Riggs pulled out his notepad. “Now, Mr. Abbott, as I understand it, you live and work downtown?”
Freddy nodded more than was necessary and straightened his glasses. “Yes, that’s right. My store is called Highland Books, and I live in an apartment on the same block.” He gave the addresses, and the inspector copied them into his notepad.
“Bookselling is a fine business,” Riggs said. “But I’m curious to know why you didn’t go into the family business like your brothers?”
Freddy took off his glasses and wiped them with a clean, threadbare handkerchief. “My brothers both joined the company when my father was alive. By the time I was old enough, my father’s health was failing, and my mother was stepping in more and more. It was pretty obvious that she would take over when he was gone.” Freddy shook his head. “But I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to live under her thumb. I’d always loved books so I told my father that I wanted to get some of my own experience in business before I joined my brothers. I talked about being the youngest and needing to prove myself. He agreed to let me lease a small shop on Highland.”
“You lied to him?”
Freddy put his glasses back on and stuffed the handkerchief in his coat pocket. “In a way. He probably wouldn’t have minded if I’d told him the truth, but at the time…well, I didn’t want to chance my mother finding out. She wasn’t a sympathetic person. It was only a two-year lease, but it gives me the right to extend it each year.”
“Did your mother expect you to join the family business eventually?”
“Did she ever!” Freddy rolled his eyes. “More like an imperative duty. It was a good match for Walter. He’s a money man through and through, so keeping the books is perfect for him. And Paul, well, Paul spends more time at the golf course than in the office, and only a family company would pay him for that, so in that sense, it’s a good match for him, too.”
Freddy picked up a pawn piece from the chessboard and tapped it against his palm.
“I understand you had an appointment here on Thursday,” Riggs said.
“That’s right,” Freddy said. “It was my annual appointment to review my apartment lease. My mother cancelled it, but I hadn’t gotten the message.”
Riggs rested his elbow on the chair’s arm. “So, before last night, when was the last time you saw your mother?”
“I’m not sure,” Freddy turned the pawn over. “But it had been several months.”
Riggs consulted his notepad. “And last night, you were here with your girlfriend, Donna Holt, is that right?”
“No.” Freddy blushed. “I mean, yes, I was here with Miss Holt, but I wouldn’t call Donna my girlfriend. Her shop is near mine, so we see each other often, but it’s mostly incidental, you know, in passing. My mother invited her to dinner last night, so she gave me a ride.”
“I see.” Riggs corrected his notes. “By any chance, is Donna Holt a blonde?”
Freddy shook his head. “She has brown hair.”
“Are there any blonde women in the family? Anyone who was here last night?”
“I guess you mean Julia?” Freddy furrowed his brow. “No, her hair is more brown than blonde. And Walter’s wife, Victoria, she has dark brown hair, and she wasn’t here last night anyway.”
“No, I mean a woman with the platinum blonde hair, very light.”
“Oh, that’s Paul’s girlfriend, Camille. Her hair is bleached.”
“Yes, that’s the one, and I think she used the telephone during last night’s dinner party, didn’t she?”
It was worth a try.
“Well, not that I know of,” Freddy said after a pause. “Mrs. Peabody, the cook, could tell you if anyone used the kitchen telephone. But the office extension would be more private and quieter.”
“I see, but the office was probably locked up by then, wasn’t it?”
“Do they lock it?” Freddy raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know. Rosemary is the one to ask about that sort of thing. But if it were locked, I’m sure the key would have been in the hall bureau. That’s where they keep it.”
Riggs made a note. “And what time did you and Miss Holt leave last night, Mr. Abbott?”
“The party broke up just before midnight, I think. Mother had already gone to bed, and so had Rosemary. It was a warm night, for May anyway. We talked for a few minutes by the cars, then we all said goodnight.”
“And which one of you locked the front door?”
Freddy shook his head. “No one had to lock it. The knob is always locked to the outside, so all we have to do is pull it closed behind us.”
At that moment, the library door burst open, and a middle-aged man barged in and stopped. He was breathing heavily, and his cheeks were red. He looked Riggs up and down.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he panted. “My name is Marcus Shrubb.”
Chapter Eleven: Marcus and Alexander Shrubb
Marcus held out his hand. He was a small man with thinning hair and an unfashionably thin mustache. “My name is Marcus Shrubb,” he repeated between pants. “Julia Abbott is my wife. I’m glad I ran into you because, as it happens, I have some insights which I would like to discuss.”
Of course, you do. That is why you burst in here, Riggs thought. Freddy greeted his brother-in-law and left the library, closing the door behind him. Riggs shook Marcus’ damp hand and invited him to sit.
Marcus sat down and wiped his hand on his trousers His three-piece suit was expensive, and his felt Stetson hat had a shiny black band. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, a fat gold wedding ring, and a tiny mustache that was groomed to perfection. His gaze kept shifting as though he were still deciding what to say.
Riggs finally said, “Mr. Shrubb, you have information that might help the investigation?”
Marcus took a deep breath and said, “It’s not much, really. But I thought I should let you know that last night I saw someone hiding behind the house.”
Riggs raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
Marcus shuddered. “Yes, it was just when we were all leaving. Julia and I had just stepped out of the front door, and there was a sound, sort of like footsteps. Without really thinking that it was anything, I turned toward the terrace, and I could just make out a shadow, a man’s shadow, moving quickly around the kitchen and towards the back of the house.”
“What time was it?” Riggs was checking his notes. “About a quarter past midnight?”
“Yes, that’s when it was,” Marcus agreed.
“Did you follow it?”
“No,” Marcus shook his head. “The thing is, it all happened so quickly that I didn’t really think about it. I just assumed that it must have been a raccoon or a tree shadow playing tricks on my imagination. I’m afraid, well…I dismissed the whole thing without a second thought. I didn’t mention it or even think of it again until Walter called me this morning with the terrible news. Now, I’m sure you can imagine how terrible I feel about the whole thing.”
Riggs nodded to show sympathy. “You shouldn’t blame yourself, Mr. Shrubb. It was just a shadow, and the world is full of shadows at night.”
Marcus looked relieved. “I’m glad you understand.”
Riggs leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Now, I want you to consider this carefully: is it possible that you caught a glimpse of the secretary or the cook? I understand they both have apartments above the garage. Either of them could have been outside having a cigarette or a drink.”
But Marcus was shaking his head. “Rosemary went to bed shortly after Mrs. Abbott. As for Mrs. Peabody, I don’t think so. The kitchen lights were off. Besides, the shadow I saw moved quickly, like a man who didn’t want to be seen. A woman who has a perfect right to be there wouldn’t dash away and hide, would she?” His brow furrowed. “Besides, the shadow was taller, much too big for a woman.”
“I see.” Riggs nodded. “And did anyone else see this shadow?”
“I don’t see how they could have,” Marcus explained. “Julia was on my
other side, and by the time I looked at the shadow, it was already gone.”
Riggs took his pipe out of his pocket and rubbed it against the palm of his hand. “What you’re telling me is interesting, Mr. Shrubb. Very interesting. Do you have any idea who it could have been?”
“How should I know?” Marcus replied quickly. “It must have been a prowler or one of these crazy lunatics who run around doing violent crimes.”
Inspector Riggs made a note on hispad, then he looked at the other man. “I’m glad you told me this, Mr. Shrubb. It will certainly help my investigation.”
Marcus exhaled and slapped his hands onto his thighs. “Well, I’m glad I was able to help. Honestly, after that row last night, I was half afraid that you boys might get the wrong idea and start suspecting someone in the Abbott family. It’s silly, of course, but you know how people talk.” Marcus stood up and smiled.
Riggs leaned back and crossed his legs. “Well, contrary to the dramatic detectives on radio, real-life detectives are far more discreet. A proper scientific investigation is a matter of eliminating the innocent parties. Then we can focus on whoever is left.”
Marcus beamed. “Well, I’m glad to know that the Seattle Police are doing things right!”
“Our methods are all very modern now. But as long as we’re talking about it…” Riggs paused and glanced briefly over his shoulder. Marcus sat back down and leaned closer.
“I would like your opinion on something,” Riggs said in a low voice.
“Of course.” Marcus nodded.
“Do you think that the row last night was loud enough to be overheard from the garden?”
“The garden?” Marcus nodded slowly. “I see what you mean. My mother-in-law wasn’t exactly shouting, but her threats got loud. And Paul and Freddy were furious. Walter stormed out before Mrs. Abbott even got to the part about Rosemary…”
“And if the windows were open…” Riggs suggested.
Marcus snapped his fingers. “You know, now that I think about it, I think the windows were open.”
“Fascinating,” Riggs said. “I’m glad you’ve given me this valuable information, Mr. Shrubb. In my job, I often find that spouses are often more objective than the immediate family. They tend not to get so caught up in the moment. I ought to talk to Walter’s wife. She may also have some valuable insight.”
“Oh, Victoria wasn’t here last night,” Marcus informed him.
Riggs flipped a few pages back in his notepad and pretended to check. “Oh, that’s right, Paul and Freddy both brought their girlfriends, but Walter’s wife is out of town.”
“It’s a shame she wasn’t here,” Marcus said.
Riggs closed his notepad. “Why is that?”
“I only meant…” Marcus was flustered. “It’s just that Victoria is so sharp. I’m sure she would have noticed something.”
Riggs thought to himself that it was a good thing that Marcus Shrubb didn’t notice things. He certainly had revealed far more than he intended, but when Marcus left the room, he was smiling with satisfaction.
The interview with young Alexander Shrubb was brief and yielded nothing of significance. Alexander was nearly 18 years old, tall enough to play on the high school basketball team, and smart enough to get decent grades. But since Alex had left before everyone else, the real issue was confirming what time he’d returned from his friend’s house. He said that he’d come home a little after two in the morning and that, as far as he knew, no one was awake or heard him arrive. Riggs took down the names of the friends, who could confirm that he was with them listening to vinyl records.
When Riggs finally finished with the family interviews, he walked over to the raised terrace that connected the house and the garage. It was large, covered, and had a sweeping view of Lake Washington. On the driveway side, anyone could step up onto it. On the lake side, it led down four steps to a grassy lawn, which was about thirty feet wide and ran the length of the house. Beyond that, the property sloped steeply down to the lake. There was a path through the lawn, but it led in the opposite direction.
Riggs examined the lawn, paying particular attention to the area along the terrace. Fortunately, the landscaper hadn’t mowed the grass for a few days, and the new growth was reaching up in slender wisps. The fragile blades stretched up uniformly. Riggs strolled out to the edge of the lawn. The hillside was an attractive assortment of local shrubs, ferns, and undergrowth. A person could move through here easily as long as they managed the slope. But when he turned to come back, the only footprints were his own, a single row of marks where he had crushed the tender new grass. No one had walked on the lawn for days. If Marcus Shrubbs’ story was true, and that was a big “if,” then the mysterious shadowy figure must have gone to the kitchen door.
Chapter Twelve: Victoria at the Elliott Jazz Club
That evening, Victoria was meeting friends at a local jazz club. It was a small club, some blocks north of the market, with decent food and an ever-changing line-up of jazz and blues artists. The walls were painted a deep red, the table clothes were black, and the stage at the back had a four-piece group visiting from Chicago. The clarinet player was particularly impressive.
Victoria was wearing a purple dress with a boat neck and full skirt. She sat down by her friend, ordered a Moscow Mule, and set her beaded yellow handbag on the table.
Her friend leaned over and whispered, “Is Walter coming?”
Victoria shook her head.
She was introduced to a few new people, including a tall man with dark hair. The music was bluesy with a bit of swing. Between sets, the conversation hopped from jobs to President Eisenhower to boating season, and the man with dark hair—who was a banker—described his new yacht, the Sea Diamond.
“It sounds beautiful,” Victoria said after he’d described the staterooms.
“Maybe you would like to go sailing with me,” the man suggested. “If you’re free next weekend, we could take a weekend trip up to Vancouver Island.”
Victoria’s friend abandoned her cocktail mid-sip and nearly split it. She put her hand on the banker’s. “Victoria is married.”
“Is that so?” The banker looked back at Victoria and smiled. “When you were talking about your job, I assumed— ”
“I love my job,” Victoria said, raising her Moscow Mule. “Marriage didn’t change that.”
He raised his glass and smiled. “There’s no reason it should.”
The next set started, and the saxophone player stepped up and took over the melody. The crowd cheered, and the conversation died down. A few minutes later, Victoria got up and headed toward the bathroom. She stopped at the telephone and dropped a nickel in the machine. She dialed Walter’s number. It rang twice before Victoria set the receiver back on the cradle. The nickel dropped to the slot. Victoria stood there for a few moments, then she took her nickel and went back to the table.
A few minutes later, the banker leaned over and whispered. “My offer still stands.”
Chapter Thirteen: Walter’s Missing File
On Monday morning, Inspector Riggs sat down at his desk and took off his shoes. He drank two cups of coffee while waiting for the full medical report from Dr. Hara. When Inspector Fisher finally delivered the report, Riggs drank a third cup while reading it. It was more or less what he had expected. Without the technical jargon, it said that Mrs. Abbott had higher than recommended, although not lethal, soporific levels in her blood. Three sleeping pills worth. The cause of death, however, was asphyxiation. Dr. Hara said Mrs. Abbott was murdered sometime after eleven o’clock on Saturday and before three o’clock on Sunday morning.
“Let’s keep this away from the reporters as long as we can,” Riggs glanced at Fisher. “And away from the Abbott family.”
Fisher nodded. “Dr. Hara says the pills could have been dissolved into her herbal tea, or she may have taken them herself. Either way, it would have kept her from waking up when it happened.” He sat down in the wooden chair facing the desk. “Since the s
ecretary and the cook live above the garage, whoever did it probably came back in the middle of the night, after the party was over. The question is, who hated her enough to kill her?”
Riggs smoothed his mustache and leaned back in his chair. “Mrs. Abbott wasn’t very well-liked, not by her children, anyway. And I’m sure that at least two of them are hiding something,” he said. “But she may not have been murdered out of hatred. She was a very rich woman. I need to figure out how much money Mrs. Abbott had and where it’s going now that she’s dead.”
“What should I do?” Fisher asked.
“See if anyone on our list has a criminal record, including the gardener and the fellow who tends the docks, and check to see if they have alibis.” Riggs put on his shoes. “There’s no indication that they were around that night, but I want to be sure.”
“I don’t have a name for the boat guy,” Fisher realized as he flipped through his notes.
“You’re a detective,” Riggs informed him as he grabbed his coat and hat. “And if you have time after that, I want you to look into the cook and her late husband. Make sure that she is who she says she is and that her husband is really dead.”
“What if I get stuck?”
“Deputy Tschannen can help you here, and anything to do with public records, you can ask our Research Man at city hall.”
By ten o’clock, Michael Riggs was back at Mrs. Abbott’s mansion. As he drove up the drive, he noticed that one of the six garage doors was open, so he parked his brown Plymouth between the fountain and the garage. No one was around, so Riggs put on his hat and strolled over to the garage to have a look. There were three cars: a Continental Mark II, a Packard Clipper, and a Rolls-Royce Phantom III. Riggs walked alongside the automobiles, looking at each one. The first two were great cars, leagues better than his old ‘48, but the Phantom—with its long, sleek body—was probably the most beautiful machine Riggs had ever seen. None of them were locked. Riggs hesitated for a moment, but he resisted the temptation to sit behind the wheel.
The Charlatan Murders Page 6
