African Violet Club Mystery Collection

by Elise M Stone

  “That’s correct.”

  “I’m sure you heard about the murder of Bette Tesselink on Saturday?” She paused, hoping he’d say something indicating his willingness to discuss it with her.

  He just nodded.

  It appeared as if she was going to have to carry this conversation herself. “I’ve been talking with Chief Cartwright, and to be honest, I think he’s in over his head.”

  More silence. A stony stare. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.

  She persevered. “I was wondering if you might talk to him, give him some pointers, so we can resolve this speedily.”

  “Are you a friend of Mr. Ellison?”

  Lilliana was taken aback, not only by the question, but by the fact that he’d spoken at all. “Why would you think that?”

  O’Mara blinked and settled back into his chair. “Because he has the most to lose if this place gets a deadly reputation. How many folks will want to live in a retirement community where people are murdered in broad daylight?”

  He had a point. Lilliana was compelled to add, “Actually, I might have the most to lose. Chief Cartwright—and Russ Ellison—seem to think I’m the murderer. You see, I had an argument with Bette shortly before she was killed. I might have lost my temper a little bit, but I certainly didn’t want to kill her.”

  Lilliana licked lips suddenly gone dry. “And, uh, the murder weapon was my softball bat.”

  “Puts you in kind of a pickle, doesn’t it?” O’Mara brushed at a leaf blown onto his slacks from the nearby mesquite trees. “So did you?”

  “Did I what?” Horrified once she realized what he meant, she hastened to add, “Oh, no.” She’d already told him she didn’t want to kill Bette. Why would he be asking? And why would he be staring at her like that?

  “I don’t think you did,” O’Mara said. “I can generally tell when a person is lying. There are things they teach you, body language and such, that give people away even if they think they’re controlling themselves. You didn’t do any of those things.”

  “See, that proves you’d be perfect to help Chief Cartwright.”

  O’Mara closed his eyes for a minute. Lilliana didn’t know whether he was napping or thinking. As it turned out, he’d been thinking.

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” O’Mara said after opening his eyes. He ticked off the reasons on his fingers. “One: I was his superior in Tucson. If I horn in on his investigation, he might not do as good a job as he could do without my being there. He’ll stop trying to solve the murder himself. Two: He’ll lose credibility in the town. When you’re a police officer, particularly if you’re the chief, it’s very important that the citizens trust you. Without trust, your job is almost impossible. I have a feeling young Chad Cartwright has enough problems in that area. Three: I have no authority to do that. I’m retired.”

  Lilliana was filled with dismay. Visions of being arrested, tried, and convicted with no more than circumstantial evidence played in her head. “But how will the murder be solved?”

  O’Mara gave her an appraising look. “You appear to be a very capable woman.”

  Lilliana nodded. “Yes. Generally.”

  “And you’ve already spoken to Chief Cartwright several times.”

  “That’s right.” What was he getting at?

  “I have an idea. I can’t help Chief Cartwright directly because of all the reasons I stated. But you, you’re just an old woman—pardon me for putting it that way—and it would be natural for you to try to help the young man out. So suppose I give you a few ideas. Then you devise an opportunity to suggest those to our chief of police at the appropriate time. He wouldn’t feel threatened by you, the town would never assume you’re integral to the investigation, and we find the real murderer.”

  What an interesting idea, thought Lilliana. It certainly sounded more interesting than embroidery. “I’ll do it.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  SHIRLEY’S cleaning cart was stopped outside her apartment when Lilliana went back inside to tend to her African violets. Housekeeping was one of the perks of living in a retirement community. While Lilliana had no problem with washing dishes for the few meals she ate here instead of in the dining room, or wiping down countertops afterwards, it was a pleasure to have someone else do all the dusting and vacuuming and cleaning of toilets.

  Shirley was wiping out the inside of the microwave when Lilliana entered.

  “So nice to see you, Shirley.”

  The middle-aged black woman turned from her task. “Nice to see you again, too, Ms. Wentworth. I’ll be out of your way in just a few minutes.”

  “No hurry. Take your time to finish up.”

  Lilliana headed down the hallway to put the book of sonnets on her bedside table so she could read it before she went to sleep. She never had gotten around to opening the book at the pool. As she put the book down, she saw the missing button from Saturday lying beside the lamp. Shirley must have found it when she vacuumed. Lilliana picked it up and went back to the kitchen.

  She held up the button and said, “Thanks for finding this. I couldn’t imagine where it had fallen off.”

  Shirley looked puzzled. “I didn’t find that button. I saw it on the night table when I was dusting and figured you just hadn’t had time to sew it back on.”

  Hmmm. Lilliana was quite sure she hadn’t put the button on the table. Or was that something else she’d forgotten? She fretted over that for a minute. No, she was certain. She hadn’t put the button on the table. How did it get there?

  Had someone been inside her apartment today while she was out? That was a discomforting thought. She always locked the door, both when she left and when she was home. Although she’d never heard of any thefts at Rainbow Ranch or any other criminal activity—until Bette’s murder, of course—she was cautious by nature. She certainly didn’t know all the residents or staff, and there were always visitors around as well.

  Lilliana glanced around the living room, then went back to her bedroom. She checked her jewelry box, verified the lockbox was still hidden at the back of her closet, and scanned the clothes hanging inside. As far as she could tell, nothing had been taken. That made her feel a little better, but she still didn’t like the idea of someone being in her apartment.

  She heard Shirley shut the door on her way out and hurried to check that she’d locked the door behind her. She had. Shirley was reliable. She had to take Shirley’s word for it that she hadn’t found the button.

  But if it hadn’t been Shirley, who put the button on her nightstand?

  LILLIANA had agreed to meet Willie O’Mara in the library after dinner to discuss their strategy. While the room saw frequent use during the day between people looking for books to read and meetings of the various groups, it was rarely occupied in the evening, most residents preferring to watch television then.

  Lilliana loved this room, not only for the books, which, of course, as a former librarian were of great importance to her, but for its homey feel. In addition to the two chairs in front of the windows at the far corner, there were easy chairs in two other corners, overstuffed and covered in floral fabrics, and plenty of reading lamps to provide good light. If you removed the conference table from the center, it could almost be a room in someone’s home. It stood in sharp contrast to the other public rooms in the retirement community, which all had an institutional look about them.

  O’Mara sat in one of the two large easy chairs farthest from the entrance. He looked up from the book he was reading as she walked in. “Glad you came.”

  Lilliana crossed the room and took the other chair. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  She glanced at the cover of the book in his hands. A Joseph Wambaugh, appropriate enough for a former police officer.

  “No. You seem like the dependable type to me.” He closed the book and put it on the occasional table between them.

  This time Lilliana didn’t wait for O’Mara, but launched into a series of questions. “So whe
re should we start? Do you think we can get the list of evidence that was collected? Or find out if there were any fingerprints left behind that would give away the killer?”

  “That’s unlikely, although in a town as small as this one, they may not obey the rules quite as closely. Even if they got great fingerprints from the crime scene, you have to have a suspect to match those prints to. I doubt the chief would let us examine the evidence. Although the file would be helpful, most crimes are solved by interviewing people, finding out what they know, and putting the pieces together.”

  Lilliana frowned. The most obvious fingerprints on the softball bat were bound to be hers. It was not in her best interest to bring that up. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  O’Mara shook his head. “I didn’t know the victim. I’d seen her around, of course, but I never spoke to her. You did, though. Is there anyone you can think of who had a problem with her?” He stared intently at Lilliana, making her a bit uncomfortable.

  “The problem with Bette Tesselink is nobody liked her. She was a pro at creating problems with other people. She complained about the housekeeping staff. They never cleaned her apartment to her satisfaction, and she expected them to do things—like wash windows—that aren’t in the agreement. She complained about Miguel, too. She thought he took too long to fix her running toilet. I’m pretty sure she complained about the meals.”

  “But do you think she made any of the staff angry enough to kill her?” O’Mara asked.

  Lilliana sighed. “No.”

  “Still,” O’Mara said, “it might be worthwhile to talk to them. If Bette Tesselink was as good at pushing people’s buttons as you’ve led me to believe, it’s possible one of them reacted more strongly than you think they did.”

  “I’ll have to suggest that to Chief Cartwright.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too,” O’Mara said. “If he’s any kind of a cop, and I think he is despite his inexperience, he’s probably already talked to them once. But, since you appear to be the prime suspect, he might not have questioned them as thoroughly as he should have.”

  Lilliana bristled at what she took as an accusation. “As I told that young chief of police, Frank Bellandini, who told me she’d stolen his hybrid and was showing it as her own, was as angry as I was.”

  “Easy there. I wasn’t saying I think you are the prime suspect. I said you appear to be. And certainly Frank Bellandini has to be on our list of possibles. My point was I’ve been thinking that rather than trying to tell Chief Cartwright how to run his investigation, it would be better to do our own and then present him with what we’ve found out.”

  O’Mara’s idea sounded like a bit more involvement than Lilliana had expected. But she saw his point. “So maybe I should start by talking to Frank a bit.”

  The former police detective nodded. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea. And the other members of your club. I’ll talk to Ellison and see what I can find out from him.”

  “That sounds like a good plan, Mr. O’Mara,” Lilliana said.

  “Willie,” O’Mara corrected. “Please call me Willie, Mrs. Wentworth.”

  “And you must call me Lilliana,” she replied.

  “Of course, Lilliana. Shall we meet back here tomorrow evening and compare notes?”

  AS Lilliana rounded the corner on the way to her apartment, she noticed the door to the clinic was open. Kirstie, the nurse, stood inside. That reminded her that she was almost out of the Aleve she sometimes took for the arthritis in her knees, particularly after a softball game. She rapped lightly on the door and entered the clinic.

  It was a small room, with a desk positioned opposite the door, a scale beside it, and a chair for the patient to sit in. An examining table filled most of the space, while a counter with cabinets overhead covered the wall beside the door.

  Kirstie stood at the counter, where about a dozen prescription containers were lined up, split into two groups. A young woman in her twenties, she was best known for riding a Harley-Davidson to work. She looked up as Lilliana entered and put down the pen with which she’d been making notations on a form on her clipboard. “Good evening, Mrs. Wentworth.”

  “Good evening, Kirstie. Working late this evening?”

  Kirstie nodded. “Mr. Ellison wanted me to pick up the medications from Mrs. Tesselink’s casita, so after I gave out the evening meds, I went and got them. I think he was afraid someone might take them. If anyone got ill from taking her meds, that would be a big liability for the retirement community.” She held up the clipboard. “I have to make a record before disposing of them.”

  “Those are all Bette’s?” Lilliana’s eyes widened, and she bent her head closer as she tried to read the labels.

  Kirstie pushed back a long wisp of blonde hair that had escaped the knot at the nape of her neck and fallen in front of her face. “Uh huh.” Her expression changed to one of concern. “Only I shouldn’t tell you that. Privacy rules, you know.”

  “Fiddle! Bette’s dead. How can you violate the privacy of someone who’s dead?”

  Kirstie contemplated this, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “I guess you’re right. Most of the residents here take a lot of medications. You’re the unusual one. Generally, someone as healthy as you are doesn’t decide to live in a place like this. They stay on their own.”

  Pain stabbed Lilliana’s heart. If it hadn’t been for Charles, she probably wouldn’t be here. She pushed that thought aside and focused on Bette Tesselink. “What kinds of medicines was she taking?”

  “Oh, the usual,” Kirstie said casually. “Blood pressure, diuretic, a statin for her cholesterol, Avandia.”

  “What’s Avandia?” Lilliana asked.

  “It’s for diabetes. Something you wouldn’t have to worry about.” Kirstie appraised Lilliana’s athletic form.

  Lilliana was disappointed. She’d hoped there might be some other drug, something that might be a clue. She spoke her thoughts. “So nothing unusual? She didn’t have any disease or anything? Maybe something that would explain her nasty behavior?”

  Kirstie laughed. “No. I guess her behavior was just the way she was. Now there are others here, like Mr. Rothenberg, who do take some strange things.”

  Lilliana’s ears perked up. “Like what?”

  “Wait, I shouldn’t have said that.” Kirstie looked worried. Swept up in the conversation, she’d apparently forgotten about confidentiality.

  “Nevermind,” Lilliana said. “I shouldn’t have asked you. And don’t worry, I won’t say anything.”

  “Thank you.” Kirstie's face cleared. “Was there something you needed?”

  Lilliana got her Aleve and headed back to her apartment. She just might make a visit to Lenny’s apartment tomorrow and see what she could see.

  CHAPTER TEN

  LILLIANA was up with the sun the next morning. What with the African Violet Club show and the murder, three days had gone by since she’d last gotten any exercise, if you didn’t count her walk into town. And she missed it. She doubted there would be a softball practice soon; she still hadn’t convinced enough of the residents to join the team, not to mention the loss of her bat. She didn’t care for tai chi or tennis or the machines in the exercise room, although she used the latter when the temperature was too high or monsoon storms threatened. She preferred to take a vigorous walk, usually in the morning before breakfast.

  The retirement community had constructed a maze of paved walking paths that led out from the front door, around the south wing, the pool, and the casitas, and continued a short way into the desert behind the buildings. Multiple paths threaded their way through saguaro and prickly pear cactus. In a few places, a small recess beside the path, with a stone bench and some flowering plants or a bird feeder, provided a spot where, if you got tired—which wasn’t unusual for many of the residents—you could have a seat, rest, and enjoy the view.

  That’s the way Lilliana usually went in the morning, but today she decided to walk on the other side of the facility
, out in the wild desert. That was for two reasons. One was the big, black dog that had approached them at the pool the other day. The dog had gone back into the desert on the swimming pool side. Lilliana wouldn’t be surprised if one of the residents had been misguidedly feeding it. A lot of them missed their pets, and while many retirement homes in Tucson allowed residents to have animals, Rainbow Ranch didn’t.

  The second reason was that she wanted to see if she could find the pond Ted had told her about. With so little moisture, water in the desert attracted people like a magnet pulled iron filings. Any chance to be near open water was a treat.

  She strode by the tennis courts on the northwest side of the complex, waving at Lenny as she passed. He was tossing balls in the air, practicing his serve. He also had trouble getting people to participate in sports. Lilliana briefly thought about switching from softball to tennis just to have someone to play with on a regular basis, but quickly banished that thought from her mind. It was too likely that Lenny would take her interest in exercise as an interest in him.

  It amazed her how much like high school the retirement facility was. Little romances sprang up all the time. Jealousies over who sat next to whom at the Friday night movies. Gossip about chaste kisses exchanged in the gazebo. After being married to Charles for over forty years, Lilliana had no desire for the casual flings the other senior citizens engaged in.

  Ahead lay an expanse of rock-strewn desert. No paved paths led where she was going. She stepped carefully, having more than once been tripped up by the odd stone underfoot, resulting in scraped knees and elbows. She didn’t heal as quickly as she used to and had no desire to be sporting scabbed hands at mealtime.