Murder in the Air (11 page)

“Did you follow him in your car?”

Ron cast down his eyes. All life went from his voice. “Mick did that. And I called his house a few times. Stupid, I know, but we were hoping to scare him off. He was persistent, Danny was. Oh, God! Are you saying that caused his heart attack?”

Lydia moved closer and lowered her voice. “Do you think Mick killed him?”

For a minute Ron didn’t answer. Then he shook his head. “Mick’s dying. The doctors give him four to six months. Murder’s the last thing he wants on his conscience.”

Lydia studied Ron’s wrinkled face. It was riddled with fear and guilt, his skin the unhealthy color of white paste. She suspected he hadn’t much more time, either.

“Thank you for telling me what happened to Timmy John. I’ll keep it to myself as long as I can.”

Chapter Ten

Lydia drove home slowly, her mind awhirl as she reviewed her conversation with Ron Morganstern. She’d never been privy to a confession of such magnitude, and found it impossible to absorb all its ramifications. Poor Timmy John! She could visualize him so clearly—a sensitive, gangly boy with a southern accent, damaged by his stepfather but lucky to have a mother with the good sense to send him north to live with her sister and brother-in-law. Lydia shivered as she realized the poor woman went to her grave never knowing what had happened to her son. The anguish and guilt she must have experienced.

As for Ron, he appeared to be genuinely remorseful for the part he’d played the day of the terrible accident that had led to Timmy John’s death. If it was an accident. Lydia felt a pang as she considered that one of the boys—Mick, perhaps?—could have struck the fatal blow, then convinced the others that Timmy John had fallen. Could they have invented the part about his epileptic seizure? Regardless, she had no business—no right—to keep what Ron had told her from the police. Her silence made her an accessory after the fact. If, indeed, Ron, Mick, and Billy Evans had killed Timmy John, which she sincerely doubted.

Seventy years had passed. Billy was dead, Mick was dying, and Ron regretted having lured Timmy John to the Evans’ home every day of his life. She’d promised not to tell Sol about his and Mick’s involvement, and she’d keep that promise for now.

As she approached the Twin Lakes gatehouse, her thoughts turned to Daniel. The discovery of Timmy John’s remains had reawakened his suspicions. He’d gone around asking questions and now he was dead. Ron insisted he hadn’t gone after Daniel, and Lydia believed him. He was too jumpy and frail to plan a murder, much less carry one out.

But his friend, Mick, was a different story. As old and ill as he was, Mick Diminio had a brutish quality. He had no qualms about threatening her grandchildren, whether he meant to follow through or not. Daniel could cause more damage than she. He could supply background information about the day Timmy John had died, information no one else was privy to. Not that Daniel had any hard evidence to offer. Despite Ron’s assurances, fear for his son’s shot at county executive might have given Mick enough reason to kill Daniel as his last paternal deed before going to his final rest.

Lydia pulled into her driveway and waited for the garage door to open. If Mick had killed Daniel, how did he do it? Evelyn certainly would have mentioned if he’d been to see Daniel the morning he’d suffered what appeared to be a fatal heart attack. In which case, Ron was telling the truth.

Lydia sat in her car as the implication of her latest idea struck home. Maybe Polly was wrong. Maybe Daniel had died of a coronary like thousands of other eighty-five-year-old men with heart conditions. Polly assumed someone had killed her father because he’d told her he was being tailed and receiving strange phone calls. Ron and Mick were behind those acts of harassment. Lydia felt a blush warm her cheeks as she remembered how quickly she’d agreed with Polly that Daniel had been murdered. Pure hubris on her part. She had no right to view every death as a homicide and herself as the sleuth, simply because she’d helped solve the murders last fall.

Her ears burned with embarrassment as she recalled how quick she’d been to inform Sol about Daniel’s “murder.” If only she could call him back to say it was all a mistake. But she wouldn’t. He’d reprimand her for interfering with his case. His case? There was no case, as far as Lydia was concerned. She’d imagined two murders, and now it seemed there was no murder at all.

Besides, she couldn’t call Sol without implicating Ron and Mick. Why had she promised Ron she wouldn’t tell Sol how Timmy John had died? Surely Ron and Mick had broken the law by hiding Timmy John’s body and not alerting the authorities. They’d lied to the police and were prepared to lie to them again. And now Lydia was part of their conspiracy. What had she gotten herself into? Where would it end? Damn it, the situation was growing more complicated by the minute.

Lydia ate a sandwich for her dinner, then plopped down on the den couch for an hour or two of TV before going to sleep. She felt thoroughly wiped out after her traumatic day.

The phone rang as she was dozing off during a commercial. What now? “Yes?” she asked rather gruffly.

“Hello, Lydia. It’s Andrew.”

“Andrew?”

“Andrew Varig,” he said more forcefully.

“Of course, Andrew.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “What can I do for you?”

“Did you get a chance to look at your calendar?”

Her calendar. “Do we have to set up a committee meeting?”

“I suppose we should—soon, but I’m talking about Saturday night.”

“Oh. Right.” She remembered. “I’m checking right now. Hold on a second.”

The small white squares of her May calendar were infuriatingly empty. No plans, no babysitting dates to watch her granddaughters. Her heart sank as she said, “It looks like I’m free that evening, Andrew.”

“Wonderful, Lydia! I went online and discovered there’s a new play coming from London. It’s supposed to be clever and witty, so I took the chance and ordered us tickets. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No. It sounds delightful.”

He gave a little laugh. “Since I chose the play, it’s only fair that you pick the restaurant. What’s your pleasure—French? American? Italian?”

“French sounds nice.”

“Then French it is. I thought I’d pick you up at four, we’d have a leisurely drive in, and we’d dine at six.”

“Sure. But Andrew…”

“Yes, Lydia?”

“We’re going as friends, remember? Companions, nothing more.”

“Absolutely. Good-bye, my dear! See you on Saturday.”

My dear? The words echoed in her ears as she realized she’d never heard Andrew so ebullient before. Maybe his European trip had revived his sense of adventure and he was looking forward to a night out on the town. She sincerely hoped that was the case, and that his newfound enthusiasm had nothing to do with her.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again.

“Hello, Lydia, it’s Sol.”

“Oh. Hello.” She pressed the mute button on the remote.

Silence. He let out a sheepish laugh. “You don’t sound happy to hear from me.”

“I don’t appreciate the way you spoke to me last night.”

“I apologize, Lydia. I shouldn’t have exploded the way I did.”

“Then why did you?” she retorted before she could weigh the wisdom of such a question.

“Because I worry about you. Damn it, I care about you, Lydia Krause.”

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

“I know. I’m sorry about that and I want to make amends. Let’s go out for a nice romantic dinner somewhere.”

“That sounds promising,” she said, then immediately regretted her words. She didn’t want to come across as overly eager to accept his apology, so she added, “As long as this dinner won’t compromise your case is any way.”

He laughed. “Why should it? The case, as you put it, concerns a death that occurred before you were born. Besides, the remains show no sign of foul play, though the lab’s testing for poisons.”

Lydia sighed with relief. “That’s good to hear.”

“It still doesn’t explain why someone stashed the body in the root cellar. That’s a crime, too.”

“I know.” Lydia’s heart pounded in her chest. She could barely get her words out. “Do you think you can find out who put the body there, after all these years?”

“If we can’t, it won’t be for lack of trying. How about Saturday night?”

“This Saturday night?”

“Yes. Why, are you babysitting?”

She considered saying she was babysitting, but there were too many lies of omission between her and Sol that he knew nothing about. She opted for the truth. “I have a date.”

“Have fun.”

The line went dead.

*

“And that’s how you left it?” Barbara asked the following afternoon, turning her attention from the road to stare at a despondent Lydia.

“I told you—Sol hung up.”

“Without arranging another time for your romantic dinner?”

“There is no dinner!” Lydia blinked back hurt and angry tears. “Lately, Sol has this way of cutting short every conversation we have.”

“Why did you tell him you were going out with someone else?”

Distraught, Lydia glanced down at her hands, noticing that her nail polish was chipping. “Because I wanted to be honest with him.”

Barbara laughed.

“I know it was stupid, but I feel guilty for not telling Sol what Ron told me about Timmy John. He’s the police. I’m withholding evidence. But I promised not to say anything, at least for now. And every conversation Sol and I have turns into a fight. This whole business has left me exhausted.”

She felt her friend’s eyes studying her. Barbara asked, “Are you sure you’re up to a shiva call?”

“I want to spend time with Polly and her family. I barely stayed five minutes after the funeral. That was two days ago. With so much happening in between, if feels like a month.”

“Whatever you say. By the way, who is the lucky fellow?” Barbara asked as she turned into Polly’s development.

Lydia bit her lip. “I accepted a date with Andrew Varig to take in dinner and a play in the city. I don’t want to go.”

“Oh, Lydia, Andrew’s nice, once you get past his diffident manner.”

“Then you go out with him.”

“I would, but he asked you.”

As she parallel parked, Lydia waited for Barbara to crack a smile. When she didn’t, Lydia realized her friend meant what she’d said.

“I’m sorry, Barbara. I had no idea you were interested in Andrew.”

“I don’t know if I’m ‘interested,’ but I find Andrew handsome and virile—rare attributes in our community.”

“Really? Had I known, I never would have accepted his invitation. I only said yes because I couldn’t think of a polite way of refusing.”

Lydia’s dismay must have been written all over her face, because Barbara squeezed her arm and laughed. “And then you’d have told him to call your friend, Barbara? Sorry, honey, it doesn’t work that way.”

Feeling foolish, Lydia opened the rear car door. She and Barbara gathered up the bags of prepared food they’d brought and carried them into the house.

About sixteen people sat around the living room, chatting and eating. Nicole, the Good Twin, came over to greet them. Lydia explained they’d brought dinner for the next few nights.

“Thanks so much for thinking of us.” Nicole caught her mother’s eye, then took two of the packages and carried them into the kitchen. Polly ended her conversation with an elderly man and came to join them. She hugged Lydia and Barbara then led the way to the kitchen where Nicole was already stacking casseroles and salads in the refrigerator.

“This is from the Liebermans, Shari Morgan, and us,” Barbara explained.

“Thank you for being so kind.” Polly’s eyes filled as she hugged them again. “It helps to know my father had good friends at Twin Lakes the few years he and Evelyn lived there.”

Her husband, Matt, entered the room to refill a pitcher of milk. “Look who’s here!” he exclaimed, opening his arms and giving them each a bear hug.

Lydia and Barbara followed Polly into the living room, where she introduced them to her other guests. Most were elderly relatives and long-time friends of Daniel. Lydia was hoping to see Evelyn here, but there was no sign of her.

“Have some coffee and dessert,” Polly suggested. She gestured with her chin to the woman chatting with Denise in the corner. “My cousin Lynn brought the most outrageous pastries from a famous Brooklyn bakery.”

“Let’s,” Barbara said, and headed across the hall to the dining room, with Lydia close behind.

Two elderly men sat at the long table laden with platters of cookies and cakes and a carafe of coffee. They barely looked up from their plates to return Lydia and Barbara’s greetings. The women selected slices of cake and pastries. Lydia poured out two cups of decaf coffee.

“Why don’t we sit in here?” Barbara suggested, gesturing at the two chairs at the opposite end of the table. “The living room’s kind of crowded.”

They set down their food and began to eat.

“Mmm, delicious,” Lydia said, pointing to her apple strudel.

“Wait till you taste the chocolate blackout cake. It’s to die for.”

Lydia grimaced. “I wish you wouldn’t use that expression.”

“Oh—sorry,” Barbara said.

Lydia flinched as a wiry arm snaked around her shoulders. “Hello, Lydia. Thanks for coming.”

Lydia looked up into Denise’s tanned leathery face, then pulled away from the blended fumes of musky perfume and tobacco that threatened to make her gag.

“Hello, Denise. This is my friend, Barbara Taylor.”

Barbara turned to Denise. “I’m very sorry for your loss. Your father was one terrific person. He was always so energetic and active.”

Denise pulled up a chair and sat down. “His passing knocked us all for a loop. Dad was in good health, then pow.” Denise snapped her fingers. “Gone. Eighty-five years old.”

“Almost eighty-five, Mater. Tomorrow’s his birthday.”

Mater? Lydia watched as Denise’s son, Bennett, squeezed past his mother to reach the box of Belgian chocolates and pop one into his mouth.

Denise patted his arm. “So sad. I always thought he’d live to be one hundred.”

“Life throws us curves when we least expect them,” Bennett philosophized as he chewed.