The Case of the Questionable Quadruplet

by Jacqueline Diamond

  A knot in my stomach reminded me that Lydia’s grave lay halfway around the globe. Had she known when she wrote her will shortly before traveling that she would die in Israel? Perhaps she’d been uncertain of her intent until the instant when she leaped or fell from the cliff.

  Tory had arranged the interment, where she, the tour guide and a few unidentified people had been the only mourners. In Israel, the state pays for basic burial expenses, but I’d donated money to a private organization called a chevra kadisha or holy society to maintain the gravesite.

  Someday, I would go to honor her memory. That might dispel my lingering pain and bitterness—or intensify it. I wasn’t ready to find out which.

  As we drew closer to the canopy, vehicles lined the narrow roadway, forcing us to walk on the grass. Except for a few folks visiting other graves, most people—close to fifty of them, I estimated—were taking places on the folding chairs.

  A young-ish couple in dark clothing was paying a lot of attention to the crowd. “Cops?” I asked.

  Tory nodded. “Yeah. There’s Keith.” He stood in a huddle with Malerie’s daughters and their partners. A bandage slanted across Doreen’s forehead. “Hey, what happened to her?”

  Despite a tightening in my chest, I tried not to overreact as we hurried over. “Was there an accident?”

  “Someone tried to kill her.” Heather’s arm encircled her girlfriend’s waist.

  Tory stiffened. “I wish you’d called me.”

  I wished I hadn’t been so focused on the past that I’d ignored the possibility of danger to Malerie’s surviving daughters. “Who? When?”

  “Yesterday,” Doreen said. “I didn’t see who it was. All I could think was, oh, God, am I next?”

  Keith, imposing in a dark suit, made room for Tory and me in the small group. “She was pulling out of a parking lot when a chunk of cement hit her windshield.” Based on his impassive expression, I guessed he was reserving judgment as to the circumstances or intent.

  “Is it possible the chunk flew up by accident?” I asked.

  “That’s a hell of a coincidence,” Heather flared. “She nearly crashed into a bus on the boulevard.”

  “Instead, I hit the curb and wrecked a tire,” Doreen grumbled. “Not to mention banging my head.”

  “I keep telling you to fasten your seatbelt!” Danielle scolded.

  “Yeah. From now on,” her sister said.

  “We’re seeking witnesses. Meanwhile, we’ll take precautions.” Keith must have meant the plain-clothes officers.

  “Where did this happen?” Tory asked.

  Doreen explained that she’d been at the Oahu Lane Funeral Home on Safe Harbor Boulevard, adjacent to the animal shelter, which she’d also visited. The compromise candidate to conduct today’s service was the shelter’s director, who often conducted funerals for pets. The odd choice would no doubt have appealed to Malerie.

  Once again, a murder attempt might have been disguised as an accident. Another coincidence teased my brain. Malerie had spotted the supposed quadruplet boarding a bus, and this attack had occurred near one. Had the red-haired imposter, if that’s what she was, thrown the cement?

  “Did you see anyone suspicious?” I stopped short of adding, “Such as a woman who could pass for you or Danielle.” It sounded nutty. Also, putting such an idea in Doreen’s head could distort her testimony.

  “I was too dazed to notice,” she said. “The road was full of rush hour traffic. But guess who stopped to help?” The last word quivered with sarcasm.

  Heather leaped in. “Rafe. Pure chance that he was passing, right?”

  Keith maintained a watchful silence. No doubt he’d already interviewed the relevant parties, but you never knew what might slip out.

  “How many people were aware that you planned to visit the funeral home?” Tory asked.

  “Anybody who’d read that the funeral was today could have deduced I’d be finalizing the arrangements,” Doreen said. “We posted it on Mom’s Facebook page.” They must have left the page active for the short term.

  “I’d have been there, too, if we hadn’t had a sale at the store,” Danielle noted. “We’re short-staffed and since I’m the manager, I had to stick around.”

  “Until these crimes are solved, I’m driving you to work.” As a self-employed computer consultant, Fred had a flexible schedule.

  “Thanks, honey.” Danielle smiled up at him. Peace had been restored between them, I was glad to see.

  “The more I think about it, the more I wonder how much Rafe had to do with our money disappearing,” Fred went on. “As an estate attorney, he deals with financial affairs. If anyone would be savvy about hiding funds, it would be him, right, Heather?”

  Doreen’s companion hesitated, as if expecting a follow-up zinger. When none materialized, she said, “It’s possible.”

  “As executor, the guy has free rein to cover his tracks,” Fred told Keith. “Are you pursuing that angle?”

  My friend’s jaw twitched. “I can’t discuss that.”

  My focus returned to Doreen. “Did Rafe take you to the hospital?”

  “You think she’s stupid enough to get in his car?” Heather demanded.

  “It’s not a deep gash,” Doreen said. “The paramedics took me to the ER, just in case, but there’s no concussion.”

  “Thank goodness her air bag didn’t inflate and break her ribs,” Heather steamed. “Those damn devices were designed by men for other men. They’re a threat to short women.”

  Doreen wasn’t especially short. However, Heather barely reached her shoulder, and she was correct about the danger. I advise patients to sit at least ten inches from the steering wheel. Although studies have shown air bags to be generally safe for pregnant women, mothers-to-be should adjust the steering wheel to allow a ten-inch margin from the breastbone and be sure to wear both lap and shoulder belts.

  Sandy approached. In a black dress, the housekeeper appeared paler than usual. “Sorry to interrupt, but the funeral director suggested the family take their seats in the front row.”

  Aside from Keith, Tory and me, the group dispersed. As we talked, most of the chairs had filled up with neighbors and a sprinkling of hospital staff. I also recognized Malerie’s sister-in-law Eunice in her wheelchair, accompanied by her husband.

  They faced a gold-trimmed white casket flanked by a giant spray of flowers. Near the coffin stood a man in a charcoal suit and a tall, gray-haired woman. “Who’re they?” I asked Keith.

  “He’s the funeral director,” he said. “She’s the officiant.”

  “Name of Ilsa Ivy,” Tory added.

  The incident with Doreen nagged at me. “You don’t seriously believe Rafe chucked a concrete block into Doreen’s windshield, do you?”

  Keith continued to survey the surroundings.

  “He can’t discuss…” Tory said dryly.

  “An ongoing…” Keith dropped in.

  “Investigation,” I finished.

  “Glad we agree,” he said.

  Tory gazed past him. “Who’s the mystery lady?” She indicated a woman in a form-fitting black dress and matching floppy hat with a wide brim.

  “Oh, hell. It’s Soraya Montenegro. I hoped we could keep the vultures out of this.” Keith trudged toward her.

  “I recognize the name,” Tory told me. “Reporter for The Safe Harbor Journal. It’s recently expanded to three times a week with ambitions of becoming a daily.”

  The woman appeared to be viewing the scene through her phone camera. She was attractive, with creamy olive skin and a spectacular shape. Also spectacularly poor taste if she intended to take ghoulish photos.

  Looking up, she flashed a smile at Keith. A subtle squaring of the shoulders marked my friend’s reaction to her very feminine presence.

  “He’s such an alley cat,” Tory said.

  “He hasn’t done anything,” I pointed out.

  “Today.”

  “Jealous?” I should have kept my mouth shut
. “Never mind. I hate to think of him as a player.”

  “Because he’s your pal?”

  “Because you deserve better.” Also, I believed he genuinely wanted to patch up their relationship, if he could figure out how.

  Deciding I’d shot my mouth off enough, I joined Tory in observing Soraya and Keith conduct their newshound-vs.-cop interplay. The glinting teeth (hers), the angling hips (his), the occasional audible phrase: “mother and daughter murders” (her again), “respect the family’s privacy” (him).

  “No matter what he says, she’ll whip up a soap opera for her readers,” Tory snarled. “Why doesn’t anyone just report the news any more?”

  “Hard to do without solid info.” I hadn’t meant to defend the woman. In truth, I despise the media hype that treats victims’ pain as entertainment. There weren’t any TV cameras in evidence, but if Soraya beat the drum loudly enough about the mother-and-child murders, there soon would be.

  The animal lady advanced to the microphone. She had an erect spine and a commanding manner.

  “I’m Ilsa Ivy,” she told the assembly. “On behalf of the family, thank you for coming.”

  From the corner of my eye, I noted a man crossing the grass toward us. Medium height, dark-blue suit, thin face. If Rafe’s goal had been to avoid confrontations, he’d timed his arrival well.

  Keith went on the alert. But whether from concern about disrupting the service or awareness of the reporter’s sharpened interest, he held his position.

  “To paraphrase Shakespeare, I come to bury Malerie Abernathy, not to praise her,” Ilsa’s voice rang out as Rafe reached Tory and me. That struck me as a peculiar statement for a funeral.

  “Where’d they find her?” Rafe muttered to me.

  “She runs the animal shelter.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “She knows her literary references,” Tory said.

  “Before anyone drags me off, I don’t plan to speak ill of Malerie, who was a wonderful volunteer at the Oahu Lane Animal Shelter,” Ilsa continued. “To be honest, Malerie could get cranky, she could be high-handed and she could deliver a tongue-lashing with the best of us. She was also funny, warm-hearted and occasionally generous, although let’s not exaggerate.” A ripple of laughter ran through the gathering.

  “This is the strangest eulogy I ever heard,” Rafe said quietly.

  “I’ve always been glad God doesn’t expect us to be perfect,” Ilsa said. “Only to do our best, which I believe Malerie did. Let me tell you a little about her life, which her daughters have shared with me.”

  She ran through the highlights: Born sixty years ago to loving parents who died when she was in college and whose illnesses inspired her to enter the nursing profession. Married at thirty-one to widower Winston Abernathy—no mention of the previous affair, of course—followed by the birth of triplets. Widowed four years ago, and mourning the death of her daughter Dee Marie six months earlier.

  At his wife’s name, Rafe’s breathing rasped. “Does it ever stop hurting?”

  “No.” To be accurate, I added, “Not yet, anyway.” And probably never.

  Ilsa concluded by introducing Doreen. As she took the microphone, a stray sunbeam picked out the white bandage on her forehead until it appeared to glow. Simultaneously, her gaze lit on Rafe.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she cried.

  A rustle ran through the crowd as people shifted to stare at us. Near Keith, Soraya lifted her phone again. Taking a picture?

  “Sorry,” Doreen told the crowd. “I, um, had an accident yesterday and my head’s hurting. Please don’t attack my brother-in-law. He carries a gun.”

  “Left it at home,” Rafe called.

  Soraya angled her phone. I was grateful when Keith blocked her view and, after an apology, she dropped the cell in her purse.

  Doreen appeared stuck for words, and Danielle’s hands fluttered. Before the situation spiraled into chaos, Sandy stepped to the mic.

  “Hi, I’m Sandy Faye Miller,” she said. “I met Malerie more than thirty years ago when we worked together at the hospital. I’d had a rough childhood and was painfully shy. Malerie became the friend I desperately needed.”

  As she recounted fond memories, the daughters regained their composure. Soon they were able to speak about their mother with only a few tearful pauses.

  Rafe fidgeted. I hoped he didn’t plan to march up there and deliver an off-the-wall statement of his own. Instead, he addressed me in a low tone.

  “I guess you heard about the incident with Doreen,” he said. “I mean, the part where I stopped to check on her, fool that I am. Never occurred to me she’d assume it was my fault.”

  Although I disliked speaking during the service, he deserved a response. “The police cleared you, right?”

  “Took them half an hour.” He scowled in Keith’s direction. “I was on my way home from the courthouse in Santa Ana, which they confirmed. That didn’t one hundred percent preclude my running around like a maniac smashing windshields, but they let me go.”

  “Did you observe anyone suspicious in the area?” Tory asked.

  “You sound like a cop.” His mouth curved. “I forgot—you’re the PI. No, I was too busy watching my sister-in-law crash into the curb and barely miss a bus.”

  “Were there passengers boarding?” I asked. “Anyone you recognized?” Such as a ringer for the triplets?

  Rafe frowned. “You think a passenger threw the rock?”

  “Could they have?”

  “Dunno. The bus pulled out as I got there,” he said. “I was floored when Doreen practically accused me. We got along fine the day before.”

  “What happened on Thursday?” I asked.

  “The three of us went through the house and listed the valuables. Everyone was quite civil.”

  “What kind of valuables?” Tory asked.

  “TVs, cappuccino machine, jewelry.”

  “Did they notice any items missing?” I asked.

  “Her photo albums. I can’t imagine who’d want those.” He folded his arms and regarded the front, where Danielle was describing how her mother used to take her to ballet lessons and cheer at her recitals.

  “To her, I was Pavlova reincarnated.” She smiled tearfully. “I let her down on that score.”

  “Any luck tracing the money?” Tory murmured to Rafe.

  “Persistent, aren’t you?”

  “Doing my job.”

  He shrugged. “Better than the police. All they’ve done is search for evidence to pin this on me.”

  I wasn’t convinced of that. But I didn’t dispute how it might seem from Rafe’s perspective.

  By the casket, the funeral director wished everyone a safe journey home. Although families often hold a post-funeral gathering, they hadn’t scheduled one today.

  “So, what have you learned about the missing money?” Tory pressed.

  “That Malerie’s bookkeeping was haphazard.” Rafe ignored the curious faces of mourners as they passed us en route to their cars. “She paid some bills in cash and others on line. A few of the amounts appear inappropriately large.”

  “Surely you can tell who the payees were,” Tory said.

  “They might not all have been legitimate. Also, it appears she gambled on Internet stock tips,” Rafe said. “Plus she made a big investment in a local company, a medical diagnostics firm.”

  “How big?” I asked.

  “Several hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Wow,” Tory said. “What happened to it?”

  “The firm went belly up due to mismanagement. I haven’t determined who or what inspired her to invest. Or, more importantly, who benefited.”

  “How long has she been investing like this?” Tory was taking notes.

  “From what Dee Marie told me, the papers she was sorting dated to soon after Winston died. However, the diagnostics business was just a few months ago.”

  “Do you get the sense we’re circling a dark secret from t
he past?” I asked. “And that whenever someone gets close, they end up dead?”

  “If you keep digging, you’d better watch out, doc,” Rafe advised. “Ever consider that you could be in danger?”

  My throat clamped. No, I hadn’t.

  “Why do you mention it?” Tory’s cool tone centered me.

  “I’m worried for my own sake, too.” Rafe’s voice was barely audible above the chatter and stirrings around us.

  “Why?”

  A long breath swelled his narrow chest. “Earlier this afternoon, I ran across a file I didn’t recognize. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you, but I have to trust someone. And it sure as hell won’t be the police.”

  He had my full attention. “What kind of file?”

  “Right before I left the house, I was backing up material for a client.” He checked his watch. “In fact, he and I are meeting in half an hour. Anyway, while I was on the cloud, I spotted an unfamiliar file name. It might be nothing. Or else my wife put it there.”

  Until now, as far as I knew, everyone had believed all Dee Marie’s records were stolen. The possibility of an on-line backup riveted me.

  “Why didn’t it surface before?” Tory asked.

  “I had no idea she ever copied files onto my account. Both my laptop and my cloud storage are password-protected, but I could have left them open when I was working at home,” he said. “I’d been lecturing her about getting cloud storage of her own. Maybe she decided to borrow mine.”

  “You have to tell Detective Sparks,” Tory said.

  “I will, if it does turn out to be her notes. However, it might be a client file that I misnamed.”

  “If it’s hers...” My throat closed again.

  “Then the information probably got her killed.” With a touch of melodrama, Rafe added, “And if I’m not careful, that file might get me killed, too.”

  “Lower your voice,” Tory hissed.

  Belatedly, he—and I—took note of our surroundings. And spotted Heather a few feet away, staring at us.