Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) (13 page)

I looked around for Amanda, but she had joined the Zieglers, which I thought rather strange, considering Carl had said Ziegler hated Amanda. But perhaps, I reasoned, she didn't know how he felt about her. I returned to the dining room, thinking a further snack might be a good idea and save me from having to fix dinner. I avoided anything that looked like spicy food and chose the soy-and-ginger chicken wings.

A large, bosomy woman next to me at the table glanced at my little paper plate. "Are those good?"

I took a bite, turned to her, and reported. "Very good."

"Olivia!" the woman said next. "I should have known you'd be here. You and Rose used to be best pals."

Then I recognized her face, if not her figure. "Charlene? Charlene Steelbrun?"

"Right." A smile pulled up the corners of her mouth for a moment, giving her chipmunk cheeks.

"Where've you been keeping yourself?" I asked.

"I got divorced and had to go to work. No more coffee klatching."

"Where do you work?" I thought bakery.

"I sell insurance."

"That's great, but I'm surprised you didn't call and try to sell me a policy."

"I thought of it, but I was too late. You were widowed by then."

"That made me ineligible?"

"For the kind I specialize in—husband insurance."

Puzzling that out, I put some raw carrots on my plate while Charlene added chicken wings to hers. "Did you sell insurance policies to all your old friends, the eligible ones, that is?"

"Of course."

Since we were at his house, I said, "To Harry Hammond?"

"No, to Rose,
for
Harry."

A carrot stick halfway to my mouth, I stopped and thought aloud. "You sold Rose an insurance policy on Harry's life?"

"Why not?"

"I'm surprised Rose would even know about such things."

"She didn't, at first." Charlene glanced around and then came closer to me and spoke in a quiet tone, as if about to spill classified information. "Listen, we gals have to do everything we can to survive, right?"

I nodded while I munched the carrot.

"What's the first thing the jerk does after the divorce? Takes the wife's name off his insurance policy, right?" She seemed to speak from sad experience. "So, I sell life insurance on the husband to the wife."

"How does that work?"

"As long as she pays the premiums herself—even if he gave her the money to put in the account—it belongs to her. Then, even if they get divorced, when he dies, she collects."

"I see. So you sold her this policy a long time ago."

"No, she didn't want it at first."

My suspicious mind didn't let go of the idea it had conjured up. "How much insurance can a woman buy from the piddly little amounts left over from the grocery budget?"

"You'd be surprised. Think a couple mil'."

I thought. I thought I should have been serving Hamburger Helper for dinner every night and socking the rest into term life in six figures.

"I thought you said Rose didn't buy a big policy from you."

"Sure she did. She called me about six months ago."

"Six months ago?" I realized my voice had risen an octave, and I lowered it. "Are you telling me Rose took out a big policy on her husband's life just six months before someone killed him?"

Charlene finished chewing and swallowed before answering. "Now, don't go getting any weird ideas. I admit the timing seems a little strange, but Rose and Harry had one of the few happy marriages in this town. If she thought he'd kick the bucket early, she'd blame it on all those martinis and filet mignon dinners. She didn't kill him."

I just stood there, mouth open, while Charlene went on heaping her paper plate with ham and turkey, Parker House rolls, and tuna salad in puff pastry. Then she reached out and plucked some more chicken wings to add to the pile. The third one slipped off, and in trying to catch it, her fingers slid off the surface, and it landed on her ample bosom.

"Oh, now look what I've done."

She set her plate down on the buffet table and swiped at her dress front with a paper napkin, tossing occasional comments on her sudden clumsiness in my direction.

I came to life and grabbed a few more of the little cocktail napkins and handed them to her.

"This won't do," she complained. "Where's the powder room?"

I started off toward the hall with her following me. When I opened the door, she charged in, turned on the faucet, and soaked one of the guest hand towels. Also paper, it disintegrated, leaving little white spitballs on her dark blue dress.

I confess I found this funny and then felt guilty for it, so I opened the door of the vanity under the sink and looked inside for something more substantial. I found some terry hand towels, but when I pulled one out and turned to hand it to her, I discovered Charlene had disappeared, presumably to the kitchen for expert help.

I stayed there temporarily, staring at my face in the mirror, although the image didn't register. I thought about what I'd just learned. In spite of Charlene's opinion, I had to wonder if Rose killed her husband after all. My appetite disappeared.

I stayed in the powder room for several minutes, pondering my next step. Tell Brad? Confront Rose? Maybe Charlene didn't think the insurance policy implicated Rose, but I felt certain Brad would. Maybe I shouldn't tell him what I'd learned. How could he work wholeheartedly on the case if he thought her guilty? And I just couldn't believe that. Yet, I felt duty bound to tell him.

I left the powder room and noticed the living room had emptied, and a small queue of guests stood in the hallway, saying their good-byes to Rose and Debra. I worried Brad might be gone but found him standing in the living room, looking at the spines of books on the shelves on either side of the fireplace.

I gave him my best
I have something urgent to tell you
look, and he followed me. I could hear the sounds of the caterers cleaning up back in the direction of the kitchen, but the breakfast room was unoccupied, so we stepped in there.

"What's up?" he asked.

I looked around once more, just to be sure no one could hear, and dropped my voice to a lower tone. "I just bumped into Charlene Steelbrun. I don't know if you remember her. We played bridge with a ladies' group when you were in junior high." I realized I was rattling, stopped, and got straight to the point. "Anyway, she sells insurance now, and she sold Rose Hammond a policy on Harry's life worth two million dollars."

Brad's eyes widened, and I went on. "Here's the worst part. She sold it to her only six months ago."

Brad's voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Are you sure about this? Six months ago she took out a life insurance policy on Harry?"

"For two million," I repeated.

"That's incredible. How come we didn't hear this before? If the police know about it, no wonder she's a suspect." He arched his head back for a moment, his jaw tight, gritting his teeth.

"Now, Brad, this does
not
make Rose guilty. You have to promise me you won't let it keep you from looking for the real murderer."

He didn't comment on that but asked a question of his own. "Have you said anything to anyone yet?"

"No, I thought I'd better tell you first."

"Right. And
I'll
have to tell Tom, but first, let's get Rose in here."

"She's saying good-bye to people. Everyone's leaving now. It shouldn't take long."

I left him in the breakfast room, hoping I'd done the right thing, and walked back to the front hall. Sure enough, the last mourners appeared to be heading home. I shivered a little, as much from fears for Rose as from the cold winter air blowing in through the open door.

As the final guests left, Rose turned toward Debra, her face relaxing into a look of sadness and despair. Debra put her arms around her mother, and they stood in that position for a few seconds. I felt guilty for eavesdropping and guilty as well as for wondering if Rose might have killed Harry after all.

I came forward, and since the thick carpeting muffled my footsteps, I cleared my throat loudly. The women broke apart, and once again, a mask of dignified courtesy covered Rose's face. Debra seemed more open, her look indicating her surprise at seeing us, which was natural under the circumstances.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," I told them. "Brad and I are still here. We need to talk to you."

By this time, Brad had returned from the breakfast room too and came up to us. Rose paused a moment and then suggested we'd be more comfortable in the living room. She led the way.

When we were all sitting, Rose and Debra side-by-side on the sofa, I in a wingback chair, and Brad on a straight side chair, he began. "I know this is a difficult time for you, and I'm sorry to have to bring it up now, but we've just learned about the insurance policy you bought on Harry's life."

Rose looked steadily at him, and my doubts left me. A five-year-old child couldn't have looked more innocent than she did that minute. However, the look lasted only a second, and then her mask fell into place again. She didn't comment.

Brad leaned forward and spoke directly to her. "An insurance policy, Mrs. Hammond, for two million dollars." He drew out the last words, giving them an ominous connotation.

Rose looked at her lap before speaking. She used a low tone. "That's not a large amount of money for a man in my husband's position."

"Granted."

Rose looked over at me. "A mutual friend, Charlene Steelbrun, took a job selling insurance, and several of us bought policies from her, to help out. We went to a luncheon. I think Mary—"

Brad interrupted. His voice sounded sympathetic, even though the words didn't. "Mrs. Hammond, we know you took out that policy only six months ago."

An awkward silence fell, which Debra filled at last, her tone crackling with hostility. "Are you implying my mother killed my father in order to collect from the insurance company?"

"No, but you have to admit, the timing is unfortunate." Brad's expression showed his regret at having to say it.

"My mother would never kill my father. Never! I hired you to find the real killer, not to try to throw more suspicion on her."

"I'm sure the police already have that information. Possibly, it's one of the reasons they suspect her."

Silence took over the room, and looks darted back and forth between Rose and Debra. Rose's face seemed to turn even more pale, and her eyes flashed quickly, imploring, to Brad.

He let a beat go by. "Why don't you tell me how you came to take out the insurance policy?"

Rose's gaze flicked over to me again before she began. "I know that looks odd, but…" She cleared her throat and started over. "As I told Olivia, our marriage had not been, well, normal for some time. I began to worry that Harry would want a divorce, and I remembered Charlene telling us about this policy, a sort of protection in case he removed me as beneficiary from his other insurance." She paused again. "But I didn't kill him."

I thought it was time one of us assured Rose we were on her side, so I spoke up. "Of course you didn't. We know that. We'll find the real murderer."

Brad flashed me a stern look, then got up and shook hands with Debra and Rose. "Okay, I'm going to talk to my friend on the police force, Tom Ortega, and maybe they'll question you again. In the meantime, I'll keep working on the case."

He turned toward the door, and I put out a hand to stop him. I thought we should ask Debra some questions about James Powell, but then I remembered I had yet to tell Brad about my interview with Powell. He wouldn't have the foggiest notion what I was talking about. So I just said, "I'll see you later," and he left.

Neither Rose nor Debra got up to see him to the door, so the three of us sat still, looking at one another for several long seconds. The click of the door latch acted as a signal, and we all spoke at once. We stopped at the same time too, and then Rose and Debra looked at me as if the ball had come into my court, so I began.

"Excuse me, Rose, but would you mind if I spoke privately with Debra for a few minutes?"

Rose looked over at her daughter without answering.

Debra said, "I have no secrets from my mother. You can say what you need to in front of her."

Still, I hesitated. During my teens and twenties, I had a few secrets from
my
mother, but young people today, like Brad and Samantha, had different standards. Perhaps Debra wouldn't mind admitting to her mother about having an affair with Powell.

"All right. First of all, I saw James Powell this morning." I paused, looking for some kind of reaction from Debra but saw none. I plunged on anyway. "I went to see him because we understood that the two of you were, er, involved with each other."

"That's not true."

Her denial came quickly and seemed genuine, but she could have been lying. Maybe she didn't tell her mother everything after all. I blamed myself for that stalemate. I should have insisted on speaking to her alone.

"Your friends are none of my business, of course, except that, if there
is
a relationship, it gives Powell a motive for the murder."

"I don't understand. I barely know the man. Did he tell you we were, er, intimate?"

"No, he didn't, but naturally people will lie if they're suspected of murder. I wanted to learn the truth from you."

"The truth is I am
not
having an affair with him."

"Do you have a business relationship with him?"

"No, why would I? I have my own career."

I smiled to let her know I believed her. She had told me what I wanted to hear, but I couldn't help thinking she still hid something. Yet, how could I find out? "Well," I finished lamely, "I'm happy to get that cleared up. You realize we have to check out every possible lead?"

Rose spoke up. "I don't understand. If they
were
having an affair, why would that make Mr. Powell a suspect in Harry's murder?"

"The theory is Harry knew about their affair, that he disapproved and he threatened to cut Debra out of his will. So Powell might have killed Harry before that could happen."

"It sounds very far-fetched to me," Rose said. "Why would Harry have disapproved?"

"Because Powell is the manager of a rival jewelry store, because he may not have liked him." I shrugged. "I don't know."

I glanced over at Debra again, and this time she looked less calm and controlled. Her face had turned pink, and she dropped her gaze to her lap, where she twisted a fancy ring around and around on the third finger of her right hand.

I didn't wear much jewelry. I knew that made me a strange kind of woman, but I never liked the stuff. Oh, I wore a wedding ring while married, and I still wore a wristwatch, but I gave up earrings, pins, and bracelets long before, considering them a nuisance and, at the least, uncomfortable. But that's just me. Besides, I'm squeamish. Perhaps it was because I couldn't stand to see blood or cuts on my own body. My schoolmates often told me I was old-fashioned. Maybe I was a throwback to an earlier era. It was my father's fault. He shouldn't have named me for my grandmother.

Nevertheless, since I possessed a smattering of ignorance on several subjects, even those I wasn't especially interested in, I recognized Debra's ring—almost as large as an ashtray—to be an emerald surrounded by diamonds. If all the stones were genuine, it might have cost someone as much as a condo on Maui. Had Powell, who, after all, managed a jewelry store, given her that ring? Had she lied? When I visited her Tuesday morning, I posed the question of her having an affair with someone her father disapproved of, and she denied it. Yet, at that time, I didn't mention a name. Now she denied having anything to do with Powell, but I still thought she was hiding something from me.

Rose stood up then, and I felt I had no alternative but to do the same, say good-bye, and leave.

As I drove away, I felt sad. It was as if I had built it, and they wouldn't come. I didn't know which upset me more: that Debra might have lied about Powell, or I had failed to ask the right questions. I wondered if I should have told Brad about Powell first and let him do the questioning. Then I pushed that notion aside. I was still learning. I'd do better next time. After all, I was Brad's sister. If he could be a clever detective, then so could I.