A Murderer Among Us Read online

  Brittany sank back into the couch. “I don’t want to go.”

  Greta stamped her foot. “I’ve been waiting and waiting, and I didn’t wake you up.”

  Brittany scowled. “I can’t help it if I’m sick.”

  “Of course you can’t,” Lydia soothed. She turned to Greta. “And you’ve been a patient little girl,” she fibbed. “Now we have to figure out what to do.”

  “Take Greta, Grandma,” Brittany said weakly. “I’ll be okay.”

  Lydia pursed her lips. Brittany was a sensible little girl. She would be eight years old in March, and, as far as Lydia was concerned, capable of staying on her own for the fifteen or twenty minutes it would take to get the doll. When Meredith was that age, Lydia occasionally ran out for milk or some necessary item. Meredith never minded because she always brought her back some little treat.

  Now times were different. People hesitated about allowing their children to walk home from the neighborhood elementary school until they were about to graduate from fifth grade. They hired babysitters for twelve-year-olds. She shuddered, imagining her daughter’s wrath were something to go wrong while Brittany stayed alone in the house.

  But nothing would, and Greta was tugging at her sleeve urging her to hurry. Lydia studied Brittany. “Are you sure you don’t mind staying alone?”

  Brittany shrugged. “It’s okay.”

  “Don’t open the door to anyone.”

  “I won’t.”

  Lydia tried to think what else to warn her about, when Greta said, “Let’s go, Grammy.”

  She bent down to kiss Brittany’s forehead. “We’ll be right back. Stay here and read, and everything will be perfectly okay.”

  Lydia belted Greta into the new car seat she’d bought over the weekend and drove quickly but cautiously to Twin Lakes. She made two green lights and, after stopping and checking that no cars were coming, turned right on a red light. Cheerful because she was finally getting her present, Greta chattered about the children in her morning nursery school class.

  Lydia drove past the gatehouse and was about to turn right, onto N Boulevard, when she noticed the two cars facing each other. Their owners were gabbing away, oblivious to the fact that they were blocking traffic. Preferring not to disturb them, she continued straight on Lake Boulevard.

  “I’m going to name my new doll Annabelle,” Greta said.

  “That’s nice, honey.”

  “Yesterday my teacher Nancy read us a story about a doll named Annabelle.”

  Lydia couldn’t respond. The sight of her daughter’s SUV parked in a driveway beside a red Jaguar made her heart leap into her throat.

  No, it couldn’t be Meredith’s, but another green vehicle the same make, the same model. Lydia slowed down and read the license plate number. It was Meredith’s car, all right!

  “Grammy?”

  What on earth was she doing at Twin Lakes? She’d said she was meeting a friend at the mall. Lydia remembered her daughter’s reluctance to discuss her plans, her eagerness to leave. Obviously, Meredith didn’t want her mother to know where she was going. Which meant she was here for a surreptitious reason. Lydia’s worst fear was confirmed. Meredith was having an affair.

  “Grammy, what’s wrong? Why aren’t you talking to me?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, honey,” Lydia managed. “I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention. I just remembered something I have to take care of.”

  She drove slowly home and retrieved the doll, which she’d left on the hall table.

  “Here you are, sweetie: Annabelle.”

  “Ooh, she’s so pretty!”

  Lydia was buckling her own seat belt when Greta called to her. She turned around and smiled at the sight of her granddaughter’s outstretched arms. They shared an awkward but heartfelt hug.

  “Thank you, Grammy. I love Annabelle already.”

  “I’m so glad.” She shifted into reverse and backed out slowly, the warm feeling of child love spreading through her body.

  Then she remembered. She turned right and drove slowly past the house on Lake Boulevard again. Meredith’s SUV was still there. This time Lydia noted the number above the garage: 78. She’d look up 78 Lake Boulevard in the Twin Lakes telephone directory as soon as she went home.

  Nine

  Barbara was grinning like the Cheshire cat when Lydia got into her car to drive to the board meeting. “I’ve hot news.”

  “What is it?”

  “My neighbor saw our boy Marshall with Viv Maguire in the diner this morning. She said they looked cozy—all giggles and grins.”

  “Viv Maguire? I remember she played mother hen to Claire that night she screamed at me.”

  “The very same. She was Claire’s best friend. I suppose, being a widow, she’s comforting Claire’s grieving widower.”

  Lydia nodded, forcing herself to pay attention to what Barbara was saying instead of mulling about Meredith. “The next thing you’ll tell me is she’s loaded.”

  Barbara laughed. “Naturally. Viv’s not much to look at, with those crooked teeth and dowager’s hump. Not to mention her fifties glasses.”

  “Now, now,” Lydia mock-scolded, “we can’t all be gorgeous like you.”

  “And you,” Barbara returned, “though, if Marshall’s after money and eye candy, I wonder why he’s not hitting on you.”

  “Who says he isn’t?” Lydia said archly, and felt a stab of satisfaction at Barbara’s astonished expression.

  “He’s not really,” she relented, “though last night he made it clear he didn’t want bad blood between us.” Lydia decided she would tell Barbara about Allison, but now wasn’t the time. “He came over to thank me for my condolence note as he was leaving Peg’s house.”

  “Peg DiMarco,” Barbara mused. “Now there’s a strange duck, even weirder than most of our fellow residents.”

  Lydia turned to study her expression in the light emitting from the fountain and the clubhouse. “Why do you say that? I mean, she’s not exactly my type, but she’s been a good neighbor.”

  Barbara shrugged. “I suppose because she’s so unpredictable—friendly and helpful one day, distant and touchy the next. She was very kind to me after Robert died, then suddenly it was like she’d crossed me off her list. When I asked if I’d done something to offend her, she gave me this peculiar look and told me not to be silly, she was simply preoccupied with her own problems.”

  “You’re right, she runs hot and cold. I thought she was angry with me for blowing the whistle on Weill.”

  “Could be she was. They’re pretty good friends, always nattering away about stocks and bonds and investments.”

  “Good friends, eh? Not lovers?”

  Barbara shook her head as they drove into the parking lot. “I don’t get that feeling.”

  There went that theory.

  “But maybe he and Viv are an item,” Barbara said.

  Lydia felt a rush of excitement as she realized Detective Sol Molina might find this bit of information relevant. She envisioned calling him, no doubt getting his tape, and leaving a message saying when she’d be home. Maybe he’d stop by. No, she told herself firmly. She would not use some thirdhand observation and Barbara’s speculations as a ruse to contact him.

  They were about to get out of the car when Lydia asked, “Who’s John Trevor?”

  Barbara thought a minute. “He’s a widower, about seventy-five. As round as Humpty Dumpty and a real chatterbox—not your type at all. He plays poker with Benny and George on Wednesday nights when he’s here.”

  “Does he drive a red Jaguar?”

  “I’ve no idea. We’ll ask Caroline. Why all the questions about John? I’m quite sure he’s gone to Florida for the winter.”

  Lydia hesitated. She disliked discussing her children’s personal lives with anyone, but she needed information. And Barbara, she knew, was discreet.

  “Because my daughter had me leave work early and babysit so she could spend the afternoon at 78 Lake Boulevard, which is whe
re John Trevor lives, and it scares the hell out of me.”

  Barbara stared at her. “There must be some explanation.”

  “I’m sure, but whatever it is, I’m not going to like it.”

  Barbara nodded. “I gather you didn’t ask Meredith when she came home.”

  “I was afraid to,” Lydia admitted.

  “I would be, too,” was her friend’s discomfiting remark.

  Though the meeting wouldn’t start for fifteen minutes, many residents had already arrived, filling the room with chatter and laughter. Barbara nudged Lydia.

  “There’s Marshall, sitting next to Peg.”

  Lydia smiled. “Does that mean he’s given up on Viv?”

  “Are you kidding? Peg’s just a pal. Besides, she has no money. Viv’s husband was CEO of a large corporation and left her sitting pretty. Oh, there’s Caroline.”

  They made their way to where Caroline stood talking to a group of residents. She caught Barbara’s gesture and joined them a minute later.

  “Big crowd,” she said, kissing them both on the cheek. “And no wonder. The walls are going to shake tonight.”

  Barbara grinned at Lydia. “Your first homeowners’ meeting, right?”

  Lydia nodded.

  “Here’s where everyone lets their hair down. Kind of like the bumper cars at a carnival.” She turned to Caroline. “Lydia needs some information.”

  “Do you know who’s staying at John Trevor’s house and drives a red Jaguar?”

  “That must be his nephew, Steve. A good-looking guy? Always wears sunglasses?”

  Lydia’s heart sank to her stomach. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Caroline shot her a puzzled look and Barbara answered instead. “We’ll explain later. Now tell us all you know about this Steve.”

  “Well, okay, though it’s not much. He works for a pharmaceutical company and flies down from Boston every few weeks for business. Sometimes he stays in Manhattan. Other times he stays with John, who adores him. The son he never had.”

  “I wonder how they met,” Lydia murmured.

  “John and Steve?” Caroline asked. “I told you, they’re related. Steve is John’s sister’s son.”

  A call to order saved Lydia from having to explain.

  “Talk to you after the meeting,” Barbara told Caroline, and led Lydia back to their seats.

  Lydia glanced down at her copy of the agenda without seeing the words. Nor did she pay attention to the heated discussion about whether or not the HOA should purchase three more treadmills or one multipurpose exercise machine. She was trying to swallow the idea that her older daughter—the daughter who had wanted a husband, children and home ever since she could speak—was putting everything in jeopardy for an affair with a good-looking man.

  Where had she met him? The question, though inconsequential, plagued Lydia almost as much as the affair itself. Had they met at a local shop? The diner? The library? How long had it been going on? What would Jeff do when he found out? If he found out. What if Meredith wanted a divorce?

  This last possibility caused her stomach to heave and sent her dashing off to the bathroom.

  Lydia splashed cold water on her face and told herself not to rush to conclusions. It was possible that Meredith and this Steve were merely friends. Someone she could pour her heart out to. Lydia shook her head. She refused to be deliberately obtuse and pretend Meredith wasn’t emotionally involved with this man, regardless of the extent of their physical relationship. The last few times she’d watched the girls, her daughter had returned home positively glowing.

  Should she confront Merry? Tell her what she knew? Advise her to stop seeing her lover before it was too late? Before she destroyed the wonderful family she and Jeff had created? Impossible. Meredith would resent her interference. Bringing up the subject would only make matters worse. She could only hope and pray that Meredith would come to her senses and stop this affair before it got out of hand.

  Lydia returned to the meeting room amid screaming and shouting.

  “What’s happening?” she asked Barbara.

  “The board just announced a fifty-dollar increase in our monthly payments.”

  “Really? I didn’t see that on tonight’s agenda.”

  “New business,” Barbara said. “They didn’t spell it out for us because they knew it would cause an even bigger hullabaloo.”

  Fifty dollars added to their $350 monthly maintenance fee was an annoyance, but no biggie, as far as Lydia was concerned. A new community might easily miscalculate the amount of money needed to cover all expenses. Most Twin Lakes residents could well afford the increase, which didn’t mean they would accept it without a fight. A tall man in his sixties with the trim, fit build of a whippet raised his hand.

  “Yes, Andrew?”

  “Our HOA monthly dues went up $25 in March, only eight months ago. At this rate, we’ll be paying five, six hundred dollars a month in no time. And for what? Where exactly is this money going?”

  Voices rose in agreement as George Linnett did his best to quiet everyone down. Then he said, “We’ve explained all that. The problem with both lakes not draining properly incurred a larger expense than expected. So is the cost of the property we’re buying for a putting green, small clubhouse and miniature golf course.”

  Cries of “What do we need them for?” “Who needs that expense?” came from every corner of the room. Again, George had to quiet down the irate residents before he could speak.

  “The land purchase is non-negotiable. The original HOA members voted to buy the property within five years if our original offering price went up no more than ten percent. The owner died, and his sons have agreed to sell just under our limit. It’s our misfortune that felling trees and leveling the land has risen quite a bit, as has construction. But we can manage it if we build a modest—and I mean modest—clubhouse.”

  Several hands shot into the air. George turned around to Roger Patterson, the treasurer. “Roger, you’ve been doing all the research. Would you do the honors and read off the costs?”

  A woman stood and shouted, “I’m against spending all that money. This isn’t a golfing community, though some try to force it down our throats. Why should we go ahead with these highfalutin’ plans?”

  George shook his head wearily. “Because they were voted on and passed.”

  “That’s not fair!” the woman retorted. “I wasn’t living here at the time so I didn’t get the chance to vote against buying that piece of property. Besides, only the putting green was mentioned, not a miniature golf course or a clubhouse.”

  Andrew stood up. Without waiting for George to call on him, he began to speak.

  “Muriel has a point. The proxies regarding the miniature golf course and the clubhouse went out in February and were voted on in March. Many Twin Lakes residents are away those months and have their mail held so they never had a chance to express their views.”

  The rumble of angry agreement surged through the room. Lydia wondered if it would be terrible if she left right now. She’d heard about condo and homeowner association meetings—how they often turned into shouting matches where residents lost all social restraints and screamed out whatever came to mind—but she hadn’t expected this!

  A compact, wiry man, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, rose from his seat on the dais where the board members were seated.

  “Perhaps I can explain the situation.” His booming voice silenced all comments and asides. “The putting green, miniature golf course and small clubhouse were in the original plans for Twin Lakes. The builder was in the process of acquiring the lot when the owner, an elderly man close to ninety, withdrew it from the market. His two sons informed the builder they would sell the land to Twin Lakes once it was theirs. With this understanding, those of us who lived here the first year signed an agreement that we would have the amenities built within two years of acquiring the property.

  “The owner died last winter, and the board was informed the HOA could buy the
property no later than December of this year. We got estimates of costs, then sent a letter and a proxy to every resident asking if a) they were in favor of clearing and leveling the ground and only laying down the putting green immediately or b) they agree that we’d have all three done ASAP, as this would prove cheaper in the long run. The majority approved doing it all. Therefore we break ground in the spring.”

  Marshall Weill stood. “Roger, I’ve no quarrel with the new additions, though I wasn’t living here when all this was decided. I think they’ll enhance our community and increase the value of our homes when any of us decides to sell. My question is how did the board go about choosing the contractors for the various projects?”

  “The way we go about hiring any company—we get estimates from three or four companies of good reputation and choose the one that’s reliable, does good work and charges a reasonable fee.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Marshall drawled as he leafed through some papers, “because I contacted three demo and excavating companies. All three gave me an estimated figure varying from eight to fifteen percent cheaper than the company you selected to level the house and grade the terrain. There was even a greater discrepancy among the landscaping and construction companies.”

  The room fell silent, all eyes on the two men. Roger Patterson nodded, to all appearances unperturbed by Marshall Weill’s accusation.

  “No doubt you failed to factor in certain hidden costs. For example, the company we hired to clear and level the land will be filling in a small pond.”

  Marshall smiled, revealing the space between his two front teeth. “Trust me, I factored in everything, using the figures the board mailed out to homeowners. We’re being overcharged every step along the way, and I’d like to know why.”

  Before Roger could reply, Doris Fein stood up.

  “Marshall Weill, you have some nerve accusing the board of ripping us off when that’s your specialty! I let you invest my savings and half my principal’s gone.” Her voice trembled. “How could you do that to me?”

  The color drained from Marshall Weill’s face, leaving it a chalky white. “Doris, I’m sorry your stocks went down, but I warned you they were volatile and bound to fluctuate. It’s the state of today’s market.”