“A bicycle?” A shiver ran up Elena’s spine. “What color?”
“I don’t know. Strange enough, a woman her age ridin’ in on a bicycle. One of the gravediggers told me she talks to the stone. Tall woman. Kinda snippy. ‘Course it could be she hates blacks. That wouldn’t be anything new,” said the black soldier cynically. “But she wasn’t here that day.”
“The guard couldn’t have missed her?”
“Not likely. ‘Course I don’t know who had the duty on the twenty-seventh.” The soldier checked the plats, found only one Beeman, and gave Elena directions to the grave.
Elena located it. In the new section. Ambrose Beeman had died on May 17, not September 27. If Ambrose was indeed Lydia’s husband, Lydia had lied twice. She did know that Boris had broken Dimitra’s hip. And she hadn’t been visiting her husband’s grave when Boris died. On the other hand, T. Bob Tyler didn’t really have an alibi either. Sifting through the new information, putting it together with the old, coming up with nothing conclusive, Elena went back to headquarters. She and Leo had a meeting with Lieutenant Beltran to discuss the case.
52
Wednesday, October 13, 2:00 P.M.
The meeting with Beltran started promptly at two. He described the pressure he was getting from upstairs. Leo described the case against T. Bob Tyler: his previous and present assaults, his previous dancing association with the widow, the fact that he began to date her immediately after Boris Potemkin’s murder, the discovery of the obituaries of all the murdered husbands and the pictures of the wives.
“Sounds like a serial killer to me,” said Beltran. “Keeping a scrapbook of his victims. Even his alibi involves a cemetery. And funeral flowers. A psychiatrist would make something of that. What did you find out about the alibi, Jarvis?”
“Well, he was there. He signed in. The problem is they don’t sign people out, so if he left quickly, he could have got over to the Potemkins’ and killed Boris within the two-to-three time frame the coroner gave us. On the other hand, no one saw him or his truck near the Potemkin house that day. Admittedly, people in my neighborhood might not notice an old man, but you can’t miss that truck. Looks like a pile of rust held together with Silly Putty.”
“So he parked it on another street and walked over,” Leo suggested.
“It’s possible,” Elena agreed. “Still, no witnesses put him at the scene, and we’ve got no fingerprints. I had his from the jail booking compared to those we took at the Potemkin house.”
“So he wore gloves,” said Beltran.
Elena stared at her lieutenant. Lydia was the one who always wore gloves.
“As for eyewitness reports, they aren’t that great,” said Beltran. “We’ve had three cases this month blow up in court because the eyewitnesses didn’t know what they were talking about.”
“One of them was mine,” muttered Leo. “And Tyler’s got motive. I guess. He doesn’t approve of husbands hurting their wives. The men were all batterers; Elena’s pretty well proved that. And Tyler wants to get married. He asked the women out after their husbands were killed, so he obviously had his eye on them as ladies who could support him and take care of him in his old age.”
“Lieutenant.” Elena hesitated to bring up the second possibility, knowing Beltran would find fault with it. Still—”There’s another suspect who’s, in one way, more unlikely than T. Bob Tyler. In another way—well, we could make a case against her.”
“Her?” Beltran stared at Elena. “You’re suggesting we’ve got a female serial killer at work here?”
“I know what you’re thinking. Statistics are against us, but still you ought to hear what I’ve dug up,” and she began to detail the case against Lydia Beeman. “Everybody agrees that she was devastated when her friend was killed by the husband, Herbert Stoltz. Even more so when the court gave him probation. And then he was murdered. Now, we can’t really tie T. Bob Tyler to that one because there was no wife left for him to court.”
“Frances Stoltz wanted to leave her husband. Maybe she was going to move in with T. Bob,” said Leo.
“She planned to move in with her daughter in Ohio.”
“So she was lying to her husband about that. Then the husband kills her, and T. Bob kills the husband in revenge,” Leo speculated. “Anyway, we can’t for sure tie the Stoltz murder to the rest.”
“Well, I don’t know. Frances was close from childhood with everyone in that bridge group. Emily Marks was her sister, Lydia Beeman her best friend.”
“You’re postulating a conspiracy of old ladies? What was this woman’s name you think did the actual killings?”
“Lydia Beeman.”
“She wouldn’t be Ambrose Beeman’s wife, would she?”
“Yes,” said Elena, surprised. “Did you know him?”
“The man held the Congressional Medal of Honor,” said Beltran. “You want to go to the D.A. and ask him to prosecute the widow of a war hero?”
“At least hear me out, Lieutenant,” said Elena.
Beltran sighed, long-suffering. “I’d be a lot happier if we were talking about poisonings. A woman might poison five men. It’s been done. But shoot them?”
“She grew up on a ranch, married a military man. She probably knows how to shoot. She certainly knows how to take care of guns. Anyway, all those women whose husbands died were substituting in that bridge group at the time of the murders, and the person they substituted for was Lydia Beeman.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Leo.
“That’s what my mother says. She’s been asking questions at the center, which I wish she hadn’t done.”
“That doesn’t mean Mrs. Beeman wasn’t out running legitimate errands at the time the crimes went down,” said Beltran.
“Yeah, I know, and for the other four murders, it’s going to be hard to check alibis, but it’s also hard to believe that her being gone every time one of them died is just a coincidence. And she’s talked to me a lot about justice. She’s really hung up on the subject.”
“That a crime?” demanded Beltran. “If more people were hung up on justice, you wouldn’t be carrying a forty-two case load.”
“Maybe she thinks if the courts won’t do the job, she has to mete out punishment herself,” said Elena doggedly.
“What about the Potemkin murder? You can check her alibi for that.”
“I did. She lied.”
“That’s what you found out today?” asked Leo, frowning.
“Uh-huh. In fact, she’s lied a couple of times. Yesterday she acted like she didn’t know that Boris was responsible for Dimitra’s broken hip, but Emily Marks says Lydia knew it. And then Lydia said that on the day Boris died, she was at the Fort Bliss National Cemetery visiting her husband’s grave. Well, that sounded reasonable to me, but when I went over to check whether T. Bob had been there, I checked on her too. She wasn’t on the sign-in list.”
“Well, hell,” said Beltran. “The soldier at the gate could have been talking to a pal or sleeping, and she just drove through. It’s not as if they keep the place locked.”
“You’re right, but she said she went for the anniversary of his death. I looked at the stone. It said he died in May, not September. And there’s the matter of the weapon. Or weapons. When I visited her yesterday, I got a quick look at her husband’s gun collection. She hustled me out of the house after I showed an interest, but she had a lot of World War II side arms, and that’s the vintage used in the murders.”
“You’re saying she took a gun out of the gun cabinet, loaded it, went off and shot some old guy, came home, cleaned it, and put it back in the cabinet where anyone could see it?”
“I don’t know,” said Elena, “but she did have access to the right kind of weapons. We didn’t find any guns at Tyler’s place or in his truck, which is not to say that he couldn’t have dumped the weapon after each murder. Or maybe
he keeps them somewhere else. Or borrows them from her. Even steals them from her. The cabinet isn’t locked, and she has no alarm system. But there’s one last thing.”
“Which is?”
“Bicycles. She rides a bicycle to the cemetery. The guard remembered that, and the Ituribes saw a bicycle in the alley behind the Potemkins’ the afternoon he was killed.”
“You’re right,” said Leo, “and didn’t you say they identified two women’s bikes in the lineup?”
“Uh-huh. Both with baskets. And Viola Ramsey saw a bicycle near the Stoltz house when Herbert Stoltz was shot, although she thought a neighbor was riding it.”
Beltran shook his head. “You’ve had how many weeks on the Potemkin murder? And this is the case we’ve got? An old cowboy or an old lady as our serial killer?”
“I guess it’s back to the street with more questions,” said Leo gloomily. “Let’s just hope nobody else abuses a wife from the center before we—”
“Detective Jarvis,” said Beltran’s secretary, popping into the office, “there’s a call for you. I said you were in conference, but she insisted that it’s urgent.”
Frowning, Beltran waved at his phone, and Elena picked up. “Detective Elena Jarvis, Crimes Against Persons,” she said.
“Elena,” whispered her mother, “I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I was sitting out on the patio stitching pillows when Lydia Beeman showed up.”
Elena stiffened with alarm.
“She opened the back gate and rode right in on her bicycle.”
“Her bicycle?”
“Of course, dear. Lydia never goes anywhere except on a bicycle or on foot. She bores anyone who’ll listen about how healthful—”
“Where is she, Mom?”
“In the house. I’m outside on the cordless phone. That’s why I’m whispering. She complained about the heat out here, so I sent her in for lemonade. I know that’s not very polite, but it gave me the opportunity to—”
“What color is the bicycle?”
“Green,” said Harmony.
“Oh God!”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with a green bicycle. It’s actually rather nice-looking,” said Harmony. “I suppose I’m silly for calling you. I know how you feel about auras, but I swear I’ve never seen one like hers. It’s tight and gold with these frightening flashes of red.”
“Mom, tell her to leave. Tell her you’ve got a migraine.”
“I’ve never had a migraine in my life.”
“She doesn’t know that. Better yet, you leave. Run around the side of the house, get in your pickup, and drive down here.”
“I don’t have the keys. Why in the world would you want me to leave a strange woman in your house?
“Because she’s the one who murdered all those old men.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am now. Listen, Mom—”
“Well in that case, dear, I’ll keep her here until you can come to arrest her,” Harmony whispered.
“Mom, don’t do that! Just leave. Go to the Ituribes’ or Gloria’s.”
“Nonsense. The arrest will look marvelous on your record,” said Harmony, her voice dropping even lower just before she hung up.
“Mom? Mom!” Panic-stricken, Elena turned to Leo and Beltran. “Lydia Beeman’s at my house with a dangerous aura.”
“A dangerous what?” asked Beltran.
“We’ve got to get over there before she hurts my mother. She’s on a green bicycle, looking mean.”
“Your mother?”
“Lydia.” Elena was halfway to the door. “Get a SWAT team,” she called over her shoulder.
“You think she’d hurt Harmony?” asked Beltran, finally taking the situation seriously.
“Why not? She probably thinks my mother’s responsible for us zeroing in on her.”
Beltran grabbed the telephone.
“No sirens,” Elena shouted at him, and she raced down the hall with Leo at her heels.
53
Wednesday, October 13, 2:45 P.M.
Lydia Beeman a murderer! No wonder I never liked her, thought Harmony as she picked up the pruning shears, which Elena had left on the patio table. Harmony used them to clip gaping holes in the tires of Lydia’s green bicycle. Then she went into the house to find her guest, who was sitting on the newly upholstered love seat, fanning herself with a copy of Newsweek and drinking lemonade.
“I hope you don’t think me rude for sending you in ahead,” said Harmony, “but I did want to finish that pillow. I told my daughter I’d have all the throw pillows done when she got home.”
Lydia nodded. “I suppose she’ll be here a bit after four.”
“Actually, Elena is on the twelve-to-eight shift this week.” Harmony picked up the shuttle and began to weave. “Now I’m working on material for the sofa,” she remarked, pointing to the ruined piece of furniture. “Would you like some more lemonade?”
“No, thank you,” said Lydia. She glanced at the fabric on which she was sitting and said, “What a strange pattern.”
“My own design,” Harmony replied. How amazing to think the woman sitting across from her in neatly pressed beige slacks and blouse, face slightly flushed from her bicycle ride, was a murderer. Had Harmony not been able to see those warning explosions of red highlighting the gold of determination in Lydia’s aura, she’d never have believed it.
Feeling a bit smug, Harmony began a new row. Elena would certainly make sergeant on the basis of this arrest. What a bright daughter she had! Not many police officers would be smart enough to suspect Lydia Beeman; the woman might be opinionated and tactless, but she certainly maintained a respectable facade.
“You don’t have much to say for yourself,” said Lydia. “Do you spend all your time weaving?”
“I’ve raised five children and have four grandchildren. That’s time-consuming, but yes, I do a lot of weaving. I find it a source of great satisfaction.”
“A machine could do it just as well,” said Lydia. “With a daughter who makes such a positive contribution to society, I think you’d be ashamed to spend your time so self-indulgently.”
Harmony raised her eyebrows. “At least you approve of my daughter.”
“She’s a fine young woman, whereas you have devoted yourself to snooping and troublemaking among women who welcomed you in a spirit of friendship and trust.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” said Harmony. Lydia was beginning to make her nervous. The room vibrated with hostility.
“Do you think I’m unaware of the questions you’ve been asking at the center? About where I was when certain old men died? About my husband’s gun collection? That’s why your daughter came to visit me yesterday. Because you’ve made her suspicious. It’s very unfortunate that you’ve seen fit to meddle in things that don’t concern you.”
“You act like I’ve been playing detective, Lydia,” said Harmony, trying to laugh naturally, as if the conversation were a joke. “I was just chatting with—”
“You’ve put Elena in a difficult situation. She and I are very close. Now, because of your gossiping, her feelings for me will be conflicted.”
“I really doubt Elena is that fond of you, Lydia,” snapped Harmony and, forgetting caution, added sharply, “Certainly not fond enough to overlook murder.”
“Justice,” said Lydia. “Not murder. I have simply done what the courts seem unable to do: I protect women who have no other protection.”
Harmony watched with sudden horror as Lydia rose from the love seat and drew a pistol from the large fanny pack she wore around her waist. It was like Berkeley all over again—when she had been naively astonished, then helplessly terrified the first time the police beat her to the ground with clubs. Why hadn’t Elena arrived? Five Points wasn’t that far away. “For heaven’s sake, Lydia, surely you don’t me
an to shoot me?” Harmony quavered.
“Yes, I do.”
“That’s not going to improve your relationship with my daughter,” said Harmony, trying to swallow her fear. I can’t die, she thought. I have to get home to Ruben.
“Elena will take your death for just another daylight robbery-murder.”
“Just? I’m her mother!”
“But she should have been my daughter,” said Lydia, her mouth and eyes softening with the look of a woman thinking of a beloved child. “Once you’re dead, she will be.”
Harmony could see a gentle blue flickering in that killer’s aura. The change was doubly disturbing because Lydia’s gun hand was steady, and she had moved toward her target. “She’ll never be your daughter!” cried Harmony. “You’ll be in jail. I’ve slashed your bicycle tires and called the police. Even if you kill me, you can’t get away.”
“I am not a gullible woman, Harmony,” said Lydia, taking aim, left hand now supporting her right elbow. “And I know you to be much too frivolous and lacking in foresight to—”
Seeing no other way to defend herself, Harmony shoved the heavy loom over on her attacker and dove aside. The gun fired, shattering one of the brass lamps on the chandelier, as Lydia went down and Elena and Leo burst in from the kitchen.
“Are you all right, Mom?” asked Elena, white-faced.
“Yes.” Harmony scrambled off the floor, then dropped, trembling, onto the slashed sofa. “You certainly took your time getting here,” she said in a wobbly voice. “And look at my loom. And your chandelier. Will the department pay to repair them?”
Elena, with her gun in a two-handed grip pointed at Lydia, edged the stylish German Luger out of reach with her foot.
Lydia was sprawled under the loom, groaning, “She’s broken my hip.”
“You were going to shoot me,” said Harmony defensively. “I’m not the violent person here.”
Beltran, entering from the front door, rushed to Harmony’s side. “Are you all right?” he asked solicitously.
“No,” she replied. “A spring just poked me.” She moved to the left and scowled at him as if he were responsible for the damage to Elena’s sofa. “And you took an interminable length of time getting here.”
Widows' Watch Page 29