Motion for Malice (15 page)

Everything she'd told us had matched what she'd told Maizy earlier. I had no reason not to believe her, and every reason to believe Tippi McWirth had a serious screw loose. What kind of woman threw soup on a waitress and crashed a funeral?

"You've been really helpful," Maizy told her. "I appreciate your taking the time to talk with us."

"No problem at all." Vicky stood. "Will you be filing those charges any time soon?"

"Mrs. McWirth could be facing some serious charges," I said.

"Good." Vicky nodded in satisfaction. "Then she'll finally get what she deserves."

*   *   *

"We have to talk to Tippi," Maizy said ten minutes later, after we were back in the car.

I'd been thinking the same thing, only I wasn't sure how to manage that. Not as if we could march up to Tippi's house and start interrogating her on the front stoop. "It'd be nice if we knew how much money Harvey McWirth had spent on his so-called therapist," I said. "Outside of Tippi's whole insane jealousy thing, money is always a motive."

"I can find out," Maizy said. "And don't look at me like that. I have no intention of hacking into his bank account." She shrugged. "I'll just ask him."

I looked at her. "What do you mean, you'll just ask him? Why would he even talk to you?"

"Because he had a little thing for his therapist," she said. "Didn't you hear Vicky? And we both know his therapist was Dorcas Beeber. I'm thinking he'll want to help find her killer."

"Even if it turns out to be his wife?" I asked.

Maizy grinned. "From the sounds of it,
especially
if it turns out to be his wife."

We rolled to a stop at the corner of Pacific Avenue and sat waiting at the red light. The casinos loomed like giant sentinels along the Boardwalk, but the entrances to their parking garages fronted Pacific Avenue, so we had a clear view of the busloads of senior day-trippers being delivered to their casino of choice.

We also had a clear view of Weaver Beeber when he drove his brother's black SUV through the intersection in front of us.

"Whoa." Maizy straightened up. "Was that who I think it was?"

She had a scary good memory. She'd only seen Weaver once in her life, at the wake. Twice, if you counted the graveside service, which I didn't, since she'd been boot camping her way around the cemetery then.

The light went green, and Maizy hooked a sharp left.

I clutched at the dashboard. "What are you doing?"

"He might be meeting a date down here." Maizy floored it. The Escort lurched ahead, up to the back bumper of a white Altima cruising along at fifteen miles an hour. Traffic on Atlantic and Pacific Avenues tended to be heavy and slow, made slower by red lights at every block and working girls plying their trade on every corner. If Weaver was meeting a date, he was probably paying her. Yet I just couldn't see it. Weaver was heartbroken. He was inconsolable.

He was turning into the entry drive for a casino parking garage.

"Does this strike you as strange?" I asked. "He just buried his wife."

"Maybe he had to get away from things for awhile."

Maybe, but driving an hour to a casino alone didn't feel like Weaver. Sitting on a park bench or reading
The
New York Times
in the local library, that felt like Weaver.

Maizy turned in a fair distance behind him and took her time driving up the ramp, careful to keep Weaver in sight without getting too close. Weaver took his ticket, the gate lifted, and the SUV lumbered into the garage. A few seconds later, Maizy guided the Escort through the gate and up the incline to the second parking level. Weaver was coaxing the SUV into a parking spot with a lot of backing up and inching forward. Maizy and I rolled on past, not looking at him, parked roughly above him on the next level, and waited until we saw him board the elevator before we ran for the exit stairs.

Two minutes later, we were following him onto the casino floor. It was as if we were walking into a crowded and noisy cave. There were too many people and too little light, making the enormous space seem somehow claustrophobic. Bells were ringing, lights were flashing, quarters were jingling, and somewhere someone cursed loudly and enthusiastically.

Weaver traded in some bills for chips and made a beeline for a craps table.

"Cool," Maizy said. "That's my favorite game."

I shook my head. "You're too young to gamble."

"Who said anything about gambling? I'm a good luck charm." She pulled her cap off and her hair poofed out around her head. She unzipped her jacket and rolled up her shirt so that her belly button ring winked above the low-slung waistband of her jeans. "Got any tissues?"

I found some in my bag and handed them over. She stuffed them in her bra.

I sighed. "You know there are people watching everywhere, right?"

She shrugged. "Then it's their lucky day, too. Come on." She tugged me toward Weaver's table. "You should stand off to the side. Find someone to hide behind. No offense, but you don't look as if you'd bring anyone luck."

Fifteen minutes later, it didn't look as if she was bringing anyone luck, either. The table was losing badly, and Weaver's stack of chips had dwindled to three or four. But he wasn't ready to call it quits. He tossed a chip on the table and sat back, his jaw tight and his knuckles white on the edge of the table. Two seniors tottered away with a shake of their heads, leaving Weaver, a middle-aged woman with glasses so thick it was a wonder she could even see the table, and a very fat man who looked like Confucius but without the wisdom.

Weaver's chip was swept away by the croupier. His lips thinned, and his jaw muscles flexed. For Weaver, it was an absolute temper tantrum.

Maizy glanced at me and lifted her eyebrows. I gave her a
Let's get out of here
head bob. She did a slight headshake and turned back to the table.

Weaver put down his last two chips. They went away too.

He got up abruptly. "I'll be right back."

Maizy nudged the fat man. "It's not his day, is it?"

The fat man didn't feel the nudge and paid her no attention.

Weaver came back with a fresh stack of chips and managed to lose them, too, in the next ten minutes.

He got up abruptly. "I'll be right back."

While he was gone, I scuttled over to Maizy. "I've seen enough. This is painful."

"You're right." She unrolled her shirt and zipped her jacket. "I've lost my touch."

"Can't you see what's going on here?" I pulled her away from the table. We hesitated for a moment, looking for the exit. Maizy pointed, and we went that way. "It looks as if Weaver Beeber has a gambling problem," I said as we made our way through the clots of seniors blocking various arteries through the casino floor.

"Don't judge," she said.

I rolled my eyes. "Don't you get it? It takes money to gamble, and even more money to be a losing gambler." Suddenly the life insurance policy at the top of Weaver's box of papers came to mind. "Oh my God." I stopped dead in my tracks. "What if he killed Dorcas for the insurance money? To fund his gambling addiction?"

She sucked in a breath. "And to pay for his dates," she whispered.

"Could you please forget about his dates," I snapped.

"
I
could," she said, "but I don't know if
he
can. It's all about sex with men."

We turned and watched Weaver stumble back toward the craps table with two fistfuls of chips. He bumped into a passing cocktail waitress, and her tray went flying, the glasses hitting the floor with a jarring crash. Weaver didn't seem to notice.

"Not that man," I said.

*   *   *

The possibility of Weaver killing Dorcas was a lot to think about. I thought about it while Maizy navigated through the city back to the mouth of the AC Expressway. The frustrating thing was that before seeing Weaver lose his shirt at the craps table, Tippi McWirth had been the most likely suspect. And before her, Artemis Angle. And even Seaver Beeber had potential in the homicidal maniac department. And who was the checkered pants oddball at the funeral who hadn't taken his eyes off of Weaver?

If there was one thing to be said about the Beebers, it was that they'd surrounded themselves with some real loony tunes. And some viable suspects.

"It just occurred to me," I said slowly, "what if that wasn't Weaver back there? What if it was Seaver?"

Maizy thought about it. "It had to be Weaver," she said. "His brother would have been meaner about losing. Plus he'd have recognized me."

I wasn't so sure about that. The few times he'd seen her, she'd been in a disguise of some sort. He hadn't yet experienced the full visual impact of Maizy.

"But why would he be driving Seaver's SUV?" I asked. "Why not his own car?"

"Are you kidding? You should know better than anyone that cars need repairs sometimes. Could be as simple as that."

"Could be." I considered it. There was no way to know for sure. Weaver and Beeber looked too much alike, and angry Weaver only increased their likeness. "Okay, so it was Weaver," I said finally, "but we still can't forget about everyone else."

Maizy grinned at me. "I know. I feel like a real detective. This is awesome." She glanced at me. "Can I borrow the car this afternoon?"

I sighed. "No, you cannot borrow the car. How many times are we going to do this? You have no license."

"I know, but look at me. You can't tell me I don't know how to drive." She swerved into the middle lane and shot past a Smart car cowering in the slow lane. "I am so ready for my test," she told me. "Hey, can I take it in your car? I mean, my mom offered to let me use hers, but it's a boring four-door land yacht. It's got no pizzazz."

"You want to take your test in
this?"
I took a look around. Filthy floor mats. Dirty upholstery. Cracked dashboard. No pizzazz.

"See, that's the problem with the world today," Maizy told me. "Everything's disposable. There's no appreciation for the classics. This car is a classic."

"This car is a hunk of junk," I said. "But if you want to take your test in it, be my guest."

"
Awesome."
She beamed at me. "Then I'll just drop you off at work, and I'll go see Harvey McWirth."

I stared at her. "I don't think so. You're not driving anywhere alone."

She shrugged. "Worth a shot."

"How do you know where Harvey McWirth works, anyway?" Maizy seemed to have an information pipeline that flowed constantly, where I had nothing but a clogged drain.

She grinned. "Tippi's pretty mad at him right now. I think she'd have given me his Social Security number if I'd asked her." She snorted. "As if I can't get that myself."

"You talked to Tippi?"

"
I
didn't talk to Tippi. Amber from Regional Parcel Delivery talked to Tippi. Seems RPD has an important package to be delivered only to Mr. McWirth and signed for. No substitutions permissible."

Scary to think if Maizy stopped using her powers only for good.

"Still," I said, "I don't want you talking to anyone alone. It's not safe."

She rolled her eyes. "I won't be alone. I'll be at the Starbucks next to his office building when he comes in for his 2:15 iced cinnamon dolce latte."
I looked at her.

She shrugged. "I told you Tippi was helpful. And no offense, but that's more than I can say about you with Vicky Auerbach."

"So I was a little distracted," I said. "I was thinking about Curt." And Lorna Doones.

"About that," Maizy said. "I worked out a whole menu for you. I'll bring it to the supermarket. You might want to make a trip to the ATM before we go. My mom says turkeys are expensive."

Terrific. I could withdraw the last few dollars in my bank account to buy groceries I couldn't cook for a man who didn't want to see me again. Sounded like a great plan.

"I've got to get a life," I muttered.

"I'm working on that too," Maizy said. "But it's gonna take some time. You're kind of starting at the ground floor."

I got back to the office to find Howard had dumped the Beeber file on my desk with a half dozen pieces of yellow legal paper sticking out of it, each with scribbled directions. The file, though new, was fat with papers that he had culled from Weaver's box of documents. The box with its remaining contents had been shoved behind my desk, with a Post-it attached requesting that I return it to Weaver as unnecessary to his legal needs.

"He brought that down right before lunch," Missy told me. Her eyes were wide and sympathetic. "I'd give you a hand, but I'm leaving early today. Braxton is taking me out for our anniversary. We're back together four months today." She ran a hand over her hair. "Do I look okay?"

Missy always looked as if she had just done, or was about to do, something exciting.
She
looked as if she
had a life. Missy would never worry about having to roast a turkey for her maybe sometimes sort-of boyfriend. She would never roast a turkey. Her boyfriend would do it for her.

I opened a new Word file with a sigh. "You look great. Congratulations on the four months."

"Thanks." She pulled out a compact to check her lipstick. "It was rough going for a couple of weeks there."

I began typing Howard's letters to the heirs of Dorcas's will regarding probate. Pretty standard stuff. Weaver was the executor, blah, blah, blah. I wondered if Howard would still be pursuing the suit against the crystal ball manufacturer on behalf of Dorcas's estate. Weaver didn't seem like the type who'd want to be involved in something like that, but you never knew. Maybe he'd want more gambling money. At least the will didn't seem too complicated. In fact, it was pretty straightforward. Dorcas was leaving the bulk of her surprisingly hefty estate to Weaver, with a generous bequest to her sister Deirdre, and smaller bequests to a few charities benefitting animals. No surprises there.

I finished up those letters and turned to Howard's next directive, letters to two individual insurance companies asserting claims for Dorcas's life insurance proceeds. Both policies were for a quarter million dollars each, one naming Weaver as the sole beneficiary, the other naming her sister Deirdre. I had to hand it to Dorcas. She certainly had her financial life in order. I couldn't even budget for food shopping.