Buyer's Remorse

by Lori L. Lake

  "What's the scoop on Walter Green?"

  "Sherry said he was sleeping in the TV room."

  "Could he have attacked Callie?"

  "Well, I don't know. Maybe. My students would have called him a Space Cadet. He wanders around, muttering, and asking lewd questions. Never does anything violent, though."

  "There's always a first time. Is he capable?"

  "Maybe. He's not a big man—certainly not like Franklin who's six feet tall and broad-shouldered. But no one saw Walter leave the TV room. He was asleep when I went by, and I don't think he woke up until after the police arrived."

  "Could the aides and residents have been so busy at the sing-along that they missed him leaving the TV room?"

  "Possibly." Doubt showed in her eyes. "I told the officer last night that something was wrong when I got home. I was too much in shock, though."

  "Oh?"

  "Callie would never have opened the sliding glass door in my room. Only Willie Stepanek's room and mine have access to the garden. They charge extra for that." She rolled her eyes. "Originally, I took the room with the garden walk-out because I wanted to be able to go out there whenever I pleased, and I thought it better for Callie. But she preferred watching the traffic go by from the window in her room. Besides, I was afraid she'd wander out there in the dead of winter. I found out quickly, though, that she didn't really like the garden. The one time she went out without me, she got disoriented. I found her sitting on the bench under the tree crying. She couldn't figure out how to get home. She liked to be indoors. I think she felt safer."

  "And last night?"

  "The sliding glass door was wide open. So was the screen door. When I left, the door was open, but the screen was closed. I don't believe Callie touched it, so who did?"

  "Did the police dust there for prints?"

  Eleanor shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea."

  Leo made a note to check with Detective Flanagan. "What about Callie's son?"

  "Ted? You think Ted had something to do with this?" She laughed. "Besides me, nobody cared as much for Callie as Ted did. I declare he loved her more than his own wife, from whom he has often been estranged. Callie was Ted's port in the storm. Even after her memory became so bad, she never forgot him. She forgot her own brother at times, but not Ted or me."

  "The police will examine Ted's motives."

  "I suppose they must, but he has no motive."

  "The obvious one is always money."

  Eleanor laughed again, a deep throaty chuckle. "Callie was a cook in a public high school for almost five decades. She had no money to speak of, and Ted knew it. He does tax accounting for both of us."

  "But what about this place? Rivers' Edge can't be cheap."

  "It surely isn't, but I'm the one who pays for that. I inherited a lot of money when my parents died, and I parlayed it into a small fortune in the stock market. Callie's husband ate through all the money the two of them ever had. When she sued for divorce, he found some new chippy with money. Callie's never been as financially secure as I have. She got divorced back when women didn't have the protections and fair courts that they do now. The louse even got the house and the kids, though he did a despicable job providing for and attending to them. By the time they were in middle school, they practically lived at our house." She paused and sat breathing fast. "Our house…"

  Leo waited respectfully for her to recover her composure. "So you met her at the school where you worked?"

  "Yes. She was seven years older and so full of life. She didn't deserve a verbally abusive husband who slapped her around whenever his business prospects faltered. At first I sought to protect her, to urge her to get away from him, and then..." She looked off into the distance. "The kids were in kindergarten and second grade, and I enjoyed them as well. Such serious little people, a girl who looked just like her mother and a boy who resembled me so much that people often thought he was my son. They quickly became attached to me, and for the first time in my life, I understood what it was like to bond with a child. It was wonderful. And then I—well—I suppose I had already fallen for Callie like the proverbial ton of bricks. I loved her desperately." She raised her eyes and met Leo's, a little defiant, but with pride, too.

  "And wow, you've been together all this time, all these years."

  "That's right. The fact is, Leona, that Callie and I could've been more than comfortable for twenty or thirty more years, and neither of her children would ever have done anything to either of us. If Ted wanted money, he'd have had to kill me, not Callie, then assume the trustee position to which I had him appointed two years ago. But Ted would never hurt Callie. Or me. We both love him. Loved. I mean, Callie did—and I always will."

  Eleanor abruptly brought her wrist up to her mouth.

  "I know this must all be a terrifying jumble," Leo said, "and I think I should let you be for now. We can talk further tomorrow. I'm going to give you my phone number so you can call if you think of anything else, okay?"

  "All right."

  The doorbell went off, four descending notes, paused, and repeated. A moment later, a deep rumbling voice asked for Rowena Hoxley.

  Leo handed Eleanor a slip of paper. "I'll bet that's the police."

  "Come to arrest me?"

  "Did you kill Callie Trimble?" Leo asked as she rose.

  "No. Of course not."

  "Then don't worry."

  DETECTIVE FLANAGAN SWEPT into the common area followed by a shorter, square-jawed man much older than Flanagan, much more grizzled, with a whiskey nose and rheumy blue-gray eyes. He wore a light blue suit and a frown. His shirt collar was open, no tie. With his sunburned face and blond hair cut in a flat-top, Leo could more easily imagine him on the deck of a fishing trawler rather than as part of a murder investigation.

  She hesitated in the doorway of the dining room. The front door was propped open, and a man carrying two heavy cases preceded a woman muscling in a pair of lights on extendable stands.

  "Where's the manager?" Flanagan asked. "Oh, hi there."

  He met Leo's eyes, and she could tell he didn't remember her name. "Leona Reese here, Detective."

  "Yeah, right. This is my partner, Hal DeWitt."

  "Glad to meet you, Detective DeWitt," she said. "I'm sorry to hear that Mrs. Trimble's death has been ruled a homicide."

  "Not half as sorry as I am," Flanagan said.

  "I think you'll find the manager down the east hall."

  "Thanks."

  Eleanor slipped into the doorway next to Leo, and they watched a parade of people bring equipment through the front entrance. "Looks like they'll take fingerprints," Leo said.

  When it seemed that everyone was in to stay, Eleanor shut the door.

  Flanagan came around the corner. "Hey, there may be more technicians needing to come in."

  Eleanor said, "They can ring the bell."

  Flanagan let out a sigh of exasperation. "It's a lot easier if the door's open so they can come and go."

  "Didn't we just have a death here due to poor security?"

  Flanagan gaped at her but didn't argue. To Leo he said, "We're likely to be here a couple of hours. I suggest that you skedaddle for a while. Maybe go get some lunch."

  "Okay."

  He looked at his watch. "Mrs. Sinclair, if you'd be so kind, I'd appreciate it if you'd stay in. Maybe you could wait right here and keep track of the front door."

  "When will I be able to return to my apartment?"

  "Not sure. I'll let you know as soon as I can."

  "Lunch is going to be served at noon. If you don't find me here, I'll be in the dining room. Leona, would you like me to see if the cooks can set a place for you?"

  "No, that's all right. I'll come back in a couple of hours. I should check in at the office anyway."

  Leo gathered up her things and headed for the parking lot. The air had warmed up, blessing the Twin Cities with an unusually hot fall day, and the humidity wrapped around her like a soggy blanket. She wouldn't be surpri
sed if it hit ninety degrees before the afternoon was over.

  She cranked up the A/C, and as she waited for the car to cool down, she turned on her cell phone. No messages. Daria must be busy in court. Leo wondered how her trial prep was going and left a quick message to tell her she was thinking of her and hoping it was all going well.

  She hadn't thought to give Fred Baldur her phone number, so she called the department and was transferred twice before his voice came on the line.

  "Fred, Leona Reese here. The police arrived at Rivers' Edge and kicked me out for a couple of hours while they work the scene. The woman who died last night was murdered."

  "How?"

  "They haven't told me officially, but the officer in charge seemed to suspect suffocation."

  "I've received four major complaints and sixteen minor."

  "You're kidding. About Rivers' Edge?"

  "No, of course not. About various licensees. I've systematically dispensed with three of the more worrisome ones and most of the minor issues."

  Why was he telling her this? She had a major case to deal with. What did she care about his administrative woes? "And so?"

  "I can't help you with the case you're on. You can call for advice anytime, but I've got my hands full here."

  "I see. I'm going to take a lunch break, kill some time, then continue recording witness statements at the apartment."

  "Excellent! Good plan."

  "I won't knock off at five, Fred, to ensure that I've put in a full day. Unless you've got something that would take an hour—"

  "No, nothing of that nature at the moment. All the cases I have for you are in-depth and will take concerted effort."

  "Then I'll take care of some personal business now and work late to compensate."

  "No need to inform me. We're all salaried professionals here. The boss expects us to stay on top of the juggernaut and keep the crazies out of his hair."

  "I understand. Still, I thought I should keep someone apprised of my status."

  "Yes, fine, fine. Keep me posted if you wish."

  "Do you want my cell phone number?"

  "Ah, no." He made a humming sound. "Well, perhaps that would be a good idea. I'm not likely to call, though. Things are all-consuming here."

  Leo gave him the number, got his, and closed her cell phone. What a weasel. She didn't have enough information about policies and procedures yet, but her intuition shrieked that Fred Baldur was sitting on his ass, drinking coffee, and shuffling paper while she was out doing the real work. She put the car into gear and drove toward Highway 100. As long as she had time on her hands, she might as well make the most of it.

  She pulled into the Robbinsdale Rifle & Gun Club lot fifteen minutes later. She opened the trunk, got out her weapon, a box of shells, ear protection, and safety glasses, and made her way down to the gun club's basement. The place smelled of gun oil and cordite. The clerk and another man leaned over the counter to examine a topographical map while they argued about the best place to build a deer stand.

  Leo showed the clerk her peace officer's license to expedite matters and paid for an hour's time. She selected a target and took it into the enclosed area. The other lanes were all empty, which was nice. The less noise, the better. But the ceiling was so low that she immediately felt claustrophobic.

  As the ventilation fan rattled and whirred, she loaded three magazines for her Glock, then set up the target and sent it out a distance of eighteen feet. For the last decade, she'd practiced at least once per month at distances between five and twenty-five feet. Feet, not yards. Civilians were surprised any time she told them that. On all the cop shows, the shootouts often took place over long distances out in the street, from behind car doors, and on the run down dark, shadowy alleys.

  But she still remembered what Dad Wallace, her foster father, had taught her and Kate the first time he'd taken them to a range to learn to handle guns safely: "The majority of police officers are killed at a distance of ten feet or less. Girls, we get up close and personal with people. If they pull a gun, they're more likely to be in your face than far away."

  At the time, Leo had been thirteen and Kate twelve, and Dad Wallace's patient tutoring had instilled in them a respect for firearms and a fascination as well. He was never surprised that they'd both gone into law enforcement—only that his sons had not.

  Now here it was nearly two decades later, and Leo had recently read that most police gunfights were won—and lost—at distances less than seven yards. The times may change, the weapons may be different, but as Dad Wallace always said, cops working "up close and personal" was still what law enforcement was all about.

  She donned her ear protection and safety glasses and assumed her favorite shooting stance, surprised that her heart was beating extra hard. She usually wasn't this nervous. She lowered the weapon and took two deep breaths, willing herself to relax. Her vision was clear, and she could stay as long as she needed to—or for as long as her credit card held out. She told herself to stop fretting and start shooting. She couldn't think of a single reason why she couldn't successfully fire off the entire box of fifty shells.

  She decided to warm up by aiming for the target's bull's-eye in bursts of three shots. She sighted down the barrel and squeezed the trigger. "Yowza," she said triumphantly. All three shots nailed near-center.

  Lining up again, Leo aimed for the outside ring, to the top and the right. These shots clustered in a triangle with no more than an inch between them. She let out a sigh of relief.

  She was halfway through the second magazine when her skull suddenly felt like it would explode. The pounding squeezed at her temples like she'd been hit with a blackjack. She placed the Glock on the ledge in front of her and squeezed her eyes shut. Pain. As bad as the worst sinus headache she'd ever had. With a swipe of her hand, she removed the ear protection muffs.

  She took deep breaths, but the pain didn't pass. It reduced to a less intense throb, but the pounding remained. For a while she worried that she'd throw up. When that sensation receded, she removed the glasses and set them on the ledge, too. Why was this happening? How could something she'd done for years give her such an intense headache? She'd shot tens of thousands of rounds, and this had never happened before. Was it the percussion? Maybe she needed a new pair of earmuffs. She'd seen some military grade, high performance ones that cost a hundred bucks and used a gain limiter to suppress sounds exceeding eighty decibels. Maybe that would help.

  She had no desire to practice anymore, especially since she knew her accuracy would be shot to hell. She had to acknowledge that something was definitely wrong. She gathered up everything, stepped out of the lane, and exited the range. At the cleaning station, she unloaded and disassembled her weapon, cleaned and oiled it, and put it away in the carry case.

  The cymbals crashing in her head synchronized with her footsteps on the way out to the car. After returning her kit to her trunk, she sat in the driver's seat and let the sun's heat warm her. But no amount of heat could bake the pain from her head.

  Chapter Five

  ELEANOR AND TED sat on a saggy maroon sofa in the middle of the Rivers' Edge lounge area. A couple of technicians wrangled fancy spotlights on adjustable stands through the front door. The two detectives, Flanagan and DeWitt, followed behind.

  She could see Ted was in a terrible mood, but he hadn't yet shared what was troubling him. Of course, Callie's death was enough to upset him, but this attitude seemed different. It wasn't like Ted to scowl and stare daggers as he was doing to the police officials entering the complex.

  She patted his arm. His suit felt smooth and rich. She wasn't sure what the material was called, but she knew he favored the Baroni brand. Ted always looked good in business clothes, and the gray two-button jacket was especially handsome, especially with the bright blue tie. Eleanor had always been utilitarian. Callie was the one who enjoyed wearing flashy outfits, expensive pantsuits, and splashy colors. But Eleanor could appreciate the style of Ted's outfit.

>   Ted muttered, "I'd like to have it out with those two."

  "Who?"

  "Asshole cops."

  Eleanor tightened her grip on his forearm and leaned in to examine Ted's wounded expression. "Why?"

  "They showed up at my apartment in the dead of night and hauled me down to the station."

  "What? But—but why?"

  "They asked me some questions about where I was last night, and I guess they didn't like my answers. They hardly let me dress. Just barged in, tried to intimidate me, and dragged me downtown. Thank God April wasn't home. They kept asking questions about Mom, but they wouldn't tell me what was wrong. You'd think that when the police show up to inform a person of a death in the family, they'd be a lot nicer about it."

  The two police detectives came striding from the east wing. Without a glance they hurried out the front door and slammed it behind them.

  "They're absolute assholes," Ted said. "Rude. Suspicious. Just mean."

  "I'm so sorry they got to you before I could tell you. I was in such shock. I should have called you and your sister right away, Ted."

  "It's okay, El.

  "How long did they keep you?"

  "Hours. Made me sit there for hours and didn't even offer me coffee or a Coke or anything. I sweated in some dinky little room with only a chair and table. When they finally did come talk to me, I bet we were done in fifteen minutes. What could I tell them? I don't know a thing. I got home in time to take a shower, dress, and go make arrangements at work. I'd have been here sooner, but my boss was on the rampage. I had to finish off some paperwork for him before I could come see about my own mother's death. I'm sorry it took me so long."

  He shuddered. At first Eleanor assumed it was from being upset about work, but when she looked closer, she recognized the anger he was trying to stifle. She remembered him as a small boy when his older sister Olivia took something away and he had to fight to get it back. That same focused, intent fury was evident on his face today.

  "You know, El, I've been smacked around before. I had my share of fights in school when I was growing up, but you just don't know how helpless you feel when two Cro-Magnon cops stand over you and shoot questions like crazy. Made me sick that they could possibly think I'd hurt anybody, especially my own mother."