Brad agreed with me, then explained he had to get to an interview. After he left, I started to develop a headache. I'd find time to verify what he'd said with Bertha. I didn't think he was lying but needed to confirm his explanation. Timothy's sudden appearance and Jennifer's lengthy disappearance seemed highly suspect. We were definitely missing something important.
Chapter 12
Eustacia asked Bertha to prepare a light lunch for Nana D and I. We devoured a Caesar salad with grilled chicken breast, battered prawns, and homemade croutons. In my mind I was expecting a grilled cheese sandwich or a bowl of tomato soup, but I wasn't going to complain about a free meal.
“I still don't agree with you for putting my brother's name on the list. He didn't have any reason to kill Gwennie,” Eustacia argued. Her hands and arms waved about feverishly to make her point.
“I understand it doesn't seem logical to you, but if Millard found out he might have had a child and that Gwendolyn could have known something about it, he might have been too angry to stop himself,” I explained as simply as I could.
“Kellan has a point. If that's his logic, maybe we should also put Eustacia on the suspect list,” Nana D suggested looking serious and determined.
Eustacia gasped. “Me? Have you lost your mind, Seraphina? I had no reason to want my sister-in-law dead.”
“Perhaps she discovered you'd kept the secret from Millard, and you killed her to keep it quiet,” Nana D said with a flourish. “It's as plausible as Millard being the murderer. We've gotta look at this from every angle. I don't think you did it, but we should consider anyone who had the opportunity or the means. Although the motive might not be clear right now, we can't rule out those with immediate access to Gwennie.”
While Nana D and Eustacia engaged in a battle of wills, I absconded to Brad's room. I'd heard Bertha say goodbye to him a few moments earlier which meant his room was unoccupied. She led me through one of the back hallways to the servant's quarters. While we walked, she corroborated his story about the pills falling under the table in the hallway. “That's his room on the far left, near the laundry facility,” she said with a nod. “I must get back to the table to clean up.”
Brad's door was unlocked when I turned the glass-covered knob. His living quarters were at least twelve by twelve and situated in the far corner of the wing. He had two pairs of double windows on the east and south walls, a queen-size bed with a muted blue comforter tucked neatly on both sides, and a small French country writing desk and chair set. I decided to check the desk drawers first which like the room were spotless and organized. Other than a few current bills with minimal expenditures and a normal amount of debt for someone his age, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
It was in the night table where I found something of interest. Hidden beneath a folder marked job opportunities and a crossword puzzle book was a framed photo of a little boy and a woman at the beach. I stared at the picture trying to decide if the child was Brad from years ago, but I couldn't be certain. There was a strong likeness but none of the clothing or furniture in the background suggested the time frame when the photo had been captured. I set it on the night table and took out my cell phone to take a picture for future reference. The velvet-covered cardboard flap holding the picture upright gave way and the whole frame fell to the floor.
When I picked up the picture, an obituary card slipped out. It read:
March 14, 2017, Hannah Shope
Hannah Shope, 45, of Boise, Idaho, passed away after a long battle with MS. Hannah had been active in the St. Francis Catholic Church up until her diagnosis several years ago when she became unable to leave her house. She is survived by a loving son, Brad Shope, who took care of his mother in the last few years. Hannah was an only child who'd moved to the area nearly twenty-five years ago from Pennsylvania where she'd worked in domestic services. She will be missed by all her friends in the rosary group and at Sunday morning mass. May she eternally rest in peace.
I snapped a picture of both the photograph and the obituary card before quickly shutting the drawer and verifying everything was left exactly as I'd found it. I dashed back to the dining room where Nana D and Eustacia were still arguing about the potential suspects.
“What if it was the mail carrier? Maybe he snuck into Gwennie's bedroom every morning and swapped the pills. Honestly, Seraphina, you're pulling these ideas out of your crotchety old…”
“Ladies, I found something,” I said with a zest of energy. “Didn't you say the maid's name was Hannah? Look…” I handed my phone to Eustacia and Nana D who huddled around the table's corner.
“I don't remember the name Shope, but that's definitely her. I now remember what she looked like and can't believe I didn't see the resemblance with Brad before.”
“Do you know who introduced Brad to Gwendolyn at the rehabilitation facility?” I asked.
They both shook their heads. “I haven't the foggiest clue,” Eustacia said rubbing her fingers together. “But I'll call that whippersnapper Lydia Nutberry, she knows everyone.”
I'd spent much longer at the Paddington mansion than planned and escaped to The Big Beanery. As I stood in line to order, I heard a pair of familiar voices talking in the nearby corner. I leaned in their direction and saw Connor speaking with Sheriff Montague. After picking up my dark roast coffee and slice of coffee cake, I saddled up to their table and plopped down on an empty chair in exaggerated fashion. “Top of the morning to you!” I said with a giant grin.
“Little Ayrwick, did you misunderstand our silence as an invitation to interrupt? I can only assume you've been drinking already and must be heavily impaired,” Sheriff Montague chided while crumpling her napkin and tossing it into the garbage pail behind me.
“Kellan,” Connor said with a quick nod of his head. “What can we do for you?”
“Well, it's what I can do for the sheriff, that is, if she's at all interested in discussing the Paddington case,” I teased while staring directly at April Montague. “Have I got some shocking information for you!”
“Let me guess. You've realized wearing tighty-whities cuts off all circulation to your brain and felt obligated to share your golden ticket discovery with every man or woman in the tri-state area? Or did you finally realize it is possible to walk and talk at the same time without forgetting to breathe?” The sheriff had a knack for delivering each and every word with such a disinterested and bland tone, I decided she'd make a good straight man in a comedy team.
“For your information, since you seem to be obsessed with my choice in underwear, I wear boxer briefs.” For added delight, I stood up, peeled away the bottom section of my long-sleeve Henley and pulled up the black waistband of my underwear. “If you're so inclined to need further proof, I'm sure that can be arranged. Also, I've been walking and talking since I was two-years-old. Since you've already deemed me along with my nana the biggest gabbers in all of Wharton County, you should be careful not to contradict yourself when trying to crack a joke at my expense. Emphasis on trying.”
Connor's eyes opened wide. He obviously thought I was overstepping some invisible line that dictated I should be afraid of the sheriff. Given the abuse I'd already taken from her, I wasn't going to let it become the norm. “Dude, nice eight pack,” he said.
“Are you saying you don't find me funny?” the sheriff inquired while cocking her head to the left and smiling like a clown. “Because I think it'd be hilarious to slap a pair of handcuffs on your wrists and take you down to the station for a few hours.”
“I've done nothing wrong. You can't arrest me, unless that's your way of trying to flirt with me. In which case, I'm compelled to remind you… emphasis on trying.” I wasn't sure what had come over me. Maybe after having been home for close to a month as well as realizing I was starting to make decent headway into another murder investigation, my confidence had grown stronger.
“We could banter all day and night. Sure, I could arrest you for something, but then I'd have to deal with the paperwork. You're not worth
my time. I have five minutes and will listen with full attention if it means you'll go away faster.” Sheriff Montague growled and slurped the muddy remnants at the bottom of her coffee cup.
“I've unexpectedly come across some information about the Paddington family's wills and a few instances where certain members have been left out. I also discovered someone who might have a connection to the Paddingtons, but I can't figure out if it has any bearing on Gwendolyn's death.” I didn't want to give away all the information I'd learned and chose to drop enough hints to see what the sheriff responded to.
“If you're referring to Gwendolyn's will, I'm already in contact with Finnigan Masters to discuss when it will be available to read. As far as these clues you're dropping about other wills and connections, spill it.” The sheriff pulled out a pad and begin writing down a few notes.
I explained what I'd learned about Millard having been excluded from his parents will, then Brad's arrival a few months after Charles died. I left out the missing new will just so I had leverage for later. “There must be a connection somewhere. Brad's mother, Hannah, died several days after Charles died. It could be a coincidence, yet that's when Brad went to work for Gwendolyn. What if Millard is Brad's father and one or both of them have some sort of diabolical plot to flee with the family money?”
“It's odd, I agree. Careful with your allegations. I'm not sure what that means, but doesn't Millard have his own money? He's a world-famous landscaper and used to run the family company decades ago.” Sheriff Montague cracked her knuckles and pushed her chair back from the table.
I nodded. “I couldn't make heads or tails of that myself. Any chance you've heard from Timothy? Eustacia has been trying to track him down for almost six days, but she can't find him. She'd like to hold the funeral service this weekend but hoped to find him. He was Gwendolyn's son.”
“Timothy's been located and is currently a person of interest. As you're aware, he was seen arguing with his mother at the theater less than thirty minutes before she was murdered.”
Connor said, “I've viewed the security camera footage in the lobby. The only two people who touched Gwendolyn's drink in the lobby were Brad and Timothy. I'm sure someone else had access inside the theater where we didn't have any cameras. And the cashier who poured the iced tea is a student who has impeccable references and no known connection to Gwendolyn.
The sheriff cleared her throat. “We've run tests on everything we pulled from the theater. There was no trace of any drugs in any beverages, containers, or any of the surfaces in the refreshment stand where she'd gotten the iced tea. It had to be introduced in the actual pills and not the glass that had been given to the victim. I'm waiting for the results on the remainder of the pills from the house.”
“Can you tell me where you found Timothy?” I asked.
“I'm not sure that's something he'd want the general public to know. Besides, I expect within the next twenty-four hours, Timothy will no longer be there and will be in my custody,” the sheriff said with a pointed stare.
“Are you saying he's your prime suspect?” I inquired. While everything pointed to Brad or Millard based on what I'd learned, not knowing where Timothy had been hiding out left me at a disadvantage. “What about the news I've just shared?”
“I'll be following up on it. In the meantime, if anything else pops up, be sure you alert me…”
“And stay out of your murder investigation… yeah, yeah, got it. I understand,” I said lying through my teeth. I needed to find out where Timothy was hiding, but I was supposed to meet Arthur. I said goodbye to Connor and the sheriff, ordered a coffee to go, and walked over to Paddington's Play House. As I entered, my phone vibrated with a text message. It was uncanny how timely she could be.
Nana D: We've found Timothy. You'll never guess where he is.
Me: At a hotel on a bender?
Nana D: Nope, the complete opposite.
I had no idea what Nana D meant by her last comment and couldn't understand her cryptic clues. I looked up and saw Dana Taft waving at me.
Me: Gotta go. Just tell me.
Nana D: You've got a lot to learn about being a detective.
Me: Fine, pretty please with sugar on top. Can I know the secret, too?
Nana D: That's better. Timothy checked himself into rehab.
Me: For drug abuse?
Nana D: And gambling. He apparently went there right after his fight with Gwennie at the show before she died.
Wow! What did that mean? I had no time to respond once Dana interrupted. “Hey. It's Kellan, right?” she asked while blinking a few times at me. “Arthur will be right over.”
“How are you holding up?” I said.
“Oh, you know how it is. Trying to keep up with classes and the show.”
“And losing your grandmother, I'm sure, has been painful.” I winced at how quickly she seemed to forget or ignore Gwendolyn's death.
“We really weren't close,” Dana noted. “No one liked her very much.”
“I thought she and your brother, Sam, were very close,” I countered.
“Oh, he fooled you, too, huh?” Dana obviously had something she wanted to share with me.
While I didn't care a whole lot about Dana given her attitude and the way she'd behaved with Arthur in the past, Sam didn't deserve his sister's reproach. “I may not know your family, Dana, but I'm generally a good judge of character. Sam was devastated the day she passed away.”
“You're clueless! She and Sam had a huge fight the day before. I heard them arguing when I stopped back at the house to get something from my bedroom,” Dana whined. “He tries so hard to look innocent, but he's hiding something from everyone.”
“Is there something you're trying to tell me, Dana? Because to be honest, right now, it feels like you're acting a little jealous and immature.” I wasn't sure whether it was the childish tone she spoke in or the dismissive gestures she'd made with each retort, but Dana's attitude angered me. I didn't know Sam from Adam, but the kid was genuinely devasted by his grandmother's death.
“I don't need to listen to this from someone like you. If you don't believe me, ask Sam yourself. I distinctly heard him tell Grandmother that she was being a judgmental sourpuss. Then he slammed the door and told her he wouldn't back down. I have no idea what he meant, but he's been super-secretive for the last few months and refuses to talk to anyone about it.” Dana demanded that I leave her alone and stomped off as Arthur walked up to us. She apparently liked making a spectacle of herself.
“I've seen that look before. What'd you do? Tell her you weren't interested?” Arthur teased.
“If only. It's a bit more complicated than that. How well do you know her?” I asked.
“I never met Dana before this show, but she's a wily one. If you don't push back, she tries to worm her way into every minute of your day,” Arthur noted. “I hesitate to say this but be careful you're never alone with her. She's very hands-on and easily misconstrues a situation.”
“I appreciate the advice. Listen, thank you for sending us the name of your electrician. He saved the day for my sister and might help her open the Pick-Me-Up Diner on schedule,” I said shaking his hand. He'd done me a solid, and I definitely owed him a favor in the future.
“That's what friends are for, Kellan. I know things got outta hand when I came back to Braxton years ago, but all that's under control now. I've got my life back in order again.” Arthur's posture was more relaxed than the last time I'd seen him.
“How've things been around here the last week? I can't imagine it's been easy with the dress rehearsal's cancelation last Sunday.”
“Myriam and I worked out some of our differences, but ultimately, the show must go on, right?” he said with a flourish and a bow. “The cops suspected I had something to do with Gwendolyn's death. Called me in for a conference, as that unctuous sheriff put it.”
“Par for the course. I had to talk with them, too. Was it because of your past differences with Gwendolyn?” I
asked.
Arthur nodded. “Someone told them I threatened to kill her last week. I don't remember saying it, and even if I did, I'm an actor. I say things I don't mean all the time,” he quipped. Arthur could be putting on a performance for everyone's sake. I asked him to tell me more about his time working on Broadway hoping to find any potential hole in his account of the past. I learned nothing of importance.
Arthur later explained he had little interaction other than once a week where Gwendolyn had met with all the staff at the Play House to discuss current and future projects. She'd also stop in at rehearsals from time to time to provide direction to him and Myriam. It often resulted in tentative compromises or highly caustic arguments, but Gwendolyn always got what she wanted. He'd begun to learn that's how it was with the powerful woman. He'd been to the Paddington house once earlier that month when she invited the whole management team over for a brunch, but he knew the bare minimum about the estate. Arthur finished his coffee and returned to rehearsing the final act with the rest of the cast.
I'd made little progress other than conjecturing potential reasons for almost anyone to have been the killer. It was time to collect Emma from school, then transport her to the library for an after-school reading program. I dropped her off for the ninety-minute activity, then took advantage of the unallocated time to get in a run since I'd no opportunity earlier that morning once Nana D had demanded my presence. As I navigated the steep hills of the Wharton mountains, I continued to search for a solution to my problem with Francesca's re-appearance.
Marriage was about living with both the good and the bad. Was I the kind of guy who could abandon my wife because I couldn't see myself hiding under cover for a few years? Instead of being grateful she hadn't died in the car accident, I was angry about being put into an impossible situation. It wasn't fair to keep Emma from seeing her mother, but if it put my daughter in any amount of danger, I reasoned out it was acceptable to stay far away from LA. I didn't see how I could rebuild the trust and love with Francesca if we lived nearly three-thousand miles apart. Others had made long-distance relationships work but never with the added complication of death threats and mob interference.
Broken Heart Attack Page 14
