A Murderer Among Us (16 page)

“Your friend Detective Molina and I wondered if the substance found in Claire had any connection to the two cash withdrawals Claire had taken from her account for a thousand dollars each. Last night I went through her personal items. In her sewing basket I came upon pamphlets about herbal supplements and receipts with Thiergard’s name on them.”

“A thousand dollars a bottle,” Lydia murmured. No wonder Steve could afford a Jaguar. The more she heard about her daughter’s friend, the less she liked him. She forced herself to ask the next question because she dreaded hearing the answer.

“Are the capsules dangerous?”

“Molina says they’ve been implicated in heart attacks, but since this particular formula hasn’t been sold on the American market, the FDA has no control over it.”

“Oh.” Lydia slumped against her seat. “Steve Thiergard was at my daughter’s house Thanksgiving Day. He talked about the compound, insisted it was safe and beneficial, though it’s still in the testing stage.”

Marshall threw her a cynical look. “He’s a liar and he preys on older women.”

“Reprehensible,” Lydia murmured, distressed that her daughter was mixed up with the likes of Steve Thiergard.

“What did you want to tell me?”

Lydia struggled to change channels. She’d tell Meredith all about Steve Thiergard and his vile side business tomorrow. Now she had to concentrate on the issue at hand.

“Two women are dead. Murdered. And you knew both of them.”

“So did everyone else at Twin Lakes.”

She ignored his interruption. “One was your wife. As for Doris Fein, she blamed you for financial losses and you were the last person to see her alive. A bit too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Weill glared at her. “I thought you were going to help me.”

“Which leads me to believe that someone here at Twin Lakes has it in for you, hates you enough to kill and frame you for the murders.”

After a minute he said, “The idea passed through my mind, but I decided it was too preposterous to give it any credence.”

“The situation is preposterous,” Lydia pointed out. “Who goes around murdering women in a retirement community?”

They studied each other. Lydia took a deep breath and continued.

“So, I’d like you to draw up a list of all the Twin Lakes residents to whom you’ve given financial advice or with whom you’ve had the slightest altercation—be it over a parking spot, a card game, anything.”

He said nothing. Lydia pressed her lips together to keep from coaxing him. Either he’d agree or he wouldn’t.

“You realize you’re asking me to breach the confidentiality of people who have nothing to do with the murders?”

“At this point, I want general information. Did so-and-so invest a lot or a little? Did he lose money? Things like that.”

“So-and-so might be totally innocent.”

She threw him a scornful glance. “You claim you’re innocent, but people here treat you like a pariah. Besides, don’t you want to know who killed Claire?”

“Of course I do! Molina asked me similar questions about her relationships with other residents.”

“See!” Lydia crowed. “That proves we’re on the right track.”
Only I’m one step ahead of you, Sol,
she thought.

Weill frowned suddenly and shot her an angry scowl. “None of this would have happened if you hadn’t opened the can of worms.”

She cringed inwardly but answered him evenly. “Or if you hadn’t put the worms there in the first place.”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “That was stupid.”

He turned on the motor. “Do you want to come back to my house while I write out the list?”

It was her turn to hesitate. Marshall wasn’t a murderer, she reminded herself, and he wouldn’t dare make a pass at her. She needed that list of names to start her investigation. Investigation, hah! Lydia suddenly felt like a fool as she wondered how she was going to extract information from and about her fellow residents. With Caroline and Barbara’s assistance, of course!

Marshall’s mood lightened as soon as he entered his home. He excused himself to listen to phone messages, then insisted on preparing coffee and putting a Danish on a plate for Lydia to nosh on while he checked through his records.

“I’ll be in my office if you need me. There’s today’s
Newsday
and some magazines in the living room. Relax. Make yourself comfortable.”

He switched on speakers, filling the house with light jazz, and left her in the kitchen. The house was beautifully decorated, just as Meredith had described. Lydia admired the cherry wood cabinets, granite-covered counters, and chrome fixtures as she drank her coffee and finished off her Danish. She used the bathroom, which was as luxurious as the kitchen, then ambled into the living room.

She stood before the sliding glass doors and gazed out onto the lake. Marshall had an exceptionally large back lawn that sloped gently to the water’s edge. Pine trees grew along both ends of the property, giving him considerable privacy. A bench faced the water about five feet from the shore. Nearby stood small stone statues of a boy and a girl.

She sat on one of the two nubby beige sofas and picked up the newspaper, but her eyes were drawn to the decor around her. Who would have thought that beige, brown, dark green and a touch of turquoise would work so fabulously well together, keeping a room cozy yet exciting? The artwork was interesting, too. Lydia got up to study the two large paintings over the sofa where she’d been sitting. They were oriental. Vietnamese, she guessed. The stone figures of musicians in the étagère were striking and original.

She grew restless as the minutes passed.

“Sorry to be taking so long, but you wanted a complete list,” Marshall called out.

“Yes, I do. Take your time.”

She strolled over to admire the gold-leaf regent bombé chest. A white porcelain bowl adorned with orange birds rested on the black granite top. Surrounding it were four photographs in elegant frames. One was of a smiling Claire and Marshall, taken at least ten years earlier; another of Marshall alone, looking debonair in a suit and tie; the third was a wedding picture—no doubt of their daughter and son-in-law; the fourth was a more recent picture of the young couple and their baby.

Her fingers seemed to take on a life of their own as they pulled open the narrow top drawer of the chest. It was half-filled with napkin rings and coasters, objects a hostess used when company came to dine. The middle drawer held three sets of place mats and a folded tablecloth and napkins for twelve.

To complete her investigation, Lydia tugged open the bottom drawer. More tablecloths and napkins. She ran her hand among the folds of fabric—for what, she had no idea—and felt a surge of excitement when she touched the hard, slippery surface of a glossy envelope. She removed it from the drawer.

The envelope contained half a dozen photographs. Lydia stifled a gasp as she stared at more than she’d ever hoped to see of Viv Maguire. A shawl had been draped over one shoulder, discreetly hiding her bulging middle and considerable thighs, while displaying one drooping breast. The smile, no doubt meant to be enticing, had a gruesome intensity that sent shivers down Lydia’s back.

She shuffled through the remaining photos, which were more of the same. She nearly burst out laughing at the sight of Viv on her stomach, her puckered butt jutting into the air, a parody of a popular baby pose sixty years ago.

Lydia shoved the photos back into the envelope and returned it to its hiding place amid the napery in the drawer. Whatever doubts she’d had about the extent of Marshall’s involvement with Viv had been laid to rest. The question was, had their affair begun before Claire was murdered or after? If it was before… Lydia shuddered, hating to speculate further. But the thought pushed itself forward for consideration. If they’d been lovers before Claire was murdered, it stood to reason they might have conspired to kill her.

For love? Money?

The doorbell rang, jarring her from her hypothesis. Lydia leaped away from the chest, not wanting Marshall to see her next to it and figure out what she’d been up to. But Marshall didn’t appear, and she wondered if he’d heard the bell over the music. The bell rang again, more insistently. Lydia called out his name and he came rushing from the den.

“I’ll get that,” he muttered.

She sat on the living room sofa and flipped open the newspaper.

“Oh, hello, Viv,” she heard him say, though she couldn’t see either of them. “This is a pleasant surprise. I thought you were spending the day with your daughter.”

Viv let out as phony a laugh as Lydia had ever heard. “I am, and I’m on my way. I just happened to be driving in this direction, and when I noticed your car in the driveway I suddenly remembered you never told me what time we’re going out this evening.”

“My dear, it must have slipped your mind. I said I’d come for you at six-thirty. I look forward to seeing you then.”

The phony laugh sounded again, making Lydia cringe. “Would you mind giving me a glass of water? I find I’m terribly thirsty.”

Marshall’s tone took on a brusque edge. “Certainly, though I can’t entertain you any further, I’m afraid. I’m with a client. Now, if you’ll wait here, I’ll…”

Viv followed close on his heels, determined to catch a glimpse of his visitor. “I am sorry for being such a nudge. I’ll take one sip of water and be on my—oh! What are you doing here?”

Viv glared at Lydia, oblivious to the fact that her red-orange warm-up suit had turned her into an overripe beef tomato. The absurdity of it all—Viv’s chasing after Marshall, then finding her here and assuming she was a rival, set Lydia off in a paroxysm of giggles.

“I’m—I’m—here to talk to Marshall,” she said when she caught her breath.

“Shame on you!” Viv snorted. “It’s a desperate woman indeed, who takes advantage of a man in mourning!”

“Me take advantage?” Lydia asked incredulously as another fit of giggles threatened to overtake her. “Let me tell you—”

But she had no opportunity to set Viv Maguire straight about anything, because Weill intervened, intent on damage control.

“Viv, I’m in the midst of helping Lydia resolve a minor business problem.” He put an arm around his unexpected visitor and escorted her back to the front hall. “You have a wonderful afternoon with your daughter and her family, and I’ll see you at six-thirty. We’ll have a delightful evening as always.”

Though Lydia strained her ears, she was unable to hear the whispered exchanges. Marshall’s knowing laugh and Viv’s simpering response told her they were of a sexual nature. To her surprise, she felt a stab of envy. She certainly didn’t want to have anything to do with Marshall that way, but she was beginning to miss the male-female component in her life.

The door closed and Marshall reappeared. “Sorry about that. Viv gets kind of territorial. She considers me her charity project.”

Lydia gave him an amused smile. “She considers you her territory, period.”

Marshall’s smile was enigmatic. “Sit tight. I’m almost finished.”

A few minutes later he called out her name. Clearly, he expected her to come into his office.

The room, meant to be a den, had been set up as a fully equipped office. Lydia counted four tall file cabinets. Paper and other supplies were piled high on open shelves in the space originally designed as a closet. The printer-copier-fax machine and the sleek computer rested on a massive desk that encompassed most of the room. She had priced one like it once, then decided she didn’t need an expensive status symbol for her papers and phone. But desks were like cars to certain men, and Marshall wanted her to see his.

Lydia had no problem admiring the truly beautiful. She ran her hand along the edge of polished wood. “Real mahogany. Hand-crafted. Magnificent.”

He laughed, delighted with her response. “I knew you were a woman of discerning taste.” A wistful note crept into his voice. “Too bad you’re not receptive to the desk’s proprietor.”

“You called me in to give me the list.” She held out her hand as a teacher would demand a note that had been passed around the classroom.

“I’ll have it for you just as soon as I make one addition.”

Lydia glanced around the room as he wrote. A large abstract oil painting done in tones of brown and beige adorned the wall behind the desk. Well-executed, no doubt, but what held her attention was the large ceramic bird set on a pedestal in the far corner. Lydia moved closer for better viewing. It was truly a work of art. The artist had captured the ebony beauty of the beak and iridescent tail feathers, the plump white body, the expressively intelligent if malevolent eyes.

“It’s a magpie,” Marshall told her. “A most fascinating creature I’ve been studying these last few years.”

“I didn’t know you were a bird watcher.”

Her comment struck Marshall as particularly amusing and brought on a spate of laughter. When he could speak again, he said, “Magpies are noisy, gregarious birds. They kill songbirds and are capable of pecking baby lambs and calves to death. But to their credit, they help control garden pests. Many people find them amusing. Here’s your list.”

Lydia glanced at the list of names printed in bold letters. He caught her surprised expression and laughed.

“Rather long, isn’t it?” Marshall swiveled his desk chair to one side so he could stretch out his legs. “I want you to know that most of these people approached me once they discovered my financial background.”

“Is that before or after you offered to manage the HOA’s money?”

“Both, actually. I’ve invested for some on this list, merely offered advice to others. I swear I’ve done nothing illegal, though a few portfolios have decreased considerably because of the market. I’ll tell you which ones, but I prefer that you not put anything in writing.” He eyed her meaningfully. “I trust you’ll keep our discussion confidential.”

Lydia nodded her assent. The list included Andrew Varig, Peg DiMarco, Viv Maguire and all the board members except Benny Lieberman.

“Who besides Doris has lost a lot of the money they’d invested with you?”

“George Linnett, the board president, lost a bundle, and it was his own fault. He insisted on buying stocks I didn’t recommend.”