Murder in the Air (9 page)

She flipped from one program to another, too restless to watch anything for more than a minute. Everything was boring. Predictable. She pressed the “Off” button and dialed Barbara’s number. Her friend picked up on the third ring.

“Care for some company?” Lydia asked.

“I thought you were having dinner with the handsome detective.”

“I did. We had words.”

“In that case, come on over. I’ll leave the garage door open.”

Five minutes later, Lydia was sitting at her friend’s kitchen table. Barbara filled a plate with miniature Italian pastries.”

“Don’t bother with those. I couldn’t eat another thing,” Lydia insisted. But after downing her second, she laughed as she pushed away her empty plate. “Those were awesome.”

Barbara grinned. “I know. They come from the new bakery on Main Street.” She got up to fill their mugs with boiling water for tea. “Now tell me what happened.”

Lydia shrugged. “I did something dumb.”

“Before going off to meet Sol?”

“Actually, yes. We agreed on a time and place for dinner, and I had just enough time to check on something.”

“Something you knew would make him angry.”

Lydia squirmed under Barbara’s penetrating gaze. “Meaning what?’

“Meaning maybe you did what you did for a reason.”

“Like?”

“Like you’re afraid to get too involved with the guy so you do something you know will set him off.”

Lydia opened her mouth to argue then shut it. “You might have a point.”

Barbara grinned. “At least you’re honest enough to admit it. You may leave my one-hundred-dollar therapy fee on the coffee table as you leave.”

“What about Sol? That’s the part I wanted to tell you. He got furious.”

“Maybe he’s afraid you’ll get yourself killed one of these days.”

“Trust me, Barbara, the man overreacted. I bet he feels threatened because I find out things he knows nothing about. Like the fact that Daniel may have been murdered. And the connection between the dead boy and Daniel’s old friends.”

“And the fact that you’re a strong, effective woman who built up and ran a successful company.”

“Whatever.” Lydia frowned. “I think Mr. Macho doesn’t like my venturing into his jurisdiction, which is pretty childish.”

“I’d say all of the above are true, and you both have involvement phobia.”

Lydia sipped her tea. She thought a minute, and then said quietly, “It sounds pretty hopeless to me.”

Barbara laughed. “The relationship does have a few hurdles to overcome, but I think Sol Molina’s worth it.”

“So do I,” Lydia said softly.

“Then stop provoking him. Talk to Polly and Evelyn as much as you like, but keep away from the bad boys, and pray they keep away from you.”

Lydia went home an hour later. Barbara’s words of wisdom worked as a sedative and she slept deeply. The following morning she practiced yoga for forty-five minutes then walked to the clubhouse and swam laps in the indoor pool. The exercise left her invigorated yet calm, and she felt more positive regarding her relationship with Sol. She hummed as she stepped out of the clubhouse and into the May day. A noisy May day, because the gardening service was out in full force, mowing and edging the large expanse of lawn.

“Lydia!”

She turned at the sound of her name. Andrew Varig came trotting toward her, tennis racket in hand.

“Hi, Andrew. Lovely morning for tennis.”

“Sure is. Some of the men have gotten up a morning game. Would you be interested in playing later on in the day?”

Lydia laughed as she shook her head. “Sorry, but I gave up tennis ten years ago. Besides, I’m off to work.”

“I’m spending a few hours at the construction site this afternoon. They’ll be filling in the root cellar and leveling the ground.”

She gave him a perky smile. “I’m so glad you’re home again, Andrew, so I can leave all that in your capable hands.”

Andrew grinned—a shocking sight, since Andrew never smiled. “Fear not. I’ll stand guard.”

“That’s music to my ears,” she told him and continued on her way. She’d progressed only a few yards when he called to her. Puzzled, she turned around. “Yes?”

He caught up with her and glanced furtively from side to side before speaking. “When was the last time you were in Manhattan?”

“Let me think. I took the railroad in after my daughter Abbie’s wedding in January. Of course! The Women’s Club went to the Metropolitan Museum last month.”

Andrew seemed to be bristling with nervous energy, which was not like him at all. When he spoke, his words spilled over like a waterfall. “I was wondering, Lydia, would you like to go into the city some time, to take in a play or a show?”

Her eyes widened in disbelief. Was Andrew asking her out on a date?

He added quickly, “Unless you have an understanding with your detective friend.”

“No, we’ve no understanding.” She smiled at the quaint use of the term.

He returned her smile, which filled her with trepidation. She hadn’t meant to encourage him.

“Then I hope you’ll say yes. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed the city until I visited some of the European capitals with my kids.”

He looked wistful, an unusual expression for the confident Dr. Varig. Lydia decided she liked this side of him, liked it enough to say, “I’d love to go to the theatre with you. It’s been some time for me as well.”

“Wonderful! How about Saturday?”

Lydia was struck dumb. When she found her voice, her impulse was to stall for time. “I—I don’t know. I’ll have to check my calendar and let you know.”

“Meanwhile, I’ll see what shows are available, then we can choose something we’ll both enjoy.”

“All right. Bye.” She fled before he could utter another word.

She race-walked home, wondering what she’d gotten herself into. She liked Andrew, but not in a man-woman sort of way. She was emotionally involved with Sol, though they argued half the time they spent together. And they weren’t lovers, by any stretch of the imagination.

As for Andrew, she hoped he had no designs on her that way because she certainly wasn’t interested in him. But how would she know—the perverse thought occurred to her—unless he kissed her?

Lydia shook her head vehemently at the idea. She turned fifty-nine in August, and had no desire to return to those awkward dating days of her youth. She’d see a show or a play with Andrew as a friend. A companion. If he wanted more than that, she’d be up front with him, and explain she wasn’t interested in anything romantic.

After she rebuffed him, would they end up feeling awkward every time they ran into one another? That would be often, considering they were co-chairs. They lived within the confines of a small community and attended the same meetings and activities.

Take one step at a time, she lectured herself. You’ll go to the city with Andrew and have a good time. If you don’t want to go out with him again, you’ll say so. He’ll get over it. End of discussion.

Why were relations between men and women so awfully complicated?

At home, Lydia showered and dressed, then drove to work. During the trip she wondered if she should say yes to managing the Carrington Suites. The position would demand a good deal of time and effort, especially at first. Was she willing to give up the luxury of working three days a week at a pleasant job that required limited responsibilities? Then again, she’d enjoy the challenge of starting something brand new. She was good at dealing with people, at resolving crises. Frankly, she found it exhilarating. She’d have to decide soon. Len said they wanted her answer no later than a week from Friday.

Her workday passed quickly, giving her no opportunity to mull about Daniel and Timmy John or her personal life. At five o’clock, Lydia was back in her car heading home. Reggie greeted her by rubbing against her legs. She filled his dish with dried food, which earned her a look of reproach.

“That’s all you’re getting for now,” she scolded. “You’re getting fat again.”

He must have gotten her message because he began to eat. The doorbell rang.

“Coming,” Lydia called out as she walked toward the front door. It was probably Barbara, stopping by to borrow the book they were reading for the next meeting of their newly formed book club.

Mick Diminio stood before her in Bermuda shorts, a short-sleeved shirt, and a Yankees cap. His attire, along with his short, stocky legs and beer belly, was that of an innocuous old man, but his frown of displeasure sent a chill down her back. She resisted the impulse to slam the door in his face.

“May I come in, Lydia? I’d like to talk to you.”

“I don’t—” Lydia’s heart thumped as she searched her brain for a polite way of refusing him. The man had been a powerful politician. For all she knew, he had mob connections. How stupid she’d been, tipping Ron off to her suspicions. She should have realized he’d run straight to Mick Diminio. Who might very well have killed Daniel as well as Timmy John.

Mick read the terror in her face. He raised his palms. “Hey, relax. I’d like us to talk, okay?”

“All right.”

Reluctantly, Lydia led the way to the living room, hoping he meant what he’d said. No one knew he was here, except Ron, who must have sent for him to deal with her. She perched on the edge of one of the sofas. Mick Diminio sank heavily into the other. He rubbed his hand along the fabric.

“Nice couches. My wife’s been looking for something like these. Maybe you’ll give her the name of the place where you bought them.”

“Sure.”

He glanced around, nodding his approval of her décor. Then he placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forward.

“Ronnie tells me maybe Danny didn’t die of a coronary.”

“His daughter thinks he was murdered. He told Polly he was getting nuisance calls. And someone followed his car when he was out running errands.”

Mick let out a guilty laugh. “That was me tailing him.”

Lydia stared at him, dumbfounded by his admission. “Why?”

He shrugged his beefy shoulders. “He pissed me off, coming around asking questions that were none of his business. But I swear on my grandson’s head, I didn’t kill him.”

Of course he’d deny it. “Did Ron Morganstern make the phone calls?”

“How should I know? You’ll have to ask Ronnie.”

Lydia swallowed. “I’ll do that.”

“Speaking of which, he said you were checking into business that doesn’t concern you.”

Lydia pressed her elbows to her sides to control a rising tremor.

Mick continued, his tone now conversational. “I heard you were a big help solving some murders around here. Last autumn was it?”

He stared at her, willing her to speak, but fear kept her tongue-tied. She managed to nod.

“Very commendable, but your snooping days are over, at least where Ronnie and I are concerned.” He leaned over the table separating them. Lydia jerked back.

“No little chats with your detective friend about him or me, including what I said before about tailing Danny. Got it?”

She nodded.

Having said what he’d come to say, Mick struggled to his feet. His hoarse breathing made her realize how much it had cost Mick Diminio to come threaten her this way.

He’s just an old man used to ordering people around. She was annoyed that she’d allowed his tough-guy manner to intimidate her.

She stood in one graceful move. “The police have ID’d the body found at the demolition site. They know Timmy John Desmond was buried in the root cellar of that house.”

“How sad. And what does that have to do with Ronnie or me? Absolutely nothing.”

“Then why are you here?” she asked.

“To advise you to keep my name out of it. My son’s running for county executive in a few months. We don’t want to give the opposition ammunition for their smear campaign.”

At last she had the reason behind his visit! Mick Diminio intended to see his son soar to higher pinnacles than he’d ever reached. The knowledge erased her last vestige of apprehension. It was time to burst his bubble.

“The police don’t need me to tie you and Ron to Daniel and Timmy John Desmond. They have evidence of their own.”

He clamped a gnarled hand around her forearm. “What are you talking about?”

Though his grip was strong, Lydia yanked back his pinkie until he let go. “You’ll find out soon enough. Now leave my house and don’t bother me again, or I’ll call Newsday and Channel Twelve to publicize your threats.”

“I don’t think you want to do that.” A sly expression flitted across his face, and Lydia felt her heart fall to her stomach. She’d underestimated the old pol.

“Did our Danny-boy make notes about our little chat?”

She nodded, mesmerized by his intense gaze.

“Sure, we met and talked about old times. A stroll down memory lane.” His eyes narrowed. “Anything else is pure conjecture. Let the cops question me. I’ll know if you opened your big mouth. Then maybe your family won’t be so happy.”

Lydia’s throat went dry. She had to swallow before she could speak. “What do you mean?”

“Your lovely little granddaughters live—where?—a few miles from here? It would be a pity if something were to happen. Say, if their lovely home burned to the ground.”

All breath left her body. Her legs turned to rubber and she crumpled to the sofa, her mind a blaze of white terror. “You wouldn’t.”

“I certainly wouldn’t want to. But I’m sure you’ll keep our conversation to yourself, so little Brittany and Greta grow up to be lovely women like their grandmother.”

She stared at him as he walked toward the door.

“Good-bye, Lydia. I’ll see myself out.”

Chapter Nine

Lydia huddled on the sofa, unable to move. Her precious babies! The man was a thug. A monster willing to burn down her daughter’s home to shut her up. She shuddered to think he’d made it his business to learn the names and addresses of her family, the people she held dearest in the world.

She finally rose. Her hands trembled as she boiled water for tea. She stirred three teaspoons of sugar into her cup because she’d read somewhere that sugar was good for shock. Reggie, sensing her agitation, settled in her lap and lifted his head for her to stroke him. His purring soothed her, as did the sweet, warm liquid. Her pulse slowed down, and her mind returned to its normal state—alert, curious, and ready to cope with situations and problems.