‘What’s wrong?’
I gestured with my head. ‘Over by the rowboat.’
Elaine took a few steps in that direction and pulled up short. ‘Jesus! Is he …?’
‘Very.’
‘This is dreadful, simply dreadful,’ she said after taking a closer look at the body. ‘I’ve never, not in all my years …’ She took several deep breaths then blew them out slowly through slightly pursed lips. ‘We’ll need to find Tyson Bennett and inform him right away. He’ll want to begin damage control. And locate Safa, of course. Oh, Lord, poor Safa!’
Elaine thrust her hands into the pockets of her scrubs and rocked back and forth on the soles of her sensible shoes. ‘First the Health Care Quality people, then the lawsuit and now this. It’s bad, Hannah, very bad.’
‘What’s bad?’ Nancy wanted to know. ‘What are we talking about? Have I forgotten something?’
‘Come on, Nancy,’ Elaine said, seguing smoothly from unit manager into caregiver mode. ‘It’s almost time for dinner. They’re serving lasagna today, and I know how much you like lasagna.’
Nancy offered me her empty paper cup then stood up. ‘I make lasagna with meatballs. Frank likes it that way. Meatballs and lots of mozzarella cheese. Do you like meatballs … I forget your name.’
‘Hannah. My name is Hannah.’
‘Hannah,’ she repeated thoughtfully as Elaine linked her arm in Nancy’s and started to draw her away.
Suddenly, Nancy jerked her arm free. ‘Is someone in trouble?’
Elaine bowed slightly, then cocked her head so she could look straight into Nancy’s eyes. ‘No, no one’s in trouble. Why?’
Nancy waved in the direction of the open field then chugged off. ‘There’s a police car,’ she trilled. ‘Maybe it’s Frank!’
Elaine shot an oh-help-me look over her shoulder and trudged after her.
I scuttled further on down the walk until I was even with the pavilion. I could see the police car now, just pulling into the parking lot. Elaine waved both arms over her head to attract the driver’s attention then chopped them in my direction, like a flight attendant pointing out the emergency exits.
The head gardener of Calvert Colony was going to have a conniption, I thought, as I watched first the dark blue Crown Vic, then an ambulance, and finally a white Chevy crime scene van bounce across the field, ripping up the lawn and sending divots flying. One by one they braked to a halt about twenty feet from where I stood.
I introduced myself to the patrolman, who emerged from the Crown Vic, and showed him where Masud’s body lay. I withdrew to the shade of a cherry tree while he, too, ascertained that the gentleman was dead, a fact that was confirmed for the fourth time by one of the paramedics who knelt by the body, pressed his fingers against the victim’s neck then shook his head. The paramedic waved off his partner, who had been busily hauling a gurney out of the back of the ambulance, then went to talk to the driver of the crime scene van while the patrolman dealt with me.
‘Let’s sit down for a minute, shall we?’ he suggested.
After we got settled on the bench that Nancy and I had so recently vacated, the patrolman eased a notebook out of the breast pocket of his navy blue uniform, jotted down my name and contact information then asked me what happened.
So I told him.
While we talked, two guys from the crime scene team began cordoning off a wide area around the body with yellow tape. I was busily explaining Nancy Harper’s condition – yes, somebody’d been with me, but no, she hadn’t seen anything and wouldn’t have been a reliable witness in any case – when a familiar voice drawled, ‘So, we meet again, Mrs Ives.’
The last time I’d seen Detective Ron Powers he’d been coordinating the investigation into the abduction of my grandson, Timmy. He was a little bit grayer around the temples now, perhaps, but had the same serious gray eyes and the same half-inch scar that only emphasized the resolute squareness of his jaw. A veneer of designer stubble gave the detective a rugged, outdoorsy look, but I didn’t know whether he was being fashion forward or whether it was due simply to the lateness of the day.
I managed a smile. ‘It’s a curse, Detective Powers.’
‘Did you know the victim?’ His eyes flicked to a notebook in his hand. ‘Masud Abaza?’
‘Vaguely. I know his wife, Safa, much better. They own one of the town homes here at the colony. The folks at reception can tell you which one. I’ve never been to their home. Masud seemed to prefer his own company.’
One of the crime scene techs called Powers over, so the detective excused himself. They stood over the body, consulting calmly, as if seeing a body pinned to the ground with a stalk of glass like a butterfly on a specimen board was an everyday occurrence.
When he finished talking to the tech, Powers rejoined me. ‘Can you think of anyone who hated Mr Abaza enough to do this?’
While waiting for the cops to arrive, I’d made a mental list. ‘There was a whacko in a balaclava who Masud caught spraying graffiti on the musalla.’
‘Musalla?’
‘It’s kind of a prayer hut.’ I waved. ‘Over there. I’m surprised you don’t know about the graffiti. It was reported.’
‘Vandalism’s not my department,’ Powers said, scribbling.
‘Masud and Mister Balaclava got into a tussle, but by the time I arrived on the scene Masud was dusting himself off and the guy in the balaclava had disappeared into the woods.’
‘Anyone else?’
From a life-long, in-depth study of television crime drama I’ve learned that the spouse of a murder victim is always the first suspect, so I thought I’d set the record straight on that point from the get-go. ‘Not his wife. Safa seemed to be devoted to the guy. They’d been married for thirty-some years.’
Powers raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Where have I heard that before?’
‘He was having some sort of running disagreement with the chef, Raniero Buccho, though,’ I hastened to add. ‘On two occasions, I overheard them arguing.’
‘What were they arguing about?’
‘The first time, I’m not sure. I wasn’t close enough to make out their words. But the second time Masud seemed to be reaming Raniero out for being a little too friendly with his wife. Because of their religious beliefs – they’re Muslim – he found Raniero’s behavior disrespectful. Although Masud’s definition of “disrespectful” was pretty broad.’
‘As in …?’
‘Well, simply talking to Safa, really. Smiling, joking, touching her arm. That kind of thing.’
‘Did Mrs Abaza have a relationship with this Raniero guy?’
I flashed back to the day I’d surprised Safa alone in the kitchen with Raniero. Although I’d been slightly suspicious at the time, Safa was a friend, and I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. She could have been consulting with the chef about the menu, as she had claimed.
I kept my eyes steady. ‘As I said, she seemed devoted to her husband. She converted to Islam for him, you know. She’s going to be devastated.’
Powers nodded. ‘I’ve sent an officer to find her.’
‘You’re not going to make her …’ I started to panic, thinking how I would feel if I had to see Paul lying dead on the grass with a glass spike driven through his chest.
‘No. We have your identification – that’s good enough for now. She can do the formal identification later, or another family member can, after we get him, uh, cleaned up.’
‘They have a son, and a daughter, maybe one of them would …’ I paused to get the little wheels within my brain spinning. ‘I’m not sure where the son lives, but the daughter is local. Chevy Chase. Potomac. Someplace like that. Sorry, I’m blanking. Maybe the son can identify his dad?’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that, Mrs Ives. I’m sure that Calvert Colony has all the contact information we need.’
‘You’re right, of course they will,’ I said, breathing deeply.
Outside the boundaries of the crime scene tape colony reside
nts had begun to gather. Two Calvert Colony security officers, dressed in khaki uniforms, paced back and forth between the entrance to the garden and the parking lot, keeping the curious at bay. I spotted Naddie, keeping pace alongside one of them, pumping him for information, no doubt. I had to smile. You go, girl.
All that energy! I felt suddenly drained. ‘Is there anything else you need me for, Detective? This whole situation has been pretty upsetting and I’d like to go home now, if possible.’
‘Of course.’ He closed his notebook, slapped it against his open palm. ‘No worries. If something comes up I’ll know where to find you.’
If something comes up. I trudged wearily back over the bridge and along the walk, thinking that the only witness to the fact that I hadn’t murdered Masud Abaza was Nancy Harper and her poor, befuddled brain. Not that I had any motive to murder the poor man.
As I neared the crime scene tape that was stretched between the garden gateposts, a security officer spotted me and lifted the tape so I could duck under. I ran straight into the comforting arms of Nadine Smith Gray, friend, co-conspirator and surrogate mother. Sometimes a gal needs a soft shoulder to cry on.
SEVENTEEN
‘Warsaw, Ky., Nov. 26 – In the Gallatin circuit court W. J. Castleman was acquitted by a jury for killing Dr G. W. Ferrell about a year ago in this county. The two men were playing croquet and got into a trifling dispute in which the lie was passed, and Castleman struck Farrell on the head while Farrell was advancing on him, producing concussion of the brain and almost instant death.’
Mayville Public Ledger, November 26, 1900.
The killing of Masud Abaza precipitated a media feeding frenzy. ‘Is Anti-Muslim Violence Spiraling Out of Control?’ asked Wolf Blitzer from the CNN Situation Room, while Fox News bulletins were screaming, ‘Retired Professor Murdered in Anti-Muslim Hate Crime!’
It was all over the regional papers, too, of course, capturing the front pages of both the Baltimore Sun and The Washington Post, and the story was feuled anew several days later by whoever leaked the details about Balaclava Man and the graffiti, until political shenanigans in our nation’s capital pushed all other news aside. Our local rag, the Annapolis Capital, stuck with the story a few days more – ‘Police Probe for Motive in Deadly Attack on Local Man’ and ‘Bizarre Murder Weapon Baffles Police’ – but eventually a lack of any progress in the case caused even the interest of the Capital to wane.
According to a story in the paper, the Office of the Baltimore Medical Examiner had demonstrated commendable respect for Islamic burial customs, setting other work aside in order to concentrate on Masud’s autopsy in a heroic attempt to meet the twenty-four-hour turnaround between death and burial that was generally proscribed by Islamic law. They didn’t quite make it. Masud’s body was released to his family within seventy-two hours, and the beloved husband, father and grandfather had been buried privately, with only men in attendance, in the George Washington Islamic Gardens off Riggs Road in Adelphi. As I had suspected, it had been a blow to the head that had killed him. The glass spike had been – well, no other word for it – overkill. Somebody had been seriously unhappy with Masud Abaza.
As I’d told Detective Powers, number one on my list was the guy in the balaclava who’d gotten into a tussle with Masud over the graffiti. I had no way of knowing for sure, but that act of mischief had all the earmarks of Christie’s boyfriend, Richard Kent. I’d left Richard in the lobby with Christie when I went to the memory unit that day, but Naddie told me later that their date had been a short one. He’d left after an hour, so Richard could have easily attacked Masud while I was reading to Lillian Blake.
Had Masud and Raniero finally come to blows over Masud’s imagined – perhaps confirmed? – suspicions about the relationship between his wife and the master chef?
Masud had been making trouble for Tyson Bennett, too, over the incident with Nancy and Jerry. If Bennett were holding Masud responsible for the possibility that Calvert Colony might lose its accreditation, and his spotless reputation along with it, things might have gotten ugly between them. It seemed unlikely that he would have been able to persuade Masud to stay quiet on the issue. And what if Masud had threatened to leave Calvert Colony and take all the other Muslims with him?
If you added the Islamophobes like Christie McSpadden and Colonel Nate Greene, who’d also been upset for his friends and didn’t want to have to move from the colony in the event of it being shut down, and even the old guy I’d met on the porch that first day, the list grew even longer.
Could I eliminate Jerry, who’d been separated from the love of his life for no good reason? No. Stranger things had happened.
I shook myself back to reality. My iPhone was beeping.
A text message from Paul, my seafaring husband: WTF?
He must have come ashore and picked up a newspaper. I had some explaining to do.
A week after the murder I decided to pay a condolence call on Safa Abaza, but when I knocked on the door of her town home she didn’t come to the door. From the helpful woman at reception I learned that Safa had left Calvert Colony and was staying, at least temporarily, at her daughter’s home in Potomac, Maryland. With a nudge-nudge-wink-wink, I-won’t-say-anything-if-you-don’t, the receptionist gave me Laila Kazi’s phone number.
After three attempts at talking to Laila’s voicemail I managed to reach the actual daughter on the phone.
‘Mother can’t come to the phone right now,’ Laila explained. ‘She’s in her Iddah.’
In her Iddah? Was Safa in her room, her car, her boat, her cottage in the back yard or what? ‘Uh …’ I started to say, when Laila rescued me from ignorance.
‘Iddah is Mother’s official period of mourning,’ she informed me cooly. ‘It generally lasts for four lunar months plus ten days.’
During Iddah, I learned, her mother would wear plain clothing and no makeup, perfume or jewelry. She’d stay at home, seeing no one, except for emergencies, of course. Apparently talking to me wasn’t one of those emergencies. After asking Laila to convey my sincerest condolences to her mother, I hung up. I sent a handwritten sympathy note to Safa at the Potomac address, but decided that, for the moment anyway, there wasn’t much more that I could do.
The next time I returned to Blackwalnut Hall I found Angie McSpadden and her mother in the lobby trying to organize a game of croquet. Angie was dressed casually in Bermuda shorts and a yellow tank top, but Christie, her mother-in-law, had stepped out of a TravelSmith catalog wearing gray slacks and a pebble-print tunic in shades of gray, purple and magenta with matching purple tennis shoes.
‘Your mother-in-law looks nice today,’ I told Angie, sotto voce.
‘Go figure,’ she replied. ‘I’d been after her for weeks to get her hair done, then all of a sudden, like, it’s an emergency. Had to drive her out to Karen James on Maryland Avenue because the salon here was totally slammed.’
‘Is she going on a date?’ I asked, thinking about Richard Kent.
Angie groaned. ‘She lives in hope. But I haven’t seen Dickey-boy in a couple of weeks. He’s off on some secret mission. Like I’m buying that shit.’
‘I’d like to play, if you’ve still got room,’ I said.
‘Sure. You’ll make a foursome, but we still can add two more.’ She scanned the lobby hopefully. ‘Croquet, anybody?’
It was then I noticed that someone had parked Nancy Harper in the lobby. Looking thin, washed out and withdrawn, she slouched in an overstuffed chair pulled up as close to the fish tank as the built-in benches would allow. She stared with no sign of interest into its aquamarine depths.
‘Let’s ask Nancy,’ I suggested. ‘I know she can play. She was out on the court a couple of weeks ago.’ With Jerry, I thought, with a pang. ‘You just have to keep reminding her what direction she’s going in. I’ll play and keep an eye on her, if you like.’
Despite encouragement from me, Nancy stubbornly refused to budge, and nobody else in the lobby was dying to volunteer,
so I hauled out my cell phone and called Naddie. ‘Want to join us for croquet?’ I asked.
She had been watching the Food Channel on TV, but readily agreed. ‘Sure, why not. They’re making sushi out of live sea urchins. I can live a long and happy life and never taste that.’
When it came to croquet, Naddie was a catch. She’d been a member of the crack Ginger Cove team that had trounced the Naval Academy midshipmen the previous year in a match that had been covered by Sports Illustrated magazine. At Ginger Cove croquet wasn’t a game, it was blood sport. Team members played year-round on two AstroTurf courts. During inclement weather, aficionados moved inside to a ballroom court, laid out with specially weighted wickets. Naddie had even dated – briefly – their Imperial Wicket, who was a spry ninety-one. The average age of his team, from newbies to veterans, was eighty-one, but it would have been a mistake to underestimate them. Their win-loss record against the navy was 12-7 and, until next year, at least, the geezers remained in possession of the coveted Generation Gap Cup.
Calvert Colony, by comparison, was a bit low tech. The courts were laid out, end to end, on two meticulously manicured, fifty-by-one-hundred-foot swatches of lawn adjacent to the tennis courts. Oversized white wickets were staked out on each court in the traditional double diamond design. Although the white stood out clearly against the close-cropped green of the grass, red flags had been tied to the tops of the starting and finishing stakes to capture the attention of the more visually challenged.
The croquet set – one of two snazzy models imported directly from Jacques in London – was stored in a garden shed adjacent to the courts in wheeled, wooden caddies. By the time Naddie joined us I had already located one of the caddies, dragged it from inside the shed, and we players were busily selecting mallets, arguing about colors and hurling good-natured insults at one another.
I snagged blue, won the coin toss, cued up my ball and gave it a good whack, sending it sailing through the first two hoops. Angie followed, and then her mother, who managed to tap my ball. Instead of taking the extra stroke to which she was entitled, Christie chortled like the witch from Hansel and Gretel, placed her ball against mine, held it there with the toe of her purple shoe and thwack, ‘sent’ my ball into the underbrush. Damn. I hated that rule.
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