Wedding Day Murder (16 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Wedding Day Murder
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“I came to see Mrs. Davitz. Is she home—I mean, aboard?”
“Follow me,” he said, taking Lucy back down to the lower deck and leading her through the grand saloon. As they passed through, Lucy noticed a large number of flower arrangements and fruit baskets. Continuing down a flight of stairs, the steward paused outside a closed door, knocked, and entered, leaving Lucy in the passage. In a moment, he returned and told her Mrs. Davitz would see her.
Lucy had expected the stateroom to be luxurious, but she hadn't expected it to be quite so spacious. Far away, across yards of white broadloom, Thelma was perched in a silk-covered easy chair, with a stack of letters in her lap.
Lucy hurried over to her, proffering her tin of cookies. “I just wanted to come and tell you how sorry I am,” she said.
Deftly Thelma took the tin with one hand and used the other to clasp Lucy's hand.
“You are so sweet to think of me,” she said, “in this terrible time.”
Lucy extricated herself and sat in the companion chair, waiting while Thelma dabbed her eyes and composed herself.
“I'll never forgive myself,” said Thelma, patting her gray twin set and rattling her ropes of pearls. “My last words to him were . . . unpleasant. We were arguing, about the shower. I so wanted him to come. He said he had better things to do.” She sniffed. “Why couldn't I let it go?” She raised her eyes to meet Lucy's. “I never had a chance to say good-bye. But how are you supposed to know that you'll never see . . .”
Thelma bent her head, unable to go on, and Lucy passed her a box of tissues.
“You couldn't know,” said Lucy, in a soothing voice. She waited while Thelma dried her eyes. “I see you've gotten a lot of flowers—a lot of people are going to miss Ron very much.”
Thelma sighed. “People have been so kind. See this phalaenopsis orchid? Barbara Walters sent it. And this one, it's from Diane Sawyer and Mike Nichols. That fruit basket, it's from Gwyneth Paltrow—such a dear. And, of course, Norah's been an absolute wonder. I would never have been able to get through the last few days without her.”
Lucy wondered if Thelma knew that her time on the yacht was running out. “Maybe you should stay with her for a while,” she suggested. “You'd be a lot more comfortable at her place, and you wouldn't be alone.”
“I really am alone, aren't I?” Thelma sniffed. “I've lost my husband, and now my only child is gone, too.”
“It's terrible, I know,” said Lucy. “Can I get you something? Some tea? Would you like a piece of candy?”
Thelma dabbed at her eyes. “I think I could manage one of those Godiva chocolates.”
Lucy followed her pudgy, beringed finger and saw a stack of candy boxes on a table. She went over and opened the top one.
“No, dear. The Godivas are in the gold box.”
Lucy found the box and carried it over to Thelma, who studied the contents.
“None of them look very appealing,” she said.
Lucy couldn't agree and hoped Thelma would offer her one. After all, she hadn't had lunch yet.
“I guess I'll try this one.” Thelma plucked a dark chocolate heart out of the box and slowly placed it in her mouth. Then she put the lid back on the box and set it on the table next to her.
“Have you made any plans for a funeral service?” inquired Lucy.
“I'm waiting to hear from Ron's company,” said Thelma, reaching for another chocolate. “I've put in several calls, but they haven't called back.”
“No one has called back?” Lucy thought this was odd.
“No.” Thelma was looking in the box, trying to decide which to eat next. “I suppose they're discussing what sort of observance would be most suitable. Perhaps they will have him lie in state in the company headquarters.”
Lucy thought this was unlikely. “Where are the company headquarters?”
Thelma looked rather blank. “I don't actually know. Isn't that funny?”
Pretty funny, thought Lucy. “I suppose a lot of men keep their business lives separate from their private lives.”
Thelma nodded, her mouth too full to answer until she swallowed. “Ron was just like that. He was absolutely fierce about it. Never let me so much as peek in his briefcase.” Thelma sighed. “But I can't really complain. He was very generous to me. He was a wonderful son.”
Lucy nodded sympathetically. “You must have so many wonderful memories of him,” she said. “No one can take those from you. You will always have them to take comfort from.” Lucy hesitated, then continued. “I wonder, what is your last memory of Ron?”
Thelma sucked on a chocolate and leaned her head back, apparently searching her memory.
“He went off to town around five o'clock. For a meeting with that writer from
CyberWorld
magazine, he said. I've already told you I was upset with him, seeing we were going to have the shower so soon.” She dabbed at her eyes. “I didn't see him after that.” Thelma looked at her. “You never know, do you? When you say good-bye to someone, it may be for the very last time.”
“You never know,” Lucy agreed, thinking that if Thelma was correct, Dorfman was probably the last one to see Ron alive. Had there been some sort of confrontation about the missing notes? She stood up to go.
“Oh, do you have to leave so soon?” Thelma was disappointed.
“I'm afraid so.”
“I understand,” she answered, in a resigned voice. “Would you please pass me that basket of fruit?”
Chapter Eighteen
P
eople's reactions to death were never quite what you expected, Lucy thought, reminding herself that it wasn't fair to judge someone until you had walked a mile in their moccasins—or in Thelma's case, her Manolo Blahniks. Not that she was sure exactly what she had expected from Thelma.
It just seemed odd, she thought, as she left the boat. Despite all the flowers and fruit baskets she had received, all the phone calls from celebrities, Thelma seemed very alone. Isolated, even, and ignorant of her situation. Ron's inattention to finances—he apparently had forgotten to pay the rent on the yacht and hadn't bothered to cover the check for the docking fee—had left his mother in an awkward situation. She reminded Lucy of some doomed, uncomprehending grand duchess trapped in a castle while the mob raged at the gates. It was just a matter of time before the gates fell.
On the one hand, maybe Ron had just been careless about paying his bills. Lots of people were, Lucy knew, and it didn't necessarily mean they were short of cash. On the other hand, it did seem funny that Thelma hadn't heard from any business associates or colleagues of Ron's. Wouldn't it be funny, she thought as she toiled up the hill to Main Street, if it turned out that Ron wasn't a millionaire at all? If he wasn't really the next Bill Gates? If
Secure.net
wasn't doing quite as well as everyone thought?
It was unlikely, she admitted to herself. Investments were strictly regulated, weren't they? Weren't there all sorts of checks and balances and rules about disclosure and insider trading and . . . Well, she admitted to herself, she wasn't exactly sure of the particulars, but it seemed impossible that everybody could be wrong about
Secure.net
.
The person who would know, of course, was Dorfman. She wanted to talk to him about Ron's behavior on the day he died, anyway. She paused for a moment at the corner of Main Street, checked her watch, and decided to take the car over to the Queen Vic. That way, she wouldn't have to retrace her steps to retrieve it.
She was hungry, she realized as she started the car, but there was no time to eat now. She wanted to talk to Dorfman, and then she knew she ought to stop in at Sue's and see how they were coping.
If
they were coping. Whatever they were doing over there.
It was confusing, Lucy admitted. There was Thelma, mother of the next Bill Gates, about to be evicted from her luxurious yacht, but nonetheless showered with formal expressions of sympathy from people Lucy knew only as names in print. And on the other side of town, Sue had cut herself off from the friends and neighbors who genuinely cared about her and Sidra and wanted to ease their grief with a hearty casserole, a bunch of zinnias from the garden, or just by sitting with them awhile.
One step at a time, Lucy reminded herself. First she was going to talk to Dorfman, and then she'd tackle Sue.
Lucy had only driven a short way down Main Street before she realized something was going on. Several police cars were pulled up in front of the Queen Vic, and another was blocking the driveway. She parked in a shady spot on a side street, then grabbed her camera and notebook and hurried back to the inn. When she tried to mount the steps to the porch, however, a uniformed officer turned her away.
“Why can't I go in?” demanded Lucy. “My daughter works here and”—she patted her oversized bag—“she forgot her lunch. I just want to give Elizabeth her lunch. It's already past one and she has low blood sugar, you see, and if she isn't careful about her diet . . .”
Lucy saw the officer's eyes glazing over. “Go on. Just make it snappy,” he said.
Charging into the inn's reception area, Lucy spotted a chambermaid's cart at the end of the first-floor hall and made straight for it. Coming out of a room to fetch towels, Elizabeth blinked.
“Mom! What are you doing here?”
“What's going on? There are cops all over the place!”
“You're telling me. They were looking for Dorfman but he wasn't here, so they're searching his room. They had a warrant and everything. There must be a dozen cops up there. Nobody's supposed to go on the third floor—even the guests can't go back to their rooms.” She looked at her mother. “How did you get in?”
“I told the officer I was bringing you your lunch.”
“Thanks, Mom. I forgot it this morning.”
“I don't have it—I just said that to get inside.”
“You don't?”
“No.”
“I'm starving. This is really hard work, you know.”
“Can't you buy something?”
“I don't have any money. You make me put it all in the bank.”
“You had thirty dollars for the week, plus tips.”
“It's gone now.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “Here's five dollars. Get yourself a sandwich.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
It was only when she was leaving that she came to her senses. Elizabeth, starving? Not likely. The girl hadn't eaten a square meal in years. Nope, she'd been duped out of five dollars. Probably for cigarettes.
Kids, she muttered, stamping her foot on the sidewalk and hurrying to her car. You tell them smoking is bad and will make them sick, you carefully keep a smoke-free house, and what do they do? Sneak off and smoke in secret, as if she didn't know what was going on. As if Elizabeth's laundry didn't smell of cigarettes! Still fuming, she yanked the door open and plunked herself in the driver's seat. Next stop, Sue's house, she reminded herself as she put the key in the ignition. She had just turned it when a hand clamped over her mouth.
“Just drive. Don't look back. Got it?”
Frozen with fear, Lucy willed her head to nod up and down.
“I've got a gun, so don't try anything funny.”
Lucy wasn't about to. It was all she could do to get the car in gear. Preparing to pull out in traffic, she instinctively glanced at the rearview mirror, but the carjacker caught the motion and flipped up the mirror. All Lucy got was a glimpse of a leather wrist band with metal studs.
“I'll tell you if it's clear,” he growled. “Go! Now!”
Lucy cautiously pulled out of her parking spot and proceeded slowly down the street. Her heart was pounding and she was holding on to the steering wheel as if it were a life preserver. She tried frantically to think of some way to save herself. Maybe if she drove very slowly she would attract attention from the police officers who were standing on the curb, chatting with each other.
“Can't you go a little faster?”
So much for Plan A, she thought, pressing her foot on the gas pedal. Maybe she should try speeding.
“Just go the speed limit and nobody' ll get hurt. Just get me to the interstate.”
“What then?” asked Lucy, her voice quavering.
The question seemed to anger her kidnapper. “Just drive,” he snarled, and she felt something cold and hard pressed against her neck.
Lucy took in a sharp breath. She didn't want to get killed; she didn't want to spend the rest of her life paralyzed. “I'll do whatever you say,” she whispered.
“That's better.”
She breathed a sigh of relief as the gun was removed from her neck.
“Remember, any funny stuff and I won't hesitate to use this.”
“No funny stuff,” she said, realizing with dismay that they were already out of town and it wasn't far to the entrance ramp to the turnpike. Once they were on the highway, she realized, her chances of rescue would be much slimmer. The farther they got from home, the greater her danger would be. She had to do something to save herself.
But what? she wondered, as the familiar landmarks slipped by one by one. They'd already passed the outlet mall and the farmhouse with the lawn full of homemade whirligigs and miniature windmills and lighthouses. The ramp was just ahead.
The toll, thought Lucy, feeling a little surge of hope. Maybe she could signal the toll attendant who handed out the cards.
“Go to the far right,” the carjacker ordered.
Lucy did and pulled up at the automatic dispenser. Grabbing the ticket, she slammed her foot down on the accelerator as hard as she could, making the car lurch forward.
“Easy,” he bellowed, and she felt the gun at the nape of her neck.
If she ever got out of this, she vowed as she lifted her foot off the gas pedal, she would kill Sidra. What had that silly girl ever seen in Davitz? Why had she ever gotten involved with a shady guy like that? She was certain of it now. He must have been involved in something crooked or he wouldn't have gotten himself killed and she wouldn't be exposed to this unpleasant person who was sitting in the backseat of her car, holding a gun to her head.
This was not the new economy; it was the oldest economy going, and Dorfman must have cottoned to it. That's why the cops were searching his room. Davitz couldn't have been working alone, she thought, her mind in a whirl. He had to have accomplices. Not Thelma, she didn't have a clue. And certainly not Sidra—Lucy wouldn't even entertain the thought. What about those two men in polo shirts she'd seen at the coffee shop? They had certainly looked suspicious. Lucy sent up a little prayer that it wasn't one of those hard-eyed, over muscled men in her backseat, but she was pretty sure it must be.
“Pull into this rest area; go into the parking area for trucks.”
Lucy's heart sank. This was it. He'd take the car, of course. But what was he going to do with her?
“Pull up behind that gravel truck.”
Oh, no. Not knocked on the head, maybe killed, thrown into a gravel truck, and covered by a tarp. How long would it be before she was discovered? Not until the driver reached his destination, that was for sure.
“Now, listen very carefully and do exactly as I tell you. Look straight ahead, but put your hand back, palm up.”
Lucy obeyed, ashamed of the way her hand shook. Something small and cold was placed in the palm of her hand. Poison? He was going to make her swallow poison?
“It's a quarter. Now I want you to get out of the car, just walk away. Leave your keys and purse. Go straight to the rest area, wait ten minutes, and call somebody to come and get you.”
Clutching the quarter and shaking, Lucy reached for the door handle, then paused as a tidal wave of anger rose within her. This was no carjacking; it must be some stupid prank of Toby's. What a lot of nerve this jerk had, terrifying her, making her drive over hell and beyond. She wasn't going to take it.
“What do you think you're doing?” she screamed, whirling around to face her kidnapper. “Like I have nothing better to do than . . . than . . .”
She stammered to a halt, recognizing Dorfman in the backseat.
“I should have known,” she said. “You used me to get away from the cops.”
“I had to,” he said. “My car's still in the shop.”
Lucy narrowed her eyes. “Did you really have a gun?”
Dorfman showed her a Swiss Army knife. “It wasn't even open.”
Lucy looked him over. He didn't seem very threatening now, slumped down in the backseat. But he had been desperate enough to kidnap her. He must have a reason. He must be guilty, she thought.
“You killed Ron?”
“No!” He shook his head. “You don't understand. That whole
Secure.net
thing is a fraud. It's nothing but an old-fashioned pyramid scheme. There's no technological breakthrough. No business. Nothing but a glossy prospectus. He conned people—some pretty famous people—into investing.”
Lucy shook her head. “How could he pull it off? It seems fantastic.”
“Just say the word
Internet
or
dot com
and people are falling all over themselves to invest. He talked the stock up big in Internet chat rooms, dropping tips. Investors ate it up, falling all over each other to buy the stock and driving the price up. It's called ‘pump and dump.' When the time was right he'd sell and disappear, leaving the investors holding a lot of worthless stock.”

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