The phone rang at ten o’clock, startling her from her nap. It was Mick.
“Hi there, Lydia. I hope it’s not to late to call.”
“No, no,” she demurred automatically.
“What did Molina have to say about Allen Holtstein?”
“Allen?”
“Right. You were going to bring up his name, find out if the cops have checked him out as a suspect.”
“Mick, I didn’t get a chance. Stefano Ligoris is dead. Someone shot him.”
“You don’t say! When did this happen?”
“About four, five hours ago. I don’t know anything else.”
“I’ll make a few phone calls, find out what I can, and get back to you.”
“Thanks, Mick.”
But he’d already hung up. She wished he hadn’t sounded like a little boy setting off to an amusement park.
True to his word, Mick called back almost an hour later. “The cops have no leads, but they think the shooting was drug-related.”
“Thanks, Mick. I’m going to sleep now.”
“Hold your horses. I haven’t told you the news. They found digitalis and a hypodermic needle in Ligoris’s apartment, along with pieces of antique jewelry. From the description the police have, it’s what Evelyn said was taken when she was hit over the head.”
“It sounds too good to be true,” Lydia said dryly.
“Come on, Lydia, you give criminals too much credit. Actually, they’re a lot stupider than they make them out in books.”
“Why would he keep evidence of a murder he committed weeks ago? And not fence the jewelry?”
“Who knows why? Maybe he was saving it till he could show the antique pieces to someone in the city. What’s important is that it looks like this guy attacked Evelyn and killed Daniel.”
To Lydia’s astonishment and dismay, the official reaction to Stefano’s murder was the same as Mick’s.
“I can’t believe Stefano killed Daniel, attacked Evelyn, and came after us that Sunday morning,” she told Sol Saturday evening as they sipped wine and awaited their appetizers in the new French restaurant on the bay.
Sol leaned along the banquette to kiss her neck.
“My dear, the evidence points the way. There it sat in Ligoris’s apartment, waiting for us to bag it and close the case.”
Between the wine and Sol’s attentions, Lydia felt her resolve melt away. “That’s wonderful, only it seems too pat, somehow. All that proof just waiting to be found.”
“Try not to think, Lydia—at least about homicide cases. We’re here to enjoy ourselves, remember?”
She nodded, determined not to bring up the subject again. Sol deserved an evening free of distractions. And, miracle of miracles, since he’d picked her up almost two hours ago, his cell phone hadn’t rung once.
Their escargot appetizers arrived, and they ate them with relish as the chatted about other topics. Non-homicide topics. Lydia talked about Barbara and Andrew’s budding romance, of her upcoming trip to visit Abbie, her newly married daughter in London. Sol spoke of his daughter Heather’s visit during the month of July.
Their main courses arrived. When they’d finished tasting each other’s dishes, Sol said, “I’ve plenty of activities planned when Heather comes.” He paused. “And I’d like her to meet you.”
Lydia was touched. “I’d love to meet your daughter.”
They went home in a mellow mood and made passionate love until two in the morning. Afterward, Lydia fell into a deep sleep, from which she emerged when Sol shook her shoulder.
She opened her eyes and saw him smiling down at her. He was dressed.
“I have to go.”
She felt panicky, as though she’d overslept for something important. “What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty. Go back to sleep.”
“No, I’ll get up. Make you some breakfast.”
“No need. I’ll stop for something on the way into work.”
“Work?” Lydia pulled her curls behind her ears, thinking she must look a fright. “It’s Sunday morning.”
“I know, but I’ve tons of paperwork to catch up on.” He bent down to kiss her cheek. “And I want to have another chat with Denise. I’ll call you later.”
Reggie entered the room and jumped on the bed. Lydia stroked him as the front door closed. She felt saddened. Abandoned. Was this how it was going to be with her and Sol—a night together and then off he’d go, working all hours of the week to solve yet another murder?
She used the bathroom, then went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. As she filled the coffee pot with water—enough for one person—Lydia berated herself.
What did you expect—a proposal of marriage? An offer to spend Sunday together? No to the first, yes to the second.
She still knew very little of Sol’s life when he wasn’t chasing after clues and interviewing suspects. She had no idea what his apartment looked like.
But he wanted her to meet his daughter, which was more than she’d offered. Get a grip! she told herself. Sol cares for you. He wants to spend time with you. Stop acting like one of those wimpy women, and find something to do by yourself. Like you’ve been doing since Izzy died.
She got dressed and found herself mulling over Daniel’s murder and the events that had followed. If Stefano had killed Daniel, then the only thing that made sense was that Denise was equally guilty—which was why Sol wanted to question her.
But what if Denise wasn’t guilty? It was a ridiculous question, given that she’d suspected Denise of murdering her father only days ago. Denise had been on drugs for most of her life, was probably using currently. From what Polly had once implied, she’d prostituted herself when she and Bennett had nothing to eat. But would she agree to be part of a plot to kill Daniel and Evelyn? Lydia didn’t know. She only knew that it made no sense that Stefano was the murderer.
And if Stefano wasn’t the murderer, then someone else was.
Lydia speed dialed Barbara’s number. Her friend sounded groggy when she picked up on the third ring.
“Good morning, my dear,” Lydia greeted her.
“Hi, Lyddie. What time is it?”
“Time to get out of bed. Are you busy today?”
“Andrew’s going to his grandson’s baseball game. I’m joining them for dinner.”
“Are you up for some sleuthing in the interim?”
“Of course! What did you have in mind?”
An hour later they were breezing along Rte. 97 on their way to Whispering Pines.
“How do you know the Holtsteins are home?” Barbara asked.
Lydia smiled. “I tried calling them twice and the line was busy. If Rochelle was doing the talking, as I suspect, she’s indulging in long conversations. Meaning, she’s not in any rush to leave the house. And if they have plans for the afternoon, she’ll need at least an hour to get dressed, put on her makeup—stuff like that.”
Barbara grinned. “Great deduction, Sherlock. And our story’s that I’ve a sister looking for a nice apartment, not too far from me.”
“We’ll check out the models first, to be on the safe side.”
“Fine with me,” Barbara said. “I always love to look at models.”
Lydia drove past the Whispering Pines Luxury Apartments sign and parked in one of the sand-covered spaces allotted to visitors viewing the models.
“They’re actually apartments,” Barbara mused, gazing at the three-story building. “I hope my sister likes apartment living.”
A slender young woman, her long blonde hair rippling down the back of her pink cashmere sweater, welcomed them and introduced herself as Mindy. Lydia and Barbara smiled and headed for the tiny models on display, but Mindy blocked their way, a pile of forms in her hand.
“We ask each visitor to please fill these out first,” she said sweetly but firmly.
“It’s for my sister,” Barbara explained, hoping to avoid the paperwork.
“Please fill out whatever you can,” Mindy instruc
ted, waving a two-caret engagement ring adorning her French-style manicured hand. “The owners like to have everything on record.”
Barbara frowned, but did as instructed. Only then did Mindy direct them toward the four model apartments.
“We’ve only twenty units left,” she said, “and five of those have holds on them. So if you think your sister might be interested, have her call me ASAP.”
“Will do,” Barbara tossed over her shoulder.
They burst into giggles as soon as they were alone, then got down to the serious business of checking out each apartment.
“Some lovely decorating touches,” Barbara commented as she moved closer to inspect a wall unit.
“Right,” Lydia agreed, “but the furniture doesn’t come with the apartment.” She bent down to feel the carpet. “Cheap. And the walls are paper-thin. I bet you can hear your neighbors’ conversations.”
“Or worse,” Barbara agreed. “And the rooms are small.”
Lydia opened the folder and checked the prospectus. “Still, the rent for a two-bedroom apartment isn’t astronomical. Not a bad deal for a couple over 55 who have sold their home and don’t want to put all their money into buying another house or condo.”
“Like the Holtsteins,” Barbara said.
Ten minutes later they were back in the office, and had to wait until Mindy finished talking to other potential renters.
“Very nice, especially the large two-bedroom,” Barbara said. “I’ll have my sister call you.”
Mindy graced her with a huge grin. “My favorite. Have her call me ASAP. They’re going like hotcakes.”
“We’re friends of Allen and Rochelle Holtstein,” Lydia said. “They told us it’s wonderful living here.”
Mindy’s grin dissolved into a frown. “Really? You’d never know it from the hard time they’re giving us.” Her diamond-adorned hand covered her mouth. “Sorry! I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that they’ve decided to move and they’re using every trick in the book to break their lease.”
Lydia feigned surprise. “I didn’t know they were moving. We were planning to stop by and say hello.”
“They’re going to Arizona, where living is cheaper.”
“Really?” Lydia exclaimed, no longer pretending to be shocked.
Mindy placed her hand on Lydia’s arm. “They are, and please, please don’t repeat what I’ve just said!”
Lydia gave her a motherly pat. “Don’t worry, dear. We won’t breathe a word.”
Mindy sighed with relief. “Thank you! I need this job until my wedding, and that’s practically an entire year from today.”
Outside, the two women looked at one other and shook their heads.
Barbara said, “And what does she intend to do once they’re married—sit at home and eat chocolates? Live on their wedding gifts?”
“Perhaps have a baby,” Lydia said as they got into her Lexus. “In which case, she’ll have to cut those talons. But Mindy was most informative. Evelyn said Rochelle and Allen were buying a condo on the Island.”
“Maybe they want to economize. They say living in Arizona is less expensive than living up here.”
“So they say,” Lydia said. She took out her cell phone and dialed the Holtsteins’ number, which she’d jotted down before leaving the house. The phone rang twice, and then Rochelle picked up. Lydia identified herself, explained that she and Barbara were at Whispering Pines checking out an apartment for Barbara’s sister, and were wondering if they could stop by and ask Rochelle a few questions about the place. Rochelle said to come right over.
Chapter Twenty
“The place is a dive,” Allen said. “The plumbing stinks, the walls are paper-thin, and since there aren’t enough bins, garbage often overflows into the street. Then you have low-class neighbors shouting at all hours, day and night. I wouldn’t recommend this place to a homeless person.”
He lifted the coffee urn. “Anyone for more?”
“I’m fine,” Lydia said.
Cup in hand, Barbara reached across the tiny round table where the four of them were sitting. “Thanks, I’ll have a bit more. This coffee is delicious.”
Rochelle beamed. “I’m so glad you like it. I buy the beans in Fairway.”
“As for the apartments here, I’m glad you told me about the noise factor,” Barbara said. “My sister’s very sensitive to sounds.”
“And they’re giving me a tough time breaking the lease.” Allen pointed to a stain on the ceiling. “See that? It leaks every time it rains. Management doesn’t give a damn once you’ve signed on the dotted line.”
Rochelle reached over to pat her husband’s shoulder. “Allen dear, don’t aggravate yourself. It’s not good for your heart. I’ve told you, I’ll take care of it—like before.”
Allen leaped to his feet with amazing agility for a man approaching eighty. “Time for your nap, dear.”
He tried to raise his wife from her seat, but Rochelle held fast. A beatific smile graced her lips. “A small fire in their office would convince them to see things differently. Or maybe—”
“Rochelle, don’t talk foolishness!” Allen’s false sounding laugh sent chills down Lydia’s back. “The girls might get the wrong impression.”
Rochelle waved her hand and laughed. “Oh, poo, Ally. You’re always so concerned when there’s nothing to worry about. No one ever found out.”
“You’re tired and need to take a nap.”
Allen made another effort to lift her from her chair, and this time Rochelle cooperated. She yawned.
“Yes, I am sleepy.” She turned from one startled woman to the other. “Thank you for coming. Please stop by again.”
She walked meekly beside her husband as he escorted her to their bedroom. Lydia and Barbara rose, eager to flee this madhouse.
“Please wait,” Allen said over his shoulder. “I’ll be with you momentarily.”
They sighed and sat down again.
When he returned ten minutes later, he looked exhausted. “I gave her a pill and she’s fast asleep. Poor Rochelle. She’s in the first stage of Alzheimer’s. She’ll be fine one minute—clear-headed and witty as always—then start talking gibberish.”
“I am sorry, Allen,” Lydia said. “It must be very hard on you.”
“I hope you don’t believe a word of that nonsense she was spouting.” There was that awful laugh again. “When she’s not in her right mind, the most outlandish statements pour from her mouth. I don’t know where she dreams them up.”
Barbara offered a smile of commiseration. “I understand. I’ve an aunt who had Alzheimer’s. My heart goes out to you both.”
“Thank you,” Allen murmured.
They stood to leave. This time he didn’t stop them.
Lydia paused to say, “I’m sure if you mention Rochelle’s condition, they’ll be more amenable to letting you out of your lease. Where were you planning to go?”
“Arizona,” he answered. “It’s been our dream these last few years, and now we’ve the money to make the move. I want to do it as soon as possible—while Rochelle’s still lucid a good part of the time.”
Lydia nodded as she considered the most tactful way to ask her question. She tried for humor. “That’s wonderful, Allen. Did a rich uncle leave you a bundle of money?”
Allen laughed. “At our age? Come on, Lydia. Get real!”
“Sorry,” Lydia apologized, and looked so remorseful he felt obliged to explain.
“The long and short of it is we’ve had—expenses. Now we’re no longer in debt.”
That was as vague an answer as any. Lydia decided not to push it. Instead, she glanced at her watch.
“My goodness, I didn’t realize it was this late. Barbara has an appointment. Don’t you, Barbara?”
“Er—yes,” Barbara agreed. Though this was the first truthful thing either of them had said during their visit, it came out as a blatant lie.
“I’ll give Evelyn your regards when I speak to her,” Lydia
said.
“Please do that,” Allen said. “She’s been very kind to Rochelle and me.”
“She appreciated your taking her out to dinner after that awful incident,” Lydia said.
“When is she coming home?” Allen asked.
Lydia controlled the tremor that ran down her spine. “Soon, I imagine, now that the police have decided the man who attacked her and killed Daniel is dead.”
Allen stepped closer to Lydia. She flinched. He wasn’t a tall man, but at seventy-eight, he was in good physical condition. For all she knew, he’d had a hand in killing two people and attacking another. She was grateful he hadn’t picked up on her anxiety. Instead, he sounded outraged when he said, “That Ligoris guy got what he deserved. He killed one of the greatest people I ever knew!”
Lydia and Barbara said quick good-byes and hurried out of the apartment.
“Whew!” Barbara exclaimed in the elevator. “Sounds like Rochelle killed Allen’s boss all those years ago! What kind of people do you take me to visit, Lydia Krause?”
Lydia smiled at her attempt at humor. “We don’t know for sure. It could be the Alzheimer’s speaking.”
“Maybe, but Allen sure was wigged out by what Rochelle was saying. I bet the cops never considered her a suspect.”
“I’ll have to tell Sol what she said, though he’ll be furious that we set foot in the Holtsteins’ living room.”
As they stepped into Lydia’s car, Barbara asked, “Do you think either of them killed Daniel?”
Lydia shook her head. “I doubt it. They weren’t in line for an inheritance.”
“But maybe they figured that if Daniel were to die, Allen wouldn’t have to repay his debt.”
Lydia drove, her eyes fixed on the road. A few minutes later, she said, “Barbara, you bring up an important point: it’s what’s going on in the murderer’s mind that provokes the crime, how he or she perceives a situation. Not necessarily what’s real. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
“Of course. Only we have to work the other way round.”
Murder in the Air Page 18