Widows' Watch (20 page)

Thursday, October 7, 2:30 P.M.

Mrs. Brolie lived in Casitas Coronado, well up the mountain on the Westside. When Elena entered the apartment, it looked expensive. The living room ceiling soared two stories, with track lights and lovely pictures hung at odd but pleasing intervals up and down the high north wall, and they sat on an immense white sofa that curved around a large marble coffee table. Chantal Brolie was not beautiful, not young, but she was beautifully dressed.

“Lovely place,” said Elena.

“Yes.” Mrs. Brolie looked around with pleasure. “My husband, being an insurance salesman, was heavily insured. When someone killed him, I got it all.”

Elena considered the notion that Hank Brolie had been killed for his insurance. “I'm looking into your husband's death and several others, Mrs. Brolie. I found in the reports that you were at the Socorro Heights Senior Citizens Center when it happened.”

“Yes, I taught a French class there once a week. I was a French war bride many years ago, you see.”

“So when Mr. Brolie died, you were teaching a class?”

“No, playing bridge.”

Bingo! “Did you do that regularly?”

“As seldom as possible,” said Mrs. Brolie dryly. “I was sitting in for someone that afternoon.”

Widow number three—sitting in. “Who?”

She looked thoughtful. “Some friend of Margaret Forrest's. Margaret was our accountant for ten years or so before she retired. Hank's taxes were fairly complicated because he had a lot of business deductions.”

“And Mrs. Forrest asked you to play?”

“Whether she asked me or I offered, I couldn't say.”

“And the other members of the foursome?”

“There was a funny little woman named Emily. I'm afraid I don't remember her last name. But she was a terrible player, worse than me, and my husband always said I was hopeless.”

Emily Marks, thought Elena. “And the fourth woman?”

“I remember her very well. Portia Lemay. After Hank was killed and the insurance companies paid off, Portia found me this condo.” Chantal glanced at her home contentedly. “The previous owner had died, and the family wanted to get the will through probate in a hurry, so she got me a very good price. Can I offer you a glass of wine?”

“No, thanks. I'm on duty.”

Mrs. Brolie picked up a crystal decanter and poured white wine for herself. “I've always been very grateful to Portia for finding me this place. And she helped me sell the old house, which I didn't want to stay in.”

“Why was that?” asked Elena.

“Bad memories,” said Chantal Brolie.

“Of spousal abuse? The computer turned up several domestic-violence calls involving you and your husband.”

“But none the year before he died,” said Mrs. Brolie bitterly. “After the police came the third time, Hank found a new source of amusement that didn't make any noise to alert the neighbors or leave any bruises to alert my friends.”

“You were a battered woman?”

“Yes. Whoever killed Hank did me a favor.”

“What happened that last year before he died?”

Mrs. Brolie stared bleakly through the sheer draperies beyond which the rugged, looming presence of the mountain was like a mist-shrouded dream. “We played Russian roulette. He'd put a bullet in the gun. He'd spin the chamber. Then he'd put the gun against my head and pull the trigger.”

Elena shivered.

“Or he'd hold my hair and point the gun at my eye. He told me people shot through the eye had been known to live, but they wished they hadn't.” She was trembling and had to set her goblet down on the green-veined marble table. “That happened about once a month. I don't know why I'm not dead.” She picked up the wine again. “There must have been some higher power looking out for me.”

Elena nodded encouragingly.

“Then he decided I wasn't terrified enough, so he put two bullets in the gun, spun the chamber, and pulled the trigger twice. He said next time it would be three bullets and three shots. I went to pieces that month, waiting for him to kill me. And he was building up to it, accusing me of being unfaithful.”

Her mouth twisted wryly. “While I was working, he thought I was having affairs with the principal and various teachers in the school. When I retired, he was sure every time I went grocery shopping I was on my way to an assignation. Of course, I never had any affairs. I'd have been afraid to. But Hank—Hank thought because I was French, I must be prowling for l'amour. That's what he called it. And his French was execrable.”

“What happened?” asked Elena, thankful once again that she'd divorced Frank after the first attack.

“He died,” said Chantal Brolie. “Someone shot him. Can you believe it? I couldn't. For a month I thought he'd show up and say it had been one of his tricks, that now he was going to finish me off. It wasn't until I moved that I finally began to believe I could live my life out in peace.” She took another sip of her wine. “Now I even go out with gentleman friends.”

“Is T. Bob Tyler one of them?” Elena asked quickly.

“The cowboy?” Chantal laughed. “He's like a character in one of your Western films. But I wouldn't date him. I prefer—oh—more sophistication. Hank is probably watching me from the grave, seething every time I accept a social engagement. But he needn't worry. I won't remarry. Because, you see, I thought Hank was the sweetest man I'd ever met, the kind American soldier who gave me food and silk stockings, after the war when we French were starving. And he wasn't trying to seduce me. Hank wanted to marry me.” She shook her head. “Women are so easily fooled. Or maybe it's that men are so cunning.”

Elena mulled over this story. “Did you ever tell anyone what was happening to you? A friend? Maybe someone from the center?”

“About the Russian roulette?” Her eyes became distant as she thought back to that time. “Margaret and I had lunch together about once a month, and the last time, the time he put the two cartridges in and pulled the trigger twice, I called her the next morning and told her that I couldn't keep our luncheon date. Margaret didn't argue, but she came over. Hank had left to play golf, and Margaret found me crying. She fixed me café au lait, she defrosted croissants—I hadn't had any breakfast—and she got the whole story out of me.

“Isn't that strange? I'd forgotten. I guess she's the only one I ever talked to. She offered to call the police or take me to a shelter, but I knew if she did, there'd be one last game of Russian roulette. I remember she said it was a wonder I'd survived, that mathematically, I should have been dead already. At three bullets and three shots, she didn't think I had a chance. I told her I'd try to decide what to do.

“But of course, I didn't do anything. After years of my husband getting drunk and violent, hurting me, telling me that I could never get away from him, that he'd kill me if I left, I'd stopped believing I could escape. I went to a psychiatrist for several months after his death because I couldn't sleep. I still thought he'd be coming after me.” Chantal Brolie spread her hands and smiled lightly. “Well, it's over now, isn't it? Does that help you?”

Elena nodded.

“You think his death had something to do with the way he treated me? Margaret was the only one who knew, except for the police, and they didn't do anything. Neither did Margaret; she was with me at the center when he died.”

“Would she have told anyone?”

“I hope not.”

But Elena wondered. Women gossiped. Rumors might have reached T. Bob. Mrs. Brolie thought of him as a character in a Western. Maybe he saw himself that way—the gallant sheriff, protecting womanhood from the bad guys. “You don't by any chance know a woman named Marcia Cox, do you?” asked Elena. It was a long shot, but she hadn't been able to find Porfirio Cox's widow.

“Of course I do. Or I should say, I did. I met her when I moved in here. It's strange, you know. Someone shot her husband too. Porfirio Cox. He was a builder. Very wealthy.”

“She lived here?”

“We were neighbors.”

“You keep saying were.”

“Marcia died last year. She had a stroke.” Mrs. Brolie sighed. “I still miss her. Marcia moved in from a big place up on Rim Road. Her husband was killed while she was at the center too. We often commented on how strange that was. Such a coincidence.”

“Was she a battered woman?”

Chantal Brolie looked surprised. “If she was, she didn't mention it, but then he was dead by the time we became friends.”

“Did she seem to—well—mourn his death?” Elena knew that didn't necessarily mean anything. Mercedes Castro mourned her husband.

“No, I can't say that Marcia seemed to miss him. In fact, she was a very happy woman. She relished every day as if it were a new source of delight. I thought the world of her. It's such a tragedy when someone like that dies, someone so happy.”

“Do you know how she happened to move into Casitas Coronado? If she was wealthy and had a place on Rim Road, one would have thought she'd want to stay.”

“Yes, but a big house is a lot of work, even if you have maids, which I'm sure she did. Portia found a condo for Marcia too and sold the house on Rim Road. If I remember correctly, Marcia said she got close to a million for it. Imagine that! I got a hundred and ten thousand for mine, and I considered myself lucky. Portia is a wonderful realtor. Everyone comes out of her deals feeling that they've had the best of it.”

Elena nodded. More and more connections. “What was Mrs. Cox doing at the center the afternoon her husband was killed?”

“I've no idea.”

And the real estate connection. Were husbands being killed off so Portia Lemay could get the fees for selling their houses and finding their wives new places? The commission on a million dollars would be a hell of a lot. Were Portia and T. Bob in league?

Elena thanked Mrs. Brolie and, having said goodbye, took one last look at the beautiful condominium purchased with the insurance money of a man who liked to play Russian roulette. Then she looked at the happy, tranquil widow. Maybe Harmony was right. Maybe God did have a hand in setting these women free, giving them a decent end to lives that had been painful and frightening.

Friday, October 8, 8:00 A.M.

Elena reread photocopies of the Porfirio Cox and Herbert Stoltz files. In the robbery/murder of Herbert Stoltz five years ago, one of the items stolen had been a Tokarev, a Russian sidearm, which had never been recovered. Stoltz had been killed with a Beretta Modello. All those World War II weapons, she thought. Porfirio Cox, according to Ballistics, had been killed with a Tokarev. The one stolen from Stoltz?

Elena shook her head and glanced across the aisle. Because Leo wasn't in, she went to Manny Escobedo's office to ask if her usual partner was out on another case. “He's taking a day of vacation,” Manny told her.

“Tap Night?” she asked, laughing.

“What do you mean?”

“Leo's organizing a big meeting of tap dancers at the Main Library downtown. They're going to tap their way to San Jacinto Plaza, waving flashlights.” There'd been another story in the paper this morning, mentioning the flashlights and banners that various dancing clubs and schools planned to carry as part of the festivities. Local restaurants would be selling their specialties at the plaza. The food sounded great; Elena wasn't so sure about the event itself. Maybe Colin and Lance would want to snack at the various booths. Elena had loved doing that at the yearly Los Santos Festival before they stopped serving beer and then canceled the whole thing.

“You think Maggie would be interested in going?” asked Elena's sergeant.

“Beats me.” Elena sat down across from Manny and gave him the information she'd accumulated: the possible connection between the weapon stolen from Herbert Stoltz and that used to kill Porfirio Cox, all of the men killed with World War II handguns; the fact that Chantal Brolie, Mercedes Castro, and Dimitra Potemkin had all been substituting in bridge games at the senior citizens' center when their husbands were killed; that the late Marcia Cox had been a member there; that three of the women had been battered.

“Dimitra broke her hip a month or so before the murder. Rumor has it that her husband pushed her downstairs. Mercedes Castro has a terrible scar on her face where her husband backhanded her wearing a big ring, then refused to pay for plastic surgery. A year before Hank Brolie's murder, he started playing Russian roulette, with his wife as an unwilling participant. Not only that, but she told one of the bridge players at the center about it. Frances Stoltz's autopsy showed enough fractures to indicate battering, and her husband killed her. Two of the women's houses were sold and condos found for them by Portia Lemay, another of the players. That's too many coincidences, don't you think? And all the women knew T. Bob Tyler, the guy with the history of assault.”

Manny Escobedo mulled over the information. “Too many coincidences,” he agreed, “but a senior citizen serial killer? That's crazy.”

Elena nodded. “And there are a lot fewer men at that center than women. I took their male membership list and ran it through the computer. T. Bob's the only one I could find with a record of violence.”

“Are you saying you've ruled out a female as your killer?”

“How many female serial killers have you read about?” she asked. “Do you know of any in our files?”

“Not many to the first question, none to the second. Well, keep after it.”

“I will. I'm going to check Porfirio and Marcia Cox today. With both of them dead, I'll have to locate relatives or neighbors. The Castro woman and her son denied that she'd been abused. Two neighbors told me about that scar.”

“Good work,” said Manny. “Think I'll call Daguerre, see if she wants to go to the tap dancing thing. She's got a heel on her cast now, so she's off crutches.”

“Maggie'll love the food, all sorts of booths with ethnic stuff. You gonna take your kids?”

“What time does it start?”

“Eight o'clock.”

“Sure, why not? Can't last more than an hour. I can get ‘em home in time for bed. And they like Maggie now, don't you think?”

“In spades. She let them paint all over her cast. They may get her fired, but they like her.”

“Her captain's not gonna fire her. We'd have the O.E.O. all over us.”

“I guess I'll go out on my own today. I really don't need a partner on this.”

She went back to her desk, jotted down names and addresses, and headed for the parking lot. She had a lot of people to see, but this case was more interesting than the drive-by shootings or spouses nailing each other with whatever weapon came to hand.

She thought as she pulled out on Montana that it would look great on her record if she solved this one and closed four or five homicides at once. Maybe she'd take the sergeant's exam next time around. Being a sergeant meant more responsibility and more money. Wouldn't Frank hate that? She grinned, thinking she didn't owe him any favors—except for the guitar. Its disappearance meant she wouldn't have to perform with her mother in the talent show.

Not that she didn't miss the guitar sometimes, she admitted as she took Cotton to Murchison, passing the hospital. It was nice, when you'd had a hard day, to sit out on the back patio and play a little, sing a little. Her neighbors liked it too. They'd come out to listen. Elena smiled. It was a neat neighborhood, especially now that Boris was gone. She hoped Dimitra wouldn't sell the house to scumbags.

Had Portia Lemay come around and suggested that Dimitra move into a condo? Elena didn't see Dimitra in a condo. Of course, with the hip, trying to take care of a house and yard would be difficult, but Lance would pitch in now that he was welcome at home again. He seemed like too nice a guy to let his mother struggle on her own.

A lot of kids, once they had their own places and lives, tended to forget their parents existed. Elena admonished herself to do better about writing and calling home. Not that her parents lacked for company. Maria was the only other Portillo to leave Chimayo, and she was just down in Albuquerque at med school. Elena wondered if Maria would return to practice medicine in the Sangre de Cristos. Johnny, Josie, and Two still lived in Chimayo, along with the grandchildren, but they probably got more help from Elena's mother and father than they gave.

She put the Taurus into the steep uphill climb toward Rim Road. Of course, even her seemingly ageless parents would get old someday. The prospect made Elena feel blue. Not that she'd mind having her mother live with her. It had been great having her in the house this last week, even if she was a little weird. But Harmony, when she got old, wouldn't want to move to Los Santos. She'd want to stay where she was, with family and neighbors.

Elena chuckled. Grandma and Grandpa Waite couldn't understand it—their bright daughter dropping out of school, marrying a small-town lawman, a minority person (that's how they referred to Ruben), living with a bunch of Hispanics in a tiny village. Grandpa Waite had complained about it with his dying breath, and Harmony just laughed, tears in her eyes, and kissed him. Elena remembered that day.

Grandma Waite didn't come to Chimayo, saying it was too hard to get to for an old lady. Instead she paid Harmony's way to Marin County with any children and grandchildren she might care to bring along. Grandma Waite was kind of a pill, but it had been fun to visit. The bookshelves had been full of sexy novels, which Elena could never have bought or read at home, but she read them under the covers with a flashlight when she was a kid at her grandmother's house.

She didn't understand how her grandparents could complain about Chimayo. Marin County—yuck—yuppie heaven even before anyone knew what a yuppie was, and they were always having disasters: water shortages, fires, floods, earthquakes. Elena wouldn't live in California if they paid her.

She swung left onto Rim Road and parked in front of the house where the Coxes had lived four years ago. Man, they must have been rich! The house looked like it had about twenty rooms. She turned to look out over the city. What a view! Imagine seeing that every day. She savored it for a moment, then turned back to a neighbor's house.