Keller down on two. To hear them tell it, there won’t be a retiree able to afford this place if the board keeps on the way it has been.”
“Did he ever talk to Allan about the way he felt?”
“He wrote him a letter, the same one he’d sent to Manny Mendoza the year before. The board doesn’t pay a bit of attention to folks like us. They’re a regular little clique. I’m surprised Allan was able to budge Manny Mendoza out in that last election. Of course, there’s talk all the time that it was fixed.”
“What about Mr. Keller? Did he complain?”
“Well,” she began conspiratorially. “I wasn’t there, but I hear he and Allan had quite a set-to out at the pool one day. If Irv hadn’t grabbed Ralph’s arm, he would have pushed Allan straight into the water.”
“Did you mention that to Detective O’Hara?”
“Why, no. Oh, my, you don’t think that Ralph … why, he would never kill anyone. Besides, he couldn’t have done it.”
“Why not?”
“The way I hear it, Allan was murdered late at night. Ralph is always in bed by ten, same as us.”
As alibis went, it wasn’t much. Molly decided she’d know more, once she’d had a chance to meet Ralph Keller herself.
“Thanks, again,” she told Mrs. Loeffler. “Enjoy your evening.”
She practically ran to the elevator and used the phone inside to call the front desk for Ralph Keller’s apartment number. The elevator was already on the second floor by the time the guard had found it. She figured she had another ten minutes tops before the pizza arrived.
Outside Ralph Keller’s door, she heard the television going full blast. She had to pound to be heard over the news. Finally the door was thrown open revealing a tall, barrel-chested man with a fierce expression.
“I ain’t buying nothing,” he said and nearly slammed the door. Molly wedged herself into the opening in the nick of time.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Keller. I’m not selling anything.” She introduced herself. “I was just visiting with the Loefflers up on eight and they gave me your name. Could we talk for a minute?”
“What about?” His gaze narrowed suspiciously.
“The assessments. Mrs. Loeffler says you’ve been worried about the way they’re going up.”
“Damn right I am. There’s no excuse for it.” He hesitated for a minute, then opened the door wide. “Might as well come on in and have a seat.”
“Thank you.”
Though it was still daylight outside, the apartment was dark. The drapes had been drawn to block out the light and only a single lamp with maybe a sixty-watt bulb had been lighted. It created a circle of pale illumination that barely spread beyond the end table it was on. The place also reeked of pipe smoke. The cherry scent might have been appealing when fresh. Now it was stale, imbedded in every piece of overstuffed furniture.
“You must be from up north,” she guessed, surveying the heavy fabrics and dark woods.
“Trenton. Lived there for sixty-five years. Would have stayed there till I died, but my wife wanted to move south. She came to Miami one February and never got over it being so warm. Insisted we move the day I retired. Don’t you know, she passed away that first year. Never really had a chance to enjoy it.”
“I’m sorry,” Molly said. “I’m surprised you didn’t move back.”
“Guess I’d adjusted by then. Didn’t seem to be much sense in it.”
“If it’s not too personal, are you on a pension? Social Security?”
He made a sound that might have been a snort of derision or maybe laughter. “No, ma’am. I did okay with my business up there. Had a restaurant, homestyle cooking, baked goods, that sort of thing. Opened a second one about ten years ago. The year I retired I sold out to some guy who started franchising ‘em. They’re all over Jersey now, a couple in New York and Connecticut. Got a nice payout and I’m still getting a little money in from selling him the name.”
“So the assessments aren’t going to really hurt you?”
“Lady, I’m not the sort to pinch a penny till it squeals, but I do believe in getting value for my money. This place is operated with a license to steal. No formal bids. No checks and
balances.”
“Doesn’t Jack Kingsley have to get approvals from the board?”
That strange, rough hoot rumbled through him again. “You try telling him that. Talking to any of ‘em is a waste of breath. If somebody’s not getting kickbacks, I’ll eat that old fedora hanging there on the hatrack.”
“I heard you argued with Allan about all this.”
“Tried to tell him plain and simple what was happening. He nodded, all polite like, but nothing changed. The next time we talked, I lost my temper. Probably would have shoved him in the pool, if Irv hadn’t been there to stop me.” He leaned toward her. “If you’re thinking I was mad enough to kill him, you’re right. I was.”
Molly swallowed hard as the sound rumbled again in his chest. He stared her straight in the eye. “But I didn’t.”
Oddly enough, as creepy as the apartment was, Molly believed him. Which didn’t mean, of course, that she wouldn’t mention this conversation to Michael when he came in that night.
Once in her own apartment again, despite her solemn vow to wait up to divulge what she’d discovered, she fell asleep on the sofa. She woke up in her own bed. How she got there didn’t bear thinking about.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
It was a great day for a funeral, at least if you were of the school that considered stormy skies and gloom to be redundant for an already depressing occasion. The Saturday skies over Miami had been washed clean by a brief predawn shower. A weak Canadian cold front, probably the last of the year, had whisked through, leaving behind bearable temperatures and a comfortable breeze.
Even without the good weather, mourners would probably jam the funeral home. Murder, money, and intrigue always drew. Molly did not plan to be among those at the service. Michael thought it best. Satisfied that she would stay put, he had left not five minutes before Liza arrived to convince her otherwise.
“It’s our civic duty to go to the memorial,” she said. “Allan was an important man on the island.”
“When did you become so public-spirited? You’re out of town half the time,” Molly reminded her, weighing her own desire to go against Michael’s probable fury if she did. Arguing with Liza made her feel noble. She had tried to reason with her, she could tell him.
“Which makes it all the more important that we catch the murderer. I won’t rest a minute on my next trip if I have to worry that he’s still loose in the condo.”
“That we catch the murderer? That’s the job of the police, as Michael reminds me at least once an hour.”
“And I’m sure they’re on top of it. But you have to admit there are angles they might overlook.”
Michael O’Hara did not impress Molly as a man likely to overlook the least little detail. Look at the way he’d jumped on that Juan Gonzalez business last night. Whatever he’d found out, he hadn’t deigned to share it with her. Feeling surly as a result and out of sorts because she’d missed the moment when Michael carried her to bed, she’d kept her own news to herself. As for her turning up at the funeral chapel, he was bound to be highly suspicious of her attendance at a memorial service for a man she claimed to have known only slightly. She tried explaining that to Liza. The words fell on deaf ears. Before she realized what was happening, she was in Liza’s flashy little red car and on her way to the funeral. Fortunately, she’d been wearing black. Coincidence? Absolutely.
Okay, she had to admit to a certain curiosity. Would Allan Winecroft’s lover show up? How would Drucilla react if she did? What about Juan Gonzalez? Would he be at the side of the mourning widow? Which of the Ocean Manor residents would appear? The bridge club participants? Molly scanned the crowd in search of answers.
Unfortunately, the first person she recognized was the homicide detective, who was making his way toward her at a clip that would have caught a running back at full speed. His expression wasn’t exactly welcoming. She retreated instinctively to a safe spot behind Liza. Her neighbor’s charms were considerable. She doubted that Michael would miss them.
To her astonishment he barely seemed to notice the dramatically attired redhead, whose only hint of black was a diagonal slash across a pristine white dress. His attention never once wavered from Molly’s guilt-ridden face. Maybe he couldn’t take the glare from Liza’s dress.
“Why are you here?” He kept his sunglasses in place, but Molly could just imagine the flash of anger in his dark eyes.
“To pay my respects,” she said. It came out sounding more like a question than a statement. Naturally, he caught the hesitation.
“Try again.”
“That’s my best shot.”
Her refusal to be caught up in an argument over her motives seemed to surprise him. He finally nodded. “I suppose it’s pointless to ask you to go home, since we discussed all the reasons earlier.”
“Yes,” Liza said for her. “We’re here to help.”
“Help who?”
He fastened his gaze on Liza. Well, to be more precise, he turned in her direction. Who could tell where he was looking the way those damned glasses reflected everything right back at you.
“Well?” he said.
“To help the police, of course. You can’t possibly know everyone here.”
“And you do?”
Liza scanned the crowd thoughtfully. “Yes, I think I do, as a matter of fact.”
Michael blinked at the response. “You’re joking.”
Molly could have told him that Liza made it her business to know people. She’d been a highly successful public relations executive for a number of years, made a bundle, invested it wisely, then sold her business to gallivant around the globe. Occasionally, she guided tours just for the fun of it. At any rate, her PR instincts and her natural curiosity and friendliness kept her well informed on who was who in island life.
“No joke,” Liza confirmed. “I get around.” She pointed to a cluster of people standing near the doorway. “Mr. and Mrs. Lansing. He owns the shoe store on Miracle Mile in Coral Gables. You know the one, Molly. Designer shoes at discount prices, probably hot.”
“Stolen?” Michael said weakly.
“Either that or knock-offs. He couldn’t sell at those prices otherwise.”
“And their connection with the deceased?”
“Their wives went to Sarah Lawrence together. They have dinner every Tuesday.” She glanced at Molly. “Or is it Thursday?”
“Tuesday’s bridge night.”
“Right, Thursday then,” Liza said. She pointed out half a dozen others, offering similar insights into their personalities, their business holdings, and their relationships with the Winecrofts. After an instant of openmouthed astonishment, Michael took notes.
When she slowed, he glanced up. “How about the man standing by himself under the tree?”
Liza studied him for a minute. “He’s one of yours.”
“One of mine?”
“A cop.”
“What makes you think that?”
“His eyes. He’s watching the crowd. Nothing gets past him.”
“Fascinating,” Michael said.
“She’s not that good,” Molly grumbled. “She saw the two of you talking not five minutes ago.”
Liza laughed, her expression unrepentant. “Well, that helped,” she admitted. “So, do we get to stay?”
“Could you manage to keep your mouths shut and your eyes open?”
“A tricky skill,” Molly retorted, “but I think we can manage it.”
“Not me,” Liza said. “I came here to ask questions. I’m leaving for China next week and I absolutely refuse to go off while there’s a killer loose.”
“Perhaps if I had a little more cooperation and a little less interference, I could wrap this up by next week,” Michael said.
“I cooperate,” Molly reminded him. “I shared that lead with you right away last night.”
“Because I walked in and caught you discussing the murder with that Bates woman.”
“What lead?” Liza demanded.
Molly pretended she hadn’t heard either one of them. She glared at Michael. “On the other hand, you have shared diddly about what you found out.” Her bargaining position would no doubt be seriously jeopardized if he found out how many other leads she’d developed last night. Right now he was on the defensive, and she liked it.
“Because you were asleep when I got in and I was in a hurry this morning,” he said, his expression grim.
“Why didn’t you just wake me?”
“Madre de Dios, woman, I picked you up, carried you to your room, and put the covers over you, and you never so much as blinked. Should I have set an alarm?” The brief explosion of Spanish was indicative of his irritation. It seemed to be a point of pride with him to restrict himself to using English. When he lost his temper, however, Spanish filled the air. Some of it, she suspected, would not be taught in class. “Okay, you’re right,” she said soothingly. “I don’t even remember you picking me up.”
Hot Property Page 13
