Hot Property

by Sherryl Woods

  “Go to hell, Liza.”

  “No time. I have a date. See you in the morning.”

  She breezed out, leaving Molly with a whole lot more to fear than the vague possibility that some unknown killer might decide to come after her. The biggest danger to her tonight was going to be having Detective O’Hara in her apartment, within a few skimpy yards of her raging and thoroughly irrational hormones.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  Brian was watching a crash-bang rerun of The Dukes of Hazzard when Molly went to tell him that Detective O’Hara—Michael—was moving in temporarily.

  “Okay,” he said, barely sparing her a glance. The news clearly didn’t faze him. It irritated her no end that Liza, who claimed to have absolutely no maternal instincts, seemed to know her son better than she did. She’d also been hoping that somehow his reaction would provide her with an excuse to keep the detective off her sofa.

  “What’s for dinner?” Brian asked instead.

  Molly sighed, resignation washing over her along with an undeniable spark of anticipation. It was a spark she intended to ignore if she had to spend the entire night under an icy shower. “I don’t know. He’s taking us out.”

  “Okay.” On the screen two cars playing bumper tag on some country road crashed into a fiery mess. “Yeah!” Brian said. “Did you see that, Mom?”

  Molly cringed. “I saw it. Don’t you have homework?”

  “Just spelling stuff. I know the words.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure. Spelling’s my best subject. You know that.” During all of this his eyes never once left the television screen. He was saved from a motherly lecture about driving safely by a timely knock on the door. Since it was too soon for Michael to be back, she checked carefully before answering it. A week ago she wouldn’t have bothered, trusting the guards to keep her safe from unwanted visitors.

  Claire Bates stood on the threshold, still pale from her bout with the flu but looking every bit as glamorous as Liza had noted in their earlier conversation. Her chin-length hair had been streaked a soft ash blond. She was wearing linen slacks in a pale celadon green with a matching silk blouse and flat shoes just one shade darker. Chunky silver jewelry completed the fashionable ensemble. Her gray eyes were faintly troubled.

  “I probably should have called first,” she began apologetically.

  “No, of course not. Come in. I’ve just made some Cuban coffee, or I could fix you a cup of tea.”

  “Nothing, thanks. My stomach’s still pitching and rolling like a boat on the high seas. I had to come and see you to apologize for getting you mixed up in this awful business with Allan.” She perched on the edge of a chair, her hands folded in her lap, her legs crossed demurely at the ankles. Only a former debutante who’d excelled at hiding her own nervousness would have picked up on the fact that her hands were anything but relaxed.

  “Claire, please,” Molly protested. “It’s certainly not your fault. You could hardly know that Allan would be killed after that card game. You could help me figure out what might have gone on, though. There’s a lot I just don’t understand.”

  Alarm seemed to flare in the depths of those silvery eyes. “How could I do that? I wasn’t there.”

  “But you know everyone who was there much better than I do. You could tell me how everyone usually interacts. Maybe then I could tell if anything was particularly off that night.”

  “Such as?”

  “Is everyone in the group friendly?”

  The calm facade slipped, replaced by unmistakable fear. “Dear God, you don’t think that one of them did it, do you? That’s not possible, surely. It had to be a stranger.”

  Molly shook her head. “I don’t think so. I checked the logs that morning. No one came in or out of the building after midnight except residents. I double-checked the log at the gate just to be sure. There’s no other access. Even if someone climbed the fence from the beach, the building doors are locked.”

  Claire shivered and turned paler still. “Maybe it was someone the guard knew well, but not a resident. Sometimes they get a little lax about enforcing the rules, especially with frequent visitors.”

  “No, this was a new guard. He wouldn’t have recognized anyone. He even stopped me three nights ago, because I didn’t have the new sticker on my windshield. I’m absolutely convinced that the murderer has to be from this building.”

  “Oh, God, how awful.”

  “But you can see why it’s so important to think about any rifts, no matter how seemingly insignificant. The Winecrofts were arguing all during the game. Do they usually do that?”

  Claire’s face reflected her distaste. “I’ve never known them not to argue. I swear I can’t see why she put up with him and that little nobody he installed down the hall. He’d been humiliating her like that for years. Ingrid is new, but she was hardly the first.”

  “Why on earth didn’t Drucilla divorce him then?”

  “He kept the business going and maintained all the right social contacts. He smoothed her way onto all the right boards. Besides, in some bizarre way I think it suited her purposes to stay married to a man like Allan. It gave her the freedom to do whatever she wanted to do.”

  Aha, Molly thought. Now they were getting somewhere. “You mean affairs?”

  To her disappointment, Claire shook her head. “Not that I know of, though I’ve certainly heard the rumors that she was seeing this one or that one on the sly. I was thinking of all the social things she thrives on, the board of this, the luncheon committee for that. If she’d had to run the company herself, she wouldn’t have had time left for the things she really enjoys. She likes playing lady bountiful. Drucilla goes to more balls and luncheons than any other five women I know. If she’s not being honored herself, she’s on the committee to honor someone else. It would drive me crazy. What could they possibly have had left to talk about after six or seven of those things in a row?”

  A murder, perhaps? Molly resolved then and there to accept the invitation she’d just received to a benefit luncheon on Tuesday for some disease. She’d planned to send a check anyway, but the cause was suddenly far less important than the conversation. Drucilla had been listed as the event’s honorary chairwoman.

  “So Drucilla wouldn’t be your number one suspect?” she said to Claire.

  “Absolutely not. And Ingrid, for all her lack of morals, would be pretty far down the list too. Allan was her meal ticket.”

  “How did they meet?”

  “I believe she did a commercial for one of his subsidiaries. It so happened he was meeting with the account executive in New York that day and the guy took him along to the shoot. Apparently it was her last job.”

  “If she was a model, she could certainly work down here. Agencies are shooting ads all over town.”

  “Allan didn’t want her parading that body in front of anyone but him.”

  And all the residents of Ocean Manor, Molly thought, but didn’t say. “Okay, so she gives up her career for him. What if she suddenly realized he was never going to get a divorce and marry her? Wouldn’t that give her a motive?”

  “Maybe, but she was probably better off with things just the way they were. She had his money and her freedom, especially during the summer when he and Drucilla went north.”

  “He didn’t take Ingrid along?”

  “Absolutely not. Their circle of friends up there would never have tolerated it. Drucilla comes from old money. They have their standards, even when it comes to affairs. Ingrid lacks class. Her presence would have been an embarrassment to Drucilla and Allan. And for all his flaws, he would never have subjected Ingrid to that sort of ridicule.”

  “Interesting that he seems more concerned with his girl friend’s feelings than his wife’s.”

  Claire shrugged. “I’m sure he felt Drucilla was well able to fend for herself. She may be able to portray the fragile feminine flower to the hilt, but underneath she has a will of iron.”

&n
bsp; Molly sighed. “If you eliminate Drucilla and Ingrid as suspects, who else is left? Tyler Jenkins? The Davisons? Roy Meeks? Any of the other couples there that night?”

  Claire just shrugged helplessly. “I can’t imagine any of them being involved. Allan was Tyler’s protégé, if it’s possible for a sixty-eight-year-old man to have a sixty-two-year-old protégé. At any rate, he was counting on Allan to turn the management of the building around.”

  “What if he’d been disillusioned? Maybe Allan wasn’t tough enough.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. The man was leaving a trail of enemies because of his rules and regulations.”

  “There,” Molly said, suddenly hopeful. “That’s exactly what I need. What enemies?”

  “Three fourths of the people in the building resented him for treating them like children. Maybe in their hearts, they knew he was after better management, but his whole focus seemed to be on such petty stuff. Getting rid of that cat, for instance. Have you talked to Mrs. Jenko?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the Firths? You heard about that incident over little Hettie’s bare feet? Call them.” Claire scribbled a number on a piece of paper. “There are a dozen more like them, who had run-ins with Allan over petty annoyances.”

  “Maybe some weren’t so petty.”

  “Maybe not,” Claire said, still looking every bit as troubled as she had when she arrived. “I guess you always assume a murder is going to be over something big, something important. Not over whether or not some kid was barefooted in the lobby.”

  “And you’re certain there were no deep-rooted feuds among the bridge players themselves?”

  “The same people have been playing bridge on Tuesday nights since the building opened. Sure, there have been squabbles. Occasionally somebody gets especially worked up over a hand. Once Tyler accused Roy Meeks of cheating.”

  “What did Roy do?”

  “He quietly folded his hand, stood up and said he’d be back when Tyler apologized. At the time Tyler swore that Roy would get an apology when hell froze over. He held out until the next Tuesday morning, then called Roy up. The game went on as usual Tuesday night.”

  Neither man’s behavior was indicative of the kind of fury it had taken to drive that knife into Allan’s back. “That’s it?” Molly said.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything.”

  “How did you feel about Allan?”

  Claire gazed unflinchingly into Molly’s eyes. “I thought he was a nasty, abrasive ass, but I wouldn’t have killed him. It takes too long to find a decent bridge player.”

  “Actually, Allan was pretty lousy the other night.”

  Claire seemed genuinely surprised by that. “Then his mind must have been on something else,” she said with certainty. “He and Drucilla almost never lose.”

  Perhaps, Molly thought, his mind had been on those late-night threats or on some meeting he had scheduled for after the bridge game. Who was it Drucilla said had stopped by later? Juan Gonzalez? Molly didn’t know him, but perhaps she should.

  “Do you know anything about Juan Gonzalez?” she asked.

  Claire shook her head. “Very little. I think he’s a doctor, or maybe it’s a lawyer. Anyway, he’s very smooth, very polite. A bachelor.”

  “Were he and Allan friends?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. I don’t recall ever seeing them together. If anything, I would have guessed he and Drucilla were friends.”

  “More than friends?”

  Claire looked startled. “Why, no, I don’t think so.” She hesitated. “Now that you mention it, though, there was something …”

  “What?”

  “I can’t put my finger on it—an intimacy, I guess you’d call it. It was the way they looked at each other when they thought no one was noticing. I never saw them alone, just at parties, occasionally at the pool, always with others around, including Allan. Why would you ask, though? Juan wasn’t there that night. He doesn’t play bridge as far as I know.”

  “Drucilla said he stopped by after I left. She said he’d come to see Allan, that he and several others were sitting around discussing business, when she left.”

  “Possible. The men often did that.”

  “Thanks, Claire,” she said, walking her to the door. “You’ve been a big help. If you think of anything else, let me know.”

  “Perhaps she should let me know,” Michael suggested, slowly removing his sunglasses so that Molly could get a good look at the storm brewing in his eyes. He was standing in the hallway, just close enough to have overheard yet more incriminating evidence that Molly hadn’t mended her ways. She refused to feel guilty about it, not when she’d learned a couple of interesting tidbits to pass along.

  “It’s okay,” she said soothingly, smiling brightly. “I’ll share what I know with you.”

  “I do so love a witness who’s willing to cooperate with the police.”

  “Police?” Claire repeated weakly. “Oh, my.”

  Molly practically pushed her into the hall. “We’ll talk again soon.”

  Claire was only too willing to take the hint. She virtually ran for the elevator.

  Michael brought in a small canvas bag and a suit still in its dry cleaner plastic. He hung them neatly in the hall closet without asking directions or permission. Molly edged back into the living room, trying to figure out what she could put between her and the explosion she knew was coming. Since nothing looked suitably sturdy, she decided to rely on her wits.

  “She dropped in. I didn’t invite her.”

  “And who is she?”

  “Claire Bates, the woman I substituted for on Tuesday night.”

  “And what did you and Mrs. Bates have to talk about?”

  “This and that.”

  “Care to be more specific?”

  “She gave me the Firths’ phone number.” She waved the paper for him to examine. “They’re the people Allan harassed because their child was in the lobby without shoes.”

  “And?”

  “I haven’t called them yet.”

  “I meant, what else did you and Mrs. Bates talk about.”

  “Actually there is one thing that might interest you. I think I know who Drucilla might be involved with, and he was there Tuesday night.”

  For one lingering instant fury warred with curiosity. Michael was too good a cop to let the fury interfere with possible evidence. “Spill it.”

  “Juan Gonzalez.”

  “Any specifics?”

  “Claire’s gut instincts. I mean, she didn’t think of that at first, but when I asked the question, she thought about it and said yes.”

  Michael groaned. “Well, that’s certainly something we can take into court.”

  “Okay, so it’s not exactly solid,” she said, miffed at his reaction. “It’s a lead, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you be grateful?”

  “Oh, I am,” he said. “Do you have a spare key for this place?”

  Molly blinked and stared. “A key?”

  “So I can get back in later.”

  “You actually want me to give you your own key?”

  “Unless you’d rather wait up. Sounds cozy. I’d like that.”

  “I thought you were taking us to dinner.”

  “I was, until I got this hot new lead. Now I’m going to spend the evening tracking down Juan Gonzalez and asking him about his current romantic entanglements.”

  “Not without me you’re not. It’s my lead.”

  “It was your lead. Now it’s mine. I’ve got the badge that says so. Night, sweetheart. Never mind about the key. I’ll just jimmy the lock.”

  Furious, she grabbed the closest heavy object to throw at his retreating back. Unfortunately, it was her key ring. It struck the target and clattered to the floor. He picked it up, jingled it cheerfully, and tucked it in his pocket. “Thanks. Sleep tight.”

  The only satisfactory projectile within reach now was a brass lamp with a marble base. It had cost over three hundr
ed dollars. Even so, she had her hands around it when the door shut quietly behind him. She was tempted to sit up half the night if she had to, just for the satisfaction of heaving it at him when he finally came in.

  Instead, she found her extra set of keys, told Brian to order a pizza for himself, and called Liza for the apartment number of the couple who’d monitored the comings and goings at Ingrid’s apartment. Perhaps they’d seen Juan Gonzalez popping in on Drucilla at odd hours as well.