Double Trouble

by London Lovett

  "Exactly."

  Chapter 16

  The glass on the tall front doors afforded a view of the grand entry with its marble floor, richly textured wallpaper and glittering chandelier. Movement inside stopped Lacey from ringing the bell. Grace, Etta's assistant who had been loaded down with baskets at the flea market, didn't notice the two visitors at the door as she carried a large, brown floppy hat to the coat closet. She opened the closet door. With her height, she easily placed the hat on a high shelf before shutting the door again.

  Lacey reached up and rang the bell. Grace spun around, slightly startled. Her heels clacked on the marble floor as she walked to the front door. She opened it and eyed us both with suspicion before working up a courteous smile. "I'm sorry but we don't allow solicitors."

  I whipped up my press pass. "Hello, we're here from the Junction Times."

  Grace went to close the door. "I'm sorry, we're in mourning and have nothing to say to reporters."

  "Actually, I don't want to ask about the case. I'm here to write a story about Minnie Smithers. She lived here all her life and was a business woman and friend to the community," I spoke quickly to get it all in before she shut the door. "I was hoping to get a few personal narratives from the person who knew her best, her twin sister."

  "It's all right, Grace," a voice called from behind. Grace stepped to the side. Etta Derricot was standing in the entry beneath her huge chandelier, a sparkly contrast to her pale gray skirt and ivory blouse.

  Etta stepped forward. Her thin, straw colored hair was pulled back in a bun, a pearl drop hung from each ear. Her hands were folded together. "Did I hear right? You're writing an article about my dear departed sister." She unclasped her hands and pulled a tissue from her sleeve to blot at her nose. I didn't see any tears but she was certainly trying to give the illusion that there had been some.

  "What do you think?" Surprisingly, Etta looked at her assistant, the woman she spoke to so condescendingly at the flea market, for her opinion.

  Grace gave a sort of half nod. "Of course, it's entirely up to you, Mrs. Derricot." Grace, who was a good thirty years younger and an entire head taller than her boss, seemed bewildered and almost concerned that Etta would ask her opinion. Maybe she worried it was some kind of trap. Grace's non-response rather confirmed it. Was it possible Etta liked to play games to keep her assistant on her toes? She seemed so demure and polite but then we'd seen her in action at the flea market. Etta was anything but sweet, at least when it came to her assistant.

  The Etta Derricot standing under the chandelier had welcoming blue eyes. "I was just about to have my tea," she said quietly. "Why don't you women join me? It'll be hard, you understand, but I'm sure I can come up with some wonderful anecdotes about my sister. She was a truly colorful, gentle soul," she added.

  Lacey and I flicked each other surprised looks as we entered the house. Jackson had mentioned that Etta had become so distraught, she had to be rolled out of the morgue in a wheelchair. Yet Wanda was sure the two sisters never spoke, even though they lived just a few miles apart.

  On a day when we weren't chasing down clues for a murder, Lacey and I probably would have loved to have a tour of the home. The staircase was grand with a polished oak banister and royal blue carpet runner. There was a richly appointed sitting parlor to the right of the corridor and a more relaxed but still nicely furnished library on the left. We passed a cavernous dining room, complete with a gleaming, cherry wood dining table and matching chairs, enough for at least twenty people. Something told me the chairs had not been filled since her husband's death. The room had that peaceful, deserted look to it. It was a massive house for one elderly woman and her assistant.

  "I was just about to sit down to tea." Etta led us down a hallway and opened two French doors into a stunning atrium that was glass from top to bottom. Two large spinning fans kept the space cool and tall potted plants dotted the long glass walls. A white ornate iron table was set with a silver tea service. There were four chairs, one of which was occupied by a big gray cat. The cat's head popped up when we entered the room.

  "Sorry, Princess, we're going to need that chair." Etta reached down to push the cat from the chair. The cat hissed and swiped at Etta's wrist. "Ouch, you darn cat." She wiggled the chair enough that the cat had no choice except to jump off. It slinked away, angry about being dislodged from its napping chair.

  "Oh my, you're bleeding." Grace hurried forward and picked up a napkin off the table. She handed it to Etta to cover the thin scratch that was now beaded with drops of blood. "I'll get something to clean and dress it." Grace strode out of the atrium.

  Etta pressed the napkin over her arm and forced a gracious smile. "I don't know what got into Princess. She's normally as docile as a couch pillow."

  "Maybe we woke her right in the middle of a dream where she was about to pounce on a fat mouse," Lacey suggested. "I think my cat would be grumpy too."

  Etta chuckled as she waved for us to sit down. "I hope you like the tea. It's my favorite, ginger, lemon and honey." She took the napkin off the scratch. There was still a considerable amount of blood trickling from the wound. She pressed it there again. "Would one of you mind?" She looked at the teapot.

  "Not at all." I hopped up.

  "You know, I think this will be better taken care of in the powder room. That's where Grace keeps the first aid supplies." Etta stood up from the chair. "I'll go see what's keeping her and take care of this cut. I hate to ruin a perfectly good tea with blood. I think there are some cinnamon sugar cookies in the pantry. Should I bring some for our tea party? I wasn't expecting guests, otherwise I would have already set out a platter."

  "No, don't go through any trouble on our account," I said. "The tea is fine. Please take care of your arm first."

  Etta walked out of the atrium. Seconds later, Princess crept out from behind a potted fern. The cat danced around our legs, curling its tail around our calves and rubbing her nose against us.

  "Well, you're certainly more friendly now that you've shaken off the grumpies," Lacey cooed as she reached down to pet the cat's head. She leaned closer. "What do you think about the way she's acting? There was the moment of drama at first, but her grief was easily forgotten once we settled down for tea."

  I glanced back to make sure we were still alone. "I think she should be in a much greater state of shock, whether they were close or not. Growing up, I lived next door to a pair of identical twins, Kate and Karol. If one got hurt, the other would cry. They finished each other's sentences. Even when they grew into their teen years and made their own friends, they were still attached by whatever that magical thread is that connects two humans who shared a womb and the exact same genes. Even if they were no longer talking, it seems Etta would feel the loss keenly."

  Voices made us both sit up at attention. We sipped our tea as Etta and Grace entered the atrium. Princess shot out from under the table and out the door.

  "I guess Princess isn't interested in our tea party," Etta mused as she fingered her strand of pearls. She had a square of gauze secured in place over the scratch with pieces of first aid tape.

  "How is your arm?" Lacey asked.

  "It's fine. Looks far worse than it is." Etta sat down with a smile. "Where should we start? As I said, I have many wonderful stories about my sister."

  Chapter 17

  "Oh—and then there was the school talent shows," Etta continued. We'd sat through a half dozen stories about Minnie's love of collecting glass animals, her pie making prowess, a skill she learned from their mother, her love of being the center of attention at family gatherings (apparently she would pull on her tap shoes and dance for aunts and uncles) and, of course, her interest in nature and all its glory, a love that led her to the Wiccan lifestyle. What was more than obvious after five pages of notes, two cups of tea and the cinnamon cookies that we decided we wouldn't mind trying after a long narrative about baking apple pies for a contest, was that Etta was fond of her sister. They might have avoided
each other now in their seventies but they had grown up close as each other's second half.

  Grace cleared her throat and made yet another excuse to leave the tea table when Etta started in about the talent shows. It seemed she'd heard the stories before.

  "Grace, dear, if it's not too much trouble, could you open the bedroom window. It's almost time for my nap, and it gets so stuffy in there this time of day."

  Grace nodded. "Of course I will." Etta was certainly not the harsh, snooty boss we'd witnessed at the flea market when she was at home.

  "Now where was I?" Etta said, hoping to get restarted on the talent show story.

  "Actually, I've got plenty to work with for the article. We don't want to keep you much longer." We'd wasted a good forty minutes hearing about their delightful childhood. Minnie had been quite the character with many layers and many skills. Her sister had no problem boasting about her twin. But what were left out of the entire conversation were any recent stories. Had the two women gone their separate ways for a good reason?

  Lacey formulated the question before I got to it. (It seemed she'd missed her calling as a journalist.) "All these stories are from childhood. What about some nice, more recent anecdotes. Did Minnie still break out the tap shoes for family gatherings?"

  Etta's lips pulled in and she looked a little frazzled, as if she wasn't quite sure how to answer. She put her tea cup on the saucer. "My sister and I drifted apart in the past ten years. Our husbands never really got along and then there was the Wiccan thing." She cast her eyes down. "I'm sorry to say most of our falling out was my fault."

  "I'm sure you're wrong about that." I patted her hand.

  She shook her head sadly. "No, I refused to be open minded about her lifestyle. And Mitchell, my late husband, well, he was a respected physician. He had a reputation to uphold. After awhile, he refused to let me invite Minnie into the house. He insisted people would think we were witches. My church group was particularly harsh about it, telling me I had to break off ties with Minnie or leave the congregation. With all the negativity and threats, I came to believe that everyone was right, that Minnie had lost her way to follow Satan." She fiddled with her linen napkin. "I now know I was wrong about it all. At least until now," she added without elaborating.

  I nearly slipped forward off the seat. "Until now? Do you think Minnie's Wiccan friends had something to do with her death?"

  Etta's pearls vibrated with a sigh. "Who else would have done this horrible act? I know Minnie practiced harmless, folksy rituals, but there are always rotten apples in a bushel." She put her napkin on the table. "But what do I know? I live a quiet, peaceful life inside this big house. I rarely go out, and I certainly don't talk to any of her friends. I've decided to have my sister cremated with a quiet little prayer service and placement in the Derricot family crypt. It's the least I can do for her."

  "Is that what she would have wanted?" I asked. Somehow the plans didn't seem the least aligned to Minnie's lifestyle and beliefs.

  "It's the proper send off," Etta insisted, bringing back a little of that stodgy woman I'd expected more of.

  A clattering against the glass roof of the atrium grabbed all our attention skyward. Two black crows were strutting importantly back and forth. One of the birds dropped a nut of some sort and it rolled along the glass roof. The birds hurried after it, pecking at the runaway treat with their long beaks.

  Etta clapped. "I find crows the most entertaining birds of all." It was the last thing I would have expected her to say. Etta didn't seem like the crow type.

  I looked toward Lacey. She was wearing a proud mom grin. "That's an understatement," she said.

  Etta, surprised at the comment, looked with question at Lacey.

  "I have a pet crow, Kingston. Of course, I don't know if he's actually a pet or if I'm just his human. He sort of runs things."

  Etta's eyes lit up. She was certainly not the grieving sister, even after all the nice, warm stories about her lost twin. "That must be so much fun. Tell me about him."

  Grace entered the atrium. "Etta, it's time for your nap. You know how you get when you're off schedule."

  "Yes, we don't want to keep you any longer." I patted my notebook. "Thank you for the nice stories. I'll try to include all of them, one way or another, in the article." I'd spoken enough about the future article, it seemed I'd have no choice except to write a short tribute to Minnie Smithers. I actually didn't mind it. She seemed like someone I would have befriended if I'd been born in a different time.

  Etta said her good-byes at the bottom of the steps and Grace led us back to the front door.

  "Thank you for the tea," Lacey and I said on our way out. The gardener was nearly at the end of the row of roses. He waved as we headed down the steps.

  "I don't think we should take Etta off the list of suspects," I said quietly. "At the same time, I don't consider her high on that list."

  "I agree. The only thing that gives me pause is that she just isn't terribly upset about losing her sister. I know Detective Jackson said she had to be rolled out of the morgue but then that might just have been an expected reaction at seeing a dead body. I mean, most people don't come in contact with corpses very often in their lives."

  "In addition, it certainly would be creepy to see a corpse that looked exactly like you," I added. "But I do think she wasn't showing nearly enough grief or loss or even shock. Even if they were no longer friendly, at the very least, a person would be in a state of shock at hearing that their estranged sister had been murdered."

  We reached the jeep but movement at the bottom of the driveway caught our eye. An older man in a blue cardigan sweater with a slight hump on his back was waving anxiously to us.

  "Do you know this man?" Lacey asked.

  "No, but I think we're about to be introduced."

  Chapter 18

  The stranger at the end of Etta's driveway scurried away as we drove down to the road. I turned the jeep in the direction he'd walked. Like most high end historical neighborhoods, century old trees lined the sidewalks and dotted front lawns.

  The elderly man shuffled on black slipper style shoes toward the neighboring home, a large colonial like Etta's, only in dire need of repair and restoration. His front yard lacked the perfectly manicured lawn and precisely carved shrubs too.

  "Maybe he just mistook us for someone else and waved?" Lacey suggested.

  "I suppose so. It seemed like he was beckoning us toward him rather than a wave hello. But I might be wrong."

  I rolled the jeep at a snail's pace along the sidewalk, my tires crunching the fallen debris from the stately old trees. The man turned up the brick pathway leading to the worn out colonial. He looked back over his shoulder and waved for us to follow.

  "Hmm, looks like Etta's neighbor has something to tell us." I parked the jeep and we climbed out. His slow, labored pace made it easy to catch up to him.

  "Good afternoon," I called.

  He stopped near his front steps and glanced across his yard toward Etta's house. There was a tangle of trees between the two yards but we could still see most of Etta's expansive lot. The slight hunch and resulting hump were more prominent up close. The house looked more dilapidated too. Dark age spots dotted his face as if he'd spent a great deal of time in the sun. There was one wicker rocking chair in the center of a porch that looked as if it had been added at some point in time. It didn't fit with the rest of the architecture but it added some charm.

  The man turned and smiled. He was holding onto a pair of binoculars that hung from a leather strap around his neck. "Hope you don't mind me calling you over here." His voice was frail and wobbly, much like his physique.

  "Not at all. I'm Sunni and this is Lacey." I held up my press pass. "I'm with the Junction Times. We just had a nice chat with Etta Derricot."

  "Weston Fielding," he said with a gentlemanly nod. "So Etta is all right? I've been so worried."

  At this point, it was impossible to tell how much Weston knew about Etta's sis
ter, Minnie. I decided to assume he knew nothing. Something told me he didn't leave his house much. "Why were you worried?" I asked.

  "Yesterday, Etta never walked past my house. Not that I'm watching out for her, you see. I'm certainly not that kind of neighbor." He picked up his binoculars. "I'm a retired ornithologist. I watch birds as a hobby." He lifted a gnarled and shaky finger. "This morning there was a golden-crowned kinglet sitting right up there in that pine."

  "How wonderful," Lacey said. "That must have been exciting."

  "Watched it for a good ten minutes, until it flew off. Anyhow, I'm out here on my porch a lot waiting for birds to fly through my yard. Again, I'm not nosy."

  "Of course you're not nosey. You're a scientist," Lacey said cheerily. She was my new idol on knowing exactly the right thing to say, even in odd circumstances.

  Weston's forehead wrinkles deepened along with the smile lines next to his eyes. "Yes, yes I am. But since I'm out here a lot, I know routines. And Etta is particularly strict about her routines."

  It was something we picked up in our tea conversation. Grace made a point of mentioning it was Etta's nap time and that she didn't like to miss it.

  "What was it that had you worried about Etta?" I asked.

  He fiddled with the leather strap on his binoculars, moving it to a more comfortable place on his neck. "For the past few years, ever since Mitchell died, God rest his soul, Etta has walked to the park to feed the pigeons. Of course, not when it's raining or snowing, but otherwise, without fail, at precisely four o'clock, Etta walks down her front steps with her coffee can of bird seed and a parasol on her arm. Then she strolls past my house, we wave hello, I list off a few of the birds I've seen and she continues on to the corner park."

  I leaned my head to gaze past the twisted gray trunk of a jacaranda. Three more large estates finished off the street. At the end, on the corner, was a lovely piece of nicely kept green space with polished benches and a large fountain.