Chapter Eight
Tom Lattimore was ten minutes late. Sometimes I wished I had the nerve to be late, but I was always the one who waiting alone at a restaurant table, looking slightly pitiful. I thought people would wonder if I’d been stood up.
I hadn’t, of course. He came in with that air of overwhelming self-confidence that some small men have. Tom wasn’t all that small, but he wasn’t as tall as I am, and at fifty or thereabouts he still had the full head of blonde hair and the good looks that must have sent women swooning when he was in his twenties.
“Kelly, I’m so sorry. Some clients can be picky, wanting to discuss every detail down to the thousandth of an inch.”
“They should,” I laughed. “Most of them only build a house once in a lifetime.”
“Yeah, I know,” he agreed, seating himself opposite me, “but I do this every day.” He reached across the table and took my hand, looking straight at me. “So, how are you, how’s business? It’s time we caught up. I…didn’t call you or anything when Tim died, and I’m sorry. I’m sure it was awful for you.”
He still held of my hand, and the thought flashed through my mind that Tom Lattimore was coming on to me. I pulled my hand away, “It’s okay, Tom. It was a shock, of course, but we were divorced and the emotional separation was pretty total. I worried about the girls, but they seem to be okay.”
“The girls, of course. And you’ve moved…a Craftsman, if I’m not mistaken.”
He certainly kept up with things. “Yes, it’s charming. Tell me, how’s Sue?” His wife was always a favorite of mine—open, friendly, not above a bit of gossip and a good laugh. We’d met at realtor functions and lunched together a couple of times after that.
“Oh,” he said without apparent regret, “she left me six months ago. Couldn’t stand my schedule.”
So maybe he was coming on to me, and maybe he was a philanderer and that was why Sue left. I guessed I’d never know, because I sure wasn’t going to encourage a personal relationship. I already had my hands full in that direction.
“What are your plans with Chase Court?”
The waitress came and offered us wine. Tom looked at me, but I declined, saying, “I’d have to nap if I drank wine at lunch.”
We both ordered tea and opted for the buffet, which turned out to offer several wonderful dishes—salad with hummus, beef lasagna, chicken and spinach in a wonderful Alfredo sauce, a lemony sautéed chicken, and some vegetable entrees. I piled my plate way too high.
When we were settled with our food, he said, “Okay, Chase Court. I want to redo the place.”
“Redo what? As you said, the houses don’t look bad. It’s just the landscaping, the outside walls around the court—who owns that? Who’s responsible?”
“The homeowners. There used to be an association, if you could call it that, for—what?—ten homes? But it hasn’t met in years. I’ve told them their property would be worth more if the public area was improved, but nobody wants to sell, so that argument doesn’t work with them. And the houses need lots of updating, deferred maintenance and all that. I’ve been through most of them.”
“Then why are you interested?” I did have a little business sense, after all.
“Condos. Upscale and secure condos, a gated community.
“Condos?” I squeaked. “Isn’t it a designated historical district, like Ryan Place?”
In that neighborhood, adjacent to Fairmount, you had to submit plans for a new structure and it had to fit in with the existing architecture. No flat-roof square boxes.
“It will work,” he insisted, “if I can get the titles to the houses and the support of the right people. You can build condos that fit existing architecture. And of course I’d leave the Chase house—it’s the heart of the place. I’d like to live there myself.”
I was so flabbergasted at his audacity that I was silent. Somehow my appetite wasn’t affected. I forked another bite of lasagna—it was wonderful, rich with tomato sauce—and then I asked, “And no one wants to sell?”
“Well, there’s one family that might, and then now there will probably be Mrs. McLaughton’s house.” He leaned closer to me, “You know, because of these murders, we can buy houses all over Fairmount more cheaply and then, when it’s all solved, sell at a profit.”
I stared at him. He would use murders as a profit-making tool. Not an idea to my liking at all.
He nodded, trying to look modest. “Are you interested?”
I shook my head. “I have enough business to keep me busy,” I stammered, not wanting to add that I didn’t want to capitalize on murder. Shifting the subject, I said, “Tell me what you know about Mrs. McLaughton.”
When he shrugged and said, “What’s to tell? Neighbors liked her and are torn up about losing her, in addition to being afraid. Safety has always been an issue on Chase Court, and it’s not much help to point out a similar killing occurred in an inner Fairmount area, away from Hemphill and the streets of bad reputation.”
“But nobody has a clue about suspect, motive, or anything?”
“Nope. The gardener has been cleared, and I think that was sort of a desperate guess. They’re still looking for the younger son, but I doubt he’s a strong suspect.”
“But you met her, talked to her.”
“Oh, yeah, tough old girl. Told me in no uncertain terms she wouldn’t be selling what she called the “homestead.” Said she and the mister—that’s how she said it—raised their sons there, and they’d have to carry her out. I think she had a bit of Scotland in her, more than a bit.” He laughed ruefully. “Now I guess they’ve carried her out.” He paused a minute and then said, “I’ve already contacted Mrs. Dodson’s nephews. Got that listing sewed up.”
I stewed. Tom was definitely capitalizing on murder.
Tom paid the bill, so I got a free lunch, but I got precious little information that would link the murders, and I got, instead, a lot of uneasiness.
“I’ll call you about Chase Court, Kelly,” he said as he pecked my cheek outside the restaurant. “See if you want to go in on the project with me.”
No need to tell him I wouldn’t.
I didn’t find out much about Adelaide McLaughton, but I knew what I wanted to do next. I drove straight to Chase Court and then circled the dirt road around, studying the houses again. I knew which one was Mrs. McLaughton’s because the address was in the paper. Like most of the others on the court, it was a square tan brick structure, two stories, well kept, at least from the outside, no matter what Tom said about the inside. The flowerbeds were neat and of a much more free, imaginative style than Florence Dodson’s. They reflected the English garden concept, with native plants such as coreopsis, cyclamen, coneflowers, yarrow, and several I didn’t recognize. Tall grasses graced several spots in the bed, lending height and green to the arrangement, like a permanent bouquet in the ground. I filed the thought away in my mind that both women were gardeners, albeit with very different styles.
I drove by the house slowly to study it. Plantation shutters in the windows were closed, but the mail and newspapers were taken it. It didn’t yet look like an empty house.
I circled the court again, so that I could drive down the McLaughton driveway. No police tape told me I shouldn’t, so I was perhaps more bold than I was at Mrs. Dodson’s garage. The driveway led straight to a small garage, too small for a car of today but suited to one of the 1920s. The backyard was not large but it too was a bouquet of flowers, with roses climbing over a trellis and baskets of petunias and ivy hanging from the eaves. A patio with comfortable looking plastic furniture and long windows along half the back of the house—a remodeled porch, I surmised—would give family wonderful places to view the garden. The potted plants drooped from lack of care but the yard must have had a sprinkler system because everything in the ground looked healthy.
The well-maintained property told me that Mrs. McLaughton cared a lot about her house and either worked hard to keep it attractive or hired people to help her. Based on the reports, it was probably both. No wonder she wouldn’t sell to Tom. As I got back in my car, I thought I saw movement at those back windows—just the slightest touch at those shutters, which were now closed. The missing son, I thought—he’s in the house! But of course, I couldn’t knock on the door and ask. Mike would be done with me if I did that.
I backed out of the drive, took one last swing around the court, looking at the dry and dying bushes in the island in the middle. It had no curb, no watering system, and neither rhyme nor reason to what was planted there. Rather it looked as if shrubs just sprouted on their own, defying the lack of care. Next I drove around the exterior of the court again, examining the shattered stone wall, the rickety wood fences, the general air of disheveled gentility and trying to imagine what it would take to fix it—and how much money. It would be horrible to turn the place into condos, and I hoped Tom Lattimore’s optimism was misplaced.
I was no more back at the office than the phone rang and Keisha, grinning, forwarded the call to me. From the look on her face I expected it to be Buck Conroy, but it wasn’t. It was Mike.
“Hi,” he said. “How’s your day?”
This was not usual for Mike, and I smelled a trap. “Fine. I had lunch with Tom Lattimore at Chadra, that new place.”
“Good?”
“Yeah, it was. It was a buffet. I ate too much, but we ought to take the kids there some night. The lasagna is good.”
“Great. We’ll do that.” His voice, to me, sounded hearty—and fake.
“Find out anything from Lattimore?”
I sighed. “Not much except that I think he’ll turn these murders into profit for him—you know, buy low, sell high after it’s all solved.”
“So he’s a bit of scum,” Mike said and then moved on. “You happen to go to Chase Court today?”
Aha! “Yes, I did. Tom Lattimore wants to turn it into condos, a bad idea. But it made me curious to drive over there again.”
“Swell, Kelly. Maybe he killed Mrs. McLaughton so he could develop Chase Court.”
I was silent, thinking it more possible than I liked to believe—a thought I couldn’t share with Mike. So Mike went on. “One of the residents reported a suspicious car and called in your license plates. When the guys at the station ran it, they died laughing. Of course, they called me.”
“Mike, it’s not a gated community. There’s no reason I can’t drive through there.”
“And down Mrs. McLaughton’s driveway?”
Damn! I tried to think. Had I seen a neighbor? No, the neighborhood was empty. I didn’t even remember seeing a curtain rustle—except at the McLaughton house, and I doubted the errant son would call in a report! I drew myself up, as though Mike could see my indignation, but I said nothing.
“Kelly, why don’t I trust you?” He didn’t sound angry, just puzzled. “I think you’re still trying to do police work.”
“Nope,” I said, “real estate work. Honest.” Well, okay, it was a white lie, but not a bad one. “Mike, I did see a shutter move inside the house. You sure the missing son isn’t there?”
He sighed. “We’ll check it out. And I’ll tell the guys to stop laughing. See you tonight.”
I realized the problem: “the guys” were laughing at him, probably at Buck Conroy’s urging. I didn’t want to jeopardize my relationship with Mike, but I knew there was something I didn’t see, Buck didn’t see, no one did. And, by gosh, I wanted to figure it out. For some odd reason, I thought I owed Florence Dodson.
