Murder in the Air (18 page)

“So you did,” Lydia mused, remembering his comments about Daniel’s mercenary children the day of the funeral.

“Now, Ronnie, don’t go jumping to conclusions,” Mick admonished his friend. “There are a few other possibilities. That fellow, Allen Holtstein, has a real murky past.”

“Excuse me.” Lydia held up her palms. “I think it’s admirable that you want to help find Daniel’s murderer, but the police are on top of it. I’m sure they’d appreciate hearing whatever you know about any guests who attended Daniel’s party.”

“Are you kidding?” Mick got to his feet and paced a bit before turning back to her. “The last thing Ronnie and I want is to draw attention to ourselves. If we went to the cops, they’d go digging into our personal histories.”

“They’ll find out you were both at the party. I’m sure they’ll question you along with every other guest. They’re bound to ask how you knew Daniel.”

“No doubt they will,” Ronnie said. “And we’ll tell them we knew him when we were kids, which is true enough. But that’s them coming to us, not us going to them. Makes a big difference to the cops.”

Mick came to stand beside her. “The thing is, Lydia—may I call you Lydia?”

She nodded.

He smiled. “Ronnie here tells me you’re pretty friendly with Lieutenant Molina in homicide. Is that right?”

“I am,” she said, feeling the blood rise to her ears, “but—”

“And you’re no slouch yourself when it comes to finding crooks and murderers.”

She nodded, wondering where this was going.

“The thing is, I have the ways and means of learning everything there is to know about people—the real dirt, not the face they show to the world. I can tell you what I dig up, and you can pass it on to your friend.”

Lydia bit her lips so she wouldn’t laugh aloud at the absurdity of his suggestion. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Sol will want to know the source of my information.”

Mick put up a hand to halt her objections. “Let me give you a for instance. You know Danny’s grandson, Bennett?”

Lydia nodded.

He let out a humorless laugh. “The kid’s thirty-five and has been involved in more crooked deals than you could shake a stick at.”

She nodded again, though she couldn’t see what shaking a stick had to do with anything.

“In high school he hooked up with a gang of thieves and started selling some of their booty to his classmates. Until a kid ratted them out.” Mick’s eyes narrowed. “Bennett arranged for one of the gang’s goons to teach the kid ‘a lesson.’ The kid almost bled to death. He required thirty-nine stitches. Bennett ended up in juvie hall.”

Lydia knew enough about the law to be impressed by this piece of information. Juvenile records were closed. “Nice guy,” she commented. “It’s difficult to believe he’s Daniel’s grandson.”

Mick frowned. “The kid’s father was a drunken sot who tried his hand at forging checks instead of working. The first time he got caught, Daniel hired a top lawyer who got him off with a slap on the wrist. The second time, Daniel told Denise to divorce the guy and she listened. She cleaned up her act for a while then met husband number two, a druggie who got her hooked on pills.”

“Maybe you should have been a detective,” Lydia said.

Mick laughed, this time with genuine pleasure. “In my line of work I had to know everything about everyone I dealt with. Right now I’m making it my business to check out the people in Daniel’s circle.” He turned serious. “The way I see it, someone at the party poisoned Daniel. I intend to find out who.”

Mick’s intent—with her as a conduit to the police—took on a new gravity that appealed to her sense of morality. With or without her assistance, the old pol would find a way to get his information to the police. But Lydia suddenly saw this as her chance—her obligation—to assist Mick and Ron for Daniel and Evelyn’s sake.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” she said as she stood.

To her astonishment, Mick enveloped her in a bear hug that swept her off her feet. “Good girl! We’ll get the mother—er—person who poisoned Danny.”

They left shortly after. Lydia dropped down onto the sofa and considered the logistics. She’d promised Sol she wouldn’t get involved in playing detective. Well, she wasn’t—merely acting as a messenger girl. The trick was to offer up whatever information Mick gave her as something she’d learned in the course of conversation with Twin Lakes’ residents.

“He wants me to tell him what the neighbors are saying,” she said aloud. It wasn’t quite true, but it helped assuage her guilty conscience for defying Sol’s instructions, which, if he found out, would create a rift between them.

Chapter Sixteen

Evelyn called her that evening, spilling over with apologies.

“I’m so sorry, my dear, for repaying your hospitality by implicating the box of chocolates you and Barbara gave Daniel.”

“Please Evelyn, that’s the least of it. Sol figures the murderer must have switched boxes and replaced our gift with doctored chocolates. Be sure to tell Sol everything you can remember about the night of Daniel’s party and the morning after.”

Evelyn gave a rueful little laugh. “Which isn’t very much, I’m afraid. I didn’t notice anyone acting suspicious around the gifts at the party or the house.”

“I’ll keep an eye on everything.” Lydia drew in a breath, then ventured to say what was at the forefront of her mind. “Stay in Atlanta and enjoy your family. There’s no reason to hurry home.”

Evelyn sounded forlorn when she said, “So Gayle keeps telling me. Good-bye, Lydia. Thanks for everything.”

Lydia placed the phone down, and ignored the newspaper she’d been reading. Instead, she called Polly to make amends for what Polly considered her cruel betrayal. Polly’s fear that someone had murdered her father had proven correct. While Lydia could never explain why she’d changed her mind about Daniel’s death, she felt obliged to offer her sympathy and support.

Polly dismissed her apologies almost perfunctorily, and laid all her resentment at Denise’s feet.

“She’s a snake, always conniving and wheedling men for drug money.”

“I thought she’d stopped using.”

“Denise? Never. Oh, she pretends to stop. My sister’s great at dissembling and lying. I know for a fact she tried to hit Dad up for money a few days before the party. And you know what? I’m beginning to think she killed him.”

“Polly!” Despite all she knew about Daniel’s family, Lydia was shocked.

“Who else could it be? Denise knows all about hypodermic needles. And getting hold of Dad’s meds would be easy enough. She used to raid the medicine chest when we were little.”

“Still. This was a deliberate act of homicide.”

“Patricide, you mean.” Polly’s voice grew shrill. “Denise hated my father, and she wanted his money. I know she did it!”

“Polly, dear, please calm down so we can discuss this. I agree Denise is a possible suspect, but you’ve no proof that she’s guilty.”

“Maybe not for a court of law, but I’ve seen enough to know what I’m saying. The night of Dad’s party, Arnold wanted us to hold a meeting at ten o’clock. I didn’t want to, but he insisted. I figured it would be easier to go along, stay for fifteen minutes at the most, then leave. Just before ten, I went into the ladies’ room off the entrance hall. You know where it is.”

“Of course,” Lydia said, remembering her own visit there minutes later, in time to overhear Polly’s siblings arguing about Daniel.

“Denise was standing at the sink when I came in; her purse was wide open. She jumped when she saw me. I figured I’d startled her as she was touching up her makeup, but now that I know the poison in the candy must have been administered with a hypodermic needle, I suddenly realize that’s what I saw in Denise’s purse.”

“Are you certain, Polly?”

Polly paused. “I saw something long and thin, thinner than a cigarette. It had to be a hypodermic needle!”

Lydia remembered Polly’s psychiatric history and sighed. “Really? You never mentioned this before.”

“I know. I mean, it didn’t occur to me at the time.”

“But Polly, you said Denise is probably using again. She wouldn’t want you to see the hypodermic needle and know she was shooting up.”

“You’re not listening to me! Denise used that hypodermic needle to kill my father!”

Lydia drew in breath then spoke slowly, not wanting Polly to think she was betraying her a second time. “Sometimes we make an assumption without having all the facts.”

Polly’s voice grew shrill. “Then I’ll find out! I’ll talk to Denise, make her tell me if she did it!”

Lydia gripped the phone to stop her hand from trembling. “You’ll do no such thing! Even if Denise had a hypodermic needle, it doesn’t mean she killed your father. And if she did, she’d have no compunction about killing you! Tell Lieutenant Molina what you suspect. Let him take it from there.”

Silence. Lydia held her breath. “Polly?”

“Well…”

“Promise me you won’t confront Denise! You’ll leave everything to the police.”

Silence.

“Polly! I know you’re distraught, but I don’t want to see you get hurt. Think of your family. The girls.”

“The girls.” Polly let out a braying laugh that ended in a whimper.

“Polly, is something the matter? Is Gillian giving you a hard time?”

“No more than usual. It’s Nicole I’m worried about. She’s threatening to move in with that Ringo. And if she does,” Polly sniffed, and Lydia realized she was crying, “I don’t know what will become of her!”

Before Lydia could think of a soothing response, Polly went on quickly, “I have to go. Thanks for calling, Lydia.”

“But I didn’t do—”

I’ll be talking to your Lieutenant Molina,” Polly interrupted. “Just remember—Denise is a pathological liar. If she calls you, don’t believe one word she says.”

*

Two days later, Lydia rose with a brilliant June sun. She swam laps in the pool, then hurried home to dress for work. There was something to be said for working, even when one didn’t need the money. In her particular case, it kept her from dwelling too much on Daniel’s murder.

She waved to Jessica in passing, glad to see her in the midst of an interview. In her own office, she glanced at the slew of phone messages she had to return, and started making calls in order of their importance. From the looks of things, she’d have an hour or two to work on the books in the afternoon. And hopefully, one of five applicants Jessica was interviewing today would work out.

At eleven-thirty, Lydia was on the phone with an excited mother-of-the-bride, taking down the final number of guests for her daughter’s Saturday night wedding, when Denise strode into her office reeking of cigarette smoke. She paced up and down as furiously as a penned-in tiger until Lydia held up a finger to indicate one minute more and waved her outside. The mother was telling her for the third time about the bride and groom’s honeymoon trip to the Far East, when Lydia interrupted to say a call she absolutely had to take had just come through. The woman said she understood, then embarked on another story. Having reached her limit, Lydia broke in to offer congratulations once again and disconnected before the woman could reply.

Whew! How prenuptial nerves affected some people! And what had brought Denise to Carrington House? Lydia repressed a shudder as she recalled Polly’s insistence that Denise had killed their father. Though Lydia held little stock in what Polly considered “proof” of her sister’s guilt, she assumed Denise’s unexpected appearance was related to Daniel’s death.

She found her visitor on the broad top step of the front entrance, puffing furiously on a cigarette. At the sound of her name, Denise tossed the butt aside and followed Lydia into her office, where she perched precariously on the edge of a visitor’s chair. Only when Lydia sat facing her across her desk did she notice the tears streaming down Denise’s gaunt cheeks.

“You have to help me, Lydia! There’s no one else I can turn to.”

Was Denise about to confess to the murder, or had she landed in a completely different mess of trouble? Regardless, she had overstepped boundaries by coming to Lydia’s workplace. Lydia bit her lip to stop herself from expressing her displeasure. Denise was Daniel’s daughter. She owed her the courtesy of hearing her out.

“What’s the matter, Denise?”

“It’s Stefano. The police arrested him this morning.” Denise reached across the desk and clutched Lydia’s arm. “Please, Lydia. Talk to your friend, the police detective. Tell him Stefano didn’t do it!”

Lydia disengaged her claw-like grip and Denise sank back into the chair. “What are you talking about? They suspect Stefano killed your father?”

“No, of course not!” Denise shook her head vehemently, whipping her dark hair back and forth. “They’re accusing him of running you and Evelyn off the road the morning you drove her to the airport.”

“Accusing him?” Lydia echoed.

“All right, questioning him. It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

Lydia thought a minute. “Does Stefano have a red pickup truck?”

“Yes, but I swear he never came after you and Evelyn. Why would he?”

“I’ve no idea why anyone would want to hurt us, but someone was behind that wheel.”

“It wasn’t Stefano,” Denise insisted. “You would have recognized his mustache.”

“I couldn’t make out the driver’s face, so I can’t help you there.”

“But if you didn’t see his mustache, then it can’t be Stefano,” Denise insisted. “Besides, he was with me that entire weekend. We got to bed late Saturday night and slept till noon Sunday morning. I’ve no idea why someone reported his license plate—unless they had it in for him.”

Lydia’s antenna went up. “Someone reported his license plate number? That’s odd. There weren’t other cars on the road when the truck tried to sideswipe me.”

“Odd? It’s as phony as a three-dollar bill!” Denise shrieked.

Lydia closed her door, and hoped Len was out of earshot and not speculating what she might be saying to antagonize a potential client.

Denise went on. “The cops who took Stefano down to the station said an anonymous witness called in, claiming he’d seen the incident, then rattled off the license number.”

“Days after it happened?” Lydia mused. “The police sure took their time tracing the number.”