Widows' Watch (5 page)

Tuesday, September 28, 1:00 P.M.

The Socorro Heights Senior Citizens Center was housed in an old building, thirties vintage, of native red rock with a new cement-block addition in back and cactus, oleanders, and nonbearing mulberry trees in front. The parking lot, with numerous spaces reserved for the handicapped, had dozens of cars slanting drunkenly over the lines. “How you doing with the baby-making?” Elena asked as she and Leo walked toward the entrance.

Leo groaned. “I'm too old,” he muttered.

“Yeah, right. Thirty,” said Elena.

Leo shrugged. “She takes her temperature, the right time hits, and we screw like rabbits for a couple a days. We're so tired when the time's up, we go to bed about eight o'clock and can't hardly wake up for the alarm.”

“Gee, Leo. Really tough. Have you considered giving up sex and adopting a kid?”

“I've considered it,” said Leo, “but Concepcion wants her own. All of her brothers and sisters have kids. When the family gets together, they act like if she hadn't married an Anglo, she'd have six babies by now.”

“Aren't you glad you don't?” said Elena, stopping to ask where they'd find the bridge group. A member of the administrative staff pointed them toward the aroma of the noonday meal. Meat loaf and pickled beets. Elena wondered how the Hispanic seniors felt about that menu.

The bridge game was underway in a large room where Ping-Pong and a sing-along to music from an old record player were also in progress. Hundreds of notices were posted on bulletin boards: classes to be held in the side rooms, secondhand goods for sale, rooms for rent, health fairs with free tests and shots. Seniors ate stale popcorn from a machine where they scooped their own into a bag and left a dime. Piles of used paper coffee cups in plastic holders littered a table that held a big coffeepot. Classroom doors, some open, some closed, lined the right side of the large room.

Leo and Elena introduced themselves to the four female bridge players. Emily somebody said, “Four no trump,” and the rest, including her partner, tut-tutted.

“I'm Lydia Beeman,” said a lean, vigorous-looking woman in tailored beige slacks and blouse. She rose to shake hands. “You're here about Boris Potemkin, I imagine. That's Margaret Forrest.” She gestured toward another tall woman with beautifully coiffed white hair. “Margaret gave Dimitra a ride yesterday. And that's Portia Lemay, my bidding partner for today.” Lydia nodded toward a third woman. “Portia's single. Sold more houses than anyone in Los Santos before she retired.”

“I still know where the good buys are,” said Portia, blue eyes twinkling in an unlined, rosy face.

“And this is Emily Marks, who just made the world's most ill-conceived bid,” Lydia concluded and sat down. “Double,” she said to Emily.

“Redouble,” said Emily gaily.

Elena judged that Emily Marks was a bit younger than the others, who appeared to be in their middle seventies. Emily's hair was dyed brown-blond and teased into an elaborate halo around her head. She had the look of a woman who'd had a face lift that was just beginning to sag.

“Emily's the only one with a living husband,” said Lydia, “and a good thing too, since she needs a lot of looking after.”

Elena figured that if she were doing a statistical study with this group as its basis, she'd come to the conclusion that marriage caused wrinkles. A brief, polite argument ensued over who would be questioned first. Portia Lemay, the dummy, volunteered. Leo and Elena insisted on Mrs. Forrest.

“I don't have anything to tell you that the others can't hear,” said Margaret Forrest.

“What's goin' on he-ah?” The words were slow, the accent drawling, the tone suspicious.

Elena looked across the bridge table to a man who stood behind and slightly to the side of Lydia Beeman. He was tall and thin, with skin as seamed, brown, and rough as an overripe kiwi. Straight and sparse, his white hair hung a good inch below his ears, and his eyes were blue and faded amid the squinting wrinkles of a man who had looked too long into the sun. Hanging loosely from bony hips, his jeans were held up by a wide leather belt with an ancient rodeo buckle. A worn sports jacket cut Western style with pointed yokes partially covered a clean but poorly ironed white shirt highlighted by a string tie. His boots were high-heeled, scuffed and tooled, a soiled yellow color with brown curlicue insets around the tops. Elena took him in at a glance and thought, Portrait of an old cowboy.

“These are detectives investigating Boris Potemkin's murder,” said Lydia.

“Well, whyfore they botherin' you ladies?”

“Because Dimitra played bridge with us yesterday,” said Margaret.

“Don't like to see ladies bothered.”

“This is T. Bob Tyler,” said Lydia to Leo and Elena. “He's a retired rancher who doesn't know what to do with himself, so he hangs around here being chivalrous in a minor way.” T. Bob Tyler patted Lydia Beeman's lean shoulder as if he understood that her sharp words were a sign of affection. “T. Bob, meet Detectives Weizell and Jarvis. Jarvis is the woman. How do you like that? Bet they didn't have any lady sheriffs out in Otero County, New Mexico, when you were ranching. They never did in East Texas when I was a girl.”

“No ma'am,” said T. Bob and placed a showy Stetson over his heart as he smiled shyly at Elena. She was sure he'd have swept the hat off had it been on his head.

“Mrs. Forrest,” said Leo, nodding his head toward an empty classroom.

“Whar's Miss Margaret goin'?” asked T. Bob in an alarmed tone.

“They're about to give her the third degree,” said Lydia dryly. “Don't you want to go along to protect her?”

Elena heard the tap of his boot heels coming after them. She turned and said, “Don't worry, Mr. Tyler. We won't do her an ounce of harm.”

T. Bob stopped, looking confused, probably because he didn't know how to gainsay a woman. They escaped into the classroom with Margaret, leaving him behind, mumbling. Leo, Elena, and Margaret took seats in the uncomfortable desk-chair combinations that looked like discards from the school district.

“We're primarily interested in time, Mrs. Forrest,” said Elena.

“And state of mind,” added Leo.

“Well, I certainly feel guilty. I should have gone into the house with her, especially considering that she has to use a walker. Poor thing. I was anxious to get home to work on my mums. I decided just yesterday that they needed to be pinched back one—”

“Mrs. Forrest,” Leo interrupted.

“You're not familiar with chrysanthemum strategies?” asked Margaret Forrest, misunderstanding his interruption. “You pinch some buds to make the rest of the blossoms larger.”

“What time was it when you dropped her off, ma'am?” Leo asked, cutting off the mum lecture.

“Three-thirty,” said Margaret. “And I suppose you'd like to know when I picked her up. That was quarter-to-twelve. We always have lunch together before we start playing. The food isn't very good here, but it's better than cooking.”

Elena reflected that they had yet to find a witness in this case who didn't want to tell them more than they needed to know.

“I still enjoy my garden,” Margaret was saying, “but—”

“About Dimitra's state of mind that afternoon,” Elena cut in, feeling like some ill-brought-up youngster.

Mrs. Forrest looked surprised but obligingly replied. “She seemed cheerful. Now, of course, she's probably thinking that if she'd stayed home, Boris might still be alive.”

“You have the impression that Dimitra was fond of her husband?”

“Well, used to him. Heavens, they've been married for years. You get used to living with a person.”

“But how did she feel about him? Did she say anything about him yesterday?”

“Oh, the usual. Everyone knows Boris was difficult.”

“Do you think Dimitra was a battered woman?” asked Elena.

“A what?” Margaret looked uneasy.

“Did her husband abuse her physically or emotionally?”

“Goodness, I couldn't say.” Then she added hesitantly, “Dimitra did mention several unkind remarks he made. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes. Like what?”

“She'd forgotten to bring in the paper that morning.”

“He made her go out for the paper?” Elena liked Boris less with each new story she heard about him.

“He did,” said Margaret. “And Boris was quite able to go out and get his own paper. But he expected her to do everything she'd ever done before she broke her hip.”

“Do you have any idea how that happened?” asked Leo.

Margaret Forrest's face closed. “It's hard to say. Her hip might have given way on its own. Because of osteoporosis, which strikes so many older women. I hope you're getting lots of calcium while you can, Detective Jarvis.”

“You saying her hip just crumbled?” asked Leo incredulously.

“I really have no idea,” said Margaret. “It could have crumbled before the fall or broken after.”

Wow, thought Elena. Maybe I better drink more milk. “She was with you from quarter-of-twelve to three-thirty?”

“That's right,” said Margaret. “I just wish that I'd seen her into that house.”

“Did she seem to want you to?”

“No, she said, ‘Get back in your car, Margaret. I know you're anxious to start on those mums.' And I was. So I did.”

“Did someone invite Dimitra Potemkin to play yesterday,” asked Leo, “or did she offer?”

Margaret Forrest frowned, shook her head. “I'm not sure, but Lydia could tell you. She's the one who needed a substitute.”

When Mrs. Forrest had left, Elena murmured, “You think Dimitra was setting herself up with an alibi?”

“Could be. If she and the son were both in on it. Maybe the son was in the house with the body. Or she could have been afraid he'd be.” Leo got up. “We're going to be here all afternoon if we

can't get these people to stick to the point,” he muttered. “They're as bad as your neighbors were last night.”

“Older people have plenty of time. They like to talk.”

“So we'll interrupt them,” said Leo. They went out to the bridge table. Emily Marks had been set, doubled and redoubled, on her four-no-trump bid, and a new round of bidding was in progress.

T. Bob Tyler sat at the corner of the table between Lydia and Emily Marks, his eyes fixed on the classroom door.

“Maybe Mr. Tyler could take a hand,” said Elena, anxious to get on with the interviews.

“Don't play nuthin' but poker,” said T. Bob. “Bridge and suchlike are women's games.”

“Fiddlesticks,” said Lydia Beeman. “I probably play a better hand of poker than you do, T. Bob.” She turned to her fellow players. “Since Portia's got the bid at four hearts, you go in next, Emily.”

“I've never been questioned by the police,” said Emily. “Should I have a lawyer?”

“Don't be a ninny,” snapped Lydia. “You haven't done anything.”

“You want me to go along, Miz Emily?” asked T. Bob. “Don't want you frightened by no lawmen, even if one is a woman.”

Emily giggled. “You're such a dear, T. Bob,” she said. “Almost as chivalrous as my George.”

“Don't reckon your George ever handled a six-gun,” rumbled T. Bob.

“I hope you're not packing one, Mr. Tyler,” said Elena. “If you are, it's concealed, and that's against the law.”

“Too many folks got sissy ideas about guns these days,” said T. Bob glumly. “Ah sure am willin' an' able to go in an' look after you, Miz Emily.”

“Well, I—”

“Get on in there, Emily,” said Lydia.

“You mustn't let Lydia's gruff ways mislead you,” said Emily once they'd arranged themselves in the desk chairs. “She's a wonderful woman. My big sister.”

“You're related?” asked Elena, surprised.

“She was the best friend of my real big sister who”—Emily looked as if she might cry—”who died several years back. Lydia's been so good to me. She took me into the bridge group when she knew I wasn't a very good player. Although I've improved. You wouldn't believe it.”

Elena didn't believe it.

“Between Lydia and my dear husband, George, I never have a worry in the world.”

“That's real nice,” said Leo. “What we wanted to ask you about was Dimitra Potemkin.”

“Oh, yes. I plan to take her a bowl of my cream of squash soup. That should—”

“Do you think she liked her husband, Boris?” asked Leo. Having had to listen to the mum dissertation from Margaret Forrest, he was evidently determined to miss whatever Emily Marks had to say about squash soup. Elena cleared her throat to keep from giggling.

Emily looked shocked and said, “I'm sure she did.”

“She never said anything unfavorable about him?”

“Well, of course, but she didn't mean it.”

“What did she say about him yesterday?” asked Elena.

“Goodness, I don't remember. I have enough trouble remembering what's been bid, and as for remembering what's been played—”

“Time, Mrs. Marks,” said Leo. “We need to know when Dimitra Potemkin was here at the center.” But Emily didn't remember—that or much else of significance.

“Senile?” Leo murmured to Elena when the lady had left.

“Just a twit,” Elena replied and followed him out.

“Portia's free,” said Lydia. “I'm playing two hearts.”

“Miz Lemay, she don't know nuthin' ‘bout murders,” said T. Bob Tyler. “She's a maiden lady. In my ‘sperience maiden ladies is mighty squeamish ‘bout blood.”

“We don't think she killed anyone,” said Elena, who was getting tired of the old rancher's interference.

Portia Lemay patted T. Bob Tyler on the shoulder as she passed. “Don't get yourself in a fuss, T. Bob,” she said.