“I doubt her partner will be too eager to take the fall for a murder if Beverly Windsor was dead when she was shoved from that car. Here,” Kim said. “You haven’t tried one of Bernadette’s spicy chocolate chip cookies yet. There’s something about adding red pepper and other spice along with the chocolate chips that make these cookies rock!”
I tried not to gawk at Kim in hostess mode. I’d never seen her act quite that way before. There was something unrecognizable in her voice, too. As she put the plate back on my desk, Kim smiled knowingly. I’ve got to give Kim credit. She’s a fast learner, having only witnessed Bernadette work her magic on crusty detectives a couple of times.
“More coffee to go with that?” I asked, refilling the detective’s cup as she nodded—her mouth full. I took advantage of her inability to speak.
“From what Ruth St. Armand told us, Beverly was in a rush after she received a call or a text message. You have Beverly’s phone. Can’t you find out who placed that call and go see if it’s a woman with brown hair and a broken red fingernail? Get a DNA sample and compare it to what’s in the one found in Beverly Windsor’s hair?”
“I wish I could. That would put us on the fast track to wrapping this up, wouldn’t it? The call was made from a local restaurant—Figaro’s. Before you ask, yes, Beverly Windsor frequented it on a regular basis.”
“I know the place well. It’s one of the oldest restaurants on El Paseo. Figaro’s is also a hangout for leading members of the community who count themselves among philanthropists in the Coachella Valley. It’s a favorite for Beverly Windsor and women like her who honcho what remains of the ‘charity circuit’ events in the area during the high season. Other power brokers and wheeler-dealer types like the place too. ‘Best three-martini-lunch in town,’ according to Beverly,” I said, pausing to savor that memory of the good-natured woman. “Watching all the swaggering and wrangling that went on was part of the attraction for her. ‘A hoot by the time they’ve nearly finished the third martini,’ she told me once. I’ve had lunch with Beverly there myself on more than one occasion.”
“Why am I not surprised?” I ignored the comment and went on about the clientele at Figaro’s.
“As I recall, half the women in the place wore nail polish in some shade of red. That’s not going to help you too much,” I offered.
“Power nails, too, among the power mad, huh?” A smug expression stole over the detective’s face and she made little clawing signs in the air with her free hand. “You’re right, that alone won’t get us much closer to figuring out who dumped the body in a ditch.” I peered at her, trying to understand how she could speak so cavalierly, almost mockingly about a murder victim.
Rikki Havens was an attractive woman—not much older than me—maybe a bit closer to forty. While she wasn’t polished to perfection like many of the women she scoffed at, she was no slouch either. No red nail polish, but her nails were cared for in a way that suggested she was no stranger to manicures. Her hair could use a trim, but it was professionally-styled. What is her problem? I wondered.
“Not a body, Detective—a somebody—someone’s mother. Beverly Windsor was a self-made woman with a generous nature; warm and funny and not the least bit power mad. I don’t know what sort of entanglement got her killed, but it would not have been about power or money, although she had plenty of both in her own way.” My voice rose as I spoke, and I felt myself fighting not to tear up in anger as still another detective got under my skin. “Do they hand out nasty pills when they issue you a detective’s badge?”
“Sorry if I hit a nerve,” her voice was softer now. “I wasn’t even talking about Beverly Windsor. Power mad might fit the profile of whoever bashed her brains out though. That’s who I had in mind. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the idea of the female version of a Master of the Universe.”
That comment popped the bubble of rage that had engulfed me, and I exhaled. Rikki Havens appeared to be genuinely concerned, about her faux pas or my mental health; I couldn’t be certain which by the look on her face. Kim’s eyes were fixed on me. Maybe she was also worried about me.
“You’ve read Bonfire of the Vanities, too, haven’t you? Tom Wolfe sure captured the male version, didn’t he?” I said smiling. “I apologize for getting upset. The death of Leslie Windsor’s mother comes at a bad time and strikes a little too close to home.”
“I read somewhere that there had been trouble in the Huntington family. Plenty of it if you include your exploits hunting down power-mad men.” She paused and sipped her coffee. “Rich and famous must be a tough gig sometimes.” Kim was now staring at the detective as if puzzling about the woman who seemed to have moved from snarky to pensive so quickly.
“It is. The famous part, anyway. Especially, when it’s relentless and more infamy than fame.” I shrugged, still not sure what to make of my guest. I pulled out the list of names I had made before I met with Kim and Jerry. I was ready to make this woman a peace offering of sorts—share the list with her. Mostly so she’d go away as soon as possible and get to work figuring out who killed Beverly Windsor. I even held a glimmer of hope that she’d put the list to good use.
“If it’s any consolation to Ms. Windsor’s daughter, I believe her mother died quickly from those blows to the head that crushed her skull. She may never have known what hit her. I’d like to find out who did that to her, too.” She made eye contact with me. “I’m no stranger to loss, close to home or not.” This time when she looked at me, her eyes expressed a depth that hadn’t been there earlier.
“We have lots in common then, don’t we, Detective Havens?” I asked.
“Let’s dispense with the detective bit. It’s Rikki. The only people I expect to call me Detective Havens are the men who answer to me who aren’t always too keen about it. They need to be reminded that I’m the boss.” With that she smiled a genuine “pleased to meet you kind of smile” for the first time.
“That’s when I am the boss. In this case, I’m not the Primary Detective, but the Secondary Detective. I’m not sure you’re familiar with how things work at the Palm Desert Police Department. They’re under contract with the Riverside County Sheriff’s Department and the eighty or so officers on staff in town are deputy sheriffs. I’m a member of one of four squads of investigators in the Central Homicide Unit with the county. I’ll be doing most of the legwork here in town, but the Primary Detective is someone I understand you already know well.” She smiled, this time in a rather conspiratorial way, almost as if sharing gossip. She paused to slug back the last of the coffee in her cup. “Sergeant Frank Fontana has the top spot on the squad. Ultimately, he’ll call the shots, but day-to-day, you should direct questions or other communications about this case to me.”
Kim’s eyes met mine, trying to probe my reaction, I’m sure. She could scan away, using all her people-reading powers without finding much. My mind was a jumble trying to fathom what this implied about how our Cat Pack sleuthing would jive with the official investigation. Inscrutable as usual, Kim relaxed her posture a bit. She glanced at the paper I held in my hand and realized almost instantly what I had in mind. “Can I make a copy of that for you to give to Rikki?”
“Thanks, Kim,” I replied and handed the list to her.
“I want you to have a copy of the names we’ve come up with as persons of interest or potential witnesses.” The detective leaned over to peer at the list in Kim’s hand.
“Mostly, the names on that list are neighbors with whom Beverly had a tussle or two. Her General Contractor, Steve Landis’ name is also there, and key members of her Homeowners Association who were involved in the disputes Beverly encountered trying to renovate the home she bought last year. As it turns out, she may have been dating one of them. That’s why Cedric Baumgartner’s name is first on the list. I’ve made short notes about how each person was linked to Beverly. If you have questions, just ask.”
“Wow! You are thorough, Attorney Huntington. We’re going to be busy, aren’t
we?”
“I’d prefer Jessica to Attorney Huntington, by the way. I wanted to give you a leg up when it comes to identifying anyone who might have a grudge against Beverly because of trouble in the country club community where she lived.”
“Those gates in country clubs don’t help much if the bad guys live behind them with you, do they?”
“So, true,” I responded quickly, flashing for a moment on my conversation with Frank about the stash houses turning up in such places. Was she aware of the French Connection operation and did it have anything to do with her reference to bad guys behind the gates? I didn’t ask.
“The gates didn’t keep burglars out either. Gates or no gates, most murdered women die in their own homes.” The detective had grown introspective again.
“I understand that, Rikki. Maybe a neighbor saw someone at her house yesterday. And even though Beverly didn’t die at home, she knew her killer. Otherwise, why would she have so willingly agreed to meet the caller in the parking lot? Any clue about who placed that call from Figaro’s?” Kim, who had stood up to go make that photocopy paused a second, waiting to hear how the detective responded.
“No, not yet. Employees routinely have access to the restaurant phone, although mostly they use it to take calls, not make them.”
“That was an early call for a guest to have made,” Kim observed.
“Yes, the restaurant doesn’t open to the public until 11:3o.”
“Ah, yes,” I said. “That’s way too late in the day for the go-getters that Figaro’s attracts, though, isn’t it? Was there a power breakfast meeting going on that day?”
“More than one,” Rikki responded, nodding her head. “When they say Figaro’s ‘caters’ to the local bigwigs, I now understand that they mean that literally. Two or three times a week, the restaurant hosts breakfast meetings of various kinds. The owner has agreed to check on that date for me—to tell me what groups were meeting, but not who was in attendance. I’ll have to get that information from the convener of the groups. Being a cop’s not an easy gig, either.” She gave me a good-humored wink as she made that comment. I smiled, but my mind had raced ahead. Maybe I could put my hands on those lists.
I had planned to take Leslie to another restaurant for lunch. If she was up for it, I’d love to pay a visit and refresh my memory about the location of those private dining rooms used for catered events and access to the restaurant phones. Something told me that no one was going to own up to having made a call from Figaro’s that morning, even if Rikki could get a roster of attendees. An observant server might have noticed, however.
“Maybe if you can figure out who was there that morning for breakfast, one of the people on our list will be among them,” I said.
“I’ll be right back,” Kim said as she dashed out of my office to copy that list.
“Wouldn’t that be a break?” Rikki asked, taking the last cookie on the plate. “I hope you don’t mind my taking that last cookie. I don’t bake either. I’m going to skip lunch today.”
Not me, I thought. “As soon as Kim returns, I’ll go over it, in as much detail as you like, and will tell you what we’ve done so far to sort out what happened the day someone killed Beverly. Mostly, that’s based on our conversation with her coworker, Ruth St. Armand. Kim’s also followed up with the person who schedules docents and her story is consistent with the one Ruth gave us. You can tell me how much you want to know about Beverly Windsor’s history with the people on that list, too.”
I struggled to stay focused as I pondered the new information Rikki Havens had brought us. Fortunately, Kim jumped in with her version of events as we rehashed most of the material we’d discussed already while Jerry was with us.
My mind kept returning to the fact that a woman had killed Beverly. What about Cedric Baumgartner the third—could he have been the man at the wheel? Someone had called Beverly from the restaurant and lured her to the parking lot. Baumgartner could have done that if he was among the guests at Figaro’s that morning. I was eager to visit that restaurant, hoping that was the most direct route at this point to identifying Beverly’s killer. As the conversation with the detective continued, I sent a text message making a lunch reservation, even before calling Leslie. I’d do my best to explain the sudden interest in our new location to her if she objected to dining there.
“I’ll see you at three for that walk-through,” Rikki Havens said later as we said our goodbyes.
“Sure. Give my regards to Frank Fontana, will you?” I said as she left.
“You’ll probably see him before I will. I’m going to meet you both on Friday, but not until after the birthday party.” That smirk was back on her face.
17 An Upwardly Mobile Man
Leslie was remarkably composed when I arrived at her house to take her to lunch. She couldn’t hide the fatigue, though. As we walked to my car, she told me it had been a sleepless night.
“I tossed and turned all night, going over everything Mom ever said about the people in her life who gave her even the slightest concern over the years. Even though she bought that house recently, she’s been coming out here for more than a decade. Mostly during the season when the place is packed with snowbirds. She loved it! Everyone I ever met seemed to love her too.” Leslie stopped talking, opened the car door, and slid into the passenger seat of my Bimmer.
“In fact, she hardly ever had a bad word to say about anyone until that mess with the HOA. Most of what went on seemed stupid and even mean, but not dangerously so. Should I have been more concerned?”
“No. I’ve gone over all the notes in her file. My mind has been racing just like yours, trying to recall each incident we discussed, and wondering if I glossed over an important detail. When I considered all the nastiness at once, it did come across as more intense than when we experienced it as one incident at a time. I didn’t find anything that should have raised a red flag, though.” Was I becoming too accustomed to griminess to notice? I wondered. “Ruth St. Armand, your mother’s friend who was with her that last day, had the same reaction we both did to those incidents.”
I checked around and behind me as I backed out of Leslie’s driveway. It was more than a routine traffic check. Since I’d become a target of the paparazzi, I’d developed the habit of checking parked cars or other vehicles to make sure no one was lurking.
As both Frank and his ‘second,’ Rikki Havens, had pointed, you can never be too careful, even in a gated community, where someone might sneak in. As if I hadn’t learned that lesson after an attempted kidnapping at Mom’s house in Rancho Mirage. When I scanned the lovely street of homes, a wave of sadness passed through me. Both Leslie and Beverly had told me on separate occasions that they’d bought property in the area to spend more time together. That wasn’t going to happen.
Suddenly, the sadness was replaced by wariness as I spotted someone sitting in a car parked on the street a couple of houses away. I made a mental note of the license plate number on the front of the black vintage Mercedes sedan using a little mnemonic device Jerry had taught me. I acted more from reflex than from any provocation.
As I drew closer to the car, I could see that a brunette wearing oversize dark glasses sat behind the wheel. A brightly-colored scarf around her neck caught my eye. Another flash of color set off a round of goosebumps. Bright red fingernails were on her hand that gripped the wheel.
“Is that a neighbor? Should I wave?” I asked as I drove toward her car, trying to sound casual. Leslie peered at the car as we came up on it.
“She seems familiar to me, but I can’t be certain. I spend so little time out here in the desert that I haven’t met many of my neighbors. Almost half of the homeowners in here come and go like I do. It wouldn’t hurt to wave.” Leslie did that as we pulled up alongside the woman. She glanced our way and waved back.
I considered pulling over to call and sic Jerry on her. Then the driver waved in the direction of one of the houses, tooted her horn, and pulled away from the curb, moving in the
opposite direction from us. I recited the jingle I’d made up to remember the license plate number, though, just in case I wasn’t completely paranoid.
“So, what did she say?” Leslie asked. It took me a moment to recall who she was referring to since I’d taken an inordinately long pause.
“Ruth says Beverly was irritated and preoccupied, but never mentioned feeling afraid or threatened. She did have one surprise for me. What do you know about Cedric Baumgartner’s relationship with Beverly?” I glanced sideways at Leslie as I waited for a red light at the intersection leading out of Leslie’s golf course community. She showed no indication of surprise at the mention of his name or his relationship with her mother.
“I met Cedric Baumgartner at a charity event for the McCallum Theater. Mom didn’t talk about him much around me. I’m not sure why. Maybe she sensed I was less impressed by him than she was. He struck me as a perfect gentleman—a little too perfect for my taste. Every hair in place. Polite, too—an open the door for you, help you on with your coat kind of guy. Old school, which Mom loved. I dropped by one afternoon and he was at her house. I could tell I had interrupted something more than a casual encounter between them. Should I have been more curious?”
“I doubt that would have made much difference. Knowing Beverly, had she been at a point where Cedric Baumgartner mattered to her in any important way, I believe she would have sat you down and told you all about it.”
“You’re right. Mom was never one of those women who asked me about my love life or pressured me to find a man and get married. I would never have brought it up unless I’d found someone special. Then I wouldn’t have hesitated. I believe she was the same way. What did Ruth say about them?”
“She says they were an item,” I said as I turned onto Highway 111 toward Palm Desert. I was glad I’d scheduled our lunch for the afternoon since that must be the reason I was able to get a table for us at the last minute at Figaro’s.
4 A Dead Mother Page 17