The Pink Flamingo Murders (28 page)

No, it couldn’t be. I still thought the ex-husband was the most likely suspect, but I needed more than
suspicion. I needed solid rumor. It was time to see my friend Jinny Peterson, information-gatherer extraordinaire.

“Oh, do come over,” she said, when I called. “I was just making popcorn. We can sit outside and talk.”

Jinny lived in the suburb of Kirkwood, a place I found hopelessly calm and peaceful. I’d never had a normal life, and I was fascinated by hers. She had a white two-story house with black shutters and a picket fence. Red-haired Jinny opened the red-painted front door with the shiny brass knocker. Her perfection extended to the fine art of popcorn making. None of that hot-buttered Styrofoam from a microwave for Jinny. She put oil in a pot and popped real corn, drizzled a stick of butter on top, and served it in mixing bowls, not those dinky little serving dishes.

We munched happily by her backyard fish pond until we got down to crunching the last unpopped kernels. (We were too politically correct to call them old maids.) Then Jinny gave me the dirt on Caroline’s sharkskin and cowboy-booted ex-husband.

“He is sleazy, even for a criminal lawyer,” she said, “and there are definite rumors of money trouble. Caroline’s four-thousand-a-month maintenance should be pocket change for that man. But I hear he gambles it away on the river boats. Loses thousands every week and is in hock up to his eyebrows. And he’s making nice money with his disgusting clientele. The man represents the absolute scum of the earth.”

“Yeah, I’ve interviewed him before,” I said. “He told me things like ‘Every American is entitled to the best defense. It’s guaranteed in the Constitution. The same Constitution that protects Francesca Vierling’s right to say what she wants in her column.’ But I noticed he doesn’t defend many poor people.”

“You’d think if he really believed everyone was entitled to the best defense, he’d be a public defender,”
Jinny said. “But his clients always manage to come up with lots of money—beg, borrow, or steal. He makes them, or their mamas, mortgage the double-wide and the shiny new extended cab pickup and he takes it all and more. Sometimes he gets them off, and sometimes, thank heavens, that slime he defends gets put away.”

“What did you know about Caroline’s relationship with him?” I asked.

“Well, there were rumors that Caroline was gay,” Jinny said. “But I don’t believe them. You hear that about any strong, successful woman. You know, she can’t be one-hundred-percent female and succeed in our world, she must be part man. But I never saw Caroline with another woman. In fact, I never saw her with another man. She always seemed to be by herself, even when she was married.”

Jinny was right. I never saw Caroline with anything but her wheelbarrow. I didn’t think she’d been killed for love. What about money?

“Alas, I don’t know anything about Caroline’s money, although god knows I tried to find out,” Jinny said. “She may have inherited a nice nest egg from her elderly parents, but that’s about all I know. I don’t know where her money came from, but I do know where it’s going, because I’m on the board. It’s going to our Columbine House women’s shelter, and the shelter would hardly kill another woman to get that bequest.”

Follow the money was the old Watergate advice for reporters, and it’s still good. Caroline’s husband would have enormous financial relief now that Caroline was dead. Who else would benefit? I needed to understand her income, before I could figure out the out go. Ira, my accountant, was the best person I knew for figuring out finances with only fuzzy details. After all, he handled my finances. Every March I dropped two Schnucks’ grocery bags of receipts on his desk, and he
came up with an income tax return by April 15, and no cheating, either.

His offices were in an office tower in Olivette, which meant Ira must make good money straightening out other people’s money. His eight zillion family pictures were framed in solid silver, and he sat behind a desk bigger than my backyard. An assistant brought me coffee in a bone china cup. I filched some candy out of the Waterford crystal dish on his desk, and figured between that and the popcorn I didn’t have to worry about fixing dinner.

I told him what I knew about Caroline’s finances and said, “So how much money could Caroline be making with her deals?” I popped a butterscotch into my mouth and crunched while he thought.

“Potentially,” he said after a bit, “a lot. These are guesses, now, since I haven’t seen her records. But she’s probably making money several ways. First, she’s buying those houses under market value through a straw party or other circumstances, so that gives her an extra profit edge.”

Other circumstances. Like the deaths of Otto and the drug dealer.

“Second, she’s making money selling those houses at above market value,” Ira said. “If the bank lends, say, one hundred thousand on a house she’s selling for one-twenty, then that twenty thousand is above the market price—and pure profit.

“Keep in mind she’s already had a profit by buying the house cheap, and she would have made a decent profit selling it at market value, so now she’s making an indecent profit. Don’t get me wrong, that’s what makes this country great.

“Third, she’s making more profit by lending the money for the rest of the house price to the new buyer.”

“But what if the home buyer defaults on the loan?” I
said. “Wouldn’t she lose everything?” At least, I hoped that’s what I’d said. I had a mouth full of butterscotch candy.

“She’s not making an unsecured loan,” Ira said. “She’s probably taking a second position behind the bank. So if the person defaults and the bank forecloses, the bank would sell the place, take their share, and Caroline would get what’s left, if anything. Then the bank would probably sell the house below market value to get rid of it.”

“And guess who would buy it?” I said. It was fiendish—a perfect circle that trapped some poor home-buying sap.

“How many people was she lending money to?” Ira asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “At least ten, maybe twenty or more.”

The accountant whistled. “Very nice. They’re probably each making payments of four hundred to nine hundred dollars a month. She gets a minimum of four thousand a month. Maximum eighteen thousand. Her private loans must look like a good deal to the home buyers, because they get a house for little or no money down. They might think if the loan is a little high, they can always refinance later.”

That’s what Margie’s husband thought. Boy, did he get a rude awakening. So did Margie. Caroline killed Margie’s marriage and crippled her financially.

“But they can’t refinance, except on Caroline’s terms,” I said. “She demands her money, so there’s no relief for them. Her private loans were arranged so that if the person had a thirty-year bank loan on the house, Caroline insisted on a twenty-year private loan. If the homeowner had a twenty-year loan, Caroline wanted her part paid off in fifteen years.”

Ira said, “So Caroline’s payments are higher, she’s paid off quicker, and the poor devil who has the house
isn’t off the hook after all. And if the home buyer defaults, Caroline still comes out ahead.”

“Bad business,” I said.

“No, good business,” Ira said. “Not illegal. Not even immoral. Just tough. I know lots of rehabbers who do some of this, on a one-house basis, but that’s not enough to make any real money. It looks like Caroline combined several elements and made a huge profit. Smart woman.”

“Dead smart,” I said.

Hmm. Following the money wasn’t such a good idea. The trail led right back to Margie. Then there were those ugly whispers about Margie’s honesty. Just because she might—or might not—have lifted a silver cigarette case didn’t mean she bashed in Caroline’s head. But Margie seemed to travel in a cloud of suspicion. I needed more information. Ralph and I were both stuck in rush-hour traffic on Highway 40, his engine idling, my mind racing, both of us getting nowhere.

I was frustrated. I swung by North Dakota Place again, but Sally still wasn’t home. I knew it was irrational, but I felt like she was hiding from me. The rest of the street was deserted, too. It was after seven when I pulled into the parking space behind my house and went up the shadowy back steps to my empty flat. I was worn out, empty, and sad. I missed Lyle. I didn’t feel like fixing dinner, but I was mildly hungry. I rummaged in the cabinet and found an almost empty bag of broken pretzels. I dredged a handful of pretzel pieces through a jar of peanut butter. That would hold me till morning.

Then I checked my answering machine. Dina had left this message: “Francesca, the memorial service for Caroline will be tomorrow morning at ten o’clock at the angel fountain. Margie, Patricia, and I will give the eulogies. Then we will have a flower planting in Caroline’s
honor and a little reception at my house. Everyone on the street will be at the service, and, of course, you’re invited. We hope you’ll be there. And uh, do you want to contribute some money for the flowers?” There was a little embarrassed pause. Then she said, “You don’t have to, but I thought you’d want to.”

Yes, yes, yes, Dina, I thought. Thank you. I’d be glad to contribute and attend the service, too. Everyone I needed to see would be there. Caroline’s memorial service would make a good column. Margie, the chief murder suspect, was giving the eulogy. That was a story, and I knew the
Gazette
would never cover it. How could I forget Patricia, the premier recycler? She was smart and enthusiastic. She’d do most of my work for me. All I had to do was talk to her after the service. And if everyone on the street was going to be there, then the elusive Sally would show up for the memorial service.

For once, the answering machine really did have the answers.

“Who threw these beer cans in the angel fountain?” said an enraged, disembodied voice, and for a moment I thought that Caroline was alive. But it was only Margie, hot, damp, and irritated, pulling soggy trash out of the water on the other side of the fountain.

“Thoughtless slobs,” she rasped, shoving the wet trash into a dark-green plastic bag. “Look at that. A trash can is standing there ten feet away, and they toss these in the fountain.”

Margie had volunteered to clean up the area before the memorial service. It seemed strange that the woman who was supposed to be Caroline’s killer wanted to help with her memorial service. Did this mean Margie was guilty, or innocent? I wanted her to be innocent, but I wondered if she was. Despite the rumors and warning from Jinny, I couldn’t help liking straightforward raspy-voiced Margie. Maybe it was because Margie treated Caroline the way I would: She didn’t compromise, or avoid her, or run from a confrontation. Margie stood up to Caroline. Now she was accused of Caroline’s murder, just as I would have been. I hoped I didn’t identify with Margie so much I didn’t see what was going on. I’d been wrong before.

“Where is everybody?” I said. “And how did
you
get the yard work?”

“Just lucky,” Margie said, pulling another
Gazette
and a Big Gulp cup from under some bushes. “That and the fact I can’t cook.” She grinned. “They keep me out of the kitchen, and I like that just fine.”

“Me, too,” I said. There I went again, identifying with Margie. It was dangerous, but I couldn’t stop it.

“The memorial service isn’t for another hour yet,” she said, pulling a plastic grocery bag off a low-hanging tree branch. “Dina and Patricia are busy setting up the buffet at Dina’s house. After the memorial service everyone is going there for food. Dale and Kathy are baking bread and making mostaccioli.”

“Mostaccioli, huh?” I said. “The kids are traditionalists. The newer South Siders are plumping for pasta con broccoli.”

“Plumping is right. That broccoli junk is made with cream sauce. They wanted Caroline to have a real South Side sendoff. It’s my job to spruce up the outside, but I’m nearly finished here, and I’m going to look like hell at the service if I don’t clean myself up next.”

I gave her a ten and said, “Here’s a donation for the flowers.”

“Thanks,” Margie said, shoving it in her pocket. “I’ll make sure Dina gets it. See what we’ve done? Doesn’t it look good?”

She pointed to a new ring of red, white, and pink impatiens planted all the way around the tree-shaded fountain, except for one empty spot in front. There was a shovel with a white ribbon on the handle and a big plastic pot with one last plant. A microphone was set up on a stand nearby. Next to it was a stack of white paper that was probably homemade programs, weighted down with half a brick. A motley collection of lawn chairs and folding chairs were set up in rows on the grass.

“I wonder what Caroline would have thought of people sitting on her grass?” I said.

“Well, she ain’t here to protest,” Margie said sarcastically, and just for an instant I heard something ugly. It left me chilled on that hot summer morning. Then the bad feeling was gone, and so was Margie.

“Gotta get dressed,” she said, waving good-bye and running toward her house. “See you in a bit.”

And I was alone. In a way, Caroline’s sleazoid ex-husband was right. The angel fountain was Caroline’s final tribute, and she didn’t need anything else. The angels looked like they were dancing in the rainbow-spangled water. The sun-dappled trees covered them with a lush, cool green canopy. Caroline had created a little bit of heaven on earth, and it would live on after her bad temper and sharp business practices were forgotten.