by Elaine Macko
With the exception of its size, nothing about the house suggested big money. Three large columns supporting the front portico dominated a house of whitewashed wood with faded green trim. The front yard needed some care. Mrs. Brissart’s suspicions of her sister’s financial woes might be right on the money—not to mention what Marsha told me. The house didn’t have any of the quiet charm of Mrs. Brissart’s home—no flowers, no potted mums to lend some color. A few pines stood in front but looked out of place with the rest of the landscape.
But if the size of the exterior represented the status quo for this part of Indian Cove, it was the interior that intrigued me. Over the years I heard rumors that it resembled something right out of the Jetsons.
I walked up the path, tripping on an uneven paving stone, and rang the bell. Expecting to see some sour-faced maid, or perhaps a butler, it surprised me when June Doliveck opened the door. She stood there, ramrod straight with an inquisitive look in her eyes. Then recognition dawned on her weathered face and she became, if possible, haughtier. “I take it my sister sent you.”
“No. Not at all, Mrs. Doliveck. She doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Just why are you? Here, I mean.” She arched one eyebrow and stared at me.
This is where I found myself in trouble. I hadn’t managed to come up with any truly bright idea of why I would show up unannounced. I had just taken the address and flew out of the office before Sam decided to tag along. I knew why I stood here, on her doorstep, but would the words nosy and interfering have any clout with Mrs. Doliveck? Thinking that they would most assuredly not, I decided to give honesty a try.
I took a deep breath and plunged in. “Because someone killed Bradley and I aim to find out who that someone is.” Aim to find out? I sounded like a sheriff in a bad western.
“I believe, Miss Harris, that there is a police force to handle such things. One with which you are well acquainted.” June Doliveck gave a small smirk and raised her penciled in eyebrow again. I wondered how she did that?
I blushed. “Yes, we do have a fine police force and I am sure they’re doing everything possible, but Mrs. Brissart is a client of mine. A very good client. I have an employee working for her.”
“And this gives you the right to snoop into people’s lives?”
“As long as we have faith in our own cause and an unconquerable will to win, victory will not be denied us, Mrs. Doliveck.” I said indignantly. The words worked for me yesterday, maybe they would work on June. Pushing my own shoulders back trying for an imposing stance, I continued. “People I care about are involved and that gives me every right.” To my utter amazement, June Doliveck stepped aside and let me through.
“You’re here. You might as well ask your questions. Who knows, it might be amusing to see what you can come up with.”
The first thought I had upon entering the living room was that I needed a camera—Sam would never believe the sight unless I could produce a photo for verification. My cell phone took pictures but could I whip it out and snap off a few shots without June noticing?
The room, which ran the width of the house with views of both front and back yards, had floor to ceiling glass windows along the back wall. On the other, less fortunate walls, gold-veined mirrors or flocked wallpaper covered the surface. If I peered into a mirror at just the right angle, I saw myself over and over and over. Cream-colored shag carpeting enriched by an occasional spot covered the floor. Choosing not to dwell on the origin of the stains, I turned my attention to a small fireplace on the far side of the room; the only vestige to the original decor long forgotten.
A horrific lemon-yellow sectional sofa, strewn with lime green and magenta throw pillows dominated the room—as if all the mirrors didn’t—along with several glass and chrome tables.
“It’s quite breathtaking, isn’t it?” June Doliveck asked.
“Yes. It certainly knocks the wind out of you,” I said, as I took a seat and tried very hard not to stare. I felt dizzy and wished the sofa came equipped with something to grasp. A sudden image of belly dancers entering from the hall and encircling me in a whirl of gyrating flesh and flowing veils slipped into my mind.
“As soon as my husband died, I re-did the entire room,” June gushed, bringing me back from my Arabian nightmare. “He never let me have a free hand where decorating was concerned.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.”
“I want to do the same with the rest of the house one of these days.”
“Uh-huh,” I managed to squeak out thanking whichever saint reigned over homes that flocked wallpaper was no longer available. Ditto for the gold-veined mirrors.
June Doliveck took a seat across from me and placed one of the magenta pillows firmly on her lap, contrasting horribly with the muted rose of her silk dress. The woman, from all outward appearances, could not be any more opposite with the room if she tried. Perhaps her foray into the world of interior design indicated the onset of some horrible disease, a tumor maybe, pressing against the optic nerve and forcing her to become color blind.
“You wanted to ask some questions?”
“Ah, yes. I did.
“Well, then?”
“Did you know Bradley was working on the family history?”
“Yes, I believe someone mentioned it in passing. Roberta perhaps, or maybe Bradley.”
“Did this disturb you in any way?”
“Disturb me? Why would Bradley’s inquisitiveness into our illustrious family disturb me?” June adjusted a large ring on her left hand and looked up. “Really, Miss Harris, you’re going to have to do better than this if you expect to catch yourself a killer.” She eyed me and pressed her lips together into an unattractive thin line of red.
“Do you know anything about your background?”
“Of course. My father told us stories all the time about how our wonderful forefather, Lucien Cournet, came to America and started the family fortune. We’ve all heard it, Miss Harris, dozens of times,” Mrs. Doliveck said sounding bored.
“Can you tell me why you want the house and surrounding land in Farmington sold?”
June clasped her hands together and sat up straighter. “Well, why not? No one ever uses it anymore, and we have a wonderful opportunity to make a killing on the deal.”
I winced at the word “killing,” but June seemed oblivious to her blunder. “How so?”
June’s face reddened. “It’s just that the land is in a prime location. It should fetch quite a tidy little sum.”
June continued with her barrage, probably much the same that she used on her sister, while I let my mind and my eyes wander to the vicinity of the back yard. It held none of the tranquil ambiance of the winding paths and lush vegetation that defined Mrs. Brissart’s garden. A peek down the hall showed a wall covered with very old and discolored wallpaper. And no one had offered me any refreshment. No maid or housekeeper came to welcome me. Given June’s penchant for putting on airs, I thought it quite rude not to be offered something as little as a glass of water. I heard no other human sounds coming from the house, no voices and no clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen by a harried housekeeper. The only sound, though unfortunately not loud enough to drown out June’s ramblings, was that of a furnace somewhere in the bowels of the old house clicking on. I gave an involuntary shiver thinking that no amount of heat could warm up this appalling room.
“So, it’s like I said,” June’s voice droned on, “Roberta is just being obstinate. She’s always been that way, I dare say, from the time we were children. Of course, our father encouraged her to be independent in every way, not seeing the monster he created. Now, my twin sister and I chose to follow the path of our mother. A charming woman who believed that one’s family background meant everything. Good breeding and acceptance in society, the right society, mind you, are of the utmost importance.” June patted her gray hair, today devoid of the purple hue of yesterday and now doing a good job of p
icking up the hot pink off the pillow she still held.
“Miss Harris, I assure you that our mother would be most distressed at the commotion Roberta is causing the entire family. My sister has absolutely no reason to withhold her signature from the papers that would allow us to sell the land.” June took a deep breath. “Except, for the perverse pleasure she derives in tormenting me.”
“Why would she want to do that?” I asked, hoping to steer the conversation to the feud over Charles.
“Because she takes great pleasure in making me miserable.”
“Would this have anything to do with Charles?” I asked innocently, and seeing June’s reaction, realized that yes, it was quite capable for this woman to kill over a long lost love.
“Where did you hear that?” June demanded. “Did my sister entertain you with tales of how she ruined my life?”
“No. I heard it from…well, I can’t remember exactly,” I explained, not wishing to cause Marsha any grief. “I take it you still haven’t forgiven her.”
“Forgiven her? Never! After she lured Charles away from me, I entered into a most unsatisfying marriage. I lived a hellish existence until the day my husband died. It’s all Roberta’s fault. And she won’t let me forget about it, I tell you. Throws it in my face every chance she gets.” June’s face turned a nice shade of hot pink, which actually looked good in the room.
I began to wonder if the deceased husband actually died of cancer and how long after being buried could a forensic expert tell if poison had a hand in the death. “I’m sorry for your difficulties with your sister, but aren’t you the least bit concerned by Bradley’s death? Don’t you want to see the person responsible caught? You seem more concerned with the sale of the land and getting revenge.”
June’s complexion gradually began to return to her normal pasty color. “Of course I’m concerned. Whoever killed Bradley could attack any one of us at any time. Indian Cove is becoming more and more like New York.” June sighed and her shoulders slumped. “Of course I care who killed Bradley. I cared about the boy as much as anyone.”
It was the first sign of compassion I witnessed from one of the sisters.
“The night everyone went to Mrs. Brissart’s, did you all leave at the same time?”
“Of course. May and I walked out together,” June said in a normal tone, having regained her composure.
“Did anyone go back into the house for any reason?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. That vile tea Virginia serves made my stomach queasy. I went back in for a moment to use the facilities. If anyone else went back in, I never saw them.”
“I had the chance to speak with your daughter. I understand she went on Monday evening. Does she share your enthusiasm for this project?”
“Well, she had b— Yes, I’m sure she does,” June corrected herself.
“I never got the chance to ask what she does for a living.”
“Marsha dabbles in various ventures. She owned a small dress shop in town, but with the malls springing up all around us like weeds, I’m afraid it didn’t do well.” I tried to remember if a mall was planned for the land and made a mental note to ask J.T. “Right now, she’s working at the library,” June continued. “Plus she has her hands full with two teenagers. She’s an excellent mother.” An image of Donald and Susan came to mind and I wondered if “excellent” was a word they would use when describing their mother.
“Mrs. Doliveck, you must realize it seems almost a certainty that someone in the immediate family is responsible for Bradley’s death.”
“I realize no such thing! And I’ve told the police as much. As I’ve mentioned on many occasions, with the door left unlocked it’s possible for almost anyone to walk in. And as far as that person or persons just happening to have some poison in their possession, well, why not? The world is becoming an increasingly dangerous place filled with drug crazed weirdoes.”
Not being able to remember the last time, if ever, I heard of someone snorting cyanide, I asked, “How did you meet Mr. Smit?”
The entrance of Mr. Smit into the conversation soothed June.
“I met him at a local charity event. If my sister would just give him half a chance she would see the plans he has for the land would be a tremendous boost for the area. He’s really quite talented.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Excuse me?”
“I just said Mrs. Brissart likes the area just as it is.” Not able to think of anything else, I stood to leave. I felt confident if June knew where to find some poison, she would have no qualms about putting a bit in her sister’s culinary delights. I extended my hand to the woman. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Doliveck. You’ve been very helpful.”
“I haven’t told you anything I haven’t already told that very handsome detective. You should just ask him. I assure you, Miss Harris, once this unfortunate incident is behind us, I will reconvene the family. I feel confident that Roberta is about to crack,” June said returning to her old self, the morsel of compassion she briefly displayed long gone.
I, who had not been prone to violence since my sister decapitated one of my stuffed animals more than thirty years before, almost smacked the woman across the face. I got back into my car and drove down the street just as J.T. Smit arrived. Damn! I planned on driving to his office next but instead pulled over and opened the glove compartment. I reached in and took out a small container I keep stashed in there. To my horror it contained only three M&Ms. Three! I popped them in my mouth and tapped my fingers on the steering wheel trying to decide what to do next. Going back to work didn’t sound like much fun, though a trip to the next drugstore I spotted for more candy might be in order.
From the second June mentioned that Marsha worked at the library, a thought formed at the back of my mind. Bradley had to do research somewhere, and the Indian Cove Library contained a very good reference section of the history of the area. Of course, he could have just used the Internet like everyone else, but Bradley struck me as someone who liked to get his hands dirty and dig right in.
The library was housed in a rather stately building and had a surprisingly excellent selection of books. I used the library a lot as a child but somehow over time I developed the habit of buying books from the second hand bookshop in the center of town.
I walked to the information counter and inquired about Marsha. The young volunteer told me I was expected and directed me to the employee lounge. I realized with a start that any chance of catching Marsha off guard disappeared the moment I left June’s house. The old woman probably called her daughter before J.T. walked in the door. She was more on the ball than I gave her credit for.
The lounge sat at the back of the first floor next to the public restrooms. As I approached I saw Marsha sitting on a worn burgundy sofa looking through a magazine.
“Mother said you were probably on your way so I waited to get my turn over with. I thought we had a pretty good talk at my aunt’s already.”
My cheeks colored slightly as I took a seat across from Marsha. “Yes, we did. But something else occurred to me. I must admit I’m surprised everyone is willing to talk with me,” I said honestly.
“Why not?” Marsha said, as she closed the magazine and tossed it on a side table littered with many others from the same vintage. “You’re dating the officer in charge so you’re going to get your information from him if we don’t cooperate.”
“Well, actually…”
“He doesn’t know you’re going around conducting your own investigation, does he? This is priceless.” Marsha laughed, clapping her hands together. “Maybe I can use this information to get something out of you.”
“Such as?” I asked feeling contrite.
“Such as whom does he think did it? We know the police think one of us is guilty. Hell, for all I know, maybe they think we all did it, each taking a turn putting a drop of the stuff on the cookies.”
“He doesn’t actually discuss the case with me,” I lied, but only slightly.
John only told me harmless information.
Marsha crossed her arms. “Well, that figures. Okay, what do you want to know? I’ve got to pick up my kids.”
“Did Bradley come in here a lot?”
“Yeah, he did. Mostly on weekends.”
“Were you ever here when he was?”
“A few times. I actually helped him. He turned in a request for some microfilm information and I got it for him.”
“So you knew about the history?’
“Of course. I already told you. The family history.”
“But did you actually read any of it?”
Marsha shook her head of dark brown hair. She wore it similar to mine with the advantage that she had a lot of it. I was not so lucky. “No. Well, I may have glanced at a few articles in some old magazines that he asked for. A lot’s been written about my family over the years.”
“But nothing specific sticks out in your mind?”
“No. Not really. Why? What does this have to do with anything? I thought Aunt Roberta was supposed to die.”
“I don’t know what or even if the history has anything to do with anything. It’s just that’s what Bradley worked on the day he died. I thought maybe there was a connection.”
“Well, I don’t see how,” Marsha said as she stood up. “I’m sorry but I really have to pick up my kids.
“Just one more thing. Do you think anyone in the family would kill Roberta over her reluctance to sell the land?”
“I never thought about it before all this happened. We are a crazy bunch. And money is a big motivator. Not just in my family but with most people. In all honesty, I guess it could be possible. I just don’t want to think about which one of us did it. Sorry. I’ve got to go.”
I walked out with Marsha and realized I had garnered nothing new this afternoon. After she pulled out of the driveway, I sat in my car thinking. I had no concrete reason to believe the family history figured into the equation and killing Mrs. Brissart over the land didn’t sit well with me. Why wait, as I already asked Sam and Millie over lunch. After speaking with June, I believed hurt feelings over a past love would indeed trigger enough rage to kill. June demonstrated that even with time, she wasn’t willing to let go of the feelings of deception her sister caused. And whatever happened to Charles? Did June know where he was?
