“She demeaned him.”
“Exactly! I once told her to shut up and she called me an old bitch.”
“Manny doesn’t seem bitter.”
“He’s the sweetest soul who ever lived. Secretly, he’s probably not sorry she’s dead, and I don’t blame him.”
Hearing someone Gloria’s age unafraid to speak with such conviction captivated me, as did her clear blue eyes. “What about the person at the concierge desk?” I said. “Did you notice how Jackie Whitney spoke to him?”
“Uh, no. Not really. The only time I saw them together was when she sat practically on his lap behind the desk, whispering back and forth.”
“Did Jackie have any friends living in the building?”
“I don’t know. Maybe some of those rich old guys liked having her around.”
“Do you remember Henry DeWeldt visiting her?”
Gloria shuddered. “That man took advantage of us. He convinced a judge to put my husband in a nursing home even though I was going to pay for home healthcare. He dared to claim that I was not a competent caretaker.”
Gloria choked up on the word “caretaker.” I said, “How in the world did DeWeldt get involved in your estate?”
“I went to see that idiot woman at the animal shelter, Lucille. I knew who she was from when she visited Jackie.”
“She met Jackie in the lobby or did you see her go up?”
“I only saw her in the lobby. They acted like spoiled little girls. Sometimes that DeWeldt crook would join them. I don’t like to even think about those people. And the way Lucille flirted with Manny! It made me sick.”
“Lucille flirted with Manny?”
Gloria leaned into me and said quietly, “I pray it never went beyond flirting. I told Manny to think about his family and stop acting like a jackass. He swears he was just having fun, going along with the act, nothing more. But I wasn’t born yesterday. Manny’s a good, decent person, but he has the same weakness all men have.”
I filed the info then said, “You went to see Lucille about gifting to the shelter, right?”
“Yes. I wanted to include a financial support legacy in my estate planning. Manny accompanied me and asked a lot of questions on my behalf and helped me with the paperwork. My husband, Sy, was not well and also wanted his estate put in order. Lucille recommended Henry DeWeldt. When Sy’s health deteriorated, that bastard DeWeldt convinced a judge that I wasn’t competent to act as his caretaker. While my children fought over control of the finances, DeWeldt had Sy placed in one of those expensive Contentment nursing homes. All this without even talking to me. We wanted to take care of him at home.”
“I’m sure Manny didn’t know anything about this.”
“Of course he didn’t, but he still blames himself because he introduced me to Lucille, who recommended DeWeldt. I’ll never forget the tears running down Manny’s cheeks when he begged for my forgiveness. The poor man. It’s been well over two years and he still tortures himself.”
“But what was in it for DeWeldt? I mean, what did he care if your husband was in a nursing home or not?”
“I can only guess. I started a lawsuit but it dragged on and on. I didn’t want to waste my money on lawyers, so I gave in. Sy was taken care of but it cost a chunk of our personal wealth. Money we never planned to spend on a fancy nursing home.”
“What about your estate?”
“It’s safe. I have a nice gift for the shelter, but I’m not working with that Lucille woman. Manny wondered if we should give Lucille the benefit of the doubt because she was just trying to help. That’s the way Manny is. He has this childlike faith in people.”
“Do you think Jackie Whitney was aware of Henry DeWeldt’s devious ways?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her. But who knows?”
Gloria’s bridge partner beckoned. “One more thing,” I said. “What kind of dog is Louie?”
“He’s called a bichon frise.” Gloria spelled it out for me. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. A good dog for apartment life?”
“Oh, yes. He’s perfect for an old broad like me. Easy to care for and oh so loving.”
—
Manny stood with his hands behind his back staring through the lobby. I sensed a spark missing from his demeanor. “Hello, Mr. Landau,” Manny said.
“Hello, my friend.”
“I guess you want to talk about Linda.”
“Yes, but first I have a question about Gloria.”
“Oh, God, did something happen to her?”
“No, no, she’s great. But think back to when you helped Gloria include Furry BFF in her estate planning. Was that when you first met Lucille?”
“No, Lucille and I chatted many times while she waited for Jackie. She’s very friendly.”
“And that’s how you learned about Lucille’s role at the shelter?”
“Yes.”
“Did Henry DeWeldt chat with you too?”
Manny flinched. “No.”
“Gloria told me—”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“DeWeldt’s a suspect, you know.”
This interested Manny. “Really? Can you place him here when…?”
“Nope. Unless you can?”
Manny shook his head.
I said, “Let’s go back to the tragic news of Linda.”
“Drugs?”
“I assume the cops stopped by to talk to you?”
“Yes, but why do you assume that?”
“Because I told them Linda had spoken with you a short time before she was found dead.”
The implication struck Manny hard. He staggered backward a few steps then leaned on the doorman’s desk. “Oh, my God. You’re not accusing me of murder, are you?”
“Nobody’s accusing you of anything.”
“But what are you thinking? You don’t think I’m a murderer, do you, Mr. Landau?”
“Relax, Manny. I’m not thinking anything. My job is to prove someone besides Kate McCall could have killed Jackie Whitney. But you have to tell the cops everything, otherwise they might think you’re hiding something. Are you sure no hanky-panky happened between you and Linda?”
Manny blinked several times, then began pacing, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, Mr. Landau. I should’ve admitted it before. Yes, we were together—just once. That’s the absolute truth. I felt so ashamed and told her. She took it very hard.”
I patted his shoulder. “Water under the bridge,” I said. “You mentioned that the old guy, Marv, is still clear-thinking.”
“Yes. That’s always been my impression.”
“His showing up a few times a week in that royal getup, then manning the front door like it’s Buckingham Palace—isn’t that kind of weird behavior?”
Manny thought about it. “Well, he’s always been kind of a character, so I don’t think so.”
“Has he ever done anything out of character? Something considered unbecoming of a doorman?”
“How unbecoming?”
“Entering an apartment uninvited?”
Manny gave me a strange look. “I highly doubt it. Unless the police were present, a doorman would never do that. What brings this up?”
“I’m a little embarrassed to say, but I have to look at every angle, every possibility.”
“I get it.”
“I should probably just interview Marv.”
Manny ran his fingers down his jawline a few times. “It might be kind of hard on him,” he said. “Marv had known Jackie since she was a little girl. It’s tough to see a man his age cry.”
I nodded. Even the imagery was tough to take. “Did Jackie Whitney ever make you cry?”
“You’re making a joke?”
“I’ve heard she could be very mean, demeaning.”
“I never took anything she said to me that way.”
“Sorry. It wasn’t a serious question.”
—
East Rogers Park was an ecl
ectic lakefront neighborhood of students, working-class folks, immigrants, old hippies, and professionals. Where Kate McCall fit in was hard to say. She lived on the third floor of a vintage six-flat, the middle building of three identical six-flats. Typically, apartments in these buildings were large and spacious with built-in bookshelves and crown molding—luxury by McCall’s Appalachian standards.
The manager for the three buildings lived in one of the garden-level apartments of McCall’s building. I pushed the buzzer for M. Spatafora, waited a minute, then shook hands with Marie, a sixty-something woman with shoulder-length gray hair.
I introduced myself and handed her my ID. “I assume the police questioned you already about Kate McCall in 3W?”
Marie handed my ID back, nodding her head. “I told them what little I knew.”
“What kind of things did you tell them?”
Marie pondered a bit. “Well, she paid her rent in cash—which was odd. But she always paid on time and never complained about anything. I once loaned her a socket wrench. That’s about it.”
“Did she have visitors very often?”
“Hard to say. I don’t really pay attention to the tenants’ guests. It’s none of my business as long as they’re quiet. It just so happens the woman she’s accused of killing came over several times. She was easy to remember because of the loud, rude way she spoke to Kate, and I’m just talking about as they walked through the hallway and lobby. That Whitney woman treated Kate like a forsaken stepchild who could do no right.”
“Did you ever have a conversation with Kate?”
“Not really.” Marie laughed. “She’d just smile and say, ‘Hidee.’ ”
“What did Jackie Whitney criticize Kate about?”
“Oh, some errand she was supposed to run or some other favor she owed her. She criticized the way she talked and always corrected her and made her repeat the offending word over and over. The clothes she wore were never good enough. It was like Kate’s job was to listen to and obey Jackie Whitney. I understand why she killed her.”
I paused to see if she was kidding. “You really believe she would kill someone for being verbally abusive?”
Marie sighed. “When you put it that way, it’s kind of presumptuous of me, I guess. I know I wouldn’t put up with it.”
“Would you kill someone over it?”
“No. I can’t imagine killing anyone except in self-defense. Maybe I’m being prejudiced because Kate’s from Appalachia. But then again, who knows what people are capable of?”
What people are capable of. When does killing become a feasible, practical option? Can the urge to kill overtake anyone at any time given the right circumstances? With Marie’s permission, I knocked on the door across the hallway from Kate’s apartment. A young man wearing a Loyola T-shirt answered. I introduced myself and went through the identification routine.
“A real private eye? You’re the first I’ve met.”
“Yes, it’s not a popular major at universities. How well did you know Kate McCall, who lived across the hall?”
“I didn’t know her. I just heard her come and go and I heard the shouting when some woman came over.”
“That woman was Jackie Whitney, the murder victim you may have heard about in the news.”
“No shit? The rich socialite?”
“What did they shout about?”
“It wasn’t they, it was the Whitney woman. All you really heard was her voice: ‘Why didn’t you do what I asked?’ or ‘That’s not what I wanted!’ Man, she sounded like a real bitch. I felt sorry for the other woman. I only occasionally heard a whimper in reply.”
“You never had a conversation with Kate?”
“I barely saw her. Once in a while we would both be coming or going at the same time. She just smiled when she passed you.”
I handed him a card, thanked him for his time, then headed back to my office.
Chapter 23
Sitting at my desk, eating a bean burrito, I stared out the open door. I never went to her apartment, Lucille said at our first meeting. We’d meet at a restaurant and waste the afternoon with drinks and gossip. According to Gloria, they also met in the lobby of Jackie Whitney’s building. The outside door groaned open then slammed shut. Footsteps ascended the stairs until Phillip appeared in my doorway.
“Have a seat,” I said pointing to the club chair in front of my desk.
He sat and got down to it. “You asked if my mom used Henry DeWeldt for estate planning. That’s how they first met. Henry helped Mom set up a trust to make sure the shelter got money every year. She and Henry were in the process of changing the trust when she died.”
Phillip held on to the punch line. “You stressed the changing part,” I said.
“She wanted to stop Furry BFF from getting money.”
His words had a prophetic quality, although the reason was unclear. “Why cut out Furry BFF?”
“Something pissed her off.”
“Yeah, I assumed that much. But what was the something?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I think it had to do with how money was being used.”
“Did she tell you anything to draw this conclusion?”
“Several weeks ago she flew me out to Palm Springs and sat me down to talk about family money and my responsibility. Mom wanted me to get a monthly allowance to help supplement my income. Animal shelters don’t exactly pay great, but that’s not why I work there. Anyway, she made me promise I wouldn’t buy drugs like my father or waste money on fancy cars, et cetera. To demonstrate how serious she was, she told me about changing the trust to exclude Furry BFF, but she wouldn’t elaborate.”
“Was the trust changed?”
“No.”
I put my feet up on the desk, leaned back in my reclining chair, and began thinking out loud. “I wonder if Lucille knows about this? Would DeWeldt have told Lucille that Jackie was changing the trust? Why would Henry give a damn either way? He probably didn’t. But if your mom was really holding incriminating information over DeWeldt’s head, why would they be working together professionally to change her trust? Goddamn it, Phillip, you just weakened my theory for DeWeldt being the killer.”
“One less bastard to think about.”
“Hang on, I’m not acquitting him just yet. Maybe DeWeldt didn’t know Jackie had taken incriminating information until after she died. I still think he’s got his tentacles wrapped around some aspect of this case.”
“And you’re still convinced Kate McCall had no motive?”
“She had nothing to gain and everything to lose.” I picked my feet up off the desk and sat upright. “Hey, Phillip, Lucille and your mom were great pals, right?”
He considered my question. “Meaning what?”
“Their personalities and lifestyles fit together nicely, so they enjoyed hanging out like girlfriends.”
“Yeah, that sounds right.”
“But your mom was someone who couldn’t help but give advice. That’s just the way she was. And she expected her friends to listen, especially if she gave them money—”
“Lucille didn’t need Mom’s money. That’s not what their blowout was about.”
“What blowout?”
“They got into a big fight about something and that was the end of their friendship.”
“When?”
“Uh, late last year, before she left for Palm Springs.”
“Around the same time your mom and Henry DeWeldt stopped talking?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s right.”
“And once again your mom didn’t tell you what the something was they fought about?”
Phillip shook his head. I stood and began walking around the office. Lucille said she last spoke to Jackie Whitney in May, shortly before she returned from Palm Springs. Why would Jackie call her if they were no longer friends?
“Lucille said you’re way overqualified for your job. She doesn’t expect you to stay long.”
“I got an MBA in finance to make Mo
m happy. Lucille’s too shallow to understand why I would want to work in an animal shelter.”
“I don’t think you like her very much.”
“She’s a phony, pandering drama queen. But a rock-star fundraiser.”
“Next time, don’t hold back. After Lucille and your mom stopped talking, did Lucille treat you any differently?”
Phillip frowned. “I hoped she’d ignore me. Instead, I got the big sister–mom attitude. Or a lecture on confidentiality, as you witnessed. Then I’d suddenly become her gal-pal and she’d jabber about her love life—as if I gave a shit about her Latin lover.”
I remembered Lucille on the phone all lovey-dovey in a little girl’s voice, not the least bit uneasy a stranger stood in her doorway.
“Cha-cha-cha,” I said.
Phillip’s riotous laugh startled me. “Lucille-speak for dancing!”
“Yeah, I picked up on that.”
Like everyone else who came to my office, Phillip walked to the room’s only window. “You know that husky bald guy standing on the sidewalk across the street? I saw him at the shelter too.”
I didn’t have to look out the window to know who it was but I walked to Phillip’s side. “His name’s Brookstone. DeWeldt hired him to intimidate me.”
“No shit? DeWeldt hired muscle to threaten you? Like a mob boss?”
“No, like an asshole. DeWeldt is scared, Phillip. But why? If he wasn’t involved in your mom’s death, why does he want Kate McCall to take the rap? C’mon, let’s go meet Brookie.”
Chapter 24
Phillip and I stood on the sidewalk in front of my building watching Brookstone trot toward us from across the street. He moved rather nimbly for a fireplug of a man. “Hello, detective shit for brains,” Brookstone said. “How lucky for me to have you both in the same place. A true coincidence.”
“This is Detective Brookstone, Phillip,” I said. “He’s the cop who beat up a defenseless woman bartender who refused to serve his drunken ass.”
Phillip shrunk back a step. “Hey, Landau,” Brookstone said. “You know I’ve been pretty tolerant so far. But that can change real fast. That little pop in the nose I gave you could be the side of your face caved in next time.”
Doubt in the 2nd Degree Page 16