Sleuthing Women II

by Lois Winston

  With a howl, Shea Leigh stepped closer, but her proximity pushed Madonna’s protective button. My St. Bernard blocked the woman’s forward progress, growling, her hackles raised. A command from me would propel Madonna into attack mode, but I didn’t sense a lethal threat. Seemed wrong to knock Shea Leigh down and let Madonna latch onto her neck. But it was nice to know I had that option if I needed it.

  That, plus the handgun Mama leveled at the woman. “Back off,” Mama snarled. Shea Leigh yelped in frustration, and Madonna barked in a menacing way, bits of doggie slobber flying everywhere. Shea Leigh ignored the dog and kept up her threats and mutterings. She did not appear to notice the gun.

  Then she closed her eyes, balled her fists, and shouted, “Give me my money,” over and over again. She was still yelling when Detective Britt Radcliffe arrived. When he asked her to calm down and talk to him, she slapped him and cussed at him.

  Britt cuffed Shea Leigh and read the Miranda rights to her. I quieted Madonna, but I couldn’t settle my feet or my thoughts. Mama seemed equally agitated. When Britt escorted the woman to the accompanying squad car, the sudden silence weighed on me as I paced the living room.

  “Thanks for calling Britt, Mama,” I said after I’d walked off some tension and righted my rocker. I stopped in front of the sofa where she sat and sank into the cozy wingback chair beside her. “Shea Leigh wouldn’t have left voluntarily.”

  “Good grief,” Mama said. “I hope he locks her up and throws away the key. Shea Leigh is out of control. Mrs. Taylor was right to doubt her daughter. That woman has more than a few screws loose.”

  Madonna took her time finding the right spot on the rug so she could see the door, touch my leg with her body, and still have a cushy place to rest. “She was spun up all right, but something she said struck a nerve.”

  “Only one thing? Every word out of her mouth offended my nerves. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.”

  Though I agreed in principle, Shea Leigh’s claim jarred a memory. I gazed down at my hands, relieved they weren’t shaking. “I’ve heard of the Bluebird Fund before. When Shea Leigh mentioned it, I remembered Mrs. Taylor talking about her rainy day fund.”

  “Was it listed in her tax records?”

  “Nope. It was completely off the books. She didn’t account for it in her financial planning, either. She didn’t claim any gains or losses in that account.”

  “That’s odd.” Mama wrinkled her nose for a moment in thought. Immediately, her anti-wrinkle defense of maintaining a calm façade kicked in, and her tense expression eased.

  “Smells like something’s burning,” Detective Britt Radcliffe said as he rejoined us.

  Mama jolted to her feet. “The cookies!” She rushed away to take them out of the oven.

  Britt turned to me. “Jack Martinez is primary on the homicide in Loudoun County, right?”

  I didn’t like him looking down on me, so I stood. “Yeah. He’s been searching for Shea Leigh.”

  “I’ll notify him that we have her in custody. What was Delilah talking about when I came in? What’s odd?”

  “Oh.” I rewound my thoughts to find that place in the conversation again. “We were talking about a secret account Mrs. Taylor allegedly had, the one Shea Leigh accused me of stealing.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Britt said. “The dead woman’s daughter burst in here demanding her mother’s money a few minutes ago. She threatened you with harm. As I see it, she’s not quite right in the head, but you believe her ranting?”

  I winced. The way he said it made me feel like a lunatic. I hastened to explain. “First off, I don’t have her legal inheritance, and I don’t know where it went. Further, I never had access or passwords to Mrs. Taylor’s investments, only the account numbers for tax identification purposes. Finally, I’ve heard of the secret account Shea Leigh mentioned, but only in passing from Mrs. Taylor. I thought she was joking.”

  “How much money is missing?” he asked, pulling out a notepad and a pen.

  “About two million that I know of, perhaps more if this secret account is real. Mrs. Taylor has a million dollar life insurance policy, too.”

  “Life insurance won’t pay out until Martinez solves the homicide. If an heir caused her death, no benefit will be paid to that person.”

  “I don’t know what Shea Leigh did or didn’t do to her mother, but she lost it in here. With her volatile temperament, I believe she could harm another person. If not for Mama and my dog, she would’ve assaulted me. Thank goodness the girls were in school.”

  “Luckily no one but me got assaulted. Unfortunately, the charges today won’t keep Shea Leigh in jail long. I’ll recommend a psych evaluation. That will add a day or so, but she’ll be on the street soon.”

  I didn’t want her coming here again. “Should I get a restraining order?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt. She’s still raging against you. She’s off her meds or has a screw loose.”

  “How do I get a restraining order?”

  Britt jerked a thumb toward the door. “I’ll drive you to the station and back.”

  “And when you return, I’ll whip up some lattes to go with the next batch of our freshly baked chocolate chip cookies that I just placed in the oven. Want to join us, Britt?” Mama asked. “We deserve a treat after all that excitement, and it’s too early in the day for a cocktail.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Mama beamed. “Wonderful. Everything is returning to normal.”

  ~*~

  “Do not leave home without your dog, your ex-husband, or your boyfriend,” Britt said after he’d downed a regular coffee and three jumbo cookies at my kitchen table. The trip to the police station went smoothly with Britt fast-tracking the paperwork. He rose and motioned me toward the front door for these nuggets of wisdom.

  “Jonette, Mama, and the girls don’t count?” I asked.

  He shook his head, disappointment clouding his gaze. “Do you want to put them at risk?”

  My stomach ached at the thought. I’d had similar worries today. “No.”

  “Then think before you act. None of the harebrained stuff you’ve been known to do in the name of chasing leads.”

  So I got tunnel vision when working on a case. That wasn’t a bad thing. Worse, I agreed with him, in principle. “I hear what you’re saying.”

  “But you’ll do what you want anyway?”

  As long as I could keep my family safe. I grinned. “Pretty much.”

  TEN

  “I thought he’d never leave,” Mama said, bustling around and tidying the kitchen. “Britt put a big dent in our cookie supply. I hope his blood sugar doesn’t spike.”

  I grabbed a plastic storage container for the remaining cookies before I drifted over to lean against the counter. Mama could fret over her nephew all she wanted. I had other concerns. That secret fund Shea Leigh Bean had mentioned, the Bluebird Fund, wouldn’t turn me loose. Bluebirds. Happy birds. Birds that were blue. What was significant about bluebirds? They lived in our mid-Atlantic region year-round. They preferred meadows and woods, or at least I thought they did.

  How did bluebirds match up with a secret bank account?

  “The Bluebird Fund,” I said. “I keep coming back to it and wish I knew what it meant.”

  Mama closed the dishwasher and dried her hands. “You’ll figure it out. You’re smart that way.”

  “I’m not so sure I can do it this time. My memory of Monday is gone, and the people in this case are strangers. I’d walk away from this one if they hadn’t drugged me and stolen my car, purse, and briefcase. Whoever killed Mrs. Taylor made it personal for me.”

  “Hmm.” Mama tapped her toe. One finger played with her trademark triple strand of pearls. “Lettie Taylor always struck me as nobody’s fool. I wonder if her intuition warned her she was in trouble. Maybe that’s why she insisted you drive to her house two days ago.”

  Could she have known she’d been targeted? “You mean like having the sense someone was watc
hing her or getting threatening calls or mail?”

  “Something like that,” Mama said.

  “Her across-the-street neighbor has her finger on the pulse of Pharr Lane. If she saw someone sitting in a parked vehicle on the street, the police would’ve heard about it already. Unless it was a sniper, but Mrs. Taylor wasn’t killed by a bullet and why would a sniper be after her anyway? Detective Martinez pulled Mrs. Taylor’s phone records, so if anyone called repeatedly, he knows about it. Threatening mail would’ve been found by the search team, and Mrs. Taylor didn’t use email or own a computer. When I tally up the facts, I can’t ignore the blinking neon sign of missing wealth. I wonder when it went missing. This is about money. Plain and simple.”

  “Maybe. Saying you’re right, how did the Taylors acquire wealth?” Mama asked. “I don’t remember.”

  “Harm’s farmland got swallowed by suburbia over in Frederick. They made a bundle from the dairy farm but continued to live frugally, except for Miss Kitty, the Cadillac they bought to celebrate their good fortune. That was nearly twenty years ago.”

  “Twenty years ago,” Mama mused. “My memory is good, but not that good. It could be someone just getting out of jail with a twenty year grudge.”

  “Could be. We don’t know what else the Taylors did before they retired. Besides, if Mrs. Taylor’s death was premeditated, why would the killer risk involving me? What difference would an hour or two make if they’d waited twenty years?” I warmed to the topic, thoughts perking along in fine order. “With me there on Monday, the killer had to improvise, regardless of the plan. And there was planning involved because of needing to acquire the drug.”

  I paused for a breath, and another thought appeared. “Maybe Mrs. Taylor’s life insurance beneficiary recently learned of his or her good fortune. What if that person siphoned off all Mrs. Taylor’s assets and wanted more? The only way to collect the life insurance money was to kill her.”

  Mama shook her head. “Poor Lettie. She always seemed so with it and confident.”

  “Poor Lettie got herself murdered.”

  ~*~

  Loud knocking woke me from a carb-induced nap on the sofa. After checking to identify the visitor through the window, Madonna and I answered the door. Detective Martinez radiated an all-business air, from his brown suit and tie to his piercing eyes. His only concession to the winter weather was a pair of practical snow boots.

  My St. Bernard pushed between us, and Martinez stroked the top of her head. “Nice dog, Mrs. Jones.”

  His easy tone made me steal a furtive second look at him. Was this a business or personal call? I took a deep, centering breath and immediately felt confident and a little sparky. “It’s Cleo, and Madonna is a gentle giant until someone messes with me. Then she takes care of business. Come on in. Can I offer you something to drink? Or some fresh-baked cookies?”

  He waved off my offers. “I’m good. Is anyone else here? I’d like to talk privately with you about the case.”

  “It’s just me for now. We can talk in the living room.”

  He followed me inside, and I hurried to fold my rumpled afghan. I tucked it over the arm of the sofa. “Please have a seat. My girls will be home from school within the hour.” To my surprise, he took the padded rocker.

  “I met your cousin, Detective Britt Radcliffe, at the jail just now,” Martinez said. “After interviewing Mrs. Taylor’s daughter, it’s clear she’s desperate for her mother’s money. She has eighty grand in credit card debt.”

  It never failed to amaze me that financially prudent parents could raise spendthrifts. “She should’ve paid her bills on time. She’s responsible for that debt. Not her mother and certainly not me.”

  “Agreed.” He rocked a bit. “Doing something rash like she did today doesn’t change her motive for Monday. Once Frederick County releases her, I’ll move her to our facility for outstanding warrants. Again, nothing major, but it should keep her out of circulation for now.”

  “I see.” I curled up on the end of the sofa, tucking my feet under me. Madonna lay against the sofa, her eyes riveted on the stranger in our home. It was nice sitting here with Martinez, talking about the case. His fingers curled over the rounded arms of the rocker, and I couldn’t help but notice the lack of a wedding ring.

  What was I thinking? I was a single mom raising two kids, not a glamorous starlet with men falling at my feet. Get a grip.

  “The news that you and Mrs. Taylor were drugged must have been upsetting,” Martinez said.

  His considerate remark caught me off-guard. Bad enough I was thinking about him in a personal way, but he seemed to be a nice guy. “At least I now have a medical reason why my memory is gone for Monday. I’m relieved that I wasn’t . . . violated, but I’m angry someone did this to me. And to Mrs. Taylor. Did she die from the drug?”

  “The M.E. said she ingested a lethal dose of the drug.”

  Whoever drugged us intended to kill Mrs. Taylor. I thought of her rolled up in that rug in the trunk of her Caddy, breathing slower and slower until she didn’t breathe at all. A shudder ripped down my spine. “She went to sleep and never woke up?”

  “That’s my understanding, but I’m no doctor.”

  I was lucky to have left that house alive. I could’ve been trapped in that trunk with Mrs. Taylor. My gaze turned watery, and I used the pretext of glancing out the sunny window to blink the tears away. Questions clunked around in my head, demanding a voice. I turned to face him again. “What’s your experience with rohypnol victims? Will my memory of Monday return? Will I ever know who did this to me?”

  His gaze hardened. “Memory recovery is highly individualistic. Rest assured, I’m chasing down leads. Meanwhile, exercise caution. If someone you don’t know, like Shea Leigh Bean, comes to your door, don’t open it.”

  “Trust me. She won’t get in here again.”

  “You let me in.”

  I grinned. “You’re a cop. I know you, plus I recognized your car.”

  His stern expression held fast. “The killer may come after you. Since I have no jurisdiction here, I can’t offer you police protection, but your cousin said he recommended increased patrols to his chief.”

  Amnesia or not, I didn’t like him thinking I was fragile. My chin jutted. “I’ve encountered killers before.”

  “So I heard, but this murderer is wily. He or she may fool you.”

  “He? You’ve got a male suspect now?”

  “Shea Leigh’s son, Raymond Folley, is also in line to inherit. We located Melanie Bean yesterday, but we couldn’t hold her. For a young woman, she’s very assertive and confrontational. With millions involved, she may be a killer hiding in plain sight. She could show up here.”

  “If Melanie is anything like her mom, we’re all in trouble, but at least I know what she looks like from the photos you showed me yesterday. I don’t know what Raymond looks like. Do you have his photo with you?”

  “No. Sorry. I’ll text you his driver’s license photo when I return to the office. You’ve already seen the neighbor and the imposter lady. It goes without saying, but don’t let them in here either.”

  More mental warning lights flashed, and I sighed. So much for my fantasy that this might also be a personal call. “Britt’s been talking to you, filling your head full of tales. You two are ganging up on me, right?”

  His cop-stern expression twitched into a grin momentarily. “We’re trying to impress you with the need for caution.”

  That fleeting break in his composure encouraged me. Jack Martinez might be all cop but he cared about innocent people. “Message received.”

  “He warned me about that, too. You have a history of being amenable to advice and then marching to your own beat.”

  Time to change the subject. “Did Britt mention the Bluebird Fund?”

  “That was next on my list of questions.”

  “You have a list?”

  He allowed the chair to rock the slightest amount. “I need to stay on my toes around sm
art, attractive women like you, so yes, I make lists.”

  I felt great that he considered me a worthy adversary, but then I realized he’d called me smart and attractive. I studied him covertly, feeling all of sixteen again. He might like me. Did I like him?

  “Mrs. Jones?”

  “Cleo. Sorry. I didn’t used to get lost in my thoughts like this. I’ve got to pull it together. Tax season is upon us. It’s my busiest time of year.”

  “That’s right. You’re an accountant. Just you and your mother?”

  “Mama does everything but the accounting. The business couldn’t function without her.”

  “And, since you did taxes for Mrs. Taylor, you do taxes for other Virginia residents?”

  “I have clients in several states. It’s a matter of filing the right forms and understanding the tax codes.”

  “Good to know.” He waited a beat. “Now, tell me about the Bluebird Fund.”

  I drew in a deep breath. “I’d forgotten about this secret account until Shea Leigh waved it in my face earlier today. Once or maybe twice, Mrs. Taylor mentioned her rainy day fund. I always thought she was kidding, especially since she brought in every single receipt and bill for the entire year. She seemed like a friendly, organized senior with a nice chunk of change in the bank.”

  Martinez didn’t say anything. I knew about cops and their silence techniques that made people rush in to fill the dead air with conversation. I didn’t bite. He gave a faint nod, as if acknowledging my resolve.

  “It seems the story of the Taylor’s living on a farm in Frederick is true,” he said, “but the acreage wasn’t that large and the subsequent development on the land was small scale. Something doesn’t add up about the Taylors.”

  He got me there. “I’m not sure what you just said. Unless you’re implying they have holes in their story because they were in witness protection or something.”

  “Definitely not Witsec.”

  “How are you so sure?”

  “Someone would have noticed and called by now.”

  Made sense. “You believe they reinvented themselves, like a DIY protection effort?”