by Hillary Avis
Pogo whined from the kitchen floor and she picked him up. “Do they need to prove a motive to convict someone of murder?” she asked him. “I wish I knew. Maybe I should get a lawyer.”
Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Zack would know whether she could be convicted without a motive. She found his number in her phone and held her breath as she waited for him to answer the call.
“Allison?” he said. She could hear the sounds of a busy restaurant in the background. He and Emily must be out having dinner. “I thought you didn’t need a ride!”
“Oh, I don’t. I’m just getting settled in my new place.”
“That’s nice.” He paused. “Do you want to talk to Emily? She’s right here.”
Allison shook her head, then realized he couldn’t see her. “Oh, no—I wanted to ask you something. I didn’t want to worry Emily about it, so I didn’t mention it to her, but earlier this week, one of the residents where Paul lives was murdered, and I wondered—”
“Hang on a minute,” Zack said. The noise abruptly vanished as he muted the call, and then a moment later he came back on the line. “Sorry, I just stepped outside so I could hear you better. Did you say someone was murdered?”
“Yes, that’s right. A woman named Gertrude. And they think her roommate, Lilian, may have done it. But I was just wondering...what do they have to prove to convict someone? What evidence do they need?”
“I’d recommend not getting involved,” Zack said. “Let the court system sort it out.”
“Oh, of course, I’m not going to get involved. I was just curious.” Allison swallowed. Zack probably didn’t realize that her involvement would be as a suspect, not as a busybody.
“Well, the prosecution has to show motive, means, and opportunity. That means the accused has to have access to the murder weapon, time to commit the killing, and a reason to do so. And in your friend’s case, just being roommates gives her all those things. Unless there’s evidence that contradicts that narrative, she’ll probably be charged and convicted.”
“I see.” Allison’s stomach twisted. She already knew it, but hearing the words come out of Zack’s mouth made it all the more real. She couldn’t let Lilian go to jail.
“Her lawyer should have her plead to a lesser charge. That will save her the stress of the trial,” Zack mused. “And request that the judge assign her to a mental hospital. They don’t really like to send dementia patients to prison, anyway. Actually, she might be able to stay at Golden Gardens if the facility can provide enough supervision and security.”
Allison’s spirits rose, even as her shirt grew cold and damp from the water seeping from Pogo’s fur. If Lilian could stay at Golden Gardens and wouldn’t suffer any real consequences, maybe that meant Allison didn’t have a moral obligation to tell police about the open window. It might even be doing Lilian a favor in the long run, because she wouldn’t be stuck with a new roommate.
“Thanks, Zack,” she said. “That puts my mind at ease.”
“Happy to help. I should get back to Emily before she eats all the appetizers.” Allison could hear the smile in his voice as he said Emily’s name. It was nice to know he loved Emily that way. She hoped they’d have a long and happy life together, just like she and Paul had. Of course, young people waited longer to get married these days—if they ever did. They didn’t know what they were missing.
“Take care of her, Zack,” she said affectionately. But after she hung up the phone, something still niggled at her. If Lilian were blamed for Gertrude’s death, even if no harm came from it, there was still a problem.
The real killer, the person who’d entered the window in the dead of night and used the knitting needles to stab Gertrude Winter, was still out there. And that person would never be caught unless Allison told the police what she knew.
Chapter 7
Allison had to face the truth. As soon as she made the call to law enforcement, she would be a prime suspect in Gertrude’s murder. Whether it took an hour, a day, or a year for them to figure out she didn’t do it, she’d be under investigation, or worse, under arrest, for at least some amount of time. And she might be convicted unless—how had Zack put it? Unless there was evidence to contradict that narrative. She clicked off her phone and put it back in her purse.
What kind of evidence could convince police that Allison wasn’t the killer? With no alibi and plenty of opportunity, Allison’s potential saving grace was her complete lack of a motive. Her dislike of Gertrude was only mild. Maybe if she could prove that someone else had a real motive—a clear and pressing one—it would divert suspicion away from her and onto the real killer. The question was: who hated Gertrude enough to kill her.
Or maybe it wasn’t hatred. Allison pondered the other possibilities as she scratched Pogo behind the ears.
Jealousy? But who would be jealous of an elderly woman who was confined to bed?
Inheritance? Gertrude couldn’t have had much to her name—she didn’t even have a private room at Golden Gardens.
Life insurance? Maybe.
“Who wanted Gertrude dead?” Allison mused aloud. Pogo looked up at her with shining eyes and licked her chin. She grinned at him and wiped her chin on the shoulder of her shirt. “She wasn’t very nice, was she? But she was a harmless old lady. So the real question is—who gained from her death? And what did they gain?”
She set him down on the floor and then drummed her fingers on the kitchen countertop, wondering who might have more information about Gertrude’s affairs. She didn’t have any children as far as Allison knew. She had an ex-husband—“that man” whose cologne Lilian found so disgusting, Allison was pretty sure—and a sister in town. The sister was the likeliest beneficiary of any life insurance policy. If she and Gertrude had a poor relationship, the sister would be an excellent suspect. And if they had a close relationship, perhaps Gertrude had confided in her sister about anyone who might have held a grudge.
Myra would know. Allison called her cell, shrugging off any guilt she felt about calling during the dinner hour. “Hey, I was just wondering—where does Gertrude’s sister live? I want to send her some flowers.”
“Hedy lives over at the Dream-A-Lot, last I heard,” Myra said. “I haven’t seen her in a while, though. She might have moved.”
“She didn’t visit Gertrude much?” Allison asked.
Myra chuckled. “Those two were oil and water. You know how some sisters are. They seemed to put a lot of stock in their differences. But I’m sure Hedy feels the loss all the same. She’ll appreciate the sympathy.”
“Great, thanks. Sorry to interrupt your family time.”
“No sweat. We just finished dinner, so you saved me doing the dishes. Crystal already got started, lucky me.”
After they said goodbye, Allison buzzed with adrenaline. It couldn’t hurt to put off telling the police about the open window until tomorrow. Not if that meant she could find out more about who else had a motive to murder Gertrude. The evenings were long this time of year; she had plenty of time to pay a visit to Hedy.
“Where’s your bandana, little guy?” she asked Pogo. “We’re going to take a walk while it’s still light out.”
She located the “Adopt Me” bandana on the floor of the bathroom upstairs. She shook out the dirt into the tub and rinsed it down the drain before tying the bandana around Pogo’s neck. He danced a little, anticipating the walk.
“Good boy,” she said. “Who knows, maybe we’ll find your person...but even if we don’t, this is a good excuse to be a little nosy.”
She picked a handful of purple bearded irises in the yard and headed down Rosemary Street toward the highway. The Dream-A-Lot was just over the bridge on the other side of Claypool Creek, maybe a mile away. An old roadside motel that had been converted into efficiency apartments, the Dream-A-Lot had a less-than-stellar reputation. It wasn’t the kind of place you wanted to hang around after dark.
Allison glanced at the time. She had another hour of daylight, a
t least. She picked up the pace, and Pogo did his best to keep up on his short little legs. She ended up carrying him the last hundred yards or so from the bridge to the old motel, though. He panted in her arms, his tongue lolling out and a huge grin on his face. Allison smiled, too, when she saw the faded billboard still affixed to the top of the Dream-A-Lot. It showed a snoring king with a crown tilted to one side of his head and the words “While you sleep, Dream-A-Lot!” floating above him in stylized lettering.
The Dream-A-Lot had been built in the golden age of roadside motels, meant to draw in travelers as they passed by on the way to state capital to the west or the mountain resorts to the east. The name must have been chosen as a play on Camelot, because the building had a crenellated top like a castle. Tattered pennants flew from the corners of the roof and an oversize concrete knight in armor guarded the parking lot entrance. Allison remembered that, as a child, she thought real kings and queens must stay there on their vacations, and she’d always gawk at the motel parking lot from the back seat of her parents’ station wagon, hoping to catch a glimpse of foreign royalty.
However, the building itself had been repainted in the years since then. Instead of the original castle-gray, the faux-stone exterior was now a garish-if-cheerful bubblegum pink. The parking lot had more than one rusty vehicle up on blocks, and bags of trash overflowed the dumpster on the side of the building. The central tower that had once been the motel’s office now held the mailboxes and laundry machines for the residents to use. A sign in the window read “Units available – Call now” and had a local phone number.
Allison tried the tower door, but it was locked. She peered through the glass at the mailboxes inside. She could just make out the names written on each. She looked for the last name “Winters,” but couldn’t find it. It was probably Gertrude’s married name, anyway. She looked for Hedy, but no luck there, either—the mailbox labels only had first initials. Two boxes had the first initial “H” so Allison took a gamble and chose H. Frank, unit nine.
Unit nine was missing the number on the door, but it was between units eight and ten. Allison rapped gently on the door.
“Nobody home!” a voice said inside. “Go away!”
Pogo gave a sharp bark and wiggled until Allison relented and put him down, making sure the leash was looped firmly over her wrist so he couldn’t run off. He bounced and put his feet up against the door as though he could push it open himself. Allison knocked again—clearly somebody was home.
“Go away!” the voice said again. “I’m not here!”
“I just brought some flowers,” Allison called. She put her ear to the door to hear what was going on inside. “I’m sorry about your sis—”
The door jerked open a crack and a plump, elderly woman in a flowing purple kimono squinted suspiciously at Allison. Then, seeing the flowers in Allison’s hand, she opened the door a bit wider. “Are you a friend of Gertrude’s?”
“I—I am,” Allison said, proffering the bouquet. “I mean, I knew her. My husband lives at Golden Gardens, too. I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to say how sorry I am for your—”
The voice she’d first heard through the door interrupted her. “Go away!”
“Oh, shut up, Lester,” the woman yelled over her shoulder. Then to Allison she said, “Don’t mind him. He’s just mad at me because I shut off the TV. He likes to watch the news. Come in and visit a spell while I put these in water. Go ahead and bring the dog—Lester won’t bite unless you wear pineapple perfume. Ask me how I know!”
With a glance at the parking lot and a growing sense of unease, Allison followed her inside. The first thing that struck her about the room was the color. The walls were pink. Not the bubblegum pink of the exterior, but a deep, dusty rose. The second thing she noticed was the cacophony of prints. The furniture, an eclectic mix of old motel pieces and whimsical rattan, were cushioned and upholstered with a multitude of tropical designs. Hibiscus flowers, palms, and banana leaves covered every fabric surface. A hand-painted sign above the headboard read “Surfin’ Mama.”
“I’m Hedy, by the way,” the woman said as she filled a coconut-shaped coffee mug with water from the sink next to bathroom and stuck the irises in it. “Gertrude’s much younger sister. But I guess you knew that. And you are?”
“Allison. And this is Pogo.”
“Go away!” The voice echoed from inside the bathroom.
Hedy chuckled and reached inside the bathroom door. When she withdrew her arm, a large white bird with a yellow crest minced its way from Hedy’s forearm to her shoulder. Hedy put down the mug of irises on the dresser and stroked the bird’s chest. “This is Lester. He loves to complain, but he loves company more.”
Allison smiled politely. “I didn’t know cockatoos could talk.”
“Oh, sure,” Hedy said. “It just takes time. He didn’t know a word when I got him. I actually won him in a raffle! Pretty lucky, huh? These birds go for a grand, easy. When they drew my name, I about peed my pants.”
Still perched on Hedy’s shoulder, Lester caught sight of Pogo and turned his head to the side to get a better look at the dog. He raised his yellow crest. “Get out!” he squawked. “Nobody’s home!”
“Aw, you like him!” Hedy beamed at the bird. “He’s never been so sweet to a dog before.”
Allison giggled. “If that’s sweet, I don’t want to see sour!”
“Speaking of sweet and sour, want a drink?” Hedy motioned to the dresser, where a tray of half-empty liquor bottles sat next to a hot plate and a toaster oven.
Allison shook her head. “I shouldn’t.”
Hedy made a face. “Don’t be a spoilsport. At least have some water.” She filled a plastic cup from the tap and gave it to Allison. Then she scooped a pile of clothes off a pineapple-print chair and patted the seat.
Allison sat down gingerly, unsure about how to broach the subject she’d come to learn more about. Pogo settled at her feet. “I’m very sorry about Gertrude,” she began, but Hedy waved her hand, dismissing the thought. The motion made Lester’s crest raise up, and for a moment, Allison thought he might bite Hedy’s ear.
“Gert always had it coming. I used to tell her, keep up that attitude and you’re going to tick off the wrong someone. And sure enough, she finally did.” Hedy poured herself half a glass of gin and took a sip.
Allison leaned forward. “Who do you think did it?”
Hedy frowned at her, looking puzzled. “Didn’t the police arrest Lil already? Those two have been at each other’s throats since high school. I can’t believe it took this long for one of them to kill the other.”
“Did something happen between them?” Allison asked, careful not to sound too interested. But Hedy didn’t seem to mind gossiping about her sister.
“It’s not what happened between them. It’s who.” Hedy wiggled her drawn-on eyebrows.
“Oh?”
Hedy refilled her cup and settled down on the bed. Lester hopped from her shoulder to the headboard and leaned over her head, bobbing to catch wisps of her curly white hair as she spoke. “Lil and Gert were classmates. Remembrance High Class of 1958. Best friends from kindergarten up until the junior-senior prom. That night, Lil’s boyfriend dumped her in front of the whole school! Left her standing there with a big ol’ corsage on her wrist while he drove off with Gert in his Cabriolet. I saw it with my own eyes.”
Allison cocked her head to the side. Something didn’t add up about Hedy’s story. “I thought you said you were much younger than Gertrude. What were you doing at the junior-senior prom?”
“I was a junior.” Hedy shrugged. “A year is a long time when you’re that age.”
Allison suppressed a grin. Hedy’s idea of “much younger” was a scant twelve months. “Must have been humiliating for Lilian. But it seems bizarre to hold a grudge for sixty-something years over a high school boyfriend. I can’t even remember the name of the guy who took me to prom.” Allison chuckled.
“Frankly, I don’t know what
either of them saw in Harman, anyway,” Hedy said, nodding as she swirled the gin in her glass. “But it wasn’t just a high school fling. Harman and Gert got married that summer. He was eighteen and she was seventeen, and you know how it is at that age. Nobody can tell you no. And if they do, it makes you all the more determined.” Hedy barked a laugh and tossed back the last bit of her drink.
“How did Lil react? Was she upset, or did she accept that they were meant to be together?”
Hedy stared at her. “Obviously she was upset, or she wouldn’t have killed Gertrude!”
Allison nodded, doubt clouding her thoughts. It seemed like a stretch that Lilian would stay angry at Gertrude for so many decades. But then again, dementia had a way of erasing the years. Maybe all those old wounds were made fresh again.
She stood up. “Well, I’d better see myself out. It was nice meeting you, Hedy. I wish it were under better circumstances.”
Above Hedy’s head, Lester flapped his wings noisily, sending small white feathers flying around the bed. “Get out!” he squawked.
“That’s his way of saying ‘I love you.’ I think he really enjoyed this little visit. Birds are social animals, you know.” Hedy looked adoringly up at the agitated cockatoo.
Allison nodded. “My condolences again. Just curious...”
Hedy looked up. “What?”
“Did Gertrude have life insurance?”
Hedy brayed a laugh. “I wish! Why do you ask?”
Allison shifted uncomfortably and Pogo whined, seeming to sense her unease. The cockatoo whipped his head to the side and stared at the dog with one beady eye. “I just thought...well, if she did have life insurance, then the money might be the reason someone wanted her dead. The insurance beneficiary or whoever stood to inherit her estate.”
“That would be me. You thought maybe I wanted her dead? Sure I did—now I’m the pretty one!” Hedy winked.