Deadly Interest (11 page)

I thought about Detective Lulinski, and
despite the fact that he and I hadn’t hit it off, I’d gotten a
clear impression that he had every intention to get this one solved
as expeditiously as possible. “To be honest—”

“
I’m talking about this
probate sh—” He glanced around, lowered his voice. “Crap. You know
what I mean. I know my ma had a will. She and my dad took care of
that way back when I was a kid. And I tried to get in her safe
deposit box where she worked, to go get it, and they wouldn’t let
me. Said it was sealed because she was dead. And wouldn’t even tell
me how to get around that.”

I was getting tired of being interrupted at
every comment. I said nothing.

Not that he noticed.

“
And you have to know
lawyers and big shots, if you’re in television.” He pointed a fat
finger a hair too close to my chest. I backed up. About to start
talking again, his tongue darted out to catch the little bubbles of
spit that had gathered at the corners of his mouth. “Get one of
them to look into this for me, okay? I don’t know anybody down here
and I’m kind of in a hurry to get it all done, you know?” His eyes
glanced around as though just remembering where we were. “I mean,
losing your mother is real hard.” His expression strove for
earnest; his voice lowered. “I’m just looking to put this behind
me. You understand.”

I opened my mouth to say something—something
like how I knew that his grief had to be all-consuming right now
but that there was nothing I could do to help him, but he stared at
me and moved a half-step forward.

“
Right?”

From over my right shoulder a deep voice
said, “Barton Vicks? I’m so very sorry to hear about your mother.
She was a wonderful woman.”

David Dewars stepped up, reaching to shake
hands with Bart as his left hand reached out sidewise to skim my
back. It was a protective move, and I had no doubt he saw himself
as my knight in shining armor come to rescue me. He shot me a
conspiratorial wink that Bart didn’t catch and I stepped away from
both of them, happy to extricate myself from the situation, but
knowing I could have handled things myself just fine, thank you
very much.

Aunt Lena was escorting Diana to the ladies’
room and Lucy happily trailed after them. There was nothing like a
women’s restroom to provide a bit of sanctuary. I decided to join
the little group.

Inside the tiny, three-stall room, I was
startled when I caught a look of Diana’s face under the harsh
fluorescent lights. Her flaccid face had gone red in patches and
what little mascara she’d put on today had pooled beneath her eyes,
making them look small and grotesque. Despite her relative youth,
her ensemble of mismatched blacks with tell-tale deodorant streaks
adorning each side of her shirt served only to emphasize her
frumpiness.

“
How are you holding up?”
I asked.

Mistake again.

She opened her mouth to speak, but hiccupped
instead, heralding a high-pitched profusion of sobs. Lucy, ever
insistent on trying to help people not be sad, put her skinny arms
around Diana’s dark-clothed back and said, “She’s in heaven, now.
She’s happy and watching over you.”

Diana seemed to take comfort in Lucy’s words
and they both sat on a small divan near the door.

Aunt Lena had busied herself with wetting
some hand towels and began to wipe at Diana’s face to clear away
some of the mascara-mud.

I’ve never been good at consoling people in
situations such as these. I know that no matter what I say or do,
that person’s loved one is dead. Gone. There is never anything that
can be said to make that better. When I try the old familiar line
about the deceased being “in a better place,” I feel like a
hypocrite. So, mostly I just say I’m sorry and that’s it.

Right now, I stood staring at Lucy and at my
aunt. Both, without any prompting, seemed to know precisely what
would help Diana. I felt inept and useless. “Anything I can do?” I
asked.

My aunt smiled at me from the sink area,
almost as though she understood my discomfort. “I made cookies,”
she said. “They’re in the coffee room. How about you make sure
they’re all put out properly?”

Thankful for a job, and even more thankful
that I didn’t have to stay here and help in this claustrophobic
room amid Diana’s wails and sobs, I headed out.

The coffee room. I’d been to this place
enough times that I knew exactly where it was. As a kid, I’d called
it the cookie room. Tucked into the building’s back corner, the
area was set apart from the mourning chapels by both style and
sound. In here the stuffy furnishings gave way to real comfort.

Round tables were set in three of the four
corners. Designated cookie areas for each of the occupied chapel
guests, apparently. There was a long bar-type configuration along
one wall, complete with microwave, refrigerator and two sinks. The
cabinets held all sorts of supplies, from Styrofoam cups and sugar
packets, to a bag of suckers for little kids here under duress.

The sofas lining the walls were occupied by
talkative folks, no longer worried about keeping their voices down,
or their demeanor subdued. People chatted and poured coffee from
the gurgling coffee makers.

I caught a glimpse of a Tupperware container
I knew to be Aunt Lena’s. Full of her specialty, shortbread
cookies, it hadn’t yet been opened. I took a look at the plentiful
offerings on table assigned to Mrs. Vicks’ visitors, and moved some
of them around, as though I knew what I was doing.

I hadn’t known how to comfort Diana, I
didn’t even think to bring goodies for the wake tonight, and right
now, I stood here looking down at assorted cakes, cookies, brownies
and lunch meats interspersed with condiments, and I knew there was
some order, or setup that I should put them into. Something that
escaped me entirely.

Mrs. McGillicuddy came in. We spoke briefly
and exchanged comments regarding the brutality of Mrs. Vicks
murder. All the while she talked, she futzed with the table and
totally rearranged it all. Right before my eyes, it became
appealing, clean and efficient.

“
Wow,” I said.

She looked at me surprised. “What?” Heading
to the counter top, she started to wash her hands.

“
The way you did
that.”

As if the whole arrangement business had
been done without a second thought, she glanced over at the table,
shrugged. “Did what?”

Just then David Dewars walked into the
cookie room—and I didn’t think he was looking for pecan clusters.
He blinked from behind his small round glasses, his head turning
this way and that, till he spied me.

“
Alex,” his voice boomed
above the chatty din.

I moved toward him just to keep him
quiet.

“
I’m pleased to see you
again,” he said. His right hand gestured around the room. “I just
wish it were under different circumstances.”

“
It’s nice to see you,
too” I said, in a low voice.

Mimicking my tone, he asked, “Have you been
here long?”

He’d moved even closer—the man smelled
great. “Not really,” I said. “I see you met Bart.”

His mouth twisted sideways and he gave what
could have been a small snort. “That guy.”

“
What’s wrong with
him?”

Glancing both directions, just like in a
suspense film, he brought his face closer to mine. Mrs.
McGillicuddy had moved to a group of white-haired women chatting in
the corner. “I heard him badgering you as I walked in.”

“
You mean about helping
him with the probate problems?”

“
Yeah. I find it just a
little bit transparent, don’t you?”

Transparent? Since I had no idea what David
was talking about, I said, “Well—” hoping he’d take the ball and
run with it.

He didn’t let me down.

“
I mean, come on.”
Settling so that his backside rested against the long counter, I
recognized the move for what it was. He liked being able to watch
the comings and goings of those around him. He folded his arms
across his chest. Dressed in a dark suit rather than a tux this
time, he cut no less of an impressive figure. I wondered if he
folded his own navy blue handkerchiefs, or if they came that way.
An identical match to his navy blue tie, he was the picture of the
perfect mourner.

He settled himself a little more, and he
brought his head a little closer to mine. “Mrs. Vicks didn’t have
an enemy in the world. She was truly one of the worthy souls I’d
ever encountered.”

Worthy? Interesting choice of words, I
thought.

He smiled at me, and added, “Present company
excepted, of course.”

I made a murmur-like sound, hoping he’d take
it as whatever response he expected, since I had no idea how to
reply to that. I was having that problem a lot with Mr. David
Dewars. He confused me. I decided to direct the conversation, at
least to feel a bit more in control again. I got the feeling I knew
where he was going anyway.

“
Are you implying
something?”

His eyes flicked around the room—wary—before
settling on mine. I couldn’t read him. He always seemed to have a
glint of humor lurking behind those deep brown eyes. “Who else had
the means, the motive, and the opportunity?”

“
You think her son did
it?” I asked. “What possible motive?”

I leaned my left hip against the counter,
and he moved closer. Too close for such a warm environment, but a
second whiff of his cologne I caught was very nice. Man, did this
guy ever do anything wrong? He was Mr. GQ, or, owing to his age,
Mr. GQ’s . . . uncle. In either case, I wanted to find fault with
him, but other than his imposing nature, which no doubt served him
well in the business world, I couldn’t.

He leaned in and spoke softly into my left
ear, his eyes keeping watch on the rest of the folks in the room.
“I shouldn’t tell you this, but Mrs. Vicks had a trust fund
accumulated.”

I leaned away far enough to make eye contact
with him.

He shot me a meaningful glance, then bent
closer to tell me more. His breath was warm and minty as it brushed
past my cheek. “Payable on her death, in full, to . . . guess
who?”

I felt my eyebrows shoot up. “Barton
Vicks?”

He nodded, but he wasn’t finished. His right
arm reached around my shoulders, pulling me a bit closer. “The fund
is in excess of fifty thousand dollars.”

I shot him a quizzical look. “Fifty thousand
is hardly worth killing a person for,” I said.

“
Not much to you, maybe,”
he said, “But our friend Bart . . .” He came so close he could have
kissed me. For half a second, I wondered how I would react if he
tried, “has a gambling problem. Evelyn told me that in
confidence.”

“
Still,” I
said.

His eyes scoped the room, but he still
stayed so near I could feel his breath tickling past my ear. I had
a feeling he did that on purpose. “The guy’s always in trouble . .
. he owes money . . . To a man like that fifty thousand can look
like salvation.” He leaned back finally, and as he did so, his hand
skimmed the back of my arm. “This is all off the record, of
course.”

“
Of course,” I said,
automatically. Then, as I processed the information, I shook my
head, “You should tell the police about it.”

“
I have told them,” he
said. “But I thought you ought to know, too. Just keep it to
yourself, okay?”

“
Why tell me?”

“
I heard Barton ask you to
look into things. I figured that’s what you’d be doing anyway—am I
right?”

“
Honestly? No.”

He didn’t try to hide his surprise, as a
matter of fact, he seemed to amplify his feelings, but whatever
he’d been about to say was interrupted by Mrs. Wozniak who reached
an arthritic hand between us for a grab at the coffee pot. In her
late eighties, she’d come to this country as a teenager but had
never quite embraced the English language.

“
Co to
jest
?” she asked me, indicating the
powdered cream.

I explained, in Polish, what the flour-like
substance was used for, and took small pleasure in noting David’s
reaction to my speaking the language.

Mrs. Wozniak made a sound, “Hmmph,” that
transcended any language, and hobbled over to the refrigerator
where she scavenged till she came up with a carton of half and
half, that she held up to me in triumph.

“
You speak Polish?” David
said.

I nodded.

“
But you . . .” he
faltered and I was glad to see it. “I mean, I don’t want to sound
indelicate, but your last name certainly isn’t Eastern European.
And, to be honest, you’ve got the look of the dark Irish about
you.”

“
I know,” I said. “A story
for another time.” I made no secret of the fact that I was adopted,
nor of the fact that my father had had our last name changed from
Szatjemski to St. James when I was little, but it wasn’t David’s
business, and this wasn’t the time nor the place for such
divulgences.

“
Good,” he said. “I will
look forward to hearing it.”

Subject closed, I nodded.

“
Back to Mrs. Vicks.” He
removed his glasses, and pulled a white cotton handkerchief out of
his right pants pocket to clean them. One of his eyes narrowed and
a slow smile spread across his features. He winked. “You mean to
tell me that you’re not the least bit curious—that you’re not
considering poking around to find out what you can from your
contacts?”

I realized that if I had half the contacts
people thought I did, I’d be able to write my own ticket in the
world of network television. “Of course I’m curious. I’d love to be
able to nail the bastard who did this. But I know my
limitations.”