A Bias for Murder

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “She’s a gutsy gal,” Selma said. “She’ll get through this no matter how tough it is.”

  “Well, she appears strong on the surface anyway.”

  Susan walked in from the back room and piled a stack of bags beneath the checkout counter. “Have the police learned anything more? I stopped at Marla’s bakery this morning and the buzz was as thick as her syrup. It isn’t that everyone knew Ollie—but everyone knows that house. The Harrington name. And Adele has been irritating people enough that those who didn’t know it, do now. The rumors are rampant.”

  “Marla thrives on all that. I’m sure she has the crime solved and wrapped up in a blue ribbon. I don’t think the official news is quite so clear-cut.”

  “Has P.J. said anything?” Susan asked.

  “I talked to Kate earlier this afternoon. P.J. said it’s kind of a mess. All the work being done on the house will make it nearly impossible to get any kind of prints. But they’ve already started to canvass the neighborhood, questioning people, along with others who had access to Ollie’s house. He didn’t have a lot of people coming in and out but there were a few repairmen in the last couple weeks. A mailman. And old Joe Bates was out there in the garden every day.”

  “And he lived right there, above the garage. He was devoted to Ollie. Maybe he’ll shed some light on all this, although his hearing isn’t what it used to be,” Selma said.

  “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt that sweet man,” Susan said. “I used to talk to him sometimes at the college. If he wasn’t sitting in on a class, he was almost always in the library or in the commons, writing on his yellow pads.”

  “What did he write about?” Po asked.

  “I don’t know—things he learned in class, I guess. He hung on every word that came out of Professor Fellers’s mouth. Ollie loved learning. And if you ask me, he loved that librarian, too.”

  Po’s head went up. “Librarian? Who?”

  “Halley something. A nice gal. She’s worked in the library for a couple of years. She takes classes, too. I think she and Ollie were friends. I saw them a few times together, out in the quad eating sandwiches and talking.”

  “I met her the other day,” Po said. “Twice, actually.” She repeated the brief conversation she’d had with Halley in the library. “When I saw her earlier at the Harringtons’, it seemed she was working through the emotions you have when a friend dies—reaching out for answers and trying to make sense of it all. I thought coming to see Adele was maybe her way of dealing with things. And her comment about Ollie not having a heart attack sounded like a denial to herself. He couldn’t be dead because he had a strong heart, the kind of thing we say when we don’t want to accept reality. Adele didn’t want to hear any of it. But now it seems Hallie meant exactly what she was saying.”

  Susan leafed through some receipts, then looked up. “Adele’s name has already been thrown into the mess of people who suddenly looked suspicious. At least according to Marla.”

  The bell at Selma’s front door jingled as several customers walked in. Selma looked over, then handed back Po’s credit card. “We need to talk about this more,” she said. “Like I said, Adele Harrington isn’t my favorite person, but I can’t imagine she had anything to do with Ollie’s death. She didn’t show her face around here until his body was already in the morgue. So unless she snuck in town without anyone seeing her, she couldn’t have done it. And besides that, he was her twin brother. Good grief. She’s no Medea.” Selma shook her head, then tucked a loose gray strand behind her ear and walked off to help a young woman find some Irish lace.

  “What do you think, Po?” Susan asked.

  “I think this town doesn’t need a lingering crime on its hands. I hope the police solve it immediately, if not sooner. And frankly, I agree completely with Selma. I know police often look at family first, but I can’t imagine that Adele Harrington had a thing to do with her brother’s death.”

  “The rumors aren’t going to help her bed and breakfast business any.”

  “No, I suppose not. It’s a shame, too. So let’s hope the crime is solved soon and we can all return to business as usual.”

  Po slipped the package of fabric into her tote and left the shop. She walked down Elderberry Road toward the bakery for a bag of sourdough rolls for dinner. But the thought of stepping into a pit of rumors slowed her step and made her consider cutting back on bread.

  She paused at a rapping sound coming from the front window of Jacques’s French Quarter restaurant. She glanced over into the welcoming face of Max. He was holding up a martini glass and motioning for her to come in.

  Po glanced at her watch. Almost five. The thought of a drink with a friend greatly surpassed sourdough rolls and rumors, and Po smiled back, then pushed open the heavy restaurant doors.

  The bar in Jacques’s bistro was separated from the larger dining area by a few leafy ferns. As Po walked around them to the cocktail area, she saw that it wouldn’t be a quiet drink with Max after all. He was holding out a chair at a table for four near. P.J. and Jedson Fellers, deep in conversation, were already seated.

  They looked up as Po’s shadow fell across the table.

  P.J. half stood and kissed her cheek. “Glad you’re here, Po.”

  Po touched his shoulder lightly. “Tough day, I know.” She dropped her purse on the floor and sat down. A young waiter appeared as if by magic and set a perfectly chilled martini down in front of her. She glanced around at their faces. “You’re talking about Ollie’s death.” Death. She still couldn’t call it a murder, as if not saying the word might change the realty. But maybe something had happened, some missing piece discovered that would change the awful news of the night before. “What’s happened?”

  “The investigation is in full force,” P.J. said, seeing the hope of good news on Po’s face and not wanting to mislead her. “But there’s no news, not really. Not yet.”

  “But there is good news from the college so we’re taking what we can get,” Jed said. “A chunk of change was given to Canterbury University in memory of Ollie, and the board decided to establish a scholarship fund in his name. I was asked to pull something together. Max and P.J.—newest member of the university board—are helping.”

  Po smiled at the news, pleased that someone had been able to think beyond the awfulness of how Ollie died to something that would honor the person. “This will mean a lot to Adele, especially with the ugliness surrounding her life right now.”

  “Ollie deserves the honor,” Jed said. “But I think Adele Harrington just wants all this put to rest. That’s understandable, too.”

  Po nodded. If she was guessing correctly, this was almost as hard on Jed Fellers as it was on Adele. Even though Ollie was only a handful of years younger than Jed, he had been the younger man’s mentor, a kind of father figure, maybe, and the sadness in the professor’s eyes was evident.

  “Adele isn’t accepting the fact that Ollie was murdered,” P.J. said. “She isn’t cooperating in the investigation. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone in a uniform.”

  Max agreed. “But I called her earlier and told her about the scholarship. I think she appreciated it.” He went on telling them all about some of the ways they could legally put it together.

  Po sipped her martini and listened to them talk about the details. She had little to add and her thoughts kept turning to Adele. To losing a brother. To dealing with the complicated waves of grief. She could understand Adele’s feelings in wanting to erase the realty of murder. It was ugly. Unnatural. Ollie was dead. There wasn’t anything anyone could do about that. So let him rest in peace, as the church fathers prayed.

  But the facts were what they were. That someone in their quiet peaceful town might have been responsible for ending Oliver’s life far too early.

  A crowd was gathering in the restaurant as folks stopped in after work for a drink and Jacques’s truff
les. The buttery aroma of escargot filled the air, and Po looked over the ferns to see Jacques placing a platter in front of Crestwood’s successful developer. Tom Adler sat across from his new wife, Cindy. The restaurant owner loved the drama of his food, and he set the escargot down with a flourish, his flushed face beaming with delight over his prized appetizer.

  He caught Po looking over and winked, then soon edged his way over to her table. “My magnificent Po—” He kissed her lightly on each cheek, then straightened up, looking around the table and greeting the others, his expression turning grave. “Such talk going on. All over my restaurant tonight. It’s like a poison. People pointing fingers. People angry. Some angry even at poor dead Ollie. ‘What bad thing did he do?’ they ask. He must have done something bad for someone to kill him.” He shook his head in disgust, small strands of silvery hair moving across a mostly bald head.

  Po looked over at Tom Adler, now relishing the rich delicacies making their way to his mouth. A river of butter ran down his chin.

  Jacques followed her look. “Tom is my good customer. And he is so upset. He wasn’t the one who killed Ollie, he told me so. But he might know who did.”

  P.J., Jed, and Max looked up.

  “He said some awful things about Ollie’s sister,” Jacques went on. “She is his twin, non? He says she’s destroying Ollie’s maison and he is surely rolling around in his grave.”

  “Sure, Tom’s upset about all this,” P.J. said. “He’s come into the station a couple of times, trying to get the police to stop the renovations. He says the land is his, like you said, Jacques. But—”

  “Oui,” Jacques said, his arms flying in the air. “There’s a piece of paper somewhere in the house that confirms it. But Mademoiselle Adele won’t let him past the front door.”

  Max glanced over at Tom, then back to Jacques. “I’d suggest you don’t take everything you hear as gospel truth. Tom is a good developer but he has a tendency to rant. And he’d better watch those rantings. They present a motive for murder, whether he sees it that way or not.” He took a drink and shook his head. “His company is having a rough year. Developing the Harrington property—and he’d probably do a good job of it—would put him back on his feet. But I can’t imagine why Ollie would have promised it to him.”

  Jacques leaned over and dropped his voice to avoid being heard beyond their table. “He pestered Oliver all the time, that much I saw myself. He brought him in here a few times and tried to get him drinking, but Ollie didn’t ever touch a drop. Not once. Oliver’s only libations were milk and tea. Tea and my escargots,” Jacques said, his eyes rolling and one hand slapping a round cheek that wobbled beneath the touch. “Ma mere would turn over in her grave.”

  Po had seen Ollie in Jacques’s once or twice herself—and a few other places on Elderberry Road. And sometimes with Tom, just as Jacques was saying. But the idea of trying to inch one’s way into someone’s inheritance—especially when that someone wasn’t elderly and seemed to be in good health—was hard for her to get her arms around.

  And to murder for it?

  But murder was illusive and didn’t always follow the rules of logic. Po knew how difficult it could be to walk in someone else’s shoes. To understand the power of rage or fear or even love that might push someone to the edge.

  She looked over at Tom Adler again. He had stopped eating when a city council member approached his table. They were talking heatedly, with Tom’s head shaking and one hand waving in the air. Po could tell he’d had a few drinks and it wasn’t helping his composure any. But she’d known Tom long enough to know his bark was stronger than his bite. Or so she’d always thought. Next to him, his wife looked bored and seemed to be entertaining herself by admiring the large diamond decorating her finger.

  Catching Po’s look, Tom nodded at her, forcing a slight smile to his face. A few minutes later, he slapped down a few bills, and he and his bride left the bistro abruptly, brushing aside a young waiter as they hurried through the door.

  Po watched him through the window as they crossed Elderberry Road, Tom several steps ahead of Cindy. He barely noticed a car that nearly sideswiped his wife, then climbed into a big truck parked in front of Max’s law office. Seconds later gravel shot out from under the tires as he tore off down the street.

  An angry man.

  “Mon Dieu!” Jacques said beside her, startling Po from her thoughts. But he wasn’t watching Tom’s hasty exit; he was staring at the front door.

  Po followed his look. Adele Harrington stood just inside the door, her hair uncharacteristically mussed, her hands on her hips. Her face was a mixture of anger and determination, and her eyes immediately settled on Po.

  Adele lifted one hand in a semblance of a wave.

  Seeing Adele’s flushed face and having so recently picked the woman’s crumbled form from a floor, Po didn’t hesitate to push away from the table just in case Adele needed help. Fainting in Jacques’s crowded bistro would be too heavy a burden for Adele to bear.

  But before she could reach her side, Adele took another step into the room and focused on P.J.

  “Officer Flanigan,” she called across the crowded bar, “I need to talk to you. Immediately, if you don’t mind.”

  Chapter 8

  Po reached her first. “Adele, are you all right?”

  “No, Portia, I am not all right. Would you and P.J. please come with me.”

  It wasn’t a question and the two began to follow her outside. P.J. sent an apologetic shrug to a confused Max and Jed.

  Adele walked a few steps away from the door and stopped, taking in a deep, breath. “Someone,” she said at last, “has been in my house.”

  Po waited, expecting more.

  But Adele was silent, her looking moving from one to the other.

  P.J said, “Adele, there are dozens of people in your house every day.”

  Adele cast him an impatient look. “Someone,” she said, dismissing the comment with a clipped tone, “broke into my house during the night. Paint was spilled, furniture was damaged. Pictures thrown on the floor.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t a workman’s error?” Po asked. “Paint could easily have been spilled.”

  “Please, spare me,” Adele said. She turned to P.J. “I said that someone is breaking the law. You are the law, are you not?”

  “Have you called the station?” P.J. asked. “There are police assigned to watching your house and to…to this case, Adele, and they—”

  Adele held out her hands to quiet him. “I wanted to talk with someone I know personally. Police are annoying. I called Kate Simpson, and she told me I would find you here. Now, what are we going to do about this?”

  “Was anything taken?”

  “Not that I could tell. But how would I know? The house is a mess. Things everywhere.”

  “I’ll see that someone comes out to investigate the damage, Adele, and you’ll have to file a report.”

  “No. I don’t want reports. What I want is for this to stop, Flanigan. I have felt for several days that things were not right in the house. Things were askew. Moved around. In some of the rooms I have kept family things intact to create ambiance. Things have been disturbed, I could feel it.”

  “Were you in the house last night?” Po asked. “Did you hear anything?”

  “I wasn’t there. The paint smell was horrible so I was staying at that Canterbury Inn on campus. But I won’t do that again. I would certainly have heard the vandals and put a stop to it myself.”

  P.J. listened, his thoughts moving back to the night before. It had been one of those near-perfect, Indian summer nights, and he and Kate had taken a late-night walk beneath a deep canopy of stars. They’d stopped for sushi at a new little restaurant near the river, filled with college students taking a break from cramming for mid-terms—and then they had walked back through the Elderberry neighborhood and down Kingf
ish Drive, right past the Harrington home. It had been quiet. They’d even stopped in front of it for a few minutes, admiring the recently planted gardens along the drive. They were lit by a row of low lights that might have been installed just that day. And they’d remarked on all Adele had done in just a few days. Kate had thought the frantic activity was Adele’s panacea for grief.

  The big stone house loomed large in the background, lit softly with security lights and the stars from above. The only inside lights they could see came from the back garage apartment that Joe Bates lived in. And while they stood at the end of the drive, those lights went out, too, and they saw Joe come out of the apartment and light up a cigar beside the garage. At risk of disturbing his privacy, they had walked on down the street.

  “We walked by your house last night, Adele,” P.J. said aloud. “It was quiet.”

  “I don’t care about quiet,” Adele snapped. “Sometime last night, somehow, someone did damage inside my house, and it has to stop. You are the police, do something.”

  “Joe Bates was there. He may have heard something. Have you talked with him?”

  “Joe Bates’s hearing is less than a slug’s. As soon as I have time to think about replacing him, I will do so. He’s only around because my mother and my brother took pity on him.”

  “He’s a wonderful gardener, Adele,” Po said quickly. It was true. He’d nurtured her own garden one summer; everything he touched in it turned to beauty. Adele’s disdain for such a gentle old man was hurtful.

  Adele’s expression crumbled slightly, the stern look giving way. “How can he be here, alive, moving around. When my brother is dead?”

  Of course. Adele was giving voice to grief, not hatred. Perhaps days would soften her resolve.

  Before she could move beyond her thoughts, Adele spun around on heels Po wouldn’t dream of wearing, and she was gone.