|
5
When Denise picked me up on Monday, Joey was already in the car. It was obvious that all three of us had dressed carefully, toning down the bright colors of Arizona summer wear. Denise wore a turquoise and white dress with a straight skirt and large white-and-gold buttons. But her turquoise eye shadow was understated today and her lipstick paler than usual.
"Joey was just telling me the police questioned everyone in the Stokes family," Denise said.
"That's right," Joey added. He was wearing dark gray pants with a pale gray shirt. A dark blue, discreetly patterned tie, must have been borrowed for the funeral because I'd never seen it before. "My brother-in-law says they know it wasn't a heart attack."
"I hope they really zeroed in on Betsy." Denise said. "She's the one I suspected all along. And when Ruthie and I saw her at the mall ... Shopping, for heaven's sake. I would have been home crying my eyes out."
"People grieve in different ways," I reminded her. "That doesn't mean she drove him to suicide. And it certainly doesn't mean she murdered him."
"You never want to believe anything bad about people, Ruthie. But I've told you all along that she married him for what she could get. Harry's kids think so, too."
"How do you know?" Joey asked.
"I overheard them talking the other night. Everyone else was indoors, but Richard Stokes—that's the son—came out to smoke. His wife must have followed him outside." Denise was quiet for a few seconds while she concentrated on finding an opening for a left turn. "I guess they didn't realize I was on my patio. They were right near the fence between our yards, and I could hear every word."
Although I was curious, I couldn't bring myself to ask about the overheard conversation. But Denise didn't wait for questions. She told us Richard sounded agitated as he assured his wife the police knew something was wrong and that they suspected Betsy.
"Frank never mentioned that," Joey said.
We were pulling into the parking lot at the funeral home. "I'll tell you all the details, later," Denise promised.
Before the memorial service began, while I looked around the chapel, Denise whispered the names of the various family members to me. They were all sitting in the front row. "Richard Stokes, the son I talked about in the car. He's the first guy on the left. The one with the bald patch on top. His wife, Nancy, is next to him. I guess they figured the grandchildren are too young to take to a funeral." She stopped and shook her head at the thought. "And Harry's daughter and her fiancé are on the other side of Nancy."
But I was no longer listening. My eyes had focused on Michael Loring sitting just past the others, next to the widow. Denise must have noticed him a moment later, for she drew in her breath and was about to speak when the memorial service began.
It doesn't make any sense, I thought. Denise accounted for all the relatives. Why is Michael sitting with the family?
The minister spoke with feeling about Harry Stokes and his contributions to the community. I gathered he'd been an active and well-respected member of his church. Although I'd liked Harry, this picture contrasted in my mind with the man who had married someone half his age and then relied on Viagra to feel young and Rogaine to fight baldness.
Perhaps I was unfair. They used to say that no man is a hero to his valet. Pharmacists may be the modern equivalents of valets. We know who's on Micronase for diabetes and who's using Anusol HC for hemorrhoids. We know who's on Antabuse to combat alcoholism and who's taking Lithium for manic depression. Like other members of the health professions, though, we usually keep our mouths shut and our thoughts sympathetic.
The memorial service ended and all of us filed out of the chapel. We stood around the parking lot waiting for the cortege to the cemetery to form. "Look," Joey said. "There's Tim Barnard. Wasn't he supposed to be working today?"
I turned in time to see my staff pharmacist getting into his green Buick Riviera. Many of the young women who worked at Food Go seemed to be interested in Tim, though I could never understand why. Today, though, he looked particularly handsome in a dark, summer weight suit. And for once, he had neatly brushed his thick hair back from his forehead.
Tim hadn't said a word about attending the funeral, and I was surprised to see that he cared enough about a customer to pay his respects. Out of sheer curiosity, I made a mental note to bring up the subject tomorrow at work.
Joey had drifted away, and Denise was talking to a couple of neighbors she introduced as the Brandens. They were discussing whether to go to the cemetery or to meet at the Stokeses' house afterwards.
"I don't know what's customary," Denise explained. "I'm Catholic and they're Protestants of some kind."
Raymond Branden, a short stocky man in western shirt and bolo tie, assured Denise that most people would join the mourners at the Stokeses' home after the burial. His wife explained why they weren't going to the cemetery. "I started a roast before I left this morning," Verna Branden said. "When I get home, I'll finish cooking it and take it over to their house."
Unlike the Brandens, Denise wanted to join the funeral cortege, but Joey and I talked her out of it. She agreed on condition that I visit the Stokeses with her that afternoon, and I promised, knowing I wanted to see Michael again. As we talked, I was watching him help the widow into one of the black limousines and get in beside her. I figured the chances were good that he would still be with her after the burial.
None of us said much on the way back. I had expected to hear comments from Denise, but she was quiet again, the way she had been for most of the past week.
* * *
Joey lived with his parents in one of Scottsdale's lovely condominium complexes, and Denise drove past towering palms to a guarded gate and stopped. The guard peered into the car, saw Joey, and waved us through. Alternating pink and white oleander bushes, neatly trimmed, lined the driveway, leading to a huge three-tiered fountain shaped like a wedding cake, but surrounded by stone coyotes. Many Scottsdale condos boast ornate fountains, but this one was an outstanding sculpture. We dropped Joey off in front of the fountain.
"See you at the store later," he said, waving goodbye to both of us.
Thinking about the store made me wonder who was working in Tim's place. Maybe he had changed shifts with the relief pharmacist who worked on our days off.
"We've got a few hours to kill until we join the crowd at the Stokeses' house," Denise said. "I don't want to walk in empty-handed. Why don't we order a fruit basket for the family? Then we can go out for something to eat and, if it's still too early, we can wait at my house."
"I should get home and change first," I said, thinking of Michael.
She glanced at my navy print dress. "You look just right."
"It's sticking to my back. In this heat, I'll soon look like I slept in it."
"That's what you get for wearing silk when it's a hundred and seven degrees in the shade. Don't worry about the creases, Ruthie. You look great." She smiled at me. "A friend once told me creases show the integrity of the fabric; I guess she meant they tell everyone your dress isn't polyester."
"Polyester has its advantages."
I was glad that Denise seemed more like herself, and I agreed to her plans. Besides, despite my misgivings about eavesdropping, I really did want to hear more about the conversation between Harry Stokes's son and daughter-in-law.
Denise didn't say anything about the Stokes family for a while, and I asked no questions. Now that she had emerged from her quiet spell, she appeared to go out of her way to be amusing. We chatted about work. She told me about the customer who always gave precise instructions on how he wanted everything served and then mixed it all together on his plate. I told her, without mentioning names, about one of my customers who had insisted on a description of everyone ahead of him. He intended to look for them in the store and ask them if I could fill his prescriptions first.
By the time we went to lunch at the cafeteria, we were both chatting the way we usually did. Then, Denise suddenly got serious again. "I started to tell you earlier about Harry's children. His son, Richard, was going on and on about the will. He said he was pretty sure that Harry hadn't changed it."
The details of the conversation she'd overheard seemed to substantiate what Denise had believed all along. "Betsy's in for a big surprise," Richard Stokes had told his wife, Nancy.
"You think she was surprised when Dad died?" she had replied
"That's not what I meant. I told you the police questioned her for hours. If there's anything to find out, they'll get it out of her."
"Can we count on that? They wouldn't even have questioned her if you hadn't called with your suspicions."
Richard didn't respond for a moment, and the only sound Denise could hear was the chirping of crickets on the patio. Probably puffing away, she thought, as she caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. Embarrassing as it was to eavesdrop, she couldn't go back into her own house now, even if she wanted to; they would hear her.
"I wasn't the only one who spoke to the police," Richard continued. "Sheila called them, too."
"Your sister? I can't believe it. I thought she was too wrapped up in her new boyfriend to notice anything else."
"Listen carefully, Nancy, and try to think for once. I told the police Betsy married Dad for his money. But if he never changed his will, that takes away her motive." He paused. "And it gives us one."
"Richard, what are you saying? No one could think you killed Dad."
"Or you. Or Sheila. Or her new guy."
Nancy shrieked and her husband shushed her and said, "Do you want everyone to hear, you fool?"
"You're the fool! You're the one who got the police started investigating in the first place." Then her voice rose again.
"Can't you quiet down?" he hissed at her.
"No one can hear us. They're all inside, and the air-conditioning is blasting away."
"Well, shut up and listen to me. No one knows I lost my job last month. They all think we're well off."
"You can't keep it from the police," she said.
"Why not? They won't check with my boss. I mean my ex-boss."
"Well, what did you tell them?"
"They asked me my occupation. I told them I'm an aerospace engineer." Now his voice got louder. "Damn it, I am one even though I was laid off."
Again, there was silence for a while. Denise couldn't see into their yard because the block fence was too high, but she imagined Richard was puffing on his cigarette and thinking. Then she heard, "Richard, what are we going to do?"
"Nothing."
"But what if they question us again?"
"We've got nothing to hide. After all, if Dad hadn't remarried, there'd be no question about the money."
Nancy murmured something that Denise didn't catch. But she heard Richard's answer: "No, we don't have to wait long. I explained it all to you before. Dad had everything in a living trust, so there's no probate. We'll get the money very soon."
They went indoors then and, after a few minutes, Denise had returned to her own house. She hadn't slept well that night because the overheard conversation kept running through her mind.
"What do you make of it?" she asked now as she finished recounting the details to me.
"I don't know, but I think we'd better leave it to the Scottsdale Police Department." I was appalled to realize that Denise had eavesdropped on so private a conversation.
"Well, I don't have much confidence in the police. After all, they never questioned me."
Sometimes, I thought, Denise carried things too far. "Why should they question you?"
"You know I wanted Harry for myself. The truth is I hate Betsy for taking him away from me."
If Denise's aim was to startle me, she had succeeded. I decided laughter was the best reaction. "Denise, in that case, you would have killed Betsy. And, as far as I could see this morning, she's still very much alive."
"It may sound funny to you, but maybe I brooded all these months about being scorned."
I took a different tack. "Why do you want to be a suspect? We don't even know yet if Harry was murdered?"
"She murdered him, but I don't mind being a suspect. Not if it leads to an investigation. I just don't want them to say suicide and close the case."
I had no answer to that and changed the subject. We picked up the fruit basket we'd ordered before lunch and drove to Denise's house. Although I had been there before, I had never seen her neighborhood in the daytime. She pointed out the Stokes house next to hers on the east and the Branden house on the west. I'd wondered why someone as wealthy as Harry Stokes was reputed to be would live next door to Denise. Even though she and her ex-husband had been comfortable, they certainly had not been rich. But when I saw the Stokes house, I understood.
It was on a corner lot, at one end of a cul-de-sac, and it was much larger than the other homes on the same street. From its Spanish-tile roof to the freshly painted block exterior, the house, with its spacious, well-kept grounds, looked luxurious.
"That was the original house on the property," Denise explained. "Years ago, the owners sold off the rest of the land for development. But they kept the house and about half an acre for themselves."
Denise pulled into her carport and led the way into her own house. "Harry and his first wife were only the second owners. Of course, they did a lot of remodeling."
"Did you know the first wife?" I asked.
"No, she died before we moved in, at least nine or ten years ago. That's why everyone was so surprised when he suddenly married again. After all this time, we thought he wasn't interested in remarriage."
We were sitting in Denise's kitchen, overlooking her patio and pool. The pool was kidney-shaped, a very popular type in Scottsdale. My own pool was a rectangular one, designed for swimming laps in a relatively small area.
From the air, the swimming pools look like little turquoise jewels. Tourists always comment about them when they fly into Sky Harbor Airport for the first time. But when they land and confront the desert heat, people begin to realize why backyard pools aren't considered luxuries here.
"But Denise," I said. "Even if Harry's remarriage surprised you, nothing you've said so far means that Betsy drove him to suicide or killed him."
She suddenly got up and loomed over my chair. "Well, I live right next to them, and if I told you everything I saw and heard over the last few months, you'd believe me."
|
