Murder as a Second Language (34 page)

I commiserated as we went to the front door. I'd forgotten to tell Lilac about her husband's departure, but after I'd told her, she smiled sadly. “He was very fond of Rosie. He saw what Gregory was doing and tried to talk to him, the man-to-man thing. He would end up so frustrated that I'd have to sit on his lap to prevent him from going to their house. After I found Rosie … the way she was, I called him right after I called nine-one-one. He came over and held me until the paramedics arrived.”

Rick and I were somber as we got in his car. “Poor woman,” he said as he pulled onto the main road.

“At least she's in therapy, which is healthier than nursing an obsession to seek revenge.”

“If that bastard steps in front of my car, it will take me so long to decide whether or not to brake that this issue will be moot. But I'm not out for real blood, I promise. All I want to do is make him miserable for the rest of his life. If he's not nailed for embezzlement or gets off easy, I'll find out where he goes. It's way too easy to join the board of a nonprofit. You might have noticed that.”

“And make your life miserable at the same time? For pity's sake, Rick, you're young, handsome, and single—better known as eligible. You'll never have a relationship if you devote your life to moving wherever Gregory goes.”

“Maybe.” He pulled in next to my car in the Mucha Mocha parking lot. “What next, Claire? Should we buy black ski masks and break into Leslie's house at midnight?”

I suddenly recalled a tidbit of an earlier conversation. “Why did you mention Leslie's wedding anniversary when you were talking about her password?”

“Because married people tend to remember the date they were married,” he said cautiously as he shrank back.

“She doesn't wear a wedding ring.”

“She introduced me to her husband at the spring open house. What does this have to do with anything?”

“Dark complexion, British accent?” I willed him to nod.

He nodded. “He seemed like a nice guy. I was a little surprised by the difference in their ages, but it didn't matter to me. Do you suspect him of something? Did he murder Ludmila?”

“No.” I felt sorry that Rick was bewildered, but I needed time to think. “Just concentrate on this Waterford guy. Tomorrow I have to go by the Literacy Council to proffer my resignation as receptionist. I'll call you if I find out anything worth repeating.” Ignoring his salvo of questions, I climbed out of his car and got into my own. Once he'd driven off (in a huff), I sat back and tweaked my hypothesis. It might not pass muster with Peter, who was touchy about proof, but it made sense.

Feeling much better, I drove home.

*   *   *

I was miffed when Peter, who was still on the sofa, waved lamely to me with his free hand. The other held the remote control. I paused long enough to deduce the golf tournament had not yet concluded, but the motorcycle restorers were already talking about the challenge of finding vintage parts. Due to a common male chromosome, Peter was watching both shows. Within reach now were a beer and a plate of pizza-dough crusts. I hadn't been missed.

There were a few slices of pizza in one of the boxes. I put a small slice on a plate and stuck it in the microwave, then took my meal out to the terrace so I wouldn't have to listen to men gushing about spectacular drives that involved fairways or chrome restoration.

I'd clearly made progress, but I wasn't sure how to find any decent evidence. Leslie, Omario, Hamdan, and possibly Keiko had their cabal, with Gregory's assistance. Peter would demand something concrete before he attempted to get warrants. Gregory was an embezzler and a horrid man. With luck, the feds would come after him when Rick showed them the ledgers and the telephone bills. I had a glimmer of an idea about Ludmila's death, but I also had too many alternative scenarios … and no evidence. I had a theory about Miao's reason for going underground. I needed to pressure Miss Parchester until she told me where to find Miao—and I needed to do so before Jiang did.

I began to patch together a tentative schedule for the following day. It began with convincing Peter that I had to go to the Literacy Council and allow Keiko a chance to find a replacement. He would protest, of course, but he would eventually give in. Miss Parchester was next on my list. If I failed to persuade her, then I'd head back to the math department. I hoped Hamdan had a full tank of gas.

I carried my plate to the kitchen and was struggling to fit the pizza box in the already packed recycling container when the phone rang. “I'll get it,” I called to Peter. It was merely a gesture, since the golf announcer was speculating about the specter of sudden death if someone didn't sink a putt. Although my husband was not a golfer, he had a peculiar propensity for caring about who won the tournaments.

“Hello,” I said.

“This is Rick. You were right about Waterford, and I came across some very interesting information.”

 

18

Before I could say anything, the TV went off and Peter ambled into the kitchen. I gave him a warm smile and then asked Rick if he could meet me at eight o'clock the next morning for coffee. He suggested a restaurant near the Literacy Council. Thoroughly sick of Mucha Mocha, I assured him I'd be there and ended the call. Peter did his best to conceal his curiosity while he dumped the pizza remains in the trash.

“Rick Lester,” I said. “He's on the Literacy Council board of directors. He wants to tell me something about the phone bills.”

“Ah, the embezzlement investigator who works at some bank. Still on the case, Miss Marple? I thought you said something about stepping back until we persuade this Zayed character to leave town—of his own accord, of course.”

I pondered this for a moment. “I haven't seen him since Friday when we had our tête-à-tête at the restaurant. For all I know, he has left town. He must have figured that you'd put an APB out on him.”

“I didn't put an APB out on him because he hasn't broken any laws,” Peter said mildly.

“What about slashing my tires?”

“Did he admit it?”

“Not exactly,” I said, “but he implied it. You can at least question him.”

“Hard to do if he's left town.”

I turned around to face Peter. I knew he was teasing me, and he had no idea of the emotional upheavals I'd experienced lately. I could play his game; I was quite as adept at it as he was. My lips began to quiver. My knees followed suit. To his surprise, and mine as well, I threw my arms around his neck and began to cry. He held on to me with strength and tenderness. This made me feel worse. I didn't want to deceive him with glib omissions and evasions.

When I could trust my voice, I said, “I want to tell you about Gregory's wife.”

*   *   *

In the morning, Rick was waiting at a table with two mugs of coffee and a small plate of biscotti. He waited until I'd drunk and dunked for a few minutes.

“I have to be at the bank in half an hour,” he said, “so let's get started. Waterford, first name Troy, works for the CIS out of the Phoenix office. He's been there for a decade. I don't know how he can stand the incessant heat. The average high temperature in the summer is in the triple digits. Yeah, it's dry heat, but—”

“You have to be at the bank in half an hour. Do we have time to discuss the weather in Phoenix?” I am not a morning person, and the caffeine was only beginning to ease me into a genteel outlook on the world.

Rick seemed to find my grouchiness amusing. “Once I determined where he lives, I tracked down his number and called him. I was so nervous that I didn't know if I wanted him to answer or not, but he did. I explained who I was and where I lived. He immediately brought up Leslie's name. This led to the Farberville Literacy Council and her connection. Since you refused to tell me what this is about, I'm sure I sounded like an ignorant do-gooder. I tried to get information from him, but he was as bad as you. He did say that he'd been investigating her for the years she lived in Phoenix and Tucson. He also dropped something about her multiple marriages.”

“I knew it.” I said this calmly despite the outburst of elation in my brain. “She told me that she was in the middle of divorcing the man you met. I should have asked her how many other divorces she'd survived. My estimate is three, but it depends on her age when she started her little fund-raising scheme.”

“Her what? I thought the bride had to bring a dowry.”

“Not if the bride has a commodity to sell. I did some research online last night. If a foreigner with a temporary green card marries a U.S. citizen, he or she can expedite the citizenship process. Instead of five years, it takes three. Of course, the couple has to put up a good pretense of a marriage based on love and that sort of thing. A wedding album, a double bed, visits to relatives, socializing with friends—all the typical behavior. If the CIS is suspicious, they do home visits and ask questions. However, the paperwork is squirming its way through the bureaucratic maze, and eventually the alien receives full citizenship. Once that's accomplished, it's time for a quiet, uncontested divorce.”

“Is it legal?” he asked.

“No, but it's damn hard to prove. People get divorced as often as they blow out birthday candles. There's no law that you have to stay in one of these marriages for a particular length of time. Leslie must be a master at adopting her so-called husband's name, notifying Social Security, getting a new driver's license, and setting up a joint bank account. Hubby makes a hefty deposit, which she siphons off over the three years.”

“There ought to be records somewhere.” He leaned back and widened his eyes in mock fear. “No, I do not know a single person who ever worked in the Social Security Administration in Arizona, and I'm not calling them. If you have seven hours to wait on hold, please do so.”

I overlooked his puny effort at sarcasm. “What's more, I believe Leslie's running a much more involved faux-marriage scam. She teaches online classes to college students in their twenties, mostly women. She can offer them a sum of money to marry one of her overseas clients, explaining what's required. The women don't have to have sex with their so-called husbands as long as his clothes share a closet with hers and his toothbrush is in the bathroom. The women get a head start on their college loans, and some man from”—I made a vague gesture with my hands—“somewhere gets his citizenship.”

“And you came up with this theory because…?”

“Because I slipped into her office just as the potluck started and found two folders with foreign men's résumés and the names and photos of American women. It's a twist on mail-order brides.”

Rick frowned, clearly overwhelmed by my brilliant deduction. “Why keep folders at the Literacy Council? She could do this at home on her own computer.”

“It gives her scheme a sense of authenticity if she's associated with a respectable nonprofit. For all I know, she assures her clients that it's part of our program, one of our goals. These men pay her a substantial fee on the side.”

“Why not just wait five years?”

“One could, but it's not so easy to stay in the country on a work or student visa. Once you're laid off or you've completed your degree, you're in an ambiguous position. The three-year requirement is bad enough, but being married will stave off deportation. Think of a young Saudi entrepreneur who wants to start up a business here. He has plenty of money, but he doesn't want to wait while some other smarty-pants comes up with the same idea.”

Rick was still trying to assimilate what I'd said. While he gazed blankly at the sky, I finished my coffee and looked at my watch. After a few minutes, I opted to interrupt his musings. “You need to run along, Rick.”

“Have you told your husband about this?”

I sighed. “Not yet. Sure, Leslie has a strong motive to want to shut Willie up before she figures out about the phone bill, and she could have slipped the sedatives in Willie's coffee. There's not any evidence to get a warrant, though, even to search Leslie's desk for a pillbox. Judges disapprove of fishing expeditions.”

“Not all of them,” he said with a sly look.

“I thought about that. The problem is that the defense would have a strong argument to throw out anything the police discovered on the grounds the warrant was unmerited.”

“You must watch a lot of TV.”

“I read a lot of police procedurals. It's a quarter to nine. I'm heading for the Literacy Council. I'll let you know if Leslie withers under my relentless stare and blurts out the entire story.” We walked out to our cars. “Keep in touch.”

“I'll try to track down divorce filings in Phoenix.” He caught my hand before I could open the car door. “What about Ludmila? Is there a remote chance she realized what Leslie was up to?”

“I can't think of how that could happen. She certainly couldn't eavesdrop on a conversation, and I doubt she ever set foot in Leslie's office for a conference.” I got in my car and looked up at him. “Try Waterford when you have time. He may be more forthcoming after you tell him what we've uncovered. Well, not exactly uncovered, but definitely uncoverable with his help.”

“Is ‘uncoverable' a word?”

“It is now.” I maneuvered out of the parking lot and drove to the Literacy Council. Leslie was teaching a class. Students were hooked up with tutors or sitting in the lounge area. Yelena waved at me from the classroom, and I waved back before I went into Keiko's office.

“I'm turning in my resignation as of tomorrow,” I began. “I'm really sorry if this causes a problem for you. You're welcome to try to wheedle my daughter into some desk duty since she's down to three students. She needs the volunteer hours.”

Keiko did not smile, much less twinkle. “I won't have a problem finding a replacement. I hope you will come back in the fall as a tutor. It's much more rewarding than answering the phone and taking messages. Will you also resign from the board of directors?”