Murder as a Second Language (30 page)

“After I finished with Assami, maybe one fifteen, I put all the homework assignments from the previous day in my briefcase, stopped in Keiko's office to wish her a pleasant weekend, and came here. No, that's not right. I stopped at a convenience store to get gas. I was here before two.” She paused to push her hair out of her eyes. “Are you accusing me of something, Claire? I dislike playing games.”

“Not yet,” I replied. “Let's talk about Hamdan.”

“Who? I have no idea who that might be. I thought our talk the other day convinced you that I'm not involved in any of this. I didn't like Ludmila, but that's hardly a reason to harm her. I have no strong opinion about Willie. I rarely see her. I've heard the rumors about Gregory, but I really don't have time to wonder if they're true. I'm more concerned with supporting myself and helping my students.”

It was an elegant response, particularly when produced so glibly. “Perhaps Hamdan is a friend of Omario's. You do know who he is—your online student with a crisis, remember? If you'll give me his address and phone number, I'll try to clear this up without bothering you again.” I mentally crossed my fingers, since I intended to badger her until the whole situation was resolved.

Leslie seemed to need a few seconds to compose herself. “I gave that information to the police. Is that all? I need to do some work before my online class later this afternoon. It has thirty students.”

“TESOL students? I would imagine a large percentage of them are young women getting degrees in education. With the certification, they can get jobs in literacy programs just like you did. So many students graduate with enormous loans these days. What a depressing way to start a career in a field not known for generous salaries.”

“I suppose so, although I never ask. I have a certain curriculum to cover each semester and tests to administer.” She stood up, trying to hide her anger.

“One more question.” I was a devotee of the
Columbo
series. “Did you ever return Waterford's calls?”

“That is a private matter. I have a lot of work, so please leave. If you have any more questions, write them down and slip them under my office door.”

I nodded at her and went out the door, which closed firmly behind me. Snoopy Charles was nowhere to be seen, but I could hear music from within his house. Since I suspected Leslie was watching me, I walked up the street and turned the corner. I did not, however, drive away. I knew the neighborhood well. I cut through a sorority house yard and, when I reached the alley, turned toward Leslie's street. I looked over my shoulder several times in case Hamdan was tailing me, but the alley remained vacant of anything more menacing than a yellow cat investigating the sorority's garbage cans. I ducked into the yard of a house across the street from Leslie's and made myself uncomfortable between two shaggy forsythias. I alternated my surveillance between her house and the alley. I didn't know what I expected to happen, but I hoped Leslie would have a visitor in the next few minutes. If I recognized the visitor, I could confirm my suspicions; if I didn't, I could write down the license plate and wheedle Jorgeson into running it for me.

I did not expect to see Charles come out of his house and stop in his front yard. He surveyed the unoccupied sidewalk and then sauntered down Leslie's driveway to the garage. He stopped again and looked around. I squeezed against the foundation of the house and held my breath. I was assessing my chances of getting back to my car before he caught up with me when he turned back and unlocked the garage door. I saw a bright flash before he closed the door behind him. I began to laugh as I realized what he was doing inside. I didn't know if Leslie was aware that her garage was housing marijuana plants and grow lights. I understood why Charles had been nervous when he saw me in the driveway. He'd made a serious mistake when he messed with me, I thought smugly as I continued my surveillance.

After ten minutes, Charles came out of the garage, locked the door, and went back to his house. I sat for another twenty minutes before I decided that Leslie had not panicked as I'd hoped she would. I crawled out between the bushes, brushed off my fanny, and took my previous path to my car. There was no sign of a black car.

I sat down on the curb and called Peter. I was greeted by voice mail. I left a message apologizing for my hysterical outburst at the restaurant and added that alerting Homeland Security was unnecessary. I promised to unruffle his feathers at a later time, but I didn't go into details that might cause him to blush in front of the FBI agents. I am a thoughtful wife.

It was time for another unannounced visit.

 

16

Gregory lived in a neighborhood adjoining a private golf course. All the streets had cutesy names like Bunker Hill and Tee Circle. I found his house in a cul-de-sac at the end of Sand Trap Way. The white-brick house was one story, and abutting the backyard was a fairway. I caught a glimpse of a golf cart careening down a narrow asphalt path. There were occasional shouts, some the traditional warning cry “fore,” others expressing extreme displeasure with a shot.

I rang Gregory's doorbell. His double garage was closed, so I couldn't know if he was home or not, but I intended to camp on his doorstep. I was relieved when he opened the door and said, “Claire?”

“Indeed. I'd like to talk to you.”

“Can this wait until Monday? This has been one helluva week, and I need a break. I don't want to think about the Literacy Council for the next forty-eight hours. I'm sure you understand.”

I nudged him aside and went into the foyer. “I do understand, Gregory. First Ludmila, and then Willie. She's going to be okay.” I grimaced. “Willie, not Ludmila. Bartek claimed he was going to send her ashes to be buried in Poland, but they're more likely to be sprinkled in his flower beds. Ludmila's, not Willie's.” I continued into a large living room with a wall of glass windows. A foursome of golfers were hunting for a lost ball at the edge of his yard, which was delineated by overgrown bushes and weed-filled flower beds. “Aren't you worried about your windows? I hope your homeowner's insurance covers breakage.”

“Three or four times a year.” His growl suggested he was not in the mood to be a gracious host.

“Let's sit out here, shall we?” I continued to the flagstone patio and made myself comfortable in a padded chair. The golfers gave up and moved on.

Gregory sat down. “What's so urgent that it can't wait until Monday?”

“This is a lovely patio, even if one has to be prepared to duck. It must be like a perpetual Easter egg hunt out here.” He failed to acknowledge my witticism. “Since you don't want to chat, let's get serious. What happened Monday night after the class ended and the students started to leave?”

“I don't know. I was livid after Rick made those wild accusations. Rather than risk another encounter, I went to my office and stayed there. I worked on a grant proposal until almost everyone was gone. I should have waited longer. Ludmila was seated on the bench in front of the reception desk. She began to screech at me as usual. I admit I was in a foul mood. I shouted at her to shut up. She got in my face, and it took great willpower not to slap her.” He held up his palms. “I didn't, of course. She was a pathetic, delusional old woman. It would have been like slapping my grandmother.”

“Grandmother Swistak, you mean?” Having tossed the grenade in the air, I waited to see where it fell.

Gregory was unprepared to catch it before it landed in his lap. After a moment of reverberating silence, he managed to say, “I don't know what you're talking about. I need a drink if you intend to spout more gibberish. My grandmother's last name was Hawkins.” He pushed aside the screen door with unnecessary vigor as he went inside. I heard ice going into a glass, then glass clinking. Were I a better person, I would have felt a pang of guilt.

He held a glass of whiskey when he returned and sat down. “Ludmila used to screech
swistak
at me. I assumed it was an insult of some kind. I can assure you it isn't any name I've ever heard of.”

“Maybe the name Bergmann-Swistak will sound more familiar. It's the name of your father's pharmaceutical company that was based in Germany before the scandal forced its closure. Ring any bells?” I watched his face turn pale. “C'mon, Gregory, the police have contacted Interpol.” Or they should have, I amended.

He looked as if he'd been hit in the forehead by a golf ball. He took a big gulp of whiskey and choked on it, his face darkening to an interesting shade of mauve. He finally recovered from a bout of coughing and gasping. I ascertained there was no dent in his forehead.

“All right, all right,” he said in a raspy voice. “That was the name of my father's company, but my father didn't know that Bergmann was cutting production costs. He was shocked and horrified when the truth came out. He severed the partnership immediately.”

“And fled with half the remaining assets.”

“According to the auditors. My father and I were not close. I was a sales associate in the Baltic region, very much a junior executive, and I knew nothing about the truthfulness of the accusations and the lawsuits. When I was informed that the corporation had been shut down, I packed up and moved back to my mother's house. Before you ask, I have no knowledge about my father's whereabouts.”

“You're in communication with him,” I said. “You mentioned his current wife.”

“He calls every once in a while, but I don't ask questions. I've put all that behind me.”

“How did Ludmila make the connection? Whistler isn't a common name, but it's not outlandish.”

“The marketing department used corporate photos. Ludmila must have seen the ads in Polish magazines and recognized me. I should have changed my name instead of simply Anglicizing it.”

“Why didn't you try to talk to her about it?” I asked. “It would have saved you from her daily rants.”

“Did you try to talk to her? How's your Polish?”

I conceded that point. “But you knew that somewhere down the road another Polish student would show up.”

“All I could do was pray that the ‘sins of the father' business in the Old Testament was out of vogue by now. I didn't do anything wrong. I certainly didn't commit any crimes.”

“Ludmila still liked the Old Testament, I guess. Let's go back to Monday night. You and she yelled at each other. Then what?”

He opened his mouth, but we both heard a voice shout, “Fore! Watch out, dammit!”

A small white missile slammed into a tree and bounced across the backyard. If it had taken a different tangent, Gregory might have lost another window—or one of us might have gained a bruise or worse. A rotund golfer in plaid shorts and a hideous Hawaiian shirt came into the yard. “Ya see where it went?” he asked loudly.

“That way.” Gregory pointed in the opposite direction of the ball's trajectory. “It went into the ditch. Be careful, pal. There's a big-ass copperhead that lives in there, a good six feet long and real unfriendly.” The golfer headed for the fairway.

I toyed with the same option as I looked at the ditch. “A six-foot copperhead?”

Gregory relaxed enough to smile. “Well, maybe not that long, and maybe not in that particular ditch. I did find a king snake in the garage once. I climbed on top of my car and hollered until Rosie came out. She scooped up the snake, scolded it for trespassing, and set it free in the woods.”

“I know about her so-called accident,” I said softly.

He slumped down in the chair and groaned. “It's not a secret. I just don't see any reason to tell everyone I meet. It makes me sound like I was cold and indifferent, or too self-absorbed to notice her depression. That's not true. I insisted she see a psychiatrist who specialized in the field. I made sure she took her medication. I brought her flowers several times a week. I encouraged her to go out to lunch with her friends. I would never have left her alone if her best friend hadn't promised to take care of her.” He broke off and covered his face with his hands.

I needed the best friend's name, and Jorgeson had already reached the limit of his willingness to risk Peter's wrath. I decided to wait for an opening. “Is she the one who found Rosie's body?”

“I was at a conference. She was sobbing when she called me, but I finally understood what she'd said. I canceled my presentation and caught the first flight back here. At my insistence, the police checked for any sign of a break-in and took fingerprints, but they didn't find any indication that an unknown person was in the house. The housekeeper was there the day before and had polished all the furniture and other surfaces. I'd given her friend a house key—and thank God I did. Otherwise…”

I noticed something odd. Gregory hadn't mention Rosie's name during his revelation about her depression and his efforts to help her. Furthermore, he hadn't mentioned her best friend's name. I overlooked the former and said, “What's the name of Rosie's friend?”

His head jerked up. “Why? She was too late. The coroner's report said my wife's body had been in the water for ten hours. I almost threw up when I had to identify it at the morgue. She was so beautiful. What I saw was swollen and white.”

I wanted to shake his shoulders and say, “Who was? Your wife? You mean Rosie?” I stared at the golf course until I felt my muscles unwind. “I want the friend's name because I had a similar experience once and I thought it would be good for us to share.” Sure, and I'd ridden an alligator to his house. A blue alligator in drag.

“That was two years ago, and I don't know if Lilac wants to relive it. Lilac Benjamin. I don't know her number, but her husband's a urologist at a local clinic. Are we finished, Claire? You've destroyed any hope I had of a peaceful weekend.”