Deadly Interest (12 page)

“
Uh-huh,” he said without
conviction. His glasses back in place, he turned himself to give
his full attention to me, bringing his face close again. “You can
tell me, Alex. Off the record.”

I shook my head, but that seemed to further
convince him of my involvement.

“
Alex,” he said in a voice
that could have been termed sexy if we weren’t in the coffee room
of a funeral home, “Is Barton Vicks living at the
house?”

“
No. He said he’d prefer
to keep his hotel room while he was in town.”

“
And the police, Alex?
What are they up to?”

I opened my mouth to answer when I realized
the trap he’d baited. I closed my mouth and stared at him. “Just
because I know what’s going on doesn’t mean I’m investigating.”

He grinned, as though about to argue the
point, but at that moment, his attention suddenly shifted to
something behind me. As his hand raised in greeting, his expression
relaxed, not quite into a smile, but his mouth set. Whoever he saw,
he’d expected to see.

I turned.

The man who ambled in through the open
double doors of the cookie room wore a dark suit and navy blue tie
similar to David’s. I wondered if they’d intentionally
color-coordinated.

He and David shook hands, then I was
introduced. “Alex,” David said, “this is my senior vice president,
Owen Riordan.”

I was taken with the difference in the two
men. Owen had a pasty look to him, with bloodshot blue eyes that
sagged downward at the corners, forming long lines running the
length of his cheeks. Late forties, possibly early fifties, he had
prematurely gray hair combed into a thin pompadour that sat like
the Florida peninsula between the deep receding sides of his
hairline. His facial bones were pronounced, giving him a sucked-in
look, with bright red blood vessels that laced the tops of his
cheeks. His broad, yet saggy frame said, “aging athlete.”

Owen nodded. “Pleased to meet you.”

I nodded. For my benefit, David added,
“Evelyn worked for Owen in the loan department.”

Owen shook his head. “It’s a damn shame,” he
said. “What kind of a world is it when a nice old lady can’t be
safe in her own house?” He turned to me, adding. “The whole
department’s supposed to stop by tonight. I made sure that
everybody knew.”

“
That’s nice.”

Owen turned toward the countertop and poured
a cup of coffee. David raised his voice, just loud enough to get
Owen’s attention. “Did you finish the paperwork on the Marple
account today?”

“
Yeah, but I still need
your signature on a couple of documents.”

“
Did you bring
them?”

Owen looked around, his droopy eyes
widening. “To a wake?”

David stared at the ceiling and let out a
long hiss from between clenched teeth. “Where are the papers
now?”

“
I left them with
Nina.”

Lasering his gaze back toward Owen, David’s
tone was sharp as he said, “They were supposed to be Fed Ex-ed
today.”

I wasn’t about to let this opportunity pass
me by. Time to escape. “If you’ll excuse me,” I began.

“
Alex.” His voice had
returned to its soothing cadence. “My apologies. We shouldn’t be
talking business here. Forgive me.”

“
Nothing to forgive,” I
lied. “But I should get back in there.”

“
I’ll follow in a moment.
I’m sorry to bring business here, but we have a loan closing
tomorrow morning, and our client is very particular.” He smiled,
but it didn’t reach his eyes. “As a matter of fact, I wanted very
much to attend the services tomorrow, but this closing demands my
attention. I fear I can never escape the tentacles of the
workplace.”

“
If you need to leave, I
can let Barton know—” I began.

His relief on his face was palpable. “I do
have to get back downtown to sign off on those papers.”

“
Not a problem,” I
said.

As I inched away, he grabbed my hand. “Thank
you, Alex.”

* * * * *

I wandered back into the long room. With its
upscale, designed-to-be-soothing furnishings, it could have been
confused with a very large living room if it hadn’t been for the
casket at the far end. Suffused under pink spotlights and flanked
by tall floral arrangements, Mrs. Vicks, in death, held the crowd’s
gaze like a compelling puzzle crying out for solution. Elderly
folks who’d gathered early, had arranged the hard chairs in circles
where they could converse and keep their canes and walkers out of
the aisle. The line of mourners who’d come to pay their respects
had grown, and as I breezed past them to talk to Bart, I caught the
whiff of roses and carnations. Wake smells.

A quick grip to my arm stopped me
mid-tracks. My first thought was that David Dewars had come back
after all. I turned, instead, to see my Aunt Lena.

“
Honey, can you do me a
big favor?”

“
Of course.”

Her eyes had watered up again. “It’s Diana,”
she said, twisting her head toward the exit. “She’s still in the
bathroom. She won’t come out. This has been too traumatic for her
and I was wondering if you could take her home.”

“
Sure.”

Aunt Lena scrunched her nose, wrinkling up
her slightly pudgy face. She took a hesitant breath before
continuing. “Do you think maybe you can take a look around while
you’re there? You know, before the prodigal son gets his paws on
everything.”

“
I thought she was staying
at your house?”

“
Yes, but if you wouldn’t
mind stopping back at Evelyn’s first,” she sighed with a glance
toward the coffin up front. Her lips twisted and her eyes raked
over Barton. “I guess I should call it his house now.” Aunt Lena
had her arms folded. Her eyes focused on Bart, but she leaned my
direction and kept her voice low. “I think he had something to do
with his mother’s death.”

Involuntarily, my eyes shot up.

At that moment, across the room, Bart looked
my direction and our eyes locked. I felt an immediate flush of
discomfort and turned away. “He was in Wisconsin at the time of the
murder.” I whispered.

“
Do we know that for
sure?”

I shrugged.

Aunt Lena clucked a sound of her
disappointment. “I know I don’t. But maybe you could find out.” She
gave me as motherly a glare as I’d ever seen from her. “All I’m
saying is, Evelyn told me that there were problems with her
accounts. It really bothered her and,” she said with effect, “she
didn’t want Barton to know about it.”

I thought about what David Dewars had told
me about her holdings. “What kind of problems?”

“
She didn’t say, exactly.
She just told me that she wasn’t sure that things were being
handled quite right, and she needed someone she could trust to look
into it.”

I remembered our last conversation. “She
mentioned that when I helped her get into her house.”

“
See?”

I saw nothing.

Aunt Lena continued, “I mean—she trusted
you. She probably was going to ask you to look into that anyway. I
sort of suggested she talk to you, you know.”

“
Why did you do
that?”

“
Well, I did suggest
Barton at first. I mean, really, if you can’t trust your kids, who
can you trust? But she said no, Barton would try to ‘take
advantage.’ Those were the exact words she used.”

I shook my head, but my curiosity was
piqued. “Did she say anything else?”

“
She was pretty
close-mouthed about her financial stuff, but she’s been alone in
that paid-off house for years. She’s got her husband’s pension, she
held the job at Banner Bank, and she took in Diana, who I’m sure
must have paid her some rent. I’m thinking Evelyn might have socked
away quite a few dollars. And she wasn’t all that old, you know.
Barton might have not wanted to wait for his
inheritance.”

Bart was looking at me again, so I held off
speaking till he shifted his gaze. “That’s pretty thin. Unless I
knew what problems she was talking about . . .”

“
You see? Here’s your
opportunity to find out.” She patted my arm. “You take Diana to
pick up a few things—she’s running low on clothing, and some of her
incidentals—and while you’re there you have a look
around.”

Pleased with herself, her voice had risen
just enough to make me uncomfortable that others had heard our
conversation, but I reasoned that taking Diana home would give me a
valid excuse to get away from this place, and if I took a quick
look around, I’d keep Aunt Lena happy, too. Win-win situation.
Those don’t come by all that often.

“
Sure,” I said. “Just let
me get Lucy.”

Quick shake of her head. “No, leave Lucy
here. She’s good for everyone. She’s cheerful and she reminds us of
better times. Moose and I will bring her home when we leave.”

“
How late are you
staying?”

She shrugged. “Until I know everyone’s been
greeted and thanked. That’s what Evelyn would have wanted.” Her
eyes flashed up again. “Lot of good he’s doing.”

Bart still stood at the left side of the
casket, his large body swaying side to side as he faced an elderly
couple who’d begun to offer their condolences. His face registered
nothing beyond boredom, staring at the exit door, as more and more
people walked in.

I waited to approach him, standing just out
of his line of vision. He nodded at the two people in front of him,
saying, “Uh-huh,” twice, clearly with no interest in their gracious
comments about his mother.

Since the next set of people were still at
the kneeler, I decided to make my move. Get in, get out, be
done.

Barton, apparently, had the exact same idea
at the precise time I did. As soon as the couple in front of them
turned toward the waiting chairs, he stepped around them and
stormed to the entryway. Before anyone knew it, he was gone.

I followed. Striding out the door myself, I
heard a woman whisper, “Maybe he has to go visit the little boy’s
room.”

Past the fireplace, over the wool rugs, he
headed straight for the outside doors, pushing the right-hand-door
with his open palm against the glass, his left grabbing for
something in his back pocket. I expected him to dig out a pack of
cigarettes, but instead he came up with a silver hipflask, and in a
move so smooth that it had to be habit, he hoisted it to his lips
as the door swung open, banging the back wall. A second later, I
heard a swoop of air as he banged out the second door.

For a long moment there was no sound except
the popping of wood in the lobby fireplace. Mr. Skulina, the
funeral director, a squat fellow with salt and pepper hair, caught
my eye and sidled over. Shrugging, he broke the heavy silence. “Had
a snootful when he came in yesterday, too.”

“
Yesterday?”

Mr. Skulina shook his head. “Mrs. Vicks took
advantage of our personal pre-need plan.”

I shuddered. Pre-need. No matter how polite
the term, the idea of planning your own funeral felt squirmy.

Mr. Skulina had to look up to meet my eyes.
His were pale brown, rheumy, set deep in his creased, graying face.
He blinked repeatedly, as if to clear them. I wondered who would
meet his needs when the time came. “It’s a good thing she did,
too,” he said, with earnest, “and that I got her decisions in
writing. Barton came in here yesterday, demanding . . . and I do
mean demanding.” He rose up on his toes, making his point, “. . .
all her money back. He didn’t even want her to have a wake. Said it
was a waste of money. No wake, no funeral. No flowers. What kind of
son is that?”

The short speech had taken all his energy.
He dabbed now at the corners of his mouth. “Get every detail in
writing.” He shook a wet finger up toward me. “Mrs. Vicks, God
bless her soul, got the sendoff she wanted because I got her
signature on my forms.”

Aunt Lena bustled into the lobby,
half-carrying Diana, who shuffled alongside, already bundled and
ready to go. My aunt pressed Mrs. Vicks’ house keys into my hand.
“She’ll perk up when you get outside.” A half-hearted look out the
dark doors, “Lord knows it’s cold enough. She needs to rest up.
Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

Diana moaned.

Pulling me closer, my aunt whispered in my
ear, “She’s terrified to go back there, especially when it’s dark
out. But I don’t want her to get too comfortable at our house, if
you know what I mean.” A glance back at Diana, still totally out of
it. “I’m sure it’s safe now. You’ll convince her, won’t you?”

“
Sure,” I said, “No
problem.”

She then turned to Diana, with a more
soothing voice, “You just pick up what you need, honey, and Alex
will get you settled, okay? You’ll see how safe it is. Before you
know it, you’ll be able to go back there all by yourself.”

Five minutes later I pulled up in front of
Mrs. Vicks’ house. Up the block, one after another, solid brick
bungalows hunkered down—their stalwart lines broken only by the
occasional smaller, wood-porch cottage. No movement, no sound this
night; it was brisk with the cold quiet of fading winter. Just like
a ghost town, I thought. Mrs. Vicks’ ghost had drawn all her loved
ones just two miles down the road, to gather where her empty body
lay.

Streetlights dropped undersized pools of
light here and there—just enough to create long eerie shadows
between the narrow gangways that separated homes. Almost as though
Mrs. Vicks’ ghost were truly here, I felt the pall that had settled
over this neighborhood. My neighborhood. I’d never been afraid
before.