The Case of the Questionable Quadruplet

by Jacqueline Diamond

  “I’ll do my best to find out.”

  “That could be what Dee Marie stumbled across.” Tears dampened Danielle’s lashes. “And it got her killed.”

  As far as I knew, Internet fraudsters plied their scams from afar. Whoever had killed mother and daughter had done it up close. To me, that implied the source of those recommendations had been nearer home. But I was here to observe, not spin theories.

  “Won’t the police look into Mom’s finances?” Doreen asked.

  Gazes shifted toward Tory. “That would be standard procedure in a murder case.”

  “Since they’ve been less than impressive in identifying my wife’s killer, I prefer to do my own digging,” Rafe said.

  “I’m sure you will, or so you’d like us to believe.” Heather’s anger seemed to spring from nowhere, until I recalled that she and Rafe had a longstanding enmity. “After all, you conveniently had her papers and laptop disappear from your house. The one to which you and your late wife zealously guarded your keys.”

  “If the family doubts my word, they’re welcome to talk directly to her broker and her banker. Here’s their contact information.” Rafe handed business cards to each of the daughters and to Tory. “And if we’re to work together on the probate, Heather, I expect you to avoid leveling baseless accusations. Otherwise, that might raise questions about your motives.”

  “Stop it!” Danielle wailed. “Our mother isn’t even buried and you’re picking over her corpse.”

  “I’m sorry,” Heather said.

  “Speaking of burials,” Doreen broke in. “I heard from the funeral home late today that her body’s been released, so we can schedule the service. I sent you an email, Danielle.”

  Her sister poked at her phone. “Oh, here it is.”

  “Did she leave instructions about the service, or is it up to us to ensure things are done properly?” Fred asked. “People do still pray at funerals, I presume.”

  “The will states only that she’s to be buried in a prepaid plot beside her husband,” Rafe put in. “The details are up to the heirs.”

  “Good,” Fred said. “I’ll see if our pastor’s available.”

  “The hell you will.” Doreen shot off the couch.

  Heather arose, too. “There’s no way we’d let that homophobic, redneck minister spew his hate theology at Mrs. Abernathy’s service.”

  “Danielle and I will never allow your left-wing, transsexual thing to deliver her eulogy!”

  So much for hoping the conflict might subside.

  “You heard Doreen.” Unexpectedly, Danielle’s voice cut through the rhetoric. “The decision is hers and mine. Not Heather’s and not yours, Fred.”

  Her husband fell silent for a nanosecond, but only to catch his breath. “Whose side are you on?”

  “Why do I have to be on anyone’s side?”

  Her response irked Fred. “Because you have a moral obligation to stand by your husband!” His voice shrilled to a high note that hurt my ears.

  “You mean to knuckle under, don’t you?” Heather threw in.

  “Exactly what I’d expect from you, trying to undermine our marriage,” Fred roared. “You lesbos don’t have a clue what a real marriage is.”

  “If you’re the prime example, God save us,” Doreen said.

  “How dare you take His name in vain?” He leveraged himself upright, towering over the pair. When Heather assumed a pugnacious stance, Fred’s fists tightened.

  Beside me, Tory braced to intervene. Shorter than Fred at five-foot-ten, she was in better condition and well trained. I was ready to provide assistance as well, although I doubted she’d appreciate it.

  Rafe quelled them with a sneer. “You idiots slug it out if you insist. I’m more interested in the fact that hundreds of thousands of dollars have vanished. That means we finally have a motive for why someone killed my wife and her mother.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Heather said. “The money might have nothing to do with it.”

  “For six months the police have turned my house upside down and invaded my privacy,” Rafe snarled. “I’m sick of it. Whoever did this, I have a damn good idea how to track them down, and I’m not counting on the cops to do it for me.”

  With that declaration, he whipped out of the house. In the lingering chill, I wondered whether it occurred to him that if the killer was in this room, he or she had just heard the threat.

  Chapter Eleven

  Since no one was in the mood to stick around, Tory and I left. “You’ve been texting Keith?” I asked on the way to our cars.

  She nodded. “I’ll fill him in on the rest while I drive.” On her hands-free phone, I presumed.

  I switched to another matter that bothered me. “I’m concerned about Danielle. She has to go home with Fred and he’s a loose cannon.”

  “She doesn’t have to go home with him. She’s an adult.” Tory halted at her sedan, directly in front of Ada’s house.

  “Relationships are complicated,” I said. “And I feel responsible for her.”

  “Why, because she’s your patient?” Beneath a streetlamp, Tory’s face was shadowed. “You must have the world’s most massive ego to think you’re in charge of everyone who consults you. Get over yourself.”

  She stomped around to the driver’s side. Exasperated, I drove home through sparsely traveled streets, taking a different route to avoid trailing Tory.

  Her comment had been uncalled-for. To me, my role as a doctor extended beyond reaching a diagnosis and prescribing medication or surgery.

  I’ve met a number of doctors who aim to save lives but find patients annoying. Some regard suffering as little more than a challenging presentation of symptoms. Although I hadn’t been that insensitive, it was true that, as a medical student, I’d viewed each woman solely as she existed at that moment. Her medical history had been nothing more than that: history.

  In practice, I’d learned to place each person on a continuum, transitioning through the stages of her life. While I couldn’t swear I loved each of my patients, we established a bond of trust that, as long as they remained in my care, we would travel a path together.

  Murder disrupted that journey. It didn’t end my commitment. If that reflected a huge ego, so be it.

  Unlike coastal communities that flaunt their clubs and cafés, Safe Harbor mostly goes dark at night. After I swung onto the main boulevard, the six lighted stories of the medical center rose like a beacon ahead on my right.

  I lowered my window to enjoy the sea breeze. A few minutes later, when I entered my driveway, a cloud of perfume blew in from a jasmine bush Lydia had planted, a sadly sweet reminder that I couldn’t save everyone.

  In the kitchen, Tory leaned against the counter, shoveling down leftovers from a container. She’d missed dinner, and I wondered if hunger had sharpened her temper earlier.

  “You should follow the doctor’s diet.” I opened the fridge.

  “What’s that, stuff your face when you get the chance?”

  “Exactly.” I retrieved a package of dates dusted with coconut. It never pays to miss dessert.

  My brain searched for a neutral topic of conversation. Any reiteration of my worry for Danielle might land us right back in touchy territory.

  Finally, I said, “An anesthesiologist who volunteers at the animal shelter told me Malerie often passed along investment advice.”

  “Such as?”

  “He didn’t recall specifics.”

  She set the container aside. “What’s his name?”

  “Rod Vintner.” I hadn’t meant to imply that she ought to interview him. Let her decide how to do her job.

  Tory jotted a note in her cell. “In case you’re interested, I backgrounded the love fest between Heather and Rafe.”

  “Love fest” was typical ironic cop speak. Similar to junior high, when classmates labeled my skinny self “the Hulk” until, at the start of ninth grade, I showed up six inches taller and twenty pounds heavier, mostly muscles. A couple
of girls started referring to me as “the Hunk,” but, mercifully, that didn’t stick, either.

  “I’m interested.” I took a seat at the counter.

  Scanning her notes, Tory said, “Ada Humphreys—Malerie’s neighbor— suggested I talk to her son, Geoffrey. He’s a family attorney acquainted with both parties.”

  “I’ve heard of him.” An associate from his office had presented a talk to the staff recently on laws affecting surrogacy and egg donations.

  “The feud started when Rafe and his newly minted law license joined the Santa Ana firm where Heather worked. He got fast-tracked ahead of her. Sexism, anti-gay bias, or maybe it was a matter of competence. Hard to tell.”

  “Why’d they leave?” Both now ran their own offices.

  “The firm’s principals were accused of embezzling clients’ funds,” Tory said. “Attorneys administer trusts and lawsuit payouts, so they handle a lot of money. When the DA filed charges, the staff fled the sinking ship.”

  “Any chance the firm represented Malerie?”

  “No obvious connection. Besides, that was well before her husband died.”

  “So now Rafe and Heather are competing with each other for business,” I summarized. “And for respect on the home front.”

  Tory tapped her fingers on the counter. She had more on her mind. Abruptly, she said, “Did you know?”

  I’d been mulling whether to finish off the last three dates, and had just concluded that leaving so few would merely taunt the next hungry person. “Know what?”

  “That Keith was cheating on me.”

  I forgot about eating. “Certainly not. I heard it from Morris after the fact.”

  “Keith’s your best friend. Doesn’t he tell you stuff?” At close range, gold flecks shone in her green eyes. Lydia’s had been the dark brown of bitter chocolate.

  “Guys don’t do heart-to-hearts,” I said. “I wasn’t even aware you were in a relationship until you brought him to Morris’s Seder last year.”

  Despite not being religious, my father-in-law celebrates food-related holidays such as Passover, where the story of the Israelites’ suffering and escape from Egypt is retold at a ceremonial dinner. “Lydia and I were both stunned.”

  “You hid it well.”

  “In medical school, I got an A-minus in Remaining Impassive When Shocked.”

  “What was the minus for?”

  “Babies with two heads,” I deadpanned. As long as we were discussing her relationship—well, sort of—I indulged my curiosity. “Why did you move in with him right after Lydia died? The timing seemed odd.” Although they’d been dating for months, until then she’d remained fiercely independent.

  Tory wedged her container onto the dishwasher’s top rack. “Do you remember—oh, of course you do.”

  “What?”

  “How we broke the news about my sister.”

  “Indelibly.” It had been early evening when the doorbell rang. I’d opened it to find Keith and Tory, both in uniform, Tory’s face red from crying.

  The Bureau of Consular Affairs had requested that the police notify the family of Lydia Darcy that she had died in Israel. In cases like this, it’s best to send someone in person to provide support until relatives can arrive.

  When word reached the department, Keith heard it first. He must have been shaken, but he’d gone to inform Tory and held her as she wept.

  Once she got a grip on her emotions, she’d insisted on accompanying him to tell me. Later, I’d appreciated how hard that must have been for them. At the time, I’d felt like a wall of water had smashed into me, throwing me wrong side up in the surf until I couldn’t breathe.

  After months of estrangement from Lydia that I didn’t understand, after fearing my wife had grown to hate me or had sunk into a profound depression, I couldn’t begin to sort out my emotions. I’d gone numb.

  Too stubborn to admit I was in shock, I’d brushed off their protests and sent them away. Moving stiffly up the stairs, I’d tripped and fallen. Thank goodness I’d had my phone with me or I might have lain there for hours. Still, I’d been too badly injured to travel and bury my wife.

  Tory’s voice restored me to the present. “After I went to Israel, Keith invited me to move in. My lease was up, and I couldn’t stand the thought of living alone. Too many voices in my head.”

  “And now?” I asked.

  “What do you mean, now?”

  Just when we were getting along, I hated to put my foot in it. But I’d sensed glimmers of hope for Keith. “You guys function well as a team. Any chance he could win you back?”

  Her expression tightened. “Why, so he can go on proving I can’t count on him? That when I need him, he might be too busy boffing another woman? No, we don’t function well as a team anywhere outside work.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  She eyed the remaining dates. “You planning to eat those?”

  “All yours.” I pushed them over.

  As she ate, I listened to familiar house noises: the hum of electronics, the rumble of the icemaker, Morris’s faint snoring from the downstairs bedroom. And felt a jumble of emotions radiating from my sister-in-law.

  Tory licked her fingers before saying, “I’m busy in the morning but I’ll check on Danielle later. I’d prefer to interview her without her husband. She works at Kitchens, Cooks and Linens, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, and Eric?”

  I lifted an eyebrow.

  “As soon as I can afford it, I’ll rent my own place.” Tory whisked off before I could comment.

  I’d wanted her to move out, but not like this. At least we were still on speaking terms.

  I trained my thoughts on tomorrow. While Tory pursued her inquiries, I planned to do some investigating, too.

  *

  At lunch, it proved impossible to divide Rod from the audience of doctors enjoying his jokes. I cornered him afterwards, only to learn he couldn’t recall a single detail of Malerie’s recommendations.

  “How about anyone else Mrs. Abernathy might have shared tips with?” Surely she’d spread the word to others.

  He provided the names of a few fellow volunteers. I texted them to Tory and got a smiley face in return.

  One more question for Rod: Had he observed peculiar behavior or signs of dementia in Malerie?

  “To me, she seemed normal,” he responded. “Chatty and careless with money, as if Winston had left her a bottomless pit of it. But no more than usual.”

  “Careless how?”

  “Those investments, for one thing,” Rod said. “Also, whenever the shelter had a fundraiser, they could rely on her to make up the difference so it reached its goal.”

  “Thanks.” How odd, considering her reputation for stinginess. She must have had a fondness for vulnerable creatures. People were often contradictory, in my experience.

  In midafternoon, a patient cancellation left me a spare half-hour. Retiring to my private office, I reviewed what we’d learned so far.

  Item: Six months ago, someone had smothered Dee Marie and stolen her laptop, along with papers belonging to her mother. Police suspected her husband, but he had an alibi and no clear motive, unless he’d been bilking Malerie.

  I pictured Rafe’s narrow face. Quite a coincidence that his sister had discovered Malerie’s body. The police must think so, too.

  Back to the facts:

  Item: Malerie had lost hundreds of thousands of dollars, maybe more when you factored in the value of her house. No indication where she’d obtained her misleading tips or who had profited, aside from the broker who claimed he’d carried out her directions against his better judgment.

  Item: She’d commented to me that people lied, then invited her daughters to her house for an announcement. Whatever it was, it might have prompted the killer to take her life.

  Item: She’d been heard arguing with an unidentified woman shortly before her death.

  Item: Malerie had consumed a large number of blood-pressure pi
lls that presumably contributed to her drowning.

  Item: It was possible that both victims had known their murderer or murderers. Dee Marie had allowed the person inside, and Malerie hadn’t screamed for help, which her neighbor would likely have heard.

  Speculation: There’d been a secret in the missing papers that someone considered worth killing for, possibly related to theft. He or she must have considered the subject closed after smothering Dee Marie, until learning that Malerie had become suspicious and summoned her surviving daughters.

  But this might not have been about money at all. Item: Last week, Malerie had spotted a woman who resembled her daughters so strongly that, coupled with her vivid dreams, the sighting had convinced her she’d borne quadruplets. Her digitized medical record shed no light on the situation.

  Item: My house had been burglarized and her more extensive paper file had vanished.

  Since Farrah hadn’t yet signaled the arrival of my next patient, I clicked to Malerie’s records and read through the orthopedic surgeon’s report about her hip replacement. He’d used a minimally invasive technique and, with the aid of physical therapy and an old friend’s care, she’d recovered well.

  Did Sandy know more than she’d revealed about Malerie’s secrets? Although they’d stayed in touch, she’d left Safe Harbor prior to her friend’s marriage, and had been living in Idaho when the triplets were born. She had mentioned disapproving of the extramarital affair, but aside from that, I’d sensed she was trying to be discreet.

  Tempted as I was to grill her next week when she cleaned my house, that was hardly fair to an employee. Also, I admired her loyalty to Malerie. And my remaining questions might stem more from nosiness than from any relevance to the crimes.

  I was curious as to why Winston had broken off his affair with Malerie. Had his first wife, Cynthia Abernathy, discovered he was cheating and threatened a divorce that might strip him of his assets? California being a community property state, that could have included half the value of his medical practice.

  Had he or Malerie arranged Cynthia Abernathy’s demise? The car crash had seriously injured Winston, and could have killed him. Also, according to Tory’s research, a drunk driver had been convicted. Still, Malerie—and Winston, whose injuries might have been unintended—had benefited from Cynthia’s death.