How did Max explain her thought process? It was just starting to come together in her head.
“Talk,” Marco said.
“I didn’t like her when I met her.”
Marco laughed. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. If everyone you disliked was a killer, half the population would be in prison.”
She glared at him. “My snap judgment? Arrogant, angry—I could practically feel anger radiating under her skin, though it didn’t seem to be directed at any one person—and cold. I know what you’re going to say—I’m arrogant and cold.”
“Arrogant, yes; cold? No. What else do you have? Because the info about Suncrest, the redacted lawsuit, and the deaths at Del Sol are less than circumstantial.”
“I know, that’s why I’m here.”
“Then talk. Motive.”
“Why do people kill? Greed? Rage? Hatred?” She took a deep breath. “Okay—I didn’t like her because of how she spoke to her husband. It was the whole package—I know, my bad habit of snap first impressions, but I’m usually right.” She didn’t give him the opportunity to argue with her, though he would have conceded. “Her husband seemed timid around her. He’s a friendly guy, genuine, reserved but not snooty. She comes up and he becomes tense, timid, and ... I just can’t put my finger on it. Maybe worried? I learned from Jennifer’s sorority sisters that she emotionally and physically abused her first husband.”
“Is there proof?”
“No.”
“Hearsay.”
“I might be able to get him on record.”
“How long ago?”
“She divorced him twelve years ago.”
“I’m pretty certain the statute of limitations is long expired on spousal abuse, and in my experience, men will rarely come forward.”
“Assume that she did—abusers don’t stop. She’s likely abusing her current husband as well.”
“I repeat: men rarely come forward in domestic cases.”
Max needed to work on Peter Markson, because once she’d heard that Dr. O’Neal had been physically abused, she remembered Peter’s tension around his wife. Was he scared of her? Could Max convince him to go public? Maybe he knew more about her activities at Del Sol and she threatened him into silence.
A lot of maybes.
Devil’s advocate Marco said, “Jennifer Markson is a marginally well-off nurse with a respected husband working in a good-paying position. Why kill anyone, let alone six senior citizens?”
“It could be more.”
“Six, twelve, a hundred. Doesn’t matter. Why? If she’s an abuser, you’d more likely see bruises or unexplained broken bones on the victims. Especially with seniors.”
“It’s hard for you to get medical records as a cop, impossible for a reporter.”
“But you have access to the people.”
Good point. She made a note to ask Lois and the others about visible injuries on any of the victims. But considering they died in their sleep, that would more likely mean poison.
“So,” Marco said, “if she’s guilty—and I’m telling you, you don’t have enough to make that assumption—are you thinking she’s simply a psychopath killing old people just because she can?”
“No,” Max said automatically.
“That was fast.”
She drained her wine and considered. “The six potential victims all lived at Del Sol for years. They paid less in fees because they were locked in. But the Marksons only run the community. Maybe they get a bonus for bringing in new people, but even then, that can’t be a big enough financial incentive to start killing off long-time residents.” And that was what was bugging her. She didn’t have a good grasp of how the money moved around at the community. “Nadine Delacruz is the community relator. She and Jennifer went to college together, were in the same sorority—I sent you the article I found about the girl who killed herself.”
“I read it. Tragic.”
“The sorority president at the time is certain that Jennifer pushed her to suicide. Bullied her or otherwise manipulated her into killing herself. Ginger was likely on edge anyway, based on what her friends said—a cruel person may have been able to get into her psyche enough to push her over in a moment of weakness.”
“Your problem here is that there’s no clear motive, Max. Either Jennifer is killing these people for money, or for pleasure.”
“Satisfaction,” Max mumbled and closed her eyes.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s for money—she married a rich doctor, divorced him, got half his money. She married a trust fund baby, but he likes to work. They don’t live high on the hog, that must burn her. She’s all about image—the way she looks, acts—she cares about her image and how people see her. Harper, my accountant, is digging into Markson’s trust. See how he spends his money, if it’s really there. How much access Jennifer would have to it.”
“You more than anyone know how the truly wealthy live.”
It was his tone more than anything that irritated Max. Her wealth had been a sore point between them from the beginning. She thought he had dealt with it, but evidently it was still in the back of his mind.
“Yes, I do.”
He stared at her. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“Maybe not, but it’s always the same arguments.”
“I’m not having an argument. You do know how the rich live. It’s not like normal people.”
“Normal people,” she said flatly.
“Come on, Maxine, you’d be the first to admit you have never led a normal life. Think about it, okay? You can’t assume just because Peter has money that he’s not in on this, whatever this is.”
“You think I’m giving him a pass because he’s rich?”
“Are you?”
“That you can ask that means you really don’t listen to me. Ever.”
She got up.
“Don’t leave, Max. I don’t want to argue.”
“You started this one, Marco. I’ll do this on my own.” From the beginning, Marco had a problem that she was wealthy. He didn’t even realize how often he brought it up and jabbed her. It was the cause of half their fights. She didn’t care how rich or poor someone was; it never factored into her opinions. But Marco? He couldn’t let it go. And it irritated her because you’d think after six years he would know her.
Sometimes, she wondered if anyone would ever understand her. Accept her as she was. She refused to change for anyone. Marco had gotten more subtle over the years in how he tried to mold her into someone else, but he was still doing it.
“I said I would help—I just want you to consider —”
“I have and I do. I always consider everyone guilty of something because everyone I’ve ever met has lied to me at one point or another. Even you—though you’re better than most because at least you admit when you can’t tell me the truth.”
“Sometimes lies are better than the truth.”
“Never.”
“Talk about the same old argument,” Marco grumbled. “I’ll dig around on Jennifer, okay? See what I learn.”
“Thank you.” She got up and started collecting her things.
“Stay.”
“Really. You bait me, insult me, and want me to sleep in your bed?”
Finally, Marco recognized how angry she was with him. Not just angry, but upset.
You knew things were too okay. You knew it wouldn’t last, because it never does. Marco loves to bait you, he likes the fight—and he likes to make up.
“I’m sorry, Max. Really.”
He always sounded sincere. But right now, she didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want the battle. She was tired of the ups and downs. Marco seemed to thrive on it.
“Motive,” she said. “Maybe Jennifer resents that she has to work. Greed. She took her first husband for half his money, then married up … to Peter Markson, only child of multi-millionaires, older, never been married. Pleasant, smart, not unattractive. He’s normal for lack of a better word. Je
nnifer seduces him, knows his family history, marries him, expects to live lavishly—even though he worked, he lived on the beach in an exclusive enclave, with clubs and parties and a life. There’s little real life for those under sixty-two at Del Sol. Yet Peter agrees to run the place? He seems to enjoy it. Maybe he likes the older generation. Though he has a trust, he appears to live off his income from Premiere. Nice house, nothing opulent. Nice car, nothing too flashy.” She mentally reviewed her research and said, “A BMW sedan that’s five years old—I’d guess Jennifer made him buy it.”
“That’s a stretch.”
“Five years—he bought it just before they were married. Bought her a smaller BMW coupe at the same time. It was the only time he dug into his trust to make a purchase.”
“How did you—? Don’t tell me.”
“I don’t know for a fact, but it’s a logical guess. He’s fiscally conservative and wouldn’t want interest payments. I’m seeing a picture here, but it’s fuzzy because I don’t have enough information.”
What was she missing? What did Jennifer want? Was there enough money at stake at Del Sol to make it financially beneficial to kill the long-time residents? And if so, how did Jennifer personally benefit? Embezzlement? How? Was Nadine part of the scheme?
She sighed and rubbed her eyes. She was tired.
“Stay, Maxie,” Marco said.
She hated the nickname, but sometimes, when Marco said it, she didn’t hate it quite so much.
“I have to go. But I’m not mad anymore. Just ... I hate arguing with you about money. I won’t do it anymore.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
He did, but he was sorry, and she would have to take what she could get to keep the peace.
She leaned over and kissed him. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
#
Marco had said something that gave her an idea. He was right—she needed to find someone who worked directly with Jennifer at Suncrest. If she could find out what was in the sealed court documents, she might learn more about her motive or how she hurt people.
While driving back to Del Sol, Max called Kerry Osaka and asked if she could find out who worked with Jennifer at Suncrest. Kerry agreed to help.
Max pulled into the Del Sol garage well after eight that night and took her loaner golf cart to Lois’s house. She wasn’t surprised to find Beau and Flo sitting with Lois at her dining table. They all had pens and paper in front of them and in the middle of a conversation.
“I can warm up leftovers,” Lois offered.
“I had dinner, but thank you.” She glanced over at the notes. Most were names and dates —Max wasn’t certain what they were doing.
“Did you learn anything? Anything that can help?”
“Mostly footwork and interviews.” She didn’t want to give Lois all the information yet, not until she had it confirmed. While Lois might be able to keep a secret, she was an open book—if she knew what Max knew about Nadine and Jennifer, Lois might not be able to keep her dislike to herself.
If Max was right, and Jennifer Markson was killing the residents, then Max needed proof. Something solid to give to Marco. If Lois tipped their hand, Max wouldn’t get anything.
“I learned a lot today,” Max said carefully, “but I have more work to do. I don’t want to say anything yet.”
“We learned a lot today, too,” Flo said. “We split the sick list three ways.”
That explained the names the three of them had been discussing. Max hadn’t been nervous about the trio talking to people this morning; now, she wished she’d kept them completely out of it.
Beau said, “I took the men. None of them were sick like Margaret had been.”
It took Max a second to remember Margaret Stafford was the woman Dotty had been asking questions about immediately before her death. Marco was right—she really was tired.
Lois said, “I brought chicken noodle soup—my special recipe—to two women and an elderly couple. The couple—Earl and Rose—are in their nineties. They have a difficult time getting around. I spent most of the afternoon with them. I think we need to come up with activities for those who need extra help, Beau. Rose is nearly blind, and Earl has a tremor in his hand. He doesn’t like driving the golf cart.”
“They should move into the main building,” Flo said.
“Long waiting list,” Lois said. “I think an expansion is in order, with preference given to current residents. I wish they’d done that instead of building the duplexes on the periphery.”
“The duplexes bring in more money,” Beau said.
This wasn’t getting Max what she needed. “And you, Flo?”
“Joyce is faking. She’s not sick. Betsy has the shingles. Didn’t even open the door, bless her heart—she told me to leave Lois’s soup outside. I don’t know if shingles are contagious, but I don’t want to take any chances. Rachel has the flu.”
“Flu?” Max’s ears perked up.
“I made the soup for her, she ate while I was there. She looked awful. Said she’d start to feel better for a day or two, then it hits her again.” Flo paused, looked at the group. “It sucks rotten eggs growing old.”
“When did she start getting sick?” Max asked.
Beau responded. “Her neighbor asked us to start praying for her three weeks ago.”
“What else do you know about her?” Max asked.
“She’s been here for ten years,” Beau said. “Almost as long as Flo.”
“She bought in early,” Flo said. “She and Dotty were friends. But she didn’t move in until she was seventy. Rachel has a model like Lois here—one of the larger, more expensive houses. She’s a collector. Every available surface is filled with little glass things. Like the play, the Glass Menagerie. Times a thousand. And not just animals. Bowls, plates, shot glasses, lamps, you name it.”
Max wanted to talk to Rachel, but she didn’t want anyone to come with her, so she didn’t say anything.
“Rachel was friends with Dotty, but she is a difficult woman,” Lois said. “A complainer, but Dotty didn’t care. Dotty loved everyone.” She sighed, a wave of sadness crossing her face.
“Rachel was a nurse,” Beau said. “During Vietnam.”
Max remembered Peter talking about her. He wanted her to write a memoir. Coincidence?
“What next?” Beau asked.
“I need to compile all the financial information I can about Del Sol and Premiere and send it to a friend of mine who is an accountant. I’ve already sent her enough information to start. She’ll know if there’s anything strange in the books.”
“Can you get the books?”
“No, but many records are public—we can piecemeal them. Real estate records, statements, any public reports, SEC reports. We have to look at every angle.”
Plus, Max had another idea to look at records, but it wasn’t strictly legal. She wasn’t planning on discussing it with this group.
Beau offered to drive Flo back to the main building. After they left, Max said, “Lois, I want to talk to Rachel. It’s nearly nine—is that too late?”
“I wouldn’t think so. Are you worried about her?”
“Yes. But she doesn’t know me.”
“I’ll join you.”
“I’m getting worried that all these questions you and your friends are asking are going to draw the attention of the killer.”
“So you do think someone killed Dotty and the others.”
She hesitated. “We don’t have evidence of wrongdoing,” Max said. “I want to convince Rachel to go to the hospital and have tests done. If she’s being poisoned—and that’s the only way these people could have been killed—something will show up in the tests. Otherwise, maybe Dotty’s death and the others are just what they appear to be. Natural.”
Lois pursed her lips and picked up her purse. “Let’s go.”
#
Rachel Brock lived across the main community thoroughfare in a section that mirrored Lois’s neighborhood. It was rea
lly a lovely development, Max thought, not for the first time. There were no garages, simply covered areas to fit up to two golf carts. Paths meandered through, wide enough for two golf carts to pass. There was plenty of green—tropical trees and plants and flowers.
She knocked on Rachel’s door, then rang the bell, just in case Rachel was hard of hearing.
“Mrs. Brock?” she called through the door. “I’m Maxine Adler, Lois Kershaw’s granddaughter.”
No answer.
Flo had seen her earlier, said she had the flu. She could be sleeping.
Or she could be in trouble.
Lois rang the bell. “Rachel? It’s Lois. Rachel, answer the door.”
Again, no answer.
Max tried the door. It was locked. Max squatted down and picked the lock. One of her old boyfriends—not Marco—had taught her the trick, and it had come in handy over the years. And these locks were easy because there was no dead bolt.
“Let’s not say anything about this,” Max said.
“About what?” Lois blinked innocently.
The house was overly warm and had a sick smell, as if someone had vomited.
Max found a light switch. Flo was right—the house was filled with glass knick-knacks on every surface and in glass cabinets that lined every wall. Max was a borderline minimalist, and this house made her squirm.
“Mrs. Brock? Your door was unlocked.”
No answer.
“Lois, stay here,” Max said.
She walked down the hall to the master bedroom. One bedside lamp was on, casting the room in a yellowish hue. Rachel Brock was in bed, but not under the covers. She had vomited on the floor. Max avoided the vomit, and checked Rachel’s pulse.
Faint. She touched her head. Cool to the touch. But she was alive.
“Mrs. Brock? Can you hear me?”
The woman moaned, but didn’t open her eyes.
Max pulled out her cell phone, then hesitated. Her cell phone was under her own name. She didn’t think anyone would check, but she needed to proceed carefully—especially since she needed to do something borderline illegal while waiting for the ambulance.
She grabbed the phone next to Rachel’s bed and dialed 9-1-1. “This is Maxine Adler. I’m a friend of Rachel Brock, an eighty-year-old woman at Del Sol. She’s been sick, I just came to check on her and she’s unresponsive, but breathing. We need an ambulance.”
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