“Ah, the Burglar books,” I said, about the Lawrence Block series with a burglar as protagonist.
“I get the irony.”
It’s not irony, I was about to say, but let it drop.
“I read the odd Block or Dick Francis book, you know, just to break up the monotony of Better Guns and Ammo magazine. I may not appreciate opera and the symphony; I may like baseball and Motown and beer better, but . . .” He trailed off and shook his head, frowning down at the leather couch.
Where did that rant come from? I wondered. I watched him, trying to figure the guy out. “Actually this is more John Dickson Carr than Agatha Christie,” I said slowly. “It’s a classic locked-room mystery. How did the door get locked after the crime?”
“I don’t have any ideas that don’t involve climbing through air vents,” he admitted.
“Actually, I have a question and a piece of information,” I said, pushing his shoulder to get him to sit. I dropped down beside him on the leather couch, our knees touching as I turned sideways. “First, is it possible that Lauda could have borrowed Minnie’s mail truck and driven out here? I can’t help thinking she is the one who benefits most, as inheritor.”
He nodded. “I’ve been doing a little probing into that, but Minnie is hard to tackle. In every way. I’ve got an officer talking to those who know her habits to try to get the inside scoop.”
That probably explained why she had been so rude to me in the coffee shop; she felt she was being hounded. I wondered about the other things Gogi had mentioned about Minnie, but my mind returned to the mystery at hand. “Also, Virgil, I never considered this a possibility, but it has come to my attention that the gold cigarette butt may have been Cleta’s own, and the one I vacuumed up in the dining room, too. It’s entirely possible that she smoked the occasional cigarette, and that’s why she disappeared after a meal, to feed the habit.”
He nodded. “That confirms something the pathologist mentioned. She had the lungs of an occasional smoker. There were two packages of odd cigarettes among her belongings.” He took my hand in his and squeezed. “I wish to hell you could just send the whole lot of them packing! I don’t like having you here with them, as unlikely a murderer as each and every one of them is.”
I looked down at our joined hands, my long fingers enclosed in his, his thumb rubbing mine. He released my hand and briskly said, “Anyway, like I said, I’ve got a deputy coming to take notes. If you could, wait half an hour then send each one in. I’m going to ask them to just go to their rooms after talking to me, because I don’t want any chat about what questions I’m asking and what we talked about.”
“Will you tell me what happens?”
He sighed and compressed his lips, looking at me with an exasperated expression. “No.”
“I had to try,” I said with a shrug. I stood. “I’ll go and serve dessert to the ladies. Can I bring you a coffee cake muffin and coffee?”
“Sure.” He held up two fingers.
“Two muffins?”
He nodded. I brought him his coffee and muffins and met the deputy, a serious-looking young woman in uniform, then waited half an hour, sitting and having coffee with the ladies in the parlor. I sent along the first one, and so on, keeping an eye on them in between. It was an uneventful, boring evening, and after a couple of hours they were done. The deputy had already left, and Virgil and I stood in the great hall near the doorway.
“Was it a productive evening?” I asked.
“You never stop trying, do you?” He smiled down at me. He put his big hands on my shoulders, rubbing and squeezing.
“I’m very persistent,” I said. My voice was unexpectedly husky, and the feeling was extremely intimate, even in the cavernous reaches of the great hall. I felt like we were wrapped in darkness, alone in the world, and I was waiting, face tilted up to him.
“God, kiss her already, will ya?” Lizzie’s voice echoed in the great hall. “Guys are so weird.”
“Lizzie, what are you doing here?” I turned and peered into the darkness as Virgil dropped his hands from my shoulders.
“Getting a can of soda,” she said, approaching us and looking between us. She was shorter than both of us and dressed in pajamas, so we made a very strange trio. She popped the top on her Dr Pepper and took a slurp.
“Okay, I gotta go,” Virgil said.
Lizzie cheerfully waved good-bye to the sheriff and waited while I locked up. Sheesh . . . didn’t the kid have any tact? We were thisclose to kissing good night, I thought, and she spoiled it. “Okay, chaperone, you can go back up to bed now,” I griped.
“What’s up with you?” she asked.
I stared at her, and her cheeks tinted—rare for the brash teenager. “Oh. You really were hoping he’d kiss you, right? And I spoiled it?”
I put my arm over her shoulders and walked with her toward the stairs. “Don’t worry about it, kiddo. If he hasn’t kissed me yet, it’s not likely that it would have happened tonight. He was in investigator mode.”
“I wanted him to leave so I could talk to you,” she said. She sat down on the bottom step of the sweeping staircase, so I sat down next to her. Becket trotted down the stairs and sat between us.
“What’s up?”
“Well, first . . . I was sneaking . . . uh, going past the library and the door was open a crack. That Mrs. Schwartz . . . She’s got a soft voice, you know, but it’s kinda carrying? And I heard what she was telling Sheriff Grace.”
I shouldn’t ask, I shouldn’t ask . . . I was going to ask. Or . . . I didn’t have to.
Lizzie went on, “She was telling Sheriff Grace that during the card party she went upstairs to go to the washroom, and said she didn’t use the one downstairs because it was occupado, you know? But when she was upstairs she wasn’t in her own room. I was getting ready to go out to the woods to shoot and ran up to get a filter out of my room. I saw Mrs. Schwartz sneaking into Miss Sanson’s room, real shiftylike.”
Patsy Schwartz looking shifty going into Cleta’s room. And she claimed the downstairs bathroom was occupied? But that would have been before Cleta was killed, I thought, because Lizzie left before the kerfuffle between Patsy and Janice Grover, and that was just when I noticed Cleta missing and went looking for her myself. Although I still wasn’t sure about the timeline. Cleta could have been dead, and Patsy may have known that if she killed the woman herself. Could someone that tiny smother a larger woman, though? “She was sneaking into Cleta’s room. You’re sure it was Cleta’s?”
Lizzie nodded and took a slurp of pop. Becket batted at her hand, pulling the pop can toward him and sniffing it. “I’m sure. I’ve helped Juniper clean it before.”
I looked over at her. “Is Juniper using you as an undermaid?” I asked sharply. “You’re not supposed to be doing that, you know.”
She shrugged. “It’s cool. I don’t mind once in a while. Juniper is all right. She taught me how to flatten a guy with one punch to the nuts.”
I choked on my spit and ended up in a coughing fit. “Really? Really? Lizzie, I . . .” I shook my head. There weren’t words, and I didn’t think I could protest without ending up in a giggling fit anyway. Poor guy she dated first! However, it wasn’t the worst life skill, I thought. Most women have had at least one occasion when they could have used the ability. “I wonder what she wanted in Cleta’s room?”
“I don’t know,” Lizzie said. “I went to my room and got the filter, but I think she was still in the room when I left.”
“Have you told Virgil this?”
She was silent.
“Lizzie!”
“I’ll tell him tomorrow. Jeez, they’re all like a hundred. I don’t think any of ’em killed her. Anyway, at first I didn’t remember it, and the cops didn’t ask me much, since I was gone from the castle when it happened.”
“I’m phoning Virgil in the morning and you are
talking to him directly. Tell him exactly what you told me.”
“All right, okay! Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
“Where on earth did you learn that phrase?”
“Miss Sanson said it once to Juniper. She used a lot of phrases with knickers in them. She said once that Mrs. Schwartz was ‘all fur coat, no knickers.’” She giggled.
I was silent. I could think of no legitimate reason why Patsy would sneak into Cleta Sanson’s room, and the timing . . . that day, the very day Cleta was murdered, seemed too much of a coincidence.
“Off to bed, Lizzie. First thing tomorrow you’re going to talk to the sheriff. Why didn’t you do that tonight, while he was here?”
“I wanted to talk to you about it first,” she said.
I smiled in the dimness; she was a good kid, even if her outlook was a little skewed by past problems with the police. “Virgil’s one of the good guys, you know,” I said.
She nodded. “I know. He gave me a hard time when I . . . when I caused all that trouble, but he’s been okay since.”
“Lizzie, why did you do what you did—the damage in the cemetery? Do you mind telling me now?”
She was quiet for a minute, and bent over at the waist, petting Becket. “I guess it’s okay,” she said, her voice oddly strained. “That was so long ago.”
Almost a year; I guess that is a long time when you’re fifteen.
“Mom had just brought me back to Autumn Vale, and Grandma was always giving me a hard time and fighting with Mom. I thought . . . I felt like I’d break something or . . . or hit someone, even though I didn’t want to, not really. I didn’t have anyone to talk to.” She paused. “Except . . . except Dad . . . Tom. I wish I’d known he was my father. We were talking and I told him how I felt. He told me I needed to take out my aggression somewhere. Said he had a problem with that. too. So I went to the cemetery and . . . God, it sounds so stupid now!”
“Dumb stuff we do always seems more stupid in retrospect. What happened?”
“I don’t even remember my grandfather . . . you know, Mom’s dad. But I found his grave and I sat there for a while and drank a can of beer I stole out of the fridge. I had some spray paint ’cause . . .” She shifted. “Just because. I read what his gravestone said. ‘To those who knew and loved him, his memory will never grow old.’ And I just . . .” She shrugged. “I was so freaking mad. I never knew or loved him. I didn’t even remember him. So I spray-painted the tombstone with a pretty awful word.”
“What happened then?”
“Groundskeeper caught me and hauled me to the police. I had to do some community service. Mrs. Grace was the one who came in and talked to them. She said if I talked to the old folks, I’d understand.”
I would bet my favorite Prada bag that Virgil was the one who’d involved his mother. “Did you? Understand, I mean?”
“Why it was wrong? Well, sure; I knew that when I did it. I went back and cleaned the paint off, you know. And I told my grandma I was sorry.” She sighed deeply. “It was okay, working at Golden Acres. I really like Mr. Dread; he’s hilarious. He tells the most awesome stories. Too bad Gordy believes ’em all.”
“Have you talked with your mom about it, why you were so mad?”
She shrugged. “No, but we’re cool. It’s okay.”
“Lizzie, that is what it is not.” I reached out and pulled her into a hug. “It is not okay. It’s never okay until you say how you feel, especially at your age. Life’s tough, but it’s easier when you talk about stuff.” I released her and looked into her eyes, as best I could in the dim light. “Talk to your mother. And talk to your grandmother! I know you’ve apologized, but ask her questions. She can tell you about your grandpa, and maybe you’ll get to know him. Better late than never. I wish my mom had told me stuff about my Wynter family. I’m having to explore it in history books and photo albums. Thanks to you, I now know . . .” My voice cracked and I cleared my throat. “I know that my dad loved me. I can see it in his face in that photo.”
We parted, after she promised to talk to her mom right away and tell her how she felt. I returned to the kitchen and dumped the dregs of the tea and cleaned the coffeemaker. I popped the leftover muffins into a plastic bag, labeled it, and stuck it in the freezer. I loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the sink, leaving the china dishes beside it to wash the next day, and retrieved the coffee can of cigarette butts from under the sink, where I’d stashed it when I brought it down from the attic. I decided to dump the butts in the trash and rinse the coffee can out so it could be recycled.
I turned on the task lighting over the stove, dragged the trash can out and opened it, and dumped the cigarette butts into it. I was stopped dead by something and bent over to look, holding my breath against the awful odor of cigarettes. There, among the other plain white butts, were two gold-tipped ones, the tiny crest on the gold filter wrapper a dead giveaway.
What was Juniper doing with two Treasurer Gold cigarettes, Cleta’s exclusive brand?
Chapter Nineteen
IN THE MORNING, before school, I made Lizzie talk to Virgil. She told him what she had seen upstairs—Patsy going into Cleta’s room during the party. It was an odd thing, and he was appreciative, though he was miffed that she hadn’t told him earlier because he could have used it when talking to Patsy. I didn’t tell him about Juniper having Cleta’s cigarettes. It didn’t have anything to do with the investigation, as far as I knew; it was just something I had to talk to her about.
I was trying to decide what to do with my day, dreading another round of stripping wallpaper in my own room. It was a glorious spring morning—a light fragrant breeze wafted from the woods and blue sky arced above my head. The ladies were all upstairs performing their morning toilettes, whatever they consisted of, and I was outside sweeping the flagstone terrace. The castle was beginning to lose its forbidding look since I had planted some lilac trees and filled quickly dug gardens with tulips and daffodils for spring color. Flowers always help, I figure, but still, the scale was all wrong and I knew I needed advice. This was not a pretty Cape Cod cottage or woodsy cabin; it was a grand castle and I didn’t have a clue how to landscape it.
As I was sweeping and thinking, a car came up the lane and ground to a halt in the gravel parking area with a shush and spray of grit. I stood with my broom, waiting, and a heavyset woman eased herself from the driver’s seat. I recognized her and was ready when she ambled to the terrace and eyed me.
“Are you Mrs. Wynter?” she asked, her voice a sweet and husky tenor.
“Just Merry,” I said, and put out my hand. Despite the fact that she couldn’t have looked less like her mother if she had sprouted antennae and multiple eyes, I knew who she was and said, “You’re Pattycakes, Patsy Schwartz’s daughter. I’m so glad you’ve come. Your mother has been missing you so much.”
She was a big woman, nicely dressed in a colorful tunic top and pale blue slacks. She had a ready smile, sparkling eyes, and full lips. Her face was round and chubby, and she swayed when she walked. She took my hand but pulled me into a bear hug, squeezing me hard. Breathless when she released me, I rocked back on my heels as she stepped back and looked up at the castle.
“Wow! Mama tried to describe it, and I looked online but I couldn’t find any photos. I didn’t imagine it being anything like this!”
I smiled. “Do you have bags? Let me help you, and I’ll take you up to your mother.” I guided her through the great hall and upstairs. It was a lovely reunion. Patsy burst into tears as her daughter enveloped her in one of her strong hugs.
I descended and heard a commotion in the library. I headed there but Lauda charged out of the room, her face red and her hands balled into fists. She shoved me aside. “Hey. Hey!” I yelled. “Lauda, what’s wrong?” She didn’t turn, just bolted up the stairs, thudding heavily up the wooden steps.
I headed to the library. Vanessa was there, a
nd she was pale and looked frightened. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”
She shook her head, quivering. I crossed the room and sat on the sofa next to her. “Vanessa, please tell me what’s wrong. Lauda seemed very angry. She shoved me. She didn’t hurt you, did she?”
“No, no, of course not.” She hugged herself, rubbing her shoulder.
“You have to tell me what happened.”
“It was nothing, Merry, really! I just . . . She’s been acting so oddly, and we’ve all been looking at one another with suspicion. I so wish it was over! I just asked her if she had anything to do with her aunt’s death. I asked if there was an accident. She went a little crazy.”
“Are you absolutely sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, Merry, I’m just fine. Please . . . don’t make a big deal out of this,” Vanessa said and took my hand, squeezing. “She was just upset. I didn’t mean to accuse her. That’s probably what she thought I was doing.”
I had to let it go. An hour or two later I was in the kitchen starting lunch when Pattycakes appeared, tapping on the doorframe hesitantly before entering.
I looked over my shoulder. “Come on in! I’ve tried to tell the ladies this is not a hotel, it’s a home, no matter what it looks like. You don’t have to tap on doors before you come in. Feel free to come into the kitchen for tea or coffee or a snack anytime.”
“I just wanted to know if I could help in any way,” she asked.
“No helping for guests.”
“Oh.”
I glanced back at her and saw how downcast she seemed. “Is everything okay?”
She nodded. But I could tell that wasn’t true.
“Did you want to cook? Is that it?”
Her eyes lit up and she entered, waving chubby ring-laden hands. “This kitchen is like a wonderland! You have no idea. I had to move to Rochester for a job, and then I was canned and left sitting in a lousy little furnished apartment with no real place to cook or bake.” Her eyes wide, she turned in a complete circle. “This kitchen is like a dream come true! I’d love to make my mama’s favorite cake for dessert, if it wouldn’t be stepping on anyone’s toes.”
Death of an English Muffin Page 21
