Portia Lemay wanted to give Leo advice on refinancing his house since interest rates were at an all-time low, but Leo circumvented that by refusing to divulge his current rate. Forced to talk about the Potemkins, Miss Lemay agreed that Lance and his father had had a sour relationship for years. She wasn’t sure who had arranged for Dimitra to take Lydia’s place at the bridge table.
By the time they had finished with Portia Lemay, Leo wanted to ask questions at random among the center’s population.
“Lydia Beeman knows who suggested that Dimitra take her place,” Elena pointed out. Mrs. Beeman rose and pushed back her chair without being asked.
T. Bob piped up, “How come you’re goin’ in, Miz Lydia? You wasn’t even here yesterday.”
“Neither were you from what I hear,” said Lydia crisply. “Maybe they want to know where I was. Maybe they’d like to know where you were when Boris Potemkin was getting himself shot, you being such an admirer of Dimitra’s.”
As Lydia marched into the classroom, T. Bob was saying, “Ah was too here. Waz she mean by that?”
“You were?” asked Emily.
“Ah was. Where else would Ah be? This is where Ah always come of an afternoon.”
Leo cleared his throat at the classroom door. “Why don’t you talk to Mrs. Beeman, Elena, and I’ll see what else I can dig up.” Elena nodded and followed Lydia in.
“The other ladies think your partner is very rude, Detective Jarvis,” said Lydia. “He kept interrupting them.”
Elena flushed. Questioning senior citizens was the pits, and she wished Leo had stayed for this. He hadn’t seemed to mind being rude, while Elena remembered all those years of Grandmother Portillo rapping her knuckles with a weaver’s shuttle if she interrupted. If Mrs. Beeman was a blabbermouth, Elena was going to be stuck because she’d grown up in Chimayo, where everyone was scrupulously polite to their elders.
She cleared her throat self-consciously. “I realize you weren’t here yesterday, Mrs. Beeman, but I did want to ask whose idea it was that Dimitra take your place in the bridge game.”
“I said I needed a substitute. Dimitra offered.”
“So it was her idea?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean she was providing herself with an alibi.”
Not much got by this lady, Elena thought.
“Dimitra couldn’t have known until day before yesterday that she’d be sitting in for me,” said Lydia. “If she wanted to have her husband killed, I imagine it would take more than overnight planning.”
On the other hand, thought Elena, Dimitra could have seen her chance, called her son or Omar, and set the whole thing up on the spur of the moment. Or maybe Boris did something that night that triggered her to plan his death while she had the opportunity.
“How long have you been a policewoman?” asked Lydia.
“Three and a half years,” Elena replied, wondering if the question was an evasive tactic indicating that Mrs. Beeman had information she didn’t want to divulge.
“It’s a great and proud responsibility,” Lydia declared. “I hope you find your work satisfying.”
Elena shrugged. “We arrest them, but the courts don’t always send them to jail. Now about—”
“There are certainly flaws in the system,” Lydia agreed. “As it happens, I take a great interest. Many of the men in my family were judges, Texas Rangers, sheriffs, or contributed in other ways to law and order in the state. In fact, Farwell Brant, my great-great-great-grandfather, fought at the Alamo, which was certainly a struggle for justice. The Mexican legal system was an abomination. If you’ve read your Texas history, Detective Jarvis, you know that there was no law in Texas at that time. The Revolution was not just a land grab.”
“Actually, I grew up in New Mexico,” said Elena.
“And the Mexicans still follow the Napoleonic Code.”
Elena tried to think of a question before Lydia started explaining the drawbacks of the Napoleonic Code.
“You’re very lucky that women can make a contribution these days,” the lady went on. “Such opportunities hardly existed when I was young—at least, not professional opportunities, opportunities for which one received a salary. I would never say that women weren’t heard or active in matters of legal importance, just that we exerted indirect influence.”
“I’m sure you did. Do you—”
“I suppose I might have joined one of the women’s units of the armed forces during the Second World War. Instead I married a soldier, a career army man.”
“An honorable calling,” murmured Elena. She found Lydia Beeman’s attitude interesting. Many older women didn’t approve of Elena’s profession. Grandmother Portillo certainly didn’t.
“I shall watch with interest your progress on this case,” Lydia was saying. “The police deserve all the support they can get in these violent times.”
“Thank you.” Elena wished her mother could hear this. Even married to a sheriff, Harmony still slipped and used the word pigs occasionally. Usually when referring to the good old days at Berkeley.
“Do you have other questions for me?” asked Lydia.
“Ah—yes.” Elena had to collect her thoughts. “Does Dimitra often play bridge?”
“Occasionally. She prefers chess and plays that very well.”
Dimitra might be having a chess game this very minute at Omar’s house, Elena thought.
“The general perception is that women do not have the sense of spatial relationships required for chess,” said Lydia, making it clear that people who held that opinion were fools. “You even hear women saying that they have no sense of direction. In my opinion, this is a societal rather than a hereditary or gender-related trait. I, for instance, have an infallible sense of direction. Dimitra was an excellent chess player. Unfortunately,” Lydia added, “her broken hip has affected her mental capacities.”
“I noticed that myself,” said Elena.
“You know Dimitra?”
“She’s my neighbor.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear there’ll be someone looking out for her.”
“Won’t her son do that?” murmured Elena.
“If you mean in the sense that he’ll move back in, I rather imagine Lance would prefer to follow his own lifestyle. It has been some years since he lived in the family home. You’ve met Lance?”
“In the course of investigating another case last spring.”
“I’m surprised that you haven’t talked to him in reference to this one.”
“We haven’t got hold of him yet,” Elena admitted.
“I hope his mother has been able to reach him,” said Lydia, frowning. “She’ll need his help with the funeral arrangements and other problems. A husband’s death generates reams of paperwork.”
Reams of paperwork? That was a peculiar way to look at it. “Lance isn’t answering his telephone.”
“Nonetheless, I would not count on discovering that Lance is the murderer. A thief caught in the act would be a more likely suspect.”
“Why do you say that?” Elena asked.
“Because the older population is a target for crime.”
“Is there anything you could tell me about the family that would shed some light?”
“Such as what?”
“Do you think that Dimitra was a battered woman?”
“That is a question that you should ask Dimitra,” Lydia replied evenly. “It is not information that I would be likely to have, is it?”
“Well, if you were friends with her—”
“Acquaintances,” corrected Lydia. And then she surprised Elena with a warm smile. “I wish you the best of luck, my dear. Both with this case and your career. If I can ever be of assistance, do not hesitate to call on me. It is my feeling that every citizen should contribute in whatever way they can to the cause of justice.”
<
br /> When Elena left the classroom, Leo was waiting for her. They walked out together, and she asked if he had come up with anything.
“Well, there’s that old cowboy. He left as soon as he saw I was talking to people, and although he claims he was here yesterday afternoon, nobody remembers seeing him.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t here,” Elena pointed out. “Some of these people are bound to be forgetful.”
“Sure, but the thing is Mrs. Beeman said he’s an admirer of Dimitra Potemkin, so I asked around. It turns out he was her country-music dancing partner here at the center, and her husband didn’t like it. Dimitra and old T. Bob were a real two-stepping, Cotton-Eyed-Joe couple until she broke her hip, and we’ve got a pretty fair idea of who caused that. Think about it. Maybe this T. Bob Tyler, who everybody agrees just loves the ladies, felt it was his old-timey Western duty to rub out Boris for Mrs. Boris’ safety. Maybe he feels responsible for that broken hip. Maybe he figures, with Boris gone, he and Dimitra can get together.”
“Good grief!” said Elena. “Two boyfriends?”
“Two?”
“Omar Ashkenazi.” Elena shook her head and opened the door to the car they had checked out of the police garage. “Weird case,” she muttered, starting the motor. “We got one dead old man; one crippled-up, happy widow; an absentee son and two possible boyfriends as suspects. Not your usual murder case.”
“Our usual murder case is a drive-by shooting. Be thankful for the change of pace.”
9
Tuesday, September 28, 5:40 P.M.
Finding her mother at the stove cooking, Elena went to the refrigerator for salad ingredients. “How come I didn’t see you at Socorro Heights?” she asked. “I thought you were going to spend the day there.”
“Only the morning. Setting up weaving demonstrations and discussing the possibility of lessons. Have you heard rumors that Dimitra Potemkin was a battered woman?”
“Everyone dances around it, but the implication is there.” After chopping green onions and tomatoes, Elena added lettuce to the salad bowl.
“Not that I think she killed Boris—even in self-defense.” Harmony was dicing potatoes at the counter.
Elena agreed. “Her alibi probably covers the time of death.”
“And she didn’t have the aura of someone who just committed murder.”
“Right, Mom.” Elena grinned, tossing the salad while Harmony put the finishing touches on a skillet full of chile verde, which smelled ambrosial. “The son, Lance, might have done it.”
“Why would you think that?” Harmony spiced and tasted the chile, then added the diced potatoes.
“Well, I’ve heard that he threatened Boris because of Dimitra. And nobody thinks they got along well. They didn’t even speak in recent years—except for a few fights.”
Harmony nodded. “Greek tragedy on the border.”
“Right. Sophocles for seniors. Maybe Dimitra asked Lance to kill Boris.”
“Nonsense.”
“Anyway, it looks bad that we can’t get hold of him. What’d you think of the bridge group? Did you meet them?”
Harmony put a lid on the skillet and leaned against the counter. “The bridge group,” she mused. “Well, I find it very touching that those women have been together for so many years. They all went to the same private school here in town. Some as boarders, some as day students.”
“I didn’t know that.” Elena got out beer and tilted a chilled stein sideways so that she could pour without getting too much foam.
“Of course, some moved away, but they all ended up back here.”
“Lydia Beeman would be one of the ones who moved away. Her husband was in the army.” Elena handed a stein to Harmony and filled one for herself. “She’s an interesting woman, don’t you think?”
“Lydia?” Harmony raised the lid to give her chile verde a stir, then took her first sip of beer. “I really didn’t care for her.”
“Why not?” asked Elena, surprised.
“The woman has an angry aura.”
“Oh, come on, Mom. Lots of citizens are angry. It’s a tough world. Especially if you’re her age.”
“That’s true,” Harmony agreed and changed the subject. “I can’t understand why you haven’t done anything about your living room, Elena.”
“I did. I swept up the glass, put the books back on the shelves—”
“—and left your sofa and chairs in hopeless condition. Fortunately, your neighbor, Mr. Ituribe, has offered to work on the springs and help me with the upholstering. You’ll have a designer
living room before I leave.” Harmony ladled the chile verde into large bowls as Elena scooped the salad into small ones.
Then they sat down to dinner, Elena savoring the first mouthful of her mother’s delicious beef and green chile stew. As she ate, she thought about the case. Lance Potemkin loved his mother and hated his father. Boris abused Dimitra, had even threatened to kill her if Lance didn’t stay away. So if Dimitra hadn’t killed the old man, Lance was the most likely suspect. That scenario made more sense than a robber killing Boris to get his hands on a medal that wouldn’t be worth anything with a local fence.
“Have you seen Dimitra today?” asked Elena as she helped herself to more chili verde.
“Just briefly. She brought me cabbage rolls, but she couldn’t stay to chat because one of the neighbors had invited her to go to the movies. A Mr. Ashkenazi.”
Elena shook her head. Omar was another suspect. And if T. Bob Tyler was the murderer instead of Lance or Omar, Omar Ashkenazi might be the next victim. Maybe she ought to run all three men through the computer for priors.
10
Wednesday, September 29, 8:30 A.M.
They caught Lance Potemkin arriving at the English Department the next morning. He stowed a backpack behind his desk and said, “Aren’t you the detectives who investigated the non-murder of Angus McGlenlevie last spring?”
“Right. Where have you been?” asked Leo. “We’ve been trying to get hold of you for two days.”
“I’ve—” Lance looked surprised, then uneasy. “I’ve had the flu.”
“It’s too early for the flu,” said Elena, thinking he really was cute. Blond curls, a clean-cut face, and nice build. He also looked guilty as hell.
“It’s striking early,” said Lance defensively.
“So where were you while you had the flu?” asked Elena. “We called your house.”
“I—turned the phone off.”
“Don’t you ever read the Los Santos papers or talk to your mother?” asked Leo.
“I haven’t seen a paper.”
“You didn’t listen to the radio or watch TV? You have to do something while you’re sick,” Leo prodded.
“I go to bed and sleep.” Alarm suddenly flashed in Lance’s eyes. “Is something wrong with my mother?”
Was he worried that his mother had been arrested, when he himself was the murderer? Elena wondered. Maybe both Potemkins were guilty. Or innocent. If innocent, she and Leo would be the first to break the news of his father’s death. Not that she expected Lance to take it hard.
“What’s happened to her?” He sounded almost frantic.
“Your father died day before yesterday,” said Leo.
“What about my mother?”
Not What happened to Dad? Elena noticed. “Dimitra’s O.K.” Pity Lance didn’t like women. At a guess, she didn’t think he was that much younger than she.
“But your father was shot in the head,” said Leo. “Your mother said he had a gun, but it’s missing.”
“Well, he couldn’t have killed himself with his own gun,” said Lance. “I have it.”
“Oh?” Leo, who had been leaning against the desk, straightened.
“We’ll need to take a look at it,” said Elena.
&n
bsp; “Sure, but it’s at home, and I don’t get off till five, so—”
“We’re going to have to ask you to come over to headquarters anyway,” Elena interrupted.
“Now? I have to proof the galleys of the literary magazine today.”
“You’re the editor?”
“Angus McGlenlevie is. He just doesn’t do the work.”
“Uh-huh. Well, maybe he’ll have to this time.”
Lance looked surprised, then laughed, then went back to looking anxious. “I don’t know anything,” he assured them.
“We still need to question family members.”
Reluctantly he agreed and excused himself to tell the chairman.
They could hear through the open door Dr. Mendez’s condolences on the death of Lance’s father, his groan when he realized that he’d need to track down Angus McGlenlevie for the
proofing of the galleys, his heartfelt plea that Lance get back as soon as possible because the department was falling apart in his absence.
Elena found this all very interesting. Dr. Raul Mendez was a noted scholar of Hispanic-American literature, according to Elena’s friend Professor Sarah Tolland. Now Elena was getting the impression that Mendez might be the department chair and Gus McGlenlevie the editor of the department’s literary magazine, but Lance Potemkin, the secretary, was doing the work.
They escorted him to their tan Taurus, confiscated in a drug bust with three million dollars worth of cocaine stashed in the trunk in leaking baggies. Detectives joked about getting high inhaling if they had to change a tire, or vacuuming the trunk and retiring. “Am I a suspect?” Lance asked as he fastened his seat belt.
“At this point it’s sort of everyone and no one,” Leo replied.
Looking uneasy, Lance said, “We might as well stop by my place if you want his gun.”
“How did you come to have it?” asked Elena.
“He threatened my mother. I took the gun so he couldn’t shoot her.”
“Did your father threaten her often?”
“Not just threats,” said Lance darkly. “But she refused to tell the police.”
“She was pretty up front about not liking him.”
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