Buyer's Remorse

by Lori L. Lake

  "You mean sending people out to crime scenes completely unprepared and then not being available for questions?"

  "Exactly. It's possible he doesn't understand how unsupportive he is, but over time, he's been personally responsible for at least half the staff in this office transferring elsewhere or even quitting before they pass probation."

  "Why isn't he let go?"

  "That's the thing—he used to be a good worker. He's still riding on past successes. Sooner or later, somebody needs to either read him the riot act or fire him."

  "You needled him pretty badly."

  "Yeah, I did. I had good reason for it, though. You can unite with him in mutual disgust at my tactics."

  "That's not a real likely scenario."

  "Sure it is. You're set up beautifully now. Next time he comes to talk to you, he'll be all embarrassed and falling all over himself to be helpful. Suck up a bit and tell him you thought I went totally overboard, and he'll go out of his way to be more supportive. He may be a crappy worker at this point in his career, but if he takes the time, he does know the procedures."

  "What about you?"

  "Sometimes the best defense is being offensive. And you've got to admit, I was plenty offensive." He rolled the chair back and forth as though he were doing a dance.

  "He probably hates you."

  Thom shrugged. "So? I don't care. Unlike so many other investigators, I'll call every one of his bluffs, bring up every transgression. Most people would rather die than make a scene. I've actually made more friends by announcing the obvious than by grinning and bearing abuse or stupidity."

  "I'm not sure that bodes well for your opportunities for advancement."

  Thom laughed so hard he leaned forward, one arm across his midsection. "I've got no desire to be in management here. I'm learning all kinds of investigative techniques and enjoying the variety of cases. Eventually, I think I may open my own shop."

  "Private investigations?"

  "Yeah. I'm thinking of putting up a graphic of three spying eyes and calling it Ironside International Investigations." He grinned up at her, but his smile faltered. "What? You never watched Ironside reruns? Raymond Burr as a San Francisco detective in a wheelchair?"

  "I've seen him in old Perry Mason shows, but not anything else."

  "It's way before our time. Late 1960s, I think. Probably you can catch it on DVD. Okay, then, where were we?"

  Leo contemplated the report in her hand. "Deaths in the various homes and whether Hazel was present at the time." She flipped through the background checks while Thom waited in the hallway. "Here she is. She worked at Rivers' Rapids in Coon Rapids."

  "Who died there?"

  Leo fished around the array of pages on the desk until she found the list. "Bettie Beckman and Francine Stahl."

  "Women. Not necessarily our gold-digging black widow's typical marks."

  "No, not exactly. What did the six victims die from?"

  Thom wheeled into the other cubicle and grabbed a legal pad. "Beckman, natural causes, died in her sleep. Stahl, heart attack. Both of them from the Coon Rapids site. James Milstein at the Minnetonka site, stroke. Conrad Johnson, Vadnais Heights, heart attack. From Plymouth, Benjamin Johanssen, heart attack, and Marjorie May Warner, natural causes, died in her sleep."

  Leo picked through her own notes. "That's certainly interesting."

  "Why?"

  "Because the financials for two of those people suggest a death pattern similar to our Rivers' Edge death. Guess which two."

  Thom pondered for a moment. "Three women, three men. The men all died of heart attacks and strokes. One heart attack for the ladies, and the other two natural causes. Are you saying the two who died of natural causes maybe were suffocated like Callie Trimble?"

  "Makes you wonder, doesn't it? And looking at their credit histories shows some strange irregularities."

  "In what way?"

  "Bettie Beckman purchased expensive items on credit at two jeweler's shops the month before she died. The accounts weren't paid and went into collection. She's got flags all over the account. I bet her heirs, whoever they are, challenged the bills, and the credit card company is still duking it out. I see other purchases here, too, for substantial amounts, but I'm not sure what kind of stores these are. Sixteen days before she died, Marjorie May Warner spent thousands of dollars at various places on her Visa card. Bettie was 59, and Marjorie 67. Kind of young to be dying in their sleep, don't you think?"

  "When were the charges made?" Thom asked.

  "Two summers ago for Marjorie. Last summer for Bettie."

  "Is it a coincidence that Callie, Marjorie, and Bettie all died in the summer?"

  "I don't know," Leo said. "But it looks fishy to me."

  "It's been a rough market, you know. Lots of flight to cash."

  "Flight to cash?"

  "When the market's tanking, you get a lot of widespread selling of investments. The market feels unsafe, so people convert stocks, bonds, mutual funds and all that, to go from illiquid to liquid. Sometimes they'll convert from money to luxuries like diamonds and gold. Bad news for long-term investors. It's not so much a panicked sell-off as it is a calculated attempt to preserve funds in an unstable market."

  "I'm impressed, Thom. You're not just a Wheelchair Psychologist but also a Wheelchair Economics Expert."

  He blushed. "I try to be a Renaissance Man. Interested in tons, master of none."

  "I doubt that's true." Before he had a chance to argue, Leo said, "I think we have a lot to do on Monday."

  "Uh huh. But if you get any hot leads over the weekend, give me a ring."

  "How about revving up that wheelchair and closing up shop for the weekend? It's twenty to six."

  "I could roll with that."

  Chapter Seventeen

  ELEANOR SAT THROUGH the meal in the dining room, picking at her food and consuming little of the noodle casserole while downing far too much decaf coffee. Dottie presented her with a piece of peach pie, but Eleanor took only a single bite, which she nearly choked on. Peach pie had been one of Callie's favorites, and the surge of grief Eleanor felt was so strong that, for a moment, she didn't think she'd be able to swallow the bite.

  She rose, slid open the glass door, and went out into the garden. The sun was still warm and hovering low in the western sky. She walked along the flagstone path in the shade of a majestic maple tree. The light breeze felt good on her skin, warm but insistent. She'd been sitting too much, and her legs needed this stretching.

  As she strolled under the trees and near the flower beds, a line of Mary Oliver's poetry came to her. Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

  Callie had asked her a similar question after they'd heard the dementia diagnosis. "One day I'll have lost my mind, El," she said. "You'll still have a lot of life left to live, and I hope you'll live it. You will, won't you? Promise me you'll continue on."

  Tears sprang into Eleanor's eyes. She stopped for a moment, one hand on the rough trunk of the largest maple tree, and let herself sob into her hanky. The tears passed after a few moments, and she felt lighter. She wasn't sure if she was ready to contemplate what the rest of her life was going to be like without Callie. She'd been losing her by bits and pieces for months now. Still, to lose her all at once, so violently…the horror of it wouldn't leave her.

  She closed her eyes, helplessly imagining what Callie's last moments would have been like. The panic, the fear, not being able to breathe. She hoped Callie's confusion was so great that she hadn't been entirely aware of what was happening. But Eleanor could never know, would never be sure, and that hurt her heart.

  She'd never been a violent person, but for a moment she allowed herself to imagine wrapping her hands around the throat of the killer, pressing with her thumbs, choking the ever-living life right out of him. He was faceless. Formless. What did he look like? Who was he? Not knowing was a nightmare. She rubbed her bare arms and shivered, suddenly feeling chilled through an
d through.

  Eleanor was impatient for the funeral to be over, if only because afterwards, she hoped Howard would leave her alone. Ted had been a great deal of help and support, but Howard questioned everything—the time of the service, the music selected, the cost of the catering, and more. Howard insisted on conjuring up old impressions of Callie, details about her that hadn't fit her personality or temperament since she was in high school. He truly didn't know his ex-wife or what she'd been all about. To make matters worse, he insisted on speaking on behalf of the family, though she felt Ted would be the better choice. She shuddered to think of what Howard would say.

  She couldn't let any of that matter. In a carefully protected part of her heart, she would keep her love tucked silently away. She could take it out and examine it any time she wished.

  For now she had no relief from grief, no place to be, and nothing to do. The funeral preparations had all been made, and now it was a matter of waiting. And waiting some more. Ted's sister, Olivia, would arrive in a few days, and various other distant cousins, nieces, and nephews would probably show up as well. But nothing was happening right now, and she hated waiting.

  She left the garden and found her way to Callie's room. Standing in the doorway, she looked back at her own apartment, realizing that at some point she'd need to make arrangements to clear out their rooms. Ted would help. She'd hire movers, and they could do the packing and heavy lifting. She moved across the hall to the doorway of the room Callie had died in. She still hadn't been able to enter.

  It was all too much. She had to get away.

  She retrieved her car keys and shoulder bag, tucked an extra handkerchief in her pocket, and locked her door. In the common area, Franklin Callaghan sat on the couch, hunched over a crossword puzzle book. He gave her a solemn nod, and she waved in return but didn't stop to chat.

  The car started right up. The air-conditioning fan pumped out hot moist air. Eleanor broke out in a sweat and some of her chill faded. After a moment, she backed out the Buick and drove aimlessly. Quite a bit of time passed before she realized she had no recollection of where she'd driven. Strange how the mind could work on automatic like that. She crossed the river into Saint Paul, wishing with all her heart that she and Callie had never left there. Why did they have to move to Rivers' Edge? If they had stayed in Eleanor's bungalow in Saint Paul, Callie would still be alive. Eleanor would still have her excellent credit rating. She had enough money to last for decades. Bitterly, she thought, that's what I get for being proactive and trying to plan ahead.

  She drove through the early evening, the traffic dispersing more the longer she traveled. What night was it? Friday? She recalled that Brian at the Chez René restaurant had said the waiter would be working—what was his name?

  Stephan.

  She pulled into a left-turn lane and made a U-turn. The parking lot at Chez René was jammed, and she had to circle three times before she saw a couple leaving. She took their slot and hurried into the restaurant.

  The foyer was crowded with people dressed in business attire, men in professional suits, women gussied up in nice outfits, heels, and lipstick. Eleanor examined her shabby tennis shoes, jeans, and short-sleeved blouse. Not quite bag-lady, but close. She didn't care. She marched up to the the maître d' station. A young blonde-haired woman wearing a slinky black dress and far too much black eyeliner stood behind the podium listening to a man try to convince her to give him a table.

  "I'm sorry, sir, but the maître d' has overbooked reservations for the evening. I can reserve a table for four two weeks from now."

  "That doesn't help me much tonight," he groused.

  He spun around and bumped into Eleanor. As he shouldered past, the young woman rolled her eyes and whispered, "Some people are so rude."

  "Yes," Eleanor said. "Very true."

  The hostess gave Eleanor a surreptitious once-over. "May I help you, ma'am?"

  "I'm here to speak to a waiter named Stephan."

  "I'm so sorry, but that's out of the question. He's serving."

  "Is Brian working tonight?"

  The woman pressed her lips together in a grimace. "What is it you need?"

  "Is he here or not?"

  "Yes, he is. He should be back any moment."

  "I'll wait for him."

  "Any moment" turned into ten minutes. Eleanor leaned against the wall, clutched her shoulder bag to her chest, and tried not to meet the eyes of well-dressed diners who milled around and regarded her with curiosity.

  Finally Brian strode in, and the blonde woman pointed her out. With a wave, Brian summoned Eleanor.

  "So we meet again. Mrs. Sinclair, isn't it?"

  "Good memory. Yes, I'm hoping to speak to your waiter."

  "Tell you what. Come with me."

  He stepped out from behind the maître d' station and led her into the restaurant, through a maze of tables and into an alcove next to the kitchen's swinging doors. They traveled down a narrow, dark hallway and came to a room furnished with a sofa and a battered-looking pair of wing chairs on one side. Two break tables with six chairs each were crammed into the other side of the room.

  "Staff break room," he said. "Have a seat, and as soon as Stephan has five minutes, he'll come talk to you. You may have to chat with him in installments, so this may take awhile. Shall I bring you some coffee?"

  "Oh, no." She lowered herself into one of the wing chairs, facing the door. "I'm fine."

  ELEANOR WOKE WITH a start. She didn't know how much time had passed and didn't remember leaning her head against the wing chair, but her already-sore neck was stiff again.

  A man stood in the doorway, his waiter's outfit neat and unwrinkled. He was compact, not much taller than Eleanor, and probably not much over twenty-one. His hair was unnaturally dark, cut short, and styled in that purposefully disarranged mess that seemed all the rage lately. She wondered why it was so important for young people to effect a windblown look. He'd obviously sprayed something on his hair to maintain the mess, because outside a wind machine, he could never have kept the thatch in place.

  "Hey," he said as he plopped into the other wing chair. "I'm Stephan. I hear you need to know about some customers."

  "Yes, yes, thank you." Bleary-eyed, Eleanor fumbled in her purse, hunting for the credit card bill on which she'd made notes about the food and wine served. She found it crumpled up at the bottom. "You waited on some people several weeks ago. I'm hoping you remember something about them." She handed him the statement. "I've listed the appetizers and meals Brian told me they had, and—"

  "Oh, yeah, these people. I remember decanting the spendy Mouton." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Table number eight in the corner. They passed on ordering cocktails but eventually ordered the wine." He opened his eyes. "They were very polite people. If I'm remembering correctly, I served two couples, the pastor, and one other woman who I'm pretty sure wasn't the pastor's wife."

  "A pastor?"

  "Yes. The minister and some others from the church were having a celebratory dinner. After the main course, they asked for the wine menu. I was surprised that they requested the Mouton since it's so expensive. I poured them each a glass, and they toasted their success. The pastor said that last month, when we got that storm with the straight-line, million-mile-an-hour winds, their roof was damaged. They'd been having fund-raisers ever since, and I guess they finally met their goal. They were nice enough customers even if they did leave a mediocre tip."

  "Customers to you, thieves in my book. I'm afraid they're planning on repairing their roof with my money. Not only did they steal my credit card, but they cleaned out most of my brokerage account."

  "I'm real sorry to hear that, ma'am."

  "Can you describe them?"

  "The pastor was a heavyset guy with lots of gray in his black beard. He had a priest collar on and wore a gray suit, otherwise I might not have pegged him for a priest. He looked more like an ex-biker, if you ask me. The two couples were average, middle-aged people. The guys wer
e like successful businessmen, very professional, you know? I remember one of them wore a huge black onyx ring on his right hand. He was bald."

  "Who paid?"

  "Blonde lady in an old-fashioned hat. She wasn't young. She was like somebody out of one of those old 'Thin Man' movies—you know what I mean? Very proper. She didn't say much, but if I remember correctly, while I was making my table rounds, they toasted her. I couldn't hear what was said, but she was blushing and seemed seriously pleased."

  "Is there anything else you can tell me to help me identify these people?"

  "Sure. I asked the pastor the name of his church. It's Saint Vladimir's. I remember because of Vlad the Impaler. I was a real Dracula and horror fan in my teens."

  Chapter Eighteen

  LEO PUZZLED OVER the details of the Rivers' Edge case as she lounged on a bamboo chair on her deck. Was it possible that three older ladies had died to cover up thefts from their accounts? The idea struck her as preposterous, but upon reflection, she thought that lately everything in her life, both personal and professional, was slightly bizarre. Her situation at work, her eye, this crazy case she was working on. She thought she'd entered the arena of the absurd. What would happen next? The house burn down? Aliens landing in her backyard?

  A quart pitcher filled with Bacardi Mojitos sweated under the umbrella on the glass table next to her. She'd eaten a tuna sandwich when she arrived home, but the rum in the Mojito had still gone straight to her head. Her headache easing up had been a nice side effect. Maybe if she kept up a steady diet of Mojitos, the eye pain would go away permanently. Maybe cirrhosis of the liver would kill her before the cancer. Or was cirrhosis cancer, too? She didn't know.

  She snagged the pitcher and topped off her tumbler. The lime wedge slipped off the side of the glass and fell into the cocktail. "Oops." She laughed and took another swig of the minty, lime-flavored drink.

  Daria appeared at the sliding glass door, and Leo flinched. "Oh! I didn't hear you come in."

  Daria stepped onto the deck, rolling up her shirtsleeves. She'd removed her jacket and shoes. In stocking feet, she strode over and kissed Leo's forehead.