Lilac Avenue

by Pamela Grandstaff

  It certainly looked as though Mamie’s world had fallen down around her ears.

  ‘Could she have killed herself?’ Scott wondered.

  The disturbing appearance of her body after death certainly seemed to indicate she died in agony. The carpet smelled of a noxious substance where whatever had been in the tea cup was spilt. Was she poisoned by someone, or did she intentionally ingest some toxic substance?

  Scott looked in the stack of romance books on Mamie’s bedside table, but there was no money in them. They appeared to be unread, the spines not yet broken. There was a water glass next to them with no water in it. He smelled the glass but there was no scent from any residue. There were prescription bottles, including a sleep aid, one for cardiac arrhythmia, and a bottle of eye drops for her glaucoma. Scott had known Mamie was nearly blind, but hadn’t known the cause.

  On the wall there were large, gilded wood, oval-framed photos of Mamie’s parents, the paper sepia-toned and faded at the edges. Her father, Gustav, was a stern-looking, barrel-chested man with full, sweeping whiskers. Her more delicate, fair mother was pretty in a sharp-featured way. Mamie did not resemble her, of course. Scott imagined she must resemble the maid, Phyllis’s great-great-great-grandmother.

  Scott found a large photo album on a shelf, set it on the desk, and looked through it. He flipped back to the era of Mamie’s baby pictures and finally found a photo of the staff, lined up on the front porch of the big house, with the family in front of them. There on the end was a petite, dark-haired maid who looked a bit like Phyllis. It was the big dark eyes and defiant look on her face that reminded him of her. Scott slipped the photo out of the corners that held it and put it in his breast pocket.

  Scott examined her en suite bathroom and did a cursory search of her wardrobe and chest of drawers, but he did not find any additional clues. There were no secret diaries stashed beneath her mattress, no concealed passageways hidden by false bookshelf fronts. Scott even rolled back the carpets, half hoping to find a trap door.

  The third floor was dusty from disuse, featured additional bedrooms, although smaller than those on the second floor and less lavishly decorated. The fourth floor was little more than a warren of cold cubby holes. The sagging iron beds had bare, thin, stained mattresses rolled up at the ends. In the corner of one bedroom a skeleton of a mouse was snapped in an ancient wooden trap.

  Scott noted that, poorly as these rooms were furnished, they had a splendid western view of the Little Bear River Valley, and all of Rose Hill, from the college on the south end all the way to the farmers market on the north end. Down by the river sat the hulking Rodefeffer Glassworks buildings, the fortune from which this house had been built. It had been closed for many years, and was slated to be reopened by a new owner as a bicycle factory.

  The door to the attic was locked. Scott considered his options, and decided he would not be satisfied if he left any room unexamined. Mamie’s keys turned out to be hanging on a hook in the kitchen by the back door. She must not have been worried about safeguarding whatever was in the attic.

  After jogging back up three flights of stairs, Scott unlocked the door and ascended the narrow attic stairway into the dark, cramped space under the eaves. He was greeted by the smell of decaying paper, dust, and mildew. He sneezed, and wondered how long he could stay up there before the combination of allergens triggered a debilitating migraine, to which he was prone. He couldn’t find a light switch, and while looking for one, almost fell over a big heavy trunk.

  Scott ran back down three flights and out to his car to get a flashlight, and when he returned to the attic he was out of breath. By the light of his flashlight he found the ancient light switch, set high in the wall, and when he pushed the button, it lit up a line of bare light bulbs hanging from the rafters. The long, low space was punctuated by eaves with dirty rectangular glass windows.

  The attic was packed from stem to stern with crates, barrels, boxes, trunks, wardrobes, and sheet-covered furniture. It would take days to search through this, he thought. There were copious cobwebs and dust webs, the profusion of which seemed to indicate the space had not been disturbed for many years. Scott turned off the lights and locked the door at the bottom of the stairs. He pocketed the keys.

  Back in the kitchen, the wide, ceramic, double-bowl sink was still wet from where Phyllis had washed the dishes, and the bottle of dish liquid still sat, open, on the sloping sideboard. The cup and saucer were already dry. Scott used the tip of a pen to open the cupboard underneath the sink. Among the bottles of cleaners and cleaning implements were several bottles of what could easily be considered lethal poisons. Scott closed the cupboard and used yellow caution tape to tie the cupboard knobs together. He pointed his flashlight down the sink drains but nothing seemed to remain in the garbage disposal side.

  The garbage can was empty as well; even the liner was gone. Outside next to the house he checked the garbage bins, but they too were empty. Had Phyllis taken the garbage with her? He made a note to ask her.

  He searched the rest of the rooms downstairs, but everything seemed to be in order. In the basement sat the mammoth boiler for the furnace, a modern washer and dryer, and an ancient-looking cast iron hot water heater. The door to the steps up to the backyard was bolted.

  Overall, the house seemed too tidy to belong to an elderly, disabled woman who had fired all her staff a month before. Scott made a note to call her former employees to find out if someone was still working for Mamie, possibly paid with the cash stashed in her romance novels.

  Scott went back upstairs to make the call to the sheriff’s office. He could have used his cell phone, but unfortunately, there was a lively contingent of senior citizens in Rose Hill who could listen in on some cell phone calls by using their old-school, now illegal radio scanners. He liked to use a corded landline when he didn’t want them to know something, although they could be very useful when he did.

  After he made the call to Sarah, he called Maggie, to let her know he might be very late, and would almost certainly miss the pub quiz competition, but she didn’t answer. Then he remembered that Maggie and Hannah attended the Interdenominational Women’s Society meeting every Tuesday night, so he left a message.

  Forty minutes later Scott watched from his seat on the front porch as Sarah Albright’s squad car zoomed up Pine Mountain Road and turned right onto Morning Glory Circle. The ambulance from the county EMT was already parked at the curb, and she spoke to the driver before she made her way up the steep stairs to where Scott had risen to his feet to shake her hand.

  Sarah was petite but muscular, with a cap of shiny dark hair, hawk-like dark eyes, and a confident swagger. Her dark pants fit like a second skin, and her white blouse was unbuttoned just one below what would probably be considered professionally appropriate by most employers. She smiled when she met his eyes, and then gave him a head-to-toe appraisal that seemed to please her.

  “Chief Gordon,” she said, as she squeezed his hand until it hurt. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “No,” Scott said. “Things have been quiet for awhile.”

  Years ago Sarah would have made some remark about him missing her, or about how nothing could happen in such a small, inconsequential place as Rose Hill. That was before she had been called on the carpet by the sheriff for her unprofessional behavior, and as a consequence, had undergone sensitivity training. Now, although Scott could see in her expression that she still had the same thoughts, she repressed the urge to share them.

  Sarah led her assistant and the photographer inside, and after Scott directed her into the room, he stood back by the door. As she looked at the scene, Sarah spoke into her handheld recorder as her assistant took notes. She noted the appearance and position of the body, and the area around it. The photographer snapped flash photographs, careful to stay out of Sarah’s way. When Sarah was in a room the tension level rose proportionately to her intense focus. No one wanted to interfere lest she forget her recent training and lash out.
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  When it was his turn, Scott told her what he knew, showed her the books full of money, the ransacked desk in her bedroom, the gun, the available poisons, and the empty garbage pails. She listened impatiently, interrupted frequently, and rolled her eyes several times.

  “What makes you think this is murder?” she asked. “So far this is all just conjecture on your part.”

  Scott told her about the poison pen letter and Mamie’s relationship to Phyllis.

  “Plus the drawn-up limbs and the look on her face,” Scott said. “Is it possible to die naturally and look like that?”

  Sarah shrugged.

  “Only the medical examiner can tell if she was poisoned,” Sarah said. “She might have had some kind of seizure. We’ll have to wait for a toxicology report; six weeks, maybe more.”

  When Scott mentioned Mamie’s connection to Knox Rodefeffer, Sarah’s eyes lit up.

  “Maybe you could get her post mortem moved up to a higher priority,” he said.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I’ll stop by Mr. Rodefeffer’s house and speak to him before I leave town. Where are the feds camping out?”

  Scott told her they were using a conference room at the city building.

  Sarah gave permission for the EMTs to remove the body. Scott watched them carry the gurney down the steep steps, Mamie’s body covered by a sheet. He then went back in the house, turned off the lights, locked both doors, and met Sarah on the front stairs.

  “Get the locks changed,” Sarah said. “I don’t want any greedy relatives ransacking the antiques while our backs are turned.”

  “I’ll do the paperwork and get Judge Fineman to sign off on it,” Scott said. “Do you want the letter? It’s in the station safe.”

  “Hold onto it,” Sarah said. “You interview the Realtor and the waitress, and I’ll tackle Knox. If I think there’s actually a crime to investigate, I’ll see if I can’t get the postmortem expedited.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him.

  “Why did you keep the letter all this time?”

  “In case something like this happened,” Scott said.

  Sarah nodded.

  “I hear you and Maggie are finally tying the knot,” she said.

  “Yep,” Scott said.

  “I guess my invitation got lost in the mail,” she said.

  “We haven’t set a date yet,” Scott said.

  “I won’t hold my breath,” Sarah said.

  If she meant until the invitation came or for there to be a wedding, Scott didn’t ask. He had his own concerns about that.

  Chapter Four - Tuesday and Wednesday

  After Sarah left, Scott called Delvecchio’s Hardware and asked Sonny Delvecchio to come up and change the locks on Mamie’s house. He assigned his deputy Skip to hang out with Sonny until it was done. Deputy Frank was assigned the task of going around town, interviewing everyone who had seen Mamie the day she died, trying to find out if she had said anything that would lead one to believe she didn’t feel well or was about to be murdered. His entire staff thus mobilized on behalf of Mamie, Scott went over to Trick Rodefeffer’s house to interview him.

  Trick was so drunk he was barely conscious, so Scott was left to interview his long-suffering wife. Sandy always seemed nervous around Scott, and today was no exception. She kept tucking her hair behind her ears and moistening her lips.

  “Do you have any reason to think someone would want to kill Mamie?” he asked.

  “To relieve us all from the sheer aggravation of having to deal with her, do you mean?”

  “Were you having problems with her?” he asked. “I mean, more than usual.”

  “She’s broke,” Sandy said. “Trick was giving her money before I put a stop to it.”

  “How did Mamie go broke?” Scott asked. “I thought there was a trust.”

  “I don’t know,” Sandy said with a shrug. “She wants the boys to give her money, feels like she’s owed it, but she won’t let them take over her finances.”

  Scott noted that Sandy still spoke as though Mamie were alive; possibly it just hadn’t sunk in yet that she was really gone. Mamie had such a strong personality that it was hard to believe it could be vanquished by any opposing power, even death.

  “Didn’t she have an accountant or attorney?”

  “She probably did before she had no money to pay them,” she said. “Knox would know.”

  “Why was Trick over there today?”

  “Oh, she probably wanted him to do some chore,” said Sandy. “Since she fired everybody, she keeps calling Trick. You know how soft-hearted he is. She knows better than to ask me.”

  “I know this is a rude question, but I have to ask it,” he said. “What kind of relationship does Trick have with Phyllis Davis?”

  Sandy’s face turned red and her nostrils flared.

  “If Phyllis Davis comes within five feet of my husband, I will personally wring her neck. And she knows it. Why do you ask?”

  “We were all in school together, you know,” Scott said. “Phyllis has always been one for the boys.”

  “I’ve heard,” Sandy said. “And my husband has always been one for the girls. Don’t think I don’t know that.”

  “Have him call me when he sobers up,” Scott said.

  “After I’m done with him you can have what’s left of him,” Sandy said.

  Phyllis Davis was not at the Mountain Laurel Depot, having finished her early shift hours before. The manager confirmed that the busboy named Kevin had delivered Mamie’s lunch to her, and although he had complained about her meanness and the measly tip, he hadn’t mentioned that she was ill. Scott made a note to himself to have Skip or Frank follow up with the busboy, and headed toward Phyllis’s house.

  Like Trick, Phyllis had been drinking. Scott could smell the whiskey fumes and see the bloodshot eyes, but she still seemed to be mostly in command of her senses. She reluctantly let Scott in to her parents’ home, where he was repulsed by the smell of cigarette smoke and the inevitable nest of squalor in which Phyllis seemed to thrive. Down the hall he could see clothing and trash leaking out of every room. Her mother, he knew, had been an immaculate housekeeper; she would be appalled to see the state of her former home.

  “I’ll put this out,” she said, as she stubbed out her lit cigarette. “I know what a delicate magnolia flower you are.”

  Scott thanked her. She sat down at the kitchen dinette and he sat across from her.

  The table was covered in crumbs and sticky rings from what were no doubt multiple highballs or the coffee meant to revive one from the consequences of their consumption. A dirty cereal bowl was serving as an ashtray, overflowing with ashes and butts.

  Phyllis’s hair, black as hot tar, was styled in a big, tousled style popular with soap opera actresses Scott’s mother had watched on television in the previous century. Her eyes were ringed with heavy black makeup and the false eyelashes on her left eye were peeling up at the outside corner. The heavy makeup could not conceal the dark circles under her eyes or the smoker’s wrinkles that radiated out from her lips.

  When she coughed, it sounded like his mother’s cough just before she died of lung cancer. Although his mother’s lung cancer was the result of ovarian cancer that spread, every time he saw someone smoke he wanted to warn them that suffocating is a horrible way to die.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Phyllis said. “What can I tell ya?”

  “You took the trash bags with you when you left Mamie’s,” he said. “Why was that?”

  “I didn’t take nothing,” Phyllis said, as she pointed a finger at Scott.

  By habit she reached for her pack of cigarettes and lighter, her hands trembling. She had the cigarette in her mouth and the lighter lit before she remembered she had offered not to smoke. She snapped the Zippo shut, but she kept the cigarette in her hand and gestured with it as if it were lit.

  “I was pickin’ up them dirty dishes and that’s all I was doing.”

  “You just happened to mee
t Trick there.”

  “He was there when I got there.”

  “And if I check your phone records, I won’t see a call to or from him over the past few days.”

  She started to reply. Her mouth was hanging open; her cigarette pointed at him to deny whatever he was accusing her of, when the gist of his statement made its way through the whiskey fog to her brain. She snapped her mouth shut.

  “I ain’t gonna answer another question without a lawyer.”

  “All righty,” Scott said. “Let me know when you’ve hired one.”

  “I ain’t got that kinda money,” Phyllis protested. “Don’t the state have to appoint me one?”

  “I haven’t charged you with anything yet,” Scott said. “Do you want to be arrested?”

  “Listen,” she said. “You know how it is, Scott. Me and Trick go way back, you know? And him being married to Sandy, I gotta be real careful.”

  “Why were you meeting him at Mamie’s?”

  She didn’t answer, so busy was she trying to decide what to answer.

  “Are you and Trick having an affair?”

  “Pfft,” said Phyllis. “I don’t know that I’d go that far. It’s more like one of them friends-with-benefits situations. They say any port in a storm, you know, and let’s just say I always keep a dock reserved for Trick. Always have.”

  “So why were you meeting him at Mamie’s?”

  “I had a perfectly legal reason to be up there,” she said, continuing to evade his question. “I had to pick up them dishes for work. Trick just happened to be there. Any phone calls we mighta had lately were unrelated. You can’t listen to them phone calls without a warrant, right?”

  “Why are you so worried, Phyllis?”

  “Nah,” she said. “You’d have to tap my phone. It takes a court order to get one a them. I know that much.”

  “So why did you take the trash with you?”

  “You got some proof I did that?”