Intrusion (3 page)

Candy leaned forward and asked what I’d been wondering myself. “Why come to us with all this stuff? Shouldn’t you be badgering Tommy’s business partners or following clues? They’d know the right things to tell you.
Unless you want the low down on wrinkle creams?”

Something like a low growl escaped Andrews’ throat. “The victim, Mr. Yancey, listed you two as his next of kin.
His heirs, too.
You’re the executrix of his estate, Mrs. Buckley. In most cases, that means something.” He motioned to
Francie
Cohen and collected his things. “If you think of anything, call me.”

A thought popped into my mind. “Sergeant, wait. Couldn’t this be a regular hit and run? You know, some
drunk
panics and flees the scene. Lots of bars in that area, aren’t there? I just can’t believe it was murder.”

Andrews whirled around, pointing a bony finger my way. “Maybe you can’t face the truth. I get it. You’ve had a tough year, but your friend had an even worse one. That car threw him twenty feet.” He shoved his hands into his pocket.
“One more thing.
Mr. Yancey was on the sidewalk. Someone went over the curb after him.”

My hand shook with a kind of palsy that was foreign to me. I pictured Tommy’s last moments as adrenalin surged and he ran for his life. He was an athlete, fast and agile. Maybe it was instantaneous. They’d said that about Kai. No pain, Mrs. Buckley. Naturally, they’d tell his wife that.

Candy escorted them to the door, engaging
Francie
Cohen in a lively discussion of lip gloss while I tidied up. Andrews was slicker than I thought. He’d wedged two business cards under the goblet of Pellegrino.

Three

I loathe
shrinks. They strip you bare, load you up with drugs and charge a fortune. Next day, you’re pretty much the same except for that gaping chunk of soul you shared with a stranger. Oh, yeah, shrinks are big on sharing but it’s a one-way street. Candy, on the other hand, adores them. She’s always in one stage or another of self-discovery—Freudian, Jungian, whatever. When Kai died, she dragooned me into seeing a therapist for one session.
Total disaster.
Despite the urging of Dr.
Gayhart
Dale, an arctic bitch with a perpetual sneer, I refused to abandon my husband. As long as he was alive in me, Kai would never die.
Metaphysics 101.
It’s as simple as that.

 
As soon as the police left, Candy started babbling about her therapy session. I zoned out until she mentioned Tommy’s name.

“What’s this about Tommy and your shrink?” I leaned forward in my chair and swiveled toward Candy.

She twirled a sun-streaked curl and glared at me. “I knew it. You weren’t listening. I swear, Elisabeth Mae Buckley …”

“Cool it,” I said. “Just tell me.”

Candy shrugged. “No biggie. Tommy was seeing Dr. Langdon, my shrink’s partner. I ran into him one day just as he was leaving.”

“You never once mentioned it, either one of you.” Betrayal swamped my voice.

“He made me promise. Tommy knew you’d make a scene. Besides, he only started going last month. He was troubled.” She dabbed her eyes with a dainty lace handkerchief. “I still can’t believe it. Why would anyone kill him?”

I shrugged. “Andrews was right on top of things. How did he know about Tommy’s will and such? Kai drafted it for him last year.” I snapped my fingers. “I’ll bet he already searched Tommy’s place. You know how tidy he was. Tommy, I mean. Who knows about Andrews?”

Candy snorted. “Tidy? Obsessive, I’d call it.
Typical Virgo.
Probably had a file tabbed LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT with an arrow pointing to
it.
Remember, Kai had your neighbors witness it.”

“That’s right! No wonder. If we were his beneficiaries, we couldn’t do it.” I jumped up and headed for the office. “Hold on. I’ll bet there’s a copy in Kai’s desk.”

I felt pity oozing from Candy’s pores. No, I’d never emptied Kai’s desk. It sat opposite my own bureau plat, just as he’d left it that last day. The library’s walnut paneling, shiny oak planks and subdued lighting made the room cozy. A thick
Sarouk
rug and a small chandelier made it elegant. I spend a lot of time in there; it comforts me.

“For Christ’s sake,” Candy moaned. “This place is a mausoleum, not an office.” She slipped into Kai’s office chair. “I can still smell his cologne. What do you do, spray Creed in here every day?”

“Move.”
I unlocked the fruitwood console that served as his filing cabinet. “Obviously, it’s on a disk, but Kai always kept a paper backup.
Several, in fact.”

She rolled those cat eyes my way. “You mean you don’t know? Jesus, Betts, what’s wrong with you? You’re a lawyer, too, for heaven’s sake. What if something really important fell through the cracks?” Candy put her arm around me. “Let it go. He’s been gone for over a year.”

She didn’t get it. No one did. I died too when Kai was killed.
Kai and our child to be.
I now drifted through life on autopilot, pretending, following my routine, not caring much for anything or anybody except Della.

Tommy’s file was easy to find. I took a breath and read the document linking the two men I’d loved. Everything was in order. It was signed, witnessed and embossed. No surprises other than bequests to Candy and me. Kai had been the primary executor. As in life, I was his backup.

Candy rifled through my desk while she waited. In anyone else, it would be inexcusable. For her, it was typical behavior. She’d done the same thing in college.

“Wait a damn minute!” Her voice shook as she thrust an envelope under my nose. “
Here.
Look.”

How many times had I seen that writing? We’d kidded him mercilessly. All those perfectly formed letters looked so girly. Tommy blamed it on the nuns, claimed they’d beaten the Palmer Method into him. Now it lay there, unopened and ignored like an intrusive guest.

“He sent it to you,” Candy growled. “You didn’t even open it. What’s wrong with you, Betts? Tommy reached out, and you brushed him off.” She started sobbing, but this time I couldn’t blame her. It was postmarked last week, right after he’d called me. Another call I’d ignored.

“He was your friend, for God’s sake. How could you?” Candy folded her arms, hugging herself as she turned toward the limestone fireplace. A sense of calm swept over me. I’d felt that way in law school right before Moot Court. Just like magic my nerves evaporated and training took over. I slit the envelope with Kai’s bronze opener. It was exquisite, just like all his things, part of an Art Deco desk set signed by Louis Comfort Tiffany himself. I took care not to stab myself. Age hadn’t blunted the rapier sharp tip.

Candy plucked the envelope from my hands and stood there with a puzzled look on her face. “What’s going on? It’s just some old newspaper clippings.”

I leaned over her shoulder. That was easy. I towered over Candy by at least six inches.

“That’s funny, they’re obituaries. I’ve never heard of these people.”

Why the hell would Tommy send these to me? It seemed more like a kid’s game than a high stakes path to murder.

Candy mopped her eyes and flipped through them. “Judge Jacob Arthur. What a
meanie
he was.
Big Boston Brahmin.
You remember him on TV.
Huge scowl, always ranting about crime.”
She considered it briefly. “Good hair, though. He used our conditioning pack, you know.”

“No, I don’t know. Who cares anyhow? It says he died of a heart attack during a tax fraud trial.
Sad, but hardly a personal tragedy for Tommy.”
I frowned, even though every beauty guru in the world advised against it. “I remember this next one. Mary Alice Tate.”

“That ditzy socialite?”
Candy was on home turf now. She stopped the tears and became all business. “I knew her. She was a platinum patron of Sweet Nothings.
Great product placement.
Lovely skin.
Botoxed
, of course, but who
isn’t these days
?”

“I’m not, and I hope you’re clean, too. We’re not even thirty yet, for God’s sake, too young to inject poison into our faces. Didn’t this socialite commit suicide?”

Candy put on her thinking cap.
“Yeah.
Word got out that she wasn’t biologically connected to the Tate family.
Some kind of under-the-blanket stuff.
They cut her off without a cent, and believe me, that destroyed her. Mary Alice lived for money.”

 
A third clipping fluttered to the floor. It featured the photo and obituary of a buff young man clutching a barbell. Even I remembered that story. Ian Cotter, trainer to the stars, died when his implanted defibrillator malfunctioned. His family cried foul, but the medical community stood shoulder to shoulder on this one. I didn’t recall the details except that Ian was reputed to be a major hound dog, sniffing after any nubile or ambulatory client who wandered his way. When it happened, Tommy was still with Sweet Nothings. We’d joked about it, saying that at least Ian died with a smile on his face.

The final one was a real puzzler. It featured a lengthy article about diabetes with examples of celebrities who had thrived despite its ravages. The public face was very familiar, none other than Secretary of State Richard
Chernikova
.

“Hmm.
I didn’t know he had diabetes. He sure keeps an active schedule.” I ticked off some of the hot spots
Chernikova
had visited. “The man gave new meaning to shuttle diplomacy.”

“He’s not dead, is he?” Candy asked. “We would have heard something by now.”

Sometimes her antics astound me. You’d never guess that Candace Mary
Ott
was an incredibly savvy businesswoman, as lethal as a shark. She might not know the Secretary of State, but mention eye creams, and she’s brilliant. Would-be competitors found that out immediately. Threaten Sweet Nothings, and you die.

“What’s he doing here anyhow?” Candy asked. “Doesn’t he live in D.C.?”

I scanned the article. “He has his medical work done here at the
Joslin
Clinic. Apparently, he had one of those insulin pumps implanted last month.”

Candy yawned.
“Big deal.
Why all this interest from Tommy?

He hadn’t left a note, just the clippings. Tommy wasn’t usually that cautious. He had approached life like the workout fanatic that he was. Always time for one more pushup.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll find out tomorrow when I visit CYBER-MED.”

“What? Way to go.” Candy gave me a girly fist-bump. “Of course, I’ll join you. It’s only right.” She was probably coordinating her outfit as we sat there.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Who’s minding the store? Sweet Nothings depends on you.”

Nothing kept Candace
Ott
from her appointed rounds. She bounced right back without losing a step. “I read Tommy’s will too,” she said. “You and I jointly own thirty-five percent of CYBER-MED now. Right, Mrs. Buckley?”

Math was never Candy’s strong suit. I slipped into lawyer mode, giving her a cautious nod. “Actually, it’s 51% total, just enough for controlling interest. Tommy made sure of that.”

Candy snaked her arm around my waist. “It’s not about money. You know that.” She glanced around the room. “After all, Kai left you a boatload of bucks. You’ll never have to work again unless you want to. I’m not so lucky. Sweet Nothings is everything to me. Now I guess that includes CYBER-MED. I’m doing this for Tommy, too.”

I closed my eyes, forcing a blank expression on my face. I’d stayed home with Della the day Kai died. He’d insisted. Those Kona eyes shone as he teased me about my condition. Mountain climbing was for he-men, not pregnant women.

“Don’t worry, Lizzie Mae,” he had joked, kissing my wedding ring. “I’ll never leave your side. You can’t get rid of me.”

That boatload of bucks meant nothing without him.

Four

Boston is
a high-tech hive with a constant flow of worker bees streaming out of MIT and its environs. We found CYBER-MED nestled behind the imposing shadow of Mass General Hospital and the many tributaries that service it. The building wasn’t opulent, far from it. Respectable, that’s what I’d call it, a well-preserved Back Bay matron that had weathered a few decades with reasonable dignity and minimal cosmetic work. Tommy had bragged about it. He was an aficionado of traditional architecture, although he’d found the pervasive ivy at Harvard rather cloying. I had never been inside CYBER-MED despite his urging. He was proud of CYBER-MED, even offered me the full tour. “Later,” I’d said, “when I’m feeling up to it.”

Candy was definitely feeling up to it. Her costume
du jour
proved that: hair skinned back into a demure twist, knee-grazing navy suit, discreet jewelry and minimalist makeup
,
 
all
part of the corporate image as interpreted by
Vogue Magazine.
I chose a different path: I dressed like a lawyer. It had been a while since I’d graced a courtroom, but boardrooms were another matter. We’d seen plenty of them during our funding quest for Sweet Nothings. Kai, Tommy and I had pounded many miles of pavement doing the corporate square dance. It had puzzled me at first. Why beg strangers when Kai could have financed everything by writing one check? He’d sighed when I’d asked that. “Darling,” he had said, “You never risk your own money. That’s how the rich stay rich.”