“Sure, Mom.” In an uncharacteristic gesture, Merry threw her arms around her mother and squeezed tight. “I appreciate having you here more than you’ll ever know.” She let go as suddenly and flew out the door.
She is having an affair, Lydia thought, but dare I bring it up?
* * *
Merry was good to her word and arrived home at five-thirty sharp. “Here I am, an on-time Cinderella.”
Greta came dashing in. “Mommy! Mommy!”
Merry swung her around so that Greta’s outstretched legs almost knocked over a vase. This wasn’t like her daughter. My God, she’s glowing, Lydia thought. As though she’s just come from her lover’s bed.
“Have a good time?”
“Mmm, yes,” Merry answered and carried Greta into the kitchen. “It was nice to be out, now it’s nice to be home.”
“Mmm,” Lydia echoed, her tone skeptical, but her daughter was singing nonsense to her child and didn’t hear.
Lydia brooded as Merry drove her home, but her daughter was too engrossed in her own thoughts to notice. She told herself she had to be wrong. Merry would never cheat on Jeff. Jeff was a wonderful husband. He was attentive to Merry and to the girls when he was around. True, he worked late most nights and often on weekends, but that was to pay for their lovely home and two cars. Even if Meredith occasionally felt lonely, it didn’t give her license to find another man to amuse herself.
As Lydia sautéed onions, mushrooms and green peppers for her omelet, she tried to remember how Merry and Jeff had related to one another lately. Then she realized she hadn’t seen them together in weeks.
“Meaning what?” she demanded in exasperation, and spilled the beaten eggs into the sizzling pan.
She was forced to admit she hadn’t the slightest idea which issues, if any, were causing discord in her daughter’s marriage.
* * *
Two hours later, Lydia followed Barbara and Caroline into the library, where the Women’s Club was meeting. It was a cozy, book-lined room, warmed by a fire in the gas fireplace. Caroline went to see to the refreshments while Barbara introduced Lydia to the few women already seated in the plush chairs set up for the evening’s activity.
A trio of older women latched on to Lydia and bombarded her with questions: How did she know about Marshall Weill’s past? Wasn’t it terrible about poor Claire? She answered as diplomatically as she could and was grateful when Barbara shepherded her away to meet Shari Morgan.
More women arrived. Caroline came to stand before the screen. A hush fell over the room as she introduced Shari. Shari spoke about the years she’d lived and worked in Italy. She told a few anecdotes, then walked back to the setup of slides. Someone dimmed the lights and the show began.
Lydia hadn’t realized how engrossed she’d been in the presentation until the lights came on again, causing her to blink. Almost an hour had passed.
“That was wonderful, Shari,” Caroline said. “Let’s refresh our refreshments, then we’ll have a short question-and-answer period.”
Too soon it was over and Lydia was back in Barbara’s car as she drove her and Caroline home.
“Well,” Caroline asked, “what do you think of our Women’s Club?”
“I think it’s wonderful. A far cry from Bingo.”
They all laughed. Barbara said, “We think so. It was Caroline’s brilliant idea, so she gets to be president until she’s sick of the job.”
“Though everyone helps plan new events,” Caroline said.
“Shari’s presentation kept me from thinking about things,” Lydia said.
“Claire’s murder?” Caroline asked.
“Yes.” And the state of my daughter’s marriage, Lydia thought.
“That’s why I wanted you to come.”
As Barbara pulled into her driveway, Lydia said, “I’m afraid Detective Molina considers me a suspect.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
Lydia’s heart warmed to her new friends’ outrage on her behalf. “Of course it is and I intend to prove it by finding out who did it.” She turned to face Barbara. “I need to find out everything there is to know about Claire and I’d like both of you to help me.”
“I’ll help you,” Barbara said.
“Me, too,” Caroline seconded. “Come for lunch tomorrow at one and we’ll brainstorm.”
Five
Lydia sat in the Liebermans’ Southwest-style dining room, a platter of fresh bagels and bialies and four kinds of salads spread before her, and felt as though she’d reentered the world of normalcy. Surely, Claire Weill’s death and her damaged Lexus were parts of a gloomy nightmare. Conversation remained light as they ate. Caroline brought out a chocolate babka and replenished everyone’s mug of decaffeinated coffee.
She sat down. “Now,” she intoned, “let’s get down to business.”
“The question is, did Warren Mannes—er, Marshall Weill kill his wife?” Lydia said.
Caroline sipped her coffee. “Why would he? People in their late sixties are past the stage of passionate adulterous affairs. They’re happy to live in relative peace with a loving spouse.”
“That was Claire to a tee,” Barbara commented. “She was sweet and kind. Always deferring to her husband.”
“Oh, yes. She adored him,” Caroline agreed.
“I wonder if he adored her,” Lydia said, trying to keep her tone light. From her own take of the man and from what she knew of his whirlwind affair with Allison, she figured he’d had plenty of adulterous affairs. But she was here to get Barbara and Carolyn’s impressions and whatever information they had.
Caroline took a bite of babka as she considered. “Marshall seemed attentive enough to Claire at our summer party, though I don’t remember seeing them together very often. He spent most of his time talking business with the men.”
“Or flirting with other women,” Barbara added. “Though maybe that was in the service of drumming up clients.”
“I wonder if he’s low on funds,” Lydia mused, “and stood to inherit a good deal of money when Claire died.”
“I heard they paid cash for their unit when they moved here about a year ago,” Barbara said. “I don’t think money was an issue.”
Something to ask Detective Molina, Lydia thought. Aloud, she said, “This was a brutal crime. What do we know about the murderer?”
“I think we can assume he lives at Twin Lakes,” Caroline said.
“Or she does,” Barbara threw in. She shuddered. “Lovely to think there’s a murderer among us.” She turned to Lydia. “Could anyone have seen you leave the car key under the fender when you parked near the clubhouse?”
“It’s possible,” Lydia said.
“Then anyone might have seen you and figured your car was for the taking when looking for a murder weapon,” Barbara said.
Caroline stood and went into the kitchen. “Yes, they happened past your house and saw your car outside. Figured you might have left the key magnetized to the fender and took it.”
“Using your car might have been a coincidence,” Barbara said, “but Claire wasn’t a random target. Whoever killed her knew she went running along Bellewood Road every morning at seven-thirty.”
“Most residents knew that,” Caroline said as she carried a platter of cookies to the table.
“Oh, Caroline, my favorite!” Lydia said, biting into a tiny chocolate chip cookie.
Then she asked, “Why did Claire go running every morning? It’s cold and dark that time of day, and women of her age don’t usually run—not when we have a fully equipped gym.”
Barbara said, “Doris Fein mentioned once that Claire had a personal trainer years ago, before they moved here. This fellow believed in running and Claire worshipped him as her guru.”
“Doris Fein,” Lydia echoed. “I met her—briefly.”
“Doris lives around the corner from Benny and me,” Caroline said. “She and Claire often went shopping and out for lunch.”
“Interesting that Doris and Cl
aire were friends,” Lydia said, “because Doris stopped by to thank me for informing the community about Weill’s past.” She thought a moment. “What about Viv Maguire?”
Caroline shrugged. “I don’t know her very well. She was very friendly with both Claire and Marshall.”
They talked about other residents, but nothing Barbara or Caroline told her seemed relevant. Lydia got to her feet. At least she had one lead to follow.
“I’ll speak to Doris and see what I can find out. Thanks for lunch, Caroline, and thank you both for your support and your help.” Lydia hugged them good-bye and set out for home.
Doris Fein was delighted to hear from Lydia, though she made no mention of their previous meeting. Over the phone, she struck Lydia as a pleasant woman in her late seventies. No whispered admissions. No fearful hesitations.
“My mah jongg game played here today and they’re just leaving. Why don’t you stop by in fifteen minutes? Do you have my address?”
“Yes, it’s in the directory.”
“Of course. Silly me. See you in a bit.”
Doris’s home, the smallest model in the development, had chotchkies on every available surface—tables, wall shelves, window sills, curio cabinets and baker’s racks. She welcomed Lydia into her living room and chuckled as Lydia’s eyes darted from one collection of small ceramic figures to another.
“I can’t resist figurines of people, animals, fish, birds. You name it, I’ve been collecting them these past fifty years.” She sighed. “But like all good things, my buying days are over.”
Lydia suddenly remembered the broken figurine she’d seen in the garbage the other day and wondered if it had belonged to Doris.
“How about a nice piece of carrot cake and tea while you tell me what’s on your mind?” Doris said.
“That would be lovely,” Lydia said, though she was anything but hungry.
She followed Doris into her small kitchen—all white but for the border of red and yellow tulips running along the walls just below the ceiling—and felt a rush of nostalgia as Doris sat her down and fussed about her as her Aunt Irene always had when Lydia came to visit.
“I want to ask you about Claire Weill.”
Doris put on the kettle then placed a mug and plate before Lydia. “Terrible business, Claire dying like that. We spent most of the afternoon talking about her instead of playing mah-jongg. I understand someone took your car and ran her down.”
Lydia nodded. Maybe that explained why Doris had seemed so frightened when she’d stopped by the other day. “The police have taken the car to search for clues. Frankly, they aren’t too pleased I have no witness to prove I was fast asleep when Claire may have been hit, so I’m trying to piece together who could possibly have wanted her dead.”
Doris nodded. “So it’s murder, you think. Poor, poor Claire. She deserved a better life.”
“You mean her married life or in general?”
“I’m talking about Marshall, of course,” Doris said with asperity. “Out in public he was the perfect gentleman—praised her cooking, helped her on with her coat. When they were alone, he put her down every chance he got.”
Lydia wasn’t surprised. “You must have been a good friend for Claire to tell you something as personal as that.”
Doris paused in her ministrations to meet Lydia’s gaze straight on. “We were good friends until a month ago.”
“Did you have an argument?”
Doris served Lydia a generous piece of carrot cake and a small one for herself. “Claire took offense when I told her Marshall lost me a lot of money by investing in risky stocks. She stormed out of here when I added he no doubt made himself a pretty penny in the deal.” She met Lydia’s gaze. “From your outburst the other night, I gather this was how he conducted business. A goniff through and through.”
Lydia nodded. “I’m sorry, Doris.”
“Not as sorry as I am.”
Lydia bit back her disappointment. The fact that Doris and Claire had quarreled meant that Doris couldn’t possibly know anything relevant about Claire’s last days. Still, she was eager to hear whatever Doris might tell her.
“What was Claire like?” she asked.
A beautiful smile wreathed the older woman’s face. “She was a wonderful person—caring, warm.” She gave Lydia a knowing look. “Claire’s first husband left her a very wealthy woman, but she never threw her money in your face, if you know what I mean. And she could buy and sell half the people here.”
“Do you think Marshall married her for her money?”
Doris frowned as she shook her head. “That nishtgutnick—I wouldn’t be surprised. Our investment advisor pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes, including mine. If you want my opinion, that man’s capable of anything.”
Lydia stared at her. “You mean—murder?”
At that moment, the kettle whistled. Doris attended to Lydia’s tea. “Who knows? Taste the cake. I made it this morning.”
Lydia did as instructed and, despite her large lunch, was glad she had. “Mmmm, it’s delicious.”
“My mother’s recipe. Let your tea steep a bit. It’s green tea. Good for what ails you.”
Obligingly, Lydia left the tea bag in her mug. She ate another forkful of cake.
Doris said, “All I know is Claire was besotted by that husband of hers. She knew he had affairs over the years, but instead of throwing him out like any other woman would, she’d pamper him. She insisted the extra attention worked to bring him back to her. They moved here and everything was hunky-dory.”
Lydia nodded. She was familiar with that type of wife.
Doris continued. “A few months ago, Claire got it into her head that Marshall had a hussy on the side. Frankly, I had my doubts. The man’s pushing seventy, and he has a few medical problems like we all do. I told her he was busy with clients, but she carried on how she was going to win Marshall back by making herself more appealing. She’d lose weight, become more youthful.”
“More youthful? Is that why she ran every day?”
Doris hesitated and the frightened look came over her. For a moment, Lydia thought she was going to clam up, but she continued speaking. “Claire heard about this miracle supplement that makes you look and feel thirty years younger.”
Lydia wondered if she’d missed something. Some vital pages of the story were missing. “Is that what you and Claire argued about? Her taking the miracle capsules?”
Doris frowned. “Good heavens, no. I told Claire her husband had lost me a bundle of money and she wouldn’t believe me.”
* * *
Lydia walked home slowly under the darkening sky, reviewing all that Doris had told her. Claire had been madly in love with her husband, despite his adulterous affairs and the fact that he treated her badly. Instead of divorcing him, she’d set out to regain his affections and was doomed to fail. No wonder she’d gotten angry when Doris criticized Marshall and turned her wrath on Lydia for exposing his past misdeeds.
Was Marshall up to his old embezzling tricks? And what to make of the miracle supplement Claire had started taking? That couldn’t have anything to do with Claire’s murder, could it? And who was supplying her with this hush-hush wonder?
The wind rose, sending dry leaves rattling along the street. Lydia sensed someone was following her, but when she spun around, no one was there. It gave her little comfort. The many trees and shrubs provided adequate cover for someone lurking in the dusk. Shivering, Lydia quickened her pace, and didn’t relax until she stood safely locked inside her home.
Lydia spent a good part of the evening reviewing all she’d learned about Claire Weill. Despite her own unpleasant encounter with the woman, she was forced to concede Claire had been a loving wife and caring friend, evoking the affection and loyalty of at least two female friends. No one seemed to dislike her.
From every angle, Marshall Weill presented himself as the likely candidate. The police had to consider him their chief suspect. No doubt, he had any number of motives for k
illing his wife. Maybe he wanted all of her money. From what she’d gathered, Marshall was bored with Claire, which was probably why he’d had an affair with Allison. As for opportunity, Weill had been at the clubhouse the night before and might have seen Lydia place her key under the fender. Her blood pressure rose as she imagined him congratulating himself for creating a murder scenario that included a way to get back at her. He’d use her car to kill his wife. Who better than Weill knew his wife’s jogging routine?
But proving his guilt was another matter.
Lydia turned off her reading lamp at eleven-thirty, then tossed and turned for two hours as her fears and anxieties rose to the surface. Her breath came in deep gulps. What if the police charged her with the murder? They had no proof, but she had no alibi. She and Claire had fought. Her car was the murder weapon. Lydia trembled, imagining her trial. She finally took herself in hand and swallowed a sleeping pill, vowing to call Samantha’s criminal lawyer friend in the morning.
When she did, it was to learn that Jack Campbell would be out of the country for another two weeks. Did Mrs. Krause care to speak to anyone else in the office?
Mrs. Krause didn’t. With a sigh, Lydia put down the phone. If she got arrested, she’d call Samantha. Her sister would know what to do.
Lydia spent the next few days discussing Claire’s murder with whomever she happened to meet out walking or in the clubhouse. No one had much to add to what she already knew. The only interesting piece of information came from a widow named Audrey Fuller, whose husband, Frank, had died the previous May.
“He loved to birdwatch, Frank did. All spring and summer. He kept an accurate record of every bird he saw. Wrote it down in his diary.”
Lydia was about to cut the conversation short, then was glad she hadn’t when Audrey added, “That morning he went to his favorite spot—the arboretum across Bellewood Road. You know where it is?”
Lydia nodded. The older woman’s eyes filled with tears.
“The police said he must have fallen and hit his head on a rock, but I don’t believe that for a minute.” Audrey shook her head. “Not my Frank. He was always cautious where he stepped.”
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