by Anna Castle
Chapter 35
Next on the list of subscribers was Thomas Albrecht, Marion’s husband. We knew Robbie was being blackmailed, but we couldn’t get to him until after school. Thomas, or even Marion, might be hiding some dark secret, but I refused to believe it. My world would explode.
“I’d almost rather it be me than Marion, you know?”
Krystle and Tillie understood completely. Everybody needs a Rock of Gibraltar.
So we skipped the Albrechts for now and drove back toward town, stopping in front of the nondescript ranch house that served as the offices of the Baker Real Estate Agency.
“It can’t be these guys,” Tillie said. “They’re like the town mascots.”
The Bakers’ kindly senior faces appeared in a half-page ad in every issue of the Long County Communicator. I felt like I’d known them forever, although I’d met them for the first time at Jim’s wake. They were the archetypal grandparents.
“Wasn’t Mr. Baker the guy who used to play Santa Claus at the elementary school every year?” Krystle asked.
“He still does,” Tillie said. “He looks more like Santa now than he did when we were little. And Mrs. Baker still dresses up like Mrs. Claus and makes those Christmas tree cookies.”
I turned off the engine but hesitated to get out of the truck. “I don’t know, guys. These folks don’t sound very likely.”
“We’re here,” Krystle said, opening her door. “We might as well be thorough.”
We entered into a spacious reception area with a group of low chairs around a coffee table. The walls exhibited framed photographs of bluebonnet-clad hillsides, which I studied with a critical eye while we waited for someone to respond to the bell over the door. They could use better pix. I should have brought some business cards.
A woman’s voice sang out from deep within the house. “Coming!”
The woman who emerged from the hall was not old enough to play Mrs. Claus. She was in her early thirties with a long brown braid and a ski-slope nose. She was dressed backroad casual — baggy denim skirt, oversized striped shirt, and no makeup — but her manners were uptown professional.
“So sorry to keep you waiting.” She held out her hand. I took it automatically. She had a firm shake. “I’m Trudy Pritchard.” She beamed at me and then moved on to Krystle and then Tillie. She lingered with Tillie, not letting go of her hand. “Aren’t you and Ben about ready to own your own home?”
Tillie flinched in surprise. “Not really. I mean we’d like to, but not yet. But I’ll ask Ben.”
“We’re actually not here about real estate,” Krystle said, matching Trudy’s ultraprofessional smile. “We have a petition about Internet service in Lost Hat.”
Trudy’s eyebrows rose sharply. “What kind of petition?”
“I’m Penelope Trigg.”
“Ohhhh.” Trudy studied me with interest. She cocked her head. “What kind of petition?”
I said, “We’re asking the mayor to take steps to keep an affordable local service provider in Long County, instead of forcing us into the arms of faceless corporate dial-up providers.”
“Another local?” Trudy wrinkled her nose. “Seriously?”
Krystle put a little checkmark next to her name.
I decided to go for the main question. “Also, we were wondering if you ever received any communications from Mariposa Internet Services you felt were inappropriate in any way.”
Trudy drew in a sharp breath. Her eyes touched base with each of us in turn, as if assessing our collective trustworthiness. “Do you mean inappropriate as in” — she made a face like she’d taken a swig of sour milk — “inappropriate?”
“Uh-huh,” we chorused.
She sighed hugely, raising her shoulders and letting them fall, like she was warming up for a yoga class. “Well. It’s going to come out anyway. Especially now that he’s dead.” Her eyes cut to me.
“He was blackmailing you?” Krystle prompted.
Trudy nodded. “It’s so stupid. I could have told them, really, but I knew they would want to help, you know? And I wanted to do it all by myself.”
“Do what?” I asked.
“Get my real estate license. Online? You can do the licensing exam and everything. It’s very convenient.”
“I can’t believe the Bakers would’ve minded that,” Tillie said.
“Oh, no! Of course not. They are the very sweetest of sugary plums. But I was using company time, because I don’t have Internet at home. I wanted to surprise them. They’ve been talking about retiring, but they don’t have any kids, so who will take over the business? If it’s me, they can retire gradually. Take their own time about it, no rush, no fuss.”
“That sounds perfect,” Tillie said. “You are so clever. And you are so smart to pass that exam!”
“I know!” Trudy’s voice sailed up to the operatic register and she waved her hands with glee.
She and Tillie hopped up and down from the sheer excitement of it all. Krystle’s heels rose once in sympathy, but she didn’t know Trudy, so she wasn’t all the way in. I’ve never been girlie enough for the hopping thing, although I enjoy the energy.
When the hopping tapered off, I said, “So it wouldn’t have been a big disaster if the Bakers had found out what you were doing?”
“Oh, no,” Trudy said. “It would’ve ruined the surprise, though.”
“That was worth paying Greg blackmail?” Krystle asked.
“Well,” Trudy shrugged. “It was only twenty bucks a week. I figured I could stand it for a couple of months and make it back when I got my license.”
“Not worth killing him for, then,” I said, being thorough.
She blinked at me. “I thought you killed him.”
Chapter 36
We gave Trudy a flyer and got back into the truck. Next on the list was Edith Burwell-Jones on behalf of the Burwell Public Library. We went to the library first, but the fellow behind the counter told us that Burrie didn’t come in on Tuesdays. He suggested we go to her house. “She won’t mind. In fact, she’d be annoyed if you skipped her just because she’s semiretired.”
We didn’t have to consult a phone book to find her address. Everyone in town knew where the Burwell House was. I ran past it every morning.
The front yard was a flawless carpet of Saint Augustine grass shaded by hundred-year-old live oaks. It spoke of generations of underpaid Mexican-American gardeners. The house was Greek Revival with limestone walls and pretentious white columns around the front portico. The tall front windows were flanked by glossy black shutters. A narrow balcony hung over the front door; for addressing the populace, one assumed. A bronze historical marker in the shape of Texas informed us that the house had been built in 1909.
“She did it,” I said, as we trudged up the front walk.
“Huh?” Tillie said.
“She did it. This is the perfect house for a murderer. The basement’s probably full of bodies.”
“We don’t have basements in Texas,” Tillie said. “They’d flood every ten years.”
“Out back under the rose garden, then.”
Tillie nodded. “She grows prize-winning roses.”
“Everything Burrie does is prize-winning,” Krystle said. “Either that or she’s the one giving out the prizes.”
“Why don’t you like her?” Tillie asked.
“She’s the one that doesn’t like me. I got on her nerves from Day One.”
“Suck it up,” Krystle said. “If we’re going to do this, we have to do everybody.” She shifted her clipboard to the crook of her left arm like a proper census-taker and rang the bell. We heard the chimes echo inside the house.
“What, no butler?” I sneered.
Krystle frowned repressively and rang the bell again.
No answer.
“Maybe we should look around back,” Tillie said. “She could be in the garden.”
“In the roooose garden?” I said in a quavery voice that was supposed to sound spooky. The
y didn’t even smile. They were probably hungry; low blood sugar zaps your sense of humor.
We walked around the neatly edged walk to the backyard, a long rectangle bounded by a two-car garage and an eight-foot hedge. A rose garden cross-sected with mulched paths took up most of the space. A flagstoned terrace spanned the back of the house.
Burrie was in the middle of the roses, wielding a pair of snippers and tossing the cut bits into a small barrow. She wore a pair of loose blue trousers and a blue-flowered canvas jacket with a wide-brimmed straw hat and a pair of leather gloves with cuffs that covered her arms up to the elbows.
“Principal Burwell?” Krystle called out.
Burrie finished snipping the twig she had selected and turned toward us. She stood regarding us for a few seconds before placing her snippers in the barrow and drawing off her gloves.
We walked forward to meet her at the edge of the terrace.
“What can I do for you girls today?”
Krystle took the lead. “I suppose you’ve heard about Greg Alexander.”
“Of course. What a terrible thing.”
“Well, we’re worried about what’s going to happen now that he’s gone. We’re asking the mayor to take steps to keep an affordable local service provider in Long County, instead of forcing us into the arms of faceless corporate dial-up providers.”
“I see.” Burrie’s eyes were as hard as volcanic glass. “That makes sense.” She gazed at us in silence for what felt like minutes. Then her mouth turned down with a quiver, scoring deep lines in her cheeks. A film of tears softened her eyes. She turned into a fragile old lady right before our eyes. I was so astonished she could have knocked me over with a rosebud.
She let out a quavery sigh, untied her hat and removed it from her aged head, moving stiffly to set it on the wrought iron table on the terrace. She gazed down at it in silence for a moment and then turned back to us with another sigh. “I suppose it all has to come out now. They’ll find Greg’s records, wherever he kept them. Everyone will know.”
“Know what, Burrie?” Krystle asked. She took a few steps toward her as if to help her into a chair.
Burrie waved her off. “Perhaps it will be easier if I tell you girls about it and let the” — she shot a meaningful glance at Tillie — “gossip take its course. But I wouldn’t mind a glass of tea.”
“I’ll get it,” Krystle said, moving toward the back door.
“No, let’s go in,” Burrie said. She summoned up a hostess smile. “I’m sure you girls would like some, too.”
The kitchen was spacious and amply lit by two banks of windows. The black and white tile countertops and black and white vinyl floor were clean enough for surgery. A six-burner range and two full-size refrigerators spoke of intensive cookery, but the room felt abandoned, like no one had used it to do more than microwave a frozen dinner for a very long time.
Burrie lowered herself stiffly into one of the chairs surrounding a polished oak table. She seemed to be hurting somewhere on the inside. “Perhaps you girls could help yourselves. There should be a pitcher in the refrigerator. Glasses are up there.” She pointed at one of the tall white cabinets.
The first fridge we looked in was stark empty. We made worried faces at each other but said nothing. The other fridge had less in it than the one in my studio. No pickles, no picante sauce. What did she eat?
Maybe she wasn’t eating. My dislike for the old curmudgeon was rapidly turning to concern. Didn’t anyone ever look in on her, to see if she was coping? In Aunt Sophie’s last couple of years, I’d had to clean moldy leftovers out of her fridge every time I came to visit. At least she had food in the house.
We got the glasses filled and found spoons and sugar and set everything on the table and sat down. Burrie accepted her glass with a nod of thanks and took a few ladylike sips.
“That’s better.” She gathered our attention one by one. “Well. It’s so embarrassing, it’s hard to know where to start.”
“Just spit it out,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll feel better.”
“Such mannerly advice.” That was more like her crispy old self. “Well. When my father died last fall, many people wrote to express their condolences. Friends sent proper letters, of course, but some of the people who had worked with the Judge over the years — lawyers and such — sent email. I suppose that’s the way of things these days. In among the messages from the Judge’s wide acquaintance was a nasty little note from a female person, whose name I will never mention.” She broke off to glare at us.
We shook our heads and murmured, “No, no,” “Of course not.”
“She claimed to have been a party to a clandestine relationship with my father for many years. Long after my mother had died but, nevertheless, this was not the sort of woman that the Judge would be seen with openly, if you understand me.”
We did another round of encouraging murmurs.
“This woman had the nerve to claim my father had promised her certain items of jewelry which she expected me to give her now that he was gone. My mother’s jewelry! Can you imagine?”
“You must have been so upset,” Tillie said.
“Upset! What an absurd little word. I was furious and ashamed. Naturally, I refused her. I tried to ignore her, but she kept writing, message after message, threatening to make the whole affair public. That’s when Greg Alexander caught wind of the situation.”
“And that’s when he started blackmailing you,” I said.
She frowned suddenly, a deep frown, like she was choking back tears. She recovered with a sniff. “I should have gone straight to the sheriff. But Willard Hopper worked with the Judge for so many years, I hated to have his memories stained. And Greg didn’t ask for much, not really. A good word here and there. The museum website job. It didn’t seem like such a great burden.”
“Did the woman ever get the jewelry?” Krystle asked.
Burrie gave her a wry smile. “She did indeed. Ultimately, I couldn’t cope with her demands. I gave her Mother’s garnet necklace and matching earrings.” She smiled wearily at us. “That’s my story, girls. Pretty silly once it’s all said and done, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think so,” Tillie said. “I think it’s kind of romantic.”
Burrie’s lip curled slightly. “Hardly that. Still, one’s reputation matters.”
“Your father’s reputation,” Krystle said.
“One and the same.”
“But now you’re free,” I said. “We all are.”
“Are we?” She laid her hands on the table and pressed herself onto her feet. She smoothed her jacket front and smiled at us with insincere brightness. “Well, girls, now that you’ve got my piece of your puzzle, perhaps I can get back to my roses. They’ve got to be pruned before Valentine’s Day, you know.”
We could cross another name off our list. That story was sordid in an old-fashioned, small-town way, but hardly criminal. Luckily, we had plenty of names left. Which reminded me. “Is there a bathroom?”
“We have all the modern conveniences,” Burrie said, in her normal acidic tone.
That was more like it. As long as there were irritating young persons choosing their words carelessly, she could still stand tall.
She gave me directions. Then Krystle said, “Me, too,” and Tillie said, “Me, three.” We trooped off together into the dining room, heading for the hall.
“This place is like a museum,” Krystle said in a stagey whisper as we passed between a mahogany dining table and a sideboard draped in lace. The scent of rose petals emanated from a bowl of potpourri on the sideboard.
“A museum with lots of stuff missing.” I gestured at a yellow patch on the wood floor and lighter square patches on the walls.
We exchanged another round of worried glances.
“Maybe she’s selling things off,” Krystle said.
“Paying a blackmailer?” I wondered.
“Maybe her father’s medical care cost more than his insurance would pay,” Tillie said.<
br />
“It doesn’t look like she eats much,” I said. “And this place is freezing. Can’t she afford heat?”
We took turns in the powder room at the back of the hall. I went last. I noticed that neither Tillie nor Krystle had besmirched the monogrammed guest towels, so I wiped my hands on my pants.
Burrie was waiting in the front hall to let us out. As we said our good-byes, she looked at me with a queer glint in her eyes. “Aren’t you frightened, dear?” She was going crazy, living alone in this chilly mansion, obsessing over her late father’s sex life.
“Frightened of what?”
She shook her head as though I was missing something obvious. “First Jim, now Greg. The only thing they had in common was the museum website. You must be next.”
I goggled at her as my mind boggled. She gazed placidly at me with a tiny smile on her lips as Tillie and Krystle pulled me through the door.
Chapter 37
“That was weird,” I said, as we got back in the truck.
“I thought it was sad,” Tillie said. “I wonder who the Judge’s girlfriend was. Somebody in town, don’t you think?”
“Doesn’t she have a maid?” I asked. “You know, somebody to see if she’s eating? Or sleeping?”
“They used to have, like, a whole staff,” Tillie said, “when the Judge was still judging. Papi said they used to have big fancy parties. Famous parties. One of his sisters worked here back then.”
“But nobody now?”
Tillie shrugged.
“Somebody should tell somebody,” Krystle said.
“Marion,” Tillie and I said in unison. She would know how to poke her nose into the situation without rumpling the old bat’s dignity.
“I still suspect her,” I said, as we buckled up.
“You suspect everybody,” Krystle said.
“Well, it has to be somebody, because it sure as heck isn’t me. And it isn’t you — or so you say.”
“Hey!” Krystle pretended to be offended. “I hated Greg, for sure, but I have plans for my future. Plans that do not include an orange prison jumpsuit. Now, if Jason was the one that turned up dead, you might have something.”
