“Denise was standing at the sink when I came in; her purse was wide open. She jumped when she saw me. I figured I’d startled her as she was touching up her makeup, but now that I know the poison in the candy must have been administered with a hypodermic needle, I suddenly realize that’s what I saw in Denise’s purse.”
“Are you certain, Polly?”
Polly paused. “I saw something long and thin, thinner than a cigarette. It had to be a hypodermic needle!”
Lydia remembered Polly’s psychiatric history and sighed. “Really? You never mentioned this before.”
“I know. I mean, it didn’t occur to me at the time.”
“But Polly, you said Denise is probably using again. She wouldn’t want you to see the hypodermic needle and know she was shooting up.”
“You’re not listening to me! Denise used that hypodermic needle to kill my father!”
Lydia drew in breath then spoke slowly, not wanting Polly to think she was betraying her a second time. “Sometimes we make an assumption without having all the facts.”
Polly’s voice grew shrill. “Then I’ll find out! I’ll talk to Denise, make her tell me if she did it!”
Lydia gripped the phone to stop her hand from trembling. “You’ll do no such thing! Even if Denise had a hypodermic needle, it doesn’t mean she killed your father. And if she did, she’d have no compunction about killing you! Tell Lieutenant Molina what you suspect. Let him take it from there.”
Silence. Lydia held her breath. “Polly?”
“Well…”
“Promise me you won’t confront Denise! You’ll leave everything to the police.”
Silence.
“Polly! I know you’re distraught, but I don’t want to see you get hurt. Think of your family. The girls.”
“The girls.” Polly let out a braying laugh that ended in a whimper.
“Polly, is something the matter? Is Gillian giving you a hard time?”
“No more than usual. It’s Nicole I’m worried about. She’s threatening to move in with that Ringo. And if she does,” Polly sniffed, and Lydia realized she was crying, “I don’t know what will become of her!”
Before Lydia could think of a soothing response, Polly went on quickly, “I have to go. Thanks for calling, Lydia.”
“But I didn’t do—”
I’ll be talking to your Lieutenant Molina,” Polly interrupted. “Just remember—Denise is a pathological liar. If she calls you, don’t believe one word she says.”
*
Two days later, Lydia rose with a brilliant June sun. She swam laps in the pool, then hurried home to dress for work. There was something to be said for working, even when one didn’t need the money. In her particular case, it kept her from dwelling too much on Daniel’s murder.
She waved to Jessica in passing, glad to see her in the midst of an interview. In her own office, she glanced at the slew of phone messages she had to return, and started making calls in order of their importance. From the looks of things, she’d have an hour or two to work on the books in the afternoon. And hopefully, one of five applicants Jessica was interviewing today would work out.
At eleven-thirty, Lydia was on the phone with an excited mother-of-the-bride, taking down the final number of guests for her daughter’s Saturday night wedding, when Denise strode into her office reeking of cigarette smoke. She paced up and down as furiously as a penned-in tiger until Lydia held up a finger to indicate one minute more and waved her outside. The mother was telling her for the third time about the bride and groom’s honeymoon trip to the Far East, when Lydia interrupted to say a call she absolutely had to take had just come through. The woman said she understood, then embarked on another story. Having reached her limit, Lydia broke in to offer congratulations once again and disconnected before the woman could reply.
Whew! How prenuptial nerves affected some people! And what had brought Denise to Carrington House? Lydia repressed a shudder as she recalled Polly’s insistence that Denise had killed their father. Though Lydia held little stock in what Polly considered “proof” of her sister’s guilt, she assumed Denise’s unexpected appearance was related to Daniel’s death.
She found her visitor on the broad top step of the front entrance, puffing furiously on a cigarette. At the sound of her name, Denise tossed the butt aside and followed Lydia into her office, where she perched precariously on the edge of a visitor’s chair. Only when Lydia sat facing her across her desk did she notice the tears streaming down Denise’s gaunt cheeks.
“You have to help me, Lydia! There’s no one else I can turn to.”
Was Denise about to confess to the murder, or had she landed in a completely different mess of trouble? Regardless, she had overstepped boundaries by coming to Lydia’s workplace. Lydia bit her lip to stop herself from expressing her displeasure. Denise was Daniel’s daughter. She owed her the courtesy of hearing her out.
“What’s the matter, Denise?”
“It’s Stefano. The police arrested him this morning.” Denise reached across the desk and clutched Lydia’s arm. “Please, Lydia. Talk to your friend, the police detective. Tell him Stefano didn’t do it!”
Lydia disengaged her claw-like grip and Denise sank back into the chair. “What are you talking about? They suspect Stefano killed your father?”
“No, of course not!” Denise shook her head vehemently, whipping her dark hair back and forth. “They’re accusing him of running you and Evelyn off the road the morning you drove her to the airport.”
“Accusing him?” Lydia echoed.
“All right, questioning him. It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”
Lydia thought a minute. “Does Stefano have a red pickup truck?”
“Yes, but I swear he never came after you and Evelyn. Why would he?”
“I’ve no idea why anyone would want to hurt us, but someone was behind that wheel.”
“It wasn’t Stefano,” Denise insisted. “You would have recognized his mustache.”
“I couldn’t make out the driver’s face, so I can’t help you there.”
“But if you didn’t see his mustache, then it can’t be Stefano,” Denise insisted. “Besides, he was with me that entire weekend. We got to bed late Saturday night and slept till noon Sunday morning. I’ve no idea why someone reported his license plate—unless they had it in for him.”
Lydia’s antenna went up. “Someone reported his license plate number? That’s odd. There weren’t other cars on the road when the truck tried to sideswipe me.”
“Odd? It’s as phony as a three-dollar bill!” Denise shrieked.
Lydia closed her door, and hoped Len was out of earshot and not speculating what she might be saying to antagonize a potential client.
Denise went on. “The cops who took Stefano down to the station said an anonymous witness called in, claiming he’d seen the incident, then rattled off the license number.”
“Days after it happened?” Lydia mused. “The police sure took their time tracing the number.”
“Because they screwed up. Whoever took the message at the station left it on Detective Molina’s desk, but it got misplaced until this morning.”
Lydia thought a minute. “I’ve seen Stefano leaving work in a black Honda, never a red pickup.”
“That’s right. He never takes the truck to work.”
Then what does he need it for? Aloud, she asked, “Could anyone else have taken it Sunday morning without his knowledge?”
“I don’t see how. He parked it outside my house and left his keys on the bureau. Though when he came back from buying groceries for our lunch he mentioned the truck felt different somehow. Like someone had adjusted the seat. Frankly, I was worried about a car bomb.”
“A car bomb?”
Denise nodded. Reluctantly, she explained. “Stefano fought for his country during the Balkan war. He came to the United States to escape his enemies.” Her eyes widened. “They swore they’d come after him, no matter where he went, and kill him
.” Denise paused, then went on. “He’s pretty sure he saw one of them the other night outside his apartment.”
“Won’t he tell this to Detective Molina?”
“No.” Denise grimaced. “Stefano doesn’t trust the police. He’ll be furious if I tell them. But it’s a different story, coming from you.”
Lydia failed to see the logic in this, but said, “I’ll speak to Lieutenant Molina and explain it as best I can.”
Denise came around to Lydia’s seat, her arms open to embrace her. “Thank you, Lydia!”
Lydia suffered her smothering, cigarette-reeking hug. “I’ll call you tonight.”
“With good news, I hope.”
“I can’t promise anything.”
Denise frowned, clearly disappointed that Lydia hadn’t offered to vouch for her lover’s innocence after hearing his tale of woe. Then she remembered her manners and flashed an artificial smile. “Thank you, Lydia. I knew I could count on you.”
Lydia noted Denise’s unsteady gait as she left. Was she drinking again? Downing pills? Shooting up? The woman was repugnant. Interesting how she insisted it hadn’t been Stefano who’d tried to run her car off the road on Sunday morning. Lydia shook her head. She’d never given much thought to Stefano’s background. She had no idea if he was Croatian, Bosnian, or Serb. If he’d indeed been a soldier in the midst of those troubled times, he must have witnessed unspeakable horrors. And might have taken part in them himself.
Maybe Stefano had grown so immune to killing that he had no compunction about poisoning Daniel and finishing off his fiancée so his lover could receive her inheritance. Lydia wondered if Denise was so devious and amoral that, after their plan had failed, she was nervy enough to seek help from the very person Stefano had nearly killed.
Lydia decided that pondering these matters would serve no purpose. She called Sol, got his tape, and left a message to call her. She then sat down to tackle the work she’d intended to complete before lunch.
Lydia and Jennifer ate their sandwiches at a corner table beside one of the tall windows in the library. Jennifer was bubbly because Len wanted to meet with her about the women they’d interviewed.
“Will you be leaving here to manage the Suites?” Jennifer asked.
Lydia shrugged. “I haven’t given it much thought. I’ve been too busy with the fallout from Daniel Korman’s murder.”
She returned to her office, vowing to make a list of pros and cons regarding the position to help her decide. Daniel’s murder was foremost in her mind. She wanted to call Sol again, but didn’t. He’d speak to her when he could. He called her at a quarter to five as she was about to leave for home. Lydia told him of Denise’s visit.
“A witness places his red pickup at the scene on Sunday morning. Ligoris swears up and down it wasn’t him. We’re not convinced he’s telling the truth, but we don’t have enough to hold him.”
“Denise will be thrilled Stefano won’t be spending the night in jail. She told me about the misplaced information.”
Sol muttered something under his breath. “We spoke to the witness, and he confirmed what he’d reported on Sunday. He was at the other far end of Bellewood Road traveling toward the incident. He saw the red pickup nearly swipe your car. He caught the license number as it sped past him, but he didn’t get a good view of the driver, either. He thought it was a DWI. Called it in because his sister was nearly killed by a drunk driver some months ago.”
“Could someone have stolen Stefano’s truck that morning?” Lydia asked.
“He didn’t notice it was gone, though he claims something about the truck felt different when he drove it later that day. Trouble is, he has an elaborate alarm system. Unless the guy who swiped it knew how to disarm the system, it would have made a racket.”
“Denise told me Stefano has enemies from his native country who want to kill him. She said he saw one of them the other night.”
“I’ve asked immigration to check him out. If his papers prove to be phony, as I think they will, he’ll end up being deported. In the meantime, given his involvement in the Korman homicide, I want him around. Meaning, he can go back to being the Twin Lakes groundskeeper.”
“Maintenance engineer,” Lydia said automatically. “Did Polly Ellenberg call you? She’s convinced Denise killed Daniel.”
“Yup, she ran it by me but, as you see, I haven’t charged her sister with the crime. Though I intend to ask her a few questions about her mustachioed lover.”
Lydia laughed and said good-bye, feeling virtuous for having shared all she knew with Sol. Not that it made up for her unholy alliance with Mick and Ron, but it was something. She locked her office and headed for the main entrance of the mansion. When she passed Len’s office, she stuck her head in the open doorway and called out, “Good-night. See you tomorrow.”
Len and Jessica paused in their discussion, which sounded animated but friendly.
“See you tomorrow,” Len echoed, and turned back to Jessica.
“‘Night, Lydia,” Jessica sang out, her fingers forming an “o” behind her back. Lydia grinned. Good for you, girl! Len was finally hiring more help.
The Mercedes idling at the start of the circular driveway caught her attention as she stepped outside. Lydia squinted to see if she could see the driver through the windshield, but the tinted glass and glaring sun made that an impossibility. Wary because of the events of the last few weeks, she gave it one last glance before starting down the footpath leading to the parking area. She told herself she had nothing to fear. Carrington House was a well-known place of business. People often drove through the grounds to scout out the mansion, even if they weren’t planning a social affair.
The Mercedes followed her to the parking lot. It honked as it inched closer. Terrified, Lydia walked quickly toward her car then realized she was committing a tactical error. She had to return to the mansion where she’d be safe! She spun around and double-backed. Once she passed the trees, she’d run like hell to the rear of the building, to the kitchen. The staff preparing for the evening’s affairs always left the door propped open.
Chapter Seventeen
“Lydia! Wait.”
Her heart jumped into her throat as she turned and saw Ron Morganstern waving to her from the open car window.
She downed deep gulps as the car pulled up beside her. “My God, you gave me a scare!”
“Sorry about that,” Mick said from the driver’s seat. “We got to talking and almost missed you when you came outside.”
“Why were you waiting for me?” she asked as Ron struggled out of the passenger seat and held the door open for her.
“Have a seat,” he said.
Lydia paused. While she was no longer concerned about her safely, she didn’t like being shanghaied in this manner.
“We’ve things to tell you,” Mick explained, “and figured we’d do it over an early dinner—or a drink, if you prefer.”
“All right. Dinner’s fine. I am hungry.” She stepped into the car. Ron closed her door then climbed into the back seat.
Amused now, she asked, “How did you know what time I was leaving today?”
“Your friend, Barbara,” Mick explained, a grin splitting his face.
Accepting that she’d been outnumbered and outmaneuvered, Lydia sank back against the leather seat and smiled. “I’m all yours, for the next hour or so.”
“You won’t be sorry,” Mick said as he maneuvered the car through traffic, changing lanes with the quick reflexes of a man thirty years his junior. He turned into a strip mall and parked in front of a pizza parlor. Lydia knew better than to say a word. Sure enough, a young woman greeted Mick with an affectionate peck on the cheek, and led the three of them to a dining room in the rear. Lydia blinked in the dim light, as they sat down at a corner table dressed in crisp white napery. The food, she knew, would be delicious.
A man with a white apron wrapped around his considerable paunch clapped Mick on the back. He introduced himself as Luigi, and listed the
specialties of the day. They all ordered an antipasto salad, homemade crab and lobster ravioli, and iced tea.
When Luigi left, Mick winked at her. “You’re about to taste the best food in town.” He nodded to Ron. “Let’s bring Lydia up to date.”
Ron reached for the clipboard he’d carried into the restaurant and referred to his notes.
“Here’s what we got so far: Stefano Ligoris. Real name Stefano Tadic, Serbian nationalist. Ligoris is his dead brother-in-law’s name. Accused of atrocities but escaped to the U.S. before being brought to trial. We’re assuming he’ll be sent back once the police do a thorough investigation of his ID.”
Lydia gasped. “Once Denise told me his background, I suspected he might have committed atrocities. But knowing that he did is a shocker. I don’t mean to sound naïve, but it’s difficult to absorb. Stefano’s always been so pleasant.” She shuddered. “And flirtatious. Half the Twin Lakes women swoon when he flashes his smile.”
“Assassins can be charming,” Mick pointed out. “With his background, the last thing he’d want is to draw attention to himself.”
“Bennett hates him,” she murmured. “Could he have taken Stefano’s truck to menace us, knowing Stefano’s past would come out and he’d be deported? It would be one way of disposing of his mother’s lover.”
Mick shrugged. “With Bennett, I’d say anything’s possible. Let’s move on.”
“Matthew Ellenberg, attorney and investor. Went in over his head, suffered losses, and owes a bundle. The Ellenbergs recently took out a second mortgage on the house.”
“Poor Polly.”
Ron threw her a speculative glance. “Think he did away with Daniel for the money?”
“I certainly hope not,” Lydia replied.
“Two years ago Allen Holstein borrowed money from Daniel,” Ron said.
“I found no indication that he ever paid it back,” Mick said, “and he paid Daniel a visit the day of his party.”
“How do you know?” Lydia asked, casting him a look of pure admiration.
“Easy,” Ron said. “I checked the security gate’s record for that day.
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