“Okay, it’s my turn to ask. What’s up?” She cocked her head to one side and crossed her arms. Kim was a study in contrasts, dressed head-to-toe in black. Blood red lipstick set off her black asymmetric haircut and pale skin. A bright red 1950s-style choker necklace popped against the backdrop of the black silk shell she wore. It was vintage Kim—edgy with a hint of retro. After that phone call, all that black sparked images of funeral wear for me.
“You can tell, huh?” I asked.
“Yeah, even if you didn’t have that sticky note stuck to the side of your head.”
“What?” I patted my head, and sure enough, I had a bright yellow sheet from one of those little memo pads in my hair. “Good grief, I must have picked it up when I put my head down a minute ago,” I said. And beat my desk with both fists after hearing about Beverly’s senseless death, I could have added but didn’t.
My taciturn legal assistant, cocked her head quizzically, but said nothing. She scanned me with something akin to a Vulcan mind probe, still waiting for me to answer her original question.
“Thanks for not letting me walk around with that in my hair.” Her eyes didn’t waver.
“That’s more Tommy’s speed. Not mine.” Sober as a judge, she stood there still waiting.
“No, Tommy would have put it in my hair without me noticing. Then he would have let me walk around like that.” No comment from my companion. I sighed, knowing my attempt at humor had fallen flat.
“Okay, here’s the scoop. I just got a call from Leslie Windsor. Her mother, Beverly, is dead.” I shook my head, trying to get rid of the mush that had formed in my brain. Kim sank quietly into the chair on the other side of my desk as I gave her a quick summary of what Leslie had shared with me in that phone call.
“I’ve been going over the exchange of letters and emails between Beverly and other community members at the Araby Oasis Country Club and their Homeowners Association. It’s funny how a change in circumstances can reframe annoying, but seemingly innocuous situations. Now that she’s dead, the tone seems more sinister than it did when she came in to discuss her options with me.”
In fact, the hair on the back of my neck had prickled as I reread them. Anxiety had unleashed its darkest aspect—paranoia—as I poured over the material in Beverly Windsor’s file. Two things struck me now: the number of incidents and the rapidly increasing nastiness associated with them.
“I take it you don’t believe her death was an accident, a heart attack, or anything like that,” Kim said.
“That’s not clear yet.” I gave her a quick summary of what I’d learned from Leslie. “The police suggested the head injury she suffered could have come from a fall. Leslie didn’t buy that for a minute. I don’t know what set off alarms for her.”
“Other than the fact that her mother was lying on the side of the road where she had supposedly gone on foot with her car parked in the lot?” Kim asked.
“That’s more than a little suspicious, isn’t it? There’s also something suspicious about the fact that they found her phone on the ground near the exit from the park. Maybe she got a call, left in a hurry, and didn’t notice she’d dropped it.”
“Or she dropped it in a struggle when someone pulled her into a car and took off with her,” Kim offered.
“Abduction would make more sense if she’d disappeared and they were holding her somewhere until they could make a demand for ransom.”
“Maybe it was a botched kidnapping attempt. If the stress caused her heart to give out, they may have wanted to dump her quickly. Do they have security cameras at the park exits or in the parking lots?”
“That’s a good question. The police have promised to investigate. Let’s hope they figure that out. Cameras or no cameras, I can’t believe visitors to the park wouldn’t have noticed Beverly struggling with her abductors and reported it.” Kim nodded, deep in thought.
“A sudden medical problem, like a stroke or heart attack, could also explain why she dropped the phone. Then she just wandered away out to the road. It’s hard to believe she got that far without collapsing or without someone noticing she was in trouble,” Kim said.
“The police suggested something like that to Leslie and she had a fit about it. Leslie claims Beverly was in great shape. It was early in her shift at the park and not a hot day.” I shook my head again.
“Beverly was working on her will. Could she have known something about her health that she didn’t share with you or her daughter?” Kim asked.
“I suppose that’s possible. Maybe she got recent news about a change in her health since she just set up another meeting with me for later this week. She was working on her estate plan, too. Part of her planning involved creating a legacy for Desert Park Preserve. An ironic twist of fate, isn’t it?”
“Could someone have been anxious to claim that legacy?”
“I hope not. The place is a preserve—dedicated to saving lives—not taking them.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time someone preferred wild animals to humans. I can imagine an overzealous animal rights advocate going off the deep end. Or someone with a misguided concern about the preserve’s endowment willing to do whatever it takes to keep the place afloat. Does the park have money problems? Were her plans widely known around there?” Kim shrugged.
“Nonprofits like Desert Park Preserve always struggle financially. Beverly was a member of their board and loved it. She was excited about the discussions she was having with other board members about the projects her legacy gift might support. She didn’t appear to be in any rush for closure, nor did anyone else on the board. Why would anyone affiliated with the place go to such lengths to speed up getting their hands on her bequest when she was a generous donor of money and time while she was alive? Then again, I can’t come up with any plausible explanation for killing a woman like Beverly Windsor, so I guess it wouldn’t hurt to examine their finances.”
“I hear what you’re saying,” Kim said. “That would be like killing the goose that laid the golden egg, huh? I’ll check out the park’s finances, though. That information might be useful as you and her daughter try to pick up where Beverly Windsor left off and make decisions about her bequest.”
“Sure. Drop my name, if you need to do it. Tell them I want to send them a donation in Beverly Windsor’s honor. Before I do that, I’d like to see the most recent annual report about their foundation’s reserves, operating expenses, and the projects they fund so I can decide how to direct my contribution.”
“What about her medical history? Do you want me to check out that angle, too?”
“I don’t suppose we can afford to overlook that possibility. If we don’t have a clearer picture of what led to Beverly’s death when I see Leslie tomorrow, I’ll ask her about giving us access to her mother’s medical records. I can’t help thinking that if Beverly was ill, she would have insisted on meeting with me sooner. She waited a week to get back to me about setting a time to meet. I also doubt she would have kept Leslie in the dark. I guess you can’t assume you know what’s up with someone, though, can you? Not even your mother.” I sighed deeply recounting my shock at how much my mother had hidden from me until recently. “We’ll know more once the coroner completes an autopsy, but we ought to have a preliminary cause of death sooner than that.”
“Okay, so what about the disputes she was having with her neighbors? They weren’t serious, right? Quarrels that end up on an episode of Judge Judy, not Law and Order.”
“As far as I can tell that’s true. HOAs—sorry you know how much I love acronyms. Homeowners Associations are supposed to be places where problems between neighbors get worked out before things get out of hand or end up on Judge Judy. I thought those issues had been resolved amicably, but maybe not,” I said, heaving another big sigh. Out of nowhere, the front door into Saks popped into my mind. I willed it to go away. “People do take their rules about maintaining property seriously.”
“I can believe that. I’ve never seen a place w
here people are more intent on making things look picture perfect than they are in this area. At least the touristy stretches along Highway 111 at the west end of the valley. Only Beverly Hills has as many streets lined with towering palms as that stretch of highway in Indian Wells. I mean, lights mounted on Palm trees rather than street lights—really?”
“Don’t forget backlit mountains—we have those, too,” I added. “It’s almost as if the setting has been staged by all the movie moguls who flocked to the valley with their film stars. Starting early on in Palm Springs, the whole valley has been hypervigilant about using zoning regulations and other strategies to manage development. There’s still pressure applied to ensure local stores and fast food places adopt a modernist vibe or tile roofs and stucco walls to blend in with their surrounding architecture. When it works well, you get that postcard worthy charm and beauty that draws tourists. When it doesn’t work so well, you can get feuds, as well as griping and political wrangling about all the rules and regulations hampering development.”
“I can totally understand that with commercial property when there’s money at stake. How does that play out in residential communities? I rent a condo, and take it for granted that I’d better abide by the rules spelled out in the lease agreement or move somewhere else.”
“It can be about money in neighborhoods where properties cost millions. Snootiness can rear its ugly head, too. There’s competition between some country clubs and keeping high-end property pristine is important to their reputation or to ranking higher when it comes to claims about exclusivity behind walls and gates.”
“There are so many gated communities and country clubs out here, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that there’s a pecking order. It never occurred to me since even my condo community is walled and gated. It makes sense, too, if high-end communities are vying to attract ex-presidents, tycoons, and movie stars.”
“Part of that history has been more about keeping people out than inviting them in. ‘Unrestricted’ communities that welcome homeowners regardless of their religious or ethnic backgrounds are the norm now, but it wasn’t always the case. There’s a longer history around here since the country club lifestyle flourished in the Coachella Valley before gated communities became a national trend like they are now.”
“Guard-gated communities surrounded by walls make sense for snowbirds with expensive homes sitting empty for months,” Kim commented.
“The concept caught on and spread like wildfire as everyone became warier of strangers and more security-conscious about crime. At least until the real estate boom came to a screeching halt.”
“Do all gated communities have HOAs?”
“Most do in some form. That’s a centerpiece to the idea of developing communities around a ‘master plan,’ with or without gates, to ensure uniform building standards. I spent most of my first few years as a lawyer awash in legal details about controlling environments in planned communities. Not everyone is as agreeable as you are about abiding by community rules. The CC&Rs can grate on homeowners.”
“What are those?” Kim asked.
“Sorry. There I go again with the acronyms. CC&Rs refers to Covenants, Conditions, and Restriction. Rules and regulations like those in your lease agreement that tell you what you can and can’t do as a tenant. In this case, they apply to homeowners. They specify rules about renting or selling property, and other more mundane things like where guests can park, when and where to put out trash cans, how high residents can build walls, or what kind of additions can be made to the property. Even down to the choice of colors that can be used to paint exterior walls or trim. I grew up in community with an HOA and had no idea what that meant until I worked with developers on their master plans.” Another wave of guilt hit me. “One more element of my privileged childhood to which I was oblivious.”
“Oh, come on. What kid knows or cares anything about neighborhood problems growing up? Neighborhood rules are boring or irrelevant, unless you break a window or get accused of stealing or ...” Kim’s voice trailed off. Kim Reed had disclosed little of the life she’d led before taking to the streets in LA as a young teen and ending up in Mr. P.’s clutches. Clearly much more desperate than the one in which I so often wallowed in self-pity.
“Boring sums it up until something goes wrong. Some homeowners seem to welcome all that control in the name of preserving property values. Others rebel, feeling they ought to have the right to do what they want with the property they own. In Beverly’s case, she intended to comply with the rules as set out by the HOA but did ask for a variance in paint colors. She kept getting caught up in red tape that delayed work she wanted to do on her house. I’ve looked at association documents plenty of times and have helped write them, but I didn’t have a clue about the bickering that went on in those HOA groups until Beverly shared her experiences with me. I’m still not sure how ‘normal’ her troubles were.”
“Can’t your mom tell you more about it?”
“Mom’s been in and out of Rancho Mirage since she and Dad divorced, so she hasn’t been active in the HOA recently. Maybe she was when I was a child. If she’s up for it, I’ll ask her about it tonight. She might have insight into what goes on since Alexis is an expert on psychodrama,” I said.
The fruit does not fall far from the tree at times, I must admit, given my drama-queen tendencies. I took a deep, cleansing breath, trying to put the more recent soap opera-worthy incidents out of my mind.
“You’ve inspired me! I’ll ask Bernadette, too. She doesn’t miss a thing. In a community as large as Mission Hills, there’s more than one Homeowners Association. Bernadette’s got friends who run homes and estates in several communities. Beverly’s community is smaller so there’s only one. A lot of day-to-day operations like making sure common areas are kept up, contracting for utilities and repairs, managing the clubhouse, landscaping and security services is all done by a property management firm. We should schedule a meeting to talk with someone on the management team at Araby Oasis. Their private golf course is under separate management, as I recall, so at some point it might be good to speak to members of that organization, too,” I said, rifling through documents in the file.
“Does that mean you’re convinced Beverly’s death has something to do with HOA troubles even though she was killed at Desert Park Preserve?”
“Not convinced, but I suppose that’s where I’m going with this, isn’t it? It makes as much sense as believing she wandered off and fell down.”
“Or that someone abducted her from the park and knocked her over the head to get her money to feed the animals,” Kim added.
“I’ll try not to jump to conclusions too soon. The first time Beverly had a problem with her HOA was over what she called ‘Paint Wars.’ She requested a waiver from the ARC—Architectural Review Committee to repaint the trim in a different color than the one already on the house when she bought it. It didn’t seem like a big request, but that set off a dispute, and the Chairwoman of the committee dug in.”
“How weird is that. Did she take a dislike to Beverly—was it personal?”
“From what Beverly and I gathered, at least part of the problem was timing. There was bad blood among the committee members after Tanya Wilkins won the Chairwoman position. When Beverly submitted her plans to the ARC requesting to change the trim paint colors, most committee members were willing to use their Right of Waiver to grant Beverly her request immediately. One committee member told Beverly later that Tanya Wilkins got snippy about the newcomer causing trouble. The dispute dragged on for weeks, in fact, until committee members took advantage of Tanya Wilkins’ absence one day to vote on it and resolve the matter for Beverly.”
“Uh-oh. That couldn’t have made Tanya Wilkins happy, but it hardly seems reason enough to hit Beverly over the head and leave her on the side of the road, does it?”
“I agree. There were other problems too when Beverly had to go back to the committee several times seeking approval for other work she wa
s having done on the property she’d bought. The fact that she got me involved meant she took the matters seriously enough to protect herself legally. Beverly never said she felt threatened physically,” I said, hoping I hadn’t missed something.
“You’re right about not jumping to conclusions too soon. Maybe it was an accident,” Kim offered.
“It could be. Leslie was immediately insistent that her mother was a victim of foul play. I wonder if she saw something at the scene that raised her suspicions.”
“The police report should have photos and notes about the scene.”
“When I speak to the lead investigator, I’ll ask for the report and a list of anything they picked up and took into evidence. It had to be shocking to see her mother like that—sprawled out on the side of the road. Maybe that was enough to make Leslie believe her mother’s death was a crime rather than an accident. How about this? I’ve got to go rescue Beverly’s puppy soon, but Desert Park Preserve isn’t far and it’s still open. Do you want to go with me and snoop around?”
“Sure, let’s go,” Kim’s eyes, dark pools as always, flickered with little sparks of curiosity. “We’d better give the news to Amy. We don’t want her to get worried when the cops show up asking for you in an unpleasant way.”
Amy Klein is the incredibly talented Office Manager here in the Palm Desert office that was opened last fall by Canady, Holms, Winston & Klein. Her last name is no coincidence. As a niece of one of the firm’s founders, she has an insider’s knowledge of who’s who among the cast of characters that number in the hundreds in LA and the other satellite offices already up and running in SoCal. Her inside knowledge has helped me get up to speed as a newcomer to the firm. Keeping her happy is important to me personally and professionally.
4 A Dead Mother Page 8