Death and Honesty

by Cynthia Riggs

  “Any time you need a ride, give me a call.” He stowed the milk crate she’d used for a step behind his seat and drove off.

  Victoria’s phone call on Darcy’s behalf didn’t solve the mystery She told the woman who answered who she was and that Emery Meyer had asked her to call. The woman said, “Just a moment, please.” Victoria waited, and in a short time a woman’s pleasant low voice came on the line. “Mrs. Trumbull, how may I help?” She repeated what Darcy had told her, Emery Meyer jailed for murder. The woman thanked her for calling, didn’t ask for additional information, not even her phone number, and hung up.

  Victoria felt let down. She examined the slip of paper with the 800 phone number. It gave no clue as to its location. She called the information operator, but got a series of robotic voices telling her to press numbers. Since she had a dial phone, she gave up. She slipped the paper into her phone book, then thought better of it and took the paper to the sink, lit a match to it, and watched the dark ash curl. She crushed the ash with a paper napkin and deposited ash and napkin in the compost bucket.

  As she was putting the lid back on the bucket, someone knocked tentatively and opened the door a crack.

  “Mrs. Trumbull?”

  Victoria looked up. “Come in, Delilah.”

  Delilah lifted her nose and sniffed. “That’s not your supper burning, is it?”

  “No, it was nothing important. Tea?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.” Delilah was wearing jeans with a sharp crease that appeared to be stitched in, and a foul-weather jacket that matched her hair. “I think we’ve had enough rain.” She sat in the gray-painted kitchen chair and talked while Victoria filled the kettle.

  “I can’t believe the police arrested Darcy for killing that pilot. They’d only met yesterday afternoon. It’s obvious his death was an accident. Darcy wouldn’t push him into the pond, then pull him out again, would he?”

  Victoria didn’t answer.

  “Now I have no one to drive me.”

  “How did you get here?” Victoria asked.

  “I drove myself.”

  Victoria, who’d lost her license after her minor accident with the Meals on Wheels van, had little sympathy. She glanced out the window and saw a low yellow sports car parked in the drive. Raindrops pattered on the fabric roof.

  “Henry’s as bad as the police. He’s sure my chauffeur killed the man. He’s been grilling me about him.”

  “Did you tell Henry how you happened to meet Darcy? That he came to your television studio with flowers?”

  Delilah extended her fingers and studied the orange-brown polish on her nails. “I told him Darcy came from the employment agency.”

  “Oh?” Victoria tried to make eye contact, but Delilah rattled on.

  “Henry wanted to know about his references. I told him to ask the agency, not me.” She stopped for breath.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me,” Victoria said. “Darcy is more than your chauffeur, isn’t he?”

  “Not yet. But I’m working on it.” Delilah continued to avert her eyes. “Don’t tell Henry, Mrs. Trumbull?”

  “I have no reason to tell him anything, do I?”

  “The police won’t even let me talk to him.”

  Victoria poured the now boiling water into the teapot, set it on the table along with two mugs, and sat down again.

  “He’s an excellent driver. I told the agency about him in case Henry checks with them. He gave me a copy of his references, all nicely mounted in plastic sleeves. He’s completely trustworthy, Mrs. Trumbull.”

  Victoria busied herself pouring tea. What was Darcy up to? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  “I called my lawyers when the police took him away,” Delilah continued. “They said they’d get him out on bail.”

  “Did they give you any idea when that might be?”

  “I’m waiting to hear from them. I’ve been so upset, I can’t think straight, which is why I’m coming to you, Mrs. Trumbull.”

  Victoria held her tea mug up to her lips and watched Delilah, her eyes narrowed against the steam.

  “I decided to work on my farm plan to take my mind off … you know. But when I went to Town Hall, Mrs. Danvers said I need to produce some deed from nineteen-ten.”

  “I believe the Hammond family owned the place long before then.”

  “I guess so,” said Delilah. “Mrs. Danvers suggested I ask you.”

  “Why me?”

  “You’d gone to Town Hall in the olden days when it was a school.”

  Victoria winced at “olden days,” but agreed that she’d gone to the academy, first through eighth grades.

  “Mrs. Danvers said they stored papers in the attic of the school before it was Town Hall.”

  “Quite likely,” said Victoria.

  “She didn’t have time to look, but said you knew the building and could probably find them.”

  “Heavens!” said Victoria, who hated the idea of searching for misplaced papers of any kind. “Exactly what is it we’re looking for?”

  “Mrs. Danvers said she’d seen something about a deed restriction on the property.” Delilah shrugged. “Files from a hundred years ago can’t be too big.”

  Victoria said nothing, hoping the answer to who would do the search wouldn’t end up in her lap.

  But Delilah said, “Would you consider looking for that paper for me, Mrs. Trumbull? I’ll pay you a search fee.”

  Victoria scowled.

  Delilah said hurriedly, “Same rate I pay my lawyers.”

  “Well …” Victoria hesitated. Her budget didn’t always allow for luxuries, such as chocolate.

  “If you need to hire an assistant, I’ll pay him, too. Or her, of course.”

  “Let me think about it. You’ll have to give me more details about this paper I’m searching for.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Howland, when Victoria called him that same day about the Hammond deed restriction and his role as assistant deed hunter. The rain was now coming down in torrents. “You didn’t say yes, did you?”

  Victoria held the phone away from her ear. “You don’t need to shout.”

  “Did you?”

  “Not exactly. I’ve been thinking about it. The job may not be as difficult as we think. I used to scamper around the top floor of the academy with my pal Grace when we were schoolgirls. We weren’t supposed to go up there, of course, because it was a boys’ dormitory. I remember an area off to one side was for storage of town files.”

  “Mrs. Danvers can look for the paper.”

  “She’s too busy. And since today’s Friday, we won’t be able to get into Town Hall until Monday.”

  “I am also too busy.” Howland paused for such a long time, Victoria was afraid he’d hung up. She coughed politely.

  He said, “So I’m you’re assistant. Is that it?”

  “I’ll divide the money with you, half and half.”

  Howland groaned. “I’ll pick you up within an hour. I expect it’s filthy up there?”

  “Probably.”

  “I’ll bring dust masks then.”

  “We might as well get it over with. It’s almost the end of the day.”

  “Yeah, and it’s pouring. See you shortly.”

  Spring temperatures and rain had greened Victoria’s yard. In the border, early daffodils were in bloom, rows of yellow and white blossoms contrasting with the gray sky. While she waited for Howland, she put on her raincoat and scarf and went out to check the honesty she’d planted among the daffodils. She had never grown it before and looked forward to drying the silvery coinlike seedpods. Jordan, who’d given her the seeds, had warned her that honesty was invasive, but she thought she wouldn’t mind. A dozen or more seedlings had sent up heart-shaped leaves with scalloped edges.

  By the time Howland drove up, she was back in the house, the shoulders of her raincoat dark wet.

  “I don’t have time for this, Victoria. It’s l
ate and I hate hunting for stuff even more than you do.”

  “Delilah’s paying us well.”

  “Not worth it. Where’s that umbrella?”

  “I have no idea.” Victoria splashed through the puddles in the driveway and climbed into Howland’s station wagon.

  When they got to Town Hall, Mrs. Danvers indicated an old-fashioned coatrack. “You might want to hang up your wet coat.” She opened her desk drawer and gave Victoria the attic key. “I’m sure you know how to get up there. In all the time I’ve worked here, I’ve never been in the attic.” She shuddered. “Cobwebs. Spiders, mice. Have fun, kids.”

  When they reached the second floor, Oliver Ashpine turned abruptly from his computer and snapped, “What are you doing here?”

  Victoria caught a glimpse of his computer screen before Oliver swiveled around and hit a key that made the screen go black.

  “We’re going up to the attic.”

  “What for?”

  She said airily, “We don’t need to disturb you.”

  Oliver pushed his chair away from his desk and stood up. His screen now showed cartoon rabbits that frolicked from one side to the other, occasionally piping up, “What’s up, Doc?”

  “You have an objection?” asked Howland.

  “No.” Oliver sat down again.

  “Thank you,” said Howland.

  A locked door next to an open closet led to a steep, narrow staircase. Victoria went up the stairs first, bracing her hands against the walls. At the top she stepped out onto wide floorboards that squealed under her weight. Underlying the smell of mice and old musty papers was the familiar smell of a forbidden place. The bare wood ceiling had the sun-baked fragrance of pine resin. As she walked across the wood floor she smelled remembered scents of camphor, lavender, cedar, mothballs, chalk, and old books. Dust rose in spirals. She sneezed, and when she took a breath to sneeze again, there was an underlying odor of spiders’ feasts, dead mice, and decay.

  Howland unwrapped the plastic from a dust mask and handed it to her. “If we don’t find that paper within the next half hour, let’s get out of here.” He slipped the elastic over his head and peered over the mask at the cloud of dust that spiraled into the gloomy space beyond.

  “Watch where you step, Victoria.” His voice was muffled. “Put your mask on, too.” The floor creaked as he set one foot after the other carefully on the wide boards. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

  “Don’t be an alarmist,” Victoria said. “The attic hasn’t changed much over the past eighty years. As I recall, it used to smell of unbathed boys. It smells much the same now.” She walked around the creaking floor, holding the dust mask in her hand, and noting storage boxes, bookcases, wooden crates, and cardboard file boxes.

  “Start with the sectional bookcase, Howland. The files are probably organized in some way. I’ll check the boxes on top of the window seat.”

  “Odd place to store files,” Howland’s muffled voice said. “Out in the open like that?”

  “Someone probably forgot to put them back after they looked at them.” Victoria examined the label on the first box. “Whoever looked at them must have done so fairly recently,” she said, wiping her hands on a napkin she took out of her pocket. “They’re not as dusty as I expected.” The file boxes were a mottled black and white with leather tabs on the back. “This one is dated nineteen fifty-four. If all the files are dated, the job won’t be too difficult.” She picked up a second box. “Unfortunately, they’re not in order, but at least we won’t have to go through each one.” She set the boxes on the floor after she’d looked at the dates.

  “Is anything stored inside the window seat?” asked Howland. “The lid has a hinge.”

  The seat was sturdy enough to have withstood the activities of the small boys who were domiciled up there years ago. Victoria looked for a latch or handhold to lift the top, but, except for the hinge, the lid was flush all around.

  Howland placed a marker in the stack of papers he was going through. “Here, I’ll help.” They both worked to pry up the lid. “Tight fit,” Howland said with a grunt. “Forget it. Probably nothing in it anyway.”

  “I’m curious now,” said Victoria. “There’s a metal bar next to the window. Perhaps that will work.”

  Together they pried first on one side of the window seat top, then the other, until it finally loosened.

  “There’s something in here,” said Victoria. “Clothing, or …” she stepped back, her hands at her throat.

  “What’s the matter, Victoria?” Howland had looked up at her before he, too, noticed what was curled up in the window seat. “Good Lord.” He let the lid fall down.

  “I’ll wait here,” Victoria said. “Go downstairs and call Casey”

  At Selena’s, the cup of tea hadn’t helped Ocypete, whose upset stomach was acting up again. The gloomy afternoon had passed into a rainy evening. Her doctor had told her to come back in a couple of days if she didn’t feel better, and right now she felt worse than ever.

  “I think I’d better go home and get to bed, Selena.” Ocypete winced as she arose from the chintz-covered chair.

  “Would you like me to drive you home?”

  “I can manage.” Ocypete gathered up her coat from the bench near the door. “I think the doctor’s wrong about food poisoning. I’m sure it’s the flu.”

  “I hope I don’t catch it.”

  “I hope so, too.”

  “Take care of yourself, Petey. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

  “Oliver, you mean?”

  “Yes. Oliver, for one.”

  In the course of searching the Internet some time before, Oliver Ashpine had gone to one of his favorite Web sites and seen something that made him stop the video clip and repeat one section over and over again. The hand of one of the actors seemed familiar—the motions her hand made during the action, her fingers, the vibrant color of her fingernails. The clincher was the distinctive ring she wore that appeared only for an instant. He knew that gaudy ring and the woman who wore it.

  Once he’d identified the hand, he recognized the rest of her, although he, himself, had never seen her in person in the buff. The guy she was cavorting with was definitely not her husband. Henry was short and stubby; this guy was lean and probably tall, although that was difficult to determine.

  Oliver realized the video would be of some future value. In fact, when Delilah Sampson had shown up at Town Hall yesterday complaining about her taxes, he’d alluded to the video and gotten a totally satisfactory response.

  This afternoon, he was viewing the clip again when Mrs. Trumbull and Atherton showed up, and he’d switched quickly to his screen saver. He’d felt queasy all afternoon and had gone home briefly to pick up a new computer disk. But now he felt worse than ever. Probably a combination of Willoughby’s call on him this morning, not eating, and then that damned Turkish delight. Normally, he didn’t eat much sugar, which might account for why he felt lousy He didn’t think candy spoiled, but maybe it did. Someone had left it on his desk a couple of days ago. Who could have left it? Certainly not Mrs. Danvers, who liked him even less than he liked her. Unless …

  Ellen stopped at Conroy’s Apothecary and waited for the pharmacist to fill the prescription for something to settle her stomach. The rain, heavy at times, had let up, and the air smelled of growing things.

  “Pretty strong stuff, Mrs. Meadows,” Stanley said. “I don’t need to tell you to follow the directions closely.”

  “Thank you.” Ellen left the apothecary, clutching the prescription in its white envelope close to her stomach. She couldn’t think of anything she’d eaten recently that might not have agreed with her. Must be some type of flu, although she didn’t know of anyone who’d been complaining about the flu from whom she might have caught it.

  She drove home slowly, her windshield wipers on slow intermittent, parked her car in its usual place to the left of her house, away from the puddles, and went up the steps, brushing the rainwet lilacs.
In a few weeks they’d be in bloom by her doorstep. She’d come home earlier, before the rain started, to shut the window and had turned on a light. The light was welcome, now. She stumbled into the kitchen, poured a glass of water, swallowed two pills as directed, dragged herself up the stairs, and collapsed onto her bed. She tugged the down comforter over her and turned on her side.

  Victoria waited uneasily in the darkening attic of Town Hall, trying not to think about the bundle folded up in a fetal position in the window seat. Rain beat on the roof. Where was Howland? To distract herself she wandered around the vast open room. Boys who’d boarded here had penciled names and dates on the bare wood walls. “Mark Pease, 1898,” “Welcome Davies, 1870.”

  Time passed. Daylight faded. A dangling gutter she could see through the window shifted in the wind and spilled a torrent of rainwater against the glass. The attic was growing dark rapidly, and Howland still had not returned. Victoria searched for light switches on the wall, but electricity apparently had never reached the attic.

  When she heard footsteps on the stairs she let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She felt her way to the top of the dark stairs.

  “Howland, I’m relieved that you’re back. We need a light …” She didn’t finish her sentence.

  “It’s not Howland, Mrs. Trumbull. Oliver Ashpine. What’s going on?”

  Victoria could barely see him. “I thought you’d left for the day. Is there a light up here?”

  He’d reached the top of the stairs. “It’s almost five and Mrs. Danvers has gone home. Where’s Atherton?”

  Victoria backed up. “He went to make a phone call. He must have gone right past you.”

  “I didn’t notice him.”

  “Let’s go down to the second floor and wait.”

  “What are you doing?” Oliver said.

  “We’re looking for an old deed.” She brushed past him heading for the staircase. “We haven’t found it yet. I’ll return Monday.” She started down the stairs. “Are you coming?”

  “In a minute.”

  She stopped on the top step. “I’ll wait for you right here, then.”