The Case of the Questionable Quadruplet Read online

  “Let’s be civil, please.” Doreen touched her girlfriend’s arm. A look passed between them, as if they’d discussed ground rules earlier. To me, Doreen said, “We’ll be holding a service shortly, to share memories of Mom. I’d appreciate if you’d say a few words.”

  “I’d be honored.”

  “And I can lead us in prayer.” Fred addressed his sister-in-law as if daring her to object. “I’ll try to make it bland enough not to offend those who’d rather not involve God in their lives.”

  “Oh, here we go,” Heather grumbled.

  “I’m sure Malerie would have appreciated everyone’s input.” Ada Humphreys accompanied her words with a neighborly smile. Running a toy store had sharpened her skills with quarrelsome children, I mused.

  Danielle turned to Tory and me. “Have you heard any more about when they might let us have Mom’s body? We’d like to plan the funeral.”

  “The autopsy was conducted yesterday,” Tory told her. “The coroner hasn’t stated a cause of death pending further tests.”

  “How long will that take?” Fred asked. “Since you seem to have a private line into information that by rights should belong to all of us.” His hostility surprised me.

  Tory maintained a professional air. “Could be weeks for the tox report, but they won’t need her body that long. The coroner routinely holds the subject for two days post-autopsy.”

  “Why?” Danielle asked.

  “Some conditions such as bruising may not show up until then,” Tory said. “Once that period passes, they should release her.”

  “Miss Golden is a private investigator,” Doreen informed the gathering. “She’s digging into Mom and Dee Marie’s murders on behalf of the family.”

  “You mean, on behalf of you and your… friend,” Fred sniped. “You’re the ones who hired her.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what does a PI do in a case like this?” said a dark-skinned man I recalled from the knot of observers outside Malerie’s house. “Can you really uncover evidence the police miss?”

  “Occasionally, yes. Or it may be a question of interpreting the evidence differently, bringing a fresh perspective,” Tory told him. “Also, witnesses often talk more freely with a PI than with the police.” Nor, she’d mentioned previously, were PI’s required to read people their rights.

  Her remarks drew no comment from Fred. Recalling that they had an interview scheduled for the next evening, I hoped his antagonism was aimed more at Doreen than at her.

  “Do you carry a gun?” asked a fellow I guessed to be in his eighties.

  Tory shook her head. “I’m trained in firearms but I haven’t applied for a carry permit yet.”

  “Isn’t it unusual, hiring a detective?” commented an elderly woman in a wheelchair. I wondered who she was.

  “Attorneys often hire investigators,” Heather told her.

  “Only when they defend crooks,” Fred put in.

  “In civil cases as well,” Heather answered. “If you were being sued, wouldn’t you want all the facts?”

  “Well, no one ever sued my brother,” the woman announced, although no one had implied otherwise. “Anesthesiologists frequently get dragged to court, but not Winston.”

  She must, I deduced, be the triplets’ aunt on their father’s side.

  “At least that’s what he told her,” Tory murmured in my ear. We were both aware that almost every doctor gets sued, no matter how careful we are.

  “If you don’t mind more questions,” continued the neighbor who’d shown an interest in PIs, “I’m wondering what there is to investigate. Didn’t Malerie drown while swimming alone?”

  “There might be more to it,” Ada said. “But is this an appropriate topic for her memorial service?”

  The aunt ignored her. “I heard she drowned because she overdosed on her medication. You were her doctor, weren’t you? What do you think?”

  I hadn’t expected to be put on the spot. “It’s not my place to discuss a patient’s medications.”

  “We’re her family, and I’d like to know,” Doreen said. “Wouldn’t you, Danielle?”

  “Yes.”

  What the hell. I aimed my response at the sisters. “She was on blood pressure pills. An overdose can cause dizziness or sleepiness.”

  “An overdose? Don’t tell me it was suicide!” cried the lady in the wheelchair. Danielle gasped.

  “I doubt it.” I hurried to clarify. “When I spoke with her by phone Friday morning, she didn’t sound depressed, or euphoric either.”

  “Euphoric?” Heather queried.

  “Often when people resolve to kill themselves, they’re temporarily relieved and their mood lifts.”

  As I was contemplating how to steer the conversation away from this subject, Danielle asked, “Could she have swallowed the pills by accident?”

  I repeated what I’d told Keith. “It’s possible. Older people can become confused about whether they’ve taken their medication.”

  Doreen nodded. “Mom did get confused with her paperwork, and her checkbook was a mess. That’s why Dee Marie volunteered to help.”

  “I think her mental state deteriorated after her hip surgery,” added Sandy, who was refilling the pitcher of iced tea. “While I don’t believe she had dementia, she could be absent-minded. Still, I’d been living out of state, so maybe the change was gradual.”

  “Mom hired Sandy to take care of her after the operation,” Danielle explained for my benefit. “They used to be nurse’s aides together at the hospital.”

  “We stayed in touch after I moved back to Idaho,” Sandy said.

  “If you’re a nurse’s aide, why are you working as a housekeeper?” Tory asked.

  “Better hours and less stress,” the older woman answered. “Once Mal recuperated, I stayed on part-time. By then I’d found other clients and a convenient place to live.”

  As an old friend, Sandy would be a good source of information about events surrounding the triplets’ births and Malerie’s relationship with Dr. Abernathy. “You should interview her,” I told Tory quietly.

  “Already noted.”

  “I’d like to begin the service,” Doreen announced. “If everyone will set up a folding chair, we can start.”

  We fetched seats from a stack at the side and arranged them facing a table laid with green cloth, like an altar. A spreading white-and-yellow bouquet covered most of the surface.

  The delicate scent recalled the floral tributes that had arrived at my house after Lydia died. There’d been no service in Safe Harbor, however. Under the plans she’d written out before departing, she’d been buried in Israel, where she’d gone to explore her heritage. There, during a visit to the ancient cliff-top fortress of Masada, she’d plunged a thousand feet to her death.

  Had it been an accident or intentional? We’d probably never know.

  At home, I’d been so distracted that, a few hours after learning of her death, I’d fallen down the stairs, breaking a leg and spraining my shoulder. A psychologist might contend I’d subconsciously mirrored my wife’s fatal fall, but I put it down to distraction. Unfortunately, my injuries had prevented me from traveling.

  Tory had gone to supervise her sister’s burial. In Israel, she’d questioned the authorities and the tour guide. They’d speculated that Lydia’s fall resulted from heat exhaustion, since the temperature that day had been over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit.

  I’d decided against holding a memorial in Safe Harbor, loathing the prospect of fielding questions and accepting condolences. Morris and Tory had suggested it was a mistake to mourn in solitude, but I’d never been able to draw comfort from anyone except Lydia.

  Had she chosen death? Why had she shut me out, those last few months?

  Here in the atrium, the speakers’ words flowed over me. Danielle read a loving message her mother had written on her and Fred’s wedding day, and Doreen drew chuckles with anecdotes about the young triplets driving their mother crazy.

  “
Our parents weren’t perfect, but in retrospect, I realize what a happy childhood we had,” she said. “Mom loved and cherished us. She’d have gone to any lengths for her kids.”

  Nearby, Sandy drew a deep, painful breath. When heads turned toward her, she said, “Mal could be difficult but she was a friend to me when I had no one else.”

  “Dr. Darcy?” Doreen prompted.

  Recalling her earlier request, I summoned a few words about Malerie’s peppery personality, concluding with, “She was one of a kind. I’ll miss her.” And I’ll keep my promise to help her, even though I failed while she was alive.

  “Anyone else wish to speak?” Doreen inquired.

  The elderly aunt shifted in her wheelchair. “Speaking of difficult personalities, she had nothing on my brother. Winston made his first wife miserable, and after Cynthia died, I figured it was better if he stayed single.”

  “That’s honesty for you,” Tory whispered.

  “To my astonishment, he and Malerie got along like a house on fire,” the woman said. “Maybe it’s because they were able to have children, which Cynthia couldn’t. But also she stood up for herself. It was good for him.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Eunice,” Danielle said.

  “Let’s pray.” Into the silence, Fred intoned the twenty-third Psalm. The daylight dimmed when he reached the line, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”

  A few people peered about as if expecting a ghostly apparition. However, it seemed to me some personalities are so forceful that a spectral presence would be overkill.

  When the psalm ended, Doreen and Danielle hugged each other tearfully. They’d grown up in a family of five, of whom only two remained. Who had ripped their mother and sister from them?

  Chairs squeaked against the tile floor. Fred reclaimed his wife and Heather stroked a strand of red hair from Doreen’s cheek. The guests took their leave.

  Soon only the sisters, their partners, Sandy, Tory and I remained. “As long as we’re here, what can we do for your investigation?” Doreen asked.

  “I’d like a copy of your mother’s will and financial records,” Tory said.

  “So would I,” said her client.

  Fred seized the chance to challenge Heather. “Since you were her estate attorney, I presume you’ll enlighten us.”

  “Client information is privileged.”

  “She’s dead and these are her daughters. What are you hiding?”

  Heather’s face puckered as if she fought an internal battle. Finally, she said, “Mrs. Abernathy didn’t change her will.”

  “Why not?” Fred demanded.

  “She wasn’t interested in setting up a trust, which I recommended, and she decided her existing will was adequate.”

  “Why did she consult you, then?”

  Judging by her closed-in expression, Heather would prefer to remain silent. However, after a whispered word from Doreen, she said, “Her concern was whether Rafe Tibbets would inherit his wife’s share of her estate. As for the terms of the old will, she said she’d left the money to her daughters, with no provisions for surviving spouses. I told her that, in my opinion, under California law, unless she had designated her son-in-law as an heir, he wouldn’t benefit.”

  “You didn’t see the will?” Tory probed. “Surely she brought it with her.”

  Heather’s hands flew up in protest. “She claimed she couldn’t find it. It had been drawn up soon after her husband died and she’d forgotten where she put it. Possibly with the papers she gave Dee Marie.”

  “Rafe was the attorney, right?” Doreen said. “He must have a copy.”

  “I recommended she request a printout for me to read. At a minimum, she needed an original signed copy in her possession. But that was the last I heard from her.”

  “When did this conversation take place?” Tory asked.

  “About three months ago.”

  “I’ve never seen a will, old or new,” Danielle said. “Doreen?”

  “Me, either. Maybe it was stolen with the rest of the papers at Dee Marie’s house, or else the police took it.” She frowned. “I don’t recall a will being listed on the property receipt.”

  “Property receipt?” Fred boomed. “Why haven’t we seen that?”

  “I’ll send you a copy.” Doreen shivered. “Honestly, it’s creepy reading a list of Mom’s stuff.”

  “I don’t even know how much money she had, or where she invested it.” Danielle halted the flow of words. “I shouldn’t be thinking about that now.”

  “Why not?” her husband countered. “Don’t get me wrong. Your mother and I may have crossed swords, but I mean no disrespect to her.”

  “Touching,” Heather muttered.

  Fred’s nostrils flared. “My wife is entitled to her half of the estate. The sooner we sort this out, the sooner we can get on with having a baby.”

  Her half. Everyone assumed there were only the pair of them, but if a quadruplet existed, she, too, might stand to inherit. Of course, in order to stake a claim, the quad would have to step forward.

  Why was I wasting mental energy on this preposterous idea? There was no quadruplet. Yet if Malerie hadn’t planned to discuss her will, why had she insisted on seeing her daughters Friday evening?

  “Regarding Mrs. Abernathy’s estate, there’s another matter that concerns me,” Heather said.

  “Don’t keep us in suspense.” Fred’s words dripped sarcasm.

  “As to whom she’d appointed executor, she believed it was her daughters,” Heather explained. “But we can’t be certain it wasn’t Rafe.”

  “Why would she choose him?” Tory asked.

  “When he drew up the will, Dee Marie was alive. He was both Malerie’s son-in-law and her lawyer,” Heather said. “She could have named him as a practical matter.”

  Doreen grimaced. “How much control would he have?”

  “The executor tracks all assets, income and expenses during probate and files an accounting with the court,” Heather said. “It would be his duty to distribute assets to the heirs and carry out terms of the will, such as special bequests.”

  Danielle reached for one of the remaining hors d’oeuvres, which Sandy was consolidating. “Could he take off with the money?”

  “If he did, he’d be committing a crime. However, the law does grant an executor a percentage as payment.”

  “A percentage?” Fred repeated. “How much?”

  “It depends on the value of the estate.” Faced with a curious audience, Heather elaborated. “For a five million-dollar estate, I’d estimate his fee at about fifty thousand dollars.”

  Fred whistled. Danielle’s eyes widened. “In other words, he earns a fat profit from Mom’s death.”

  “There’s a motive for murder,” her sister said.

  “For your mother, perhaps, but not for Dee Marie,” Fred protested. “He’d have inherited far more if she’d survived. Besides, I’m convinced Rafe loved her.”

  “Men always swear they love their wives after they murder them,” Heather said.

  “And you think I’m biased?” Fred huffed.

  Doreen broke in. “Rafe has a short fuse. I can’t prove he ever hit my sister, but she missed more than one family gathering because of so-called illness.”

  I found this line of speculation disturbing. “She did suffer from asthma attacks.” Also, as her doctor, I should have observed signs of abuse.

  “Well, Rafe’s the top suspect on my list,” Danielle declared.

  “I hear he refuses to talk to the police,” Doreen added. “I’d like to throttle that smug bastard.”

  “I’m glad you think so highly of me.” The raspy voice rang out from the entryway, where a departing guest must have left the door ajar.

  Like an electric current, the words rippled through the small knot in the atrium. Normally, there was nothing imposing about Rafe Tibbets, who stood about five-foot-eight. This afternoon, though, anger twisted his narrow face and flashed in his pale ey
es.

  Mostly, what held us all motionless was the gun gripped in his hand.

  Chapter Eight

  My heart rate kicked up, my breath came fast and my blood pressure soared. Too bad my brain wasn’t also ramping into high gear. We were seven people to one, which ought to provide options, yet I had zero notion what to do.

  “Put the gun down,” Tory barked. “Set it on the floor and move away.” From her commanding tone, she might have been armed with a semi-automatic pistol and backed by a SWAT team.

  Sandy, who’d been quietly collecting plates and cups, stood clutching a tray. I got the impression she was contemplating throwing it at Rafe.

  The angular man kept the gun pointed at the floor. “I have a permit.”

  “I’ll have to see that, please,” Tory said.

  “Why? Who the hell are you?”

  Apparently remembering that she no longer had authority, she spread her hands placatingly. “I’m Tory Golden, a private investigator. I spoke to you on the phone. And even if you have a permit, it doesn’t give you the right to brandish a firearm. Put it down or I’ll be forced to make a citizen’s arrest.”

  A couple of seconds trudged by before the man stuck the weapon in a holster beneath his sport coat. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. The safety was on.”

  Adrenaline continued pumping through my system. What guarantee did we have that he wouldn’t draw the gun again? Or that he had engaged the safety? Or that safeties actually existed? My acquaintance with firearms was on a par with my experience of killers: until now, nil.

  “If any of these people suffered a stress-induced heart attack, you could be charged with homicide.” When his lip curled, Tory clarified, “Just advising you, sir.”

  “I had a right to draw a weapon. I feared for my life.” In the months since he and Dee Marie visited my office, gray had invaded Rafe’s brown hair and his shoulders seemed narrower, I registered when I’d calmed enough to see straight.

  “We don’t pose any danger to you,” Doreen snapped.

  “Then why were you threatening to strangle me?”

  “That was hyperbole,” Heather said. “Why the hell are you here?”