“Is my brother in here?”
“Mel!” Frank hurried over. “It’s all right. I asked her to come.”
“It’s not all right,” Pickering said firmly. “This is a crime scene, and nobody’s coming in until the detective gets here.”
“Come on.” I took Frank’s arm. “Let’s go outside. We can wait on the porch.”
Pickering nodded and stepped aside, and I saw what he’d been guarding. I wish I hadn’t looked. But once I did, I couldn’t seem to do anything but stare.
Marcus Rattigan’s crumpled body was lying on the wooden floor. There was a pool of blood beneath him, and more splattered like red slash marks over the worn floorboards around him. A wooden framework of some sort lay half on top of him, and the back of his suit jacket had been pierced by a large, jagged piece of glass. There was more glass, sharp shards of it, everywhere.
It took me a moment to realize what the frame was. When I did, I looked up. The skylight that should have been in the roof, wasn’t.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” I said.
Frank grabbed my shoulder and turned me away. Pickering pushed us both out the door before I could pollute his crime scene. The cool air felt good on my heated cheeks. I dragged in one deep breath, then another, and began to feel a little better.
“You okay?” asked Frank.
“I think so.” The urge to retch was passing. I staggered over to the porch railing and sat, half slumped, on the narrow perch. “Frank, what happened?”
“How should I know? I got here this morning and there he was.”
“Were you the first?”
Frank nodded. “The crew usually rolls in around nine-thirty. After I spoke with you, I called Avril, gave him the day off, and told him to spread the word. I didn’t say anything about Marcus, I just told him not to bother coming in.”
“Didn’t he ask why?”
“Maybe. Who knows? To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure what I said. I just wanted the police to hurry up and get here.”
I could certainly understand that. “What about Rattigan? Did you talk to him yesterday afternoon like you said you were going to?”
“No, I couldn’t get hold of him.”
Frank was squirming. It wasn’t a good sign. More likely he hadn’t tried to get hold of Rattigan.
“You talked to his secretary?”
He half shrugged. It wasn’t the answer I was looking for, but before I could press him on it, two more cars pulled up in front of the building. Both were late models, dark colored, and American made. The two men who’d arrived greeted each other briefly, then walked past us and went inside.
“The troops have begun to arrive,” said Frank. “I wonder what happens now.”
After a few minutes, the door opened again and one of the new arrivals came out to talk to us. He was a tall, spare black man with a solemn expression and a deliberate stride. His dark brown eyes examined the two of us thoroughly before coming to rest on Frank.
“Detective James Petrie,” he said. “I understand you were the one who found the body?”
“That’s right.”
I glanced at my brother. He sounded nervous, and was threading his fingers together as if he couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands. Even to me, he looked as though he had something to hide.
“What time was that?”
Frank looked at his watch. “About half an hour ago?”
“You called me at eight-thirty-five,” I said.
“You’re his sister?” Petrie asked, and I nodded.
“Name?”
“Melanie Travis.”
“Mind telling me why you’re so sure of the time?”
“My son’s school bus comes at eight-thirty two, and if he misses it, it’s a hassle so we’re always out there on time. I’d just come back inside when Frank called.”
Now that the detective had turned his gaze on me, I saw why my brother was wringing his hands. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Even so, being interrogated by the long arm of the law made me feel jumpy.
“What was your relationship to Mr. Rattigan?” Petrie asked Frank.
“We were business partners.”
This was no time for my brother to start over-stating his involvement. “Just here,” I interjected. “Not in general. Rattigan owns this building, and Frank was renovating it.”
Petrie paused for a long moment. “It would be better if you’d let your brother answer the questions himself.”
Not really. Actually, I was quite certain it would be better if I answered for him. Not that I had any choice. “Okay.”
“Now, then,” said the detective. “You arrived at about eight-thirty. What was your reason for coming here?”
“To open the building. To get things started for the day.”
“The door was locked when you got here?”
“Yes.”
“Did you notice anything unusual upon your arrival?”
Frank thought for a moment, then shook his head.
“Had you planned to meet Mr. Rattigan here this morning?”
“No, usually he works in his office downtown. He’s only stopped by here once or twice.”
Was that true? I wondered. Or was Frank shading the truth to make it sound better? When I’d met Rattigan the week before, Frank had been expecting his visit; he’d implied that it was something that happened regularly.
Don’t blow it, I thought, sending my brother a mental message to be careful. Get your facts straight!
Step by step, Detective Petrie led Frank through the events of the morning thus far. He questioned him about the details of his relationship with Rattigan, asked who’d installed the skylight and when the work had been done. They discussed the hole in the floor and the worker who’d fallen through. Then Petrie requested the names and addresses of all the other men in the construction crew. Carefully he recorded each of Frank’s answers in a small notebook.
Finally the detective recapped his pen and slid it into a pocket. The interview was drawing to a close. “Has anyone been on the roof in the last couple of days?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure,” Frank waffled. “I’m not here all the time, you know. I don’t think so.”
With answers like that, it was no wonder Petrie was ready to take a break. Instead of trying to pin Frank down, he merely said, “You live in Cos Cob, right? I want you to stay available. I’m sure I’ll have more questions at a later date.”
While we’d been talking, the medical examiner and a team of technicians had arrived. Petrie left us and went back inside to confer with them.
Frank swore loudly when he’d gone. “What’s with that guy? You’d think I was a suspect or something.”
I stared at my brother. “Wake up, Frank! You are a suspect.”
I looked around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear what I was about to say. The ambulance had long since left, and everyone else was inside. “You and Rattigan were partners together in the building where he was found dead. Not only that, but according to what you told me yesterday, there was a good chance he was about to screw you out of a lot of money.”
Frank’s tongue nervously moistened his lips. “The police don’t know that.”
“Maybe not now, but they will soon enough once they start asking questions and going through his records. I think you ought to get a lawyer.”
“But I didn’t do anything! Besides, nothing would make me look guilty faster.”
I stepped away from the railing and looked inside the window. Rattigan’s body had been removed, and the police seemed to be finishing up.
“You told Detective Petrie that you weren’t planning to meet Rattigan. Do you know what he was doing here?”
Frank shook his head. “I’ve wondered about that, too. Usually when he was going to stop by, I’d have some notice. As far as I know, he’s never been here when everyone else is gone.”
I gazed through the window and up at the hole where the skylight had been.
“Do you suppose it could have been an accident? Maybe the thing wasn’t installed correctly and it was just Rattigan’s bad luck to be standing under it when it fell.”
“Nice try,” said Frank. “But no way. There’s some sort of copper lip around the frame to hold it in place, so they can’t just fall. Besides, I know for a fact that both those skylights were bolted in solid.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because I was up there two days ago, checking on the gutters. Some leaves had blown down onto the skylights and I went over and brushed them off. Everything was tight as a drum then.”
I strode back to his side. “What did you say?”
Frank looked at me innocently. “What?”
“I could have sworn that when Petrie asked you if anyone had been on the roof recently, you said no.”
“Not exactly. I said I didn’t know. Don’t make a big deal out of it, Mel. Nobody else was here at the time.”
“Are you certain one of the neighbors didn’t see you? Were you wearing gloves?”
Frank’s silence said it all.
I threw up my hands eloquently. “You’d better go back in and talk to Petrie again. Tell him you just remembered something he ought to know.”
“No way. I’m innocent, remember? I didn’t do it. And I’m not going to give these guys any information that makes it look as though I did.”
“The thing that makes you look guilty is lying, Frank. Especially if you get caught.”
My brother stared off into the trees on the other side of the road. I hoped he was thinking about what I said. But when he spoke again, it was clear he’d had something else entirely on his mind.
“You’ve solved a couple of murders.”
“No.” I wasn’t denying his statement. Rather, I could guess where this conversation was heading and I didn’t want any part of it.
“Yes, you did. There was Uncle Max, remember? And that Poodle guy last summer. I hate to say it, Mel, but maybe you have a knack for that kind of thing.”
“Frank, Marcus Rattigan was an important man. The police are here, they’re mounting an investigation, and they’re going to do everything they can—”
“Bullshit! They’re going to try to pin this on me, Mel. I can see it coming. Even though I had nothing to do with Rattigan’s murder, I’m the easy choice, the obvious choice. You and I know it, and so do they.”
“What do you think I can do?”
“Poke around. Ask questions. Isn’t that what you did before?”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing,” said Frank. “You’re my sister. You have to help me.”
I turned my back on him, fuming silently. Over the years I’d heard many variations on that same plea. You’re my sister, you have to share your cupcake with me. You’re my sister, you have to type my term paper. You’re my sister you have to help with my rent. But those instances paled beside what he was asking now.
Was he right? I wondered. Would the police settle upon him as the obvious suspect and look no further? If so, my brother was in a lot of trouble. I’d been acting as Frank’s protector for years; but by now the role was wearing thin. Why was I the one who always had to be the family watchdog?
“Well?” he prodded.
“I suppose I could ask some questions,” I conceded. “But I’m not making any promises. Deal?”
“Deal,” Frank said grudgingly.
“In the meantime, you better go inside and clear up a few things with Detective Petrie.”
“No way.” He held up a hand. Behind us, the door opened and several policemen emerged. “I’m outta here.”
Frank braced a hand on the railing, hopped over lightly, and strode to his car. Before I could follow, Detective Petrie emerged from the building. “Your brother was sure in a hurry. Anything wrong?”
“No, everything’s fine.” The glib answer shot out of my mouth before I’d had a chance to think. I felt my face redden. “I mean, as fine as things can be under the circumstances . . .”
Petrie nodded, letting me off the hook.
He came over and stood beside me, his bearing rigidly erect. I figured that meant either the Marines or Catholic school. In my experience it takes a drill sergeant or an order of nuns to have that effect on posture. But despite Petrie’s stance, he looked friendly enough.
“What will you do now?” I asked.
“Get the investigation started. Talk to anyone and everyone who had dealings with Marcus Rattigan. Then we’ll try to narrow down how he spent his last few days, where he was, who he was with.”
“Do you know when he died?”
“When did you leave here yesterday?”
“Close to three-thirty.”
“You and your brother left together?”
“Yes.” I hesitated slightly before answering. Surely Frank had been only a step or two behind me.
“All we know now is that he died sometime between then and this morning. The medical examiner will probably be able to fix it closer than that, and we’ll check with his home, his office, try to nail down what time he was last seen.”
“I would think there’d be plenty of suspects,” I said.
Petrie’s eyes narrowed. “Would you? Why?”
“Judging by what I’ve read, he sounds like the kind of man who must have made some enemies.”
“Not everyone agreed with what he wanted to do, that’s for sure. On the other hand, he knew how to make money. Your brother seemed happy enough to be involved with him.”
Warning bells went off like a siren in my head. So much for friendly. I’d thought I was the one fishing for information. So why was I suddenly standing here with Petrie’s hook dangling in front of me?
“I guess he was,” I said, declining to elaborate.
A uniformed officer came out onto the porch and began to unroll a spool of bright yellow crime scene tape around the railing. Obviously the renovations would have to stop. I wondered who Rattigan’s heirs were, and who owned the building now.
Detective Petrie reached in his pocket and pulled out a card. “You think of anything I ought to know, you call me, okay?”
“I will,” I said, biting back the things I thought needed saying, and silently cursing my brother.
I didn’t like the idea of lying to the police. I hoped I wasn’t going to have to make a habit of it.
Eight
Since it was barely ten o’clock I briefly considered driving to school, claiming I’d had a miraculous recovery, and working the rest of the day. That notion lasted just about as long as it took me to walk to the Volvo.
The trees around me were brilliant with color. Though there was a chill in the air, the sun was warm on my back. Connecticut is known for its cold, snowy winters and short, humid summers, but October is a month that it handles superbly. I breathed in deeply and acknowledged that it was going to be a gorgeous day.
Faith had been dozing on the seat, but she jumped up as I approached. Tail wagging, hind feet dancing, she pushed her nose through the opening I’d left at the top of the window and wuffled a greeting. To go to school now I would first have to take her home and drop her off.
Faith and I made eye contact and she whined softly. I recorded her vote and added my own. Hooky, it was.
I got in the car, wrestled forty-five pounds of effusive Standard Poodle into the passenger seat, and drove myself to Aunt Peg’s. She lives in Greenwich, north of the Merritt Parkway, in a big old farmhouse. There’s a small kennel building out back, and enough acreage that the occasional barking dog doesn’t usually bother the neighbors.
Now that Max was gone, Aunt Peg had been slowly cutting down on the number of dogs in residence. Poodles are people dogs. They can adapt to almost any situation, but they thrive on human companionship.
Keeping only the best with which to continue her breeding program, Aunt Peg had placed some of her young adults in new homes. As these Poodles went to families who might not have had the time or energy to take on a ra
mbunctious, untrained puppy, the situation worked out well for everybody.
At the moment Peg had three Standard Poodles “in hair” in her kennel, and five house Poodles, all retired champions, and all maintained in sporting trim with short curly hair and rounded topknots and tail pompons. Aunt Peg would have considered the notion heresy, but I thought her house dogs looked a lot more sensible than my show dog did. I couldn’t wait until Faith finished her championship and I could cut off all her hair, too.
Nobody bothers to ring the doorbell at Aunt Peg’s. As soon as a car turns into the driveway, the Poodles race to the windows and announce that visitors have arrived. By the time Faith and I reached the front door, Peg already had it open.
“Why aren’t you in school?” she demanded, angling her body so that her dogs couldn’t slip out while Faith and I came in. “Are you sick? Is Faith all right?”
Her gaze slid past me and focused with concern on Faith. Typical.
“We’re both fine. Your nephew is the one who’s in trouble.”
“Frank?”
As if she had more than one. As if the notion of Frank in trouble should come as any surprise.
“I thought I just bailed that boy out,” said Peg. “What’s the matter now?”
I knelt down and let the Poodles swarm over me for a minute. We were old friends and they’d have been highly insulted if I neglected to greet them properly. “Frank’s partner, Marcus Rattigan, is dead.”
“Heart attack?” Aunt Peg asked hopefully. “Plane crash?”
“He was crushed by a falling skylight.”
She’d seen the blueprints. “Don’t tell me it happened at the coffee bar.”
So I didn’t. Instead I stood up and took myself into the kitchen. A conversation like this was going to require fortification.
Aunt Peg’s a tea drinker. Her meager concession to those who don’t share her preference is to keep a jar of instant coffee in the freezer. I filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove.
“When?” asked Peg.
“The police don’t know yet. Sometime between late yesterday and early this morning.”
“I take it this wasn’t an accident?” Her voice floated out from the pantry. In Aunt Peg’s mind no snack, however small, is complete without sweets. No doubt she had something stashed away for just such an emergency.
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