“Always a few malcontents. Doubt they’d have killed him, though.”
“Why not let me be the judge of that? I’d like their names anyway.”
“Talk to Manuel Mendoza.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s the man Allan beat in the last election. Thought he had a lock on the position. Damned Latin coalition. Always talking Spanish in the elevators. Wouldn’t know we’re still in America, if they had their way.”
Even though there was no sign of a reaction on Michael’s face, Molly winced. She’d heard Tyler Jenkins’s frustration from an increasing number of Anglos as the Hispanic population began to dominate the county. Apparently Tyler didn’t care that the man he was talking to was also Hispanic. Nor was he worried about sharing the depth of his bitterness over the community’s changes.
No doubt Michael had heard similar complaints before. Ignoring the prejudiced comment with admirable restraint, he asked, “Mr. Jenkins, where were you between midnight and eight this morning?”
The old man didn’t even blink. “In my apartment.”
“Anyone with you?”
“My wife. She’ll tell you I never left.”
Michael closed his notebook. “Yes. I’m sure she will. And she was at the bridge game as well, is that right?”
“Yes. We play every Tuesday. Won last year.”
“Congratulations and thank you for your time, sir.” He stood up and gestured to Molly. From the stern expression on his face again, she decided it wouldn’t be wise to argue.
Before he could launch into a tirade, she said, “I got a call this afternoon. I wasn’t going to say anything, but maybe you should know about it.”
“What sort of call?”
“A hang-up, but I could tell someone was there at first. I’m sure it was nothing, probably just a wrong number. I mean no one would expect me to be home this time of day, right?”
“Did anyone see you come in?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “There were at least a dozen people in the lobby.”
“Any of the people who were playing cards last night?”
She tried to recall if she’d seen anyone she recognized. “No,” she said finally. “Other than the guards and the manager, they weren’t people I knew.”
He nodded. “Did the call upset you for some particular reason?”
“No. Not really. It’s just that I went through something like this a few years ago. It gave me a start to have it happen again.”
“It was probably nothing, but let me know if you get another call, okay?” He took a card out of his shirt pocket and jotted a number on the back. “Call anytime. My home number’s on the back.”
“Why was I less nervous before I told you?”
“Because I’m taking it seriously?” he suggested. “I have to. In situations like this it’s never smart to overlook anything. I tend not to believe in coincidence. You have a cute kid to worry about, too. It might have been nothing more than a wrong number, but don’t take any foolish chances if it happens again. Call.”
Molly nodded.
“And one more thing,” he said, his tone light. It contradicted the cold look back in his eyes. “Stay away from the other suspects. Finding you with them is really getting on my nerves.”
“Maybe you ought to be quicker,” she said, then wished she hadn’t. Michael O’Hara was definitely not in any mood for jokes. If anything, he looked like someone who was only a frayed strand of self-control away from throttling her.
CHAPTER 5
For all of Tyler’s obvious bias in bringing up Enrique Valdez as a suspect in the first place, Molly couldn’t help wondering if the security guard had harbored a grudge against Allan. It would have been natural under the circumstances. For that matter, what about Violet Jenko? Since the elderly resident was essentially housebound, Molly decided to stop by her apartment en route to her own. A social call, in case Detective O’Hara asked.
Molly tapped loudly on the door of the first-floor apartment and waited patiently. Mrs. Jenko was both hard of hearing and required the use of a walker to get around. The combination slowed her down. Finally Molly heard the soft thud of rubber against tile as Mrs. Jenko neared the door.
“Who’s there?” she said, her voice clear and sharp.
“It’s Molly DeWitt, Mrs. Jenko, from upstairs.” She spoke loudly enough to be heard over the argument on Geraldo.
The door opened a cautious crack, revealing a frail, bent woman with flyaway wisps of white hair. She was wearing a flowered housecoat and fuzzy pink slippers. Assured that it was indeed Molly, she removed the chain and opened the door wide. She waved Molly inside, then replaced the deadbolt and the chain.
“Would you like some tea?” she offered, obviously glad of the unexpected company.
“I would love some,” Molly said, adapting her steps to Mrs. Jenko’s slow progress into the kitchen. “Could I help?”
“What’s that?”
Molly raised her voice. “Do you need any help?”
“No need. Just sit there at the table. This won’t take a minute.”
The walker thumped across the tiles as she moved from sink to stove to cupboards. The room had been painted a bright sunshine-yellow once, but the color had dimmed with grease and time. Maybe Mrs. Jenko couldn’t see all that well to clean.
The elderly woman carefully placed two English bone china teacups on the table. Next she brought over a plate with wedges of Scottish shortbread, the kind made with enough butter to clog the heartiest arteries. Molly loved it. She was just sorry there were only four pieces on the plate. When the tea had been poured and she’d taken her first sip, Molly said, “How are you doing, Mrs. Jenko? Have you been getting out at all?”
“What’s that?”
“Have you been out?”
“Just to the mailbox. That takes most of the afternoon,” she said wearily. “Can’t move the way I used to. Why, when I was a girl…”
Sensing the start of a long session of reminiscences, Molly interrupted. “You haven’t been too upset over Mr. Winecroft’s murder, have you? Are you nervous being here alone?”
“Doesn’t have a thing in the world to do with me,” she said adamantly, thumping her walker for emphasis. “The man deserved to die.”
“Because of that suit you had over your cat?”
Her nut-brown eyes misted over. “It was a cruel thing, what he did. Prissy was all I had in this world. She barely made a sound, never even left the apartment.”
“How did he know about her then?”
“That hateful Tyler Jenkins told him. Tyler used to come nosing around, pretending to be concerned about how I was doing. He knew what that cat meant to me, but he told Allan about her anyway. Next thing I knew I was told Prissy had to go. I fought it as long as I could, but my son finally insisted I stop. Said it wasn’t good for my blood pressure. Wish I had dropped dead. Then we really would have had a claim against the old coot.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Course I do. You think it’s any fun living like this? Might as well be dead. Only thing worth staying alive for was seeing Allan Winecroft with that knife sticking out of him.”
“You saw him?”
“You bet. The minute I heard the news. Went right over there to see for myself that someone had done him in.”
“Any idea who?”
“No, but if I did, I’d surely thank them.”
Molly finally excused herself and left, after seeing Mrs. Jenko settled in the living room again, her television tuned to the early evening news. The sound followed her all the way down the hall. Her talk with the old woman had confirmed the depth of the bitter feud she’d had with Allan, but it also had proved, to Molly at least, that she wasn’t capable of plunging that knife herself. She wouldn’t have had the strength for it.
&
nbsp; Enrique, on the other hand, was a powerfully built man. Molly spent an hour trying to track him down, to no avail. His wife claimed he was working somewhere as a painter. She had no idea where. Her grasp of English conveniently faded in and out. Molly left a message, but she wasn’t surprised that Enrique never returned the call. She went to bed every bit as confused as she had been when she’d discovered Allan’s body that morning.
* * *
Once Molly dropped Brian off at school in the morning, she turned automatically into Harbor Plaza Shopping Center. Down at the end, an R missing from its restaurant sign on the overhang, was the Doughnut Gallery, or the DG, as it was fondly known by the regulars. Long and narrow, the place was an island institution, its back wall decorated with snapshots of customers. Even the Miami Herald knew to send its reporters here when it wanted the latest word on Key Biscayne happenings.
Naturally, this morning the talk at the crowded counter centered on the Allan Winecroft murder. As she waited for a seat to open up, Molly listened as two other condo presidents worried aloud. They were less concerned with Allan’s fate than with the possibility that their own lives might be at stake.
“You should have heard that guy last week, when the board turned down his renters,” Jacob Gelbman said as the waitress set his daily breakfast of juice, cereal and a banana in front of him. He was so nervous he nearly poured his juice on his corn flakes. “He threatened to get us all for depriving him of his livelihood. I sympathized with the guy, but I couldn’t vote to let the prospective tenant in. He had too many kids for a two-bedroom apartment. The owner was furious, practically turned purple, said we were ruining him.”
“That’s just talk,” George Calhoun retorted, going against medical guidelines to douse his scrambled eggs with salt. He picked up a piece of crisp bacon in his fingers and waved it between bites. “If I had a nickel for all the threats made against our condo board, I’d be a rich man.”
“You are a rich man,” Gelbman reminded him. “Maybe you and I can afford to take a few knocks. What if this guy in our building couldn’t? What if he goes berserk like that guy up in Broward County last year? He allegedly shot the condo president, then went home and had a drink. That’s where they found him, out by his pool, a drink in his hand, calm as you please. Desperation makes people do crazy things. Now this thing with Winecroft. Who knows what’s behind that? I tell you, I’m thinking of getting off the board. Let somebody else take the heat. What do you get for doing it? A lot of aggravation. That’s it. Nothing but aggravation.”
A stool opened up next to Gelbman. Molly squeezed onto it, nodding to the men. She knew them the way she knew all of the regulars, by name and condo. She knew very little about their backgrounds, though both appeared to be retirement age. Gelbman had thinning white hair and nervous mannerisms even when he wasn’t contemplating a murder. Calhoun had the tanned, leathery skin of a man who couldn’t stay away from the beach or the golf course. They were always together and always here when she arrived.
Before she could blink, her cup of coffee was in front of her, along with the skim milk for her high-fiber cereal. If she ever wanted to change her order, she’d have to shout it from the doorway. Once she was seated, her usual breakfast materialized automatically. There was something especially comforting about that routine this morning.
“What do you think, Molly?” Jacob Gelbman asked. “You live in the building. Was it one of the owners who stabbed Winecroft? There’s always some brouhaha going on over there. Maybe one of ’em turned nasty.”
“I have no idea who did it,” she said honestly. Nothing she’d done so far had narrowed down her initial list of suspects, much less added anyone to it. Despite her desire to dig for more clues, she’d spent the previous evening helping Brian with his homework after her visit to Violet Jenko. Though on the surface Brian was nonchalant about the murder, she’d sensed a vague tension in him that she attributed to unspoken fears. She hadn’t tried to force him to talk, but she had remained available to listen. He’d spent most of the evening talking about snakes and what terrific pets they made. She’d shuddered at the very idea. Thank goodness the rules forbade it.
“But the paper says you discovered the body,” Gelbman protested. “Surely you have some theories about what happened.”
“I found Allan’s body, but unfortunately the killer didn’t linger with it. Your guess is as good as mine.” She patted herself on the back for remaining dutifully neutral. Detective O’Hara would be proud of her. Just to be sure she kept her opinions to herself, she stuffed a spoonful of bran flakes into her mouth.
“I heard there were a lot of bitter feelings after the last election, though. Who was that guy who ran against Winecroft and lost?”
“Manuel Mendoza,” Molly said, recalling that Tyler Jenkins had raised the same possibility.
“Right. That’s it. Mendoza. Maybe he’s still holding a grudge.”
“The election was eight months ago,” she reminded them. “If you ask me, he ought to be relieved he lost. The board has been catching flak from the owners from the minute they took office. They’re fighting over the assessments. They’re fighting over cable TV. They’re fighting over the decorating. When those cheap lighting fixtures went up in the halls, I thought Miriam Powell was going to have a fit of apoplexy. She said the property value was going to be ruined. I don’t think that makes her a murderer.”
“But you can’t say that for sure. You’ve got three hundred apartments, right? Every owner’s taste is different. You try pleasing them all. It can’t be done. Not a day goes by that someone’s not mad at you. If the police are on top of this, that’s where they’ll start looking, at the board minutes. See who was griping about what. Maybe somebody tried to sell and the deal wasn’t approved by the board. Could be the seller was real anxious. Or maybe the buyer resented being turned down. That’s the place to start, in the minutes.”
“Good idea.” The approving comment came from behind the newspaper to Molly’s right. Already it was a familiar voice.
She nabbed a corner of the paper and folded it down until she could peer straight into Detective O’Hara’s eyes. “It is not polite to eavesdrop.”
“It’s worse than that to defy a direct police order.”
“I’m not defying anything. I’m eating my breakfast.” She waved a spoonful of now soggy flakes in his direction.
“But the name Allan Winecroft did cross your lips, did it not?”
“Not mine, theirs.”
“A technicality.”
Both men on her left suddenly seemed totally absorbed with stirring their coffee. Molly recognized an evasion tactic when she saw one. Neither man used sugar. Or cream. Unless one of them had switched to tea and was trying to change his fortune in the leaves, they were trying to avoid the detective’s attention. Since they’d dragged her into this conversation, she saw no reason to hang alone.
“Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Detective O’Hara. He’s in charge of the Winecroft investigation. Perhaps he can answer your questions. I have to go to work.” She slid off the stool and grabbed for her check in one fluid motion. Even if it hadn’t been there, she knew the amount by heart. It never changed.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” the detective said, snagging her wrist and holding her in place. “I heard something last night that might interest you.”
The entire restaurant was not much bigger than her living room, just the right size for spreading gossip. A definite stillness fell over the row of diners. The only sounds were the sizzle of eggs on the grill and toast popping up. Michael was quick enough to pick up on the sudden fascination with their conversation.
“Not here,” he said, snatching his own check off the counter and steering her down the narrow aisle toward the door. He barely paused at the cashier to hand over a fistful of bills. “Hers, too,” he said.
“I’ll pay for my own breakfast.”
> “It’s already done,” he muttered, nudging her toward the door. Molly barely had time to grab the cup of coffee she always ordered to go. It was thrust into her hand just as she scooted out the door.
When they were outside, Molly jerked her arm out of his grip and demanded, “Were you in there spying on me?”
“I was in there for toast and coffee.”
“Right.” She wondered exactly how long he’d lingered over refills of the coffee. The place had been open since five thirty. Unless he drank decaf, by now he ought to be wired for the day. She wasn’t about to risk tangling with a man whose nerves were jittery and who carried a gun. She kept a lid on any further sarcastic observations. She couldn’t help it, though, if her expression remained skeptical.
“Okay,” he muttered finally. “Maybe I thought I could pick up on a little local gossip, see if Allan was beloved or hated. I’m well aware that half the movers and shakers on the island stop in there for breakfast.” He slammed his fist against the roof of his Jeep. “Damn! Why am I explaining myself to you?”
“Guilt,” she suggested.
“Not a word you should be throwing around under the circumstances.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Word has it that Allan recently had a set-to with your son. The person who mentioned this suggested that you are a very protective mother.”
Molly regarded him incredulously. “What exactly was this set-to supposed to be about?”
“The informant seemed a little vague on that.”
“I’m sure. It never happened, Detective. Brian would never argue with an adult.”
This time the detective looked skeptical. Obviously interrogating witnesses gave him a lot of practice.
“Okay,” she agreed. “He can be a little sassy, but that’s with me. He’s been taught to respect his elders. Besides, he would have told me if Allan had been on his case over something.”
“That’s the point. He told you. You got huffy and stabbed the man. At least that’s the theory.”
“Yours or the informant’s?”
Island Storms Page 6
