Jennifer Berg
THE CHARLATAN MURDERS
Elliott Bay Mysteries
First published by Level Best Books/Historia 2021
Copyright © 2021 by Jennifer Berg
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Jennifer Berg asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-68512-004-7
Cover art by Level Best Designs
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To David, Guinevere, and Marina
Contents
Chapter One: Murder
Chapter Two: A Death in the Abbott Family
Chapter Three: The Abbott Mansion
Chapter Four: Riggs Eavesdrops
Chapter Five: Rosemary Miller, Private Secretary
Chapter Six: Mrs. Abbott’s Final Days
Chapter Seven: Mr. Walter Abbott
Chapter Eight: Mrs. Julia Abbott Shrubb
Chapter Nine: Mr. Paul Abbott, President
Chapter Ten: Mr. Freddy Abbott, Bookseller
Chapter Eleven: Marcus and Alexander Shrubb
Chapter Twelve: Victoria at the Elliott Jazz Club
Chapter Thirteen: Walter’s Missing File
Chapter Fourteen: Mrs. Peabody, Cook
Chapter Fifteen: Walter & His Missing Wife
Chapter Sixteen: Julia’s Greenhouse
Chapter Seventeen: Camille Sinclair, Stage Actress
Chapter Eighteen: Freddy’s Bookstore
Chapter Nineteen: Donna Holt’s Boutique of Modern Living
Chapter Twenty: Where the Devil is Victoria?
Chapter Twenty-One: The Research Man
Chapter Twenty-Two: A Family Gathering
Chapter Twenty-Three: Victoria Crashes the Party
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Chief Goes Off the Record
Chapter Twenty-Five: A Playboy in Distress
Chapter Twenty-Six: A Chance Meeting
Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Last Will and Testament of Francis Abbott
Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Lawyer & An In-Law
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Policemen and Blackmail
Chapter Thirty: Another Murder
Chapter Thirty-One: The Penthouse and its Owner
Chapter Thirty-Two: Riggs Plays with Fire
Chapter Thirty-Three: The Boutique of Modern Living
Chapter Thirty-Four: The Lamp
Chapter Thirty-Five: Mrs. Peabody Remembers
Chapter Thirty-Six: Marcus and Julia Shrubb
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Obsessions with Red
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Walter Budges & Riggs Escapes
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Pioneer Square & A Decorator’s Eye
Chapter Forty: A Shocking Confession
Chapter Forty-One: Victoria Takes Charge
Chapter Forty-Two: The Calm After the Storm
Chapter Forty-Three: New Beginnings
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter One: Murder
The telephone rang.
At six-twenty-two on Sunday morning, Michael Riggs wasn’t exactly hung over, but he was sleeping soundly. Saturday’s festivities had lasted well into the night. There had been food, music and dancing, and most of the neighbors and all of Michael’s family had crammed into his modest home to celebrate his big promotion.
Sergeant Inspector Riggs.
The telephone stopped ringing.
During the toast, Michael’s mother had teared up when his younger brother had said that Michael made the family proud. The younger children had eaten too much cake and the older children had pretended their father’s promotion wasn’t a big deal. And Michael’s wife, Amy, had climbed onto her chair (after her second pint of beer) to declare that if the police chief had any brains at all, he would have promoted Michael years ago.
Everyone had raised their glasses and cheered for Sergeant Inspector Riggs.
Michael enjoyed every minute of the celebration, even though he knew how his promotion had happened. One investigator had retired and another had moved to Albuquerque. Michael Riggs wasn’t the chief’s first choice but the department was desperate, and Riggs had too much seniority to ignore. Not that Riggs wasn’t a solid officer, he had a clean record, but he wasn’t a genius by any means, not like his older brother had been—that Sergeant Inspector Riggs had a reputation that no one could touch. But the younger Riggs was a good investigator, and after twenty-two years on the force, he finally had the chance to prove it.
The telephone rang again.
It rang and rang.
And Sergeant Inspector Riggs snored.
Amy reached over to nudge her husband, but she only managed to annoy his cat, who scowled indignantly.
The ringing stopped. Amy mumbled something into her pillow.
The cat skulked around the bed and claimed a fresh spot to curl up.
The telephone began ringing again, and this time Amy woke up enough to tackle the problem properly.
“Michael. Telephone,” she grumbled as she rolled over.
Michael’s hand fumbled over to the nightstand, and after several failed attempts, he succeeded in grasping the black receiver and resting it against his head. It was cold and heavy.
“Riggs speaking.”
“This is Deputy Jones. Are you awake?”
Sergeant Inspector Riggs tried opening his eyes, but the world was a blurry place. He rubbed his head in an attempt to stimulate it into action. His bushy mustache almost ached with the disruption.
“Jones?” He yawned. “I’m awake. What’s going on?”
“We might have a murder out in Madrona Park neighborhood. It’s hot, and the chief wants you on it right away.”
Riggs opened his eyes and pulled himself up on his elbow. “Me?”
“Yeah, he says it’s gotta be by the book. No slip-ups. If it is a murder, the news boys are going to be all over it.”
Michael Riggs frowned. “Who’s dead, Jones?”
“Some rich old lady; last name of Abbott — ” Jones stopped talking.
Riggs could hear a commotion. Another voice interrupting, shouting expletives. A moment later, the police chief’s voice boomed on the line. “Number Seventeen, Republican Street; that’s precinct Charlie,” the chief bellowed. “Get out there!”
Michael Riggs sat upright.
“Yes, sir,” Riggs said. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“I want you there yesterday!” the chief roared. “The Abbotts are good friends with the mayor and most of the city council. And if this old broad’s death is a homicide, you won’t be able to put so much as a toe out of line without reigning hellfire down on my department. Do you understand me?”
“Yes. You can count on me, sir.”
“You better be right,” the chief shouted. “The only reason you’re getting this case is because you’re the most expendable man I’ve got. If you botch this up, Sergeant Inspector Riggs, it’ll be your head on the chopping block!”
With a crash, the line went dead.
Sergeant Inspector Michael Riggs was on his feet. His heart pounded as he placed the receiver back in the
cradle. He glanced over at Amy, but she had gone back to sleep.
A high-profile murder case.
This was it.
Chapter Two: A Death in the Abbott Family
Walter Abbott had finally fallen into an uneasy sleep when the telephone rang. He rolled over and answered it.
A familiar woman’s voice. “Hello, Walter?”
Walter sat up in bed, nearly dropping the heavy receiver. “Victoria, is that you?”
After a pause, the voice said, “No, Walter, it’s Rosemary.”
Walter collapsed onto his pillow and turned on his bedside lamp. He picked up his alarm clock and gave his eyes a moment to focus on the hands. “Rosemary, it’s not even six o’clock. Is everything alright?”
“No, I’m afraid not. It’s your mother, Walter. I think she’s dead.”
Walter Abbott took a deep breath and set the clock back on his nightstand. “Have you telephoned the doctor?”
“Yes, he should be here any moment.”
Walter grabbed a pair of tan trousers. He pinched the receiver between his right shoulder and his ear as he pulled them on. “Alright, Rosemary, I’ll be right over. And Rosemary?”
“Yes?” Her voice was shaky.
“Have you told anyone else?”
“No, I just telephoned the doctor and then you.”
“Good.” Walter fastened his belt. “Don’t say anything to the others. I’ll take care of things when I get there.”
Walter hung up the telephone. He put on a shirt, a brown tie, and his green sports jacket. Then he grabbed his wallet and the keys to his Studebaker. He put it on and was about to leave when he glanced back at his room, a spacious modern bedroom with a large empty bed. He straightened his hat, and, grabbing the key to the company office, Walter Abbott left to go take care of his mother.
* * *
Half an hour later, Marcus Shrubb was pacing back and forth and muttering to himself. The high windows above the double doors allowed the early morning light to flood the entrance of his grand house. Marcus reached for the telephone on the mahogany table. He was just hanging up the receiver again when his wife, Julia, walked out onto the landing above him.
Marcus smoothed out his thin pencil mustache.
Julia greeted her husband. She was halfway down the stairs and mid-sentence with a description of slug poison and tulips when she noticed her husband’s expression and stopped short.
“What is it, Marcus?” Julia frowned. “What’s wrong?”
Her husband looked away for a moment before answering, “Walter just telephoned. He’s next door.”
“On a Sunday?” Julia frowned.
Marcus Shrubb smoothed his mustache again. “Look here, Julia, I think you’d better sit down.” Marcus gently took Julia into their huge living room. She sat down on a long white sofa, and her husband sat beside her.
“Why is Walter at mother’s house? Has something happened to the company?”
He patted her hand gently. “No, it’s nothing like that.”
Julia shot to her feet. “Where’s Alex?” she demanded.
Marcus shook his head reassuringly. “Alex is fine, dear. He’s just fine. He came in late, and he’s still in bed.” Marcus eased his wife back onto the sofa. “It’s your mother, I’m afraid. Walter said the doctor is there now. But it seems…Julia, your mother passed away in the night.”
Julia stared at her husband.
“I know it’s a shock,” he whispered.
“It’s not a shock, Marcus. It’s a joke,” Julia said. “And I don’t think it’s very funny.”
Marcus shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s not a joke. Your mother is…dead.”
Julia frowned.
Marcus took a deep breath and went on, “Julia, all those terrible things that I said last night, I’m very sorry. And you know that I didn’t mean any of it. You do know that, don’t you?”
Julia looked blankly across the room, and for several minutes, said nothing. Then she took a deep breath and rose to her feet. “I should go over there, Marcus. Walter may need me. And I can’t go like this, even if my mother is dead. I’ll just pop upstairs to change my clothes.”
“Of course, dear,” her husband whispered. “Whatever you want. You get changed, and I’ll walk with you.”
He smoothed his tidy little mustache as he watched Julia head up the stairs,his brow furrowed. As soon as she was out of sight, Marcus Shrubb lifted the receiver again, checked to make sure that no one was around, and recited a number to the operator.
Chapter Three: The Abbott Mansion
Sergeant Inspector Riggs turned his old brown Plymouth into the driveway of Number Seventeen and came to a complete stop. The broad iron gates at the street were swung open, and the gravel driveway ascended through the manicured lawns and sculpted, flowering rhododendrons. A grove of Douglas firs edged both sides of the estate and obscured any views of the neighboring homes.
Riggs had expected a remarkable house, a mansion even, but it wasn’t until he saw the Abbott Estate that Michael Riggs realized what he was up against. The house itself was a substantial two-story white box with columns and large windows. It was perched on a hill overlooking Lake Washington. Twenty yards to the right of the main house stood a massive garage. A long carriage house overlooked the grounds. The two buildings were connected with a covered dais that, Riggs guessed, overlooked the lake on the other side of the hill.
This really was it.
Michael Riggs’ chance. He absently touched his jacket pocket. So many years after his brother’s death, Michael Riggs was finally getting his chance. He would do his best — his very best—and with any luck…
Riggs took a deep breath and rested both hands on the wheel.
In the seat beside him, Inspector Fisher whistled in awe. The junior inspector was more enthusiastic than clever and his appreciative whistles were usually reserved for women who he thought were out of earshot.
“Would you look at that!” the rookie gasped. “So, this is how the big shots live, huh?”
“Live. Die. Something like that.” Riggs glanced at Fisher. “And none of that whistling during the investigation. Murder or not, the newspapers are going to be clamoring all over this one, and the chief wants everything done by the book; that means no personality from you.”
“My mother says I’ve got a vibrant personality,” Fisher informed him.
Riggs put the Plymouth into gear. “That’s why you’re going to keep it under wraps.”
As they reached the top of the hill, the driveway opened up into a circle that wrapped around a central stone fountain with a large salmon spitting water from its mouth.
There were already two cars parked in front of the dais; a black 52 Ford and a 1928 Studebaker President in beautiful condition. Riggs parked between. A twisted wisteria wrapped its way up one of the white columns and reached onto the roof. Through the breezeway, they could see the massive lake beyond. Fisher looked at the grand house on the left and the garage on the right. He counted the garage bay doors out and said, “I wonder if these rich cats really have six cars in that garage. And what kind of people can afford six cars anyway?”
“Rich people.” Riggs put on his brown fedora and climbed out of his old Plymouth. He stepped up onto the terrace so he could have a better view of the lake. The view stretched off to the east, over the huge lake on to the Cascade mountain range. Riggs pulled a wooden pipe out of his coat pocket and put it in his mouth. Fisher stepped up beside him, but this time the young officer remembered not to whistle out loud.
“Looks like some of the family may already be here.” Fisher moved his head to indicate the other cars. Riggs nodded as he slipped the pipe back in his pocket.
They went to the formal front door and pressed the brass button.
The door was opened by a man with broad shoulders and sandy blonde hair. He was in his early forties, even taller than Riggs, and reasonably good-looking in a Hollywood sort of way. He wore a green sports jacket and a
freshly pressed shirt.
“Are you the police?” His voice was quiet but not timid.
Riggs nodded. “I’m Sergeant Inspector Riggs, and this is Inspector Fisher.”
“I’m Walter Abbott.” He shook the policemen’s hands. “Mrs. Abbott was my mother.” He stood aside and motioned the men to enter. They stepped into a large and deep foyer. Riggs counted three sets of double doors on each side of the hallway, and the wide staircase near the end of the hall had at least twenty-five steps leading to the second-floor landing.
“This way,” Walter said as he headed toward the stairs. The doors on the left side of the hallway were all closed, but the doors on the right side—which faced the lake—were all open. The first door led to the kitchen and the second door led to a formal dining room with French doors leading onto a sundeck.
As Walter Abbott climbed the staircase, Riggs glanced into the third and final room on the right. The double doors opened into a grand room with tall windows and French doors overlooking the lake beyond. The carpet was plush. The furniture was angular, modern, and in earthy shades of green and burnt orange. There were large wooden lamps, a massive abstract painting, and, in the middle of the room, a white porcelain vase of fresh tulips stood on a grand piano.
Riggs took it all in and continued.
Upstairs, Walter led them to the first room on the lake side of the house. The doors were open, and Walter stood on the landing and announced.
“Doctor Bowman, the police are here.”
An elderly man in a three-piece suit stepped into view, and Walter repeated the officers’ names before leaving.
It was a big bedroom, decorated in a Victorian style. The wooden furniture was ornately carved dark walnut, the walls were deep blue, and the lavish chairs and settee were upholstered in a pattern of bold blue and white flowers. A couple of the windows were open, and Riggs could hear a speedboat buzzing around the lake.
“I’m glad you’re here,” the doctor explained as he closed the door behind them. “I retired about nine years ago, just after The War. Since then, Mrs. Abbott has been the only patient I’ve attended.”
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