by Cindy Brown
Marge still had that no-lips turtle look, but she nodded stiffly.
I helped myself to a few of the M&Ms I’d brought. “To begin with, is there any chance there was something slick on the garage step where you fell?” Jeremy said this could be the other reason Marge fell backward, that she slipped and her feet went out from under her. “Maybe you had a glass of water with you?”
Marge shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
“Who has keys to your house?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I can’t remember anything. That’s why they’re going to keep me here.”
“Marge, stop feeling sorry for yourself. They will keep you here”—I hated being harsh—“unless you help me prove it’s not necessary. Now think. Who has keys to your house?”
It worked. Marge straightened up in bed and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to concentrate. “Arnie, of course, and Bernice. I think that’s it…oh. There’s that lockbox outside too.”
“Good. Great. Thank you.” It actually wasn’t that helpful, but it was a start. “Do you ever leave your keys where someone might be able to pick them up?” It was a long shot, but maybe someone had made a copy before Marge realized they were gone.
“I don’t know.”
“Marge,” I said sternly.
“I guess someone could have picked them up when I’m swimming.”
Omigod. The unlocked locker. I about choked on an M&M.
“Your keys were stolen that day I was with you, weren’t they? Did you ever get your locks changed?”
“I forgot.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to kick that horse.
“And someone could have picked them up at the theater. I just leave them in my purse in the dressing room.”
I was about to give Marge an Uncle Bob-style lecture about preventing burglary, but an M&M got in the way and I bit my tongue. Literally. “Ow!”
“You okay?” Marge looked directly at me for the first time. She looked depressed—sagging mouth, drooping eyes, frown lines on her forehead—but her eyes were clear and focused.
“I juth bit my tongue.” A corner of her mouth twitched. “Tho,” I said, playing up my temporary disability, “how elth could thomoen have gotten into your houth?” A definite tug on her lips. “Did you let anyone in rethently?”
“Sure.” Marge wasn’t exactly smiling, but her face was animated and she hadn’t answered with “I don’t know.” Success. Then her face drooped again. “Well, not recently. I couldn’t. The Post-it lists…I couldn’t let anyone see them.”
“Of course.” I nodded understandingly. “How about before you put them up?”
“Well, Arnie, of course, and Bernice…” Bernice’s name kept coming up. I really wished I could use her as a suspect, but it’d be awfully hard to pull off a caper from New Zealand.
“The guy who fixed my dishwasher…” Marge waved away the question I was about to ask. “I don’t remember the name of the company, but there’s paperwork in one of the kitchen drawers. I think that’s it.” She sat back against her pillows, looking better than when I’d arrived. The power of getting something done, I guess.
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Colonel Carl Marks too.”
“Carl Marks?” His clipped mustache and too-expensive shoes flashed into my head.
“What a name, huh? Wonder if his parents had a clue,” Marge said, almost smiling. “He gave me a viatical settlement.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the reason I can afford this place.” Marge waved at her room, which I now realized was a private one. “And a fancy way of saying that Carl bought my life insurance policy from me.”
CHAPTER 33
“Hi, Olive-y.”
“Hey, handsome.” I trapped my cellphone between my neck and shoulder so I could use both hands on the fire extinguisher.
“Will you go on a picnic with me at Encanto?”
I sprayed the still smoking engine of my Bug, emptying the extinguisher. “Sure.” Encanto was the greenest park in town and our favorite picnic spot.
“With me and Sarah?”
“Okay.” I got back in my car to wait for the engine to cool down. Better than standing in the sun on the side of the road. It was only ten o’clock in the morning, but it was already hot, especially if you stood next to a car that was recently on fire.
“On Sunday?”
“Oh, Cody, I’ve got a matinee.”
“After?”
“You bet.”
“What’s that noise?” he said as a semi driver honked, probably because I hadn’t made it completely onto the shoulder.
“Just traffic. Gotta go,” I said. “See you Sunday.”
Before I got back on the road, I wrote myself a reminder to get a new fire extinguisher. Seemed like my car was catching on fire more often these days.
Given my flaming car and all, I was pretty proud that I made it into the office in time to get a bunch of work done before Uncle Bob showed up. He came in at noon, carrying a white bag that smelled of Thai curry.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m just getting ready to eat my lunch. Which is just a poor little peanut butter sandwich. On stale bread.” A minute later, a nice plate of red curry with beef sat in front of me.
“All of those background checks done?” Uncle Bob asked as he settled down with the rest of the Thai food.
“Yep. I also typed up two reports, and researched viatical settlements.”
“Viaticals?”
Though I’d done the research for Marge’s case, I had a feeling it might apply to Charlie’s too. “I have a call in to Amy,” I said. “You know, they sounded like scams to me, but I guess they’re legal.” Basically, viatical settlements, also called life settlement contracts, enable people to sell their life insurance to a buyer before the insured person dies. The person selling the policy gets an infusion of cash and the person buying it benefits whenever the policyholder dies.
“Viaticals really helped out a lot of AIDS patients during the bad times,” said Uncle Bob, an unusually serious look in his eyes. “By the time they were really sick, they couldn’t work. They needed help and healthcare. And a lot of their families…weren’t around.” He sat back in his chair, his lunch untouched.
“You knew someone?” My uncle rarely divulged anything about his personal life.
“My next-door neighbor.” He smiled. “You would have liked him. He gave great big parties where he’d play the piano and have everyone sing corny old songs.” Uncle Bob straightened up and took up his fork. “Now, I guess, the settlements are mostly between older folks and buyers. Pretty much for the same reasons.”
My cell rang. Amy. After we’d exchanged pleasantries, I told her I was close to having some news and just had a few questions for her. “Did your dad happen to have a viatical settlement?”
A pause. “As a matter of fact, he did.” Another pause. “It was a bit strange, because he didn’t really need the money. The one he sold was a fairly new policy, and not a big one. I was still the beneficiary on his other policies.”
“Do you know who bought his policy?”
“I can’t remember right now, but it was a weird name, the name of someone famous, like Robert Kennedy or—”
“Carl Marks?”
“Yeah. I think that was it. Do you know him?”
“Sort of.” I frowned at the image of the mustachioed man that crept into my mind. What he did might not be illegal, but I still didn’t like it. “Oh, and Amy, did your dad ever talk about a burglary?”
“A burglary? No, and I’m sure he would have told me.”
“Did he have any complaints about his car, maybe about the gas mileage?”
“No.” She sounded puzzled.
I didn’t want to ask the n
ext question, but I needed to know. “So he never told you about removing his catalytic converter?”
“What? No. Why?…Oh.” A gulp. “I never thought about the mechanics of how Dad…” Another noise, like she was holding back a sob.
“I’m sorry, Amy. Just one more question.” I scrolled down my computer screen. “I can see that your dad’s car was sold after his death, but not who to. Do you know who bought it?”
“Yeah, it was one of his neighbors. Larry Blossom.”
“Really? One of your dad’s neighbors bought the car—” I almost said “that he killed himself in” but stopped myself just in time.
“I know,” Amy said. “But Larry said he’d always liked it, and of course he got a really great deal. I mean, Dad only had the car about a month. It was brand new.”
I thanked Amy and hung up. Huh. Would someone planning to kill himself buy a brand new car? I let my mind wrestle with the idea for a moment, then asked my uncle.
“It’s possible,” he said. “You never know what people are thinking. Maybe Charlie wanted to go out in style.”
I nodded. I didn’t agree, but I nodded.
CHAPTER 34
Larry Blossom lived on the same street as Charlie, Bernice, and Marge. I strolled over the next morning, past a Realtor pounding a “For Sale” sign into Charlie’s gravel front yard. Guess things moved quickly around here.
I walked up to the house and rang the bell. A man opened the door.
Oh no.
“You look an awful lot like a nun who was around here the other day,” said the slow-talker from Monday.
“That was me.” I handed him my uncle’s business card. “I’m Olive Ziegwart with Duda Detectives. I’m looking into the death of Charlie Small.” Larry had been out of town on the days surrounding Charlie’s death, so I didn’t meet him during the neighborhood investigation.
The gray-haired gent looked me up and down. “And the nun outfit?” The pause plus the four-word sentence took about a minute. At least it felt like it did.
“I was undercover.”
He laughed. “I’ll say you were. Come on in.” He stepped back into the dark cool interior.
I stepped just over the threshold, hoping that staying near the door would signal the fact that I was in a hurry. The foyer smelled not unpleasantly like pipe tobacco. “I only have a minute, but I wanted to ask you a quick question.” Please let it be a quick answer. Please. “You bought Charlie’s car, correct?”
“I sure did. Some people might think it’s strange, buying a dead man’s car, but—”
“Do you know if—”
“But,” Larry gave me a look that said interrupting was rude, “I liked Charlie. I liked his car. I didn’t see an issue.”
I decided to get right to the point. “Do you know if the car has a catalytic converter?”
“Well…” Larry took a pipe out of his front shirt pocket, searched around in another pocket, pulled out some tobacco, and began filling his pipe. Being direct didn’t seem to have saved me any time. “You’re supposed to have one, you know. Greenhouse gasses or something.”
He pulled out a book of matches from a pants pocket, discovered it was empty, and patted his pockets until he found another matchbook. I thought I might scream.
“But here’s the thing.” Larry lit his pipe. “You do get better gas mileage without one. And not buying so much gas is good for the environment too.” He waved out the match and put it in an ashtray on a nearby credenza. I was afraid I might grow moss. “Still, I don’t think I would have taken it off. May even get a new one. Car makes a lot of noise without it. Like a bad muffler.”
“Did Charlie take off the catalytic converter himself?”
“Think he had someone help him.” He puffed thoughtfully. “Maybe whoever told him he’d save on gas.”
“Any idea who that was?” A long shot, sure, but what the heck.
Larry thought. And thought. I waited. Uncle Bob would have been proud.
“You know,” he said, “I think he said it was someone from the theater. He was on the board, you know.”
I nodded. “Thank you.” I turned to go.
“I heard you saw Marge,” Larry said. “She doin’ okay?”
“Okay,” I said. “Not great, but okay.” I had my hand on the doorknob when I thought of something. “I know you found Marge that morning, but did you see or hear anything before her accident? Maybe earlier?”
“Nope,” Larry said. “Just a landscaper.”
CHAPTER 35
I called Marge as soon as I left Larry’s. “Do you have a landscaper?”
“A what?”
“A landscaper?”
“Who is this?”
“Oh, sorry. It’s Ivy.”
“Who?”
“Ivy Meadows. I’m taking care of your—”
“Is this some sort of joke?” Marge slammed the phone down.
I hung up, hoping this was not a sign of things to come, and still wondering about the landscaper. I’d ask Arnie. Maybe he would know.
But when I got to the theater that night, I was distracted by a near-barf. I had just sat down at the greenroom table with a plate of mac and cheese, when…
“Oh! My!” Bitsy gagged, slammed down her iced tea glass, and ran from the room.
“She better not have the flu,” Timothy said, pulling some hand sanitizer from a pocket. He slathered it on his hairy hands, then offered it to me. “Want some?”
Instead I picked up the glass, sniffed at the cloudy tea and nearly gagged too. I got up and strode back to the kitchen with the glass. The head cook, a silent woman whose hairnet was so tight she always had little triangles on her forehead after dinner, looked up at me, then quickly down at the pot of soup she was stirring. Zeb saw me and stepped behind the industrial-sized dishwasher.
“Come out, Zeb,” I said. “We have to talk. Now.”
He shambled out from his hiding spot. The kitchen staff stopped chattering.
“This glass of Bitsy’s…” I held it aloft and waited.
“It was an accident.” Zeb looked at the floor.
“I didn’t see anything,” said the cook, unbidden.
“I must have used the glass I did my science experiment in,” Zeb said. “I was testing the enzyme activity of blended liver.”
“A liver smoothie!” said one of the prep cooks.
I didn’t say anything, just held the glass up high.
“Really.” Zeb produced his black notebook from his kitchen apron pocket and showed it to me. “See, right here it says—”
“Zeb.” I put down the stinking glass. “I believe you used this glass for a science experiment. I do not believe that using it for Bitsy’s iced tea was an accident.”
The rest of the kitchen staff floated away but stayed within earshot.
“I don’t like ‘Bitchy.’” Zeb thrust out his chin. The few hairs there stood straight out in defiance.
I waited. I didn’t like Bitsy either, but apart from the Alzheimer’s remark, which could have been innocent, I couldn’t put my finger on why.
“She’s a nympho.”
That wasn’t the reason. “If that ain’t the pot calling the kettle black.” I had picked up a few of Candy’s southernisms. Sometimes they just fit the bill.
“No, really. She hit on me.” Zeb shuddered. I did too, but not because I believed Zeb. According to him, everyone from the cashier at Trader Joe’s to his math teacher was hot for him. No, it was the image—fictional or not—of almost-seventy-year-old Bitsy with sixteen-year-old Zeb that made me squirm. “She’s after Arnie too, if you hadn’t noticed. Can’t decide if she wants a young buck or an old goat.”
“You make that up yourself?” I asked.
“I am not your average dishwasher,” he said with pride.
If that ain’t the truth.
I watched Bitsy that night. Zeb was right. Anytime Arnie came into the greenroom, Bitsy ended up next to him, laughing at his corny jokes, touching his arm, listening to him with an annoyingly coy tilt of her head.
On my way out of the theater after that night’s show, I saw her waiting by the stage door, dolled up in a figure-hugging red suit, high heels, and a tiny black patent leather clutch. I heard Arnie in the hall behind me, humming a little around his ever-present cigar. I let him pass, then dropped back around the corner so I could spy on them.
Arnie turned the corner. “Yowza.” He whistled in admiration. “I love a woman in red.”
“Thank you,” said Bitsy, with that stupid head tilt. “I have a date.”
I watched Arnie to see if he looked jealous. I suspected Bitsy was looking for the same thing. I didn’t see it. What I did see was the stage door open to reveal Bitsy’s date.
Colonel Carl Marks.
“Carl!” Arnie smiled and thrust out a hand at the colonel, who wore well-cut slacks and an open-necked shirt under a sports coat. Arizona formal wear.
“So you two know each other,” Bitsy said.
“Everyone knows the colonel here,” Arnie said. I was beginning to think that was true.
“Colonel,” I said, stepping around the corner. “Just the man I wanted to talk to.” Carl’s and Bitsy’s smiles dimmed perceptibly. “Seems to me I’ve seen your car around an awful lot.”
“Checking out my ‘hot rod,’ are you?” Carl said to me. He gave Bitsy a lascivious smile.
I shook my head in mock confusion.
“And I could have sworn you were married.”
“I am.” Carl stared past me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bitsy’s face redden, but I kept my gaze on the colonel. He popped a piece of gum in his mouth, then shifted his eyes to my face. “This is a business meeting.” Ah. A lie.
“But you’re retired.”
The colonel smiled directly at me, lying again. “I still do some work for my friends.” His gum chewing amped up.
