Dirty Tricks: A Kate Lawrence Mystery Read online

  I was frankly disappointed. My friendship with Ginny Preston had been a bright spot over the years at Vista View, and I’d secretly hoped her replacement would be lively and personable, as well. “That’s too bad, but maybe it was just first day jitters. Did you ever have a first day on a new job that wasn’t terrible?” I commented hopefully.

  “True enough,” Strutter agreed, and Margo nodded in sympathy. “Who could forget training week at BGB?”

  At that we all burst out laughing, remembering our days as legal assistants at Bellanfonte, Girouard & Bolasevich, a prestigious Hartford law firm with a name so unpronounceable that it was known nationally as simply BGB. The first week on the job had been known as Hell Week for good reason, as it was devoted to a mind-boggling introduction to BGB’s word processing and document management software, all of which had been customized to meet the specific needs of a large law firm with offices in multiple states. It was a bond among the three of us, rather like Marine boot camp, I imagined. At any rate, just the memory of my law firm initiation was enough for me to give Isabelle Marchand the benefit of the doubt.

  Two

  By Friday we were so accustomed to having May at the Law Barn, it was as if she had always occupied the little office on the first floor. Margo made her a key to the big front doors so she could come and go as she pleased, and she was the perfect guest, tidy and unobtrusive but always ready to join us for a chat, if invited. Because she was an early riser, or perhaps because the construction workers arrived at her home promptly at seven o’clock each morning, she made it a point to learn how we all liked our coffee and had mugs and napkins lined up in front of a fresh pot by the time we arrived.

  Unfortunately, I’d miss the coffee room chat this morning. Margo and Strutter had already done Vista View duty this week, so I needed to prepare to take my turn at the sales desk. I was reluctant to leave my warm bed, and our ginger cat Gracie was no help, pinning me snugly beneath the covers as I stole a little extra doze time. Ultimately, the snooze alarm prodded me to my feet, but it was already after 8:00 a.m.

  I could hear Armando’s shower running upstairs. His work schedule at TeleCom International required a good deal of international travel and lots of overtime, so he could pretty well start and end his days in the office when he chose. That suited my Colombian husband’s casual relationship with time very well, although it was a continual adjustment for me. I was getting better at letting his chronic lateness go, but it still made me a little nuts from time to time.

  I headed for my own downstairs bathroom and hoped there was enough hot water left for my shower. I rinsed shampoo out of my hair under a stinging spray and managed to rid myself of the last of the suds just as the water temperature started dropping.

  I toweled off and blew dry and moisturized, then spent my customary two minutes with the mirror, applying the workday amenities of mascara, lipstick and a little blusher. With one eye on the clock, I wrestled myself into pantyhose and the pencil skirt and tunic that would get me through the day in comfort, if not the height of elegance. Small gold hoops in my ears, and I was done. At the last second, I dabbed a few drops of firming serum onto my chin and neck. At the age of fifty-two, it couldn’t hurt, and it might help.

  “Good morning, Cara, did you sleep well?” said Armando from the hall as I hastily made my bed. He stood in the doorway, impeccably turned out for his work day, as always. Not especially tall, but undeniably dark and handsome, he was fastidious about his personal appearance and always a sight worth seeing. Unfortunately, that orderliness didn’t extend to his bedroom and bathroom which were, to put it kindly, a perpetual mess.

  I yanked the comforter smooth and turned to give him a smile. The sight of him caused all the usual stirrings, so evidently there was some life in the old girl yet. Gracie dropped the composed persona she used around me and churned around his ankles, purring and chatting as only ginger cats can do in order to get his attention.

  “Apparently, your Latino appeal extends to females of all species,” I noted, and he obliged her with an ear scritch. I inhaled his clean, soapy scent as I leaned in for a kiss.

  “I am very glad to hear that.” His hand wandered from my waist, and I slapped it away lightly.

  “Off to work with you. I’m running late, and I haven’t even had my coffee. Since you and Gracie are such good friends, you can feed her this morning.” I wiped a smudge of my lipstick from the corner of his mouth and patted his butt. “Go.” He headed for the kitchen.

  A few minutes later I hustled into the Jetta and hit the road. Instead of following my usual route to Old Wethersfield, where Mack Realty has its offices on Old Main Street, I turned right out of our condo complex’s entrance road and made my way down Prospect Street to Collier, where the Vista View complex was located. The signs of autumn were everywhere, in the gardens that were lush with fall blooms, in the property repairs being made in preparation for a New England winter, and the pumpkins and pots of colorful mums on every front stoop. Within half a mile I passed a painter on a ladder, tending to the window trim on an already tidy looking Colonial; roofers repairing shingles atop a sprawling ranch; a young man in earphones operating a roaring leaf blower; and an elderly woman on her knees, energetically tidying her perennial border.

  I parked my car in a visitor slot and hefted my computer bag, purse and briefcase stuffed with sales materials and rental forms over the gearshift console. I didn’t usually bring my laptop with me, but if things were slow today, I intended to visit the Romantic Nights website. My primary mission, however, was to introduce myself to Isabelle Marchand, the new business manager, and find out what I could about her.

  By the time I reached the entrance of Building One, which housed the administrative offices and dining facilities for the complex, I was puffing. As I paused to catch my breath, I looked around at the other buildings. My friend Ginny Preston’s contributions were evident everywhere. Several modestly sized apartment buildings surrounded a tasteful green, and carefully meandering roads led to groupings of smaller structures set farther from the road. From the outside they all looked similar, like expensively constructed and maintained residential housing, but I knew that each one served a specific purpose in the hierarchy of caring for the elderly. The clusters farther removed were elegant housing units of all configurations—garden apartments, townhouses and even freestanding units—and were rented or owned by the not-yet-retired or newly retired who still enjoyed good health and mobility. Phase One-ers, the developers labeled them.

  Phase Two facilities were located closer to the main road and consisted of units discreetly equipped with bells, buzzers and other devices that allowed their residents to call for help, should they require it. Housekeeping services were available to Phase Two-ers, as well as communal dining in Building One if they wished to avail themselves of regularly provided group meals that were both nourishing and appealing.

  Phase Three residents were essentially nursing home patients and enjoyed the best round-the-clock personal care services that money could buy. It wasn’t anything to look forward to, exactly, but it was the reason most residents signed up for a Vista View unit to begin with. While enjoying the amenities of Phase One and Phase Two, they knew Phase Three was waiting. One need do nothing but slip quietly into an adjoining building to accomplish the transition. I imagined the advancing years that might rob Armando and me of our mobility and independence, and I felt somehow comforted. It wasn’t in either of our natures to burden our children with our care, and it was good to know that Vista View was an option. It was attractive, comfortable and extremely well run. At least it had been when Ginny was at the helm. I wondered again about Isabelle Marchand as I hefted my burdens and headed purposefully for the front door of Building One. My first stop would be the dining room for coffee, and then I would see.

  Having piled my various satchels on the sales desk in a nook off the main lobby, I snatched up my purse and followed the delicious aromas emanating from the dining hall straight
ahead.

  “How are you today, Gorgeous?” I stopped in my tracks, startled, although I knew the voice well. A dapper, aging elf hustled to overtake me—my favorite Vista View resident and good friend, Bert Rosenthal. With his bow tie, thick lenses and unlit cigar, he bore a marked resemblance to George Burns in his later years.

  “Mind if I join you for a decaf?” he grinned. “I need sustenance after my daily constitutional. My doctor says these walks are good for me, but personally, I think they’re going to do me in.”

  I slowed my pace to allow Bert to catch up and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You’ve been saying that for as long as I’ve known you, yet here you still are,” I teased him gently. The memory of an awful evening a couple of years ago when a heart attack had nearly taken him from us was still fresh. I frankly couldn’t imagine Vista View without him. “Heading for one or another of your many committee meetings?”

  He grimaced, well aware, as was I, that the annual Halloween costume ball was only a few weeks away. Vista View social events were varied and many, the planning of which usually involved Bert Rosenthal, but his annual masterpiece was the Halloween party.

  “Not until this afternoon, thank goodness. I’m not looking forward to it.”

  Before I could ask him about his uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm, he whisked me into the dining room and hurried to claim one of the most popular tables by the big windows. That accomplished, we joined the queue leading to the big coffee urns, sniffing the aromas of freshly baked cinnamon rolls and orange coffee cake. Though they were decadent in appearance, we knew the chef had made every effort to lower the salt, fat and calories in his confections, mindful of the nutritional needs of the residents. The food at Vista View was a continual delight and one of the community’s greatest selling points.

  The line moved briskly, and when it was our turn, Bert dutifully filled his cup with decaf, while I chose the fully leaded version, the one and only serving of caffeine I allowed myself each day. After a few pleasurable moments debating the virtues of cinnamon roll versus coffee cake, we agreed to split a piece of cake, and I plopped it onto my tray with two napkins and some stirrers while Bert picked up the tab. It was our habit to treat each other alternately.

  Seated at our table, I picked up the conversation where we’d left off.

  “Problems among the committee members?” I prompted. I knew from long experience how difficult it could be to arrive at a consensus among the varied personalities that were inevitably present among the members of any board or committee on which I’d ever participated, which is why I so seldom joined organizations these days. The committee approach just wears me out. Give me a benign dictator any day.

  Bert wiped orange crumbs carefully from his lips. “Nope, not among the committee members. We’ve run so many events together in this joint, we can read each other’s minds. We jog along together pretty well for the most part, and we would this time, too, if management would just keep their noses out of it.”

  I looked at him over the rim of my cup, surprised. “What management? The residents always form their own committees and run the social events. Management sets the budget, and the rules never vary, but other than that, things have always been in the residents’ hands. What’s different this year?”

  Bert harrumphed. “Busy Izzy Marchand is what’s different. Every time she makes an appearance, which isn’t often, I feel like I should snap to attention and salute her.”

  “Oh, dear,” I sympathized. “I’ve yet to meet her, but I imagine I will at some point today. I was kind of hoping we’d have the same kind of rapport I had with Ginny, but you aren’t boosting my confidence about that.”

  “Sorry, Gorgeous, but Ginny Preston, she ain’t. This one’s all business and as aloof as they come.”

  I slugged down the rest of my coffee and took Bert’s cup to drop into the recycling bin with my own on the way out.

  “In that case I’d better scurry to my desk and make like a diligent real estate professional. Thanks for the heads up.” I patted his cheek and made tracks for the lobby, knowing he wouldn’t be left alone at the table for long. Bert was extremely popular with the female residents, and I spotted a group of his regulars coming through the door as I exited.

  Within minutes I had promotional literature and rental agreements lined up neatly near the visitors’ chairs, my business cards displayed in a small rack, and my laptop fired up, ready for anyone who might have a question about buying or renting a unit at Vista View. Since it was still before ten in the morning, traffic in the lobby was light, and the few people who came through were intent on a late breakfast or cup of coffee. It didn’t take long for me to become bored and soon found myself Google-ing May Farnsworth’s publishing site, Romantic Nights.

  It popped right up, and I was immediately absorbed into the world of the romance novel. It had never been a genre I particularly enjoyed, although admittedly I hadn’t even picked up a romance story in years, so the changes really jumped out at me. I looked through the new releases (Her Heart’s Desire, Betrayed and Abandoned, Wild and Wanton), reviewed the submission guidelines (“Everyone has to be a consenting adult. Other than that, we’re looking for smart, savvy heroines, fresh voices, and new takes on old favorite themes.”) and finally browsed by subgenre (romantic suspense, contemporary, paranormal, historical, and spicy romance). Naturally, the last category proved to be the most engrossing, which was why I failed to notice the mature woman in a business suit and stylish, but sensible, shoes standing in front of my desk until she cleared her throat. I started guiltily and felt myself flush red to my hairline.

  “Isabelle Marchand, Business Manager of Vista View. I do hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” she said. Her voice was cool. “I met the other members of Mack Realty earlier in the week so I thought I’d stop by and introduce myself to you, Ms. …” She extracted one of my business cards and studied it.

  “Lawrence, Kate Lawrence,” I hastened to supply as I scrambled to my feet and came around my desk. Closing my laptop would be a dead giveaway, so misdirection was my only shot. I offered my hand, which she accepted a bit reluctantly. Not a toucher, I thought. “I’m so pleased to meet you at last. Ginny Preston and I worked closely together during her last couple of years here.” Oops, probably not the best idea to bring up her predecessor.

  “Yes, so I hear,” she replied civilly enough, but her expression was wary. Not surprising, considering the circumstances surrounding Ginny’s departure, but that’s another story. “I’m afraid the residents are all too eager to share the details of anything that takes place here, whether they’re true or not.”

  I gave her a sharp look, but all I detected was a glint of droll humor in her eyes. Huh, maybe there was a person in there after all in spite of what Bert had told me.

  “It kind of goes with the territory in a small community like Vista View,” I offered with a small shrug. “Rumors, gossip, you know the kind of thing. I have to say the residents here seem to be a lot friendlier and more supportive of each other than they are at other such enclaves. In fact, I’ve become quite fond of several of them, and two of my dearest friends moved in a year or so ago on our recommendation.” Might as well show her I was a team player, sort of.

  “Mmm, yes, the Henstock sisters, if the scuttlebutt is accurate. Lovely ladies, and they seem to be enjoying the amenities we offer here, especially the dining facility.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Between you and me, Dominick’s menus seem to be one of our biggest selling points, but don’t tell him. He’ll want a raise.”

  I chuckled along with her. “I’m afraid it’s too late for discretion. Everyone makes such a fuss over Dominick, he can’t help but know how appreciated he is. Fortunately, he’s not in this for the money—or at least, not just for the money. Having his skill admired by more than a hundred people on a daily basis is pretty heady stuff. How did you come to join the management here, Isabelle?” I gestured at a visitor’s chair, and she sat willi
ngly. I took the other chair and turned it toward her, the better to divert her attention from my still-open laptop.

  “Oh, the title of Business Manager is just a holdover from Ginny Preston’s tenure here. I’d hardly consider myself management, although I’m sure that’s what most of the residents assume,” she volunteered to my surprise. “The job has been entirely reconfigured. As you well know, Ms. Preston practically ran the place, taking care of the physical facility, supervising the hourly staff, and of course, overseeing sales and rentals. When one operates a residence for the elderly, turnover can be quite brisk.” This was delivered with another unmistakable twinkle in her eye. Despite my colleagues’ warnings, I was beginning to enjoy our conversation.

  “You’re right about that,” I agreed.

  “In any event, the job opening was presented to me as primarily a paperwork function, preparing payrolls and spreadsheets and generally crunching numbers for senior management on a regular schedule. There isn’t a lot of excitement, but it’s something at which I’m experienced. I’d reached a time in my life where a less challenging, shall we say, position was very attractive, and the little apartment that came along with it made it all the more appealing, especially after last winter’s awful weather.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. New England is lovely in every season, but driving over hilly terrain in snow and sleet gets old fast. I looked around at the quiet lobby.

  “I totally get that, but doing paperwork in an assisted living community in an office all by yourself can’t be much fun,” I demurred, hoping I wasn’t becoming too personal. “Do you have family in the area, Isabelle?”

  She met my eyes frankly. “No, no family and not many outside interests either. I’ve always been something of a loner, you see, which doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the company of other people from time to time. I’m just not a joiner, never have been. I’d rather be burned at the stake than attend another committee meeting in this lifetime. I don’t even attend church, but don’t let that get around.”