A Murderer Among Us Page 7

  “The murderer could have been at the funeral,” Lydia said, her irritation with Peg making her forget the promise she made to herself not to discuss the subject with anyone but Barbara and Caroline. “He probably lives right here at Twin Lakes, since he used my car to kill Claire.”

  When Peg said nothing, Lydia mused, “I wonder who stands to gain financially from her death.”

  “Claire was wealthy, all right. Her first husband left her a fortune that never stops growing. It’s being handled astutely.”

  “By Marshall, no doubt.”

  “By her first husband’s team of investment advisors,” Peg retorted, almost defensively. “It was a cleverly drawn-up trust. Now that she’s dead, most of the money goes to Claire’s son and daughter from that marriage—if you’re so interested.”

  Lydia ignored Peg’s hostility because yes, she was extremely interested. “Oh? Marshall receives nothing?”

  “Not all that much. Claire handed over quite a chunk of her money to Elinor and her husband when they started their antiques business. Why do you ask? Do you think Marshall ran Claire down?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know what to think.”

  “Because he wouldn’t! He’s not that type of person.”

  “Peg, how do you know so much about the Weills’ finances?”

  Peg gave a little laugh. “When you get friendly with Twin Lakes people, they talk freely—about their children, their health and their money.”

  “What about their love affairs?”

  “What love affairs?” Peg sounded shocked.

  “I’ve no idea. Doris Fein told me Claire was worried her husband was running around again.”

  “Really? Whom did she suspect?”

  “She didn’t tell Doris. I suppose that’s a secret she kept in her diary.”

  “Claire kept a diary?”

  Lydia let out a breath of exasperation. “It’s just an expression, Peg.” Then she gave voice to the bitchy thought that had crossed her mind. “What about Sally Marcus? Do you think she and Marshall were having it off?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Peg said good-night and hung up.

  Lydia waited until the following afternoon, after food shopping and lunching out with Barbara, to call Detective Molina. She was told he was on another line and asked if she could hold. When he came on, he sounded rushed.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  She repeated her conversation with Peg and felt a twinge of guilt when she told him Caroline’s observations at the shiva.

  “Interesting.” He sounded wistful when he added, “That spread of food must have been something awesome to behold. I bet she served really good belly lox and a mean whitefish.”

  “Oh!” Lydia exclaimed. “You like bagels and lox and—all that stuff?”

  Detective Molina laughed. “Why not? It’s my heritage, at least the Solomon half.”

  “Oh!” Lydia repeated, surprised. “You’re half-Jewish.”

  “And my mother saw to it that my daughter was a Bat Mitzvah.”

  And your wife? Lydia wanted to ask. What’s her part in all this? What’s she like? But there was no time. Detective Molina had changed the subject.

  “Getting back to the case, your neighbor’s on target regarding Mrs. Weill’s finances. We’ve checked out the terms of her will.”

  Curious, Lydia asked, “How long were Claire and Marshall Weill married?”

  “Thirty-two years. They have one daughter, Elinor Weintraub. She of the beautiful house.” He paused, as though debating whether or not to tell her something else. Lydia held her breath, then exhaled when he continued.

  “Claire’s son and daughter from her first marriage flew in from California and Michigan to attend the funeral. A taxi drove them from the cemetery to Kennedy Airport.”

  “No shiva call for them,” Lydia commented. “Which leads one to assume they have no use for Marshall Weill or their half-sister.”

  Molina laughed. “Actually, they’re very fond of Elinor and her husband, but they think Weill’s the lowest of the low. He married their mother two years after their father’s death—when they were thirteen and eleven. A difficult age to acquire a stepfather. According to both of them, their worst fears proved true. He turned out to be a thief and a runaround.”

  “Kids have good antennas about people.” Lydia remembered the creepy-crawly sensation she’d felt when she’d shaken hands with Weill at Bingo. Of course, she might have picked up negative vibes because, on a visceral level, she knew immediately who he was. “It sounds like he cheated on Claire all through their marriage. Do you think he married her for her money?”

  “Could be he assumed she had more money at her disposal and only found out about the trusts after the marriage. Harry Kleinfeld was a successful businessman, considerably older than Claire. Knowing he had a bad heart, he set up trusts for her and the children. Most of Claire’s money goes to her children and five grandchildren.”

  “So Marshall didn’t stand to gain from his wife’s death.”

  Molina laughed. “I wouldn’t say that. Just under a million dollars, the home in Twin Lakes and one in Florida are nothing to sneeze at.”

  “I suppose,” Lydia agreed.

  She heard noises in the background. “Gotta go,” Molina said. “Talk to you soon.”

  Lydia felt forlorn. She’d hoped to find out when she would see him again. Which was silly. If she happened to see Detective Molina, it would be because she had something vital to tell him that might shed light on the murder. There was no sense fooling herself that he would share sensitive information with her. No doubt what he’d just told her was common knowledge to half the residents of Twin Lakes and was being bandied about in the clubhouse this very minute. If she didn’t watch it, she’d turn into one of those pathetic widows who cooed and fluttered at the smallest sign of attention from any virile man.

  The phone rang. She beamed when she heard Detective Molina’s voice again.

  “I forgot to say—the SCI people have finished checking out your car. You’re free to come and collect it, or tomorrow someone from the station could drive it over to your place.”

  Lydia sighed. “Could someone meet me at the Lexus dealer instead? I’m trading it in, remember?”

  “Sure thing. I forgot. Give me the dealer’s address, and if nothing urgent comes up on any of my cases, I’ll drive the car over myself. Around one-thirty good?”

  “Sure. I’ll get there around one—to fill out the paperwork for my new car.”

  But it was Officer McKlusky who pulled up at the dealership as the salesman was showing Lydia the small improvements in her brand-new Lexus. She stepped out of the shiny red car, which only minutes earlier had made her feel as giddy as a kid with a new toy, and swallowed her disappointment as she greeted the policeman.

  “The lou’s sorry he couldn’t make it himself, but something came up.”

  Lydia ignored his grin and said she was almost finished with the transaction. If he could wait a few minutes, she’d drive him back to the station. She averted her eyes from the smashed-up grille and was glad when the salesman said he’d get someone to drive the car to the body shop in back.

  “First, you’ll have to sign a few releases,” McKlusky told Lydia.

  He handed them to her through the open window. Lydia glanced through the forms and signed where X’s had been highlighted for her. She was about to follow the salesman inside when McKlusky said, “Don’t forget to clear out the glove and center compartments and the trunk. And check under the seats. People always find stuff under the seats.”

  “Oh, right,” she said, and gathered up the personal articles, surprised at how many she found.

  Twenty minutes later she was behind the wheel of her new car, edging into the flow of traffic on the main boulevard.

  “This is one sweet car,” McKlusky said as he ran his hand along the car seat’s soft leather. “I like my Altima, but everything about this car is pure luxury.”

  Lydi
a grinned. “At one point I was tempted to chuck the sedan look and buy a sports car, only my daughter would disapprove. And she’s right. Grandma needs a big, safe car to drive her granddaughters around.”

  He laughed. “That’s for sure. We have a van for our kids.”

  They drove the rest of the way in companionable silence. At they approached an intersection, Officer McKlusky said, “This is the shortcut to the station—hang a left at the corner, follow the windy road through the development, then turn right at the light.”

  Lydia waited for the oncoming traffic to pass. She made her turn then casually asked, as though it were part of their previous conversation, “What’s Mrs. Molina like?”

  “The lou’s mom? I met her once. She’s one spunky lady. Lots of fun.”

  Lydia nodded. “That’s nice, but I meant his wife.”

  “Let’s see—if I remember correctly, she was a pretty woman—light brown hair, good figure. Looks enough like you to be your sister.” Now he was grinning broadly.

  She felt her face heat up with embarrassment, but it didn’t stop her from asking, “You say she was a pretty woman. Did she—die?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. I think she moved to Maryland after the divorce two, three years ago.”

  “Oh!” Lydia accelerated.

  “Slow down, Mrs. Krause!”

  “Sorry. I was just wondering—does Detective Molina happen to have a lady friend?”

  Officer McKlusky shrugged. “I can’t say.”

  “Of course you can’t,” Lydia mumbled, feeling the heat rise to her ears. She was losing control, speaking her thoughts out loud. Maybe it came from living alone.

  What a dumb thing to ask a police officer! Possibly the dumbest question she’d ever asked in her life.

  Lydia pressed her lips together, determined not to allow another thought to take on a life of its own. Well, the boys down at the station house would get a good laugh out of that! Mortified, she drove in silence. The next five minutes felt like fifty. Finally she arrived at the police station.

  “Here you are!” Lydia announced with false cheer. “Safe and sound.”

  Officer McKlusky opened the passenger door and unfolded his large frame. “Thanks for the ride, Mrs. Krause.”

  “You’re welcome. Thanks for driving my car to the dealership.”

  “No problem.” He turned and gripped the door handle, about to close it. Instead he ducked his head inside the car. “The lou said if you happen to hear anything important, to give him a call.” He grinned. “And don’t feel bad about asking about his personal life. It happens all the time.”

  So, women asked about Molina’s personal life all the time! Lydia passed a slow-moving SUV and cut ahead of it. That could mean one thing only. Sol Molina was a flirt! He encouraged women to go after him. That had to be against the law. Which law, she wasn’t sure. Harassment? Disturbing civilians? Whatever—just some law she was positive had been drawn up and passed to keep police and civilians on opposite sides of the road.

  She turned into Twin Lakes and waited for the gate to rise and allow her to pass. A wave of reality spilled over her, turning her fury into shame. Detective Molina had done nothing more than show her civility and friendliness. It was she, in her state of heightened sensitivity since Izzy’s death and intensified by her connection to Claire Weill’s murder, who had misinterpreted his behavior and turned the detective into a larger-than-life romantic figure.

  She drove slowly along N Boulevard, cringing as she recalled her conversation with Officer McKlusky. How could she have questioned him about Molina’s marital status? At best she came across as a yenta, at worst a love-starved crone. Which, aside from being totally untrue, made the situation sound—so gauche. So blatantly childish. She would not indulge her silly attraction to Detective Sol Molina one minute more.

  Seven

  Lydia felt stymied. After speaking to more Twin Lakes residents, she learned little more about the Weills than she had two days after Claire had been murdered. She wasn’t making headway. She had no way of knowing if the police were either, as Lieutenant Molina hadn’t stopped by or called in over a week. She blushed to think he was keeping away because Officer McKlusky told him she’d been making personal inquiries.

  Merry remained an unsolved mystery as well. Lydia didn’t know if her daughter was having an affair or if she intended to return early to her teaching position. Finding herself without a direct purpose in life, Lydia decided to get herself a job.

  “Not a demanding job,” she told Barbara as they shared an Indian dinner after an afternoon of shopping. “Something part time.”

  “Something to take you away from Twin Lakes—and from your babysitting responsibilities,” Barbara said slyly.

  “Exactly.”

  She found what she was looking for a few days later, while glancing through the local paper. Carrington House, one of the old manor houses built in the early 1900s for wealthy industrialists, was now used as a banquet hall for parties, weddings, bar mitzvahs and the like. Overlooking extensive grounds and a small lake, there was talk of adding a building with forty or so rooms, where guests might stay overnight. The ad said the establishment required a three-day-a-week employee to do booking, bookkeeping, liaise with the food staff, the wait staff, show potential clients around, and whatever else was needed.

  Len Montardi, the manager, was a tall, balding over-forty hyper conniver. He recognized Lydia’s multi-talents immediately and offered her the job on the spot at a ridiculously low salary. She demurred, asked for double the sum. After he gasped and did some figures on a piece of paper, he offered her close to the sum she’d requested. Before offering her hand, Lydia said she hoped she’d made it clear she had no desire to work more days or more hours. Len gulped, lied that he understood, and they shook hands. Lydia drove home from the meeting singing along with the radio.

  Now that she was working Tuesday, Thursday and Friday from ten till five, she found herself organizing her “free” time more efficiently. The days Meredith didn’t need her to babysit, she shopped for furniture. She ordered two beige sofas for the living room. Barbara pointed out they were almost identical to the sofas she already had, but Lydia said those were wearing and besides, she wanted something new.

  On Monday morning, two and a half weeks after Claire Weill’s murder, Lydia rode the train in to Manhattan. After climbing the cement steps to the street, she paused for a nostalgic whiff of the city air. She stared, enchanted by the hordes of pedestrians, the zooming traffic, and wore a smile as her taxi zigzagged its way uptown to the antique shops in the Seventies. I must look like a tourist, she thought. She splurged rashly on a country French armoire she no more needed than a trip to the moon.

  After lunch, she wandered in and out of galleries and bought an oil painting that caught her eye. I’m becoming quite the spendthrift, she thought as she arranged to have the painting delivered. When she glanced down at her watch, she was surprised to see it was five-thirty. She’d barely enough time to cab down to SoHo to meet Abbie for their prearranged early dinner.

  At the restaurant, a narrow, high-ceilinged room half-filled with young diners, Lydia sank gratefully into her chair and sipped water while she waited. Twenty minutes later, her younger daughter beamed as she approached, late as usual. And, as usual, she sent heads turning. Abbie’s colorful poncho—made of God knew what—set off her long blonde tresses, which tonight she wore in two braids Indian-style, hanging down the front of her chest.

  “Hi, Mom, what’s up?” Abbie kissed Lydia’s cheek, then sat down beside her at the small table.

  “For starters, I’ve spent half your inheritance,” Lydia joked in a way she never would with Meredith. “I bought an antique armoire and a large oil painting to hang in the living room. They cost the earth.”

  “Good for you. Meredith will be pleased. She thinks you should toss everything—except Dad’s sculptures, of course—and furnish your new place from scratch.”

  “Oh, you’ve b
een speaking to your sister!” Lydia exclaimed, pleased. Her daughters were as different as two women could be and rarely contacted one another.

  “Merry’s worried about you. She insists you were traumatized because your car was used to kill that poor woman.”

  “I’m recovering from the shock,” Lydia said, glad that neither daughter knew about the pool closing incident.

  “How do you like your new job?” Abbie asked.

  “I love it. It’s mindless, I work with young people, I get a change of scenery, then I go home.”

  “I’m glad, Mom. I can’t see you playing tennis all day.”

  “I don’t play tennis, Abbie.”

  “Whatever. Meredith thinks you’re doing too much, but I told her you love to work.”

  Lydia’s heart started racing. “Did she say anything about returning to work before her leave is up?”

  “No.”

  “Anything about—anything?”

  “No.” Abbie’s gray eyes studied her carefully. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  The young waiter approached and they ordered. They chatted companionably about Abbie’s new job and her present boyfriend.

  Over tea, Lydia commented, “It sounds as though you’re settling down, at least for the time being.”

  Abbie shrugged. “For the next nine months, at least.”

  “What happens then?”

  “Todd has to return to England. I might be going with him.”

  She said it lightly, but Lydia heard the earnestness beneath. “Nine months, eh? That sounds like a long time off to be making plans.”

  For a moment Abbie didn’t answer. Then she said, “Todd’s different.”

  Only two words, but they told her that her daughter was in love. “When do I get to meet him?” Lydia asked.

  “One day soon, when he’s not swamped with work. We might even drive out to the wilds of Suffolk County for a visit—that is, if you promise not to drag us off to Meredith’s.”

  Lydia swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “I’d be delighted. Let me know when you’d like to come.”