“It’s a terrible thing,” Riggs agreed.
Marcus sighed. “I guess it just goes to show that you can’t always keep bad things from happening.”
“No, unfortunately, you can’t. Not even when you’re surrounded by the finer things in life.” Riggs reached over and pretended to adjust an already perfect lampshade beside him. Then he studied the lamp itself.
Marcus looked at it, too. “I think that’s French, or Italian, or something,” he said.
“Hmm, it’s nice. I suppose the metal part makes it fairly heavy, though.”
Marcus shook his head. “No, no, it’s delicate, porcelain, I think. That metal bit along the bottom is just a decorative touch.”
Riggs turned his attention to the matter at hand. “Mr. Shrubb, I understand that last Saturday night, when you were all together in the driveway, one of the ladies went back for her handbag — ”
Marcus’s face hardened slightly. “It was Miss Sinclair.”
“Ah, so it wasn’t your wife, then?”
“My wife?” Marcus’s face began to turn red. “Are you implying that Julia could have had anything to do with this?”
“No,” the inspector said, “but I need to establish the facts.”
Marcus stood up. His face was red. “This murder has nothing to do with the family, Inspector. I already told you that I saw a man lurking about that night, I saw his shadow outside the kitchen window, and I told you so that you could find the lunatic who murdered my mother-in-law! But instead of doing your job, you come into my house making frivolous, absurd suggestions. My wife puts on a brave face, but she is suffering. And your inactivity is making it worse.” Marcus glared at Riggs. “I will be making some telephone calls, Inspector. The mayor is a personal friend of mine, and I’m sure he will be none too happy to learn that you are harassing my wife.”
Riggs stood up. “There are details that must be cleared up—”
“Get out of my house, Inspector!”
At that moment, the French side door opened, and Julia dressed in a blouse and capris walked into the room. “Oh, hello, Inspector. I didn’t know you were here,” she said as she closed the door behind her.
“The inspector was just leaving,” Marcus explained. His cheeks were red.
Julia’s gaze darted to her husband and then back at Riggs, and her head tipped to one side. “Tell me, Inspector, are there any new developments in your investigation?”
Riggs shifted his hat from one hand to the other. “Some, but I was just asking your husband the same question I asked you. Which lady went back into the house while the rest of you were in the driveway?”
“And I told you it was Miss Sinclair,” Marcus cut in. “Go and ask her if you don’t believe me!”
Riggs said nothing.
Julia frowned. “Inspector, has something happened?”
“I’m afraid so,” Riggs added softly.
“Good Lord, Inspector!” Marcus exclaimed, glancing back and forth between Riggs and his wife. He stepped forward so he was standing between them. “Whatever it is, surely we can discuss it in my office. Julia shouldn’t have to—”
“No, Marcus,” his wife interrupted. “If the inspector has some news, I want to hear it, too.”
Marcus’s mouth moved as though he wanted to object, but instead, he followed his wife, and when she sat down on the sofa, he placed his hand on her shoulder.
Riggs took a deep breath. “Miss Sinclair was found dead this morning. I’m sorry to say that she’s been murdered.”
“My God!” Marcus erupted. “How the devil could that happen?”
“We are still gathering the facts, but at this point, we are assuming the two murders are connected.”
“Poor Paul!” Julia put her hand over her mouth. Her chest heaved, and she placed her hand in her lap. “Inspector, is there anything I can do to help?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Shrubb,” Riggs said calmly. “We’ve only just begun the investigation. But it would help if you could tell me what your mother did last Wednesday afternoon?”
“Wednesday?” Julia considered for some time then shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. On Wednesday, I didn’t see her at all.”
“Rosemary was there,” Marcus said. “She can tell you whatever you need to know.”
But Julia shook her head. “Rosemary wasn’t home Wednesday evening.”
Marcus frowned. “How do you know that?”
“She said so,” Julia explained. “I brought my mother some flowers on Tuesday, and while I was arranging them, my mother asked Rosemary about her plans for Wednesday. I remember my mother asked her if she would be driving the Continental, and Rosemary said she would take the trolleybus so she wouldn’t have to park. She said she was going to visit her aunt.”
“Her aunt?” Riggs repeated.
Mrs. Shrubb nodded. “I’ve never met her, but she lives in town, and Rosemary visits her regularly.”
Riggs picked up his hat. “Well, that’s that, then. I’m sorry about all this, Mrs. Shrubb, and I’ll do my best to get to the bottom of this case as soon as possible.” He nodded at her before turning to her husband. “Don’t bother, Mr. Shrubb. I can let myself out. And like you said, you have telephone calls to make.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Obsessions with Red
Riggs closed the heavy black front door, which glided smoothly on its massive hinges. As it shut, the latch sprung with a solid click. Whatever secrets Julia and Marcus Shrubb had, they would not surrender them willingly. Riggs put on his hat and walked down the driveway to the street. It was longer than the path through the grove, but he needed to think of a plan before he talked to Victoria.
Rosemary had told her employer she was visiting her aunt on that Wednesday, but she had told Riggs she was at the cinema. She’d even mentioned the movie. And people lie about their personal lives to their employers all the time. But her employer was dead, so why was Rosemary lying to the police?
And why had she been upstairs on Saturday night, nearly two hours after Mrs. Abbott had gone to bed?
Riggs had nearly reached the road when Alex Shrubb pulled into the driveway in a large red Kaiser Darrin. The top was down, and the sporty car made Alex look less like a kid and more like a man. But when he stopped the car, Riggs could see a stack of comic books and dime store paperbacks on the passenger seat. And Alex greeted him with an enthusiastic wave.
“Hello, Inspector, are you here because of my uncle’s girlfriend, Miss Sinclair?” he asked excitedly. “I just heard that she’s been murdered. Is it true?”
“I’m afraid so. How did you hear about it?”
“My friend’s dad owns the newspaper.”
The newspaper knew.
Alex glanced around as he turned off the motor. “Listen, Inspector, I’ve got some ideas about all of this,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’ve been contemplating the situation, and I think we need to consider that there could be a larger enemy at work here.”
Riggs leaned against the automobile and squared the brim of his hat against the sunshine. “Larger than what?”
“Well, how do we know that my grandmother’s murder wasn’t connected to a foreign power or something like that?” Alex suggested. “Especially now that Miss Sinclair’s been bumped off, too. I mean, maybe she wasn’t what she seemed either.”
Riggs had children of his own, and he knew better than to smile. Instead, he cleared his throat and asked, “So, you think that Miss Sinclair’s whole acting career was just a front and that in real life she was secretly helping the Soviets to smuggle important government documents out of the country and your grandmother somehow got mixed up in it?”
Alex’s eyes opened widely. “That’s exactly the sort of thing I mean.” He snapped his fingers. “I mean, everybody keeps thinking that my grandmother was murdered for her money, but we don’t actually know that. This could be part of a secret plot, and my grandmother and Miss Sinclair just got in the way somehow. I mean, take Rosemary, for in
stance, she seems really nice and all, but she could be anybody.”
Riggs rubbed his mustache, and Alex elaborated on his suspicions. He had worked out several possibilities, and each scenario had multiple unlikely variations. Inspector Riggs nodded at the appropriate intervals, and when Alex had covered most of the main areas of fathomable speculation—which took about ten minutes—he breathed.
“Okay, young man, I’ll tell you what,” the inspector said. “I don’t want you to do anything dangerous, but if you promise to keep your eyes open and stay out of trouble, I’ll be sure to consider that angle in my investigations.”
Alex beamed. “That would be great, Inspector!” He sighed and settled back into the driver’s seat. “I started getting suspicious a few months ago,” Alex said. “It all started one night when I saw Rosemary sitting in a fancy restaurant. She was waiting for someone, and there was a candle on the table, so naturally, I figured that she was on a date. But then the next day, I heard her telling my grandmother that she’d spent the evening at her aunt’s house. It was a bare-face lie. I told my dad, but he made me promise to stay out of it. He said Rosemary had a right to her privacy, and we had to stay on Grandmother’s good side.”
“Why’s that?” Riggs asked.
Alex shrugged. “It’s just the sort of thing grown-ups like to say, I guess.”
Riggs adjusted his tie. “Alex, just now, I noticed a white porcelain lamp in your living room.”
“The one that looks kinda like a bowling pin?” Alex nodded. “What about it?”
“I was wondering how heavy it is?”
“Oh, it weighs a ton!” Alex said, “Our housekeeper complained ‘cause she has to dust under the darn thing. And Dad told Uncle Paul that he could use it as a battering ram for my grandmother’s house.”
Riggs chuckled. “I suppose so, but a key would be easier.”
“Sure, but Uncle Paul lost his key to grandmother’s house.”
Riggs brushed lint off his coat and leaned against the automobile. “Did he lose the key recently?”
“I don’t know, a couple weeks ago, I guess. He thought he left them at our place, but then he said he must have left them at a party or something. Dad said they would probably turn up eventually.”
“Keys usually do show up,” Riggs straightened up and patted the car. “Well, Alex, I’m glad we had this little chat. Remember, keep your ears open and let me know if you notice anything unusual.”
The young man saluted playfully and continued up the drive.
As soon as Riggs got back to his old brown Plymouth, he drove to the movie theater on Spring Street. It was a new theater with lots of scarlet curtains and shiny brass. It was between matinees, and the girl in the little ticket office was smacking her gum and playing solitaire on the counter. Riggs showed her his identification, but she didn’t even pretend to be impressed.
After confirming that she had worked the previous Wednesday, Riggs handed her a black and white photograph of Rosemary Miller. “Do you remember seeing this woman?” he asked. “She’s a redhead.”
The girl looked at the picture and nodded. “Yeah, she’s a regular here. I see her every week or so. And she’s so pretty, isn’t she? But last Wednesday, she was wearing a new brooch with pink crystal flowers.” The ticket girl passed the photograph back. “I don’t think redheads should wear pink, do you?”
Riggs admitted that he’d never even thought about it before and asked if the redheaded woman had been alone.
“With a face like that?” the girl asked. “Not on your life! She was with a fella.”
“What did he look like?”
The girl considered for a moment, but it didn’t seem to help. She just kept chewing her gum and thinking, and after a while, she said, “Well, he couldn’t have been too good-looking, or I’d have remembered him. I see so many people,” she explained, “most of them start to look alike, if you know what I mean. I’ve been working here for almost six months now, so I usually only remember the really interesting ones. You know, people who are either very beautiful or kinda funny-looking. I’ll probably remember you because of your mustache. Not many people wear a big mustache like that anymore.”
Riggs wasn’t sure what to say, but the girl continued.
“Of course, I would have remembered that lady even if she weren’t so pretty because of her red hair. You don’t see true redheads all that often, you know. Most of ‘em just dye their hair red, but I can tell the difference.”
Riggs thought it was best to agree, and the ticket girl went on dreamily. “My grandmother was a true redhead like that. Oh, that I could have been so lucky!” She blew a bubble with her gum. It popped, and she recovered it. “But I got the other things, what are they called? You know, those things that tell us who we’re gonna look like. Well, anyway, I got them from my mom’s side of the family, and her hair was just this color.” She pointed at her head with disappointment.
Riggs pressed the girl for more information, but she could only describe what Rosemary’s companion was not. He was not too young, and he was not too old. And he wasn’t dressed too nicely. But he wasn’t dressed like a bum, either. And she was sure that he wasn’t tall, or short, or fat, and he didn’t have an accent, or a beard, or a mustache. And, no, she wouldn’t recognize him if she saw him again.
Ten minutes later, Riggs walked back to his Plymouth. Rosemary was involved with a man, and she was lying about it. She had also been upstairs that night after everyone else had thought she’d gone to bed, and then there were those medicine bottles in the back seat of the Continental.
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Walter Budges & Riggs Escapes
At the same moment that Riggs was contemplating the mysteries surrounding Rosemary Miller, Victoria was stepping into a familiar elevator. She told the elevator boy which floor she wanted, and while he closed the doors, she checked to make sure her red skirt was hanging evenly. As the elevator ascended, she checked her green hat and took lint off her sleeve. The elevator came to a stop at the top floor, and the doors slid open.
“Eleventh Floor, Abbott Enterprises,” the elevator boy announced.
Victoria switched her handbag from her right to her left arm.
It had been only three months since she had been in Walter’s office, but it felt like years. Some faces were new. She briefly considered going back down to the lobby and telephoning from the booth, but she stopped herself. This was the best course of action. Besides, there was too much at stake for her to take any more chances. She had to follow through with her plan.
The front reception area was a large room full of busy people and large desks. Victoria walked up to the main reception desk, and a young woman who she hadn’t met before looked up at her. The young secretary had just offered to help her when the older woman behind the desk glanced up from her typing.
“Oh, good afternoon, Mrs. Abbott.” The older woman stood up and hurried forward. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
Victoria took off her gloves. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Thompson. Is my husband in?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Shall I tell him you’re here?”
“No, thank you.” Victoria smiled. “I’ll just go back there.”
She walked past the surprised young secretary and made her way past the other desks. She could sense people turning their heads to watch her, and she was careful to avoid eye contact with the curious onlookers. Three months was a long time. People had talked.
“Wives,” she groaned under her breath. “Why are secretaries always so interested in wives?” It was a stupid question and she knew the answer as well as anyone.
When she finally reached the back of the main room, she turned down the hallway to the executive offices. Fortunately, the usual sentinel, Mrs. Taylor, had stepped away from her desk, so Victoria avoided at least one awkward encounter. She went to the second door, checked to make sure that her pearls were laying evenly, and knocked.
A familiar voice replied, and Victoria turned the knob and
entered. Walter took a moment to glance up from his work, and when he did, his jaw dropped, and his grip tightened on the pencil he was holding.
Victoria closed the door behind her.
“Walter. We need to talk.”
* * *
“Well, how many ways can you spell Miller?” the monotone female voice asked.
Riggs switched the telephone receiver to his other hand. He had been trying to appeal to the woman’s better side, but she didn’t seem to have one.
She continued, “Listen, Inspector, I’m looking at the entire ‘M’ section now. There’s no Miller in the record, Rosemary, or otherwise.”
Riggs used his free hand to drum his frustrations onto his desk.
“Besides,” the woman said flatly, “like I already told you twice, there were only two women who ever worked for Marshall Trust. I can tell you that one was my aunt, the other one was Mrs. Price, and she’s currently working for the mayor. I can give you their contact information if you think it will help. But, I’m sorry, Inspector…um, Gibbs, we simply never employed a Rosemary Miller.”
Riggs thanked her and hung up. When he had returned to his office, there were two messages on his desk, both from the chief and both demanding—in increasingly blunt terms—an update on the Abbott-Sinclair Murders. He had ignored the notes to follow up on his last lead for Rosemary Miller. But unlike Mrs. Peabody, the boatman, and even the gardener, Rosemary Miller was drawing a blank at every turn. She not only had no aunt, but there was also no record of her ever having lived or worked in San Francisco. Until she came to work for Mrs. Abbott ten years ago, Rosemary Miller seemed to have no history. In sheer desperation, Riggs was wondering if young Alex Shrubb was right about Rosemary being a secret agent.
The Charlatan Murders Page 20
