“I want you to get access for me to the back files of the Telegraph. There had to be a write-up about the wedding at least, maybe an engagement announcement, a mention of the honeymoon. I’d like to know exactly what was going on between those two and how Mary managed to sweep Shelby out from under Melba’s feet when Clarisse died. I’d like to know how Shelby came to hire Mary, where she came from, anything to help me understand the animosity between Mary and Eileen. I can’t help but feel the answers lie somehow in Mary’s character. It couldn’t have all been about Juliet. And Juliet’s death, too—there’d be some mention of it in the newspaper, wouldn’t there? Even if her father tried to hush it up?”
“Of course, although I can’t see how what happened way back then has to do with Mary’s murder.”
“The hatred that caused that slaughter had to be long standing. Mary hasn’t been active enough in the last few years to rile anyone to that kind of anger, at least not as best I can tell. If we’re lucky, some conflict might have been hinted at in the newspaper. Besides, the police have the house wrapped up tight with crime tape.”
“Don’t tell me you were considering—”
“Would I do something illegal?”
“Nothing above a fourth or fifth degree misdemeanor, but that can get you into trouble, too.”
“So, can you get me into the files?”
He paused, seeming to consider her request. “I’ll call Ned and let him know we’re coming down to the morgue.”
He knew her well enough to realize she had to keep busy when something like this upset her. She’d go wherever her instincts led her. His job was to either help or step out of the way.
He stood up, tightened his tie, and slipped on his sport coat.
“You’re coming with me?”
“Sure. Are you kidding? You may just find some angle I can use in an article. I don’t suppose you’d agree to let me in on it if I didn’t come.”
“Not a chance.”
“That’s what I thought. This promises, assuming it’s ever solved, to be quite a story. One of Macon’s richest women is murdered in a historic mansion—”
“A haunted historic mansion,” Jennifer added.
He grinned at her. “Right. It doesn’t get much better than that.”
Chapter 24
“You’d think there’d be an easier way to find information,” Jennifer groaned.
“Someday, when it’s all on computer, there will be,” Sam assured her. “But for now it’s pick a date, find the microfiche, and rummage.”
“I wish I knew exactly when Juliet died, but it must have been sometime in October of seventy-two.” She zipped through a week’s worth of film.
“If you’re looking just for the obits, they won’t have much in them. Look for a news story.”
She nodded. That was exactly what she was doing. She had her mind set to search for “Ashton” as she scanned article headlines. “Boy, abortion was a hot topic even in those days.”
“Especially in those days. A year later the Supreme Court made their ruling striking down laws prohibiting abortion in both Texas and Georgia,” Sam reminded her.
It was interesting stuff, and if she’d had the time, she’d like to read it. She zipped again. More abortion controversy. She was about to press the button once more when the search portion of her brain kicked in and Mary Ashton’s name leapt out at her. Quickly, she read the article.
“Look at this,” she told Sam. “Mary Ashton was heavily involved in the movement to make abortions legal. I know Monique mentioned that Mary was active with women’s issues, but I had no idea she was actually lobbying for something like this.”
“You said she was a nurse, right?”
“She was hired to help with Clarisse’s care.”
“All right then. She may have seen one too many botched abortions wherever she worked.”
“Or maybe she just liked to be in control,” Jennifer suggested. Or maybe she’d had an illegal one herself. Somehow Jennifer suspected that Mary was the type who dealt with everything on a personal level.
Sam looked at his watch. “We don’t have a great deal of time. Ned’s going to be kicking us out before too long. Unlike the rest of us, he likes to work regular hours.”
That was her cue to hurry along.
She recognized Juliet immediately when her picture came up. It must have been from high school because she was wearing a drape, smiling, lovely, so very young, full of potential, that long dark hair parted in the middle and hanging straight down the sides of her face. The headline read “Young Socialite Commits Suicide.”
She had the same reaction she’d had to every other photo she’d seen of Juliet—pity. It made her heart ache. “It says she was an honor student with plans to major in journalism.”
Coincidence or Malcolm’s influence?
“Friends reported she’d become despondent the week before her death,” Jennifer went on. “It appeared to be a classic case of depression ending in suicide. Her father could not be reached for comment.”
“Does it mention a history of mental illness?” Sam asked.
“Nope. If she was being treated, I’m sure her daddy could keep it quiet.”
“Without a doubt. It’s getting late. Are you about finished?”
“One more thing while we’re here.” She hopped up and retrieved the roll of film covering 1959 and popped it into the machine. “Back to happier times.”
She zipped past several editions, then stopped and pointed at the screen. A photo of the happy couple standing in front of a rose-covered, wooden archway took up the upper half of the front page of the living section. She scooted her metal chair closer, dragging it against the concrete floor.
“Would you look at this? May 1959. The marriage of Shelby Eliot Ashton to Mary Elizabeth Bedford at the Ashton mansion was the social event of the year, if not the decade. Half the population of Macon was there.
“Look how handsome he was.” Jennifer tapped her finger on the image of Shelby Ashton, standing tall and straight in a dark suit.
Sam’s head was so close it was almost touching hers. “Who cares about him? Get a load of her.”
He was right. Mary Ashton was breathtaking, even in grainy black and white, even with hair poofed into a bouffant hairdo that has never found its way back into style. Even in a calf-length, full-skirted floral dress. No white for Shelby’s second marriage.
Quickly, Jennifer scanned the article. “They were married in the house, the Reverend John Sutherland of the First Methodist Church officiating. The reception was held outside in the gardens, Eileen was Mary’s matron of honor, Shelby’s brother Aaron served as his best man, and Juliet was the flower girl. Apparently no one from the bride’s side participated in the ceremony.”
Jennifer ran the page back up to the picture. “There, in the back.” She pointed to the far right of the photo where a little girl could be seen in a long, light colored dress, lace edged gloves, a circlet of flowers in her dark curly hair, and a small woven basket in her hand. “That must be Juliet.”
“She’s burying her head in some woman’s skirt,” Sam observed.
“Hard day for a little girl, to watch her daddy remarry.” Jennifer squinted closer at the screen. “I think the woman she’s holding onto is her aunt, Eileen McEvoy. At least it looks like a younger version of her. Look at the expression on her face. I don’t think she was too happy about the marriage even then.”
Jennifer sent the machine to the next page where the article was continued. “Listen to this: ‘Mary Bedford, nanny to Miss Juliet Alison Ashton.’ Eileen said Mary was Clarisse’s nurse. She must have stayed on after her death to help with Juliet. Do you suppose she was living in the house when they got together? That could have really irked Melba.”
“One easy way to find out. I can look up the application for the marriage license over at the courthouse,” Sam suggested.
“Great. Her address will tell us. Also get a place and date of birth if it’s on there.”
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“Will do.”
“I wonder how he found her, to hire her originally, I mean.”
“Maybe through an agency?”
“Most likely.”
Once more, she slid the microfiche back to the photo and studied it. “Does she look happy to you? He looks happy, I think, but she looks...”
“Enigmatic.”
“Great word, that.” For a moment she sat there trying to dissect that expression, whatever it was, and trying to think what it must have been like that day, so many years ago, when Mary wed her prince charming.
“By the way, I checked with my source at the Macon Police Department.” Sam always called Tim Donahue his source, even though she knew perfectly well whom he meant. As a matter of honor, he’d never told her his name. “They used her toothbrush and some hairs from her hair brush to determine her DNA. It was all hers,” he whispered, leaning in close to her ear. “Every drop of blood they tested belonged to Mary Ashton.”
She closed her eyes and hugged her shoulders. No matter what had happened since her wedding day, Mary must have been filled with hopes and dreams that day. “So that’s how her fairy tale ended.”
Chapter 25
“It’s called a brainstorming session, and, no, it doesn’t always have to be about books,” Jennifer told Teri, offering her a can of ginger ale and then sliding another across her dining table in April’s direction. “I’ve been spending too much time speculating on motives. Now it’s time to get back to the physical evidence. Didn’t somebody once say something like, ‘If you know how a crime was committed, you know who did it?’”
“No big mystery there,” Teri said under her breath. “One very sharp object met up with one very defenseless old lady.”
“I’m not just talking about what happened to Mary,” Jennifer insisted. “Someone made sure I couldn’t get out of that room the night Mary died.” She tossed an unopened bag of dried banana chips to Leigh Ann. “I want to know who. And why. And how they got in the house in the first place.”
Leigh Ann caught the bag, looked at its label, and threw it back. “You shouldn’t rule out supernatural forces,” she offered, her legs propped on one of the spare dining chairs. “They say ghosts get irritated when people occupy their space, and we all know how strange poltergeist phenomena can be. They actually move objects.”
Teri rolled her eyes. “That’s ridiculous. Poltergeists only appear in the presence of adolescents.” She was sitting on the floor next to the sofa, refusing to crowd around the table. Teri liked her space. And she liked her meat. She chewed on a beef jerky stick she’d brought from home.
“Since when were you into the paranormal?” Jennifer asked.
“What?” Teri asked defensively. “I do my research. I wrote a ghost story once.”
“You never shared it with us,” April said.
“Lucky for you,” Teri assured her. “I threw it away.”
Muffy snuggled up against Teri, let out a long sigh, no doubt wishing she could have a bite of jerky, and laid her head in her lap.
“But back to the block under the door. I hardly think Amy Loggins’s ghost wedged something under Jennifer’s door.” Teri stroked the dog’s fur and cooed at her. She was better with animals than she generally was with people—especially Leigh Ann.
“You said you were on the third floor, right, actually sleeping in the room that Amy occupied?” Leigh Ann asked, ignoring Teri’s comment.
Jennifer nodded, a warning look in her eyes. “But it was more recently Juliet Ashton’s room.” She was not about to let Leigh Ann turn the discussion into a woo-woo session.
“I can’t believe you were right in the center of all the psychic emanations in that house!”
“Quit it, Leigh Ann!” Teri insisted, grabbing a small pillow off the sofa behind her and throwing it in her direction. It bounced off the chair and landed on the floor. “You’re not helping.”
“What?” She shrugged, a mischievous grin playing about her mouth. She truly believed in the possibility of ghosts, ESP, and the tarot, but she was no airhead. She was simply a romantic who liked to keep her options open, and she was not above teasing. But she could also be a drama queen. Sometimes it was hard to know which was which.
“Seriously,” Leigh Ann said, more soberly, “for all we know, Amy was looking out for you, protecting you.”
“Sort of like a guardian angel,” April suggested.
“Exactly,” Leigh Ann agreed. “You said the block simply vanished.”
“I did not. I said it was missing,” Jennifer reminded her, picking the pillow up and tossing it back at Teri. It landed on Muffy’s head. She shook it off and snuggled back down against Teri.
“Okay,” Leigh Ann continued. “We already know that at least one someone other than Mary and yourself was in that house that night. Someone human. She was killed, after all. That means, to swipe the block, the killer must have been on your floor sometime after you left your room.”
Leigh Ann dropped a handful of April’s chocolate-covered raisins into her mouth and proceeded to talk around them. “These aren’t half bad although I still think it’s kind of a weird concept, covering fruit with chocolate. Except for strawberries. Lovers in movies always feed each other the most wonderful chocolate-covered strawberries. Big, red, juicy—”
“Eeeoooo,” April wailed. “I hate it when they do that and then they kiss while they’re still eating. Gross beyond words. All I can think of is that they’re going to get some of that food in each other’s mouth. Yuck.”
“You’ve been married way too long,” Teri observed.
“It’s those babies. You get overly concerned with germs when you have children,” Leigh Ann said.
“Making sure your children don’t eat off the floor or lick the carpet is not getting overly concerned about germs,” April insisted.
“Gross adult behavior aside, the killer obviously knew you were in the house,” April pointed out to Jennifer. “He made sure you wouldn’t be able to help her, and I’m glad. Considering the carnage you described to us, if you’d walked in on it, there most likely would have been two more victims: Muffy and yourself. But getting back to Leigh Ann’s point, the murderer was careful to avoid a confrontation with you. He had to somehow pass you that night because he had to get back up those stairs. He could have been on the landing or just inside a doorway when you went into Mrs. Ashton’s room. How else could he get up there to take the block away?”
Jennifer had tried her best not to dwell on that point. The moment she discovered the wedge gone, she knew it, too. The murderer was still in the house when she made it out of Juliet’s room.
“I don’t think anyone passed me,” Jennifer said simply.
Leigh Ann beamed. “Are you saying—”
“No, I’m not. I think there are other ways to get around in that house.”
“So now we’re on to secret passages?” Teri let out a loud huff of air. “I don’t suppose you saw any oil paintings with moving eyes.”
“I’m not talking about anything that sinister. When that house was built, the political situation was unsettled. People did sometimes include secret rooms or ways of getting around.”
“Is that how you think the body was transported,” April asked, “down some back passageway?”
“All I’m saying is whoever killed Mary Ashton had to be familiar with the house. I’m convinced I would have heard something if the body had been taken down those stairs.”
“I knew it! Didn’t I tell you even before you went there? Melba, the housekeeper.” Leigh Ann puffed out her chest and rewarded herself with another handful of raisins.
“What I can’t figure out is why the murderer took the body away,” April said thoughtfully. She opened the banana chips, tried one, and turned to Leigh Ann. “These would definitely be better dipped in chocolate.”
“What happened to the body has been bothering me, too,” Jennifer confessed. “The murderer had to know the police would identify
the victim through the blood, and it’s obvious a murder took place. He didn’t even try to clean up the room. So what did removing it accomplish?”
“Must have been some kind of evidence on it,” Leigh Ann suggested, opening a second can of soda. It hissed at her and sprayed a thin film of sugar water. She grabbed a napkin and wiped it up.
“I bet she let that sucker have it,” Teri suggested. “Scratched the bloody heck out of him. If someone came at me with a knife, I’d fight him, whether I had a weapon or not. Get me a little DNA so the police would have something to work with. I might go down, but I’d make sure that suspect they were looking for had something to identify him, like scratches on his face.”
Anyone crazy enough to attack Teri would definitely get the worst of it.
“The police didn’t find any other blood at the scene, only Mary’s,” Jennifer told them. “If she did fight back, she didn’t do any real damage.”
“Skin under her fingernails, then, like Teri said.” Leigh Ann nodded. “And the perpetrator didn’t have time to get rid of it. If you heard Mary scream through the floor, I’m sure they heard you screaming from above. You say you hollered at the door and then out the window. They had to know you were awake and would find some way to get out.”
Jennifer shook her head. “No. They planned to dispose of the body all along. They couldn’t have gotten it out of the room without spreading blood all over the place unless they’d brought something to contain it. So why did they take it?”
“For a souvenir?” Leigh Ann suggested.
“You all are giving me indigestion,” April declared, closing the bag of chips and securing it with a clothes pin.
“Work with me here, Leigh Ann,” Jennifer insisted, ignoring April.
She shrugged. “That’s what those psychos do in those books, only they usually work alone. You started saying ‘they.’”
“That’s the problem with having no genderless pronoun for a single person. But I’m convinced it was more than one killer. I would have heard someone drag the body from the room. Mary wasn’t huge, but a dead body is difficult to manipulate, no matter what its size, even for a strong man. We take for granted how much assistance a live person gives us when we move them.”
Dying to Be Murdererd Page 11
