Decorated to Death Page 9

  “Let’s not talk murder until after we’ve finished breakfast. By the way, Gin, is that all you’re having? A cup of coffee? Don’t tell me you’re on a diet. You’re not, are you?”

  “Nope. If you must know, Pesty and I had scrambled eggs and sourdough toast an hour ago. When it comes to eating, Keeshonds are like the time and tide—they wait for no man.”

  Before taking her seat at the table, JR poured a cup of coffee for Mary and topped off my cup. “There, now we’re all set. Eat fast, Aunt Mary. I want to get to Mom’s investigation stuff before I have to pick up the twins at the park’s summer camp center. When I dropped them off, the bus driver said he’d bring the kids back by eleven.”

  “Back from where?” I asked, waiting for my coffee to cool and wishing I could have a cigarette. In view of JR’s pregnancy, and the fact that there wasn’t even a hint of a breeze coming through the open top half of the Dutch door, I put a lid on my wish for the time being.

  “From a field trip,” JR answered. “He’s driving the camp kids out to the old railroad station. Can you believe it? The summer camp hasn’t changed its curriculum in twenty-five years. I can still remember when I went out there as a summer camp kid. Mother was the bus monitor. Do you remember that day, Mom?”

  “How could I forget it?” I replied, “I spent the hottest day of the year trapped on a non-air-conditioned bus with a certain fatheaded furniture salesman that we all know and love.”

  “Poor Mom,” JR said, snatching a dollop of blueberry jam from Mary’s plate and spreading it over what little remained of the English muffin. “She missed the whole tour of the place. The railroad station turned out to be a heck of a lot more interesting than most of the kids thought it would be. Sally Birdwell, I should say Sally Overbeck since she wasn’t married then, gave the tour. Sally was about twenty at the time and all the young boys went gaga over her. I don’t think they learned anything but we girls did. She told us about how important the station was before, during, and after the Civil War. There was even a picture of Lincoln standing on the station’s platform when he was campaigning for the presidency.”

  “Overbeck, hmm. Isn’t that the name of the Cambridge City sisters who made those whimsical figurines you’ve got in your bathroom, JR?” inquired Mary. Her cupid’s bow lips were outlined in deep blue, courtesy of the jam that Mary had slathered over, in, and under the croissant.

  “Same name but no relation. But Sally did tell us about the Overbeck kiln,” said JR, handing Mary an extra napkin. “I can’t remember what it was, but there was some kind of connection between the sisters, the railroad station, and the Civil War, Thanks to the tour and Sally, I developed an interest in Overbeck pottery. My collection of figurines is small but growing, kind of like me.”

  While JR and Mary laughed at JR’s joke, I got up from my chair and retrieved the canister of towelettes that was sitting on the counter. If I had any hope of having a serious, in-depth discussion of my investigation and a review of my suspect list, Mary was going to have to ditch the blueberry lip liner.

  “Here, try one of these,” I said to Mary as I pulled a towelette through the asterisk-shaped opening on the canister’s top, “before you draw blood with that paper napkin.”

  One swipe with the damp tissue and the stain was gone. With Mary once again looking like a beautiful, mature woman and not the bride of Frankenstein’s monster, it was time to get down to business.

  Taking a pad of yellow lined paper from my Designer Jeans briefcase, along with a couple of pencils and my list of suspects, I placed the writing materials and the list in the middle of the table. I then instructed JR and Mary to study my list before making a decision as to whom, in their opinion, was the most likely person to be the murderer. I suggested that they write down the suspect’s name, motive, and means, and be ready to defend their decision. Thanks to my running off at the mouth when we were at Milano’s the day before, Mary and JR were familiar with the members of Dona’s entourage.

  It didn’t take either one of them very long. Mary was the first to finish. Holding up the sheet of paper and using the pencil as a pointer, she declared that in her opinion, Ruffy Halsted had murdered Dona.

  “I feel that he had the motive and the means. I think he slipped out of his room, drove to the cottage, killed Dona, and then slipped back into his room with no one the wiser. His motive involved the real estate deal that someone, I think it was the bodyguard, had mentioned.”

  I could tell from the look on her face Mary was pleased with her decision and her reasoning.

  “Sorry, Aunt Mary, I disagree. No way would he take such a chance. Someone could have checked his room, found him missing and then what? No alibi. Besides, how would he know where Dona was going when she stormed out of the house? He wasn’t in the dining room at the time.”

  “If you take that one step further, JR,” I interjected, “maybe nobody in the dining room knew where Dona was going or made any effort to follow her.”

  “Good point, Mom. That’s why I ended up choosing Peter Parker and not Marsha Gooding or anyone else in the entourage. We only have his word that he no longer blamed Dona for Karen’s death. Peter had the means—access to a stethoscope and his own car. He also doesn’t have an alibi; at least not one that can be substantiated. I hate to say it but I think he’s the one.”

  “My stars, I forgot all about the stethoscope,” said Mary. “Maybe Ruffy Halsted used a stethoscope purposely to put the blame on poor Peter. That’s a possibility to consider. Besides, how could Peter know that Dona would be at the cottage?”

  “He probably contacted Dona the day before and set up an appointment to meet her there Saturday morning. What was it she said when she stormed out of the Birdwell house that morning?” asked JR, turning to me. “I’ve forgotten.”

  “Hold on while I check my notes,” I replied. The two waited patiently while I dug further into my briefcase.

  “Okay, I’ve got them. According to Sally Birdwell,” I said, reading aloud from my notes, “Dona said something about having one more thing to take care of before going to the book signing gig at the Book Nook. To me, it sounds more like Dona was planning on doing the confronting rather than other way around. If Dona did have an appointment to meet someone at the cottage, I’m inclined to think that she was the one who set it up.”

  Pleased that JR and Mary agreed with my theory, I then moved on to the subject of Vincent Salerno and his puzzling alibi. The lengthy, unproductive discussion that followed only reinforced my desire to contact Horatio Bordeaux. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the bodyguard and his alibi were key elements in the case. And the sooner the better or Ellie Halsted was in for a long engagement—like fifty years to life.

  “Wow! Look at the time. I better get a move on if I’m going to pick up the twins. If I think of anything that might be of some help to you, even if it’s trivial, I promise I’ll call you on your cell, Mom, no matter what.” That said, JR gave the lounging Pesty a final pat, her favorite aunt a hug, me a kiss, and headed out the Dutch door.

  “My stars, this sleuthing business is a lot harder than I imagined,” Mary remarked, helping herself to the last of the croissants. “Where do you want to go for lunch?”

  Chapter

  nineteen

  Mary had to settle for the hospital cafeteria. Unlike most people that I know who don’t find institutional food all that great, Mary loves it. Pushing our trays along the stainless-steel counter that ran in front of a sea of unidentified entrees, vegetables, and the like, Mary made more stops than an overloaded school bus. By the time we’d reached the cashier, Mary’s tray had become a burgeoning banquet of food while my tray looked rather forlorn.

  “My stars, Gin. Are you sure you’re not on a diet? What you’ve selected wouldn’t satisfy a three-year-old much less a grown woman. At least go back and get yourself a dessert. Trust me, the bread pudding is to die for.”

  I thought about defending my choice of the cream of chicken soup, a small to
ssed salad, and an apple, but I didn’t feel like it. Instead, I grabbed a dish of the mushy-looking pudding and stuck it on my tray, figuring that Mary would most likely end up eating the stuff. And why not, since she was picking up the tab for lunch. When the cashier rang up the bill for the two lunches, Mary paid while I went in search of a clean table for two. I was about to give up when I heard someone call my name. It was Dr. Sue Lin Loo and she was sitting alone at a table for four. Reading her hand signals, I then motioned to Mary that we would be sitting with the petite medical examiner.

  After both the doctor and Mary had polished off their king-sized meals and were sipping diet soda, the conversation turned to the Deville matter.

  “The body is being released Wednesday,” Loo said between sips of soda. “From what I understand, Twall and Sons Mortuary will be handling the funeral.”

  “You sound surprised,” I said, handing Mary the dish of bread pudding.

  “To tell you the truth, I am. I thought for sure that her send-off would be held in Indianapolis. She certainly spent more time there than in Seville, but I guess her ex-husband and daughter want to bury her here, next to her aunt. By the way,” said Loo, who had gotten up to leave, “it was Peter Parker’s stethoscope that was found at the crime scene. I’m only telling you because for some reason, Rollie Stevens is handling the investigation and not Lieutenant Cusak. Don’t get me wrong, I really like the chief, but when it comes to sorting out a complicated case, your record is better than Rollie’s. It would be a shame if a certain young doctor’s reputation ends up in shreds because of a bungled investigation.”

  “You got that right,” I said, thinking of my own efforts, which so far had produced diddly-squat. I watched as Loo quickly walked out of the cafeteria without a backward glance. “Come on, Mar, we got things to do and people to see,” I said, collecting the dishes and trash from the table.

  Mary’s reaction was both predictable and immediate. “My stars, Gin. Now this is more like it.”

  “What’s more like what? And for chrissake, stop calling me that idiotic name.”

  “More like real sleuthing,” replied Mary, ignoring the admonishment. “What’s the first thing on the list of things to do and who are we going to see?”

  Mary’s inner glow dimmed slightly when I informed her that while I was off to see Horatio, she would cover for me and visit Charlie.

  “What am I suppose to tell him when he asks why I’m there and you’re not? You know I’m not good at telling lies like you are, Gin.”

  “Jeez, thanks for the left-handed compliment, Mar. I don’t know. Tell him anything you want. Just don’t tell him that I’ve gone to see Horatio. That would tip him off that I’ve got my nose stuck where it doesn’t belong, at least in his and Matt’s opinion. Now listen, Mary. This is really, really important. Find out how much Charlie knows about this whole Deville mess and my involvement in it.”

  Mary’s face brightened considerably when I asked her to meet me at Kettle Cottage after her visit with Charlie. “If you’re not too tired and if there’s time, we’ll drop in on Abner Wilson. If I’m not mistaken, his place is right off Fourth Street near the Sev-Vale college campus. And, Mary, there’s one more thing I’d like to say before you go your way and I go mine.”

  “Okay, I’m listening,” she said, looking so vulnerable that I felt even more guilty than I usually do after being short with her.

  “I want to apologize for being so snippy. I guess my nerves are a bit frayed from everything that’s happened. It doesn’t help that my smoking has been cut down to the point that if I didn’t know better, I’d think that old demon nicotine and I had parted ways.” I was trying my damnedest to make amends to dear, sweet Mary. But like her twin brother, Charlie, Mary doesn’t know when to quit.

  “Oh, Gin, and here I thought you were crabby from dieting. Why didn’t you tell me that you were trying to stop smoking? If you’re not wearing a patch, you should be. You probably wouldn’t be nearly so, you know, like edgy.”

  “Mary, do me a favor. I’m going to close my eyes and when I open them, you are going to be gone. You know what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, I do and I forgive you. I guess your being hard is all part of being a good sleuth. I’ll see you back at Kettle Cottage, Gin. Ta, ta.”

  When I opened my eyes, Mary was gone. I made a beeline for the parking lot, my van, and a cigarette.

  Chapter

  twenty

  “Yes, Mrs. Daggert, it’s Jean Hastings. You know darn well who I am, and no, I am not wearing a disguise. My hair has always been this color, well, almost always, and these are precription sunglasses. Now let me in. I telephoned Mr. Bordeaux and he said it was okay for me to drop in on him. If you don’t open the door right now, I’ll tell your boss that you’re up to your old trick of telling fortunes again. I’d like to see you talk your way out of that.”

  My threat worked. The massive front door slowly creaked open and I was ushered into the foyer by the eccentric housekeeper. Dressed from head to toe in black and with strands of colored beads in her stringy coal-black hair, on her neck, and around her waist, Lucrezia Daggert looked like a gypsy in search of a crystal ball.

  “Wait here,” she croaked, tottering off in the direction of Horatio’s office. “And don’t move ’til I tell you, otherwise you’ll disturb the spell I put on you. I may be old but I still got the power.”

  Less than a minute later, I heard Horatio’s deep laughter followed by Mrs. Daggert’s announcement that Mr. Bordeaux would see me now.

  “Come in and close the door,” instructed Horatio. “That way we won’t disturb Mrs. Daggert. She’s recently taken up yoga and is into meditation.”

  “I think she’s into more than that. If I were to guess, I’d say the cooking sherry. Why you put up with her, I’ll never understand. I practically had to promise her my first born to get in to see you.”

  “Now, now, Jeannie, there’s no need to exaggerate. I think your problems with Mrs. Daggert stem from your misinterpretation of her sense of humor,” scolded Horatio with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Okay, you win. The woman is a laugh a minute. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I came to ask for your help in a very important matter.”

  “Why do I have this feeling that it has something to do with Dona Deville’s murder,” said Horatio as he maneuvered his wheelchair closer to his desk. “Fortunately, I’ve got a bit of free time on my hands so I’m at your service. Why don’t we start with you giving me a brief summary of the case as you see it so far. That way I’ll have a better understanding of how I can be of help.”

  That’s what I like about Horatio Bordeaux. He always cuts to the chase. With his unruly mop of salt-and-pepper curls, deep-set eyes, bushy beard, and wild taste in clothes, he has the look, and the credentials, of someone who has seen and done it all, from marching in 1963 with Martin Luther King Jr., to witnessing, firsthand, the 1989 destruction of the Berlin Wall. How he had time to party at Woodstock, ride horses in Ireland, and graduate with honors from Princeton is Horatio’s secret.

  An hour later, I was on my way to Kettle Cottage with Horatio’s promise that he would get back to me ASAP with the background check on Vincent Salerno.

  “I’m back,” I called out to Pesty, who was tucked under the kitchen table. She had her head resting on one of Charlie’s running shoes. Somehow she’d managed to get into the upstairs bedroom closet, find the shoe, and bring it down to the kitchen. For a dog who refuses to fetch any item that isn’t edible, going through all that trouble demonstrated how much the little Kees missed her master.

  Sitting down on the floor, I called her over and gave her some one-on-one attention. I also told her how much I missed Charlie. Putting our two heads together, we both cried until I heard the sound of Mary’s car coming up the driveway.

  “Come on Pesty, Aunt Mary’s here.” When the little ball of fluff failed to respond, I added, “You know, Pest, the lady with the purse-load of sugar cookies.” Still
nothing.

  Dragging Charlie’s shoe by the lace, Pesty crawled back under the round oak table. It was obvious to me that in Pesty’s mind, if she couldn’t have Charlie, then she would settle for the next best thing—something of his. In this case, it was his running shoe.

  “It’s okay, girl, I understand,” I said to her as I gently pushed the shoe beneath her chin. “Maybe when I go to bed tonight, I’ll try it your way. If it works for you, then maybe it’ll work for me.”

  Mary plopped herself down in the nearest kitchen chair, kicked off her white sandals, and yanked her white denim skirt up past her dimpled knees. “Dear God, it must be at least a hundred degrees out there. I forgot to leave the windows of my car cracked open and when I got in it after visiting with Charlie, the seats were so hot that I thought I was going to melt. By the time the air-conditioning cooled the car down, I was pulling into your driveway.”

  “Hey, tell me about it. The AC in the van hasn’t worked since Memorial Day. But you know what they say—it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. Would you like a bottle of water or ice tea?” I asked, moving toward the refrigerator.

  “I’ll have what you’re having,” Mary replied, mopping her face with a white, lacy handkerchief, “that is, if it’s not a cup of coffee and a cigarette. How you can do that when it’s so hot is beyond me. That husband of yours is as bad as you are.”

  I was about to pour two glasses of lemonade to go with the cheese and crackers when I realized what Mary had said. “Charlie had coffee and a cigarette? I can’t believe it. He hasn’t had a cigarette in over a year. How could he do that in the hospital of all places? Like everywhere else in this town, Garrison General is a smoke-free zone.”

  “Who said anything about Charlie smoking? Honestly, Gin, sometimes you jump to the craziest conclusions. I only meant that Charlie had a cup of coffee when I was visiting him. One of his golf buddies brought a whole carry-out container of mocha lattes from the Koffee Kabin.”