A Murderer Among Us Read online

  Frank had a digital camera, one she’d given him for his last birthday. He loved taking photos and always carried it with him. Audrey was certain he’d brought the camera with him the day he died, though it wasn’t on his person and never turned up. The police didn’t think this was important. They told her someone must have stolen the camera, or Frank must have lost it.

  Interesting, Lydia thought, but not relevant to Claire’s death. Much as she disliked the idea, it was time to call on both Claire’s husband and best friend, Viv Maguire. She’d do that tomorrow.

  She woke up after ten on Wednesday morning, discouraged and grumpy. Swimming laps would be just the thing to get her motor running properly again. The indoor pool was a godsend, she thought as she brushed her teeth. Except for the two men who swam every morning from seven-thirty till eight-fifteen, hardly anyone used it, so often she had the pool to herself. No need to watch out for wild elbows or splashing as other swimmers passed by. Most residents loved the card room, but the pool was her haven.

  She nodded to the few people she met in the clubhouse, and made her way down the steps to the women’s changing room. She took off her outer clothing, grabbed a towel and entered the pool.

  The water, several degrees cooler than tepid, always shocked her system. But she was willing to endure the brief unpleasantness for the wonderful benefits that followed. Once her body adjusted to the water temperature, Lydia floated on her back and let herself drift. Her mind emptied of all thought, her body released every tension. If heaven actually exists, being there must feel like this, she thought. Relaxed now, she began her crawl across the length of the pool.

  She managed to complete eight laps before her arms grew tired and she switched to the side stroke. She could continue for hours, she decided, if she were ever tossed off a ship and had to remain afloat. This and other inane thoughts flittered through her mind as she turned from the deep end of the pool.

  The sound came from behind—a mechanical type of noise, as if an awning were being raised or lowered. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the pool cover—she hadn’t even known there was one—was moving toward her. Terror rose in her throat. She jerked forward, arms and legs flailing, so that she was splashing instead of making headway. Water entered her mouth, went down her trachea. She coughed.

  Mustn’t panic! She began swimming in earnest, kicking as hard as she could. The noise grew louder as the metal cover inched closer to her. It was six inches above the water line. Once it covered the pool, she wouldn’t be able to breathe. How on earth…?

  Don’t think. Concentrate! Swim fast. Faster! The steps were before her. Awkwardly, she scrambled to her feet and up the first step as the metal pushed against her hips. She took the second step, then the third, finally standing on the rim of the pool as the cover slammed shut behind her.

  “I’m safe,” she murmured, sinking into the nearest chair. She wrapped herself in her towel, attempting to soothe the tremors that racked her body. It was minutes before she could walk. She reached for the intercom phone and asked whoever was at the desk to please send the office manager down to the pool because there’d been an accident.

  Margie, the efficient, forty-something manager, came immediately. “The pool’s closed! Who on earth activated the cover?” she asked.

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Lydia said. “I was in the pool when it happened.”

  “Oh, no! You could have been killed!”

  “I know.”

  Margie sat down beside her. “What’s happening to this place? It used to be so—peaceful.”

  “Until I came to live here,” Lydia said.

  Margie patted her hand. “Don’t be silly. You didn’t close the cover. The mechanism’s inside the men’s locker room. Someone must have…” She faltered.

  “Wanted to kill me.”

  “Don’t say that! I’m sure it was an accident.”

  “Did you see anyone come down here in the last hour or so?”

  “No. I’ve been busy in the office.” She looked at Lydia. “Would you like me to wait here while you change into your street clothes?”

  “I’d appreciate it. Then I’m going home to call Detective Molina.”

  * * *

  He arrived at her front door half an hour later, looking handsome in a tweed blazer and gray trousers.

  “Hello, Mrs. Krause. You’ve had yourself one hell of a morning.”

  “So it seems.”

  She led the way into the living room and sat on a sofa. He sat facing her. “I’ve just come from the pool. The mechanism appears to be in perfect working order.”

  “Any idea who closed it?”

  “No. I spoke to Stefano, your head of maintenance. He told me they almost never use the cover. I spoke to two other workers, Ralph and John. They don’t know anything, either.” He pressed his lips together. “They’re going to place a small metal cage over the switch, so this will never happen again.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Did you see anyone while you were down there?”

  Lydia shook her head. “Whoever it was knows I rarely miss a morning swim. He was waiting down there to kill me.” A tremor ran through her body. “Maybe it was Marshall Weill, angry because I exposed him as a felon. Maybe he waited to ward off suspicion, then tried to kill me.”

  “Days after his wife was killed?”

  Lydia shrugged, suddenly confused. “I—I’m not sure.”

  The smile he offered was filled with kindness. “I’m wondering if someone meant this as a warning, Mrs. Krause.”

  “A warning? Why?”

  “You tell me.”

  She hesitated. Was Detective Molina clairvoyant? It was the only explanation she could think of that explained how he knew she’d been asking questions.

  “For your information, I did speak to a few people about Claire Weill.”

  “Uh-huh. Just as I thought! Either the murderer’s worried you’ll discover some detail he overlooked, or he—or someone else—fears you’ll uncover a secret from the past.”

  Lydia was indignant. “Of course I asked questions! Did you imagine I’d sit here twiddling my thumbs while you consider me a homicide suspect?”

  Molina smiled, showing white, even teeth. “No one’s accusing you of killing Mrs. Weill. In fact, I came to tell you the ME strongly believes Mrs. Weill died at seven at the outset.”

  Lydia shrugged. “I don’t see how that takes me off the A List.”

  “I never told you—and I asked Mrs. Taylor not to discuss this with you—but she was certain she threw some clothes in the dryer at a quarter to seven, looked in on you, then read until she fell asleep about half an hour later. That puts you in the clear.”

  Lydia sighed with relief. “Thank God!” She thought a bit. “That was fast. I thought tests like that take time.”

  “I pressed for a fast result—at least regarding time of death—and I’m glad to pass along the good news, so far as you’re concerned.”

  “Thank you,” she said with heartfelt ardor. “One less problem to be concerned about.” She thought a bit. “Do you think the murderer was trying to frame me?”

  “Could be.”

  “That doesn’t give me any comfort.”

  He blinked, revealing that his eyes were closer to hazel today. “I would be remiss if I gave you false comfort, especially after this morning’s incident. Looks like you got someone angry, Mrs. Krause.”

  “The only person who comes to mind is Warren, aka Marshall Weill. I hope you’re checking out his whereabouts this morning.”

  “We already have.”

  “Oh.” Lydia’s felt her ears grow warm and knew they must have been blazing red. Damn, it wasn’t like her to tell a professional how to do his job. She’d lost all sense of propriety because Claire Weill’s murder had involved her in a deep and personal way.

  Lydia frowned. “Maybe if I hadn’t exposed him, this never would have happened.”

  Detective Molina stood. “Mrs. K
rause, don’t start blaming yourself. You might have been the catalyst for something we know nothing about—yet. You were right to bring Weill’s past actions to the attention of your community. Who knows what else will come to light? We’ve only begun to look into every aspect of the Weills’ lives, past and present.”

  “Thank you,” Lydia murmured. “You’ve been very kind.”

  “For a police detective, you mean.”

  She laughed, admitting to the thought. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “I’d love it. By the way,” he said, pointing to the statue of Family in the corner, “that’s one beautiful work of art. So are the sculptures in the hall and the dining room.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you a collector?”

  “My husband was a sculptor. I have five of Izzy’s pieces. My daughters each own one. The rest are in museums and galleries.”

  “Oh. Is he…?”

  “Yes. He died earlier this year. Which is how I ended up living here at Twin Lakes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  In the kitchen, Molina sat at the small round table and stretched his arms overhead. They made small talk as Lydia ground coffee beans and filled the carafe with water—about life in Suffolk County and Lydia’s recent retirement. Detective Molina said little about himself and nothing of the incident that had brought him to Twin Lakes. Lydia felt at ease in his company. She liked the way he listened to what she said. Really listened, as he drank from his mug of coffee and ate several of the tiny delicious white chocolate cookies from Trader Joe’s she always kept on hand. Listening was a trait very few people possessed.

  As he stood to leave, Lydia felt a moment’s panic and the urge to detain him.

  “I almost forgot to tell you what I learned when I spoke to Doris Fein yesterday afternoon.”

  He pulled out his notebook and pen. “Who is Doris Fein?”

  “A resident here. A friend of Claire Weill’s, or was. I believe Marshall may have given her some bad financial advice. Doris told me Claire was obsessed with her husband even though he ran around. She said Claire had started taking herbal capsules to make her look and feel younger. The way she said it—kind of hush-hush—made me wonder if this supplement was legal.”

  “Interesting,” he murmured.

  She watched him jot all of this down.

  “Anything else you remember?” he asked.

  Lydia thought. “Just that Claire thought her husband was having an affair, though Doris didn’t know if that was true or simply that he was busy handling people’s finances. Though Doris did say Marshall was a flirt.” She gave a humorless laugh. “But we already know about that side of him.”

  He nodded, his expression gentle, his eyes now apple green. “Do you have Mrs. Fein’s address and phone number handy?”

  Lydia went to get the Twin Lakes telephone directory. As Molina copied down the information, she had a sudden thought. “Do you want me to contact you if I hear anything else about Claire Weill?”

  He shook his head, but he was smiling. “Please don’t start playing detective like that woman Angela Lansbury used to portray on TV. What was her name?”

  “Jessica Fletcher,” she supplied. Thank God he hadn’t compared her to Miss Marple.

  “Right. My wife used to watch that program.”

  His wife. Of course he had a wife. Her disappointment was as keen as a child being told there’d be no birthday party after all. “I suppose you’re not interested in hearsay.” Something perverse, a desire to rile him, made her add, “Though I should pay a shiva call and offer Marshall Weill my condolences.”

  “What!” He frowned at her. “Have you already forgotten what happened to you this morning? I suggest you send him a card.”

  “So, you think he murdered his wife and had a stab at killing or warning me.”

  “It’s too early to say in either case, but the circumstances and evidence point to someone in this community.”

  “And the spouse is always the first suspect,” she murmured, remembering the case she’d built against Marshall Weill last night as she tried to fall asleep.

  “Yes, and please keep that and everything else we’ve spoken of to yourself,” he said as he turned to leave.

  So they were back where they’d first started.

  “Of course I will. I’m not a gossip!” She skirted past him to unlock the front door.

  “I’m sure you’re not.” They stood close enough in the small entrance hall for her to catch a trace of his Davidoff aftershave.

  “The thing is, I don’t want to have to worry about your welfare while we follow through on this investigation. You were attacked this morning. Your vehicle was taken and misused.” He gave her a half smile. “But if you should happen to hear something relevant to the case, by all means, pass it on to me.”

  He withdrew a card from his sport jacket’s breast pocket. “Here are a few numbers where you can reach me. Call if you learn something relating to the case. Please, no more interrogations, though. That’s our job.”

  She took the card. “Of course.”

  “We’ll talk again.”

  Lydia nodded, savoring the words as though they were a promise. She watched Lieutenant Molina get into an unmarked car and drive away.

  Six

  Claire’s funeral was held the following afternoon. Lydia heard Marshall Weill had pressured local rabbis and politicians to get the autopsy done ASAP so the body could quickly be laid to rest as Jewish law required. Caroline, who attended the funeral with her husband and the Linnetts, called Lydia later that evening.

  “We just came from paying a shiva call at Marshall’s daughter’s in Smithtown. Lots of Twin Lakes people were there. I’ve never seen anything like it! Widows and divorcées—even married women like Sally Marcus—swarmed around Marshall as if he were Hugh Hefner or Bob Guccione. In a matter of days, he’s gone from Man with a Scandalous Past to Bachelor of the Hour. Makes you wonder if he bumped off Claire for all this female attention.”

  Caroline giggled. “Oops, you didn’t hear that! And coming from a board member’s wife.”

  Lydia laughed as her friend intended her to. “Who knows how deep his criminal tendencies run, but since the police have no evidence connecting him to the crime, he’s free to go about as he pleases.”

  “Oh?” Caroline asked coyly. “Have you gotten a private update on the case from that handsome detective?”

  “Of course not!” Lydia denied, though Lieutenant Molina had said as much last night when he called to see how she was feeling after her ordeal in the pool.

  Caroline laughed. “Have it your way. But keep us informed if you hear anything more about the case.”

  “If I happen to,” Lydia said carefully.

  She wondered why both Barbara and Caroline spoke of the detective as though he were interested in her. He had to interview her since her car was the weapon used to kill Claire Weill and she was halfway to being a suspect. After that, he came by to let her know he’d found out about Allison. Then there was the swimming pool cover incident and a brief follow-up call. Every communication concerned Claire Weill’s murder. Besides, Lieutenant Molina had mentioned his wife, which meant he was happily married. No doubt, with a slew of grandchildren who visited every Sunday.

  “I’ll send Marshall a sympathy card,” Lydia said. “Somehow I feel I’m partly responsible for his wife’s death.”

  Caroline’s tone changed from that of a teasing friend to a scolding mother. “Now that is absolutely ridiculous. Barbara and I have told you a dozen times—your car was chosen because someone noticed you put the key under the fender and for no other reason. You’ve nothing to blame yourself for.”

  Lydia gulped back a lump of emotion. While she couldn’t shake her sense of culpability, she appreciated their concern. “Thanks for your support, Caroline. I feel as though I’ve known you and Barbara for years instead of days.”

  “That’s how it goes in a place like Twin Lakes when peopl
e click. Good-night. See you tomorrow.”

  Lydia put the phone down. A fragment of one of their discussions resounded in her mind. Marshall Weill must have had many adulterous affairs during his marriage to Claire. What if he were conducting an affair here at Twin Lakes and it had gotten out of control? What if the woman wanted him to marry her, and when he said he couldn’t she decided to take matters into her own hands?

  Lydia shook her head in disbelief at the lengths to which her thoughts had taken her. At their brainstorming session, she, Barbara and Caroline had agreed most of the Twin Lakes residents were well past the age of passion. Certainly past the age when one died—or killed—for love.

  Of course there was the possibility that Marshall was involved with someone considerably younger.

  Someone who lived outside Twin Lakes and had access to the community. Someone like Allison.

  She changed into her nightgown and robe, and was about to turn on the TV when Barbara called. “Don’t forget we’re going to the supermarket tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at ten-thirty.”

  Peg also called—to tell her about the funeral and to rave about Marshall’s daughter’s gorgeous home. “It’s huge and chock full of antiques and modern paintings. She and her husband own a multimillion-dollar antiques business. Elinor’s smart as a whip and as beautiful as a movie star—takes after her dad.”

  “He is a nice-looking man,” Lydia agreed. She remembered what Caroline had said about women swarming around Marshall at the shiva. “How did Marshall seem to you?”

  “How do you think he seemed?” Peg snapped. “He was awfully upset by Claire’s death but touched that so many friends and neighbors came to pay their respects.”

  Was this a barb because she hadn’t gone to the funeral or paid a shiva call? Or was Peg annoyed at her for making Marshall Weill’s criminal record public knowledge? Probably the second, Lydia decided.

  “By the way, your detective friend—what’s his name?—came to the service and to the cemetery.”

  Lydia’s heart began to race. “It’s Lieutenant Molina, and he’s not my friend.”

  “Right, Molina.” Peg let out a derisive laugh. “He stood in the distance, the way they do in the movies, no doubt expecting to identify the murderer by his guilty expression.”