Vultures at Twilight (16 page)

‘I see. Would you at least leave the room while I call?'

‘I'll be outside.' Mattie got to her feet. ‘Don't keep me waiting.'

As Mattie stood in the hallway looking out the picture window, she strained to hear Delia's conversation.

‘Excuse me.' An elfin nonagenarian, in a powder-blue sweater suit, tapped Mattie's arm. ‘Is this my street?' the woman asked, tugging at her sleeve.

‘What street are you looking for?' Mattie asked, wondering if ‘street' was a Nillewaug euphemism for hall or floor.

‘Oh you know.' The woman's face broke into a broad, chip-toothed smile and she began to sing as she moved down the hall, ‘On the rocky road to Dublin. I met my true love. His name was Tommy. He was my true love . . .'

As the woman ambled away, Mattie's gaze fell upon an electronic bracelet around her ankle. It reminded her of a convict on homebound. Increasingly, she realized that Grenville's chief industry wasn't antiques; it was old people. The seven hundred-plus residents of this facility alone represented hundreds of millions of dollars; it was simple math. Each one of them a cash cow at the end of their lives ready to be milked, bilked . . . and possibly worse. But something didn't quite jibe with the story Preston had just told her.
What's someone who's clearly demented doing in this building? Shouldn't she be in that Alzheimer's Unit?

Delia's door opened. ‘I hope this makes you happy,' Preston said, thrusting a business card at the detective. Her cheeks were flushed beneath her foundation. ‘He'll be expecting your call. And if you don't need anything further . . .'

‘That should be all . . . for now,' said Mattie, looking down the hall to where the old woman had disappeared from sight. ‘Thank you.' And before she could formulate a question about the woman with the ankle bracelet, a visibly shaken Delia Preston had shut her door.

NINETEEN

L
ike pulling teeth, Mattie thought as she sat outside Nillewaug in her state-issue unmarked and aging Crown Victoria and studied the card Preston had given her. No reason for things to be this hard. It made her deeply suspicious, but what if this was a dead end? With the body count escalating, time – that most precious of commodities – couldn't be wasted.
But this could be completely unrelated.
‘Something stinks,' she said out loud, and she pulled for facts to back up her gut. There was something complicit between Nillewaug and Pilgrim's Progress and whatever games the local antique dealers were playing. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed. ‘Hank, it's Mattie Perez.'

His voice was cheerful. ‘How's it going?'

‘Not bad. I've been following some leads at Nillewaug Village. Did you know forty percent of the residents here came from Pilgrim's Progress? And another third from Grenville?'

Moments ticked. ‘That and a bunch of other stuff. What's the point?'

‘I'm not certain,' she said, her resolve wavering. ‘But the murders keep sending me back to Pilgrim and Nillewaug. At times I think the murderer does too.'

‘The jewelry bit?'

‘Yes. The night McElroy was murdered he had just auctioned off the estate of a Nillewaug resident, did you know that? Or that a good portion of Mildred Potts' inventory came from Pilgrim and Nillewaug?'

‘You could be clutching. So what was it you wanted to ask?'

‘Hank, there's a connection, but I have to be able to look around. That seems hard to do.'

‘What are you getting at?'

Mattie related her session with Delia Preston.

‘So she gave you Jim Warren's name?'

‘You know him?'

‘Of course.'

‘Then why the hush hush?'

‘Probably what the woman said. Preston's a single mom with a son in college; she doesn't want you bothering the man who signs her paycheck.'

‘What do you think?' she asked, realizing she might have misjudged Delia, and knowing first hand what it's like to be the sole support of a family.

‘Jim Warren's sharp. He's the most expensive lawyer in town. You won't get much from him.'

‘You think this is a dead end.'

He paused. ‘I don't know if it's where I'd put a lot of effort.'

‘Why?' suddenly annoyed, realizing at the end of the day Hank's loyalties fell in step with his town.

‘Mattie, in Grenville, you got to watch whose toes you step on. It's not Hartford or New Haven; it's a small town where everybody knows everybody's business.'

‘You telling me to pull back?'

‘Nah, you got to go where your gut tells you. Just be careful.'

‘Of toes?'

‘Yeah.' He chuckled. ‘People around here got lots of 'em.'

‘You want to come with me when I talk to Mr Warren?'

‘What about Kevin? He's got toes too. He kind of figures you've been leaving him in the dust.'

‘It's just . . .'

‘I know, but people like him, and frankly, you could use the social lubricant.'

‘You want me to take him?'

‘Couldn't hurt. Anything else come up?'

‘Not yet,' she said, feeling like a rookie who's just been chastised. ‘I'm waiting for forensics. They told me there was talc residue on the paddles so it seems like the killer was wearing disposable gloves. Of course, around here every other store is a pharmacy or medical supply shop, so it's not the most robust lead.'

‘Welcome to Grenville,' he commented dryly. ‘Old folks and antiques.'

‘Although,' she said, using Hank as a sounding board, ‘there could be something with the gloves. We all had to change from latex to these funky purple ones a few years back, because some people had allergic reactions.'

‘Same here. What's the point?'

‘It could be nothing, but the new ones don't have talc. Do me a favor and see if they're still selling latex with talc, if not our killer is using old gloves.'

‘I'll make a couple calls, you're right it could be something . . .' His voice trailed. ‘Not a big something.'

‘I know, but at this point I'll take anything.'

After they hung up she dialed another number.

‘Mrs Strauss?'

‘Yes.'

‘This is Mattie Perez.'

‘Well hello, Mattie,' Ada said, sounding pleased.

‘I had a couple questions about things you and Mrs Campbell had said at lunch yesterday.'

‘Fire away, dear. Oops, could you hold on one minute while I get my tea?'

‘No problem.'

Mattie cradled the phone and heard the whistling teakettle. There was something comfortable in the clatter of crockery and the hollow whoosh of a cookie tin opening.

‘Sorry about that,' Ada said. ‘You had some questions?'

‘Right, they have to do with the woman's estate you're liquidating.'

‘Evie's, Evie Henderson.'

‘You said that Mildred Potts had given you an estimate and also Tolliver Jacobs.'

‘That's right and I got a third from Mr Caputo.'

Mattie felt her breath catch. ‘You mentioned him at lunch.'

‘Yes, although he hasn't returned my calls.'

Mattie again got that sick feeling about Rudy Caputo, as well as the other two men whose auction paddles had been used to flay open McElroy's gut. Hunting them down had been the sole task she'd handed off to her grudgingly provided reinforcements. ‘How did you get the names for the dealers you picked?'

‘Some I got from the Grenville Antique Association website, others I got from Evie's attorney.'

‘Mr Warren?'

‘You've been doing your homework, which I suspect my grandson who's sneaking out the door as we speak, has not. Excuse me.'

Mattie eavesdropped as Ada interrogated her grandson.

‘Aaron, where are you going?'

‘To the mall.'

‘Homework done?'

‘Mostly.'

‘You know that if your schoolwork goes down, there's no way your mom and dad will let you stay here.'

‘I'll do it; I promise. I made plans to meet a couple friends at the mall.'

‘I suppose . . . Just be back for dinner.'

‘Is Lil coming?' he asked.

‘She should.'

‘Can we have Chinese?'

‘You're getting too used to this, but yes, and yes I'll order the moo shoo.' Ada turned back to the detective. ‘I just don't know what I'm doing,' she admitted.

‘He sounds like a nice kid,' Mattie offered.

‘He's a gem,' Ada boasted. ‘I just think it's hard for kids these days. Or harder in a different way from when I grew up. Back then you kind of knew what was expected of you. Now it's all so confusing.'

‘Do you mind if I ask you something personal?'

‘Not at all.'

‘Why isn't he with his parents?'

‘My son-in-law and he aren't on speaking terms, it seems.'

‘Big fight?'

‘A whopper, which reminds me that I should give my daughter a call. I'm still not certain what's going on.'

‘In my experience,' Mattie offered, ‘and before homicide I worked domestic violence, there are only a few reasons why kids leave home . . . or get pushed out. You want to hear them?'

‘Please.'

‘Let's get rid of the ugly ones first,' the detective began. ‘Sexual and physical abuse are two of the major causes for runaways.'

‘No,' Ada said. ‘Although . . .'

‘Although?'

‘As much as I might not care for my son-in-law, I can't believe he's responsible for Aaron's black eye, and Aaron adamantly denies that his father hit him.'

‘You know what they say about denial?' Mattie commented.

‘Yes, it's a big river in Egypt.'

‘As long as you know that. Then comes drugs. Any sense that he's stoned or high? Any clues like red-rimmed eyes, slurred speech, grades taking a nosedive or tickets for driving under the influence?'

‘No, that's not it; at least I haven't seen anything, and Susan – that's my daughter – hasn't mentioned it.'

‘Well, that leaves the third one which has to do with sex. Any chance he got somebody pregnant?'

‘No.'

‘Is he gay?'

Ada paused. ‘Bingo.'

‘And you're OK with that?'

‘He's my grandson. I'd love him if he were an axe murderer. God, that's so politically incorrect going from gay to axe murderer. I don't know if he is gay, and I don't think it makes a difference, although . . .'

‘What?'

‘I sometimes think Aaron's more than just a grandson. After Susan had him she went back to school; I'd take care of him and his sister in the afternoons. This is probably more information than you want from a relative stranger, and you'll think I'm a nut case, but I believe that there's a purpose why he's in my life and I'm in his. If he's gay, or dealing with something else, I don't think it's going to be his parents – certainly not his father – who are going to be there for him.'

‘He's lucky to have you.'

‘That's kind of you, but I still feel out of my element.' There was more Ada wanted to add, but realized Mattie was truly a stranger.

‘I don't think you need to do much. Just listen and set a few limits. It sounds like he may not have been getting a whole lot of support at home.'

‘My son-in-law is a piece of work,' Ada blurted angrily, remembering how hurt and furious she'd been as Jack had essentially banished her from their home, not liking her politics, or that unlike her daughter, Ada would not hold her tongue. He'd made it clear that he felt she was corrupting his children, and it was only his views that were welcome around the table.

‘That puts you in a weird position.'

‘Mattie,' Ada asked, ‘I know you're probably very busy but would you like to join us for dinner?'

She hesitated, having been at this boundary many times over the course of her career. She remembered something her first partner, the now retired Dan Malvoy had told her: ‘
It's OK to get friendly but not be friends, because today's informant can be tomorrow's perp . . . or corpse.
' Still this town was hard to crack and Lil Campbell in particular had the inside track. With her thoughts zipping fast she realized it was unlikely that either of these women were responsible for the murders, which left the other half of Dan's truism. ‘Love to,' she said. Part of her was simply eager for a meal away from her too-cute hotel room at the Grenville Inn, but she also realized that she'd get more information over dinner than in a taped interview at the local police department.

‘Let me give you directions. I hope you like Chinese, as with few exceptions I'm a famously bad cook.'

The detective laughed. ‘I love Chinese.'

TWENTY

‘
I
got a job,' I told Ada, unable to contain my enthusiasm, and a bit apprehensive, as well.

‘What? Lil, I had no idea you were looking,' Ada responded while putting out napkins and her good sterling flatware.

‘I wasn't,' I admitted, glad for these moments alone with her. There was so much I wanted to say, and wasn't sure how it would come out. ‘I just thought that if you were serious about maybe going back to New York, I needed to find something for myself.' There was this pressure building, and before I could stop myself, ‘I don't want you to leave. I know it's selfish. I know family has to come first, but I don't want you to go.'

‘I didn't realize.' She looked up, and our eyes connected.

It felt like time was suspended. I desperately wanted to go to her, to hold her . . . kiss her. But fear held me to the spot.

The silence was broken by her: ‘Do you think anyone would mind if I left the food in the cardboard containers?'

‘No,' I said, realizing that what I felt must never be voiced, that to do so would be to lose the best friend I'd ever had. ‘It's fine, less to wash.'