Buyer's Remorse

by Lori L. Lake

  "How are you?"

  She hoisted her drink. "There's nothing a good Mojito can't cure."

  "Enough for me?"

  "Sure. I've made a dent, but you may manage an ounce or two."

  Daria disappeared into the house and returned a moment later with a glass that she filled from the pitcher. She sank down onto a lounging chair and crossed her legs at the ankle. With a sigh, she sucked down a third of the drink.

  "How was the meeting about the case?"

  "Not good. The partners are getting pressure from Dunleavey's father-in-law."

  "Daddy Warbucks?"

  "Just about. He's a big man in some sort of investment banking. Lots of money. A guy like Dunleavey would never get this kind of representation without a wife who came from money."

  "Did you put anybody on the stand yet?"

  "Yes, five witnesses before I had to leave. That's the only good thing about me having to ask for a recess. I've got the weekend now to see if I can pull out one last Hail Mary. Did you see the newspaper?"

  "No."

  "I think I told you Dunleavey made a wise-ass crack in the elevator the other day. I was hoping it wouldn't be a big deal, but the Trib reporter definitely heard and ran with it. He wrote a whole article about my client's sordid past, and Dunleavey came off looking like crap."

  "The jury won't see it, right?"

  "Maybe. They're not sequestered. Not yet anyway, and what's the use at this point? The prosecution could find someone else who overheard Dunleavey bragging and put them on the stand to testify, and then we're screwed. Dan and Myron practically nailed me to the cross. Said I should have controlled my client. Told me I ought to have asked the judge to sequester. Trouble is, I didn't see the article until this afternoon. Myron laid a pound of guilt on me, said he didn't want to see me blow this one because it would have repercussions later. I'll put on the last of my case Monday. After that, I can kiss being a partner goodbye, I guess." She drank deeply and closed her eyes.

  Not for the first time, Leo wondered whether Daria was cut out for courtroom cases. As second chair, working tirelessly behind the scenes, she'd received many accolades. Somebody else's head was on the chopping block then. While the lead attorney took the heat, Daria had the time and energy to explore strategy and options, which she was extraordinarily good at. She'd drawn the short straw for the Dunleavey trial, though. Her second chair was a greenhorn who wasn't much help.

  "What about your eye, Leo?" Daria hadn't opened her eyes. She lay on the lounge looking half-asleep.

  "I don't know." The buzz she'd been enjoying had gradually abated, and the ache in her forehead reasserted itself.

  "You have to make a decision. I vote for that plaque treatment."

  "How can you say that when neither of us has even read the materials from the doctor?"

  "The doctor made it sound the most effective."

  "And you want me to call up Winslow and tell him we'll take Door Number Two because the scanty details we heard sound effective?"

  Daria leaned forward and swung her legs off the side of the lounge chair. "No, that's not what I meant."

  "I need to read all that literature he gave us." Leo set her glass on the table and pressed cool fingertips to her brow. "It's just that reading gives me a headache."

  "Did you get the painkiller scrip filled?" When she didn't answer, Daria said, "Why the hell not? The doctor said it would help."

  "I hate taking drugs like that. I feel too fuzzy-headed and can't think clearly."

  "And having a constant headache doesn't affect your thinking skills?"

  "I may be cranky, but at least I'm wide awake."

  Daria lurched up, took a final swig of the Mojito, and smacked the glass down on the table.

  "Jeez, you trying to break the glass?"

  Daria stomped into the house. Leo watched her retreating back with sorrow. Daria had never been good at handling emotionally difficult matters. Leo chalked it up to her having lived a fairytale childhood with a successful businessman for a father, a society dame for a mother, and older siblings who doted on her. Her family had a live-in maid when she was growing up, and the most arduous manual labor she'd done was vacuuming when the maid was on vacation. She hadn't lost a grandparent until she was thirty, and the family dog she'd loved since the age of fifteen was still alive. She didn't think Daria had ever learned how to lose anything, not a case, not a family member or pet, and certainly not her partner's eye.

  LATER, AS THE sun gradually dipped toward the horizon, Leo scooped up the empty pitcher and took the glasses to the kitchen to wash. She wiped the bread crumbs off the counter and tidied up.

  On the second floor, Daria's office door was closed, so Leo didn't bother her. She went downstairs to the TV room and curled up to watch a Lifetime movie, but she couldn't get interested in some perfect blonde's rocky love life when all she could think about was having cancer in her eye.

  Luckily, Kate called. Before she could broach the subject of Leo's health situation, Leo asked, "How are the kids?"

  "Jenny is in time-out, and Paul fell asleep in the high chair. They went to the zoo today with daycare and didn't get their afternoon naps, so they've been little terrors."

  "Poor things."

  "Poor nothing. They told Susie today that Paul was the original wild child at the zoo. He tried to climb into the monkey cage. Lucky it's fully enclosed. I can tell already that he's going to be a handful when he gets older. He gets time-out now—he'll probably get grounded regularly by the time he's in grade school."

  "He's quite the little climber."

  "No kidding. Enough about the kids. What about you? What did the specialist say about the cancer?"

  "Might lose the eye."

  "Oh, shit." Kate's exhale sounded as though someone had slashed a tire. "There's got to be something they can do."

  She gave Kate the rundown on all she'd learned from the doctor, and Kate listened and asked all the right questions. She loved that about Kate. Though Kate always fought shedding tears, she was warm and occasionally weepy when bad news came her way. At heart, though, she was immensely practical.

  "It seems to me," Kate said, "that the most important thing is that the cancer be contained."

  She didn't have to say another word for Leo to understand. Kate and Mom Wallace had been with her at the hospice when her mother died. Kate had been strong—as strong as a ten-year-old child can be—but Leo knew there was no way her foster sister would want to see Leo go through the same slow, sapping death. The thought frightened both of them, though neither would ever admit it out loud to the other. Voicing it would make it too real.

  Leo said, "I'll see the doctor and decide on a course of treatment."

  "I'm there if you need me."

  "I know."

  "How's Daria taking this?"

  "Almost as well as could be expected."

  Kate let out a sigh. "Crap."

  "It's not so bad. She'll come around. She's just in shock right now."

  "And you're not?"

  "I can't afford to be."

  Chapter Nineteen

  LEO AWOKE SATURDAY in the late morning bleary-eyed and exhausted. She'd gone to bed after midnight but had awakened when Daria came in at two a.m. She whispered in the dark, asking how the case prep was coming, but Daria didn't want to talk about it. She settled in and told Leo to go back to sleep.

  She hated it when Daria was out of sorts. She was usually such a cheerful person, but when she was in a mood, she was impossible. Days might pass before she got out of a blue funk.

  Leo left her tossing fitfully and took a relaxing bath, hoping to soak away her hangover and remembering why she didn't like to take in more than one drink or a couple of beers in one sitting. Six or eight ounces of rum in the Mojitos had left her muzzy-headed.

  By the time she got down to the kitchen, it was noon. She found the remains of Daria's late-night snack—crackers, cheese, and seven empty Michelob bottles. Leo's valise, which she'd tos
sed on the counter when she came home, emitted a beeping noise. She'd forgotten to take her cell phone out and put it in the charger. When she got it out of her bag, she discovered it was beeping because she had a message, not due to a low battery.

  She flipped it open and checked voicemail. The sole message, left the night before, was from Eleanor Sinclair. "I'm sorry to bother you after work hours, but I've discovered some further information that I believe is relevant. When you get to work on Monday, could you call me at your earliest convenience?"

  Leo didn't want to wait for work hours. She was relieved to have something to do, even if it was Saturday. When Eleanor answered, her voice was strong, perhaps slightly outraged. "I tried to reach the detectives last night, but they were out on another case, and I still haven't heard from them."

  "Are you in danger?" Leo asked.

  "Heavens, no. I don't believe so. I've just learned some additional details about who might have stolen my mail. I went to a restaurant last night called Chez René over in Saint Paul, and the waiter described the user of my credit card as a blonde woman, middle-aged, dressed nicely. Two couples and a minister from Saint Vladimir's Lutheran Church were with her."

  "I know where that church is. Might be a lead we can follow up on. I'll see if I can locate the minister. What about the blonde woman?"

  "Stephan, the waiter, said she was attractive, but much older than he is. Stephan was all of twenty, so I'm not sure what middle-aged constitutes in his estimation. Whether she was thirty or fifty, he couldn't say. However, the jeweler I visited also described a similar woman."

  "Your credit card could have been sold to someone, but it's also possible that the woman is the one who stole it. Is Hazel on duty?"

  "No."

  "How about Rowena Hoxley?"

  "Rowena? No. She's usually off from Friday night until Monday morning. Habibah and Sherry have the afternoon shift. I think it's Silvia on night duty."

  "I want you to lock your doors and don't let anyone in. Don't go out until dinner, and make sure you lock up while you're gone. Stay in the company of the other ladies, and don't open the door later tonight for anyone but Habibah and Sherry. All right?"

  "I hadn't intended going anywhere."

  "Good. Take no chances, Eleanor. I'll drop by tomorrow and check on you."

  "Thank you, Leona. I apologize that I called after hours."

  "Please don't worry. You were right to make sure I got the information. Let me know if you hear from Flanagan or DeWitt."

  "You can count on it."

  Leo hung up and connected the phone to her charger. She wandered into the living room, sat at the writing desk in the corner, and took a legal pad from a drawer.

  She wrote Hazel Bellinger's name. She was belligerent, sometimes rude, and she had received funds recently. Could she be the one? She wasn't a big woman, so could she have subdued Callie Trimble?

  Or was it more likely that Rowena Hoxley was involved in the theft and murders? Where had she been when Callie was murdered? Leo remembered ruling her out, and she hadn't given her another thought since. She'd felt the same way about Hoxley as she had about Habibah Okello. Neither of them seemed likely to have killed anybody. But now that she thought about it, Rowena Hoxley was certainly a sturdy, well-muscled woman, plenty coordinated enough to have gotten over the garden wall. Of all the employees, she was the most likely to have a key to the gate. She could have even come in through the front door, and it was possible nobody noticed her. Not likely, but possible.

  Based on her behavior since Leo had met her, Rowena must be a great actress if she was guilty. She seemed genuinely shocked about Callie's death and concerned for Eleanor. Not once had Leo sensed anything out of line with her. But what if she was a particularly glib sociopath?

  Leo remembered a recent police training where the presenter went through the characteristics of the sociopathic personality: charm, manipulation, convincing lies, and a childish selfishness that would be funny if it didn't so often lead to heinous and violent crimes. Leo had dealt with many such people on the street. They were remorseless, impulsive, lacking shame, and often displayed little emotion or empathy about the problems of others.

  Rowena Hoxley didn't appear to fall into those categorical descriptions, nor did she work in a field where a sociopath would thrive. Still, the elderly and disabled people in the Rivers' facilities would be easy marks, and sociopathic criminals were adept at changing their image, their stories, and their personalities to avoid being caught.

  Where had Hoxley worked before coming to Rivers' Edge? Leo wanted to kick herself for leaving the reports on the desk at DHS. She should have brought them home with her for the weekend, but when she'd left, she hadn't intended to think about work until Monday.

  She hadn't made a single useful note on the legal pad or paid attention to what she was doodling. Instead, she'd covered a fourth of the page, starting in one corner, with spindly webs that extended into the middle of the sheet. Obviously she'd begun to see the murderer's web, but she still lacked a good picture of the grotesque spider who preyed on old women.

  She tossed the legal pad back into the drawer and rose. In the kitchen she flipped open the cell phone, found Thom's number, and hit SEND.

  He picked up on the second ring. "Thom Thoreson here."

  "It's Leona Reese—from work." A chorus of cheers blared through the phone.

  "Hey!" he shouted, sounding slightly distant. "Keep it down for a sec, guys." He returned to the phone, and his voice sounded stronger. "Sorry about that. Denver sacked our quarterback. I'm watching a pre-season football game with some buddies."

  "I apologize for interrupting you."

  "Not a problem. What's up?"

  She updated him regarding Eleanor Sinclair's call and ended by saying, "I think we have a lead. If we go by the church Sunday, maybe we can track down the minister's name."

  "Hang on a second…"

  Another cheer went up, and she assumed the football game must be pretty exciting. After a moment, she heard men's voices arguing, which she couldn't quite make out. The commentary gradually became fainter.

  "Okay," Thom said, "I'm on Pete's computer, and I pulled up the church on the Internet. St. Vladimir's has a whole website. The senior pastor is George Trent. He's got two associate pastors. One does faith formation, and the other handles visitations and outreach stuff, and they've got a woman who is listed as a lay administrator. Got pictures of all of them. One's a little weasely guy with blond hair, another is about forty years old and bald. Trent is a burly-looking guy with a dark beard. Reminds me of Teddy Roosevelt. He's got to be our man."

  "Is the woman blonde?"

  "Yeah." He hesitated. "But how do I say this without sounding like a sexist pig?"

  Shouts and loud groans came from the background.

  "Your buddies think you're a sexist pig?"

  "No. I think the Broncos just fumbled. Sorry about the noise. Anyway, the lay administrator is not pretty at all. If the waiter and the jeweler described the woman as attractive, this gal won't fit the picture."

  "You sure? A bit of makeup can go a long way for a lot of women."

  "No, not with this one. If I have to be blunt, she's built like a Mack truck. She has a nice smile, but no twenty-year-old waiter is going to say she's pretty."

  Leo paused to consider. If they had two pastors and an administrator, the church had to employ other people, too.

  "Have I offended you?" Thom asked.

  "Oh, no," she said. "Not at all. I'm wondering about other church staff."

  "They've got a secretary and a bookkeeper. They've also got the typical nonemployee types like an organist, youth minister, and building coordinator. I'm looking at all their pictures. None of the guys match the description, and the youth minister is a dark-haired woman. I think we need to go over to the church in the morning and see if we can roust anyone."

  "What time are the services?"

  "Eight and ten a.m."

  "Let's g
o to the ten o'clock and time it so we arrive after the service has begun."

  Chapter Twenty

  ELEANOR FELT LIKE she existed on a different plane, in a different aura than the people around her. Everywhere she looked, people carried on, their hands busy, voices loud, as they flitted about the apartment complex. She wandered among them, feeling as disconnected as a wraith in a churchyard.

  To force herself to come down to earth, she'd taken a turn around the garden after supper, but the setting sun beat upon her at too sharp an angle, and she retreated through the dining hall and back to Callie's apartment. She could be coming and going through the sliding glass door in her own apartment, but even after all this time, she still couldn't bring herself to spend any time in the room where Callie died. She knew it was irrational and she'd have to eventually clean everything out of there to move, but for now, she couldn't make herself cross the threshold. If she needed something, she asked Sherry or Habibah or Silvia, and they were more than happy to assist.

  Habibah appeared in her doorway. "Eleanor, I hesitate to bother you, but Callie's son is on the office phone."

  Eleanor rose and followed her through what felt like waves of extra-heavy air. She imagined this was what sleepwalkers felt like.

  Rather than go into Rowena's tiny office, she picked up the phone at the entryway counter.

  "Line two," Habibah said.

  "El?"

  "Ted? Why didn't you call me direct?"

  "This is my one call. I couldn't afford not reaching you."

  "What do you mean—your one call?"

  "The police picked me up for questioning again, and now they're going to charge me."

  "Charge you? Whatever for?"

  "They found a wallet they say is mine at another murder. But I've got my wallet. I don't know what they're talking about." He made a choking sound, and when he went on, his voice sounded thick and garbled. "Please believe me, I didn't kill Mom. I would never do such a thing. You've got to believe me."