“Man, it’s hot,” I said.
As we rounded the circular drive, Solo crossed to the fountain Leland had installed to honor his great grandmother. I followed him, catching my heel on something, and grabbing the memorial plaque on a granite pedestal for support.
Solo looked up, his face dripping with water. “Have you thought about this? Maybe the murderer isn’t anyone at FoY. Maybe it was someone else, or just a random mugging.”
“My gut says it isn’t random.” My hand slipped from the pedestal, scratching my arm on something rough. I looked down. Someone had etched an intricate Darth Vader face across the brass memorial plaque.
Solo bent for a closer look. “Pretty cool. But why here?”
“Someone scratched over the Kupper family crest.”
“What’s the crest look like?”
I shrugged. “The plaque took longer than expected to make. It was put in just last weekend. This is my first time to see it, but I know the crest was there.” I gasped and grabbed Solo’s arm. “Mr. Singh said Otto waited by the fountain for Sabbath to end?”
“Why would Otto ruin this?”
“Out of spite. Remember how he was mad at Leland for putting it here. Complaining about how it brought back horrible memories of Auschwitz,” I said, thinking ahead.
“Is that a glimmer of doubt on your face?” Solo asked.
“Yeah, I’m just having a tough time believing Otto could etch something this good.”
“That makes two of us. This looks like the work of a real artist.”
I gnawed on that a moment, and sucked in a breath. “I knew this guy in high school,” I said finally. “His name was Brian Oliver Problem, but everyone called him B.O. Problem.”
“Didn’t that piss him off?”
I shook my head. “He liked it. He was eccentric,” I said. “He was hauled into the principal’s office at least a dozen times for defacing school property. He even etched a picture of our chemistry teacher smoking a reefer on the flagpole. His defense was always the same: the objects were already scratched and ruined.”
“You think he did this?
“I don’t know why I should, but it couldn’t hurt to ask,” I said. “I heard somewhere that he opened a gallery here in Bellevue, but I’m not sure where.”
“We could Google his name. Something is bound to come up.”
“Good idea,” I said.
We crossed the grass to FoY’s entrance.
Colonel Jeffrey Abbott pushed open the door. “Welcome to the Ritz Hotel,” he said. “Have you any luggage?”
I smiled, as his mild craziness was harmless. “We’re traveling light today, Colonel.”
“Very good, miss. The front desk will assist you with your key.” He swept an Air Force uniformed and decorated arm toward reception.
I adored the Colonel. I even adored when he occasionally assumed his late wife’s personality. Nutty, yes, but the simple fact was he missed Ruthie. Here was a man who after fifty years of marriage found a way to go on without the love of his life. And here was a man who touched my heart by doing it.
“We’re having some excitement today,” the Colonel said. “Several residents are participating in a sit-in. They’re demanding pie.”
“No pie?” Solo asked. “Why no pie?”
It was FoY tradition to commemorate the life of a recently departed resident with pie, in great variety and abundance.
“So everyone knows about Otto,” I said with the somberness the moment required.
“The police told me,” the Colonel said.
“That reminds me. You shouldn’t have told Booth about Elsa’s STD,” I said.
“It wasn’t me. Ruthie must have blabbed,” he said, blaming it on his late wife.
I raised my brows. “Ruthie shouldn’t have done that. Health records are private.”
“So Elsa’s got the clap, uh?” The Colonel grinned. “Can I tell Gilad?”
I froze, feeling a flicker of guilt over perhaps revealing a secret. No, I decided, there must be some informational exchange between both personalities, the Colonel must have already known, or would have soon.
“Gilad already knows,” I said. “But let’s keep it to ourselves. Leave it to them to sort it out. Elsa and Gilad love each other.”
He tsked. “I like that Scottish detective,” he said, his voice lifting a few octaves that meant he had switched over to Ruthie mode.
“Thad Talon?” I asked.
“Is there another Scottish beefcake?” Colonel/Ruthie asked.
“I guess not,” I said cautiously.
“It isn’t an idle thing, attraction. There is energy about it, like a separate life,” the Colonel/Ruthie said. “Men on the hunt commonly ask a lot of questions about their loves and even more commonly call attention to their lover’s habits or follies, behavior so outrageous that one cannot help but grow to be love-struck.”
Huh? “Colonel—Ruthie—are you sure we’re talking about Thad Talon?”
“Of course I’m sure,” sputtered out an indignant response. “The detective seemed fixated on knowing what kind of flowers you liked. He had his notebook out and insisted on an answer. I told him daisies, and he wrote it down like it was too important to forget. I knew you liked those from our walks at the park. I noticed how you always stop to pick them.”
My heart sank. In truth, I had believed Talon was on my side, but now it appeared he had played me for information. But why my favorite flower? And what did it have to do with the case? I wrenched out my cell phone, readied to meet him head-on and find out.
“Those weren’t daisies,” I told Colonel/Ruthie. “They were weeds. I picked them so Gilad wouldn’t sneeze.”
“One man’s weeds are another man’s flowers.” The Colonel stepped to the door to greet the fast approaching postman.
As I looked through my call record for Talon’s number, Solo said something about checking on the rioting seniors and strode away. I was heavy into a scowl when Talon answered. He was chuckling.
“Ah, Rylie, just the girl I was thinking aboot.”
I had intended to express my anger calmly, rationally, but my mouth had a mind of its own. “Do you really think I killed Otto? Smothered him?”
“He didn’t die by asphyxiation.”
So the fall had killed him. “For the record my favorite flowers are foxgloves.”
More chuckling. “Good to know. No foxgloves at the crime scene.”
“Listen up, buddy!” I was outraged even more by his casual disregard for my fury.
“Are you being cheeky with me?” he asked.
“I called to tell you that I think you’re a jerk. You offered to help me, but in reality, you still consider me a suspect. Look, I didn’t throw Otto off the balcony. I didn’t kill him, or try to dispose of his body. Take a page out of Lipschitz’s book and be honest about your suspicions. If you think I killed Otto, just say so.” I uttered one of Gilad’s Yiddish curses.
“Does your mother know you swear in Yiddish?”
“I don’t have a mother. If you were any good at your job, you would know that.”
“You’ve a fearful temper, Rylie Tabitha Keyes, not that I mind. I like a touch of fire.”
“That’s all you have to say for yourself?”
He sighed. “When I drove down your driveway earlier, I ran over some foxgloves at the tight bend. I wanted to replace them with your favorite flowers as an apology.”
“Oh—” I wanted to say more, say sorry, but feared my shame would make me blubber like an idiot. “Well, then, there’s another reason for my call.”
“Aye?”
“Do you ever wear a kilt?” I asked.
“Do you want me to?”
~Even if it kills me, I’m gonna smile~
I was familiar with misconception, more so than a young woman should be. Missteps and blunders spoiled all my job performances. Even at FoY, I was trapped in a cycle of making do, of my own doing of course. I carried out work obligations with
a somewhat empty heart and to all watching eyes that made me a flake. This was a mistaken belief, of course, as had been my rash condemnation of Talon.
With my feet cement blocks, I shuffled across the lobby. Get me near a large body of water, I would be shark bait. I stopped at the front desk, leaned a hip on the corner. Ivy Valentine, FoY’s receptionist, was on the phone. Ivy looked like Dolly Parton, only with bigger boobs. Actually, I wasn’t sure her breasts counted as boobs, more like weather balloons. She was saving for a reduction. I tossed in a few bucks each paycheck. It was only fair, as I figured she had somehow ended up with my allotment, too.
As I sifted through a stack of junk mail, a foul odor made my nose wrinkle. I spied the source, bacon flavored mints Ivy habitually kept on her desk. I started to push them away, but paused at the familiarity of the scent. Then it hit me. Booth’s painkillers had smelled the same.
I looked up when she ended the call. “Does Booth like these mints?”
“If there was a stronger word than crazed, I would use it,” Ivy said. “No joke. He loads up a pill bottle with them daily. That’s funny. Your eye just twitched. That can’t be good.”
“Fatigue,” I said. “I’ve been up for almost twenty-four hours.”
“You know there are over forty known nervous disorders?” She popped a mint into her mouth and chomped on it. “A tic can be the first symptom. Most of the forty are fatal.”
Great. “Why does Booth mix painkillers with mints? Couldn’t that cause an overdose?”
“Not a chance. He’s allergic to painkillers. That prescription bottle once held the very pills that almost killed him. He carries it now as a lucky charm. Weird, huh?”
“He can’t take any painkillers?” I clung to hope that my investigation wasn’t circling the drain.
“Nope, totally lethal each and every kind, especially ones like Vicodin, Codeine, and Morphine.”
I sighed, reluctantly demoting Booth to the bottom of my suspect list.
“Why? What’s up?” Ivy asked. “Is this about Otto’s murder? Reporters have been calling all day. Hey, should I put on war paint? Are you caught up in this?”
I cut her an annoyed look.
“Rylie kill Otto? Oh, pleeeezzze, I told Lipschitz. The asshole.”
Ivy used to date Lipschitz. Then he cheated on her. Everyone has her periods of insanity. “Not that I don’t get wet when I see him,” she said. “He’s so yummy.”
Paging Dr. Freud.
The desk phone rang; she rolled her eyes and mouthed, “Reporter.”
“No comment,” Ivy said and disconnected. “It’s a cliché, but one for a reason. That Scottish detective is hot.” She waited for my response.
“Hot,” I repeated mechanically.
“Technically, he’s 98.6, but figuratively he’s smokin’. And you know what? He is interested in you, sister. I saw it on his face, especially when Lipschitz insisted you were involved in Otto’s murder. Omigod, just imagine those glorious baby blues looking at you across the pillow.”
She fanned herself.
I shrugged.
“Sister, you need a hormone shot. Oh, guess what? Elsa caught Farley going through Otto’s room last weekend.” She was referring to Farley McCray, a local high school sophomore and community service volunteer at FoY. “Elsa told Leland about it, and he ordered her to forget what she saw. What do you make of that? Weird, huh? I didn’t tell Lipschitz. I mean, it sort of looks bad for Leland. Maybe I should have said something. I mean, he is the law and all.”
It was the “and all” that still had me worried. Something about Lipschitz becoming a detective so young and a timely sister-city exchange program to partner him to another young detective did not ring true. But I had no time to give it more thought as it was a quarter past three and my investigation was a fast-moving, ticking clock.
“Is Farley working today?” A quiet word with him was in order.
“He was helping the plumber earlier, but I haven’t seen him for awhile.”
“How about Leland?” I asked. “Is he here?”
“He was earlier, but for only a few minutes. Then he left.” She hauled up from beneath her desk a carton of a dozen or so bottles of liquid vitamins. “Deliver the rest of these to the staff and seniors, will ya? I can’t leave the phone.”
“Sure.” I hefted the box on my hip and took off toward the resident hall.
“And watch out for the wing over the kitchen,” she called after me. “Some areas are still a real mess. And Tita rented a van for you to drive the seniors to Leland’s party tonight. Aero Rentals is dropping it off later. Party blast off is at eight sharp. Crazy day, huh?”
She had no idea.
Even though I’d downed half of another Roar Energy drink, I dragged my feet down the second floor hallway, placing outside each appropriate door a vitamin bottle wrapped in a clear plastic bag and a tag bearing the recipient’s name. I needed this type of mindless task. I was in a tailspin over Booth’s allergy to painkillers, unsure of where to take the investigation from here. Gilad Kupper was my only thought.
I dropped back a step when I heard Elsa Utterback grumble something from inside her apartment. I looked through the partly open door. The news was on the TV.
Elsa came forward, relying heavily on an unadorned cane. She looked a century older than her sixty-five years, her face drawn, and her salt and pepper hair wilted. Her blue dress was a shirtwaist and plain. She wore a dark patch over her right eye and an anxious look in the other.
“Where is Gilad?” she asked me. “Tita said you were the last to see him.”
I hesitated and another senior stepped into view from behind the door.
“Elsa, stop acting desperate,” Jane Gettelfinger said at her shoulder.
“Be quiet,” Elsa told her. “Haven’t you meddled enough?”
Jane bristled, her ruby earrings flashing. She was a decade older than Elsa. She’d gone the same route as Joan Rivers by having her creases of olive skin clipped and tucked somewhere higher than her forehead. Her amazingly toned body, swathed in gym sweats, raised mental images of what Arnold Schwarzenegger’s mother might look like at seventy-five.
“Meddled!” Jane railed. “You hit the jackpot when I introduced you to Hank. No doubt the finest night of your life.”
I squashed a smile. One of FoY’s most excellent rumors was how Jane kept a dildo named Humongous Hank under her pillow. Not only was Hank supposedly gigantic, but he multitasked with heat and vibration.
“That’s a lie,” Elsa said. “I never used that horrible thing. Not once.”
“Then you’re a damn fool.” Jane Gettelfinger was rumored to be pretty well fixed, not Leona Helmsley rich, but well off. She had come to live at FoY several years back when her Lake Washington estate was being treated for black mold. She never left; I suspect out of loneliness.
“Excuse me, ladies,” I said. “I need to deliver these vitamins. Only six to go.”
Elsa white-knuckled her cane. “But that was Gilad’s job. Leland asked him to do it last night. He gave him the box while we waited in the van. Gilad is with another woman, isn’t he?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“I knew it!” she went on. “He’s always with another woman.”
“Stop it, Elsa! Leave the poor girl alone,” Jane wailed then shifted to me. “In honor of today’s passing of one of our own, I must ask. Rylie, have you ever thought about what sex with an eighty-nine-year-old man would be like? Young lady, you’re beginning to frustrate me. Do you ever stop grimacing?”
I should mention Jane is a nymphomaniac.
“So,” Jane continued. “The news is some of the best-looking men have unimposing doo-hickeys. Nevertheless, just last weekend the vilest man rang my bell with his remarkable steed.”
I was thinking of the tendency to use horse references when speaking of the male sex organ. Wishful thinking by both genders, perhaps.
Jane blinked twice when she noticed my attention return to
her. “And land sakes alive,” she said, “did he ever rock my world. Once I removed his kippah and rubbed his bald spot of course. But what are ya going to do? Turn-ons, everybody has theirs. Okay, pop quiz, girlie. Who was my mystery hunk?”
I muttered Otto Weiner’s name and tasted bile.
She nodded, glanced at her jeweled watch. “Remember it all comes down to the doo-hickey. The rest is just window dressing,” she said and breezed away.
I stared after her until she turned the corner.
“I’m sorry about your eye,” I said to Elsa. “Is it serious?”
“Nothing that won’t pass,” she said, fingering the eye patch.
Due to an A in health class, I suspected the cause was herpes, but kept it to myself. “What was Farley doing in Otto’s room?”
“Rummaging through his things,” she said.
“Otto owned very little. Everyone knew that,” I said. “Don’t you find that strange?”
“Of course, especially since Jane leaves a fortune in jewels lying around, yet finds her adjacent room untouched.” She shrugged. “All I can think is that he was looking for prescription drugs, at least that’s what I told Leland.”
“And he said to forget what you saw. Why?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Why do you think?”
She looked stumped. That made two of us. Then sudden tears filled her blue eyes—eye. Only one visible due to the patch.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“It’s Gilad. We’re at each other’s throats.”
“Is that what happened at the bonfire?” I had to get her talking about last night. “You fought and he left.”
“Heavens, no. We’d had a huge fight earlier. We were barely speaking by then. No, he took off to look for some stupid bats nest.”
“The one near my house?” I asked.
Her brow rose.
“My grandfather suspects one is under our deck. Maybe he mentioned it to Gilad.”
“Gilad romping in the filth beneath a house,” she said. “Like I believe that.”
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