Yet I was almost certain Sgt. Yates was expecting the aunt-in-law, or meeting her somewhere. Maybe I’d just hang around for a few minutes and see what happened.
Because the more I thought about the uncle’s wife, the more she struck me as a potent possibility in Leslie’s death. The ex-husband and other partners in CyberPowerAds had anger and vengeance driving them. As did the gate-ramming neighbor and maybe even Al Diedrich. Camouflage Guy here may have thought she was into drugs, as Sgt. Yates had apparently speculated, and Leslie had the misfortune of getting in his way when he searched for them. But the motive of the uncle’s wife might trump them all. Good ol’ greed, the powerhouse behind many a vicious crime.
While I was pretending to search for something in my purse, just in case anyone was watching and wondering why I was loitering, the outer door opened, and a tall, fiftyish blonde in spike heels strode in. A handful of heavy gold chains were draped on her leathery neck, and two more hung around her ankle. Her muscles were long and lean and competent looking. Muscles capable of skulking through a jungle of brush and woods. Or wielding a murderous pillow. I waited expectantly for her to march up to the window and identify herself as the uncle’s wife.
Instead she marched straight to Camouflage Guy, grabbed him by the scruffy T-shirt, and shoved him toward the door. He didn’t look nearly so tough now when he whined “But, Mom!” as she harangued him about … what? Skateboarding on the sidewalk.
I sighed. I know better than to judge by appearances, but, with both mother and son, I’d done it. In the meantime, a refined-looking LOL had slipped in without my noticing. She was now at the reception window, stretching up on her toes to speak through the bars.
I dodged around Camouflage Guy to get closer. I was afraid my intention to eavesdrop might be all too obvious, but no one seemed to notice my hasty move. I was too late to catch her name, but I heard the last of what she was saying in a cultured voice to the woman at the window.
“… appointment with Sgt. Yates concerning the death of my husband’s niece?”
It came out more question than statement, as if she were uncertain about the validity of the appointment. I felt an instant flood of foolishness. This was my greedy murderess? Here she was, practically a clone of me. A bit younger and not as gray and considerably more stylishly coiffed, but the same height and weight and small-boned structure. I’d fit into her powder-blue, polyester pantsuit, probably the blue pumps as well, and she could jump right in to my purple pants and orchid blouse. Even the shade of discreetly applied blush on our cheeks matched. She didn’t look around, as if afraid she might meet some criminal’s eyes, and I felt safe in guessing that this was her first time in a police station. I wanted to rush up and squeeze her shoulders and assure her everything would be okay.
“He’ll be right out,” the woman behind the barred window said. “Just have a seat.”
I didn’t have time for a reassuring squeeze, however. I spotted the side door opening, and I scurried toward the outside door before Sgt. Yates could catch me. He would not, I knew, appreciate my show of interest in Leslie’s next of kin. Though at the moment that interest was overridden by guilt for letting my imagination again operate at warp speed. I didn’t know that the uncle and his wife were inheriting so much as a nickel, let alone getting all Leslie’s assets dumped in their laps, and the idea of this delicate little lady smothering Leslie and tossing her body in the lake was as preposterous as the prospect of her suddenly whipping out a 9mm Glock and taking everyone in the sheriff’s office hostage.
Back in the T-bird, I started to turn the key, then hesitated. Here the woman was, not young, alone in a strange town, struggling to cope with the niece’s murder, surely worried about her husband with Alzheimer’s back in Toledo. I should be helping her, not waltzing with unfair suspicions.
She came out about forty-five minutes later, during which time I’d observed an interesting parade of people coming in and out of the police station. I slid out of the car and hurried to intercept her on the sidewalk.
“Hi. You’re Leslie Marcone’s aunt, I believe? From Toledo?”
She gave me a puzzled but not unfriendly look. She had a delicately boned face and blue-gray eyes, and, at the moment, lines of stress bracketed her mouth and grooved her forehead. Had Sgt. Yates, I wondered with a surge of indignation, been giving her a bad time?
“Yes, Leslie was my husband’s niece.” She eyed me warily, as if I might be selling cemetery plots.
I held out my hand. “I’m Ivy Malone. I was Leslie’s housekeeper until shortly before her death.” I figured this was no time to go into the unpleasant aspects of our parting. “I’m so very sorry about what happened to Leslie.”
“Thank you. Everyone has been very kind.” Her tone and handshake were less wary but still short of enthusiastic.
“You mustn’t let Sgt. Yates intimidate you,” I said impulsively.
She blinked. Nicely made-up eyes, I realized, with a delicate palette of pastel eye shadow well beyond my makeup skills.
“Thank you. He can be rather intimidating, can’t he?”
“Makes you feel as if he might slap handcuffs on you at any moment.”
“I feel so bad about Leslie’s death, and then to have him act as if …” She shook her head and laughed shakily, as if she wanted to find some humor in the situation and couldn’t.
So I was right. Sgt. Yates was suspicious of her. Which was ridiculous, I thought with another rush of indignation. Okay, I’d been suspicious too, considering the inheritance angle. But that was before I got a good look at her. Surely even Sgt. Yates couldn’t think this small, genteel lady had managed to smother strong, athletic Leslie, haul her body down to the dock—
No way. Impossible.
She glanced at her watch, but something apparently clicked in her head, and she looked at me again. Her reserved expression changed. “Housekeeper … Oh, you must be the person who found Leslie’s body?”
“Yes. I hadn’t been able to reach her by phone, so I went over that day. Again, I’m so very sorry. It’s so difficult to believe someone deliberately killed her. It must be a terrible shock.”
“Yes, a terrible shock.” She looked me over with a dry-eyed interest that I found both surprising and mildly disconcerting. I also expected more in the way of outrage about the murder. Still, shock affects us in unlikely ways.
“I was wondering … Are you staying there at the house?”
I asked.
“No. The whole place is surrounded by that yellow crime-scene tape, and they won’t even let me into the house yet. Which does seem so inconsiderate, under the circumstances. That big house sitting there empty, and I’m stuck in a motel.”
Her fretful dissatisfaction was obvious. I’d been about to suggest she stay at the house with Sandy and me, but now I hesitated. I wasn’t certain why. Even if we were almost clones, something in this proprietary attitude toward the house put me off. People were passing by on the sidewalk, and I stepped over to the edge of the grass to get out of the way.
“I’m sorry, I don’t seem to know your name,” I said.
“Astrid Gallagher. Leslie’s mother was my husband’s sister, Willow. She’s been dead for some years now.”
“Is there other family?”
“No, just the three of us. Walter, Leslie, and me.”
She strung the names together as if they were a loving family with lives entwined. Sharing a Thanksgiving turkey. Trimming a Christmas tree. Filling a family photo album. I was doubtful about that coziness, given Leslie’s lone-wolf lifestyle, but it sounded as if the uncle might well be the only heir. Unless Leslie had left a will naming someone else. But from what I knew of Leslie, I also suspected she’d never written a will. She wouldn’t have wanted to think about having to give up her assets to anyone even if she was dead. She was also young enough that death probably still looked dim and distant, not something of current concern.
“You must have been very close.” Fishing, I admit it.<
br />
“Well, not close in terms of keeping in touch frequently,” she admitted, eying me as if she wondered if I already knew that. “Leslie was raised out in California, you know, and only recently moved here to the Midwest. But she was very dear to us, of course. Although my husband’s condition—he has Alzheimer’s, as you may know—precludes true awareness of the loss. How long were you her housekeeper?”
“Only a short time.”
“But you’re familiar with the interior of the house?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Could you tell me how many rooms there are? I drove out there, but you can’t see much from the road.”
I was startled by the unexpected eagerness of her interest in the house. “You’ve never been in it?”
“My husband is no longer able to travel, so we were unable to respond to Leslie’s invitations.”
I was doubtful about the invitations, and I didn’t know the exact number of rooms, but I named some of those I remembered. Living room, family room, the den Leslie used as an office, dining room, library, game room, exercise room, four bedrooms … or was it five?
“Is there a private bath with each bedroom?”
“Yes. Plus … ummm… a couple of other bathrooms.”
She nodded, pleased, it appeared. Perhaps she’d had a bathroom-deprived childhood.
“A garage, of course?”
“Yes. A four-car garage, I think it is, attached to the house. Very roomy.”
“But there’s only the one car?”
I found all these questions about the house and car and nothing about Leslie or her murder a bit off-putting. And the way Astrid Gallagher said “one car” sounded as if she’d hoped for more. “One car was all I ever saw.”
“But it is a Mercedes. Fairly new,” she said, and I suddenly suspected that Auntie Astrid here knew down to the buck how much a year-old Mercedes was worth. “Which the police have latched on to, of course,” she added, again sounding vexed.
“I imagine they have to look for fingerprints or other evidence.” I suddenly thought of a roundabout way to approach the key question without bluntly asking it. I smiled warmly. “I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable in the house.”
“Yes, I’m looking forward—” She broke off, nicely made-up eyes narrowing as if she realized she’d stepped in something. But she was too late. I’d found out what I wanted to know. Auntie Astrid fully expected the house to be hers.
She glanced at her watch. “I’m sorry to rush off, but I have another appointment this afternoon. I didn’t think talking to Sgt. Yates would take so long. Perhaps we can talk again.”
Until then I was still thinking I should offer her a place to stay, but the don’t-call-us, we’ll-call-you attitude took care of that. “It’s been nice meeting you,” I said instead. “And, again, I’m so sorry about Leslie.”
I watched her walk down the street and unlock the door on a dark green sedan. Her own or a rental? I couldn’t tell, of course. Neither could I tell the make or year of the car. My vehicle identification skills don’t go much beyond color and size. But I was fairly certain this was no more than an economy-priced model. Which, whether it was hers or a rental, suggested that Astrid Gallagher had to watch her pennies. Caring for a husband with Alzheimer’s could be a strain both financially and emotionally. A strain that might be eased with a hefty inheritance?
She pulled into the street. A pickup came up behind her. Impulsively I slid the T-bird in behind it and, keeping a discreet distance, followed the green sedan. I may be semi-invisible, but sometimes the classic old ’bird is uncomfortably noticeable.
She seemed to know where she was going. She parked on a side street. I slid to the curb several cars behind her. She got out and headed toward a one-story brick building with Samuels & Lightower, Attorneys-at-Law, written in heavy wrought iron across the front.
Was Astrid Gallagher wasting no time getting Uncle Walter’s claim to the estate in order? Or getting her legal ducks lined up in case Sgt. Yates made an outright accusation about her involvement in Leslie’s death?
I drove away thinking hard. The fact that Astrid Gallagher appeared to be a bit on the avaricious side, more interested in the size and details of an inheritance than in the niece’s murder, might say something uncomplimentary about her character. But it certainly didn’t mean she’d had anything to do with Leslie’s death. The idea was surely preposterous, I reminded myself. Even if she desperately needed the money and was willing to dispose of a niece whom I suspected she barely knew, it was, basically, a physical impossibility. I couldn’t have overpowered Leslie, and neither could Astrid.
At worst, she was surely nothing more than a genteel opportunist eager to latch on to an unexpected windfall.
Or was I again letting appearances deceive me?
Because even a sweet LOL in a polyester pantsuit might find a way to hire a hit man.
22
I was still pondering that thought when Hanson Watkins waved to me and motioned me into the driveway. He had the awning attached to his mother’s motor home open, apparently checking for holes in the canvas. I rolled down the window, and he walked over and leaned against the car door.
“That must have been quite a shock, discovering that dead woman over there across the lake,” he said. “I went back home for a few days and just heard about it.”
“It definitely turned off any desire to go swimming in the lake in the near future.”
We talked for a few minutes about Leslie and the murder, and then he gave the window frame of my car a little tap with his fist.
“This is one great old T-bird.” He glanced inside at the odometer and whistled. “Is that original miles?”
“Original miles” has always struck me as a peculiar phrase. There are, perhaps, old used miles? But I just nodded.
“Hey, why don’t you trade me for the motor home here? Straight-across deal. T-Bird for the motor home.”
“The motor home is surely worth more than this old car!”
“The motor home’s in great shape, all right. I’ve had everything checked out. Appliances, engine, generator. Good tires. And the awning’s solid too, as you can see. But I’ve discovered that there’s not a whole lot of demand for fifteen-year-old motor homes. At least not by anyone with cash.” He grimaced and stood back to admire the T-bird. “And this really is a fantastic old ’bird. It’s sure worth as much as the motor home. To me, anyway.”
An odd sales talk, I thought. I’m telling him his motor home is worth more than my T-bird; he’s telling me how great the ’bird is. Finally I just laughed.
“What would I do with a motor home?”
“What would I do with a T-bird?” he countered. “Drive around. Enjoy!”
“A motor home isn’t exactly a practical vehicle for trips to the supermarket.”
“True,” he agreed ruefully.
I waved as I backed out and pulled on down to the next driveway, which was ours. I stopped at the mailbox to pick up the usual junk. Bills, ads … postcard with a picture of a place called “The Mothball Museum of America.” Mothball Museum? Who would visit a place like that?
Only one person …
With a small tingle of anticipation I turned the card over and read the message in Mac MacPherson’s blocky printing only to be disappointed to find he wouldn’t be coming back this way after all. His daughter’s husband out in Montana had just broken his leg, and Mac was headed there to help out. He said he was sorry to miss Sandy’s gymnastics meet and was rooting for her.
I thought Sandy might be even more disappointed than I was. She’d enjoyed Mac and had made a special point of inviting him to the gymnastics meet. But it was like him, of course, to jump in and help with a family problem.
Sandy didn’t show much reaction when I handed her the postcard at the house, however. Not disappointment with the message, not even a smile at the museum with its oversized replica of a mothball on a pedestal outside a building that appeared to be construct
ed of mothball-shaped lumps.
“I’m sure he really wanted to come,” I said.
She shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”
Sandy, I realized, had been acting rather odd the past few days. Her mind didn’t seem to be on the food she was eating—or, more often, not eating—or the program she was looking at on TV. I had the feeling even her studies might be suffering. Skye also hadn’t been around much.
“Is something wrong, Sandy?”
“What could be wrong?” A question answered with a question. Not good.
“Did you and Skye have an argument or something?”
She looked unexpectedly alarmed. “No! Why do you ask that?”
“You’ve just seemed … oh, kind of preoccupied. And Skye hasn’t been around lately.”
“Umm. Yeah, well, you know. Finals coming up before long. And Skye is getting involved in more school activities and some stuff with her dad’s politics too.”
“Nervous about the gymnastics meet?”
“I told you. It’s no big deal.”
“C’mon, Sandy, this is Aunt Ivy,” I said reproachfully. The gymnastics meet had certainly been a “big deal” for some time now. “We’re roomies, remember?”
She gave me an unexpectedly wobbly smile. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just … Leslie Marcone was almost a neighbor, you know? And to think someone deliberately killed her and threw her body in the lake as if she were a … a piece of garbage or something. It makes something like a gymnastics meet seem … trivial.”
I put my arms around her. “Oh, sweetie, I know. It’s a terrible thing. But the police will catch him.” Or her, as the case may be.
“Then sometimes I think about those awful Braxtons who want to kill you, and that’s terrible too. Killing on TV isn’t like people you know getting killed. Or might get killed.”
I rubbed her back. “Are you scared? Don’t be scared. Whoever killed Leslie has nothing to do with us. And the Braxtons don’t even know where I am. They’ve probably given up the idea of doing anything to me by now.” I hesitated. “Would you rather go live with your folks in Hawaii right away instead of waiting till school is out?”
In Plain Sight Page 16