“So it’s not enough that I have one grandchild in the works. Armando says he saw another one in Emma’s eyes on Friday night,” I laughed. Strutter didn’t join in, which didn’t surprise me. She and Armando shared an almost spooky intuitive sense. “What do you think about that?” I repeated Armando’s thoughts about motherhood being infectious.
“I hate to break it to you, but he makes a good argument,” she said rather callously, I thought, as she patted her lips and tossed her napkin into a handy trash receptacle. “Emma is at that age, after all.”
“What age is that?” I wanted to know.
“Oh, you know, the nesting age when all of the hormones and societal expectations and most of all your girlfriends are pushing you to get with Mother Nature’s program and reproduce. If I’m doing the math correctly here, you must have gone through something like that in your twenties.”
I was jolted but had to admit she had a point. “Parenthood is daunting enough with a husband around to help, but if anyone knows how hard single motherhood is, it’s you. Let’s hope it’s just a whim.”
She smiled enigmatically, which didn’t cheer me at all. By this time we had arrived back at the Mack Realty offices, where we regarded Emma’s perennial entry in the scarecrow display with affection. A braying ass, wearing clothes fashioned from a variety of legal paperwork and carrying a briefcase, was entitled, “Law Suit.” He was an old friend, and I gave him a pat.
“Since Margo handled the open house on Garden Street this morning, I suppose the least we can do is check messages before we take off,” I said as we approached the converted barn. I secretly hoped Strutter would attempt to dissuade me, but no such luck.
“You’re right. It’s only fair,” she said, so in we went.
It took a minute for our eyes to make the adjustment from the late afternoon sunshine to the relative gloom inside the converted barn. The bustle and chatter of the pedestrians outside fell away, and we smiled at each other as we always did when re-entering this building. We were happy to be back. We had quite a history with the old structure, but despite a calamitous experience here and there, we had been grieved to give up our lease two years previously when the housing market crashed and our business faltered.
Until a few months ago the three of us, who had launched Mack Realty as a joyous statement of our independence and survived countless adventures and misadventures as a team, had been forced to cut our operation to the bone. Strutter had chosen to devote herself to her family, which now included baby Olivia. I had made do with a number of temporary positions, each of which had been an adventure in itself. Margo had assumed the primary responsibility for Vista View, our only long-term account, while she conducted an ill-fated campaign for the Wethersfield Town Council. It was a brief flirtation with politics she soon abandoned.
“Politics is just an ugly business,” she told the young reporter from The Hartford Courant, who interviewed her following her withdrawal from the race. “Those mudslingers can slug it out without me. I can be far more helpful to the people of Wethersfield by sellin’ some real estate and buildin’ up the tax base,” and she proceeded to get back to doing exactly that. Her first act had been to negotiate a new lease for our previous office space.
Now Strutter and I crossed the quiet lobby by the light of the lamp on the receptionist’s desk that was always left burning and descended six stairs to our office at the rear of the building. As expected, the message light on my phone blipped frantically. Sighing, we extracted notebooks and pens from our handbags. I punched the speakerphone and play buttons, and we listened as our work week took shape.
Per Margo, the Garden Street open house had gone very well, and she expected an offer to be made this evening. I made a note to tell Emma. A harassed first-time buyer didn’t understand some language in his good faith cost estimate. (Tell Emma to give him a call.) The exhausted parents of new twins were having trouble lining up a mover, and could we change the closing date? (Tell Emma.) And so on and so on.
“Having that daughter of yours around comes in real handy, doesn’t it?” Strutter joked.
The last message was from Ginny Preston at Vista View. “Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, Kate, but we have another unexpected vacancy to fill. Margaret Butler died last night. It really is the damnedest thing.” She paused, as if considering what to say next. “Central administration is in a big flap with this coming so soon after Angela Roncaro’s death. Not good for the Vista View image and so on.” She chuckled half-heartedly. “Could you drop by my office when you get in tomorrow morning so we can firm up the listing details? See you then.”
Four
Margaret Butler had been a Phase I Vista View resident for less than two years. I had rented her one of the poshest two-bedroom apartments we had to offer, as it happened, and I remembered her well. A trim, stylish lady in her mid-sixties, Margaret had struck me as being far too vigorous to require the services Vista View offered, but, as she had phrased it, she wanted “to be prepared.” She had no husband, no children, and no other family members in New England, she told me. She had to look out for herself, but she wanted to enjoy her remaining years of good health unencumbered by property.
She launched her plan by divesting herself of an attractive house in Cromwell, a transaction facilitated by Mack Realty. She added the proceeds to the already impressive investment portfolio she herself had compiled during her successful career as a financial advisor and, with an unerring sense of timing that must have served her well in her position, liquidated it all just before the real estate crash. She then set about living the good life.
From April through November, Margaret golfed and played tennis with friends, of whom she had many of both genders; traveled and enjoyed season tickets to every major entertainment venue in central Connecticut. Around the first of December she drove her silver BMW sedan to Florida, where she subleased a swanky, beachfront condo and resumed her activities with her snowbird friends until the chill of winter in Connecticut had safely departed.
I had occasionally seen Margaret whisking through the lobby or chatting with friends over lunch in the communal dining hall, but our relationship had dwindled to a passing wave now and then.
“It’s hard to believe that she’s gone,” I said to Ginny as we finally settled ourselves for a late lunch on Monday in the nearly empty staff corner of the dining room. My wild mushroom quiche smelled heavenly. “She always looked so well. What was it, a coronary?”
Ginny glanced around to assure herself that we couldn’t be overheard. “The official pronouncement was death from natural causes,” Ginny said carefully as she dug into her chicken Caesar salad, “but frankly, when a woman of a certain age expires alone in her bed, and there’s no reason to suspect foul play, the authorities don’t bother to look for any. Why would they?”
“No, I suppose they don’t, unless someone gives them a reason to do so.” I looked at her. “Do you think there’s a reason?”
“Until yesterday morning, I didn’t. Despite the glow of good health she exuded, Margaret did have some health problems. She didn’t talk about them, at least to me, but there was an extended stay in Boston last year, and she didn’t play tennis for quite a while after that,” she shrugged. “Still, her own doctor signed the death certificate, and he certainly knew her better, medically speaking, than anyone else did.”
“But?” I stopped stuffing my face and gave her my full attention. “What’s bothering you about this, Ginny?”
She sipped her coffee slowly, as if weighing the advisability of sharing her concerns. Then she made up her mind and put down her cup. “So much time had passed, Kate. The last time anyone could remember seeing Margaret was on Thursday evening, right here in this room. She ate a light dinner with the Grants and the MacRaes around seven o’clock, played a few hands of bridge with them in the Grants’ unit, and excused herself around nine-thirty, something about a PBS travelogue on Portugal she wanted to see. It wasn’t until she didn’t show up for her
Saturday afternoon yoga class with Mrs. MacRae that anyone missed her, and it was a couple of hours after that before they accessed Margaret’s apartment and found her. That’s nearly forty-eight hours, Kate. Anything could have been in her system all that time and eventually killed her, but the on-call physician didn’t even consider the possibility, just looked for a pulse and pronounced her dead on the spot.”
Ginny looked mutinous. I was astounded to see how riled up she was. I remembered her earlier comment.
“You said something about yesterday morning. What happened then?”
Ginny reached behind her for her purse, which hung on the back of her chair. She took out her billfold and removed a small piece of paper, which she slid across the table to me.
“I probably read too many mystery novels, but see what you make of this.”
I accepted it gingerly. This really was like something out of a crime novel. Unfortunately, I had experienced one or two situations in the last couple of years which confirmed that crime fiction was often based on real life.
“The senior administrator called me early Sunday to tell me what had happened. Since there was no immediate family to contact in the area, she got permission from the Midwestern cousins listed on Margaret’s intake paperwork and asked me to supervise the packing up of Margaret’s furniture and personal belongings. She didn’t want to waste a minute getting the place ready to re-rent.” She made a face. “I found this in Margaret’s study.”
I pulled what appeared to be a page torn from a small, spiral-bound notebook toward me. “Thursday 10 p.m. TG” was scrawled on it in a large, masculine hand. I pushed it back to Ginny.
“Is TG an abbreviation for the title of the travelogue Margaret intended to watch?” I took another bite of my quiche, which was fantastic.
“That’s what I thought at first, but something about this kept bugging me. For one thing, this isn’t Margaret’s handwriting. I’ve seen hers many times, and it’s totally ladylike, very good Catholic school.”
I shrugged. “So someone jotted it down as a recommendation of a show she might enjoy, since everyone knew Margaret loved to travel.”
“Mmm, I thought of that, so I checked the television listings for Thursday night. There were no travel shows scheduled on PBS or any other station. In fact, both the Hartford and Springfield PBS stations on the cable were running those doo-wop music shows they recycle endlessly during their fundraising periods. And Margaret wasn’t acting like herself. She was much more withdrawn lately, kept to herself a lot. I hardly saw her anymore. A couple of people commented on it.”
I put down my fork and looked at Ginny closely. Her hair needed combing, and there were dark smudges under her eyes. Something about this situation really had her in a swivet. “So what do you think the note means, Gin? You must have a theory, if you’re taking the trouble to show it to me.”
Instead of answering right away, Ginny gazed around the room, her eyes seeking someone or something in particular. She nodded toward a handsome young Latino who was just entering from the kitchen. He began clearing tables, chatting easily with the residents seated nearby.
“I think Margaret had a late date on Thursday with Tommy Garcia for a massage.” She jerked her head in the kitchen worker’s direction once again.
“The busboy?”
“He’s studying to become a licensed massage therapist, and rumor has it he’s practicing on a lot of our female residents. At least, I think that’s what he’s practicing.”
My mouth sagged open, and I snapped it shut.
“I know that must sound odd to you, but you’d be amazed at what goes on around here, Katie, my girl. It’s not all afternoon tea and senior aerobics. You’re pretty well buffered from most it, sitting at your desk out there in the lobby, but trust me. It wouldn’t be the first time one of the old dears got a yen for our Tommy, not by a long shot. You’d be amazed at how randy some of these dames can be when confronted with a willing young buck in his prime, especially when their husbands have passed on or have simply lost interest. Let’s face it, Tommy Garcia is quite a hunk.”
I paused with my fork halfway to my mouth. “Is he now?”
Ginny grinned easily at me over her teacup. “I’m old, not dead, my dear. Fortunately, Rog has plenty of life in him, too, or I might be tempted to break my own rule about employee fraternization. I’m not saying Tommy doesn’t do a lot of legitimate massages. I’m just saying I’ll bet he gets paid extra for a happy ending now and again.”
I appraised Tommy more thoroughly as he weaved among the tables, muscular arms flexing, doling out smiles and jokes to the obviously appreciative women among the diners. More than one lady’s eyes lingered on his form-fitting uniform trousers, I noticed. Apparently, I wasn’t the only woman in the room who appreciated Latin men.
“Earth to Kate,” Ginny teased. “See what I mean?”
I felt myself coloring. “Okay, I’m busted. I can see the attraction from the women’s point of view, but what about Tommy? I can’t believe this collection of aging hens holds any allure for him.”
Ginny shrugged and cut her eyes toward a table by the window, where the tennis foursome I had seen the previous week were getting up to go. All four had a fit youthfulness about them, no doubt due to all that healthful exercise. The ladies, though very different from one another, were particularly attractive.
“The Grants and the MacRaes I was telling you about, Margaret’s closest pals here. Careful diets, impeccable grooming, regular exercise, and pots of money to keep it all going. It’s the Vista View lifestyle, remember the brochures? Not everyone here is ready for the rocker.”
I looked around more carefully as I finished my coffee. Ginny had a point. Bert Rosenthal and his aged harem certainly comprised a good percentage of the population but not all of it. There were more than a few trim, attractive women scattered throughout the room, with and without husbands in attendance. I put down my cup.
“Okay, I see what you mean. There may be sufficient motivation for a flirtatious conversation here and there, but honest-to-god sex? Why on earth would the hunk, as you call him, need to go that far?”
Ginny glanced at her watch and crumpled her napkin into her plate. “Did I mention the part about pots of money? Close your mouth, Kate. It happens all the time out here in the real world.” She hummed a few bars of “Love for Sale” just in case I hadn’t caught her meaning. “If I was telling you a story about one of the old fellows and a pretty young waitress with an interest in augmenting her income, you wouldn’t think anything of it.”
Oh, yes, I would, I thought to myself, but I kept quiet. “Eeuuww, but okay, bearing in mind we’re speculating wildly here, let’s say you’re right, and Margaret was getting it on with the busboy. What does that have to do with her death? We don’t have any evidence of foul play with or without Tommy Garcia’s involvement. As a matter of fact, we don’t even know exactly when she died within that period of nearly two days. Why are you tying that note to her death? Whatever she was doing, it was as a consenting adult, and it’s really none of our darn business.”
Ginny drummed her fingers on the table. “I’ve gone this far,” she said almost to herself. “I may as well get it all out. Oh, the hell with it. The thing is, I have reason to believe that Angela Roncaro was also, um, involved with Tommy Garcia. She died recently under very similar circumstances, and no one questioned it. Now Margaret’s gone, and here’s this note with Tommy’s initials on it. That’s kind of a lot of coincidences, don’t you think?”
I chewed on that for a minute. “It is a lot of coincidences, Ginny, but they’re based on supposition. For instance, we don’t really know that T.G. stands for Tommy Garcia. Even if it does, what would be his motivation to do either one of those women in? Was he in their wills or something?” I joked in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, but Ginny remained thin lipped and grim.
“If I’m right, Angela and Margaret probably weren’t Tommy’s only clients, Kate. Who knows how many
other women he was servicing here?”
“Still none of our business,” I insisted.
Her eyes followed Tommy’s continuing circuit of the residents’ tables. “Sex is a slippery slope for most women. When you’re needy and lonely and hear that clock ticking, it’s especially easy to mistake it for genuine affection, even when you’re paying a masseur for it.” Her eyes returned to mine. “Look around you. This place is filled with vulnerable women, and hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Think about it. Keep your eyes open. Then tell me what you think.”
~
When I arrived home late that afternoon, I was surprised to find Armando’s car already in the garage. He didn’t usually roll in from work until seven-thirty or eight in the evening.
“Where’s your friend?” I asked Gracie, who appeared in the kitchen to greet me. Not surprisingly, she didn’t answer me, so I went to investigate. I found Armando sprawled in a chair on the back deck, a mug of tea propped on his chest, and brought my glass of Pinot Grigio outside to join him.
“Here,” I said, dropping a windbreaker over his knees. “It will be too cool without this in another ten minutes.” I pulled over a second chair and propped my bare feet companionably next to his on the deck railing. “Playing hooky? Fight with the boss?” He looked perfectly peaceful, but you never knew.
He took a pull on his tea and grunted. “I had an afternoon seminar, one of those estúpido sessions HR insists that we sit through twice a year. They are invariably scheduled on the busiest day of the week or when all hell has broken loose with one of our international affiliates, but we must abandon everything to listen to some porky twelve-year-old tell us how to be more effective managers.”
Dying Wishes Page 4