“Uh, okay, but we are working on it as you know from our walk-through yesterday.”
“I have no doubt about that. I promised to share anything of significance with you as soon as possible. I’m keeping my promise. Do you have a minute?” The urgency in my voice must have won out over any sense that she was about to be sent on a wild goose chase by a well-meaning amateur sleuth. That grunt that had escaped from me earlier was on the verge, however, of turning into a growl.
Why do they urge you to play nice-nice then dump on you regardless of whether you do or don’t? I crabbed silently, tapping my pen on the surface of my desk.
Just then, Kim stepped into my office with two steaming cups of coffee. The teeth-gritting expression on my face stopped her in her tracks. I unclenched my jaw and motioned for her to come in and have a seat. Then I proceeded to tell two stories to the reluctant detective listening on the other end of my call. Rikki said very little as I told her first about Barbara Stoddard’s true confession and then about David Madison’s anxious disclosures about Beverly’s connection to an investment fraud. Kim sat quietly taking it all in. As I was winding up my call, she slipped me a note.
Tanya Wilkins has an alibi and she’s a nail-biter, is all it said.
“One more thing that you may have already discovered. An associate tells me that despite Barbara Stoddard’s revelation that Tanya Wilkins wished Beverly Windsor would drop dead, Ms. Wilkins has an alibi, and she’s a nail-biter.”
“Ah, yes. We’d established the alibi, but, um, I don’t believe anyone mentioned the ‘nail-biter’ issue—if they even noticed it. Thanks for the update. I’ve got one for you, too. The coroner found another of those brown hairs. They match the ones discovered earlier but this one was found in, uh, on Beverly Windsor’s scalp in a way that suggests it was left at the time of the assault. You don’t want more details than that, do you?”
“No, thank you. That’s quite enough.”
“Talk to you soon.”
“Sure,” I said. No sooner than necessary, I thought as I hung up. I was still in the grunting and growling zone despite the more conciliatory tone that had entered Detective Havens’ voice the longer we spoke. That last bit of news had left me feeling queasy too. The mind has a way of filling in details even when you don’t want to go there.
“You know what, Kim? I think I prefer calling her Detective Havens rather than Rikki.”
“If you’ve got to call her anything at all!” Kim was deadpan as she dropped that funny line. I burst out laughing and took a big swig of the coffee she’d brought me. Then I held up my mug and clinked it with hers.
“Thanks for that bit of news. It’s good to take a name off the suspect list. I’m going to take Dee Delacroix off the list, too. The detective just told me that Beverly’s assailant was definitely a brunette. Dee’s a blond.” I pulled the list from Beverly’s file, which was lying on my desk.
I reviewed my list and added a few cryptic notes to those already there:
Cedric Baumgartner—HOA Exec Committee, friend, romantic partner
Steve Landis—General Contractor
Tanya Wilkins—ARC Chairwoman—alibi, nail-biter
Ginny Green—ARC member, supporter
Cathy Walker—ARC member
Tamara Parker—ARC member
Bob Thornton—ARC member, supporter
Marcia Garrett—neighbor, dog-barking complaint
Barbara Stoddard—gal pal, neighbor
Gloria Cartwright—gal pal, neighbor
Holly Grant—designer
Dee Delacroix—design assistant, GC’s fling, blond
Haute Hounds—dog sitter
Amy suddenly appeared in the doorway to my office. She peeked over her shoulder before she spoke in a quiet voice. “There’s a woman who insists on speaking to you. Now! I tried to get her to make an appointment, but she refused. She’s a powder keg about to blow, if I’m any judge of character. Shall I show her back here or tell her to go and threaten to call security or the police if she refuses?”
“Why not send her back here? Kim can help me if she gets too rowdy. Did she give you a name?”
“Marcia Garrett. Have I seen her somewhere before?”
“TV, maybe. She was a guest star, years ago, on Murder She Wrote, Columbo, and a few other shows. The Good Wife, more recently. Always cast as a femme fatale or homewrecker as far as I can tell.”
“Excuse me. Are you coming back anytime soon?” I heard a voice call out from the hallway.
“Come on back, Ms. Garrett,” Amy replied as she rushed to meet the woman already on her way to my office. “Ms. Huntington will see you now.”
“It’s about time!” She announced as she shoved her way past Amy into my office. I stood to greet her, glancing at the items on my desk wondering what I could hurl at her if she made a move to assault Kim or me. I had pepper spray in my desk, inches from where my fingers rested.
At least she’s not swinging a cane, I thought as I faced the agitated ex-Hollywood diva on the other side of my desk. She was an attractive woman in her late forties or early fifties. Kim probably had a birthdate. Not that it mattered.
“Won’t you have a seat?” I asked with as much grace as I could muster.
“No thanks. I’m not staying long.” Marcia Garrett was dressed tastefully in an Eileen Fischer gold wool jersey kimono jacket over a ribbed, bateau boatneck sweater in the same mustard seed color. The ensemble was perfect with cropped, black, wide-leg pants, and a pair of comfortable-looking black suede slides on her feet.
I coveted that gold jacket, my palm itching as I fixated on it with the numbers on my black AMEX card floating beguilingly through my mind. Perhaps, gazing at that lovely jacket was also a way to avoid staring at her face which was twisted in anger. My eyes moved to her hands. Her nails were long, perfectly manicured, with a clear polish. No red. No broken nail. I relaxed a little, although it was easy to imagine those nails painted red as Barbara Stoddard had described them. Bright red nail polish would have spoiled the look she’d achieved with that gorgeous outfit.
“We have coffee. You want a cup?” Kim asked in a casual way. Her question, put to Ms. Garrett in such an offhand way, must have diffused the woman’s anger since when she responded, it was in a more civil tone.
Kim has acquired some real people skills, I reflected as she demonstrated her expertise by soothing the savage beast in a fit-prone, narcissist.
“No, thank you. I don’t have time to sit and chat or drink coffee. I came here to ask you why you believe I had anything to do with Beverly Windsor’s death. I hardly knew the woman and wouldn’t have bothered her at all if it hadn’t been for the incessant noise coming from her place across the golf course from mine.”
“No one’s accusing you of doing anything to Beverly Windsor. We’re speaking to all her neighbors, especially anyone with whom she had a disagreement. That’s routine under the circumstances.” I adopted the same calm, direct manner that Kim had used so well.
“Routine, maybe, if you’re the police. Nice try sending that gorgeous PI as your inquisitor. Not my type. Or, maybe I should say, I’m not his type. Anyway, I never bore Beverly Windsor any ill will, but I need my sleep and often keep late hours. The noise started at the crack of dawn and went on all day, week after week.”
“The dog doesn’t bark,” Kim said in her matter of fact, emotionless way. Marcia’s eyes threw darts. If looks could kill, Kim would have tumbled to the ground.
“I tried to get her General Contractor to cool it first and he just ignored me. Then I filed a violation of the noise ordinance with the city about the construction starting at dawn, but they blew me off. That’s when I complained about the dog. Beverly Windsor left me no choice. That place of hers did not need that much work!”
“No, it didn’t. As her attorney, I can tell you that what took so long was the fact that she had to fight, tooth and nail, to get every request through the Architectural Review Committee. That dragged work out for months that should
have been done in a few weeks.”
“How’s that my problem? Besides, do you honestly believe filing a complaint about noise is a motive for murder? And, how would I know who had it in for her as both that PI of yours and the police had the cheekiness to ask?”
“Neighbors chat, Ms. Garrett. Conversations are overheard, like the one between you and Tanya Wilkins where Ms. Wilkins bore enough ill will toward Beverly Windsor to wish her dead—out loud. Odd that she felt it was okay to share her heart’s desire with you unless she felt you shared her sentiment.” I shrugged a little. Marcia Garrett huffed.
“Well, I don’t know who told you about that conversation, but I didn’t agree with her. I’m no chummier with that bitter old bag than anyone else who’s ever met her. You’re right that she disliked Beverly Windsor. I don’t mind telling you that Tanya’s delusional, too, if she ever believed Cedric Baumgartner’s interest in her was anything other than a way to insinuate himself into the leadership of the HOA.”
“Why would he want to do that?” Kim asked.
“The man’s a money-grubbing, womanizer. Ask Cathy Walker if you don’t believe me. She was his first target until he figured out Tanya Wilkins had more clout with the HOA board and the seat he coveted on the Executive Committee.”
“He’s quite the player, isn’t he?” Kim commented.
“Yes. I was very clear with Tanya about that. With Beverly Windsor, too.”
“You spoke to Beverly about him? When, may I ask?”
“Not too long ago. I spotted them together, having a romantic dinner right before Christmas. After filing that complaint, I felt bad. When I bumped into her later, I thought she should know the truth about him. Not that it did any good since they turned up together at the clubhouse for holiday events a week or so later.”
Hmm, I thought as Kim caught my eye, maybe Beverly Windsor gave Marcia Garrett’s warning more consideration than she knew. That was right around the time she put her accountant to work tracking down information about that fund.
“I hope you’ve been as clear with the police about all this as you were with her and with us, today. If not, you’ll get another chance. They’ll be back for another round of questioning. A neighbor spilled her guts about overhearing that conversation between you and Tanya Wilkins. Please, please take the opportunity to enlighten them about Casanova, too, will you?” Marcia Garrett rolled her eyes, but smirked, too.
“Will do. I guess the sooner they sort out the mess, the sooner I won’t have members of the inquisition on my doorstep.”
“Why do women always want to blame other women when it’s the guy who’s the dirty rat? Why kill Beverly and not him?” I wondered aloud. Marcia Garrett responded with a laugh.
“From what I’ve heard, you do know your dirty rats, don’t you?”
“Unfortunately, not until it’s too late,” I replied, shaking my head in disgust.
“You must take some pleasure from the fact that the biggest rat in your life is caught in a trap. His little blond mouse has turned out to be a fat cat instead, hasn’t she? Meow!” Marcia Garrett clawed the air with those nails of hers.
“How horrible for all the cats in this world to be compared to her!” I replied instantly. The diva in our midst laughed again!
“Okay, let’s call her a shrew then, if you prefer. Anyway, your question is a good one. You’d better watch it, though, or someone’s going to ask you if you bear ill will toward the old gent. I’ll never tell, but who knows who might overhear you wondering why he’s not the one who’s dead? Let’s hope nothing happens to him or the police will be at your door!”
“I hear you. If I were the murderous type, I’d be in prison already. Thanks for the information. I apologize for the inconvenience this has caused you. When Beverly and I were wrestling with the neighborhood issues as they came up, I never imagined you or anyone else was upset enough about paint, water, or noise to kill her. We had to check it out, though.” I was prepared to shift my focus more intently to the money issue when Marcia Garrett dropped another tidbit in our laps.
“At least the guy you sicced on me was easy on the eyes. Polite and engaging, too. He was far more charming than Detective Havens. If I were you, I’d have her put your question about why not kill the rat rather than one of his mousy little companions, to Cedric’s wife.”
“Wife? You’re not talking about Daisy Guinness, are you?”
“No, she’s not,” Kim responded. “That’s his ex-wife. Ms. Garrett’s talking about Debra Grayson. To be more precise, Debra Grayson-Baumgartner, although she doesn’t always bother to use the hyphen from what I can tell. I was going to bring her up at our meeting this evening.”
“Good grief! As soon as we get one woman off the list, another one pops up. What is it about this guy?”
“Don’t ask me,” Marcia Garrett said as she stepped into the doorway. “I can’t see it. That’s another good question for Debra, isn’t it? Thanks for taking me off your ‘whodunit’ list. And, before you nag me about it, yes, I’ll make sure the police put Debra Grayson-Baumgartner on their list, too. She won’t like it, but I owe her one, speaking of shrews. More than once, Debra elbowed me out of parts I should have had years ago when she fancied herself an actress!”
With that, Marcia Garrett turned and disappeared down the hall to the reception area and I added a new name and a few more notes to our list. That included “married” next to Cedric Baumgartner’s name. What next? I wondered. Did Beverly Windsor realize she was dating a married man? How big a secret could his marital status have been if her neighbor, Marcia Garrett, knew about it? What about the other women in Baumgartner’s harem at Araby Oasis?
23 Tutus and Tricks
I opened the door from the garage and walked into the kitchen. A wretched mood had engulfed me on the way home from my office. Doom and gloom about poor Beverly’s fate had hit me over the head like the blows that killed her. This one was aimed at my soul—weary of rats and shrews, skanky women, and ruthlessly unfaithful, money-grubbing men. The woof that greeted me as I opened the door interrupted my ruminating. I couldn’t help but smile when that lovely puppy greeted me.
“Hello, Anastasia,” I said as I leaned over and patted her head that was covered in soft, curly poodle fur. Before I could say another word, she dashed from the kitchen into the butler’s pantry and came back with her leash in her mouth.
“She’s been waiting for you for the last half hour,” Bernadette said, having materialized out of thin air. “I never saw her take her eyes off that door. Not even when the caterers rang the doorbell and started bringing in the equipment to set up our dinner on the patio. That girl’s your new BFF.”
As if to prove Bernadette’s point, Anastasia dropped her leash at my feet and did a bow as though inviting me to play. Then Anastasia was up on her hind legs, and spun around ballerina style before she dashed off. After galloping down the hallway toward my room, she stopped as if on springs with her tail kinked. In a flash, she came back and sat at my feet, offering me a paw to shake. I laughed as the clouds in my mind vanished.
“Mom sends her love. She’s doing well, although I couldn’t visit with her for very long. She’s starting some new segment of the program at Betty Ford’s and they whisked her away to a group session. I plan to leave work early to stay with her while she has chemo on Monday. You want me to pick you up first?”
“Why don’t I meet you there? Then, I can be your back-up if something happens and you’re late or have to run for it.”
“That’s probably a good idea.” My mood sank again considering what Bernadette could mean by “something happens” with a murder investigation underway. Anastasia woofed, picked up her leash, and dropped it at my feet again. Her tail wagged, shaking her whole body in anticipation of our walk.
“In my next life, I’m coming back as a dog. A lovely, poodle just like Anastasia if I have any say in the matter.” Hearing her name made her gyrate more. “It’s hard to stay in a bad mood with a happy poodl
e wanting you to play, isn’t it?”
“Yes. She’s a sweetie. Such a good companion, too. She follows me around the house when I do my chores, and when I’m sitting quietly with my rosary beads, she settles down next to me without making a sound until I stand up.”
“It sounds like she’s got two new BFFs. I’m glad she’s not more upset than she is that she’s in a strange house without Beverly.” When I mentioned that name, Anastasia tilted her head from one side then to the other. “She knows who I’m talking about, doesn’t she?”
“I think so. Occasionally, she goes off by herself and seems like maybe she’s searching for her. When that happens, I try to distract her with a treat or take her outside for a few minutes. You’re right that she loves to ride in the car. I’ve taken her with me if I go someplace where I don’t have to get out or can take her in with me.”
“It’s wonderful that you’re here so she’s not alone all day. That’s what worries Leslie the most now that Anastasia’s an orphan. Leslie must feel that way, too,” I sighed. Anastasia whined. I gave Bernadette a hug. “Anastasia, don’t worry. It’s okay.”
“Life’s not easy, Nina. Your friend’s a strong woman, like her mother.”
“I know. Don’t you ever get sick of being a strong woman?”
“Naw, it gets easier the longer you try.” She gave me another hug. “You’d better walk that dog. The food’s going to be here in ten or fifteen minutes.” I gave Bernadette a peck on the cheek.
“Let’s go, Anastasia. I need to change my clothes, and then we’ll go for a walk, okay?” I leaned over and picked up her leash. The adorable poodle bounded after me as I left the kitchen, walked passed the enormous great room, and into the hallway that led to my suite.
“Jerry has news for you. I do, too,” Bernadette hollered. “I’ll get it!” She shouted again as the doorbell rang.
By the time Anastasia and I had returned from our walk to the dog park and back, not only had the caterers arrived, but the Cat Pack members, too. Everyone except Frank. Even Betsy Stark had tagged along tonight, although she’d announced that she had to eat and run.
4 A Dead Mother Page 22
