Widows' Watch (26 page)

“Not at all,” Elena assured her.

“There, you see. And I've lived in Texas all my life.”

“How about Mercedes Castro?”

“Poor T. Bob. He waited quite a while to ask Mercedes, and she told him she didn't date Anglos. Actually, I don't think she dates anyone. That son of hers has turned her into a housemaid-baby-sitter. I tell my children that I love the grandbabies, but I don't want to spend all my time baby-sitting. They're quite well enough off to hire someone. Anyway, Mercedes has that terrible scar. Poor thing. I'm surprised T. Bob asked her out. But Dimitra's had several dates with him, and Boris is hardly cold in his grave.”

It was seven-thirty before Elena got out of Emily Marks's house, but she felt she'd made progress. She went back to headquarters to type up a report, wondering all the while what her mother was fixing for dinner.

Monday, October 11, 8:25 P.M.

Elena was cruising toward her house when she spotted an agitated threesome at the gate to Dimitra's courtyard. Dimitra, wearing a red and white polyester dress, was leaning on her walker, expostulating; T. Bob Tyler waved a fistful of lilies and shouted at Omar Ashkenazi, who was rocking back and forth on his heels and talking earnestly. Elena slammed on her brakes and dashed toward the fray in time to hear Omar say, “I just want to switch nights. If you understood my sleeping habits—”

“I don't care none about yer sleepin' habits,” said T. Bob, shaking his bouquet in Omar's face.

Omar sneezed. The cloying scent of the lilies tickled Elena's nose too, although she was five feet away. No one seemed to notice her.

“I don't see why you won't switch, T. Bob,” said Dimitra. “If we go at five tomorrow night, the paper says drinks at Big Andy's Saloon and Dance Hall will be two for one.”

“You're breakin' our date?” demanded T. Bob, outraged.

“No, I'm just saying, since Omar happens to be awake tonight, I should go with you tomorrow instead.”

“I believe in natural sleep,” explained Omar. “If you're tired, lie down and sleep; that's my motto. You should try it. Natural sleep might improve your disposition, Mr. Tyler.”

“You're standin' me up after all Ah done for you?” T. Bob demanded of Dimitra.

All he'd done for her? Did that include killing Boris? Elena felt a surge of excitement. Maybe her case was finally about to break. She had reached the warring threesome, but not in time to stop T. Bob from shouting, “Ah'll teach you to steal mah gal,” and hitting Omar with a left hook, followed by a fistful of lilies to the ear.

Dimitra shrieked and pushed her walker into T. Bob, surprising him, but doing no damage. Omar staggered backward, then regained his balance. “Hai!” he shouted, hands whipping into a position Elena had seen in those stupid kung fu movies her ex-husband, Frank, loved. Then Omar kicked T. Bob Tyler in the balls.

“My lord!” cried Dimitra.

T. Bob doubled over, groaning.

Omar, the first to notice Elena's presence, said, “That man assaulted me.” Omar's nose was bleeding, and a lily dangled raffishly over his protruding right ear.

“I have to tell you both,” said Dimitra angrily, “I don't like violence.” She began to maneuver her walker through the gate.

“You going to press charges, Omar?” Elena asked. Having seen the whole thing, she realized that Omar could, even though T. Bob seemed the worse for the encounter.

“Absolutely,” said Omar and chased Dimitra into the courtyard, explaining anxiously that his only fighting skills were self-defense tactics, which he'd learned in his pursuit of Oriental disciplines.

“I give her them flowers, an' she stood me up fer that there lil furriner,” groaned T. Bob. “He kicked me in mah privates. A man don't do no dirty fightin' in front of a lady. Ever'one knows that.”

“I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you downtown and book you, T. Bob,” said Elena, cuffing his hands in front rather than trying to uncup them from his genitals. At least he'd be off the street until she could find out if he was the serial killer. Otherwise, Omar might have been his next victim.

Dimitra and Omar were still arguing in the courtyard, so Elena stuck her head in and reminded the kung fu-yoga-vegetarian-carpet expert that he'd have to come downtown to press charges.

“We could catch a late movie at one of the malls,” said Omar to Dimitra.

“That would be past my bedtime,” Dimitra retorted.

“Don't step on them flowers,” said T. Bob, still bent over and sweating as Elena started him toward her truck. “I went to a heap of trouble to bring her them flowers, an' look what it got me.”

Tuesday, October 12, 8:15 A.M.

Because they'd been called out on another case the night before, Elena and Leo didn't get to T. Bob Tyler until the next morning. “The interesting thing,” Elena told Leo, “is what T. Bob said to Dimitra. ‘You're standing me up after all I've done for you?' What's he done for her? Taken her out a few times. Gone to the funeral and protest with her.”

“You think he killed Boris for her?” asked Leo. “Would he have said that in front of you?”

“I'm not sure he noticed I was there. He'd be crazy to hit Omar if he had. T. Bob's got one bar assault here in Los Santos. He came within a whisker of getting charged with assaulting an officer at the demonstration; Lydia Beeman got him out of that. Then there's a long record in Otero County even if charges were never filed.”

They parked across the street at Central Division, walked down the ramp to the basement of the jail to check their weapons into lockers, and had T. Bob called down for an interrogation. He was in loose jail clothes and complaining about the breakfast he'd been served, the bed he'd had to sleep in, and the manners of the men in his cell block.

“Have you tried to bail out?” Elena asked.

“With what? Ah cain't afford it,” said T. Bob.

“You want your lawyer present while we question you?” asked Leo.

“That little pipsqueak ain't gonna do me no good. If he could, Ah wouldna spent the night in jail.”

“Should we take that as a no?” asked Elena. “You're willing to talk to us without counsel present?”

“Damn right,” said T. Bob indignantly. “'Scuse the profanity, miss. Ah don't usually swear in front of ladies, but then Ah don't usually spend no sober time in jails neither.”

“You said to Dimitra, just before you hit Mr. Ashkenazi, ‘You're standing me up after all I've done for you?' What did you mean by that?”

“Ah don't ‘member sayin' that. How come Ah'm in jail an' he ain't? What he done to me, he oughta be hung. Kickin' me in mah privates. Ah may never be able to pleasure a woman agin.”

Elena sighed. “I was there, Mr. Tyler. You assaulted Mr. Ashkenazi. He simply defended himself.”

“He was tryin' to steal mah gal.”

“I'm afraid you don't have exclusive rights to Dimitra,” Elena replied.

“Ah been courtin' her, ain't Ah? Brought her flowers, din' Ah?”

“What else did you do for her?” asked Leo. “You haven't explained yet what you meant by the remark Detective Jarvis overheard.”

“Ah meant Ah took her out to them fancy clubs an' spent big money on her—three-dollar cover charges an' drinks. Once we went when they didn't even have one of them dollar wine an' well-drink specials. Nachos. Ah bought the woman nachos. Don't that mean we're at least goin' steady? Ah ain't no millionaire. Ah had to stand around at the hirin' depot an' git mahself hired on to move someone's furniture outa one a them big semis into a house. An' Ah'm always the last one took. Them drivers don' wanna hire a man mah age. They think Ah'm gonna throw mah back out an' sue ‘em. Like after bustin' broncs an' punchin' cows all them years, movin' a few sticks a furniture's gonna do me in.”

“What else did you do for her?” asked Leo.

“Ah brung her flowers. She saw ‘em.” He pointed to Elena. “Ah shore hope Miz Dimitra put ‘em in water.”

“Were you and Dimitra dating before Boris died?” asked Elena.

“'Course not,” said T. Bob. “We was dancin' partners in the country-dancin' class, but that wasn't no date ‘cause it didn't cost me nothin'.”

“But you killed Boris for her, didn't you?”

“Me?” T. Bob looked astounded. “Ah ain't never killed nobody. That what you think Ah done? Murder? Ah ain't sayin' one more word. Ah want mah lawyer. Even if he is a dumb pipsqueak.”

As they left, Elena said, “Let's get a warrant to search his apartment and his truck. Maybe the judge will go for the idea that T. Bob killed the husband, since he just attacked a suitor.”

While Leo went to court, Elena kept the ten o'clock appointment she'd made to interview Lydia Beeman, who received her with warm hospitality and served excellent coffee and bran muffins with an ambrosial plum jam. “When I was a girl on the ranch, we used to pick wild plums and make preserves,” said Lydia when Elena complimented her.

Leo would be at least two hours getting the warrant, and there was no great hurry now, with T. Bob in jail, so Elena settled back. She could afford to let Lydia talk, direct the conversation now and then, and see what came out.

“I believe you're a gardener,” said Lydia, passing the cream and sugar.

“Why yes, I am. How did you know?”

“You told me, my dear, but I could have deduced as much from your hands. If I may offer some advice, you should always wear gloves, not just gardening but whenever you're outside. Look at my hands.” Lydia displayed them, palms down, fingers spread.

They were surprisingly youthful, Elena had to admit.

“I'm seventy-six years old, but I have the hands of a much younger woman, no age spots, few wrinkles. That's because I never leave the house without gloves on. Also sunscreen and a sun hat.”

Elena's first thought was a cop's reaction. Lydia Beeman wouldn't leave fingerprints anywhere but in her own house and at the Socorro Heights Center. “You do have lovely hands and skin,” Elena agreed.

Lydia nodded. “If I'd had a daughter, I'd have given her the advice I'm giving you. If you follow it, you'll be very glad when you're my age. Vitamins, exercise, and a sensible diet are important as well. I attribute my good health and vigor to those. And sensible shoes.” Lydia looked at Elena's low-heeled pumps. “You'd do much better to wear a sturdy lace-up shoe to work, my dear. That way you won't find yourself with bunions, calluses, and arch problems when you turn forty.”

Elena thanked her for the advice and took a bite of muffin as she sought an opening in which to introduce the Potemkin case. Lydia gave her one by asking about her progress. “Not much,” said Elena. “We thought Lance might have done it, but he has a good alibi. Now, since T. Bob Tyler's in jail, we're looking at him as a suspect.”

“What's he in jail for?” asked Lydia.

“Assaulting another of Dimitra's gentlemen callers. There's the possibility that Dimitra talked him into killing Boris.”

“Nonsense,” said Lydia. “T. Bob Tyler is a silly old man who thinks he's some kind of Western hero in the old-fashioned mold. Which he isn't. I have twenty ancestors who were real heroes, so I know one when I see one. T. Bob wouldn't have the nerve to plan and execute a murder.”

“Even for love?” asked Elena, smiling.

“Love for whom?”

“Dimitra. She certainly had reason to wish Boris dead. The man pushed her down the stairs and broke her hip.”

Lydia shrugged. “If that were true, and I certainly don't know it to be, I doubt that Dimitra would have the gumption to solicit his murder. Even to protect herself. I have no doubt that Boris was murdered by a robber.”

If that were true, Lydia had said and, I don't know it to be. She was lying. Emily Marks claimed they all knew how Dimitra's hip got broken, that Lydia had become very upset about it. Had Lydia lied because she, like so many women her age, didn't think such subjects should be discussed? “Nothing of much value was taken,” said Elena. “If a robber killed Boris, it's lucky you happened to ask Dimitra to take your place at bridge that day.”

“Actually, I think she offered.”

“Either way you may have saved her from being killed too.”

“I suppose it was fortunate. I don't miss many games, but of course, that was a special day.”

“Oh?”

“The anniversary of my husband's death. I always visit his grave. Bring him up to date.” Lydia smiled.

Elena wasn't really surprised that Lydia had an alibi for the twenty-seventh, probably verifiable too, since her husband would be buried at Fort Bliss.

“I suppose talking to a dead man sounds daft to you, especially after I criticized your mother for thinking she sees auras, but of course, my husband doesn't reply to anything I tell him. Those yearly conversations just make me feel closer to him.”

“I'm investigating the deaths of other men whose wives were at the center,” said Elena, feeling her way cautiously.

“Umm. Yes,” said Lydia thoughtfully. “There have been other robbery-murders. Old people are targets. There's no question.”

“Do you remember anything particular about those days?” They weren't all on the anniversary of Colonel Beeman's death, yet Lydia had been gone each time.

“Goodness, my dear. I can't even be sure what years they occurred, much less what was happening on a particular day. I believe your mother was asking about those days too. Is she assisting in your investigation?”

“Mom? No, not at all. She's just indignant about older people getting killed.”

Lydia nodded. “Of course she is. Well, it's been delightful to have you visit, Elena. I hope you'll come back another time.”

Elena wasn't nearly finished with her questions.

“I'm afraid I have to be at the center at eleven today, and I need to change my clothes.” Lydia rose.

Elena, looking for an excuse to stay longer and ask about bicycling, spotted the beautiful mahogany gun cabinet. “What a wonderful collection you have!” she exclaimed. “I think I remember Mom saying that you liked to keep the guns in pristine condition because they belonged to your husband.”

“Your mother has an excellent memory,” Lydia muttered, her tone reminding Elena that the two women always struck sparks off one another. “They were his pride and joy,” Lydia added.

“Being a law officer, I'm very interested in guns,” said Elena, planting herself firmly in front of the cabinet. The side arms were labeled and carefully mounted. Elena read the cards rapidly, trying to commit the types to memory. Lydia had a Nambu and the unsightly, inefficient Type 94

from the Japanese army in World War II, a fine Italian Beretta Modello, stylish Lugers, Walther P38's, PP's and PPK's; there were Colts, Smith and Wessons, Enfields, and Webleys from the British and American armies, Nagants and Tokarevs from the Russian—

“It is a fine collection,” said Lydia, taking Elena's arm. “And valuable. I really need to put a lock on that case, especially considering how many people know about the guns.” She steered Elena gently toward the front door, saying, “I get requests all the time to show them to collectors and to lend them out for gun shows, local theater, even several movies filmed here in Los Santos.”

“Do you?” Elena held back. “I'd love to hear about them.”

“Then you must come back when we both have more time,” said Lydia. “I'd be delighted to show you the collection and tell you the stories of how my husband came to own them.”

A murderer with access to this cabinet wouldn't need to go elsewhere. Elena wasn't sure, but she thought every one of the five men had been killed with a weapon represented here.

“You will excuse me,” said Lydia.

“Of course,” Elena acquiesced. She wasn't going to get into a tug of war with the woman, but she'd love to have Ballistics run a check on all those guns. Of course, she'd never get a warrant. She didn't have anything against Lydia except absence from the center when the crimes were committed and a lie about Dimitra's hip. The lie could be explained by old-fashioned reluctance to talk about wife-battering. And female serial killers were as rare as low-fat meals in a Mexican restaurant. Not to mention the fact that Lydia didn't have an alarm system; Elena checked on the way out. Anyone could get in and borrow a gun from that unlocked cabinet. Still, she'd tell Leo about the guns. They'd quiz T. Bob about his relationship to Lydia Beeman. Damn! She'd never got a chance to mention bicycling.