“I’m sure he’ll be back. You’ll notice he didn’t disappear with any of this.” I pointed to the so-called evidence. “Lieutenant Castellano, you should be asking yourself who wants to frame us.”
“Give it a rest,” she said. “You haven’t been framed. Don’t think for one minute any of us here will fall for that. One of you slipped up, and we’re going to keep on this until we’ve made sure there’s nothing else. But I’m betting there will be.”
I managed to look unfazed.
But I did realize somewhat late in the game that I’d forgotten all about “no comment” as a means of communication with the police.
What would Sammy say?
But Sammy wasn’t there and Castellano was.
She must have had royalty somewhere in her DNA. How else could she stand there with such unassailable dignity and power looking down at me, the Irish peasant accused of poaching? Of course, the heels on those boots added to her visual impact, even if they had a bit of mud on them now, but the woman was born to power, I swear. Maybe being a detective was the route to world domination or something.
“Cui bono?” I said, tossing in a bit of college Latin in an attempt to balance things.
She raised a beautifully sculpted eyebrow.
I added, “It means—”
“To whose benefit? I know what it means. But what do you mean by it?”
“Well, I mean to ask who benefits from this whole situation.” I was babbling. I reminded myself to chant one of the many Kelly mantras: You’re as good as anyone, Jordan, probably better. My uncles had sent me off to school with those words in my ear, and they’d helped.
But Castellano wasn’t a school yard bully out to make the new kid miserable. She was a detective who could practically taste victory. Wild-goose chases would not be her thing.
She said, “Get to the point.”
“Well, none of us would benefit from Chadwick Kauffman’s death. Not at all. Vera wanted the collection for sure, but Vera buys things. She doesn’t steal them. And she still has enough money to do that. You can dig around until you retire, but you won’t find anything to indicate she has ever stolen an object or even done something dishonest. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Detective.”
“Not a dog. Not barking. You’re out of time. We’ve found the evidence we need.”
“Wait.” I tried not to squeak. “This whole Summerlea thing has brought us nothing but trouble. We certainly don’t benefit. My point is that Kauffman was an incredibly wealthy man. So follow the money. I say where there’s a will, there may have been a way.”
She rolled her eyes. “Is it National Bad Pun Day already? Even if it is, we’ve found the equivalent to the money. Right here.”
“We’d have to be fools to leave that there. From the look of it, this stash had everything but a treasure map with an X to mark the spot. Do you not see that we’re being framed? Who benefits from that? Relatives! Heirs! Surely they are suspects too. Isn’t that a more logical approach—?”
“Don’t question my logic. It is impeccable, and as for your ‘where there’s a will there’s a way’ idea, that was one of the first possibilities we checked out.”
I inhaled.
She stared at me.
“And?” I said finally. “Close relatives?”
“No. There were second cousins, but he didn’t have much to do with them.”
“Friends?”
“No.”
“Lovers?”
“No. Chadwick Kauffman did not have any relatives closer than second cousins. He didn’t leave anything to them, except for some family jewelry, a coin collection and a stamp collection, more sentimental than valuable.”
“But—”
She raised an elegant, long-fingered, scarlet-nailed hand to silence me. It worked.
“He didn’t seem to have friends outside of work. And no romantic partners turned up.”
“They could have been discreet. What about Lisa Hatton? She was crazy about him.”
“Whatever. They were discreetly left out of the will, then. Chadwick left everything to several charities.”
“What charities?”
“United Way, Second Chance Foundation for Homeless Families, the Sierra Club, UNICEF and the endowment fund at his alma mater, Yale. He left Summerlea to the Historical Society of Harrison Falls.”
“No individuals?”
“No, and none of the employees of these charities are likely to have hit him over the head and pushed him down the stairs. Unless you think the president of Yale did it.”
I gulped. “Everything?”
“Small stipends, here and there, hardly enough to kill him. He left a few trinkets to staff at the Country Club and Spa, such as Lisa Hatton. He also funded her retirement fund outside the will. Quite generous, but hardly enough motive to kill him as she’d get that anyway.”
One phrase really got to me. “What do you mean, hardly enough motive to kill him? You’ve been suggesting we did it for a few bits of antique silver and—”
She continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “He’d set up a college fund for the children of the housekeeper and the groundskeeper-gardener, and there were generous retirement funds for them and other long-term staff at his residences, but those arrangements were established as savings funds in their names. The arrangements were made outside the will and wouldn’t be affected one way or the other by his death. Except their jobs would probably end, so they’d most likely prefer to keep him alive. His social life seemed to have involved other very wealthy people. If he had a love interest, she or he never worked their way into the will.”
“But maybe his second cousins will contest the will.”
She shrugged. “Move on.”
“Maybe they didn’t know and thought—”
“Everyone named in the will was formally notified through the lawyer well in advance. It seemed to be ironclad, and according to his lawyers, if they wanted to squander their own resources going after more, good luck to them. Waste of time. As is this.”
I felt disappointment seeping into my spirit. I’d been counting on those faceless cousins to be the villains with some connection to Lisa Troy.
“There must have been other people who wanted him dead.”
“Apparently, everyone loved him.” From the look on Castellano’s face, she doubted this.
“Everyone has some enemies.”
“Maybe. But there’s no sign that Kauffman had any. We’ve pretty much ruled inheritance out as a motive. We’re sticking to our main theory: You and your uncle, who, unlike Vera, do have a history of criminal behavior—”
“Your theory is wrong.”
“We’re closing in. Everyone else we’ve had any reason to think about has an airtight alibi, from the housekeeper and her family to the staff at that country club. But you were there. The evidence connects you, and it sure looks like the murder was planned and premeditated. It’s only a matter of time until the noose tightens, as they say.”
I rubbed my neck. We no longer execute people by hanging in this country, and no one has been executed in New York State since the sixties, but it was still a very scary moment. “What evidence do you think you have?”
Castellano shot me one of her incandescent smiles. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Sammy arrived while they were still mucking around outside. Then we got “no comment,” all right. Castellano was furious, but Sammy pointed out she’d better charge me or let me go about my business. I wasn’t crazy about him playing chicken with her again.
She signaled to Smiley, gave me a poisonous look and headed back into the house.
I wasn’t entirely sure why they let me go back inside, but they did. I noticed she didn’t wipe her boots as she entered the back hallway. This sent the signora into a fit of mopping. No more coffee and cook
ies for you, Lootenent, I thought. But the visit wasn’t a good thing. Castellano demanded to see Vera. Vera didn’t have a lawyer yet.
Vera was in the library, the signora finally admitted, looking Italianate daggers at Castellano. I wondered how the detective would ward off that evil eye.
“You stay here,” the lieutenant said to me.
“But—”
“‘But’ all you want. Stay here.”
Sammy stepped forward. She shot him a glance. “Do you represent them both, Counselor?”
“No.”
“Then you can stay here too.”
Smiley looked pale as he followed Castellano’s clicking heels along the endless corridor to the study. He was lugging two boxes, taped with evidence tape. “VAN ALST” was written in black marker. Stoddard stood inside, lazily observing us. I barely stopped myself from asking him to help the signora clean up after his colleague, if he had nothing to do but lounge around. But she’d already done the mopping.
My iPhone pinged. A text from Tiff.
Haven’t seen the sun since we left Aruba. I am the only nurse, and I’m pretty sure we are about to have a norovirus outbreak. :( Ship satellite keeps going out. I think I’ve made a huge mistake. :( :( :(
Here I was imagining Tiff enjoying herself on the high seas, but it was more like Clutch of Constables, only with less murder and even more irritated Americans than Ngaio Marsh had included. I think Tiff and I were both wishing she was back in Harrison Falls right now.
Five minutes later, Smiley returned, still carrying the two boxes. Vera wheeled after him, her face contorted. “Spitting mad” came to mind.
“Miss Bingham,” she said when he’d left. “That young man took my Marsh books. Every single one of them. I think you’re right about that lawyer. Let me know when you get him lined up.”
I stood outside and watched while Castellano and Stoddard left, Stoddard at the wheel of a black Chevy Tahoe. Smiley brought up the rear in his clearly marked cruiser, following the other officers in theirs.
Our regular guy stayed behind, to keep an eye, I guess.
When I came back in, Vera had rolled off in a rage. I didn’t blame her.
Would they be back to sift through every molecule of our possessions again or arrest us?
I asked Sammy, “What will they do with the books?”
“Forensics will check them for . . . evidence.”
“Why did they wait until now to collect them?”
“Who knows? Maybe they have a plan to rattle you one by one.”
“This has definitely rattled Vera. But what should we do?”
“You have to wait and see what they come up with. Don’t go running off.”
“That would never have occurred to me,” I fibbed.
“You didn’t make any statements about the stuff they found? Did you stick to ‘no comment’?”
“I may have said a few things. This stuff was obviously planted. It was in such a stupid place. No self-respecting thief would leave it there. I’m sure they would sell or melt it down, not leave it under a bush.”
Sammy huffed. “Tell me you didn’t say ‘melt it down.’”
“I didn’t.”
He said, “I should have been here. You call me the first sight of them the next time. ‘No comment.’ That’s what you say. It’s easy. And that way you don’t say something you can’t unsay. It’s too late for this time, but remember from now on, because they’ll be trying to trip you up.”
I hated the idea of “next time” and “after this.” “I did call you as soon as they said they found something.”
“You call me when they get here or when you know they’re coming.”
“Lesson learned, but we knew the police were getting warrants. Why would any one of us leave that stuff there? How could they believe that?”
“I deal with stupid criminals all the time, Jordan. You’re not stupid and you’re not a criminal, so I know you wouldn’t. But they will have seen stranger and more self-incriminating things. Trust me.”
“But if they have so much evidence and they’re convinced we’re guilty, why haven’t they arrested any of us?”
“They probably like Kevin for it. They’ve got his prints on the weapon. They’re waiting until one of you can’t take it anymore and makes contact with him, in person or on the phone. That’s probably why you’re at home instead of in an interrogation room. They always have a reason.”
“We have no idea where he is. Or why.”
“Keep it that way.”
I snorted. “We don’t have much choice. Kev’s in the wind.”
“They’ll be hunting for him everywhere.”
“Someone is aware of that, Sammy. Someone who knows us and knows about us is behind it.”
“You have to forget about that. Concentrate on living normally.”
“Are you serious?”
“Eat your meals. Go about your daily tasks.”
“We’re worried.”
“So be worried. I don’t blame you. But keep your mouth shut and steer clear of Kevin.”
“You think they’ll have our phones under surveillance?”
“Is the grass green?”
“But what can I do? I can try to find out more about Chadwick or—”
“You”—Sammy poked my arms with his stubby finger—“do nothing. I’m the one who has to look into this guy Chadwick.”
“And are you looking into him?”
“For sure. What? You think I’m at the track all day?”
That hadn’t occurred to me until that very moment. “Have you found anything?”
Sammy’s information confirmed Castellano’s. “No girlfriends that anyone knows about. No close friends. No relatives. Nobody that anyone knows of.”
“But the people at the spa really liked him.”
“Employees. Yup. They were paid to like him, and I hear they all got along fine.”
“I believe that, um, I heard somewhere that his assistant, Lisa Hatton, had a crush on him.”
“Yes. We learned that too. She had it bad according to some of the other staff.”
“And he—?”
“Was kind to her, from what I heard. He needed her to keep things running.”
“Poor Lisa. You have to admit she’d make a great suspect.”
“For sure. Too bad she didn’t do it.”
I squeaked, “How do you know that?”
“She was representing the Country Club and Spa at the Community Service Awards Luncheon.
“She wasn’t at Summerlea, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t involved in some way.”
Sammy squinted at me. “Let it be. You have to stay here, looking like everything’s normal. Remember? No chasing around trying to find out who’s setting you up. No looking into Lisa Hatton.”
“No comment.”
* * *
AS PART OF the pretense of being normal, Vera and I ate a distracted dinner in the dining room. Vera could barely manage a grunt. I wondered if she’d ever get over what she called “the theft of my books.” The signora was feeling the stress too. The muddy floor was probably part of it. She forgot to bring Parmesan cheese for the pasta and was really rattled when I offered to get it.
“Let things be,” Vera growled, the only words she spoke all through dinner.
That should have prepared me for the discovery that the signora had forgotten to make the tiramisu.
Things went from bad to worse. Good Cat and Bad Cat prowled, both restless and unpredictable. Bad Cat managed to nick one of my knees. And I may have even heard a muffled ouch from Vera.
Walter was the only cheerful one of the bunch. Unlike us, he wasn’t waiting for the police to show up and arrest Vera and me. He was waiting for tidbits to fall in his vicinity.
In the mean
time, in case we weren’t planning to stay home and forget about everything, Castellano hadn’t taken any chances.
There was a fresh new officer in a parked cruiser outside the front of Van Alst House. They’d stopped trying to fool us with unmarked police vehicles. I didn’t know this guy, and as I’d spent altogether too much time with the police, I wasn’t crazy about getting to know him, but I was pressed into service. The signora—once she decided that he was only a victim of circumstance—had sent me on several forays with thermoses of very good coffee, buckets of almond cookies and, on my last errand, a large and very smelly sandwich of Genoa salami and Asiago cheese on ciabatta. I knew she’d be wringing her hands and dancing her little dance while she waited for me at the back door. She seemed to have a mandate to feed the world.
I didn’t need to distract the police, but it seemed like a good idea to keep on this guy’s good side. It took a while to wear down his initial truculence—we were under surveillance, after all—but he mellowed as the evening wore on. I kind of felt sorry for him. We’d invited him to wait inside a couple of times. I suggested he’d have a better chance of making sure we didn’t leg it. But apparently protocol meant he had to freeze in his vehicle, even though nothing really prevented me from skulking out the back door, then dashing through the trees and over the fields. In the resulting confusion, Vera and the signora could have vanished in the Cadillac.
I paced around, restless. My special place still bore the signs of the invasion of the snoopy police. It took quite a while to get it back to normal, as much as anything could be normal. I decided I’d have to wash my police-tossed unmentionables and made a trip down to the first-floor utility area with my laundry basket. On my return I plunked on the love seat and put my feet on the Lucite table. I picked up and put down three separate Ngaio Marsh books. I couldn’t concentrate on any of them, no matter how many rambling and remote estates the author dangled in front of me. At the moment, our own circumstances were every bit as mysterious.
Inspector Alleyn wasn’t one to make lengthy notes about cases or even write that much down. He had Sergeant Fox for that. But I was on my own and Foxless. Notes always work for me. I found a sheet of paper and a pen and started to work things out, beginning with the heading. Paper and pen can help me think. I scrawled thoughts, words and ideas randomly on the page, making a “mind map.” In the end, sorting it all out, pulling things together, I ended up with this.
The Marsh Madness Page 15
