by Vicki Delany
“Whilst we’re waiting, love, call the police and tell them to take that ridiculous tape down.”
“You mean they didn’t say they’d do it tomorrow?”
“They need a nudge. Make the call.”
“Me? Why don’t you do it?”
“You’re much more persuasive.”
That was not true, but I did as I’d been told. I dug Detective Redmond’s card out of my bag and made the call. She answered almost immediately. I thought I heard the sound of water running and dishes clattering in the background.
“I’m sorry if I’m bothering you at home,” I said. “It’s Lily Roberts.”
“You aren’t bothering me, Lily. What can I do for you?”
“My grandmother’s wondering when the crime-scene tape can come down.”
I turned my back on Rose, who was telling me I was not to ask but to tell.
“I think we have all we need. I’ll check with Detective Williams, and if he gives the go-ahead, I’ll send someone around tomorrow to take care of it.”
“Thank you. If you don’t mind my asking, how’s the investigation going? I’m sure you have plenty of suspects.”
“Thing is, Lily, I do mind you asking.” Redmond hung up.
“Thanks for your help,” I said.
Bernie’s car bounced down the driveway.
“At your service, madams,” she said when we were buckling up.
“This is what we’re going to do,” Rose said. “While I’m expressing my heartfelt condolences to the recent widow, Bernie will be watching her for signs that she’s hiding something, and Lily will be surreptitiously checking out our environment.”
“Like searching for bloodstains on the carpet?” I said. “He didn’t die in his house, remember.”
“Look for evidence,” Rose said, “that their marriage might have been in some distress.”
“You mean divorce papers laid out on the coffee table for anyone to see?”
“Something like that.”
I rolled my eyes. I was in the backseat, so neither of them could see me, but I did it, anyway. Despite her age, my grandmother rarely showed the slightest vulnerability—all that English reserve probably—and she rarely got sentimental. I knew she loved me very much, and I loved her to pieces, but we never said so to each other. Her recent flash of openness, when she revealed how frightened she was at the direction Williams’s inquiries were taking, had twisted my heart, and so I’d agreed to pay a call on Mrs. Ford. That might not, I thought now, have been such a good idea. I hadn’t actually meant right now. As in tonight.
A couple of miles from Victoria-on-Sea, a road turns off the coast road, veering inland for the North Augusta business district, but Bernie didn’t turn along with it. She kept to the winding road running alongside the bay. Lanes broke off, leading to ocean-side houses on big lots. The vegetation was rough, salt sprayed, and windswept, marked by a few patches of tamed gardens, hedges of tall, swaying pampas grass, and imported trees. We hadn’t gone far before Bernie slowed and turned onto a private road. Several driveways led off it, but she drove on until we came to the end. The sun was dipping below the horizon of the bay in a spectacular display of red, pink, and deep gray. Triple garage doors were closed, and no cars were in the driveway. A motion-detector light came on at the side of the house.
“We should have called ahead,” I said.
“We don’t want to give her advance notice,” Rose said.
“We do want her to be home. It’s nine o’clock. Late for a condolence call.”
“Need I remind you, Lily,” Rose said, “this isn’t really a condolence call. It’s a police investigation.”
“Need I remind you, Rose, we aren’t the police.”
“As I believe Sherlock Holmes said, ‘I shall be my own police.’”
I rolled my eyes once again. Rose and Bernie got out of the car, and I scrambled to do likewise.
In for a penny, in for a pound, as my grandmother often says.
The house in front of us was large and multistoried, with a fabulous view over the bay. Unlike Victoria-on-Sea, it was fully modern, all glass and concrete and sharp edges. Lights burned over the door and inside the house. We climbed the wide stone steps between giant black iron urns overflowing with red and white geraniums and sprays of fountain grasses.
Bernie rang the bell. The door opened almost immediately.
The woman who stood there was in her fifties, dressed in a faded red T-shirt and jeans that bagged at the knees and seat. Her brown hair, heavily streaked with gray, was scraped back into a rough ponytail. She wore no makeup, and it looked as though she’d cut her bangs herself, probably with nail scissors. The skin on her face was soft and plump, and deep circles lay under her eyes. Her eyes and nose were not red, and she showed no signs of recent crying. “Yes?” she said.
I was about to ask if Mrs. Ford was at home, but Bernie spoke first. “Good evening, Mrs. Ford. I hope you don’t mind the late call. I’m Bernadette, and this is Rose. We’ve come to pay our condolences.”
What was I? Chopped liver? I forced out a smile.
“I’m sorry,” Janice Ford said. “Do I know you?”
Rose leaned her cane against Bernie’s leg and reached out with both of her hands. Instinctively, Mrs. Ford took them in hers. “I’m so sorry about your loss,” Rose said. “We have not met, my dear, but I came to correct that oversight. I hope I can call you Janice?”
“Uh, yeah.” The Widow Ford’s eyes flicked between Bernie and me. “Okay, I guess.”
“Janice. Your husband and I were business acquaintances.”
“That’s nice, but I have to tell you, I wasn’t involved in my husband’s business affairs.”
This was getting awkward. Janice Ford didn’t seem at all inclined to invite us in, and there was no reason she should.
Trust Rose to take care of that. She swayed slightly, pulled her hands away from Janice Ford’s, and lightly but rapidly patted the approximate vicinity of her heart. Bernie thrust out a hand and took her elbow. She handed Rose her cane and said, “Here you go. Be careful now.”
“Uh, would you like to come in?” Janice said.
“Thank you, dear. That would be very nice. Just for a few minutes.” Rose stepped over the threshold; Bernie and I followed. The floor of the large foyer was covered in terra-cotta-colored ceramic tiles, and a huge crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling.
Janice led the way down the hallway. To my right, I got a glimpse of the living room. The red leather couches, glass tables, and modern art on white walls showed excellent taste, but to my mind, the room had a soulless quality, as though the decor had been plucked directly from a designer’s catalog.
Janice turned left, and we followed her into a much smaller room. Bernie helped Rose, and I trailed along behind.
A wingback chair in a far corner showed signs of use. The fabric was faded in places, and dirt was ground into the edges of the armrests. A cheap plywood bookcase packed with a mixture of hardcover and paperback books stood next to it, and a reading lamp shone over the chair. One wall was filled with a gas fireplace, unlit in late spring. A glass of wine and a book rested on the side table.
This, I guessed, was the library. Nice to have a house big enough to have a library, no matter how small.
“Please.” Janice gestured to an aging beige sofa against the far wall. “Have a seat.” She didn’t offer us anything to drink.
Rose sat slowly, still clinging to her cane. Bernie settled next to her. They smiled at Janice. Janice took the wingback chair and smiled back at them. There was nowhere left for me to sit, so I leaned against the wall and wondered if I’d somehow disappeared.
“You were in business with Jack, you said?” Janice asked.
“Of a sort,” Rose said. “Regarding the Goodwill property.”
Janice snorted. “Not that eyesore. I’m sick and tired of hearing about it. The place should have been sold off long ago and the property divided into lots. A nice li
ttle subdivision would fit on that land.”
Rose visibly shuddered.
“That Lincoln Goodwill’s too proud for his own good,” Janice continued. “He clung to that property far longer than he should have because it’s been in his family for a hundred years or so. Now he has to get rid of it, and he can’t find anyone dumb enough to pay what he’s asking. Are you the interested buyer, Rose?”
“No,” Rose said.
“I didn’t think so. You look like a woman with common sense. Some of the neighbors are vehemently opposed to rezoning the property. Are you one of those neighbors, Rose?”
My grandmother smiled. “I confess that I am.”
“You’re the owner of the B & B next door. The property where Jack died.”
Rose nodded.
“As your husband died on Rose’s property,” Bernie said, “she wanted to express her condolences to you in person.”
“Did you kill him?” Janice asked.
For once Rose looked startled. “Good heavens! What a question. No, I did not kill him.”
“Then you don’t need to express your condolences to me. I know he was planning to sue you over some silly idea that you slandered him. He always was a fool.”
Janice certainly could be blunt when she wanted to be.
“I told him a knockdown public fight with an elderly widowed lady never looked good. But Jack never much cared what I had to say. He did, however, care what my lawyers had to say, and I intended to have them put a stop to it. Doesn’t matter now, does it?”
“Uh, no,” Bernie said.
“Can I offer you a glass of wine?” Janice asked.
“You may,” Rose said.
Bernie declined, as she was driving.
I wasn’t even asked if I wanted one, but I said, “Thanks,” anyway.
“I’ll be right back.” Janice left the room.
Bernie and I glanced at each other. Rose pointed to me and then waved her finger around, no doubt telling me to be observant.
I didn’t have much time to observe anything. Janice must have run to the kitchen, because she was back in seconds, bearing an open wine bottle and two glasses. She handed glasses to Rose and me and poured. She wasn’t exactly generous. I considered the amount I got to be more of a dribble, and Rose’s was the same. Janice topped up her own glass and took her seat. She lifted her drink.
“To Jack Ford. Gone to his reward at last.”
I almost spat out my wine. That would have been a waste. It was very good.
“An interesting sentiment,” Rose said.
“But an honest one. I believe in being honest at all times, don’t you, Rose?”
“Absolutely,” my grandmother said. If not for the glass of wine in one hand, she would have had her fingers crossed behind her back.
“Jack and I lived together in this house, but otherwise, we didn’t have much of a life together.” Janice held out her hands, encompassing her chair, the reading lamp, the bookcase, and the side table. “I have my own space, and I let him have the run of the rest of the house. I don’t spend much time here anymore. I have an apartment in Boston, which I much prefer, where I was all of last week. I came here Saturday morning, after the police called me with the news. I haven’t yet decided if I’m going to sell the house. Would you like to buy it?”
“No,” I said.
“As for Jack, I allowed him to play at being a property developer, and that kept him from annoying me.”
“You ‘allowed’ him?” I could hear the air quotes in Rose’s voice.
“When my father died, he left me rather a lot of money. Shortly after that, Jack and I met. His business was failing, and his children, wisely, had no interest in being involved. Dutiful wife that I wanted to be, I invested a substantial amount of my own money in the company. Jack assured me that with an infusion of new cash, he’d be able to turn things around and make his fortune.” She chuckled. “As if. I never make the same mistake twice. Giving him money was a mistake, and marrying him was a mistake.”
“He didn’t have a reputation as a respectable businessman,” I said. “He skirted the law.”
“Because he wasn’t smart enough to work within it.”
“He cheated a lot of people.”
“As I said, I wasn’t involved in the details of his business practices. Some people are too greedy for their own good. Like that Roy Gleeson, hoping to get on Jack’s good side if he pushed through the zoning change. Or the mayor herself, silly woman.”
In for a penny. “Are you aware it’s rumored your husband was having an affair with Mayor Carla Powers?” I asked.
For the first time, Janice looked straight at me. “You’re blunt. I like that.” She tossed back most of the contents of her glass. “Jack was always the subject of rumors. He liked it that way. Made him sound mysterious and interesting. Important. He was a fool. Jack was happy if people were talking about him. I’d have thought he had better taste than Carla Powers, though. I guess he was getting old.” She laughed at the expression on my face. “Have I shocked you? Poor dear. I assume you’re more comfortable in your tearoom. I hear it’s quite charming. I should pop in one day.”
I put down my glass. “We’ve taken enough of your time. Thank you.”
“Why didn’t you divorce him?” Rose asked.
Janice shrugged. “Too much bother.”
* * *
“Whew,” I said as we drove back to Victoria-on-Sea.
“Whew is right,” Rose said. “What a thoroughly unpleasant woman.”
I leaned forward and rested my arms on the back of the front seats, one on each side. “Gave me chills the way she brushed off people like Dorothy Johnson, as though it was their fault Jack cheated them.”
“Nasty as she is,” Bernie said, “and as much as she enjoys being nasty, do you think she killed Jack?”
“No,” I said. “In her words, why would she bother? She has money of her own, so no reason to stay with him if she didn’t want to. If she wanted to be rid of him, all she had to do was divorce him.”
“I disagree,” Rose said. “We have no reason to believe anything she said was true. Maybe she did resent him for having affairs.”
“More likely she hated knowing everyone knew about it,” Bernie said.
“Agreed,” Rose said.
“Divorces can get nasty and expensive,” Bernie said. “I wouldn’t put it past Janice Ford to decide that offing a troublesome husband was the cheapest and easiest way out. I’ll see what I can find out about her personal finances. Her father might not have left her as comfortably off as she claims.”
“Or,” Rose said, “she put all her inheritance into Jack’s business and saw it disappear. That would make her bitter. Perhaps she decided desperate measures were necessary to save what little money’s left.”
“I found it interesting,” Bernie said, “that she knew who both of you are.”
“She keeps herself informed of what goes on in North Augusta, for all she pretends not to care,” I said, leaning back in my seat and looking out the window. It was fully dark now. Lights shone from inside houses and above porches, and Bernie’s headlights lit up the road ahead. A rising moon hung in the eastern sky. I yawned. Five thirty came mighty early, and I hadn’t had much sleep last night. “I wonder if she really was in Boston in the early hours of Saturday morning. I don’t suppose the detectives will tell us.”
“Did you notice what book she was reading?” Rose asked.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“You were supposed to be checking out the surroundings, Lily.”
“So I missed it. What of it?”
“It was Careless Love by Peter Robinson. An English detective series. I noticed a good number of crime novels on her bookcase, most by British authors and many of them what are called police procedurals. Clearly, she has the same taste in reading as I do.”
“You can start a book club,” I said. “I don’t see what her reading habits have to do with
anything.”
“If Janice Ford did murder her husband, she would know the prime suspect is always the spouse of the deceased.”
“Don’t tell me that,” Bernie said. “I’m still hoping to get married someday.”
“Fortunately,” Rose said, “not all married couples end up hating each other. If she did bump off her troublesome husband, Janice would have made sure she had a cast-iron alibi for the time.”
“She might have paid someone to do it,” Bernie said. “She’s not short of funds.”
I stared out the window. The cheerful, welcoming lights of Victoria-on-Sea came into view, and Bernie slowed the car.
“Speaking of books, how’s yours coming, love?” Rose asked Bernie.
“I don’t suppose you know when the telegraph was invented, do you?” my friend replied.
“I’m not that old,” Rose said. “Sometime in the nineteenth century, but I don’t know the exact date.”
“It’s details like that I’m getting stuck on,” Bernie said. “I’m beginning to think I should write a more contemporary novel.”
“You’ve been trying to write some version of this book for two years,” I said. “You can’t give up on it now. You have to get it done. Look up the invention of the telegraph. Mr. Google is your friend.”
“All those picky details take time. I want to write. I want to feel my characters speaking to me! I want to hear what they have to say! I want to explore their surroundings!”
She pulled to a stop at the steps to the B & B. “I’ll get on the computer tonight and see what I can find about Janice Ford. Maybe we’ll be lucky and she’ll have a rap sheet as long as Rose’s cane.”
We said good night. I walked Rose to her suite and then headed for my bed. It had been a long day, but before turning in, I had to take Éclair for a short walk.
