Hot Property

by Sherryl Woods

  “He must be incredibly busy,” Molly said.

  “Always,” Rosa lamented. “All he ever thinks of is work, work, work. Now that the children are grown, he is worse than ever.”

  “How did he find the time for the condominium association?” Molly wondered aloud.

  “He said it was his duty. He created the property. It is where we live.”

  “Manny developed Ocean Manor?”

  “Sí. It is, what is the expression, the jewel in his crown.”

  No wonder the man thought he would hold the throne indefinitely. Would his loss in the last election have made him so resentful that he would kill? Tonight’s condominium association meeting would give Molly a chance to see the man in action. Maybe that would tell her if he was capable of murder.

  Meantime, though, Drucilla had just been introduced to a standing ovation. The queen lived. Long live the queen!

  • • •

  Despite the thunder outside the rumble of discontent was evident long before Molly reached the meeting room. The emergency session of the Ocean Manor Board of Directors hadn’t even started and already residents were sniping. If it weren’t for her curiosity about who would emerge victorious in the latest quest for power, she’d have stayed home to watch Jeopardy! and then her favorite, the complex mystery puzzles of Matlock. She had a feeling tonight’s live entertainment was going to be more akin to mud wrestling.

  She slid into the back of the packed and already airless room and found the last vacant chair in the last row. Michael spotted her, inched his way through the crowd and leaned down to whisper, “Welcome to the Tuesday night fights.”

  Molly tried to ignore the way his hand rested on her shoulder, but she liked the sensation too much. “Already?” she said as his fingers began a gentle massage. She felt her own tension begin to drain away. “The meeting hasn’t even started.”

  “They’ve been battling over who gets to sit in the front row.”

  Actually, Molly decided after a few minutes’ observation, the tense atmosphere was only slightly worse than last Tuesday night’s battle between the Winecrofts. “Let’s just hope this week’s version doesn’t culminate in another murder,” she murmured. Michael’s caress ended and she sighed.

  As condo vice president Boris Yankovich gaveled the meeting to order, Tyler Jenkins wrested control of the floor microphone away from another speaker. “I’d like to say something.”

  He was immediately drowned out by catcalls from the audience. Boris moved ahead as if the older man hadn’t spoken at all. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have to make a few decisions tonight.”

  It was evident that the ladies and gentlemen in question were seated at the head table, not in the audience. Not once did the vice president deign to glance in their direction.

  He went on. “Due to the unfortunate death of our president, it is necessary that we move to fill that seat on the board. It has been recommended that we expedite that process by appointing a man whose vast experience more than qualifies him to step in, Mr. Manny Mendoza.”

  Molly’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “They can’t do that.”

  Michael stared at her. “Why not?”

  “The bylaws call for an election to fill any unexpired term with more than a year remaining. Allan was just elected to a two-year term a few months ago.”

  “They must know that.”

  “If not, Jack Kingsley should have told them. He’s the one who told me.”

  Tyler was shaking his fist at the head table. “That’s illegal,” he shouted. His words were emphasized by another powerful clap of thunder.

  “You’re out of order, Mr. Jenkins,” Boris said. He turned to the others. “Could I have a motion regarding Mr. Mendoza?”

  Gerry Wilson waved a hand. “So moved.”

  “Second,” Katie Winslow said.

  “Discussion,” Boris said, carrying on the mockery in an orderly fashion.

  “Why do you bother paying an attorney?” Tyler shouted, not even bothering with the microphone. A few daring souls murmured agreement. None stood up. Jack Kingsley stood off to the side, rocking back on his heels and staring at the ceiling. Manny Mendoza was seated in the first row, briefcase in hand, the epitome of a man ready to get to work. Rosa had not come down to witness the coronation.

  Molly kept waiting for someone to speak up and stop this charade. When no one budged, she started forward. Michael grabbed for her arm, but she shook him off. When she was halfway down the aisle, she caught sight of Liza’s upturned face. With a subtle shake of her head, she gave Molly a warning, but Molly was too livid to be called off now. As the directors conferred in undertones, their hands discreetly over their own microphones, she tapped Tyler on the shoulder and gestured him aside. His ashen complexion alarmed her. “Sit for a minute,” she whispered. “Let me try to get through to them.”

  Surprised by the unexpected backing, he nodded and sank onto one of the metal chairs.

  “Excuse me,” Molly said in a tone that carried to the back of the room. It was a skill she’d learned in elocution classes. At long last she’d found a use for it. The sound echoed as she waited. Slowly the room fell silent. The directors raised their heads and stared at her, obviously startled by her daring interruption.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Each one of you has to know that the bylaws of this building require that there be an election process. Isn’t that right, Mr. Kingsley? That is what you told me, isn’t it?”

  His slouched shoulders straightened. “Yes, ma’am. I believe I did. However, there are certain provisions, in an emergency, for bypassing that procedure. You can rest assured that we’ve checked all of this out with an attorney.”

  “Why would you want to, though? Why not give the residents the opportunity to speak out in the election they’re entitled to?”

  Even as she said it, she thought she knew the answer. For some reason this board wanted—possibly even needed—Manny Mendoza. They weren’t willing to risk another election in which he might lose. Why? What had Allan discovered? What had he been on the verge of revealing when he was murdered?

  Molly knew she couldn’t very well stand up there and accuse the board, much less Mendoza himself, of doing something illegal. They’d have her in court charged with slander before the words were out of her mouth. Mendoza at least was powerful enough to make the charge stick, even if truth were on her side. That would also make him powerful enough to reach the county manager as well.

  Caught up in her new theory, she murmured a few more wasted words and hurried to the back of the room where Michael waited, his dark eyes alternately surveying the crowd and watching her.

  “Pretty gutsy stuff for a woman whose life already might be in danger,” he said. His tone wasn’t entirely complimentary. He took a closer look. “Are you okay?”

  By way of an answer Molly dragged him outside the room.

  “I think we’ve spent too much time worrying about the Winecrofts’ marital problems,” she said as they went back to her apartment. “From everything we’ve heard, those have been going on for a long time. There was no real reason for either one of them to turn violent all of a sudden. So what did change the last few months?”

  Michael caught her train of thought at once. “Allan’s election to the board.”

  “Right. I’m willing to bet that he stumbled onto some deep dark secret and that it has something to do with Mendoza.”

  “But if Mendoza’s the one mixed up in something shady, why would Drucilla and Gonzalez have called the county manager into this?”

  “I think they’re trying to protect each other. Neither of them is willing to admit the possibility that the other might be guilty of Allan’s murder. If they’d just be honest and get everything out in the open about that night, I doubt they’d have any more worries on that score. Can’t you just call Mendoza in for questioning?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have the first real shred of evidence against the man. The mos
t I could do would be to have an unofficial chat. You can just imagine how fast news of that visit would reach the county manager’s ear.”

  Seated in Molly’s dining room, they were still debating the best course of action when they heard a knock at the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Brian shouted, already running from his room. “It’s probably Kevin. He was gonna come over to play video games.” He threw open the door. “Oh, my gosh! Mom! Mom, there’s a lady at the door and she’s got a knife!”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Brian had sounded more fascinated than scared by the knife, but that wasn’t Molly’s reaction. She responded with a primal surge of terror, maternal instincts churning. She was on her feet and running, but even so it took only a half dozen of Michael’s long-legged strides to beat her to the door. He had one hand under the lapel of his jacket and on the handle of his gun. His jaw was tensed, but other than that he appeared astonishingly cool and calm as he faced Drucilla Winecroft across the threshold.

  “Back away, son,” he said quietly. Molly wanted to scream. Then she saw Drucilla’s expression. She was staring at Michael’s gun in absolute terror.

  “What is it?” she said, her voice quavering. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “The knife,” Michael said. “Hand it to me. Slowly.”

  “You’re acting as if … Oh, my Lord, I see. You thought … How terrible. Brian, sweetie, Molly, I’m so sorry if I scared you. I was just returning your things. With everything that’s happened, I forgot I had them. I took them upstairs after the bridge game.”

  Understanding dawned in Michael’s wary gaze. He nodded toward Molly. “These are yours?”

  Finally Molly was able to drag her eyes away from her son long enough to take a good look at what Drucilla was carrying. Tucked under her arm was Molly’s glass cake plate with the calla lily pattern. In her hand was the knife Molly had taken to the fateful bridge game. She knew it was hers because of the deep scratches in the handle. They had happened one night when the knife had slid, accidentally, handle first into the garbage disposal, creating the worst racket she’d ever heard. On the morning of the murder she’d never gotten close enough to actually see if the handle had similar scars.

  “They’re mine,” she confirmed. “But I don’t understand. I thought …” Her gaze rose to meet Michael’s. “The murder weapon wasn’t mine after all.”

  “Which explains why there was only one set of prints, the murderer’s, not yours. Shit. I’d better call the lab. We should have picked up on something like this that first day.”

  Molly invited Drucilla in and fixed her a cup of coffee, while they waited for Michael to get off the phone with the police lab. His terse orders crackled with impatience.

  “They’ll try to get back to me tonight.”

  “Why has it taken so long? Was the lab backed up?” Molly asked.

  “Some nitwit didn’t see the need to rush because somebody mentioned the prints were yours.” He turned to Drucilla. “Mrs. Winecroft, have you given any more thought to what we discussed the other day? Did your husband have any enemies who might have made those anonymous calls?”

  Drucilla sat at the table and leaned forward intently. “Detective, as you may have surmised by now, my husband was not a particularly kind or generous man. He was a perfectionist, and like all perfectionists he made his share of enemies. When he was running my father’s company, he was despised by the workers because he wouldn’t tolerate mistakes. The board, however, found no fault, because under his guidance the company was more profitable and respected than ever before.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what that might have to do with the murder,” Michael said.

  Drucilla looked as if she didn’t believe for a second that Michael’s comprehension was the least bit slow. She answered anyway. “I’m afraid he ran this condominium the same way. He was putting pressure on everyone to make improvements in efficiency, to cut back the excess spending. Tyler knew how Allan was. Tyler held a seat on the company’s board for years. He was a friend of my father’s. We found our apartment while visiting him several years ago. At any rate, because he knew Allan’s style so well, he encouraged him to run for the condo board. He was fed up with the lax business decisions being made around here.”

  “So while Allan was making improvements and cutting costs, he was doing it with a heavy hand?” Michael said.

  “Absolutely. He was not the sort of businessman to care about making friends, as long as he improved the bottom line.”

  “You don’t think he cared about the effect this had on people?” Molly said, trying to understand how anyone could totally separate the two issues. “What about Enrique, for instance? He’d worked here as a security guard since the building opened. He had a large family to support. Obviously, he’d been doing things the same way for years. Shouldn’t Allan have given him a chance to change, or at least to explain?”

  “If you’re asking what I think, yes, he should have. Allan wouldn’t see it that way. He saw things in terms of right and wrong, perfection and mistakes. He’d told the guards they were to log in every single nonresident car, and he wasn’t beyond checking to see that they did. That’s what happened with Enrique. One of Allan’s cronies came over. Enrique recognized him and let him in and didn’t write it down. Allan happened to check the log later that day. The visit wasn’t there. He fired Enrique. For Allan, it was a simple matter. The man hadn’t followed a direct order. I spoke with Enrique after that myself and offered to help him and his family in any way I could.”

  “You did?” Michael said.

  “Of course. We had known the man for years. I occasionally hired him to tend bar at our parties. I told him I would help see that he got more of those jobs.”

  He ought to do very well, Molly thought. Drucilla’s friends gave a lot of parties.

  “What was his reaction?” Michael asked.

  “He sounded very grateful. Enrique is a very gracious, polite man. That’s why I’ve used him so often. He makes a lovely impression on the guests.”

  Molly had a sudden thought. “Do other residents hire him as well?”

  “Certainly,” Drucilla said. “I’ve recommended him very highly.”

  Michael nodded. “You’re thinking that he might have had access to the knife, right?”

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it? We know the killer must have had a knife just like mine.”

  “But there’s only one way the killer could have known to use the matching knife,” Michael said slowly. “He had to have been in the cardroom that night. Was Enrique in the building? Would he have any reason to want to set you up? Is he even clever enough to try, or was it just an accident that the weapon matched your knife?”

  “Are you speculating aloud or asking me?” Molly said. “If I knew all that, I’d ask for a transfer to the Metro police force.”

  Michael grinned. “Let’s take it one at a time then. Was he here the night of the murder?”

  “I didn’t see him,” Molly said. “Drucilla? Was anyone having a party that night? That’s the only way he could have gotten on the grounds.”

  “Unless he told the man on duty he’d just come back to collect some of his things,” Michael said. “If it was a guard he knew, he wouldn’t have been questioned.”

  Molly shook her head. “The guard on the gate that night was new. He’d probably had all of the rules drilled into his head. In fact, he probably knew that letting an unauthorized person in was exactly what had gotten Enrique fired in the first place. It had to be a party. Was anyone having one that night, Drucilla?”

  “None of our friends, but the log at the desk would indicate if anyone had a lot of guests in or if anyone held something in the party room.”

  “I’ll call the desk,” Molly offered, though she was certain she already knew the answer. The logs she’d seen had had no more than the usual number of drop-by visitors registered.

  “Don’t bother,” Michael said. “I h
ad all the logs taken to headquarters as evidence. I’ll call over there in a minute. Let’s get back to those other questions. How did you get along with Enrique, Molly? Was he holding any sort of grudge against you?”

  “Absolutely not. In fact, he came by my office to talk after he got fired. I gave him the county job listings in case there was something he was qualified to do.”

  “Was he angry enough at Allan to kill him?”

  “No.”

  “You sound certain.”

  “I am. If anything, he was hurt. He couldn’t understand why anyone would do that to him after all those years.”

  Drucilla agreed. “He said as much when I talked to him, too.”

  “So, even if he had the motive and the opportunity, neither of you think he was capable of plotting Allan’s murder, implicating Molly, and going through with it.”