Tips for Living(41)
“The Miami developer. The man who lost it?”
Lizzie nodded.
“Mr. Miami came into the bank to meet with Sinead’s boss. She heard the whole conversation. Seems he’d raised the cash to buy his house back, but too late. The bank accepted the Walkers’ offer the day before. The guy was extremely agitated about it.”
“It’s quite a stretch from there to murder, Lizzie.”
“No, wait. He told Sinead’s boss he’d tracked the Walkers down and made an offer with a healthy profit. He explained to them that he’d built the house for his wife, that she loved her pottery studio, etc., etc. He pleaded with them. The Walkers said no. The next day, they had their lawyer call and tell him to lay off. Or face a restraining order.”
“Well, that was harsh,” I said, taking a seat in the wicker armchair across from Lizzie. This was getting more interesting.
“So, he comes into the bank and tells his story to Sinead’s boss. Asks if there’s anything the bank can do to help him get his house back. He’ll pay. The boss says sorry, there are rules. Mr. Miami calls the Walkers a few choice names, blames them for his wife lapsing into a serious depression and then splits.”
“Okay . . .”
She pulled a paper from her jacket pocket and handed it to me. “I went back to our Lifestyles piece on the wife. These are the names, right here.”
“Diane and Jeffrey Volani spend the rest of the year in Miami Beach, Florida,” I read.
“I found their number through the reverse directory. I had a hunch. I thought I’d call, and if Mr. Volani answered, I’d say something like, ‘Lizzie Latham of the Pequod Courier here. My sources tell me you were seen turning into the driveway of the house you built on Pequod Point this weekend. You may have been the last person to see the Walkers alive. Any comment?’”
“Smart. Take him off guard. See what kind of response you’d get.”
“Right. And if the wife answered instead, I’d pretend interest in one of her lovely urns for my wedding centerpiece. Chat her up. Try to learn if her husband had an alibi over the weekend. But I didn’t talk to either of them.” She sat back, looking pleased with herself.
“So, what happened?”
She mimed talking into her phone. “‘Hello, may I speak with Jeffrey Volani?’ I ask. An old man’s voice answers, ‘I’m sorry. Jeffrey is out of town.’ Bingo. Out of town in Pequod, maybe? ‘Oh. Then may I speak with Diane?’ But there’s this really loong silence from the old man.
“‘Who is this, please?’ he finally asks, but his voice sounds all funny. Something tells me not to say I’m a reporter. ‘It’s Lizzie Latham. From their old neighborhood in Pequod.’ Not a total lie, right? He chokes up. Turns out the old man is Jeffrey’s father, and he tells me that on Labor Day weekend, Diane Volani killed herself.”
“Whoa.” I let out a long breath.
“Volani’s dad was eager to talk to someone who knew them when. It felt kind of icky to mislead him, but check this out: he told me that he moved in with his son because he’s ‘very worried about his mental condition. The toll this has taken.’”
“I see where you’re going with this.” I stood and began to pace. “If Volani Jr. already blamed Hugh and Helene for his wife’s depression, he’s got motive. And if he’d been brooding for months, he could have snapped when she killed herself. He could have completely cracked . . .” At last, a viable suspect. Someone enraged at both Hugh and Helene. Someone unhinged. I stopped pacing. “Great job, Lizzie.”
She glowed. “Yeah? It means a lot that you think so.”
Sometimes, under all Lizzie’s competitiveness, I forgot that she wanted my approval.
“I called upstairs to see if Gubbins could add anything, but he’d left for lunch,” she said, getting up. “Listen, I need to go back to the office. I’ll take the information to the police after I talk to Gubbins. If this Volani guy turns out to be the killer, I’ll be ready to run with the story before anyone else.”
“I don’t understand. What does Gubbins have to do with it?”
“He handled the Pequod Point purchase for the Walkers.”
The chances of finding Gubbins lunching at Eden’s were good. And if I guessed wrong, I’d try the pizza place on Bridge Street or pop over to his office and wait for him there. No media vans were visible on Pequod Avenue, so I was fairly confident the press wouldn’t accost me. I parked and strode into the coffee shop, impatient to confront my lawyer. How could he withhold such an important piece of information? How could I trust him?
Gubbins sat in the last green-leather booth at the back of the room, wearing his shiny brown suit, eating a piece of pie. He didn’t notice me come in. His attention was split between the pie and the TV on the wall. FOX News was reporting on another round of deadly flooding in Haiti. I paused for a second and took in the heartrending images of homeless, grief-stricken survivors covered in mud, of inconsolable children crying for missing parents. That put things in perspective. I said a silent prayer for them and continued across the red linoleum floor, plunking down across from Gubbins, giving him a start. I kept my voice low.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were Hugh and Helene’s lawyer?”