The Case of the Questionable Quadruplet Read online

  “To perform my legal duty.” Rafe opened a briefcase I hadn’t observed before, because his gun had dominated my entire range of vision. “It’s my job as executor to distribute copies of Malerie’s will to her daughters. Unless she drew up a new one?”

  “Not as far as we know,” Doreen said.

  He removed sheaves of stapled papers and handed them out. The top page bore the name of his law firm.

  “Give Heather a copy, too,” Doreen said. “She’s our probate attorney.”

  Fred’s mouth opened as if to protest, but whatever he’d meant to say, he swallowed it. Under the circumstances, he could hardly advocate for his gun-toting brother-in-law to serve in that capacity.

  As I’d learned after my wife’s death, a probate attorney, while not required, can assist the executor in filing court and tax documents. Under ordinary circumstances, Rafe could easily have handled those duties himself, but if I’d been one of the heirs, I wouldn’t have trusted him, either.

  “I’d appreciate a copy as well,” Tory said.

  Without comment, Rafe took out sheaves for Heather and Tory. For a few minutes, there was no sound except the rustling of paper as everyone read through the document. Over Tory’s shoulder, I skimmed the main points. Aside from a small bequest to the Oahu Lane Animal Shelter, Malerie had left her property equally to her daughters and named Rafe as executor.

  “Do you have an original bearing Mrs. Abernathy’s signature?” Heather asked. “The court will require that.”

  “At my office,” he said. “My mother-in-law had one, also.”

  “It appears to be missing,” I told him. “And if you don’t mind my asking, was that gun-waving bit for show or did you truly fear for your life?”

  “I did and I do. Well, not as much since you’re here, Doc. I consider you a man of integrity.” His fleeting smile reminded me of his sister’s. Since I couldn’t picture Rafe with tattoos and purple hair, however, the resemblance ended there. “Think about it. The police and Dee Marie’s family consider me the main suspect. If I die, they could clear the case and let the real murderer off scot free.”

  “Who do you suspect?” I asked, genuinely curious. “And why?”

  “I’m glad somebody around here cares about the facts.” Rafe glanced toward the refreshment table. “Man, I’m parched.”

  Sandy poured a glass of lemonade, which he drank thirstily. The guy obviously enjoyed prolonging his place at center stage.

  “Well?” Doreen pressed when he finished. “Who do you suspect?”

  “Heather, of course.” He clicked his briefcase shut.

  Heather’s nostrils flared. “You’re a certifiable loony.”

  “And you’re a slimy opportunist.”

  “Get out of my house!” Anger shimmered in waves off her tiny frame.

  Rafe didn’t flinch. “Have you told these folks we used to work at the same law firm? And that you did everything in your power to sabotage me?”

  “You’re the one who spread rumors about me!” Heather retorted. “And landed a promotion you didn’t deserve, when I’d been there longer and worked harder.”

  Too bad a messy family situation had thrown these old enemies together, but their feud was obscuring the issues. “Mr. Tibbets, would you please state your reasons for accusing Ms. Blythe?” I asked.

  “Yes, do,” Doreen growled. “I’m sure we could all use a good laugh.”

  “Gladly.” As Rafe gathered his thoughts, the corners of his lips pulled down and his eyes lost focus, classic signs of sadness. “Dee Marie hated it when Doreen moved in with you. Not from anti-gay prejudice, although she wasn’t fooled on that score. She remembered the lies you told about me at the law firm. You claimed I cheated on my wife, which was total crap. You hurt her and me.”

  “All’s fair in love and war.” Heather ducked her head, shutting out the disgust on Fred’s face and the shock on Danielle’s. And, worse, the disapproval on Doreen’s.

  “Is all fair in love?” Rafe demanded. “Dee Marie said the minute you found out her sister was an heiress, you pressured her to get married. Is that true, Doreen?”

  “She proposed to me.” The woman wrapped her arms around herself. “I told her I wasn’t ready.”

  “Falling in love is no crime,” Heather said. “I really care about Doreen.”

  The object of this declaration didn’t respond. Doreen must have been hurt. People assume that lesbians are kinder to each other than men are to women, but it’s not necessarily true.

  “There’s more,” Rafe said. “When Dee Marie began sorting through her mother’s records, she discovered some kind of secret. I heard her on the phone squabbling with Malerie over it. Was it about you, Heather? Did you have business dealings with Malerie?”

  Dots of red stood out on the woman’s pale cheeks. “You’re grasping at straws.”

  Rafe forged on. “I believe my wife threatened to expose your true nature to her mother. Your lies about my supposed cheating. Your scheming to marry Doreen. Plus whatever she discovered in those papers.”

  Heather tugged on a lock of hair that had tumbled from her topknot. “I had no business dealings with Mrs. Abernathy until three months ago, long after your wife’s death. I didn’t have any reason to kill Dee Marie.”

  “Well, somebody did,” Rafe ground out. “And it was a person she knew.”

  “Why do you say that?” Tory had been following this exchange with keen interest. She’d tapped her phone frequently, taking notes and, I suspected, sending them to Keith.

  “The police found no signs of forced entry.” Rafe’s eyes glittered. “We never trusted anyone with keys, not even our cleaning crew. Dee Marie let the killer inside. It wasn’t a stranger.”

  “Those aren’t facts, they’re speculation,” Heather declared. “You’re just trying to deflect blame. She could have left the door unlocked or a window wide open. Maybe she gave someone a key and didn’t tell you.”

  Rafe flexed his fingers as if tempted to slip them into his holster. I had visions of this argument deteriorating into a blood bath until Tory interjected, “I’m curious how you obtained a carry permit.”

  To score a concealed weapons permit from the Orange County sheriff, the applicant must show good cause. Although I’ve met a few physicians who carried guns legally after being threatened by disturbed patients, doctors are trained to preserve lives, not take them, and I’d never been tempted to apply. If your instincts and training aren’t spot-on, the gun is more likely to be used against you than to stop an attack.

  “I’ve received threats,” Rafe said.

  “Dissatisfied customers?” Heather taunted.

  “When people are disinherited, they tend to vent their anger at the attorney. I’m sure you’ve experienced that.”

  “I’ve never felt it necessary to strut around with a pistol,” was the response. “Well, you did your duty. Now get out.”

  Resentment flashed across his narrow face. However, this was her condo. “See you later, Ms. Probate Attorney.” To Doreen and Danielle, Rafe said, “Despite what you may think, I loved your sister and I appreciated your mother’s faith in me to execute her will.”

  “She’d forgotten she named you,” Heather muttered.

  “Had she really? Oh, one more item.” Rafe paused dramatically before finishing, “When the police release her house, I need to go through it with you to list the valuables.”

  “Like hell,” Doreen said. “That’s an invasion of our privacy.”

  “The probate judge will require a full report.”

  “It does make sense,” Tory pointed out.

  “Leave your gun at home,” Heather said. “This isn’t the Wild West.”

  With a shrug, Rafe took his leave. Once the door closed, Fred regarded Tory. “Since you’re supposed to be the expert, when will the police let us into the house?”

  Although his tone must have grated, she replied evenly, “I expect within a day or so.”

  “I didn’t ask
what you expected, I asked when!” Danielle’s husband seemed determined to vent at someone, and he’d chosen Tory.

  “I’m curious how Rafe learned we were meeting here today,” Danielle said coolly.

  Good question. I supposed Morris could have overheard and mentioned it to Billie, but my father-in-law tends to be discreet.

  Fred spoke up. “I called him so he could pay his respects. I didn’t figure on him playing cowboy.”

  “You had no right!” Heather flared.

  “Speaking of rights, I don’t recall agreeing to hire you as the probate attorney.” Fred scowled at the women around him. Over six feet tall and roughly two hundred and fifty pounds, he loomed large.

  “You aren’t an heir, so it isn’t up to you.” Doreen said.

  “I’m protecting Danielle.”

  “My sister can speak for herself.”

  “You’re the one trying to speak for her.” Fred’s puffy jowls took on a personality of their own. “And we don’t appreciate you hiring this bungling lady PI to stick her nose in our business.”

  The gratuitous insult irked me. In view of the antagonism already befouling the air, however, I held my peace. Barely.

  “Let’s all take a deep breath.” Tory’s words reminded me that police are trained to de-escalate conflicts, not that they’re necessarily great at it in their personal lives.

  Instead of cooling off, Fred lashed out. “Why don’t you shut up and stay out of it, bitch?”

  There was a collective gasp from the women, as if he’d attacked each of them. In a sense, he had.

  I’d heard enough. “Back off, Fred. You want to blame someone, blame me. I recommended Tory for this job because she’s a hell of a good PI. And you should show more respect for women.”

  Too many emotions flew across his face for me to identify. His fists clenched, and there was a moment of suspended animation before he relaxed them. I guess he drew the line at punching out his wife’s fertility doctor.

  Once again, he directed his rage at Tory. “As for that interview we agreed to, it’s canceled. You want information, get it from your damn client.”

  I have only a sketchy impression of the next few minutes: Danielle exchanging worried glances with her sister, Fred snarling at his wife until she accompanied him outside, and Sandy, aided by a subdued Heather, whisking away the refreshments. Oh, and Tory ignoring me while assuring Doreen she could still accomplish her job.

  Inside her car, Tory gripped the steering wheel as if to rip it from the dashboard. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

  “Defending you.” And the others, I nearly added, but I was in enough trouble already. Okay, they weren’t powerless damsels, but I was raised to believe men should protect the women in our lives.

  “For your information, I can defend myself. Don’t do that again!”

  “Wasn’t planning to.” I hoped that ended the conversation.

  Switching on the ignition, Tory put the car in gear. We were halfway home before she burst out, “I was prepared for the Neanderthals at the P.D. to disrespect me, but you?”

  “I respect you.” Yet I had to admit that, under similar circumstances, I wouldn’t have leaped to Keith’s defense.

  “Doreen and her husband are important witnesses, and I don’t appreciate you screwing that up.” At a stop sign, she hit the brakes hard, jolting us forward.

  “That’s no reason to get us killed.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m the one who landed this client for you,” I noted. “Doesn’t that show respect?”

  “From now on, when it comes to my career, stay out of it.”

  “No problem.” To accuse her of acting irrational would be pouring gasoline on the fire.

  We rode the rest of the way home without a word. It bothered me, arguing with my sister-in-law, and I vowed not to let it result in an open breach. She was part of Lydia’s family and had figured into my life since high school. Not to mention that, for the present, we occupied the same house.

  I should have expected a blow-up eventually. She’d always had a fiery personality, although I disagreed with Lydia’s assessment of Tory as a drama queen. Her freshman year, a junior had mocked her wild movements at a dance until a sharp kick to the knee sent him sprawling. She’d escaped punishment by claiming it was an accident, but for the rest of the year, guys had steered clear of her.

  She hadn’t yet popped me in the kneecap. But much as I might wish this quarrel was over, I suspected it wasn’t.

  Chapter Nine

  It was a rough night. Despite the size of the house, my suite lies directly above the kitchen, and the floor shakes when someone slams the cabinets or the refrigerator. It’s especially noticeable at midnight and again at 2 a.m.

  Obviously, it was a restless night for Tory, too.

  Although I don’t schedule surgeries on Mondays, I’m in the habit of rising early and working out. Lydia and I equipped the retreat adjacent to the master bedroom with mats, a treadmill, an elliptical trainer and a bench for lifting weights.

  Barely had I pulled on my exercise clothes before thumping noises alerted me that Tory had invaded the gym. Damn, why hadn’t I listed it as off-limits when I was inventing rules?

  Sharing the space had never been a problem with my wife. Unlike her sister, Lydia didn’t grunt noisily and pound on the equipment. And she didn’t toss glares in my direction when I entered.

  Cutting my losses, I went for a run. Early mornings are lovely near the ocean, with mist softening the edges of the world.

  That day, though, I barely noticed the springiness of my running shoes on the sidewalk or the hibiscus blooming in a neighbor’s yard. I was too busy contemplating ways to keep Tory out of the exercise room. Buy a Keep Out sign? Install a lock? Or simply restrict her hours?

  By the time I returned, she’d vanished, but the day’s irritations were far from over. In the hospital parking garage, I found both lower-level charging slots in use. One of the cars I recognized as belonging to a pediatrician. The other was an exact match for mine, down to the color.

  How had Jeremiah laid his hands on the car so fast, and didn’t he care that that was my slot? Well, unofficially.

  After finding a charging station on the next level, I headed in to see patients. Mondays are stressful, although not the busiest days in a doctor’s office—Tuesdays hold that honor, I have no idea why, and Friday afternoons occasionally produce a pileup worse than on the freeways. Nevertheless, at the start of the week, the staff has to juggle patients anxious for a last-minute appointment, coupled with those who wait until they’re already late before calling to cancel. Or who simply don’t show up.

  Weekends ought to produce relaxed, happy patients and personnel. Instead, the grouchiness factor goes off the charts. Mine included.

  By lunch, I was in no mood for a snack from the break-room vending machine. While I rarely visited the hospital cafeteria and questioned the nutritional value of its gravy-laden specials, some days a guy deserves comfort food. Also, I learned during my residency that the rules of nutrition don’t apply to doctors.

  The day’s special was meat loaf and mashed potatoes, with cooked carrots and yellow squash. “Healthy stuff,” was the mocking verdict from the fellow behind me in line. Sporting a tie-dyed surgical cap, anesthesiologist Rod Vintner arched his eyebrows for effect. “That would be our mental health, of course.”

  “I’ll do penance with a salad tonight.”

  Beyond the serving line, the large room rang with chatter from crowded tables. “They’ve got heat lamps on the patio,” Rod observed after we paid for our meals.

  “Sounds promising.” I’m not sure why the doctors tend to congregate at the outdoor tables; probably for a break from the noise. When we stepped outside, I was pleased not to spot Jeremiah at either of the populated tables.

  Rather than squeeze in, Rod and I chose an empty one. As he’d observed, the heat lamps took the edge off the cool air. A screen o
f flowering bushes provided privacy.

  I prepared for a barrage of jokes. Rod had the biggest store of doctor humor I’ve ever encountered, along with a huge stock of lawyer barbs. In his early forties, he’d recently remarried and gained custody of his two preteen daughters after a wallet-busting battle.

  “You may wonder why I singled you out today,” he said.

  I braced for the punch line.

  “I understand Dr. Abernathy’s widow was a patient of yours.”

  That didn’t strike me as the opening for a gag. Unsure what to expect, I said, “True.”

  “And you’re a friend of the homicide detective.”

  I didn’t bother to ask how he knew that. In addition to collecting jokes, Rod’s a gossip magnet. Even if he didn’t snoop, anesthesiologists hear plenty of ear-bending conversations in the operating room.

  “Right.” And his point was…?

  “I volunteer at the animal shelter, like Malerie. We’re old acquaintances.” Her late husband had been a colleague of Rod’s, after all. “This may be neither here nor there, but she was always urging me to invest in the latest scheme. If you could believe her, every startup was the next Microsoft.”

  “Did you follow her advice?” I asked.

  “No. I’m not much of a gambler,” Rod said. “Just thought you might want to pass that along, in case it’s helpful.”

  Everyone presumed Malerie had money, but maybe she’d become richer than they suspected. Or else she’d suffered losses. I hoped they weren’t large, for her daughters’ sakes. “Did her investments pay off?”

  “I never heard.” He glanced past me. “Uh oh. Here comes Dr. Weird.”

  I didn’t have to ask who that was. “Maybe he’ll join the others.” Yeah, right.

  “He’s bee-lining in our direction,” Rod said.

  I considered diving behind an azalea bush. Too late.

  “Eric! Rod!” Plopping a tray on our table, Jeremiah beamed at our plates. “We all bought the special.”

  “Amazing,” Rod said.

  Might as well satisfy my curiosity, I decided as the newcomer folded his rangy frame into a chair. “How did you get your new car so fast?” To Rod, I explained, “It’s identical to mine. He just ordered it a few days ago.”