Home For the Homicide (A Do-It-Yourself Mystery)

by Bentley, Jennie

  “Turns out she didn’t die from a heart attack. Or rather, she did. Her heart stopped. But it was from an overdose of heart medication.”

  I stared at him. “You’re joking.”

  “I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”

  No, of course not. “Bad choice of words,” I said. “So . . . did she take them on purpose? Or was it an accident?”

  “No one knows,” Derek said. “She could have gotten confused and taken too many. Or she could have done it on purpose. It goes along with your theory about the babies, though. If she knew what her mother did, but didn’t know what had happened to the dead baby, the discovery of the skeleton must have given her a real scare. And when the DNA test showed that it didn’t match Mamie and Ruth, she might have thought it was only a matter of time before someone figured out the truth. And since she was an accessory to the kidnapping, she might have been worried about going to jail.”

  “Wayne wouldn’t have put her in jail. She was—what—nine back then? And doing what her mother told her to.”

  “Still,” Derek said. “She did help her mother commit a crime. A meaner, less understanding chief of police might throw the book at her.”

  I suppose. “That’s sad. I kind of hope she just got confused and didn’t do it on purpose. Not that it makes a difference—she’s dead either way—but at least she wouldn’t have known it was coming.”

  Derek nodded. We ate in silence for a few minutes. The news didn’t seem to have affected his appetite—then again, he’d known about it since this morning—but I found I wasn’t hungry anymore. This whole situation was sad, and getting more so all the time. Now there were not only a dead baby and two dead old ladies on my conscience, but the possibility that Henry would have to give up his house and his wealth and his business to John Nickerson, too. And while I liked John and wished him well, I felt rather bad for Henry. What must it be like, after sixty-five years, to have to give up not only who he thought he was, but all the power and prestige—and money—that came with the Silva name?

  People have committed murder for less.

  I glanced up at Derek. “Any chance that Henrietta had help taking those pills? That it wasn’t either intentional or an accident on her part?”

  He stopped chewing. “What are you saying, Tink?”

  “Work with me for a moment. Let’s say that Henry is actually Arthur, and the baby switch happened the way we’ve theorized that it did.”

  Derek nodded.

  “And let’s say that Henrietta knew about it. Not about the bones in the attic, since that was Ruth’s doing, but about the fact that her brother wasn’t actually her brother; he was Mamie and Ruth’s brother.”

  Derek nodded.

  “And let’s say that at some point she told him. Like last spring, when she had her heart attack and thought she was going to die. She wanted to unburden herself before she died, and so she told him what happened.”

  “OK.”

  “It didn’t really change anything. Not right then. I mean, she didn’t die, but she also wouldn’t have wanted it to get out, so she wasn’t really a threat to Henry. He moved her into the house on Cabot, so he could keep an eye on her and so she’d feel grateful to him for taking care of her, but he probably wasn’t too worried.”

  Derek nodded.

  “But then we found the bones, and suddenly things changed. Wayne determined that the baby’s DNA didn’t match Ruth and Mamie’s, and Henrietta was probably freaking out. Henry thought there was only a matter of time before she spilled the beans, to someone other than him this time, and so he decided to do away with her.”

  “Wayne said he had an alibi for the home tour,” Derek reminded me.

  “He’s been seeing Kerri Waldo. She lives just a few blocks away. It wouldn’t have taken more than a couple of minutes to walk down the street to his own house to kill his sister. Kerri might not even have noticed. There were times during the open house when you could have left Aunt Inga’s house by the kitchen door and been gone for fifteen minutes, and I wouldn’t have known the difference.”

  Derek didn’t say anything, just stared at me.

  “It’s a lot of money,” I reminded him. “The house on Cabot. The lumber business. He’ll lose all of it—to John Nickerson—if Wayne proves that he isn’t really Henry Silva.”

  “They’ll work it out,” Derek said. “John isn’t an unreasonable guy. And none of it is Henry’s fault. Or Arthur’s, or whoever he is. He was a baby when it happened. John won’t cast him out in the darkness where there’s weeping and gnashing of teeth. Henry doesn’t strike me as much of a gnasher anyway.”

  “Does he strike you as a murderer?”

  “No,” Derek said. “Although you’ve made a good case, Avery. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to run your theory past Wayne. And maybe warn John, if Wayne thinks you may be right.”

  “Can we go do that? Now?”

  “Sure.” He started looking around for the waitress and the check.

  “You know,” I told him when we were in the truck on our way home, “I kind of wish I hadn’t gone up into the attic.”

  He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Avery. This was all set into motion a long time ago. Whatever Henrietta chose to do—or Henry chose to do—isn’t on your head.”

  “I guess. And I suppose it was better that we found the skeleton than whoever we sold the house to. Could you imagine what would happen if we renovated the whole thing and sold it to someone else, and then, a year from now, they go up to the attic and find a baby skeleton? We’d get sued.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Derek said, pulling up in front of Aunt Inga’s house on Bayberry Lane. He continued once he’d come around the car and had opened the door to help me down, “No, Tink. It was much better that it was us. We even managed to keep it fairly quiet. There’s no stigma attached to the house. We’ll finish fixing it up, and someone will buy it and love it, and pretty soon you’ll have forgotten all about this.”

  That was going a little too far, I thought, but I didn’t say so. Mostly because, when he put his arm around me and guided me toward the house, a shadow loomed up in front of us and the light from the porch glinted off the barrel of a pistol.

  • • •

  “Whoa,” Derek said and stopped so fast that he rocked back on his heels.

  Darren—Darren?—glanced at him, but only for a second before he turned his attention back to me. That’s where the pistol was pointed, too. “This is all your fault.”

  “Hold on,” Derek said and pushed me behind him, “how is it her fault?”

  “The chief of police came,” Darren said, his voice tight, “to get Dad’s DNA.”

  “So?”

  “So when he figures out that Dad’s really Arthur Green, we’ll have to give Silva Lumber to that idiot John Nickerson.”

  “John isn’t an idiot,” I objected.

  Darren snorted. “He’s not a Silva, either.”

  Nor was Henry, it seemed, nor for that matter Darren himself, but it didn’t seem politic to point it out. Not right now.

  “Are there bullets in that thing?” Derek asked.

  Darren nodded. “I’ll use it if I have to.”

  I believed him. There was an edge to his voice, halfway between hysteria and anger, that made me feel quite uncomfortable.

  Derek must have noticed, too, but I couldn’t hear it in his voice. “What is it you think we can do for you? If your father isn’t Henry Silva, he isn’t Henry Silva. Nobody can change that.”

  “I know,” Darren said tightly.

  “If the chief of police is checking your father’s DNA, it’s not like he won’t find out.”

  “I know!”

  “So what is it you’re hoping to accomplish? If you can’t change the outcome anyway?”

  I didn’t say anything, but my mind was ticking furiously. Derek was right, of course. There was nothing Darren could do to change the outcome of what wa
s happening. If his father wasn’t Henry Silva, and wasn’t the heir to Silva Lumber, everyone would know about it as soon as Wayne got the results of his DNA test back. Shooting us—or me, since I seemed to be the focus of his anger; heck, even shooting Wayne!—wouldn’t change the facts. The only difference would be that Darren would end up in jail for cold-blooded murder.

  It seemed a stupid chance to take just so he could register his annoyance with me.

  Granted, he probably wasn’t thinking too clearly. But he wasn’t stupid, so he had to know that shooting two people in cold blood wouldn’t do him any favors.

  Unless . . .

  “I want her to pay,” Darren said.

  “You’ll go to jail if you shoot her.”

  “I’ll only shoot her if you don’t do as I say. Turn around and walk back to the car.”

  Derek hesitated. I could feel it. “C’mon,” I said, tugging on his coat. Darren might not want to shoot me—it seemed like he had something more unpleasant planned—but if he was determined to make me pay, he might not be too particular about shooting Derek to get to me. I’d rather keep my husband in one piece for as long as possible. Not only because I love him, but because, with two of us, we’d stand a better chance of outwitting Darren.

  Derek muttered something, but he turned. He made sure to keep himself between me and Darren on our way back to the truck, though.

  “Get in,” Darren said. “You drive.”

  He was talking to Derek. “I can drive,” I said.

  “No,” Darren said. “You sit in the middle.”

  Fine. It wasn’t like I particularly wanted to drive anyway. My hands were shaking too much, and I might not be able to keep the truck on the road.

  I got into the middle and Derek got behind the wheel. Meanwhile, Darren crawled in beside me with the pistol. His thigh crowded mine, and his shoulder, too, but there wasn’t anything I could do about in the close confines of the cab. I certainly didn’t want to hamper Derek in anything he had to do.

  “Drive,” Darren told him and wiggled the gun.

  Derek put the truck in gear and pulled away from the curb. “Where?”

  “The house on North Street.”

  “What are you going to do when we get there?” I asked.

  Darren smiled. Tightly. Probably at the wobble in my voice. “You’re going to have a little accident.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  “There’s a gas leak,” Darren said. “Very unfortunate.”

  Indeed. He’d probably arranged for the gas leak already. By the time we got there, the house would be filled with gas. A match would make it go up like a bonfire.

  A memory of being locked inside my garden shed while flamed licked at the walls closed my throat for a moment, and I gulped. Derek reached out his free hand and put it on my thigh. I twisted my fingers with his.

  “No touching,” Darren barked.

  I made to pull my hand back, but Derek held on. “What are you gonna do?” he asked. “Shoot us?”

  Probably not. Not if he wanted it to look like we’d succumbed to a gas leak. And not if he wanted to keep the car on the road. I kept my hand where it was, too.

  We got there sooner than I wanted to. It wasn’t a long drive, after all. And by the time Derek pulled the car to a stop outside the house, I was no closer to a plan for how to disarm Darren. I’d risk the bullet if I thought there was any chance that he’d miss, but he had the gun stuck in my ribs, so I figured resistance was futile.

  He opened the door and hopped out first, the ends of his fancy cashmere coat flapping. “Let’s go.”

  I twitched my fingers out of Derek’s hand and scooted across the seat as slowly as I possibly could. “I still don’t understand why you’re doing this. It can’t be just that you’re upset because your father isn’t really Henry Silva. I mean, I know it’s a lot of money, and I’m sure you’re not looking forward to trading in the Mercedes and working for a living—”

  “Shut up!” Darren growled.

  “But it seems there ought to be something more than that.”

  If he wasn’t trying to preserve his money and position—and for that he’d be better served by shooting John Nickerson than me—what was he trying to do?

  There are only a few reasons most people commit murder. If you disregard the sickos, the ones who kill people because they like to, the others break down into three groups, generally speaking. The ones who kill for money, the ones who kill for revenge, and the ones who kill out of fear. Darren said he wanted revenge because I’d exposed his father and had probably taken away his inheritance, but that didn’t make sense. He couldn’t kill me for money, since me being dead wouldn’t help him get his money back. His father wouldn’t magically become Henry Silva if I were dead.

  That left fear.

  But what was he afraid of?

  And that’s when it hit me. That whole conversation I’d just had with Derek over pizza . . . it could equally well apply to Darren.

  Darren, whom Derek had accused of only being interested in money. Darren, who stood to lose his fortune and his position, too, if Henry lost everything.

  “You killed Henrietta,” I said.

  I knew I’d struck home when his lips thinned. “My aunt died of a heart attack.”

  “One brought on by an overdose of heart medication.” I went out on a limb and added, “An overdose she didn’t take herself.”

  “You can’t prove it,” Darren said, which was more of a confession than I’d thought I’d get, at least so soon. “She was distraught about the baby switch. She was afraid of going to jail.”

  So I was right about the baby switch. Darren probably didn’t even realize he’d admitted it, and I wasn’t about to clue him in. He already had reasons enough for hating me. “Did she tell you that?”

  “She told me everything!” Darren snapped.

  “Everything?”

  Suddenly, the words started spilling out. It was as if I’d flipped a switch after he’d been waiting for an opportunity to talk to someone. Or maybe he’d just been simmering for so long that it finally boiled over. “It was when she had her heart attack. She thought she was dying, so she told me everything. Deathbed confession.” His face twisted. “She told me how my dad isn’t really her brother, and isn’t a Silva, and how I’m not, either, and how her mother made her keep Mamie and Ruth busy while she switched her dead baby for their live one.”

  “She told you all of that?”

  He nodded. “And then she didn’t die after all. But I knew I had to do something.”

  “So you killed her.”

  “No.” He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “She said she didn’t know what had happened to the dead baby. The Green sisters were just supposed to tell their mother that the baby was dead, and that was supposed to be it, but instead they told everyone it had been stolen. Henrietta said her mother went crazy for days, and wouldn’t take the baby out of the house for fear someone would recognize him. Luckily everyone in town was doing the same thing, because they were so afraid of the baby thief.”

  Luckily.

  “So what happened?” I was fascinated, in spite of myself. Not quite fascinated enough to be able to disregard the gun pointed at me, but the story filled some of the gaps I’d been wondering about.

  “Eventually things died down,” Darren said. “The baby was never found. Henrietta said Ruth and Mamie must have done something to it. I needed to search the house, so I made Ruth fall down the stairs and break her hip, so she had to go to the hospital. A little grease on the stairs did the job nicely. And Mamie couldn’t stay there alone, so I arranged to have them both live at the nursing home.” He smiled, pleased with himself.

  “That was nice of you,” I managed, to keep the conversation going. But I must not have managed to keep the horror out of my voice, because he looked at me rather narrowly. I added, “So you searched the house?”

  “I searched everywhere. The yard, the basement, the playhouse. I eve
n stuck my head into that damn attic and looked around. I didn’t find anything.”

  “The crate was there,” I said. “You must have overlooked it. It was hard to see, up against the wall and wedged in beside the chimney.”

  He scowled. “I should have burned the house down then, instead of selling it to you.”

  That might have been better. Even if the word “then”—as opposed to now—sent a chill down my spine. “Why didn’t you?”

  He shrugged. “I’d already checked it out and hadn’t found anything, so I figured it was safe. That way I could use that money to pay for Ruth and Mamie’s bills, and I wouldn’t have to spend ours.”

  “So why did you end up killing Henrietta after all? By then, we’d found the skeleton and everyone knew.”

  “I killed Mamie first,” Darren said in the same tone as someone might say, “I went to the grocery store first,” “and Henrietta found out. She was going back and forth about whether to tell my dad. He might have cut me off, and I couldn’t risk that.”

  Of course not. “Why did you kill Mamie? She had no idea what Ruth did with the baby. She probably thought he was kidnapped.”

  “She did,” Darren growled. “But I couldn’t have her go back and tell Ruth I’d asked about it. So I left her in the playhouse and jimmied the lock so she couldn’t get out.”

  “So the story about her getting out of the car in front of the liquor store was just a story.”

  “Of course.” He sounded impatient. “I took her to the playhouse and left her there. With a little knock on the head so she wouldn’t think about leaving. And then I drove to the liquor store, in case the police checked that I’d been there. I got a bottle of wine and I made a big fuss in the parking lot about not finding my aunt. Then I drove around for thirty minutes looking for her before I called the police to report her missing.”

  “And by the time we found her, she was dead.”

  He shrugged.

  “I suppose you went down there, to the playhouse, in your fancy dress shoes, because you were afraid you’d left tracks or DNA or something when you were there the first time.”

  He didn’t answer, which I took as confirmation. I added, “So when Henrietta realized you’d helped Mamie along, you thought you’d better get rid of her, too?”