“Why do you think it’s obvious who killed her?”
“Mrs. A wasn’t into anything illegal, she wasn’t cheatin’ on anyone or tryin’ to steal some other woman’s man. It has to be the house, and I only know one person who could lay claim to it, will or no.”
“You mean Mrs. McEvoy.”
He nodded and handed her the bread basket.
She plucked out a round, nicely browned yeast roll, so light she had to be careful not to crush it.
“Did Mrs. Ashton tell you about the threats?”
“What threats?” he asked, slathering his roll with butter.
“She entrusted me with threats that had been left for her in the house.”
“You kiddin’ me? So that’s why she had you there. I knew somethin’ must be up. She didn’t have any stay-over company since I started working for her.”
“Yep. She said Mrs. McEvoy wrote them.”
“See? What’d I tell you? I suppose you turned them over to the police.”
She nodded. “Just like Mrs. Ashton asked me to.”
“Good.” Arthur grinned at her. She studied his face, trying not to be too obvious about it.
“So, what’s on your schedule now?” Arthur asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What you mean you don’t know? You got a whole life to pick back up. Nobody puttin’ locks on your doors.”
“Mrs. Ashton didn’t want her murderer to get away with it.”
“And you made sure she won’t. You delivered the threats and told the police what you know. Your part’s done with.”
“I know, it’s just—”
“Just nothin’. She paid you, you did all that she asked, now forget it.”
“But what if it wasn’t Eileen, Arthur? What if Mary was mistaken?”
“What kind of wild idea you got in your head now?”
“I don’t know, but I understand Melba hated her, too. She had free run of that house. She got in my room to let Muffy out with no problem.”
“Now there you go gettin’ sidetracked. I’m sure Mrs. Ashton knew better than anyone who wanted her dead. Wouldn’t you? Besides, what would Melba have to gain now?”
“What did she have to gain before?” Jennifer asked, suddenly aware of the implication.
“Look, I don’t like to talk out of school. He’s dead now anyway.”
“You’re talking about Shelby, aren’t you? Is that why Melba stayed on? Was there something going on between the two of them?” It was strange for her to think of older people like that, maybe being in love, or at least one in love with the other, and never settling it between the two of them.
“Nah. Heck, I don’t know anything about it. All’s I know once he became ill, she took care of him like he was her own baby, waitin’ on him, shushin’ the rest of us, even Mary, like we had no right to be around him. But none of this is no matter. You think too much. You need to let it all go.”
“Good advice.”
“That’s right. Now get on with your salad. I didn’t come all the way over here and cook just to have you sit and stare at my food.”
She broke off a piece of bread. It melted in her mouth. But something kept nagging in the back of her mind even as he got up to bring in the frittata. Something didn’t seem quite right, if only she could figure out what it was.
Chapter 20
Melba would know. Jennifer was convinced of it as she guided her car mindlessly up Vineville Avenue on the excuse that getting out of her apartment, even for a few minutes, might help to clear her head. Jennifer flicked off the radio. As much as she liked Santana, she needed quiet.
Melba would know who, other than Eileen, might have been a threat to Mary, and how that person could have delivered those notes, assuming she hadn’t done it herself.
Melba’s planting them would be the simplest solution, but, if she’d murdered Mary, why had she gone to such lengths when a little something extra in the afternoon tea would have been a whole lot easier and probably never be questioned?
Hatred. Brutal, raw hatred. It drove some people to take chances they otherwise would never take. But had Melba hated Mary that much? If she did, how could she have stayed in that house all these years, especially after Shelby died?
But the biggest question of all, at least at the moment, was how to get Melba to talk to her.
She found her Beetle moving on autopilot toward the historic district. What could it hurt, just to swing by the house for a quick look? She drove past, parked two streets over at one of the municipal parks, and walked back along the shaded sidewalks to the Ashton mansion. She hoped she didn’t look half as conspicuous as she felt.
Maybe she could scout around the building, get some idea of how many outside doors there were and where they lay, while she figured out a scheme to approach Melba. How those threats were delivered could hold the key to Mary’s murder.
The police seemed to be gone, at least for now, but crime scene tape was stretched between the columns to block the front door. Another tape ran all the way around the front yard from the brick wall on one side to the tall hedge on the other. She looked both ways, then slipped under the tape and circled around the driveway toward the back of the house. She wasn’t about to touch anything, only look. What could that hurt? There had to be an entrance leading up from the basement and one in the rear of the house, and, quite possibly, one on one side. Or maybe not. Security had to have been a consideration.
Years of vegetation hugged the stone foundation, mostly flowering shrubs—azaleas and rhododendrons—with annuals—impatiens and johnny-jump-ups—forming a narrow border between them and the grass. It didn’t look as though a person could slip behind the thick growth even if there were a window that could easily be jimmied. They certainly couldn’t do it without leaving evidence that they’d squeezed through. But, as best as she could see, nothing had been disturbed.
When she arrived at the back of the house, she froze. The doors to one of the outbuildings stood open. Someone was on the property.
She heard a metallic screech across stone and saw Melba emerging from behind a tall hedge, struggling with a wrought iron patio chair.
“Need some help with that?” Jennifer offered, her heart rate returning almost to normal.
Melba, dressed in overalls and with a scarf around her hair, looked up, startled, but she recovered quickly. She wiped her brow with the back of her arm and then pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and brandished it. “You’re trespassing. I’ll give you thirty seconds to get out of here. Then I’m calling 911.”
“Will you? I suspect you’re not supposed to be here, either. I didn’t see your name listed as an exception on that ‘do not cross’ tape, and I don’t think the police will look kindly on someone tampering with a murder scene.”
“I can’t leave this furniture outside. Somebody will steal it. Everybody who can read half a sentence or has turned on a TV or radio in the last twenty-four hours knows this house is empty. What do you expect me to do?” She slipped the phone back into her pocket.
“Whatever you like. But I need to talk to you.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Me? Mary allowed you under her roof for one night, and she wound up dead. I don’t have anything to say to the likes of you.”
“You really believe I let someone in the house, don’t you?”
“If you didn’t, who did?”
Jennifer shrugged. “If I had to bet, I’d say you know this house better than anybody living.”
From the stony look on her face, Jennifer realized Melba was not about to have Jennifer turn the tables on her. “What business could that ever be of yours?”
“Mary made it my business.”
“So it’s Mary now, is it? You meet her on Sunday, move in on Monday, and by Tuesday, when she’s dead, you’re on a first-name basis with her.”
“You have keys to the house,” Jennifer pointed out. “And you knew the security system.”
“And I live alone a
nd saw no one after I went home for the night. You won’t cast your suspicions in my direction.”
“How much privacy did you afford the Ashtons over the years? How many secrets were you privy to?” Jennifer knew she shouldn’t have said it, even as the words were tumbling out.
Melba seethed. Without a retort, she drew the phone from her pocket and pushed in three numbers. “I want to report a prowler...”
Jennifer didn’t wait to hear the rest of her sentence. Melba was not one to cut anyone any slack, and once she disliked someone, Jennifer suspected that she didn’t change her mind.
Chapter 21
If Jennifer had been tired earlier, she wasn’t quite sure what to call what she was experiencing now, maybe a total body meltdown.
The answering machine light was blinking frantically when she opened her door.
Beeeeep!
Jennifer, where have you been? I’ve been calling all afternoon. Dee Dee sounded anxious. Five people have called me since two o’clock asking me for our services starting this Friday night and on into the next three weeks. I already had that child’s party and an anniversary dinner scheduled for Sunday. These are big clients, Jen, and I don’t want to give them up. I can handle a couple of these by myself and I’ve called Trudy and asked her to help, but some of the clients specifically—
Beeeeep!
I hate these machines. They never give you enough time to say what you need to. Anyway, I’ll need at least three of your new vegetable bouquets and two of the rings. I tried to talk them out of it but they insisted. I know they’re time consuming to make, you’re busy and probably don’t want to do it, especially with this late—
Beeeeep!
Lots of cursing going on over here. Just glad I’ve got you on speed dial. See what you can do. And, oh, they want your broccoli salad, too. Call me.
Beeeeep!
Me, again. You’re the best, Jen. Sorry if I sound like a shrew.
At the moment, Jennifer had only one purpose in life, and it had nothing to do with writing or catering. It had to do with sleep. She grabbed the cord to the machine and yanked it out of the wall.
In a galaxy far, far away the phone was ringing. Or so she wished. She’d like to send that phone into space.
Jennifer fumbled for the receiver on her bedside table, stretched too far, and went tumbling out of bed, tangling in her sheet and taking her alarm clock down with her. She lay flat on her back, like a butterfly stuck in a cocoon, staring at the ceiling, listening to the phone ring and wondering why she felt such compulsion to answer the blasted thing when four out of five times it was a telemarketer. She actually owned a working answering machine. Why the heck wasn’t it picking up? Then she remembered that she’d unplugged it.
Muffy trotted around from the other side of the bed, stared down at her, panting, her tail wagging vigorously, then leaned down and slurped at her cheek.
She pushed Muffy away, and the creature slunk back. Darn. She didn’t mean to hurt her feelings, but it was far too early to deal with dog germs. She rubbed at her cheek as she tried to rise up, but the sheet had her firmly anchored.
Rinnnnng!
“That’s all right, sweetie,” Jennifer assured the dog, reaching out a hand. But Muffy knew when she’d been rejected. She pulled back, just out of petting distance, and purposely ignored her.
Rinnnnng!
She picked up the alarm clock off the floor where it had landed beside her. It read ten-thirty. The rays of light escaping into the room through her closed mini-blinds assured her it was A.M., not P.M. She hadn’t slept through the entire day after all. Another goal shot all to heck.
And again the phone rang. She pushed herself up and stretched far enough to strain the muscle in her back and grab the receiver, the body of the phone toppling off the table, just missing her head. She offered a hoarse hello.
“I was getting worried about you. You sound terrible. Is everything all right?”
“Leigh Ann, I was asleep.”
“Really? I’m sorry. Should I call back later?”
Jennifer groaned. “What is it?”
“I only have a minute. My boss finally stepped out of the office. I’m just reporting in. Don’t operatives report in?”
That’s right. She’d put Leigh Ann on assignment. She tried to get her eyes to open wider, but they weren’t cooperating. “So what did you find out?”
“I finally got that Douglas Wexler on the phone yesterday afternoon, but he refused to talk to me. He said everything he knows is in his book, and he doesn’t vouch for any of it. Says he just reports what he’s told, doesn’t confirm or deny the existence of ghosts. He refused to give me the name of his source for Amy Loggins and then had the nerve to try to sell me his new book, a two-volume set about the ghosts of Atlanta.”
“I see. So when do you get it?”
“No later than Tuesday. It’s coming express.”
“Remind me again why you woke me up?” Jennifer’s phone made one of those annoying beeps that signals that another call is coming in. “Hold on just a moment, Leigh Ann.” She pushed the flash button. “Hello.”
“What do you mean going off to stay in some woman’s house and not telling anyone where you were going?” It was Teri.
Not telling anyone obviously meant not telling her.
“You are all right, aren’t you?” Teri added.
“Yes.” If being trapped in her own bedroom like a mummy was all right.
“Did Leigh Ann tell you what we found out?”
“She was just about to when you beeped in. She’s on the other line.”
“Don’t move a muscle.” As if she could. “I’ll beep in with Leigh Ann and get us all on conference call.”
Modern technology. Thank goodness none of them yet owned a video phone.
“You still there?” Leigh Ann asked.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Jennifer told them.
“We found out one thing,” Leigh Ann said. “Rich people don’t like to answer their doors. And the ones who do, sure don’t like to talk about ghosts.” Leigh Ann sighed.
“Does that mean you two had no luck?” Jennifer asked.
“Heck, no,” Teri said. “You give us an assignment and we don’t come back until we’ve got it.”
“Then you found the person this Wexler talked to about the Loggins sightings.”
“I think so, or someone just as good,” Leigh Ann assured her. “A lane runs behind the Ashton mansion. There’s not a huge amount of land with those houses. They were in-town houses, after all. A lot of the people who built them had plantations in the country. We scouted around the house to a point where we could get a good view of those two windows in the back, on the corner of the third floor. We figured—”
“Excuse me,” Teri interrupted.
“That is, Teri figured that someone seeing anything in that room had to live on that back lane, and as they wouldn’t talk to us at their doors—”
“Leigh Ann pretended to be conducting a survey. She’d ring the bell, pull out a notebook, and start in with ‘We’re recording psychic phenomena in the area.’”
“So anyway Teri had this idea that we might catch someone out on the lane going for a walk, and we did.”
“Some old codger with a slow, shuffling gait, and a dog the size of his fist on a twelve-foot leash.”
“Oh, it couldn’t have been that long,” Leigh Ann insisted.
“Do you mind?” Jennifer asked. If she didn’t love them, she would have hung up and let them talk to each other. No telling how long it’d take for them to notice.
“We tried to make friends with his dog. Meanest little critter. Bit the blood out of my finger. Anyway, Teri started talking about how it creeped her out to be in that neighborhood at night after what happened to Mary. Very smooth. Then I threw in the part about Amy Loggins’s ghost.”
“That man had the slowest drawl I’ve ever heard,” Teri added. “I mean he just could not get those words out. It was painful. By
the time he got to the end of the sentence you’d forget what the first part was about.”
“What did he say?” Jennifer asked.
“He heard something the night Mary died,” Leigh Ann said. “He lives in the house just behind the Ashtons. It woke him up. He described it as a soft, low moan of her name, ‘Mary, Mary,’ being carried by the breeze real eerie-like. He only heard it twice, but he was sure it was the ghost calling to her dead spirit.”
“Leigh Ann, that was me, screaming out the window at the top of my lungs,” Jennifer told her.
“Oh,” Leigh Ann said.
“How old was this guy?” Jennifer added.
“I don’t know. What would you say, Teri?”
“Really old. He said he remembered Amy Loggins when she was alive, so he has to be ancient.”
“He told us he used to watch her,” Leigh Ann added, “up there in that room, her hair wild, her eyes even wilder, pressing her face up against the glass, looking out as far as she could see from her room, watching for Sherman, watching for the burnings,” Leigh Ann said. “Of course she was an old woman by then.”
“He said his father told him she got out once,” Teri added. “Scared the the bejesus out of the whole neighborhood. They sent a search party out for her.”
“How’d she manage it?” Jennifer asked, rolling over and tugging partway out of the sheet. “Melba told me they kept her bolted in.”
“He didn’t say. I don’t think he knew. They finally found her almost two days later hiding in a wooded area about a mile away. Dehydrated and crazier than ever.”
“Did he know about the two sightings in the ghost book?”
“Yep, but he wouldn’t say who spoke to Wexler, only that they were true. And that it had happened again. That the night Mary died, for the first time in years, he saw a light shining in Amy’s room and the shadow of someone moving about in it when he took his dog out for his final walk.”
“Of course he did,” Jennifer agreed. “That was me again.”
“I knew that,” Teri said.
Dying to Be Murdererd Page 9
