Jude Devine Mystery Series

by Rose Beecham

  She splashed some water on her face. She had to switch her train of thought or her mind would circle endlessly around the maddening unknowns. Without knowing who Sandy really was, she could make no decisions, so there was no point in futile speculation. Jude rested her face in a towel, unable to shake a strange feeling that there was something missing from her mental calculations, something she wasn’t seeing. She supposed a part of her just didn’t buy that Sandy would sign up for a crazy operation like the one Arbiter was hinting at.

  If there was one thing she’d noticed about her taciturn subject over the past year, it was her mistrust of the government. She didn’t mouth off, and she avoided political discussions, but Jude had picked up on the little things. Sandy was deeply patriotic. She despised politicians. She thought everything on the news media was propaganda. Once, at Debbie’s place, Jude had overheard her call the White House and the Pentagon “evil.” Would she really work for them?

  Jude made herself a cup of herb tea because it was crazy to drink coffee at 2:00 a.m. and she needed to get some sleep tonight. She and Koertig were meeting early tomorrow to search Fabian Maulle’s house again. She sat on the sofa and opened her laptop. Her e-mail included one from Mercy. As usual, Jude selected it and hit Delete. She scanned the others. None deserved an intelligent reply at this time of night.

  For want of anything better to do, she picked up her cassette recorder and wound it back to the Oscar interview. She hadn’t found the time to listen to it again since she wrote up the transcript, and she wondered if she’d missed any other clues about the Russian suspects. She played the parrot’s Russian chatter and Pippa’s comments a few times, then let the tape run. At the quotation from Browning’s poem she rewound and played the passage again.

  Oscar, when asked where “the box” was, had answered unhelpfully, “God’s in his heaven. All’s right with the world.”

  Pippa said her uncle used to recite that verse to her as a child.

  Jude entered the text in Google and up came the title: Pippa Passes. The coincidence of the name was too stark and too obvious to be unintentional. Jude jumped up and located the inventory of books Koertig had prepared. The Browning title wasn’t listed. She read down the page more slowly, looking for general poetry collections. Nothing. She paused as another detail struck her. The self-help book she’d seen Maulle’s living room wasn’t there either. Koertig had only listed the titles thrown around Fabian’s ransacked office.

  She reached for her cell phone, then changed her mind and plopped back down on the sofa. What was she going to do—wake up the primary in the middle of the night and ask him if he saw a book of poems at the house? Jude sipped the musty-tasting tea and resigned herself to reading the complete verse on her computer. There was no accounting for taste, she thought, as she digested line after line of what appeared to be a play in which a girl called “Pippa” sang awful songs, got dressed, and went for a stroll. Jude doubted this had been a bestseller, even when the author was alive.

  Yawning, she persevered and located the line Oscar had quoted. It appeared in the middle of a scene in which a woman and her lover were talking, having murdered the woman’s husband. The language was so murky and confusing, Jude gave up trying to find a clue and skimmed the rest of the story. Thoroughly sedated by the time she reached the unsatisfying conclusion, she closed her computer and stumbled back to bed.

  Killing the lamp, she closed her eyes and repeated, “God’s in His heaven. All’s right with the world.” Did anybody really believe that?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jude found Pippa Passes in one of the spare bedrooms. She could see from the lush decor that Maulle had probably intended this to be his niece’s room.

  “Bring in a team,” she told Koertig, forgetting who was in charge, “and tear this space apart. Walls, ceiling, floorboards. Everything.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “A box. That’s all I can tell you.”

  They’d spent an hour searching the house and Jude was certain if anything was here they would find it where Maulle had placed the book. She opened the slim leather volume, a first edition, and froze at the inscription inside the cover:

  To Fabian,

  For saving my life.

  Yitzhak

  September, 1995

  Jude flipped through the pages until she found the strange murder scene. “Jesus,” she said.

  “What have you got.”

  “Some basic encryption.” The kind a technophobe could cope with. Maulle, she assumed, had underlined words through the Ottima and Sebald scene.

  She handed the book to Koertig, who pulled out his notebook and sat down on the bed.

  “He didn’t even scramble the words,” he reported after a few seconds.

  Jude read over his shoulder. “‘Under noisy washing garments foul proof. A lie that walks, and eats, and drinks! Discovery of the truth will be frightful. Break the secret, little girl.’”

  “Under noisy washing garments,” Koertig repeated.

  “Okay, so we tear the laundry room apart, too,” Jude said. “First, let’s go lift that washing machine.”

  *

  “What are you saying?” Pippa stared down at the paper the family attorney slid across the table. The legalese made as little sense as the information she’d just heard.

  “He’s saying your uncle couldn’t resist stabbing this family in the back,” her mother replied. “Maulle Mansion is to become, of all things, an art school for disadvantaged young people who—”

  “For punks who think ‘motherfucker’ is a normal form of address,” her father completed.

  “Everything else goes to you except the London house, which comes to me.” It was hard to tell if her mother was pleased that Uncle Fabian’s loot would remain in the family, or aggravated that Pippa was the one getting most of it.

  “Minus the fifty million endowment for the Maulle school of art,” the attorney pointed out. “And miscellaneous bequests to charity, individuals, and so forth. Mr. Maulle was very generous with several long-term staff.”

  “What in the world was he thinking?” her father mourned.

  “I don’t want his money,” Pippa said.

  “Then you can sign it over to us,” her mother snapped.

  The attorney glanced at her as if assessing whether she was serious. Returning his even gaze to Pippa, he said. “I would recommend you retain independent counsel, Ms. Calloway.”

  “And she has done so,” Griffin Mahanes announced. “My client would like to see a rough estimate of the estate’s value if one is available at this time.”

  “I’m not your client,” Pippa said. “My parents hired you.”

  “No money has changed hands, and let me say this, if ever there was a client more in need of representation than yourself, I haven’t met one.”

  For the first time since they’d met, Pippa thought he was probably telling the truth. “Don’t I have to give you a dollar or something?”

  He stroked his gray and pink silk tie. “Yet again I owe that hack a debt of gratitude.”

  “Who, John Grisham?” Delia Calloway looked askance. “I adored The Client.”

  “You’re a criminal defense counsel, Griffin,” Pippa’s father said. “Isn’t this a matter for an estate attorney?”

  “Probate’s the least of your daughter’s problems,” came the silky reply. “She still hasn’t been cleared of suspicion in a homicide.” A pair of hazel-gold eyes sought Pippa’s. “What do you think, Ms. Calloway? Me or the lapdog your folks will choose for you?”

  Pippa took a one dollar note from her pocket and slid it across the table. Someone had defaced it with a marker, giving Washington big pink lips. “You’re officially hired, Mr. Mahanes. Does this mean I can go to Uncle Fabian’s house and unpack my stuff?”

  “Absolutely. I understand the sheriff intends to release the house for occupancy on Friday.”

  Her mother fidgeted with the pearls at her throat. “You can�
�t possibly intend to stay in that house. Be sensible, darling. Come back to Boston with me.”

  “Why?”

  “You can’t stay all alone in the home where Fabian was murdered,” her mother replied. “What if the killer comes back? Did you think about that?”

  “I hope he does. I’d like to blow his brains out.”

  “You’ve never even held a gun,” her father said.

  “Neither have you,” Pippa flung back. She felt immature bickering with her parents, but she still couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

  “Any moron can learn how to shoot.” Griffin Mahanes glanced through some papers the other attorney passed to him. “I should know. I defend them all the time.”

  “I told you I was going to live out here,” Pippa said.

  Her parents shared perplexed frowns, as though they hadn’t been present during the row when she told them she wasn’t going to be a dentist. They also seemed to have forgotten telling her she couldn’t expect a cent of financial support from them if she embarked on an art career.

  “You can turn the conservatory into a studio for your sculpting,” her mother said. “We never use it.”

  “I know.” Pippa had been begging to convert that space since she was fifteen.

  She glanced down at a note Griffin Mahanes held in front of her. It read, You are disgustingly wealthy. Rough guess $250 million after tax and my fees. And that’s only what this sap knows about. She lowered her head to rest in one hand. For a few seconds she thought she was going to faint.

  “Are you all right?” her mother asked. “You’re very pale.”

  “Is there anything I need to sign or can I go now?” Pippa stood.

  Griffin Mahanes stood with her, sliding his papers into a briefcase. “Ms. Calloway is tired. We can continue this discussion at a later date.”

  “You can’t just leave,” her mother said indignantly.

  “What else is there to talk about?” Pippa dropped a kiss on her father’s cheek. “Watch your putting.”

  He beamed happily. All she had to do was mention his first love and he forgot to be angry with her. Ignoring her mother’s cold stare, she gave Griffin Mahanes a quick nod and he accompanied her from the room.

  As they reached the lobby, he said, “Well done, and remember something—you no longer ask, you tell.”

  A giggle curdled with the heartburn rising in Pippa’s throat. “I wasn’t joking, you know. I don’t want all that money. I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  “Spoken like a true child of privilege.”

  Pippa gave him a look.

  “You’re paying handsomely for my advice, so let me give you some,” her new attorney said. “Spend the next year trying to make it on your own without touching that cash, then tell me you don’t care.”

  With mild embarrassment, Pippa reflected on all she took for granted. The need to earn her own living hadn’t factored into her decisions about her life. Her parents had paid for her education and Uncle Fabian had promised to support her while she discovered if she could make it as an artist. Most people didn’t have her choices.

  “You’re right,” Pippa acknowledged. “I’ve never had to think about it.”

  “It’s not a crime to be rich,” Mahanes said. “I make no apologies for earning more than anyone should. The crime is when money is wasted on morons. Maybe your uncle thought you were better than that.”

  Pippa was silent, remembering conversations when her uncle had asked her what she would do about various problems if she had the power to make change. She’d always felt that her opinions mattered to him. None of the other adults in her life had ever bothered to find out what she really believed in.

  “Let’s face it,” Mahanes said. “If he wanted to leave his money to a bimbo fashionista, he made a big mistake.”

  Pippa laughed. “You’re not as creepy and amoral as I thought.”

  Griffin Mahanes lowered his sunglasses and regarded her with mock dejection. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  *

  “Where are you?” Jude asked, sandwiching her phone between ear and shoulder as she lugged a floorboard out into Maulle’s backyard.

  “I’m still at Lone’s. I can’t talk for long.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Wonderful.” Debbie sounded elated. “I feel like she’s really listening to me. She apologized for being secretive. The thing is, she’s been going to the house she and Madeline lived in, just taking care of it. But she thought I’d be upset if I knew, so she didn’t tell me.”

  Christ. She had a second property, no doubt in her deceased partner’s name. Jude felt like an idiot. “Where’s the house?”

  “In Utah,” Debbie said vaguely. “She’s going to take me to see it, so I know she’s telling me the truth.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Jude said. “When are you going?”

  “Probably on Sunday.” Debbie sighed. “I’m so relieved. You’ve got no idea.”

  “Me, too,” Jude said. If she couldn’t get to Rico on Thursday, she would have the place to herself on the weekend. Thank God.

  Koertig staggered out of the house with a stack of planks. Jude helped him prop them against the fence.

  “There’s a false floor,” he panted. “I’m going round to the garage to check out the tools.”

  Jude covered the mouthpiece. “Take a break. I’ll be with you in a few.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.” Koertig said, wiping his face. “I’m calling in a team. Why should we break our backs?”

  “You’re the man,” Jude said. As he vanished back into the laundry room, she said, “Sorry about that, Debbie.”

  “It’s okay, I have to go anyway. I’m out back in the privy. It’s not exactly pleasant.”

  “Holy shit, no wonder she likes staying at your place.”

  Debbie laughed. “This place is definitely primitive. Although the views are amazing.”

  “Is it just the one cabin or is there actually a whole ghost town?”

  “She’s got a couple of sheds,” Debbie said. “But there’s nothing else up here except trees.”

  “That’s a shame. I thought it might be fun to explore.”

  “I don’t think hikers make it up here very often.”

  “The access sounds like a pain,” Jude said, like she’d just lost interest. “Hey, are you coming back to Paradox tomorrow for the potluck?”

  “Yes!” Debbie squealed softly. “I told her friends are important to me and they should be important to her, too.”

  Amazed that Sandy wasn’t putting up more opposition, Jude said, “Great, so I’ll see you then. Don’t fall down a mine shaft or anything.”

  Debbie giggled softly, then said, “Jude. Thanks. This means a lot to me.”

  “I’m happy for you,” Jude said, thinking, Jerk.

  They said good-bye and she poked the cell phone into her back pocket. Sticking her head in the back door, she surveyed the damage. They’d shifted the washing machine into the kitchen, and the laundry room no longer had a floor. Jude picked her way across the joist framing to the kitchen. Koertig was right. She couldn’t see girders, just another floor about eight inches below.

  She found her colleague on the front verandah talking to a couple of the rookie detectives assigned to the case.

  “They were on their way out here already,” Koertig said, handing her a document. “The necropsy report came in. You want to read it while we lift the rest of that floor?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  The men collected up various tools Koertig must have found in the garage and traipsed into the house. A few minutes later, Jude heard the sounds of sawing and torn timber. She took her time reading the report. Coco had died instantly from a single shot to the head. Time of death was estimated at 4:00 p.m., which ruled Pippa out completely. Her tire was still being repaired at 3:36 p.m. She could not have made it from Towaoc to her uncle’s home in under half an hour.

  Maulle’s killers had spent almo
st forty minutes at the property. The bloody footprints suggested only one of them was upstairs with the victim. Was one man responsible for the hit while the other waited in the car, keeping a lookout? Oscar the parrot had recited what could have been a cell phone conversation in Russian.

  “Detective?” One of the rookies interrupted her. “You might want to see this.”

  Jude followed him to the laundry room, where Koertig was poised over a recess in the floor taking photographs. Blinking against the flash pops, Jude stared down at a dust-covered stainless steel box the size of a small file drawer. It was padlocked. She handed her car keys to the detective she’d followed inside.

  “You’ll find bolt cutters in the back of my Dakota.”

  Koertig and the other rookie hauled the box out and carried it into the living room.

  “This had better be good,” Jude said.

  She needed to return to Paradox by this evening. It was time she visited Harrison Hawke for an update, and she wanted to help Agatha get organized for the potluck tomorrow. On her way out of town, she needed to drag her deputy away from dog training and send him to Telluride. SAC Hill wanted someone who knew the festival present at the first meeting with the organizers.

  “Go ahead,” Koertig told the young detective who’d returned with the bolt cutters.

  The lock fell to the floor a few seconds later and everyone stared at the box. Koertig, enjoying the prerogative of the primary, lifted the lid. A cloudbust of white Styrofoam packing peanuts floated out. Jude picked up a stack of evidence bags from a coffee table and pulled on a pair of fresh latex gloves. The young detectives fished around their pockets. Koertig referred them to a stack of gloves the forensic team had helpfully left on the dining room sideboard. A few pairs he’d split lay nearby along with a pile of spilled fingerprint powder. The crime scene cleanup crew would be in on Thursday to return the house to its pristine pre-murder condition, a service paid for by Maulle’s insurance company.