Island Storms

by Sherryl Woods

  Though she could have avoided the lobby, Molly took the main entrance just to see who was hanging around the murder scene. A small cluster of residents hovered near the security desk, as if being close to Nestor would protect them. The sight of the desk reminded Molly of something she should have considered much earlier. If anyone had come into the building last night, the name would be on the log, either at the desk or at the front gate. If the latter, a license tag number would have been recorded as well. She hoped the police hadn’t already taken them as evidence.

  While everyone was chatting, she inched closer to the desk and peered at the register. Tuesday’s page was still on top. The last person to sign in had arrived at 10:00 p.m., a Sylvia Machado, visiting Hector Alonso in 1020. There were no names after that. Anyone who’d arrived in the midst of this morning’s confusion had slipped in unnoticed. Not even Nestor would have dared to make the police log in.

  She was about to move away, when she realized that the gate log was also on the security desk. Obviously the guard had dropped it off before going off duty at seven. Again, Sylvia Machado was the last person registered, logged in at 9:55 p.m. It was possible that she was the killer and had lingered in the building until after the bridge game participants had gone to bed, but it seemed unlikely. It would be easy enough to check with Alonso to be sure that she’d been there as his guest.

  Disappointed, Molly edged away from the desk. Jack Kingsley, the building manager, separated himself from another group near the bend in the corridor and met her in front of a scraggly potted palm that didn’t appear to be in much better shape than Allan Winecroft.

  Kingsley was a tall man, at least six-two, with a jovial round face and shrewd eyes. He looked to be about fifty. Bushy eyebrows sprinkled with gray tried to compensate for the thinning sandy hair on his head. Partial to the informal, open-necked guayabera shirts favored in the Latin community, he wore them with khaki trousers and boat shoes.

  But while Kingsley’s attire contributed to the impression that he was just about to head for a café cubano on Calle Ocho in the heart of Little Havana, word was that he ran a tight, businesslike ship. Molly had met him only twice, when she’d applied to the board for approval to buy her condo, and later when she’d gone to the office to make a maintenance payment. She’d been impressed, even a little intimidated by his odd balance of informal dress and militaristic regimentation. There was a lot of yes, sir and no, sir going on in that office. She’d been surprised that the secretaries hadn’t snapped salutes.

  “Mrs. DeWitt, could we talk a minute?” he asked her now. Without waiting for an answer, he steered her away from the crowd and toward the elevators. His pace was brisk. They were on their way to her apartment before she realized it. “I’m terribly sorry you’ve had to go through all of this,” he said as he punched the button for the fifth floor. “I assume the police questioned you this morning.”

  “Some. They’re going to want a formal statement later, I’m told.”

  “This is a terrible thing. Terrible. Do you have any idea what might have happened? Did you see anything at all?”

  “Actually, no,” she said, though she thought finding the body was quite enough. “Allan was fine when I left the cardroom last night.”

  “What time did you discover his body?”

  “It must have been about eight.”

  “Had he been dead long?”

  The question was natural enough, she supposed, but why ask her? She was no expert. The place was swarming with people likely to be better informed than she was. “I couldn’t say. I’m sure the medical examiner will have to pin down the time of death. Is Allan…have they taken him away yet?”

  “Yes. A few minutes ago. They’ve sealed off the cardroom for the time being. There are technicians all over the place in there and the detective in charge, Mr. O’Hara, I believe, said they’d want to speak with everyone.”

  “You mean those there last night?”

  “No, he said everyone. I assured him we would make whatever arrangements he required. I’ve made up a list and set up a timetable, subject to his approval, of course. I’m expecting him back shortly.”

  Molly suddenly remembered something she’d wondered about earlier as she’d surveyed the exceptionally tidy cardroom. “Mr. Kingsley, what time does the cleaning staff get here?”

  “Eight.”

  “So, there’s no way they could have been in there this morning?”

  “You mean prior to your arrival?”

  She nodded.

  “It’s not impossible. Occasionally the director of housekeeping makes her rounds early before her staff arrives. Why?”

  “Because the room was spotless, except for Allan. I wondered if they’d had time to pick up from last night’s bridge game.”

  “I doubt it. Even if Mrs. Rodriguez had been in, she wouldn’t have done the cleaning herself.”

  So, Molly thought, it was likely that the other players had cleaned up before leaving last night. Which of them had remained behind to do it? Allan himself, concerned about sticking to his own stringent rules? Had he lingered, then been attacked by the killer, perhaps not a member of their own group, but a late arrival he’d never even seen? He had been stabbed in the back, after all. Or was it possible that the killer himself had tidied up, worried about leaving behind any evidence linking him to the crime? For that matter, was it possible that Allan had gone down this morning to pick up something he’d left behind? Aside from his clothes, she had no confirmation that he’d been killed last night. Drucilla certainly hadn’t noticed that he’d been missing all night.

  “Is there something more?” Mr. Kingsley asked, regarding her curiously.

  “No. I suppose not.”

  “Well, if there is anything I can do for you, you will let me know, won’t you?” he said as they reached her door. “I remember what you told me about your reasons for leaving your house. I would hate to have you regret buying here. Ocean Manor needs more young, year-round owners.”

  Molly wondered if he feared a rush of sales. Were condos seriously affected by such signs of instability? For that matter, wouldn’t a murder intimidate a lot of prospective buyers? Whatever his concerns, she sought to reassure him about her own plans. “I can’t say I wasn’t rattled when I discovered the body this morning, but I have no intention of being chased away, Mr. Kingsley.” She paused. “You know, on second thought, you could tell me something else about Allan. Was he fully retired or did he still have business interests? Is there anything listed on the office records?”

  “Why on earth would you ask something like that?” His expression was thoroughly puzzled.

  “His wife mentioned that he’d stayed on last night to discuss business. I wondered if perhaps a deal had gone sour on him. Then, again, maybe it was just general financial chitchat.”

  “I’m sure that must have been it. Once you’ve been a CEO, the tendency to stay on top of things must always be there.”

  “Was Allan on top of what was happening here? I would think a man like that would make an excellent condominium president.”

  “He was very savvy.”

  Though the manager responded quickly, Molly couldn’t help thinking that there was more he wasn’t saying. She recalled all those troubling rumors she’d heard and risked asking him about them. “I’ve heard there was some mismanagement by the old board. Is there any truth to that?”

  “None at all,” he said, again without hesitation. This time, though, he elaborated. “Condominiums are complex businesses. Not everyone understands all the intricacies. I’m sure that’s why there was some confusion over decisions made in the past. Allan was brought up to speed on everything by the accountants. I think he was satisfied that everything was in order in the reports we showed him.”

  Molly nodded politely, but made a mental note to ask the accountants about that. “Good. I know how nervous
people get when their money is at risk, and how rumors can take on a life of their own.”

  “Tell me about it. I’ve been managing condominiums in this state for the past twenty years. There’s not a one of them that hasn’t had its problems,” he told her in confidence. “It’s bound to happen when you get a few hundred owners with very different backgrounds all mixed together. We’ve got Cubans and South Americans, a few Germans, some Brits, plus all the retirees from up north and a handful of young professionals like yourself. No two of them has the same likes or the same expectations. Just try redecorating the corridors and you can end up with World War Three on your hands.”

  Molly could just imagine trying to get them all to agree on a color scheme, much less style or architectural alterations. “I’m sure,” she said sympathetically.

  “You just let Nestor or me know if you have any problems,” he said. “That’s what we’re here for. You get the shakes or anything from all this, give Dr. Meeks a call. I hear he’s a pretty decent shrink.”

  “I’ll do that,” she said, though Roy Meeks was on her list of suspects and likely to be every bit as shaky as she was herself.

  Comforted somewhat by the manager’s solicitude, she made herself a tuna salad sandwich and took it onto her balcony overlooking a garden of sea grapes and beyond that the beach and ocean. The temperature had climbed into the low eighties and the humidity was high. Only a breeze kept it from being unbearable. It was still the perfect place to collect her thoughts. It reminded her of carefree summer days on her front porch overlooking the Rappahannock in Virginia. She’d spent endless hours on that porch daydreaming and making plans.

  Today, though, there was no time for daydreams. If anything, she was in the middle of a nightmare. Leaving the sandwich untouched, she began making a list of those she wanted to see: the Davisons, Tyler Jenkins and his wife, Roy Meeks. She’d have to ask them to identify some of the others who’d been there last night. She considered asking them all over for tea despite O’Hara’s objections. Tapping her pen against the table, she tried to imagine anyone making incriminating revelations under those conditions. It wouldn’t happen. She’d have to approach them one by one. Divide and conquer. The phrase suddenly held new meaning.

  Before she could pick her first target, though, the phone rang. She ran inside, but when she picked up the phone, there was no answer on the other end.

  “Hello,” she repeated. “Is someone there? Hello!”

  The only response was a soft click.

  “A wrong number,” she murmured, walking slowly back to the balcony. Something deep in her gut, however, told her she was wrong. She couldn’t help remembering what Drucilla had said earlier. Allan had been receiving threatening phone calls before he was killed. As dark clouds rolled in, warning of the impending onset of the typical afternoon thunderstorms, she shivered in the sudden gloom. She picked up her notes and sandwich and took them inside.

  In the kitchen, she glanced at her list and decided the place to start would be with the man who’d championed Allan’s election to the board, the man Drucilla so clearly resented: Tyler Jenkins.

  Despite the threatening weather, she found Tyler walking laps around the perimeter of the pool, looking dapper in a crisp short-sleeved cotton shirt and shorts that displayed his knobby knees. His leather sneakers still looked brand-new. Apparently this was a recent regimen, probably prescribed after his bypass.

  Molly smiled a greeting, which drew only a cursory nod and a terse, “Mrs. DeWitt.”

  “Mind if I join you?”

  He stopped and studied her, his suspicious blue eyes intent. “Why?”

  “I’d like to talk to you a little about Allan, if I could.”

  “The man’s dead,” he said, resuming his pace. “No point in talking about him.”

  “He was a friend of yours. I’m sure this has been a terrible shock.”

  “Damned fool,” he muttered.

  Molly wasn’t sure if he was referring to Allan or to her. “Why would you say that?” she asked.

  He waved aside the question. “Don’t mind me. You’re right. This has been a shock.”

  “Drucilla says you worked very hard to get Allan on the board.”

  “Thought he’d be good. Not like all those others who were greedy and power hungry. Man had business sense. Ran a huge corporation. This should have been a piece of cake for him.”

  “Should have been? Wasn’t it?”

  “Different kettle of fish altogether, he told me. Might have been president, but he wasn’t really in charge. Board outvoted him at every turn. Should have thought of that,” he said, stepping up his pace until Molly practically had to run to keep up with him. For a man still recuperating from surgery, he seemed awfully fit to her.

  Molly was also having some difficulty in reconciling the image of Allan as kindly businessman out to do good with the petty tyrant he’d appeared to be to others. The sheet of rules, circulated less than a week ago, came to mind as did a few incidents she’d heard about.

  “Wasn’t there a suit of some sort?” she asked. “Something about a cat?”

  Faded blue eyes snapping with indignation glowered at her. “A lot of damned nonsense,” Tyler decreed. “Can’t have animals roving all over the place. The rules are clear. No pets. Allan was just enforcing them.”

  “But as I understand it, Mrs. Jenko had owned that cat for nearly fourteen years. She brought it with her when she moved in. No one told her she couldn’t. Besides, it never left her apartment. What possible difference could it make if she kept it?”

  “A rule’s a rule. Can’t have exceptions. Leads to chaos.”

  Molly was beginning to get an idea of where Allan had gotten his notions about condo law and order. Tyler Jenkins was a crotchety old man. He’d probably instigated the incident over the Firths’ child being barefoot in the lobby. Liza Hastings, who lived across the hall from Molly, had told her all about it. Four adults—the Firths, Allan, and Tyler—had stood in the middle of the lobby shouting, while two-year-old Hettie Firth screamed, probably in a rage over being singled out for her tiny bare feet. It had taken Nestor and another guard to calm things down.

  “Mr. Jenkins, Drucilla seems to think that Allan was being threatened because of something he’d done as condo president. Is that possible?”

  “World’s a terrible place when a man’s condemned for just doing his job.”

  “Does that mean yes?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. That guard threatened him. He’s probably the one. That policeman won’t go after one of his own, though.”

  It took Molly several minutes to figure out what Tyler meant. The guard in question, Enrique Valdez, had been fired over some incident at the front gate. He’d admitted someone without noting it in the log. The guest happened to be visiting Allan. Allan had fired Enrique, setting off a barrage of criticism from those who thought he should have been given a second chance.

  “Have you told Detective O’Hara about the incident?”

  “Haven’t seen him. Doubt he’ll listen, though. Those Cubans protect each other. That’s a fact.”

  Molly refrained from offering her own observation about the detective’s impartiality. He liked her—at least she thought he did—and that wasn’t keeping him from putting her on his list of suspects.

  “Did Allan suggest that Enrique was making those calls?”

  “No.”

  “Did he mention what the calls were about?”

  “Said they were a damned nuisance, no more than that.”

  “So he wasn’t frightened?”

  “Take more than an anonymous call or two to scare a man like Allan.”

  Molly wasn’t so sure about that. It had taken only one hang-up to make her jittery. She was about to comment on that when Michael O’Hara himself fell into stride beside them. She doubted he was there for the exerci
se.

  “Is this a private conversation or can anyone join in?” he inquired. His expression indicated that any hint of exclusivity would not be appreciated.

  The old man’s eyes narrowed. “You that cop?”

  “Michael O’Hara.”

  Tyler looked as if he’d been offered a dose of castor oil. “Time for my nap.”

  “I’m afraid your nap will have to wait for a few more minutes,” Michael said, following him as he headed toward the building. Molly stayed in stride partly out of habit, but mostly out of curiosity. Why was Tyler Jenkins so afraid of talking to the police?

  “Doctor says I have to rest. Can’t change the schedule.”

  This from a man who’d just done twenty laps around a very large pool at a pace just under a trot. Molly had her doubts. Apparently Michael did as well. His determination never faltered. “Perhaps if we sit here in the shade,” he suggested.

  Still grumbling under his breath, Mr. Jenkins sat. Michael sat opposite him. Molly lingered hopefully.

  “Sit,” Michael said finally. She pulled up a chair before he could change his mind.

  “Mr. Jenkins, tell me about your relationship with Allan Winecroft. Was he a protégé of yours?”

  “Got him to run for the board, if that’s what you mean. Saw that he got elected.”

  “You must have a lot of influence in the building then.”

  “Some.”

  “Why didn’t you run yourself?”

  “Bad heart. Doc said I couldn’t take it.”

  That hadn’t kept him from running a vitriolic campaign, however. Molly had read some of his campaign letters on Allan’s behalf. The Republican National Committee couldn’t have taken nastier potshots at the Democrats.

  “Once he was elected, was he panning out the way you’d hoped he would?” Michael asked.

  “He was tough. Given the chance, he would have made a damned fine president.”

  “Any idea who might not have wanted him to have that chance?”