The Charlatan Murders

by Jennifer Berg

  “Our mothers grew up together in New York, but I only met Donna when she moved out here a couple of years ago. She’s a designer; she picks out paint colors and decides whether a room should have a soft brown sofa or a velvet purple one, that sort of thing. My sister cares about that stuff, but I couldn’t care less. Honestly, I didn’t think Donna and I would have much to talk about, but she knows quite a bit about American literature and a fair amount of history. And when she talks about fabrics and lampshades, she makes it pretty interesting. It’s weird to think that a pillow could be interesting, but Donna really knows her stuff. She used to work for one of those big famous designers in New York. But she doesn’t brag about it or anything.”

  After walking a few doors down the street, Freddy stopped in front of a white boutique with a showroom on two levels and a bright glass-windowed office in the back. There were two fashionable young salesgirls and an attractive woman in a well-tailored jacket and pencil skirt. Her chestnut brown hair was pulled up into a neat bun, and she wore a string of pearls around her neck and a matching poodle brooch. All three women looked up when the shop bell on the door jingled.

  Chapter Nineteen: Donna Holt’s Boutique of Modern Living

  Donna Holt came over, and although she was the oldest woman there, Michael Riggs suspected she wasn’t thirty. She smiled at Freddy and shook his hand.

  “Hello, Donna,” Freddy said. Then he lowered his voice in a way that the policeman had come to expect. “This is Inspector Riggs from the Seattle Police. He’s investigating my mother’s—well, he’s in charge of the investigation, you know. He needs to ask you some questions.”

  Donna held out her hand and shook the inspector’s hand. “Hello, Inspector, it’s nice to meet you, although I wish it were under better circumstances.” They were standing by a display with two French avant-garde velvet chairs and a plain tweed sofa. Donna sat down and invited Riggs and Freddy to do the same.

  “I’m trying to clear up a few points about Saturday night,” Riggs began. “Now, before you all drove away, I understand that you all stopped for a few minutes in the driveway.”

  “That’s right,” Donna agreed. “We were talking about that new Hitchcock movie with Grace Kelly and Cary Grant.”

  “To Catch a Thief,” Freddy added.

  Riggs continued, “Well, I’m wondering if you remember either Mrs. Shrubb or Miss Sinclair going back to the house at all.”

  Donna shook her head thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think they did. We were only out there for about five minutes or so, and as far as I know, I’m the only one who went back into the house.”

  “You went back?” Riggs repeated.

  Donna nodded and turned to Freddy. “You remember that, don’t you? I had to go back for my gloves.”

  “That’s right.” Freddy nodded.

  Riggs frowned. “But wasn’t the front door locked?”

  “Yes, but Freddy gave me his key,” Donna explained. “I’d left my gloves on the maple bureau in the foyer. I tend to set them beside my handbag instead of into it. It’s such a bad habit, and I’m always losing good gloves that way.”

  Riggs considered for a moment. “Did you see anyone when you went back inside?”

  Donna nodded. “Rosemary was just coming down the stairs. She asked me if I needed anything and I said I’d forgotten my gloves. I grabbed them, and we said goodnight.”

  “Did she seem upset?”

  “I think I startled her,” Donna said slowly, “but she was perfectly sweet about the whole thing.”

  “And what about the cook, Mrs. Peabody? Was she still in the kitchen?”

  “I don’t think so,” Donna said. “I’m pretty sure the kitchen was dark. Anyway, I don’t remember seeing any light shining onto the terrace.”

  Freddy checked his watch and said that he ought to be getting back to his shop. After he was gone, Riggs turned back to Donna. “Now, I understand that after dinner, you helped Mrs. Peabody in the kitchen?”

  Donna blushed. “Yes, that probably sounds a little strange, but I thought I had a good reason. You see, after dinner, it seemed like Mrs. Abbott wanted to discuss some family matters with her children, and I thought it would be nicer to give them some privacy. So, I ducked out and went to the kitchen to make myself useful.”

  “Mrs. Abbott didn’t ask you to step out?”

  “No, not at all. In fact, she wanted me to stay.”

  “But you left anyway?”

  Donna took her time choosing her words. “My mother has known Mrs. Abbott since they were children, so she always treated me like a friend of the family. Freddy and I are friends, and I’ve done some design work for Julia and Paul. But, I’m still an outsider, and I had no intention of intruding on any family business.”

  Riggs nodded.

  “So, you excused yourself and went to the kitchen to help Mrs. Peabody. Tell me, did she ask you to lock the dining room door?”

  “Yes, I did that after I put away the silverware.”

  “Are you sure you locked it?”

  Donna smiled politely. “Yes, I’m positive. I remember noticing the lock as I did it. It’s one of those old-fashioned brass knobs, you know, the kind that only locks from the inside. I noticed it because it’s a popular style back east, but I haven’t seen as many of them out here. And when I turned it, it locked very smoothly.”

  “Smoothly?”

  “I mean, it didn’t stick at all, and it was quiet. I just noticed it because so often these days, something will look beautiful, but when you go to use it, the quality isn’t as good as it should be.”

  “It sounds like you specialize in hardware as well as decoration,” Riggs said appreciatively.

  “Not really, but good hardware complements good decorating. In my profession, there are certain details that I can’t afford to ignore.”

  Riggs agreed; his job was all about the details too. “Miss Holt, I understand that you were a big decorator in New York.”

  “I wasn’t anybody.” Donna blushed slightly. “But I worked for a very successful decorator named Lillie Augustine. Miss Augustine studied in Paris, and other famous decorators studied in London or Rome. After a few years, I decided that I wanted to be a designer too, I have a good eye, but in New York, reputation is everything. I didn’t have enough money to go to a fancy school in Paris, so I decided to move out west and prove myself here.”

  “I’m surprised that you weren’t tempted to try Los Angeles or San Francisco.” Riggs grinned. “Some folks say the weather is better down South.”

  “But a working girl needs to think about the cost of rent,” Donna said. “Besides, I don’t mind the rain. I once saw a postcard from Seattle. It showed the Smith Tower over Elliott Bay and the Cascade Mountains in the distance, capped with snow. That image really captured my imagination. Besides, Seattle was the only place where I had any sort of connection; since my mother’s childhood friend had moved out here.”

  “Mrs. Abbott?”

  Donna nodded.

  “How often did you see Mrs. Abbott?”

  “A few times a year,” Donna said. “Officially, we met once a year when it was time to renew my lease. And then she might stop by my shop if she happened to be in the area. If I had a maintenance issue, I would telephone her, and she or Miss Miller would send someone out. I was at her house on Thursday for my annual appointment, and that’s when she invited me to the family party.”

  Riggs considered his approach carefully. “Miss Holt, can I have your opinion of the Abbott family, particularly Mrs. Abbott?”

  “I suppose so,” she said, glancing at her watch. “But I usually have a cup of coffee at about this time. Would you like to join me?”

  Riggs agreed, and Donna led him into her office. She left for a few minutes and returned with a tray, a pot of coffee, and some cookies. After she poured the coffee and the inspector had taken a cookie, Donna said, “The first time I met Mrs. Abbott was when I decided to move here a couple of years ago. My mother and
Mrs. Abbott hadn’t seen each other since they were girls. But she was very kind to me. She advised me on setting up my business, and she leased me this shop at a fair price. Since then, we’ve met periodically to discuss the maintenance.”

  “What did you think of her?”

  “Personally, I liked her. I admired her business acumen and her determination. It’s not easy for a woman to accomplish what she did. But I think she was hard on her children.”

  “Did any of them say so?”

  Donna shook her head. “They wouldn’t in front of me, but I thought I could sense a…a sort of tension. Of course, I could be wrong.”

  “How well do you know them?”

  Donna sipped her coffee. “I met Marcus and Julia Shrubb about a year ago when I helped them decorate their music room. I like Julia very much. She’s one of those charming clients who give me general ideas and then let me take over the process. I had a lot of fun with her music room. Before Saturday, I’d only met Marcus and their son, Alex, a couple of times.”

  Donna took another butter cookie. “As for the others, let me see…I met Paul earlier this year when I helped Miss Sinclair decorate their bedroom and their living room.”

  “They both seem like very social people.”

  Donna nodded. “Miss Sinclair’s in the theater, you know. She told me about some of the lavish parties she had been to and some of the eccentric people she knows. She was a great client too, but for the opposite reason of Julia. Where Julia gave me free rein, Camille always had a well-formulated picture in her head. She told me what she wanted, and all I had to do was to order it or have it made. And putting it all together was a snap because she had already worked out every detail down to the last button.”

  “Do you like Miss Sinclair and Mr. Abbott?”

  Donna smiled cautiously. “They’re easy to get along with, but they aren’t the sort of people I usually have as close friends, if you know what I mean.”

  Riggs nodded. “What about Freddy?”

  “I know Freddy the best.” Donna smiled. “We didn’t talk very often at first, but lately…well, let’s just say that Freddy is the only Abbott I know well enough to consider a personal friend.”

  “And what about Walter Abbott?” Riggs asked.

  Donna shrugged. “Saturday night was the first time I ever met Walter. He’s quiet, but he seems nice enough.”

  “Have you met his wife, Victoria?”

  “Victoria Abbott?” Donna dipped her cookie in her coffee. “No, I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  Neither have I, Riggs lamented to himself. Victoria Abbott was proving to be unexpectedly elusive. Walter was trying to protect her, but out of all the Abbotts, Victoria seemed to have the best motive for murder.

  Chapter Twenty: Where the Devil is Victoria?

  Riggs pushed the pile of letters toward Fisher. Then he took a bag of bread crumbs from his drawer and went to the window. A seagull was waiting on the ledge, and Riggs tossed the crumbs while Fisher looked over Mrs. Abbott’s letters; an estimate for some plumbing work, thank you notes from the DAR and the Opal Orphans Fund, a personal letter from Mrs. Holt reminiscing about their childhood, and correspondence from the university that said Alexander Abbott would be allowed to attend.

  Fisher set the letters down. “There’s nothing here,” he agreed. “But I have to have something for the chief.”

  Riggs shook his head. “If the chief wants it done by the book, that takes time. He wants me not to ruffle feathers. That also takes time.”

  “It’s been three days.”

  “And so far, all the evidence is pointing back to the Abbott family,” Riggs said. “Which is why I’m being careful. Victoria Abbott would be the best option. She’s estranged from the family, but I’m still trying to track her down.”

  Fisher started to say something, but his attention was captured by someone in the hallway outside Riggs’ office. The sergeant inspector’s new office had four windows; two that overlooked the city and two inside windows that faced the open area of the police department. Someone in the department was leaving Fisher speechless.

  Riggs smirked to himself and glanced over to see who she was.

  Through the internal windows, he saw a blonde woman standing in the hallway. She was wearing a blue pillbox hat, a yellow dress with a full skirt, and gray gloves. She was speaking to one of the secretaries.

  “That’s Markson’s wife,” he informed the junior investigator.

  “Markson?” Fisher repeated as he noted the woman’s curvaceous hips. “Is that the whiny guy who works down in parking violations?”

  “Nope.” Riggs took off his shoes and nudged them under his desk. “Assistant Chief Markson is the chump upstairs who approves your evaluations.”

  Fisher stopped staring. He turned his back to the window and held a pencil to his notepad. “Okay, Riggs. The investigation. Just give me what you’ve got so far, and I’ll make it sound like an update.”

  Michael Riggs leaned back in his chair and put his stocking feet up on his desk. He intertwined his fingers behind his head and rested into them. “Well, let’s see.” Riggs considered. “We’ve got a rich old lady who was smothered in her bed three days ago. She had notably high soporific levels in her blood, suggesting she took about three sleeping pills before she went to bed. The private secretary found Mrs. Abbott’s body shortly before six o’clock in the morning. She telephoned Mrs. Abbott’s doctor and her oldest son. Dr. Hara says she died between eleven p.m. on Saturday night and three a.m. on Sunday morning.”

  “Is there any chance it was suicide?”

  “Not unless she smothered herself and then re-fluffed the pillow afterwards.”

  “But the sleeping pills?”

  “Strong enough to send her to dreamland, but not strong enough to kill her.”

  Fisher’s gaze went to the window and followed one of the secretaries as she walked down the hallway. When she was gone, he turned back to Riggs. “And the suspects?”

  “She’s got three sons and a daughter, all of whom benefit substantially by her death.”

  Fisher raised an eyebrow. “How substantially?”

  “Two million substantially apiece.”

  Fisher whistled. “Well, that’s four motives right there. Any alibis?”

  “Any of them could have come in the middle of the night,” Riggs admitted. “But if I had to place a bet, I would put it on Walter’s wife, Victoria. He won’t even talk about her, but the rest of the family has plenty to say about the woman. Apparently, the newlyweds were already on the rocks. And depending on who you ask, Victoria Abbott is either a charming, sophisticated lady or a conniving gold-digger.”

  “But she definitely inherits?”

  Riggs nodded and set down his cup of coffee. “Even if they divorce, Victoria’s alimony will come from a very big pot now that Mrs. Abbott is dead.”

  Fisher tallied his notes. “So, with the two spouses and the grandson, that makes seven beneficiaries? What about hate or revenge, anything like that?”

  Riggs shrugged. “Take your pick. Mrs. Abbott was no sweetheart, and she liked to run her children’s lives. Now that she’s gone, everyone is free from a critical and controlling tyrant.” Riggs took his feet off of his desk and leaned forward on his elbows. “And we can’t ignore the timing. On the eve of her death, Mrs. Abbott invited her whole brood together for a family dinner, which sounds sentimental, but get this: as soon as the meal’s over, she berates each one of them personally and threatens to completely disinherit anyone who doesn’t meet her demands.”

  “It almost sounds like the old lady wanted to get murdered,” Fisher said. He glanced through his notes. “She threatened her own family.”

  “And a woman by the name of Camille Sinclair.”

  Fisher’s head shot up. “Do you mean Camille Sinclair, the actress?”

  “Why, Fisher.” Riggs raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you ran in dramatic circles.”

  The rookie policeman smirk
ed. “Only when I have a date. Makes a girl think you’re cultured, you know. Women like cultured men. I saw Sinclair last year at the Paramount. Apart from being a real bombshell, the woman can really act. How’s she mixed up in this mess?”

  “When she’s not on stage, Miss Sinclair runs around with Paul Abbott. They even share a penthouse apartment. Apparently, this guy isn’t too interested in marriage, but his mother was strongly in favor of making the arrangement legal. Now, if Camille Sinclair wants to marry Paul Abbott, his mother would have been her strongest ally. But whatever she wanted, she hasn’t gained a dime by Mrs. Abbott’s premature death, unless, of course, she’s willing to kill an old lady just to get an inheritance for a man who isn’t her husband.”

  Fisher shook his head. “I don’t think so. I had a few dates with a friend of hers, and she said Miss Sinclair is fixed for life.”

  “I looked into her finances,” Riggs confirmed. “Her father was a Broadway producer, and he left her with a trust. Camille Sinclair has no debts and lives within her means. She may not be as rich as the Abbotts, but she doesn’t have any money worries.”

  “So, Sinclair doesn’t have much of a motive,” Fisher said.

  “Which brings it back to the family,” Riggs agreed. “Victoria Abbott would want her husband to inherit his family fortune while they’re still married,” Riggs said. “Her husband claims she was out of town on Saturday night, but I don’t trust his motives. Miss Miller says that Walter left a confidential envelope for his mother last week. According to Miss Miller, that envelope is now missing.”

  “What does Walter Abbott say about that?”

  “Nothing. And he’s dug in his heels.” Riggs rubbed his mustache. “And here’s the other thing, everyone has a house key, but the dining room door and the office window were left unlocked on Saturday night.”

  “So the murderer lost his or her key.” Fisher considered for a moment and added, “Or they wanted to implicate an outsider.”

  Riggs nodded. “And you remember that long platinum hair I found in Mrs. Abbott’s office? It matches Miss Sinclair’s perfectly, but she insists she’s never been in that room in her life.”