The Charlatan Murders

by Jennifer Berg

  Riggs didn’t bother to ask how the rest of them had received that news. “Can you please tell me candidly, Mrs. Shrubb, what you think of your brother’s wife?”

  “Victoria?” Julia looked upwards. “I hardly got to know her at all. Marcus said they were a bad match from the start. He thinks Walter was too dull for her. I think Paul is harder on Victoria, but he probably blames himself for introducing them. Walter is just the opposite. I’m sure he blames himself.” Julia took a deep breath.

  Riggs scrutinized Mrs. Shrubb. “But what about you? What do you think of Victoria?”

  Julia sat down and looked out the greenhouse window towards the house.

  “What can I say about a woman like Victoria?” she said. “Victoria is worldly and confident. She struck me as a smart and level-headed woman.”

  “You like her?”

  “I don’t know what happened between Victoria and my brother, but I think she is a good person,” Julia said. “Yes, I like her.”

  Chapter Seventeen: Camille Sinclair, Stage Actress

  Riggs dropped the medicine bottle off at the police station and walked to Fifth Avenue. The theater had originally been intended for vaudeville. It boasted opulent Chinese architecture that Riggs neither understood nor appreciated. The dragons, in particular, seemed to leer at him.

  It was still early in the day, and the only person in the lobby was a gray-haired janitor who was busy waxing the floors. Riggs held up his police badge, but before he could say anything, the old man waved him towards the double doors. “In there.”

  Riggs pushed open the doors and entered the dimly lit house. The cast was on stage, and Riggs could just make out the director’s silhouette about ten rows back, but the rest of the theater house was dark. Riggs quietly sat down near the back. He recognized Miss Sinclair right away. Most everyone in the city knew about Camille Sinclair, even if they didn’t go in for theater. She was well-known for her talent on stage and for her glamour off stage. A woman like that could assume any role she wanted, but Riggs wanted to catch a glimpse of Miss Sinclair when she wasn’t acting.

  The director restarted the scene five times. A young dancer kept missing his queue, but Camille was patient and methodical. She coached the young dancer and guided him through the steps, easing his anxiety.

  Riggs was beginning to think he had a feel for the “real” Camille Sinclair when the director suggested a lunch break. Miss Sinclair objected, and when the director tried to calm the situation, she lashed out, calling him an amateur and claiming the whole cast lacked talent. The director finally relented, and the entire cast was instructed to stick with the scene until it was perfect.

  That was more than enough for Riggs.

  He was ready for his lunch, so he headed to Charlotte’s Diner. He ordered a pastrami sandwich and ducked into the telephoned booth for a quick update. Fisher reported that the medicine bottle had only one discernible set of fingerprints, Rosemary Miller’s. He also reported that both the gardener and the man who tended Mrs. Abbott’s boat were clean. They had no motivation for the crimes, and they both had solid alibis to boot. Fisher was having less luck with the cook’s late husband. He hadn’t managed to find any obituaries for Mr. Peabody.

  Riggs watched the waitress set his sandwich on the counter, and he felt his stomach grumble. “Don’t bother with old newspapers,” Riggs said. “See if city hall has a copy of his death certificate.”

  “Tschannen says they don’t go back that far,” Fisher said.

  “And he’s probably right, but if that man lived and died, then there ought to be a record of him somewhere. Ask our Research Man where you can find it.”

  After lunch, Riggs walked over to Paul Abbott’s apartment. The lobby of the elegant new building was dominated by a chandelier dripping with crystals, and the elevator was decorated with polished brass and mahogany panels. The elevator boy took him up to the twelfth floor, and when the doors slid open, the elevator boy pointed Riggs to one of two doors. Paul’s penthouse occupied a full half of the top floor. The large engraved plate by the bell read, 12A, P. Abbott and C. Sinclair.

  Riggs pressed the round ivory button, and unlike his own cheap doorbell at home, this one chimed melodically.

  An older woman in a white apron opened the door. She left him in a large foyer, and after a brief retreat, she returned and opened the double doors leading to the main room.

  Riggs took off his hat.

  It was a grand room with a wall of windows overlooking the city skyline and mountains. The city streets and all of Elliott Bay were laid out beneath them. Besides one other neighboring high-rise, the only structure that rivaled their height was the Smith Tower on the southside of downtown.

  Paul was wearing a smoking jacket and leaning against a wet bar with a tumbler in his hand. Camille Sinclair was lounging on a long plush cream-colored sofa, which faced the magnificent view. She was wearing a cream satin dressing gown. It had a fluffy feather trim that matched the feathers on her high-heeled slippers. There were several manuscripts on the floor beside her.

  Paul set down his drink and smiled cordially. “Good afternoon, Inspector. May I introduce Miss Camille Sinclair? Camille, this is Inspector Riggs, the policeman who’s handling my mother’s case.”

  Miss Sinclair was older than Riggs had realized. She was also more beautiful and more intimidating.

  She swept her platinum blonde hair off her shoulder and raised her hand gracefully to shake Riggs’ hand.

  “So you’re Seattle’s finest, sent to investigate this sordid, nasty, little affair? Paul, you never told me that our inspector was so handsome.” She waved a hand toward an empty chair. “Please sit down, Inspector. And please pardon my attire. I was at the theater all morning, and it’s too early to dress for dinner.”

  The inspector sat down, and Camille continued, “I know it’s morbid of me, but I’m completely captivated by this horrible business. Naturally, Paul and I are both heartbroken, but it is fascinating. May I offer you a drink, Inspector? Paul’s having scotch.”

  “No, thank you, Miss Sinclair.” Riggs rested hat on his knee. “But since you were at the party on Saturday, I will need to ask you some questions.”

  Camille smiled and pleaded. “Inspector, please tell me I’m a real suspect.”

  “Only in the sense that you were present that night,” Riggs said. “This is just a matter of routine.”

  “Oh, it’s still exciting!” she purred flirtatiously. “Ask me anything you want, Inspector. Anything at all.”

  Riggs busied himself with his notepad. She was easily one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She had the sort of glamorous smile that made a man feel giddy and desperate at the same time. Of course, Riggs knew that she was playing him, but he still had the urge to smooth out his mustache and straighten his collar.

  When he looked back at her, Camille was smiling as though she could read his mind. One thing was for sure, with her sex appeal and the determination he had witnessed earlier at the theater, Camille Sinclair could be a very dangerous woman.

  Riggs cleared his throat. “I understand you’re an actress, Miss Sinclair?”

  “That all depends on which theater critic you ask,” she replied coyly. She was looking at Riggs as though he were the only man in the world. “But, if you’re asking me, I’d say I’m an actress and a damn good one at that.”

  Riggs looked down and made a note. “And how long did you know the late Mrs. Abbott?”

  “Let me see. I think I must have met her last winter. Yes, I remember now.” She turned to Paul. “It was just after Christmas, and your mother had a little New Year’s Day party. The mayor and all of those important people were there. Do you remember? Mrs. Abbott was very charming.”

  “Miss Sinclair, at any time on Saturday, did you happen to go into Mrs. Abbott’s office?”

  The question made Paul flinch, but Camille caressed her lower lip with her finger as though it might help her to remember. “Did I go into Mrs. Abbot
t’s office?” she considered. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Why would you ask that?” Paul set down his tumbler and loosened his tie. “Saturday night doesn’t have anything to do with the crime. I asked Dr. Bowman, and he said he thought my mother died early on Sunday morning.”

  “Investigations require a general understanding of events as well as the specifics,” Riggs reassured him. “So, Miss Sinclair, are you sure you didn’t go into Mrs. Abbott’s office?”

  “Yes, I’m quite sure,” she cooed. “I had no reason at all to be there. In fact, I’m quite sure I’ve never been in that room. I hope it’s not very important.”

  “I’m just sorting out the events, that’s all,” Riggs explained. “Now, Mr. Abbott, I understand that you and each of your siblings have a key to your mother’s house?”

  “That’s right,” Paul said casually. His jaw was stiff.

  Riggs nodded. “And lastly, Miss Sinclair, at the end of the party, after everyone was outside, someone mentioned that you went back into the house because you’d forgotten something.”

  “I’m afraid someone is mistaken,” Camille said. She smiled sweetly, but her voice carried a harder tone. “I didn’t go back into the house.”

  “Maybe for a pair of gloves?” Riggs suggested. “Or your handbag?”

  Camille turned to Paul. “Paul darling, mix me a martini, won’t you?” Paul obliged and Camille turned to Riggs. “It’s getting late, Inspector Riggs, and I really do have to get ready for my dinner engagement.”

  Riggs leaned forward so that his elbows were resting on his knees. He kept his gaze on Camille until she finally sighed and said. “No, Inspector. I didn’t go back for a pair of gloves or for anything else.”

  The interview was over.

  Riggs stood up and glanced out of the penthouse windows and over the city. The wide view stretched out over the bay, with its ferries, piers, and marinas, but the closer view overlooked the high-rise across the street. A tiny movement caught his eye. A woman in the opposite apartment was vacuuming her carpet with an ambitious gusto. Funny how some people tackled their cleaning as if it was a matter of life and death, he thought. And from this distance, she almost looked like a doll cleaning a miniature room in a dollhouse. Riggs watched her for a few seconds, and then he turned to Paul. “Mr. Abbott, do you happen to know where I might find your sister-in-law, Victoria?”

  Riggs was looking at Paul, but he could see Camille’s expression shift. She looked at Paul, and his jaw flinched for a second before he answered, “You’ll have to ask Walter, I’m afraid.” He stirred the martini and added, “I have no idea where she is.”

  Chapter Eighteen: Freddy’s Bookstore

  Riggs walked the seven blocks between Paul’s penthouse and Freddy’s Belltown bookstore. It was an attractive neighborhood with picturesque trees, red brick buildings, and quaint restaurants. Freddy’s shop occupied the first two floors of a five-story brick building. Riggs opened the door, and a tiny brass doorbell jingled above his head.

  Freddy was sitting behind the counter, making notes in a ledger. He had dark circles under his eyes, his cardigan was misbuttoned, and he looked like a man who might have lost his comb. He kept frowning at his work, and it wasn’t until a younger salesman offered to help Riggs that Freddy glanced up. He recognized the policeman right away, and he quickly closed his ledger, and stored it under the counter.

  “Oh, good afternoon, Inspector…” He was still frowning.

  “Riggs,” the policeman reminded him.

  “Yes, of course. Riggs,” Freddy said apologetically. He adjusted his black glasses. “Inspector Riggs, I’m afraid I haven’t been sleeping well these last couple of days. This whole thing is very distressing and…distracting. I don’t suppose you came in here to buy a book or to discuss my sleeping habits.”

  Riggs took off his brown fedora and shook his head.

  “I thought not,” Freddy said. “Official business. Let me see. Perhaps it would be best if we talked up in my office?”

  The inspector agreed, and Freddy led him through a door marked PRIVATE. They went up a narrow staircase to a pair of small rooms that faced the back alley. Freddy unlocked the first door with a bronze skeleton key. It was a small room, and Freddy opened the window to let in some fresh air. There was a tidy antique wooden desk, and a single bookcase was jammed full of books. They were stuffed in at every available space so that Riggs couldn’t even see the back of the bookcase. The titles were mostly classics, and from the looks of their tattered covers, they were well-read editions. There was an electric toaster, a small shelf of canned foods, and a dilapidated brown sofa. Had Riggs been looking for proof that Freddy Abbott was a lonely bachelor, this room would be admissible in court.

  “I’m sorry, it gets stuffy in here,” Freddy explained awkwardly as he cleared a tin of crackers and an empty sardine can to make room for the inspector. Through the connecting door to the next room, Michael Riggs could see a small sink. There was a mirror above it, and a bar of shaving soap and, what appeared to be, a perfectly functional hair comb.

  Freddy invited Riggs to sit down. Then he sat in the old chair opposite him and straightened his glasses.

  Riggs sat down. “Mr. Abbott, do you live here?”

  Freddy frowned, stood up, and walked over to the window. The brick building across the alley was nothing to look at.

  Riggs waited. He already knew the answer, but he wanted to know whether or not the younger man would try to deny it.

  “Money’s been tight lately,” Freddy admitted. “A couple of months ago, I started subletting my apartment to make ends meet. It’s just a temporary measure. But I had to cut expenses to weather a rough patch. And it’s really not much of an inconvenience since I have most everything I need here.”

  “Does your family know?”

  “No.” Freddy looked down. “I wouldn’t mind if the others knew, I’m not ashamed of it, but I didn’t want it to get back to my mother.”

  “Because she wanted you to join the family business?”

  Freddy sighed. “Because she always believed I would fail.”

  Riggs smoothed out his mustache. “Mr. Abbott, I understand that you have a key to your mother’s house?”

  Freddy nodded. He took a deep breath and sat back down. “Yes, as far as I know, we all do. Like I told you the other day, the front door locks automatically, so everyone needs a key to get in.”

  “And what about the other doors, the kitchen and the dining room, for instance?”

  Freddy listed the doors on his fingers. “The dining room door can only be locked from the inside; there is no key, just a knob, that’s the same for the doors in the living room. The doors that lead onto the sundeck are always locked, unless they’re open, of course. The only other door is to the kitchen, but that room is strictly Mrs. Peabody’s domain, so you’d have to ask her about that. I haven’t set foot in that kitchen for at least five years.” Freddy looked around him. “Heck, at the moment, I can hardly even remember what a real kitchen looks like.”

  The claim was certainly consistent with the crackers and canned sardines. Riggs had never envied the bachelor’s lifestyle, and Freddy was a case in point. He made a note in his notepad.

  “Mr. Abbott, do you know where I might find your sister-in-law?”

  “Victoria?” Freddy asked. “No. And I wouldn’t ask Walter about her. But Julia might know.”

  Thank you, Mr. Abbott. Now I’d like to ask your girl—excuse me, I mean your friend, Miss Holt, a couple of questions. I understand she works somewhere in this neighborhood, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes, my mother owned the whole building. Donna’s shop is only a couple doors down from here.” He glanced at his watch. “I have a few minutes. If you’d like, I can introduce you.”

  Riggs agreed, and Freddy grabbed an old bowler hat, which may or may not have been his own based on the size, and put it on his head. As they descended the stairs, Riggs heard raised voices. The salesman was argui
ng with someone. Freddy opened the door just as a camera flashed.

  “Are you Mr. Freddy Abbott?” the reporter turned to Freddy. “We’re from The Post, and we would like to interview you about your mother’s tragic death.”

  “I’m not giving interviews,” Freddy said.

  “But your mother was a beloved citizen,” the reporter objected. “This city is going to miss her, and our readers would like to know how it happened.” He took a pencil and notepad out of his pocket. “Will your brothers continue to run the company?”

  The photographer pointed his camera at Freddy. It clicked and flashed brightly.

  “I’m not giving interviews,” Freddy repeated. “You fellas will have to go.”

  “How about a statement?”

  “‘My family and I are devastated by our mother’s passing, and we appreciate everyone respecting our privacy during this time.’ Now out!” Freddy pointed at the door.

  The reporter scribbled into his notepad and placed his card onto the counter. “Thank you, Mr. Abbott. When you’re ready for an interview, just give me a call. I’ll be sure to mention your charming bookstore, and its address.” He tipped his black fedora, and the photographer followed him out the door.

  “You handled that well,” Riggs said.

  “It’s a bit of a family hazard.” Freddy grinned uncomfortably. “Paul Abbott is my brother, after all, and his behavior has, on occasion, drawn interest. Then they usually want a statement from the family.”

  Riggs agreed. “You could always refuse, you know.”

  Freddy shook his head. “If I give them a little something to work with, then they won’t go after the others. Julia’s fine,” Freddy said, “she can handle anything, but that sort of thing really upsets Walter.”

  They waited until the newspaper men had driven away before venturing out onto the street.

  “Have you known Miss Holt for a long time?” Riggs asked.