Jude Devine Mystery Series (99 page)

Koertig slapped the file against his leg. “I had a bad feeling about that.”

*

The Calloways coped better with the death of their relative than the shortcomings of their accommodations. Jude had suggested they interview the family as a whole since they weren’t making the cut as suspects.

“I hope we can expedite this,” Jim Calloway said. “I have a summit in Dallas starting Thursday, and the bed in our hotel is giving me a neck problem.”

“He’s talking about a golf summit,” Pippa said. “Important stuff.”

“You know how long your father’s had his name down for this,” Delia Calloway chided her. To Jude and Koertig, she explained, “It’s a Chuck Cook intensive.”

“Three Hall of Famers are doing demos,” her husband added.

“You people make me sick,” Pippa said.

Jim Calloway continued undeterred. “Inspiration, that’s what it’s all about.”

“Tiger Woods is a guest,” Delia Calloway added, tweaking the modest string of pearls at her throat.

“Have you ever met him?” Koertig asked them.

“I’ve been at the same table.” Calloway spoke with the awe of a man who’d broken bread with the Almighty Himself. “Talk about charisma. Talk about class. And his wife. Gorgeous.”

“She’s European,” Delia said as if this explained something.

“He’s going to play nine holes with the top five amateurs at the clinic.” Calloway practiced his swing sitting down. He was dressed for the part in a mint green and white striped polo shirt and green Bermuda shorts. These showed off a deep tan and a paunch Jude guessed he kept in check with a daily half hour on the treadmill.

Koertig continued with his serious-faced rapport building. “Think you’ve got the right stuff?”

This foolhardy question was greeted with a detailed account of Calloway’s swing evolution and the angst that afflicted him over his shoulder turn. Griffin Mahanes was smugly silent throughout. Jude thought he was probably fondling the calculator in his pocket.

“Are you aware of anyone who had a quarrel with your brother, Mrs. Calloway?” she asked.

“He was disgusted with the company that did the marble for the guest bath at Maulle Mansion,” Delia replied dutifully. “He had words with the manager.”

“When was that?”

“Three years ago.”

“Does the name Anton mean anything to you?”

Delia glanced toward Mahanes, who benevolently invited, “Go ahead.”

“Fabian once told me that if anything ever happened to him, the party responsible would be Anton,” she said with the same mild distaste that underpinned the bathroom décor revelation. Evidently this disclosure was no more significant in her mind.

“Did he tell you Anton’s full name?” Jude asked.

“Yes, but I’m simply dreadful with names. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”

“You didn’t find it unusual for your brother to speculate on harm being done to him?”

“Fabian was prone to melodrama.”

“He was gay,” Jim Calloway translated. “Good looking, women all over him, and what do you know? There’s your proof.”

“Proof of what?” Koertig asked.

“They’re born that way. You can’t tell me a grown man has beautiful women throwing themselves at him and he chooses a scrawny Jewish geek who plays the goddamn oboe. That’s a lifestyle choice? I don’t think so, my friend. I call that crossed wires. Genetic malfunction.”

“My brother was always artistic,” Delia said. “And obsessed with personal grooming. Even as a child he could not abide a crushed shirt.”

Jude thought,
Are these people for real?
“He certainly maintained a beautiful home here. Did you ever visit?”

Delia Calloway shook her head, sending a few carefully coiffed strands of ash blond into disarray. She smoothed them immediately. “I didn’t even know he owned a log cabin until last Thanksgiving. He said he couldn’t join us because he was having some work done and wanted to supervise personally.”

“What kind of work?”

“A new concrete floor in his garage.”

He poured concrete in late fall, in the mountains? The winter of 2006 was a tough one in Colorado, with the first huge blizzards dumping snow in the mountains in October. Jude glanced at Koertig and knew he’d picked up on this curious fact also. Perhaps Maulle was just trying to concoct an excuse for skipping a Thanksgiving occasion, but as far as bullshit went, the story was an odd choice. He could simply have said he was snowed in. Her first instinct was to dig up the concrete but they would need good reason before they vandalized someone’s property. Maulle was a victim, not a perpetrator.

“I understand Mr. Maulle had a relationship with an Israeli, Yitzhak Eshkol.”

“That’s the oboe player I was talking about,” said Jim Calloway.

“Do you have an address for him?”

“He lives in Tel Aviv these days,” Delia said.

Her husband looked surprised. “You keep in touch?”

Delia gave him a bad-dog look, like he’d just defecated in the corner. “He knows Ingeborg Rennert.”

“In case you’re wondering who that is,” Pippa said, “she’s a lady with a hairdo straight out of
Dangerous Liaisons
and a truckload of diamonds. Her husband buys companies that raise untold money from investors and bank loans, he helps himself to as much as he wants, then the companies file chapter eleven because they can’t repay what they borrowed. The investors lose everything but Mr. Rennert lives in the world’s biggest mansion. He’s also the worst toxic polluter in the country, according to the EPA.”

“My daughter is a snob,” Delia informed Jude. “She suspects all
arrivistes
of criminal conduct.”

“No,” Pippa said sweetly. “Just the ones that belong in prison.”

“If you paid this much attention to your future, perhaps we wouldn’t be sitting here right now,” Delia retorted. “You’d be home where you belong, enjoying a rewarding career.”

Ignoring the family squabbles, Jude set out several photographs they’d found among Maulle’s papers. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

“That’s Yitzhak.” Delia selected one of a very young man. He looked about eighteen. “He’s put on some weight since then.”

“You’ve seen him?” Jim Calloway seemed stunned that his wife led a life he knew little about.

“Yes, in Paris last year. He plays for the Israel Philharmonic.” Delia glanced at Jude. “I’m sure you can find him through the orchestra, although I can’t imagine what you could possibly want to ask him. He hasn’t seen Fabian in years.”

“We have some routine questions,” Jude said. “When was that photograph of Yitzhak taken?”

“Ten or twelve years ago.”

“And he was in a relationship with Fabian at that time?”

Delia sighed. “I told Fabian the age difference was absurd. Yitzhak was eighteen and my brother was forty.”

“How did they meet?”

“I have no idea. Fabian put him through school and introduced him to the right people. Once Yitzhak had struck out on his own, they parted.” Delia paused, and for the first time in the interview Jude glimpsed a flash of genuine emotion. “I didn’t agree with my brother’s lifestyle, Detective, but one thing I can tell you is he loved Yitzhak very deeply. I think that counts for something, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” Jude said.

Pippa stared suspiciously at her mother. “Why did they break up?”

“There was someone else. That’s all I know. Fabian even said he thought it was for the best.”

With an uneasy frown, Pippa picked up one of the other photographs. “I’ve seen him. He was a business associate of Uncle Fabian’s.”

“Recently?” Jude asked. The dark-haired man in question was weasel-faced and freakishly long-legged. He wore an unflattering burgundy velour jogging suit with cream trim.

“Last year.” Pippa twirled a ballpoint pensively between her fingers. “I’d completely forgotten. He came up to us in a restaurant. Uncle Fabian excused himself and they went outside.”

“Do you know what they talked about?” Jude asked.

“Zimbabwe. Uncle Fabian was angry when he came back to the table. He said the Russians could have it.”

Jim Calloway snorted. “Five thousand percent inflation. Trust me, the Russians wouldn’t want it.” Plainly bored with the interview, he asked Koertig, “Do you play golf, Detective?”

“I go out with the old man sometimes. He’s pretty keen.”

“Well, then, you’ll appreciate my dilemma being stuck here dealing with this when I should be preparing for the clinic.”

Delia patted him. “You’ll be fine.”

“You think personal situations like this can’t affect your game, think again,” Calloway said for the benefit of anyone who cared. “First up, you have to keep that tension out of your shoulders or your backswing is screwed. Soon as I get to the resort, I’m signing up for the hot stone massage.”

Koertig asked, “Do you own a gun, sir?”

“My client owns a collection of antique pistols,” Griffin Mahanes replied.

“And a .45 ACP,” Calloway quickly added. “Springfield Armory. Same as the SWAT teams.”

“When was the last time you fired that weapon?” Koertig asked.

Calloway sustained the tough-guy act with a halfhearted swagger. “It’s not like we have varmints roaming the yard.”

“Varmints…” Delia mouthed the word as if sampling a peculiar food.

“Dad doesn’t know how to shoot,” Pippa said, earning a crestfallen glare from her father.

“You can verify my client’s alibi,” Mahanes intervened slickly. “Mr. Calloway was on the twelfth hole at Brae Burn Country Club when his brother-in-law was slain.”

“Returning to Anton,” Jude said. “What exactly did Mr. Maulle say about this individual?”

“They did business. My brother trusted this man and was let down by him. He made some discoveries that poisoned their relationship and I had the impression Anton was making a nuisance of himself.”

“So there was no personal relationship?’

“Not that I know of. I can’t imagine my brother forming a…liaison with a man from a background like that.”

“Please go on.” From the corner of her eye, Jude saw Pippa staring in astonishment at her mother. It must have come as a shock that Delia knew so much about her brother.

“He was from one of those Eastern bloc countries.” Delia consulted her elegant fingertips. “Russia. Serbia. Liberia.”

“Liberia’s an African nation,” Pippa said.

“They’re all communists, aren’t they?”

“You’re incredible.” Pippa stood abruptly. “I need some air.”

“Do you know what kind of business your brother was involved in?” Jude asked.

“Oh, yes,” Delia said with blithe unconcern. “Military hardware.”

Her husband stopped dead in the middle of a lustrous commentary on his best ever personal performance at Pinehurst no. 2. “What did you say?”

“Uncle Fabian was an arms dealer?” Pippa gasped from the doorway.

“Hardware,” Delia corrected impatiently. “I assume all those soldiers need a great many tents and toilet seats.”