11 Hanging by a Hair (20 page)

She should tell Dalton about these theories. But then again, he’d already interviewed the real estate developer.

She’d really like to talk to Ron Cloakman, who might have not wished to air his dirty laundry in front of Dalton and Kat. But how could she see him without driving all the way to Brick-ell in Miami?

During a break at work later that day, Marla phoned his office. As she’d hoped, a secretary answered the phone. Marla never did understand why that moniker had gone out of style. Today people were receptionists or administrative assistants.

“I need to talk to Mr. Cloakman about his Royal Oaks development. I’m in Palm Haven, and I hate to drive into Miami with the traffic on I-95,” Marla said in a coy tone. “Will he be coming to Broward any time soon?”

“Actually, he’s giving a presentation to the county commission on Thursday morning. Shall I pencil you in for an appointment while he’s there?”

“Sure, I can pop over to see him. Where exactly is this meeting?”

“Downtown in Fort Lauderdale. Your name, please? I’ll notify him to expect you.”

Marla gritted her teeth. “Downtown where? At the county courthouse?”

The assistant shuffled papers in the background. “I’m sorry, but I can’t be more specific unless you identify yourself.”

Look on your caller I.D., lady.
The woman couldn’t be that brainless, could she? It’s the first thing Marla would have done.

“Never mind,” Marla said, scratching her arm. “I’ll make my own arrangements.”

Did a mosquito just bite her? With the front door opening and closing on clients all day, she couldn’t keep insects from getting inside the salon.

Marla tucked her cell phone away and frowned at the shelves in the storeroom, where she’d gone to make her call. Had things been shifted around?

Her next client arrived before she could investigate.

It wasn’t until Wednesday night that she spared the time to look up public hearings on the computer. Cross-referencing with Cloakman’s company website allowed her to find a commission hearing downtown in Fort Lauderdale at nine-thirty the next morning. That was perfect. Thursdays were her late day at work, and she didn’t have her first customer coming in until one o’clock. She’d planned to get in early to consult Luis about the inventory, but it could wait. This might be her only chance to meet the developer.

She caught him on Thursday just after eleven as he walked out of a government building. He carried a leather briefcase and wore a harried air. Marla identified him from his photo on the Internet. The man had silver hair neatly combed back from a wide forehead, steel gray eyes, and quarterback-wide shoulders.

“Mr. Cloakman? I’m Marla Vail.” She grinned and stuck out her hand.

He glanced over her attire, a skirt and silky top with a strand of matching beads and earrings. She’d gone to pains to appear professional, as though she were one of the governmental minions scurrying about the courthouses. Business culture downtown, while more laidback than up north, was still dressier than elsewhere in Broward.

He shook her hand with obvious reluctance. “Have we met?” He surveyed her, his eyes matching the slate gray of his vested suit.

“Um, not quite, although I saw you at a distance the other day. I live in Royal Oaks.”

His gaze darkened and his lips pressed together. “If this is about those windows—”

“No, it’s not.” She strode beside him as he headed toward the parking lot. A gusty breeze blew her skirt about her legs. The air smelled from car fumes and refuse. “I want to talk to you about Cherry Hunter.”

He halted, looking chagrined. “Poor woman. I can’t imagine who would hurt her.”

“A neighbor saw you speaking to her at our rummage sale. Did you come all the way from Miami just to see her that day?”

He resumed his walk. “What business is it of yours?”

“I’m married to Detective Dalton Vail. We live next door to Alan Krabber’s house.”

“I told the cops everything I know.”

“Really? Alan informed you about the bones he uncovered in his backyard. Did he also tell you he’d consulted Cherry about them?”

He shot her a startled glance but quickly washed an impassive expression over his face. From his beginning jowls and mature crease lines, she’d put him in his early fifties. His shoulders raised and fell in a shrug meant to show his disinterest.

“What about it? The police know about the discovery.”

“Now they do, but you would have had reason to keep the news quiet before then.”

“Of course I’m upset that construction in Royal Oaks has to wait until an archeological team investigates. I’ll lose money in the process. But that’s the law when human remains are found.”

“Is that what you told Alan when he confided in you?”

“Look, Mrs. Vail, I don’t know where this is going, but it doesn’t seem to be any true concern of yours. Why don’t you let your husband do his job?”

He stopped in the parking lot beside a black Lexus and clicked open the door with his remote. Opening the passenger side, he tossed his briefcase onto the leather upholstery.

Marla tried a last tactic as he shut the door and strode toward the driver’s side. “Why did you come to see Cherry that day? Had you heard about the protest?”

Cloakman rounded on her. “I wasn’t happy about that, but no, it wasn’t the reason why I needed to see her. If you must know, my accounting department noticed some irregularities in our payments from the Association. The percentage of income didn’t tally with the number of units sold. Cherry Hunter was responsible for making those payments to our parent company.”

“What are you saying?” She kept her voice on an even keel.

“Miss Hunter may have been diverting funds. I didn’t say anything about this to the detectives because it’s only speculation. I am hoping you won’t go and spread rumors. But maybe you can be useful.”

She became aware that they were very much alone in this spot. A mahogany tree provided shade while she stood her ground.

“How so?” She shifted her handbag, resisting the urge to glance around for other people. If he shoved her inside his car, no one would notice.

“Two members of your community are dead,” he said. “Despite what you might think, I had nothing to do with their deaths. But since this involves the HOA, it concerns me. I don’t want any further taint on our property than what’s already there with this Indian mess.”

Oh, it’s all about you, is it? I’ll bet you don’t even care about the victims.

“So what is it you want me to do?”

“Put a bee in your husband’s ear to investigate the other members of the Board. My accounting team will be tracing the funds from our end. Something isn’t right.”

“Dalton and his partner are already checking into everyone’s background.” Including yours, she added silently.

Cloakman opened his driver’s door and hesitated before ducking inside. “He might want to take a closer look at the HOA’s books.”

After buying more time from the parking meter, Marla called a friend who lived in the area. Fortunately, Wendy was free for lunch and they met at Mango’s. Thus she had an excuse later that night when speaking to Dalton about the encounter.

“You’ll never guess who I ran into downtown when I was having lunch with Wendy.”

She plopped down beside him on the sofa in the family room, where he sat flipping between TV channels on the remote. He smelled of fresh soap, having just come from the shower. Marla tapped his arm.

“Ron Cloakman. Imagine! I gathered he had business in Fort Lauderdale.”

Dalton’s mouth twisted in a wry grin. “And of course, you couldn’t resist probing him about the murder cases.”

“Naturally, why pass up such a good opportunity?”

“Spill it, Marla. What did you learn?”

“Ron said he didn’t kill them.”

“So say most murderers. He still has one of the best motives, and he can’t provide a solid alibi for the night Krabber was hanged.”

“Ron is well aware of the laws regarding discovery of human remains. An injunction against further construction would mean less income for his company. Maybe he was guilty of paying hush money to Alan, but that doesn’t mean he murdered the guy. Ron suggested you should take a closer look at the HOA’s bookkeeping practices.”

“Why is that?” Dalton switched to a station reporting a drop in stock values and grimaced.

“Something doesn’t jive regarding the percentage his company is receiving. Cherry would have been responsible for payments to the master corporation.”

“Maybe Cherry was dipping her fingers into the pot.”

“And maybe Alan found out. She killed him, and then . . . what?”

“Exactly. Why was Hunter killed? It’s too much of a coincidence that two Board members from the same community ended up dead without their murders being connected.”

“Maybe Ron Cloakman is just trying to throw suspicion off himself, and there’s nothing wrong with the bookkeeping.”

“That’s always a possibility,” Dalton said in a noncommittal tone.

She jabbed him. “Do you know something I don’t?”

He put the remote on the coffee table. “Well, there’s still the faulty window issue, plus the contractor bids for a new playground. Any one of those matters could play into the case.”

“You’ll put the pieces together. You always do. Did you ever find out what medication Alan took the night he died?”

“He had an elevated level of diphenhydramine, a common antihistamine, plus codeine. And he’d ingested alcohol, likely with dinner. Remnants of a meal were in his stomach. The man had a sweet tooth judging from the cake in there.”

“Ugh. I can do without that image, thanks. I suppose you looked for cold, cough or allergy medicines in his bathroom?”

“He had some prescription bottles in his medicine cabinet, but they were nearly full.”

“Still, that combination of drugs would have made him drowsy.”

“It’s not unusual for suicides to take pills or alcohol before they do the deed.”

“And then he hanged himself? Maybe someone else slipped him the drugs, knowing he’d have his favorite cocktail with dinner.”

“That’s a distinct possibility, and it’s one we are definitely considering.” Dalton raked her over with a slow, sexy smile that derailed her thoughts. “How are things going at the salon? Did you take care of your issues?”

“Dara continues to cast a pall on the place with her rude behavior, yet I hate to lose her clients. For some reason, they follow her like sheep. The woman is skilled, I have to admit. But the disharmony she causes makes me think it’s not worth keeping her.”

“It’s always hard to let someone go.”

“Tell me about it. I think she may be responsible for pilfering our supplies. It could be her way of getting back at me for reprimanding her.”

“Did you get the surveillance cameras installed?”

Marla nodded, wishing their Board members would listen to his ideas on security as well. “Luis is taking care of it. We should have full coverage throughout the salon then. Lord save me, what will I do without him?”

“You still haven’t found a replacement?”

“Nope. Finding a receptionist isn’t as hard as finding someone with his computer skills. Most people with those qualifications don’t want to work in a salon.”

“Keep at it. You’ll discover the right person.”

She grinned at him, glowing in the warmth of his faith. “I found you, didn’t I? What could be better?” And she devoted the rest of the evening to showing him her gratitude.

On Monday morning, Marla detoured by the community clubhouse to hand in their monthly HOA payment.

Angela’s words from their last encounter flared in her mind as she entered the office. Did that woman share Alan’s bigoted beliefs? Marla had meant to sound out other neighbors, but she’d been too busy over the weekend to think about Alan Krabber or Cherry Hunter, and Dalton had avoided the topic except to point out the nephew’s car on Sunday. The poor man must be sorting through Alan’s things, she’d surmised.

“We don’t need a manager.” Debbie Morris’s strident tone reached Marla as she entered the clubhouse.

The office was directly to her right. On her left was a small room that served as a library and conference room. Straight ahead was the meeting/party room with its wood-planked dance floor, raised stage, and adjacent kitchen area. The space looked a lot less cluttered than during the garage sale.

“It was always our plan to hire a management company,” Gene Uris said from the inner office. “We’re almost built out enough.”

Marla paused just inside the entrance, hesitant to disrupt their conversation.

“It’s unnecessary for a community this size. Why go to the expense when I can be here? That’s my job as secretary.”

“You don’t get paid for this voluntary position. Plus, it takes time away from your commitments as a real estate agent. Wouldn’t you rather have the free hours and not be stuck here three mornings a week?”

“We’d have to change our lockbox agreement. It would mess up the record keeping.”

“Hiring a manager would ease things for all of us. John Hardington has stepped up as treasurer until we hold elections. I’ll ask his opinion.”

“Oh, and mine doesn’t count? Listen Gene, I know what you’re doing with the playground bids. You need to let me keep my job.”

“You’ll still be secretary. That won’t go away.”

“You know what I mean. If you hire a manager, he’ll examine the budget and look for ways to cut expenses.”

“That would reduce our monthly dues. This community is getting too big for us to handle on our own.”

“Says who? Are you afraid of Ron Cloakman, is that it? Do you hope to create some smoke for your deal?”

“Be quiet, Debbie. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I know very well. I’ll bet you have things all sewn up with Erik Mansfield.”

“I don’t care for your insinuations.” Gene’s tone edged with anger. “Watch what you say, or I might call for an audit. You wouldn’t like that very much, would you?”

Erik Mansfield? Wasn’t he the man with whom Gene was having lunch the other day at the restaurant on the Intracoastal? Marla backtracked so as to make a noisier entrance. Gene peeked out in response to her rap on the door.