Murder Among Friends Page 8

  My eyes weren't green, but I let that pass. “How do you prove that I'm the homeowner?” I asked, frowning.

  "Your name on the documents, and your social security number. Maybe a picture ID."

  I was well aware that a person's social security number could be obtained for a price on the Internet, and not a very high price at that.

  "We're assuming Paul had something to do with the mortgage," Army said. "How difficult would it be for Paul to get Evelyn's social or her driver's license?"

  Not difficult at all.

  "People don't hide their records in their own homes," Antoinette said. "Look in their wallet for their social security card. Most people don't guard them that well. Not as well as they do their credit cards.”

  “But you probably don’t even need that,” Douglas said.

  “Okay” I said, even more disturbed. "You check my credit. What's next?”

  "Then I'd call the mortgage company that originally held your mortgage."

  “To verify my identity?”

  “No, to verify your mortgage was paid off. The credit check will tell me that, too."

  “But at that point you'd have to know I wasn't Evelyn.”

  “No, I wouldn't,” Douglas said, shaking his head. “I’m more concerned about your credit rating.”

  "But wouldn't you have to do an appraisal of the house?" I asked.

  "How hard is that?" Frank asked. "An accomplice could arrange to be there while the appraisal was done, show the house, pretend to be Evelyn."

  I had a sick feeling in my stomach.

  "Would you close on the mortgage in the usual way?" I asked.

  Douglas nodded.

  "Wouldn't you know, then, that I wasn't Evelyn?"

  "Not if the person stealing Evelyn's identity had a social and a driver's license with her name," Father David said. "It's not all that difficult to purchase one on the street."

  "So the loan is made," Douglas said. "After the closing, after you've signed all the loan documents, you get your check."

  I folded my arms. "But what about that? I've got a check made out to Evelyn Addison."

  He only smiled.

  Army took up the narrative. “Again, not an obstacle. You can create a checking account on the Internet with just her social security number and her name. Then deposit the money, wait a few days, and transfer the balance to another, probably equally fictitious, checking account before the statement date, and cash out. You'd be gone before the homeowner ever knew.”

  "Until Evelyn got the paperwork in the mail," I said.

  "It might show up on your credit report that you’ve applied for a home equity loan, but if you don’t make a habit of checking it monthly, you’d never know.”

  “One other thing to consider,” Douglas said. “Unless Paul dressed up as Evelyn, he had an accomplice.” He leaned back. "Frankly, I'm surprised someone hasn't done more of these scams. These old houses are cash cows, especially if they're paid off. And if we're talking about a quarter of a million dollars, not an appreciable amount of paperwork for that kind of money.”

  I’ve never felt vulnerable living in the King Lion District. I have felt a little conspicuous in the last several years, especially after the houses in this area had become so inflated in value.

  From time to time, people would drive through the neighborhood and glance up at our homes with envy on their faces. They didn't know the sacrifices we had to make to restore a house this size. We'd gone without central air-conditioning for five years before we could afford to have it installed. On hundred degree days, I used to load Barbara in the car, and we'd drive around the block with the AC going full blast in order to cool off. We’d spent summers in the mall or the zoo, or in poorer times, out in the backyard.

  We didn't go on vacations; we revamped the kitchen. We didn't give each other Christmas presents; we roofed the house. We didn't drive a new car until we'd finished the landscaping. All choices we made.

  "So," I said, looking at all of them, "Evelyn took out the loan, then died of a perfectly natural heart attack.”

  “Or she was killed because she discovered the loan,” Army said softly.

  "Then who the hell killed Paul?"

  I was to be excused for the profanity of the moment – the world I thought so solid, so unchangeable, so blessedly boring, was slowly crumbling in front of me.

  "That's the question, isn't it?" Harry said.

  The other members of the Murder Club were looking at me. Evelyn was my friend. This was my neighborhood. This wasn't a damn game to me. Or a hobby.

  I needed to leave, and quickly. Something must have shown on my face, because Army whisked me from the room and to the front door with lightning speed.

  "I didn't say goodbye."

  Jennifer Roberts, always polite even when she was about to throw up.

  "I'll convey your farewells," Army said, eternally courtly.

  He didn't say anything, but as he opened the door, he reached out one hand to pat me on the shoulder.

  "They don't mean to be disrespectful, Jennifer. They see the event, not the person. They didn't know Evelyn. They don't grieve for her."

  I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, feeling the wind from the open door bathe my heated cheeks.

  "I hate death."

  "So do they. They hate it even more because it didn't come naturally."

  I opened my eyes and looked at him. Tonight, in the candlelight, he'd looked twenty years younger. In the glare of the porch light, he was every one of his seventy something years.

  “So you think it is murder?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you think it's someone we know?"

  "I hope not," he said, and for the first time, I heard despair in his voice.

  "What's worse?" I asked. "To be killed by someone you know and trust? Or by a stranger?"

  He didn't have an answer.

  Tom still wasn't home when I let myself in the front door. I was glad, for once, since I didn’t want to be forced to lie to him if we encountered each other.

  Honesty wasn't always the best policy in marriage. There are certain times when lying was better. Yes, darling, it was wonderful for me, too. No, I don’t mind that you spent that much on new golf clubs. Of course, we’ll go to your mother’s house this year. Marriage was a series of white lies strung together by years. Or gray lies you wished were whiter.

  Where was Tom? Working? Or investigating Mary Lynn's assets?

  The house felt large and lonely, almost chilly. Each floor had its own compressor, and I heard the downstairs one cycle on as I entered.

  I hung my shawl up in the hall closet, walked toward the stairs and was greeted by Sally coming down. She was cautious on steps as if she couldn’t see them well. Since she was only five, I doubted that was the reason, but I’d told the vet about it just in case. He’d said, in Sally’s case, it was probably just an extension of her natural timidity.

  I bent down and rubbed between her ears. “Did you guard the house?”

  She licked my fingers in response.

  We went outside. The wind iced out of the north, erasing scents, chilling my skin, and making me wish I hadn't taken off my shawl.

  Once upstairs, I went into my sitting room and got comfy on the chaise with my laptop. I checked my email, wrote a cyber friend in Arizona and another in Louisiana, commiserated about a third’s husband and oldest son. It always surprised me that, when you could be anyone on the internet, people divulged so many real and personal details about themselves. Or maybe I just bought in to their personas. Maybe they were all teenage boys.

  I surfed for awhile, then shut off the computer and got ready for bed in my borrowed bedroom.

  Tom still wasn’t home.

  I stood looking at the empty bed we should be sharing. Even if I moved back in from the guest bedroom, it wouldn't lessen the distance between us.

  He meant every word he'd said, and the fact it had taken so long for him to say them only de
epened their significance. Tom was a deep thinker, a contemplator, a man comfortable with weighing his comments and his opinions before voicing them. He'd make an excellent judge.

  As a husband, however, he wasn't supportive. He was there, physically, but mentally and emotionally?

  Something would have to be done and I knew what it was. Sadness overwhelmed me as I realized I didn't flinch from the decision. I might have a few months ago. I might have wanted Tom with me regardless of whether or not we cared for each other.

  I'd read once, and since I'm a prolific reader I haven't a clue where, that the death of a child will either strengthen a marriage or split it in two. Is there any other choice? Maybe a kind of fog we'd drifted in for months, an amorphous grayness.

  A living purgatory.

  Was anyone happy? Were there any happy marriages? I ran through my work acquaintances, then my neighbors. A male friend at work, obviously in love with his wife of five years. Army and Frank, were they happy? Mrs. Maldonado, a widow for many years and Linda the same. Dorothy?

  I grabbed a clean nightgown and walked down the hall to my new bedroom, Sally beside me. Before I undressed, however, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed Army.

  "How long?" I asked when Army answered. "How long does it take to do the whole home equity thing?"

  "From one to three months. Why?"

  "And a house would need to be paid off, right?"

  "No," he said. "It's not really necessary."

  "Could Douglas check on something else?"

  Silence on the other end of the phone. I could almost hear Army frown.

  "What is it, Jennifer?"

  "Could you check Linda's house?"

  His indrawn breath meant he'd connected the dots, too.

  Dorothy had been living with her mother for four months. More than enough time to do what she needed to do.

  13

  The afternoon was lovely, tending toward the seventies. Thanksgiving would soon be upon us, and then Christmas, a time of year I dreaded for months now.

  Army and I walked down the sidewalk side by side. He didn't speak and neither did I. There wasn't much to say, after all. What I feared had been verified. Linda had a huge home equity loan on her house.

  Yes, the houses on this block were large, and yes, Texas was doing better than most of the economy, but the amount was large enough to steal my breath since it represented almost the maximum allowable amount, eighty percent of the property's value.

  How was Linda going to repay the loan? For that matter, why had Linda needed the money? Neither question was any of my business, but that didn't stop me from worrying.

  We both slowed our steps, our joint reluctance evident. If I didn't like Linda so much, I wouldn't be on my way to her house. If Army didn't like her equally as well, he wouldn't have asked to join me on my errand.

  Neither one of us, however, wanted to pry. Or even worse, divulge the information to her, especially if Dorothy had something to do with it.

  Linda had three children, but I'd only met Dorothy in the years we'd lived here. The two boys never visited their mother. Or, if they did, it was in the dead of night and they left before dawn.

  Dorothy didn't have any children and according to Linda didn't want any, a subject that was a source of sadness for the older woman. But Linda hadn't mentioned Dorothy and her childlessness since Barbara's death.

  I couldn't help but wonder how many other topics of conversation people didn't bring up for fear of upsetting me. The thought was almost amusing. Drawing breath had been painful in those early days.

  I'd existed, for a few days or maybe weeks, in a timeless void, where sounds were just noises, and white was the only color I saw.

  Shapes were meaningless. Even thought had no basis, no tether. I was not a conscious being with thoughts and dreams, with a concept of past, present, and future. I'd shut down, almost an act of self-destruction except that I breathed and my heart beat strongly. My brain was simply on neutral.

  I watched television endlessly. I thumbed through magazines. I stared at the wall.

  Would my life be different now if I'd had more children? After Barbara, it just hadn't happened. I can only remember one conversation with Tom about more children, and the gist of it was life was good - why spoil it?

  "Perhaps we should have called the police," Army said.

  We both looked at each other.

  "We don't know anything for sure."

  He nodded. "We only have suspicions."

  "And a gut feeling," I said. "When have the police ever acted on gut feelings?"

  He nodded. "And it would alert anyone who might be working with Dorothy."

  "If she's the one," I said.

  He nodded again. "Dorothy is a suitable villain. She really doesn't belong to the King Lion District."

  I glanced over at him, surprised at his words. Not that he said them, but that they matched my own secret, and shameful, thought.

  "We're elitists," I said.

  He shook his head. "We're homeowners."

  "We're elitist homeowners. By your reasoning, Paul was a suitable victim because he didn't own property here, either."

  "Well, he did," Army conceded, "if you consider he inherited it."

  We were in front of Linda's house now. I'd much rather stand on the sidewalk talking to Army then take those steps. Visiting Linda was going to be a trial for my leg and an even more grievous one for my psyche.

  "We might as well get it over with," I said.

  He nodded as I sighed, and together we mounted the steps.

  Linda was as ancient as sand, imbued with wisdom matched with humor. She'd been old when Tom and I moved into our house. Age had shrunk her along with making her whisper thin, but she still toddled around her garden most days.

  Once, she'd been president of the King Lion District Garden Association and she still took her obligation seriously. Each year she planted annuals and every few years she had a landscaper redo her front yard. Sometimes I think all the lawns in the neighborhood had Linda to thank for their appearance. She was a hard act to follow, but everybody tried.

  I knocked on the front door and waited, knowing it would take awhile for Velma to make it to the door. Velma was one of those women Southern writers like to use as a character. Her leathery lined face bore testament to a life as a migrant worker, bearing and raising her three children in mind numbing semi-slavery. She’d come north ten years ago, after her children were grown, vowing never to return to Brownsville and never willingly walk into a field again. Linda had hired her after interviewing a few dozen more qualified applicants.

  No one, however, could have been more loyal.

  The door finally opened. Velma smiled down at me.

  “Good afternoon, Jennifer.”

  We’d known each other for ten years but only since Barbara’s death had Velma called me by my first name, as if the loss of my child made familiarity acceptable.

  She only nodded to Army. He ducked his head in a motion that had been old fashioned a hundred years ago.

  “Is Linda up for visitors, Velma?”

  "I'll go see if she's resting," Velma said, which was code for: I'll check if she wants to see you. But the words were delivered with a small, almost apologetic, smile.

  We stood on the porch, silent and respectful, two people coming to possibly destroy Linda's life.

  Did we have the right to do that?

  Velma returned in a matter of minutes, stepping aside and holding the door open. “I’m glad you’ve come. Today’s not a good day.”

  I hesitated on the threshold. “Has she been ill?”

  The other woman's eyes showed worry as she answered me.

  “The last month hasn’t been easy on her.” But that’s all she would say, loyalty implicit in the firmness of her lips.

  "We don’t want to intrude.”

  “It will do her good to see you,” she said, shaking her head. “Can I bring you some lemonade?”


  I declined with a smile. The first time I'd imbibed, I’d gone home tipsy. But one of the downsides to my pain pills - one of which I'd taken earlier - was that alcohol was strictly prohibited.

  Army, however, was not so restrained. I wanted to warn him, but reasoned if he knew Linda as well as I did, he was already familiar with Velma's concoction.

  The Violet Room was so called not because of the color of the walls but the hundreds of African Violets thriving there. Three of the walls had floor to ceiling windows and in front of each were rows of shelves, capturing the sun. Grow lights were positioned at exactly the right height above each plant, just in case the day was cloudy.

  Normally, Linda was fiddling with her plants, inspecting, pruning with diligence. Now, however, she was seated in a chair at the end of the room, her feet up on an ottoman and an afghan covering her from waist to toe.

  She looked frail, her wrists oddly bluish, the back of her hands filled with fat, wormy veins. Her white hair, as usual, was arranged around her head in a coronet. I had no idea how long it was but I suspected it reached at least to her waist. Another tidbit of her life she'd shared with me one day: how much her husband had loved brushing her hair.

  I was shocked by the change since I’d seen her a few weeks ago.

  “How is the leg?” she asked in a faint voice.

  “As well as can be expected.” I smiled. “How are you? Are you feeling all right?” I asked, moving to sit beside her on the adjoining chair.

  She nodded, but her smile seemed a little strained.

  Linda’s husband had been a fire captain in the SAFD who'd died in the line of duty. She, herself, had never worked, saying she'd been reared to be a wife and mother, nothing more and certainly nothing less.

  She smiled up at Army and lifted a trembling hand. In a gesture I almost expected, he bent and kissed her knuckles.

  I looked up as Velma entered the room with a full tray of goodies. Maybe if I ate a few of the cookies quickly, the calories wouldn't count.