Doris hesitated and the frightened look came over her. For a moment, Lydia thought she was going to clam up, but she continued speaking. “Claire heard about this miracle supplement that makes you look and feel thirty years younger.”
Lydia wondered if she’d missed something. Some vital pages of the story were missing. “Is that what you and Claire argued about? Her taking the miracle capsules?”
Doris frowned. “Good heavens, no. I told Claire her husband had lost me a bundle of money and she wouldn’t believe me.”
* * *
Lydia walked home slowly under the darkening sky, reviewing all that Doris had told her. Claire had been madly in love with her husband, despite his adulterous affairs and the fact that he treated her badly. Instead of divorcing him, she’d set out to regain his affections and was doomed to fail. No wonder she’d gotten angry when Doris criticized Marshall and turned her wrath on Lydia for exposing his past misdeeds.
Was Marshall up to his old embezzling tricks? And what to make of the miracle supplement Claire had started taking? That couldn’t have anything to do with Claire’s murder, could it? And who was supplying her with this hush-hush wonder?
The wind rose, sending dry leaves rattling along the street. Lydia sensed someone was following her, but when she spun around, no one was there. It gave her little comfort. The many trees and shrubs provided adequate cover for someone lurking in the dusk. Shivering, Lydia quickened her pace, and didn’t relax until she stood safely locked inside her home.
Lydia spent a good part of the evening reviewing all she’d learned about Claire Weill. Despite her own unpleasant encounter with the woman, she was forced to concede Claire had been a loving wife and caring friend, evoking the affection and loyalty of at least two female friends. No one seemed to dislike her.
From every angle, Marshall Weill presented himself as the likely candidate. The police had to consider him their chief suspect. No doubt, he had any number of motives for killing his wife. Maybe he wanted all of her money. From what she’d gathered, Marshall was bored with Claire, which was probably why he’d had an affair with Allison. As for opportunity, Weill had been at the clubhouse the night before and might have seen Lydia place her key under the fender. Her blood pressure rose as she imagined him congratulating himself for creating a murder scenario that included a way to get back at her. He’d use her car to kill his wife. Who better than Weill knew his wife’s jogging routine?
But proving his guilt was another matter.
Lydia turned off her reading lamp at eleven-thirty, then tossed and turned for two hours as her fears and anxieties rose to the surface. Her breath came in deep gulps. What if the police charged her with the murder? They had no proof, but she had no alibi. She and Claire had fought. Her car was the murder weapon. Lydia trembled, imagining her trial. She finally took herself in hand and swallowed a sleeping pill, vowing to call Samantha’s criminal lawyer friend in the morning.
When she did, it was to learn that Jack Campbell would be out of the country for another two weeks. Did Mrs. Krause care to speak to anyone else in the office?
Mrs. Krause didn’t. With a sigh, Lydia put down the phone. If she got arrested, she’d call Samantha. Her sister would know what to do.
Lydia spent the next few days discussing Claire’s murder with whomever she happened to meet out walking or in the clubhouse. No one had much to add to what she already knew. The only interesting piece of information came from a widow named Audrey Fuller, whose husband, Frank, had died the previous May.
“He loved to birdwatch, Frank did. All spring and summer. He kept an accurate record of every bird he saw. Wrote it down in his diary.”
Lydia was about to cut the conversation short, then was glad she hadn’t when Audrey added, “That morning he went to his favorite spot—the arboretum across Bellewood Road. You know where it is?”
Lydia nodded. The older woman’s eyes filled with tears.
“The police said he must have fallen and hit his head on a rock, but I don’t believe that for a minute.” Audrey shook her head. “Not my Frank. He was always cautious where he stepped.”
Frank had a digital camera, one she’d given him for his last birthday. He loved taking photos and always carried it with him. Audrey was certain he’d brought the camera with him the day he died, though it wasn’t on his person and never turned up. The police didn’t think this was important. They told her someone must have stolen the camera, or Frank must have lost it.
Interesting, Lydia thought, but not relevant to Claire’s death. Much as she disliked the idea, it was time to call on both Claire’s husband and best friend, Viv Maguire. She’d do that tomorrow.
She woke up after ten on Wednesday morning, discouraged and grumpy. Swimming laps would be just the thing to get her motor running properly again. The indoor pool was a godsend, she thought as she brushed her teeth. Except for the two men who swam every morning from seven-thirty till eight-fifteen, hardly anyone used it, so often she had the pool to herself. No need to watch out for wild elbows or splashing as other swimmers passed by. Most residents loved the card room, but the pool was her haven.
She nodded to the few people she met in the clubhouse, and made her way down the steps to the women’s changing room. She took off her outer clothing, grabbed a towel and entered the pool.
The water, several degrees cooler than tepid, always shocked her system. But she was willing to endure the brief unpleasantness for the wonderful benefits that followed. Once her body adjusted to the water temperature, Lydia floated on her back and let herself drift. Her mind emptied of all thought, her body released every tension.
If heaven actually exists, being there must feel like this,
she thought. Relaxed now, she began her crawl across the length of the pool.
She managed to complete eight laps before her arms grew tired and she switched to the side stroke. She could continue for hours, she decided, if she were ever tossed off a ship and had to remain afloat. This and other inane thoughts flittered through her mind as she turned from the deep end of the pool.
The sound came from behind—a mechanical type of noise, as if an awning were being raised or lowered. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the pool cover—she hadn’t even known there was one—was moving toward her. Terror rose in her throat. She jerked forward, arms and legs flailing, so that she was splashing instead of making headway. Water entered her mouth, went down her trachea. She coughed.
Mustn’t panic! She began swimming in earnest, kicking as hard as she could. The noise grew louder as the metal cover inched closer to her. It was six inches above the water line. Once it covered the pool, she wouldn’t be able to breathe. How on earth…?
Don’t think. Concentrate! Swim fast. Faster! The steps were before her. Awkwardly, she scrambled to her feet and up the first step as the metal pushed against her hips. She took the second step, then the third, finally standing on the rim of the pool as the cover slammed shut behind her.
“I’m safe,” she murmured, sinking into the nearest chair. She wrapped herself in her towel, attempting to soothe the tremors that racked her body. It was minutes before she could walk. She reached for the intercom phone and asked whoever was at the desk to please send the office manager down to the pool because there’d been an accident.
Margie, the efficient, forty-something manager, came immediately. “The pool’s closed! Who on earth activated the cover?” she asked.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Lydia said. “I was in the pool when it happened.”
“Oh, no! You could have been killed!”
“I know.”
Margie sat down beside her. “What’s happening to this place? It used to be so—peaceful.”
“Until I came to live here,” Lydia said.
Margie patted her hand. “Don’t be silly. You didn’t close the cover. The mechanism’s inside the men’s locker room. Someone must have…” She faltered.
“Wanted to kill me.”
“Don’t say that! I’m sure it was an accident.”
“Did you see anyone come down here in the last hour or so?”
“No. I’ve been busy in the office.” She looked at Lydia. “Would you like me to wait here while you change into your street clothes?”
“I’d appreciate it. Then I’m going home to call Detective Molina.”
* * *
He arrived at her front door half an hour later, looking handsome in a tweed blazer and gray trousers.
“Hello, Mrs. Krause. You’ve had yourself one hell of a morning.”
“So it seems.”
She led the way into the living room and sat on a sofa. He sat facing her. “I’ve just come from the pool. The mechanism appears to be in perfect working order.”
“Any idea who closed it?”
“No. I spoke to Stefano, your head of maintenance. He told me they almost never use the cover. I spoke to two other workers, Ralph and John. They don’t know anything, either.” He pressed his lips together. “They’re going to place a small metal cage over the switch, so this will never happen again.”
“Thank God.”
“Did you see anyone while you were down there?”
Lydia shook her head. “Whoever it was knows I rarely miss a morning swim. He was waiting down there to kill me.” A tremor ran through her body. “Maybe it was Marshall Weill, angry because I exposed him as a felon. Maybe he waited to ward off suspicion, then tried to kill me.”
“Days after his wife was killed?”
Lydia shrugged, suddenly confused. “I—I’m not sure.”
The smile he offered was filled with kindness. “I’m wondering if someone meant this as a warning, Mrs. Krause.”
“A warning? Why?”
“You tell me.”
She hesitated. Was Detective Molina clairvoyant? It was the only explanation she could think of that explained how he knew she’d been asking questions.
“For your information, I did speak to a few people about Claire Weill.”
“Uh-huh. Just as I thought! Either the murderer’s worried you’ll discover some detail he overlooked, or he—or someone else—fears you’ll uncover a secret from the past.”
Lydia was indignant. “Of course I asked questions! Did you imagine I’d sit here twiddling my thumbs while you consider me a homicide suspect?”
Molina smiled, showing white, even teeth. “No one’s accusing you of killing Mrs. Weill. In fact, I came to tell you the ME strongly believes Mrs. Weill died at seven at the outset.”
Lydia shrugged. “I don’t see how that takes me off the A List.”
“I never told you—and I asked Mrs. Taylor not to discuss this with you—but she was certain she threw some clothes in the dryer at a quarter to seven, looked in on you, then read until she fell asleep about half an hour later. That puts you in the clear.”
Lydia sighed with relief. “Thank God!” She thought a bit. “That was fast. I thought tests like that take time.”
“I pressed for a fast result—at least regarding time of death—and I’m glad to pass along the good news, so far as you’re concerned.”
“Thank you,” she said with heartfelt ardor. “One less problem to be concerned about.” She thought a bit. “Do you think the murderer was trying to frame me?”
“Could be.”
“That doesn’t give me any comfort.”
He blinked, revealing that his eyes were closer to hazel today. “I would be remiss if I gave you false comfort, especially after this morning’s incident. Looks like you got someone angry, Mrs. Krause.”
“The only person who comes to mind is Warren, aka Marshall Weill. I hope you’re checking out his whereabouts this morning.”
“We already have.”
“Oh.” Lydia’s felt her ears grow warm and knew they must have been blazing red. Damn, it wasn’t like her to tell a professional how to do his job. She’d lost all sense of propriety because Claire Weill’s murder had involved her in a deep and personal way.
Lydia frowned. “Maybe if I hadn’t exposed him, this never would have happened.”
Detective Molina stood. “Mrs. Krause, don’t start blaming yourself. You might have been the catalyst for something we know nothing about—yet. You were right to bring Weill’s past actions to the attention of your community. Who knows what else will come to light? We’ve only begun to look into every aspect of the Weills’ lives, past and present.”
“Thank you,” Lydia murmured. “You’ve been very kind.”
“For a police detective, you mean.”
She laughed, admitting to the thought. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“I’d love it. By the way,” he said, pointing to the statue of
Family
in the corner, “that’s one beautiful work of art. So are the sculptures in the hall and the dining room.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you a collector?”
“My husband was a sculptor. I have five of Izzy’s pieces. My daughters each own one. The rest are in museums and galleries.”
“Oh. Is he…?”
“Yes. He died earlier this year. Which is how I ended up living here at Twin Lakes.”
“I’m sorry.”
In the kitchen, Molina sat at the small round table and stretched his arms overhead. They made small talk as Lydia ground coffee beans and filled the carafe with water—about life in Suffolk County and Lydia’s recent retirement. Detective Molina said little about himself and nothing of the incident that had brought him to Twin Lakes. Lydia felt at ease in his company. She liked the way he listened to what she said. Really listened, as he drank from his mug of coffee and ate several of the tiny delicious white chocolate cookies from Trader Joe’s she always kept on hand. Listening was a trait very few people possessed.
As he stood to leave, Lydia felt a moment’s panic and the urge to detain him.
“I almost forgot to tell you what I learned when I spoke to Doris Fein yesterday afternoon.”
He pulled out his notebook and pen. “Who is Doris Fein?”
“A resident here. A friend of Claire Weill’s, or was. I believe Marshall may have given her some bad financial advice. Doris told me Claire was obsessed with her husband even though he ran around. She said Claire had started taking herbal capsules to make her look and feel younger. The way she said it—kind of hush-hush—made me wonder if this supplement was legal.”