Waiting for Armando (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (13 page)

“Maybe Vera liked the respectability of being married to a prominent lawyer,” Ingrid offered. “She attended every social function with him and entertained beautifully, I’m told, although I was never invited to their home. She seemed to love decorating their house, and she certainly enjoyed wearing beautiful clothes. That much I knew from the bills Alain would ask me to pay from time to time.”

“Unless I miss my guess,” I chimed in, “our Vera wasn’t into playing the field. I think she and Grace
have
been an item for quite some time. What’s more, I think Alain knew it and didn’t care. All in all, it was a perfect arrangement. He had a lovely and capable wife to show off publicly, and he got to indulge his taste for a variety of bedmates—sorry, Ingrid—without risking any serious entanglements, since all of his partners knew up front that he was thoroughly and publicly married. Vera enjoyed the money and public position of being his wife while sharing an intimate relationship with the woman of her choice. She and Grace probably enjoyed the fact that Vera was perceived to be the betrayed little woman, when the fact is, it was a toss-up as to who was betraying whom.”

“Of course, we’re just
surmisin
’ that all this is so,” Margo reminded us. “It might be true, and it might not. Maybe Vera did Alain in so she could get all the money and run away with her lover. Or maybe Grace got sick and tired of Vera
bein
’ in the closet and disposed of the filthy man to force her into
comin
’ out into the open with their relationship. Let’s just keep our eyes and our minds open.”

We entered the hotel lobby and trudged toward the Nutmeg Room to pay our respects formally and, more importantly, to be seen doing it.
Strutter
and Margo had the additional assignment of determining which of
Girouard’s
previous paramours were present and which were missing. It was barely noon, and we had already made some pretty interesting discoveries. Who knew what else the day might bring? We agreed to regroup in the main lobby of the hotel in an hour and dispersed to see what we could see.

After exchanging pleasantries about the service with a few of the other secretaries, Ingrid and I collected glasses of iced tea and positioned ourselves against a handy wall. Having already expressed sympathy to the widow, we didn’t feel obligated to go through the receiving line. However, we had a clear view of all those who did, and we watched Vera and Grace intently over the rims of our glasses for additional clues to their relationship. There were none to be seen, however. The two women presented calm faces to those who approached to offer a word of condolence. Vera introduced Grace as an old school friend. After half an hour or so, Grace suggested that the elder
Girouards
be seated and ushered them to nearby wing chairs into which they sank with obvious relief.

At one point Ingrid hissed at me, “There’s Suzanne Southerland, the blowsy redhead coming up to Vera right now. She was Alain’s love interest before he started hitting on me, and boy, did she make a fuss when he got tired of her. He arranged to get her transferred down to trusts and estates just to get her off our floor. What a nerve she has showing her face here.”

I refrained from commenting on Ingrid’s caustic characterization of the redhead, considering that very likely those around us were thinking the same about Ingrid. I retrieved my little notebook from my handbag and made a checkmark next to Suzanne’s name. As I bent down to return my bag to the floor beside me, I felt eyes upon me and looked up to see Karp staring at me from across the room. Quickly, I looked away and suggested to Ingrid that it was about time for us to meet
Strutter
and Margo.

We reached the lobby and found an unoccupied cluster of four chairs in a quiet corner.
Strutter
and Margo had not yet arrived. I looked around to be sure I wasn’t being overheard. “Did you see Karp staring at me? He caught me writing in my notebook. I can’t imagine what he must think I was doing.”

“Huh,” Ingrid said. “I thought he was staring at me. Alain wasn’t exactly discreet about his intentions toward me. I thought Karp was thinking I had probably just applied for the position on his support staff to divert suspicion.”

“Well, whichever one of us he was staring at, he gave me the creeps,” I finished up as Margo and
Strutter
crossed the lobby to where we were. They sat, and Margo eased her feet out of her stylish pumps and wiggled her toes gratefully.

We exchanged notes on our observations but had nothing of real significance to report. All of
Girouard’s
former girlfriends who still worked at BGB—Suzanne Southerland, Gail McDermott, and Shelby Carmichael—had been present at the service, and I ticked off their names in my notebook. No one had been observed doing anything suspicious, and no incriminating conversations had been overheard. It would have been difficult to top the discovery of Vera’s relationship with Grace Eckersley anyway.

We agreed that the following morning I would place another call to Detective Diaz to see what, if anything, the toxicology reports had revealed, assuming she was inclined to share that information. Then we straggled out of the hotel and headed for our cars, which were parked on various side streets instead of the Main Street lot due to the light Sunday traffic. Before we parted I gave Ingrid, who was looking pale and woebegone, a motherly hug and said I would call her later.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to. Emma came by for an early supper with her brother, who had prepared killer chili. I was in the kitchen drinking an
Alka
Seltzer surreptitiously on the pretext of loading the dishwasher when the phone rang. Emma, who was playing with Moses on the living room floor, answered it, then predictably yelled, “It’s for you, ‘
Cita
.” I rinsed out my telltale glass hastily and picked up in the kitchen.

“Got it, thanks.”

Emma clicked off, and I barely recognized Ingrid, who was clearly the worse for drink.

“Kate, you have to help me. I don’t know who else to call, where else to go.” In her inebriated state, it came out “
elsh
.” After the day’s events, her grief and shock must be catching up with her, and she was self-medicating. I tried for soothing.

“Of course I’ll help you. We’ll all help you. All for one, and one for all, remember? Tomorrow, I’m going to speak to Detective Diaz about the toxicology report, and then maybe we’ll all have a better idea of who we’re looking for.”

An untidy slurping sound and the clinking of ice cubes met my ear. Then, “You were right about
Bolasevich
and
Bellanfonte
wanting me out of BGB. Karp left a message on my machine.
Told me not to bother coming in tomorrow, told me to take a few weeks off.
Said the firm would pay my salary, but I should stay home until this thing has been cleared up.” She snuffled self-pityingly and took another swig of her drink. “No wonder he wasn’t happy to see us this afternoon. Did you notice how he stood between me and my desk when he thought I wanted to check my messages from last Friday?”

I had noticed, and I said so. “I’m sorry, Ingrid, but it’s not exactly a surprise, right? Try to think of it this way. Now you’ll have more time to dig up the information we need to help the police solve this thing. At least they haven’t suspended you without pay.”

Another snuffle.
“That’s not all. There was a second message.
From that Detective Diaz.”
More slurping and clinking.

“Diaz called you? What happened? Did she catch you using an alias in the security logbook, too?” I joked in an attempt to get her off her pity pot. Alas, she was too far gone to respond to my feeble effort.

“She says she has a few more questions, and would I mind coming down to the station tomorrow morning around 10:00. Said I should bring someone with me, if I’d feel more comfortable. Well, what I want to know is, how can I feel comfortable when I’m about to be arrested for murder?” She made unladylike
whuffling
noises into what I hoped was a tissue.

I thought fast. Could that be possible? Was it kosher police procedure to ask someone to come to the station and then throw a net over her? “You are not about to be arrested for murder!” I said loudly, whistling in the dark but hoping Ingrid wouldn’t see through my bravado. Too late, I saw Emma and Joey staring at me from the doorway. “For one thing, Ingrid, they have no more reason to suspect you than they do to suspect at least five other
women,
and those are just the ones we know about. For another, you didn’t do it, so what evidence could they possibly have that you did?” I made shooing gestures at my offspring, and reluctantly, they left the room.

“Then why does Diaz want to see me? She has something up her sleeve. The police don’t call you down to the station unless they want to scare you,” she hiccupped. “I’ve heard Alain say that a hundred times. If they knock on your door, it’s an information visit. If they yank you down to headquarters, they think you’re guilty—or you know who is.”

I chewed on my lower lip as I considered my next words carefully. “Listen, Ingrid. I don’t know why Diaz wants to see you, and I don’t know if she seriously suspects you of murdering Alain. But you have been summoned, and she did indicate that you should bring someone with you. Isn’t it time you got yourself a lawyer? Just to be on the safe side?

“A lawyer,” Ingrid wailed, “when the lawyers I’ve worked for, whose sleazy secrets I’ve kept, whose arrogant asses I’ve covered for years, just kicked me out into the street? The last person in the world I want with me in that police station tomorrow is a bloody lawyer, Kate. Would you come with me? Please?”

I sighed heavily. “If that’s what you want, of course I’ll come with you, but I still think you should consider retaining a lawyer. As a matter of fact, I have a couple of things I want to discuss with Detective Diaz myself. Now put a cork in that bottle, and go to sleep.” I hung up the phone and trudged into the living room to fill in Emma and Joey on the unlikely events of the last week.

Eight

Early Monday morning I left a voice mail for Paula Hughes in HR indicating that I needed to take a few hours of personal time and would be at work in time to relieve
Strutter
for her lunch break. Then I left separate voice mails for
Strutter
and Margo to let them know where I really would be, with Ingrid. Their assignment was to chat up
Girouard’s
in-house ex-girlfriends for signs of glee, guilt, nervousness or other telltale emotions. I proposed that we meet in the thirty-ninth-floor kitchen for coffee mid-afternoon and compare notes on the events of the day.

At 9:15 I pulled into the driveway of the two-story house in the Elmwood section of West Hartford where Ingrid rented a second-floor apartment. She was sitting on the front steps, fidgeting unhappily with the strap of her shoulder bag. After climbing into the passenger seat, she fumbled with the seatbelt clasp,
then
leaned back with a groan.

“Headache?”
I surmised.

She nodded briefly, eyes closed.

We made the fifteen-minute trip to the Hartford police station in silence, where an officer who to my eyes looked about twelve years old directed us to the Detective Division. As we waited for the elevator to the second floor, I looked about with interest, but our surroundings were unremarkable. The lower level housed a large, raised desk that seemed to be the hub of the operation; a smaller desk off to one side which bore a sign reading “Community Relations Officer;” a long bench beneath some extraordinarily dirty windows; and a tiled corridor lined with closed doors. The elevator was on the internal wall just before the corridor. The color scheme was gray, brown and institutional green.

The elevator finally arrived, and we creaked slowly to the second floor, where it jolted to a stop. We exited and followed signs down a short hallway to an area labeled “Detective Division.” It was packed with desks, most occupied by men of assorted sizes and ages who were either engrossed in paperwork or talking on the telephone. We spotted
Leilani
Diaz at a desk toward the back of the room. She wore an embroidered shirt in a vivid shade of red and spoke animatedly into the receiver tucked between her chin and shoulder, gesturing energetically with her hands. I noticed that her nail polish matched her shirt.

A pleasant, but harried, young receptionist indicated unnecessarily that Detective Diaz was on the telephone and invited us to have a seat on a bench that was the twin of the one downstairs. We sat silently. I felt like a schoolgirl waiting in the principal’s office to be chewed out for passing notes in class. Ingrid looked pale and shaky, which I attributed to her hangover and hoped wouldn’t raise Diaz’ suspicions any higher than they already were.