The Sense of Death: An Ann Kinnear Suspense Novel (The Ann Kinnear Suspense Novels Book 1)

by Matty Dalrymple

  Mike put one of the glasses of wine on the bedroom’s dresser and pulled a bottle of water out of his pocket. “Voila.”

  Ann took the bottle gratefully. “Thanks.” She downed most of the bottle in one draft while Mike poured Ann’s rejected wine into his own glass.

  “So the spirit is someone who hanged herself in the attic?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “Male or female?”

  “I don’t know.” She paused. “Female.”

  “Any specific details?”

  “No. Just the drop and the jerk.”

  “And the chair moving.”

  “Yes, that’s probably what people were hearing—a scraping sound from the attic, always at the same time. That and the fact that I’m betting if someone stood the chair up it was always on its side again in the morning.”

  “Well, the whole thing got Mavis pretty flustered. She’s claimed one of the bottles of Bordeaux as her own.”

  “She didn’t even see anything,” said Ann irritably.

  “I guess your color commentary was enough,” he said, and grinned at her.

  She smiled back wanly. “Is she upset?”

  “Are you kidding me?” said Mike, turning to go back to the inn’s parlor. “She hasn’t had this much fun in years.”

  Chapter 8

  The day after his interviews with Biden, Lydia, and Morgan, Joe was back at the Firth house to interview Joan Davies and Esme Brouwer; Biden himself was away from home. Joe decided to interview them individually in what he thought of as the living room and he suspected the Firths thought of as the parlor, across the hall from the library where he had interviewed Biden Firth.

  Harry Deng had spent what seemed to Joe from Deng’s notes like an inordinate amount of time with Miss Brouwer and when Joe met her he suspected why—in her early twenties, she was extremely pretty, with light blonde hair held back in a ponytail from a round, rosy face, startlingly light blue eyes, and a well rounded figure that just escaped plumpness. She wrung her hands a lot during the interview and answered his questions in a charming Dutch accent. Joe toyed with the idea of the husband killing the wife in favor of the younger, more pliant lover but Esme’s apparent respect for Elizabeth Firth, her apparent nervousness about Biden Firth, and her obvious concern about her job security began to undermine his liking for this theory.

  “So,” said Joe, “you heard a noise coming from the library.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you went to see what it was.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “Mr. Firth.”

  Joe sighed inwardly. “And what was Mr. Firth doing?”

  Esme twisted her fingers. “Nothing?”

  Joe sighed outwardly. “Miss Brouwer ...”

  “Nothing,” said Esme with more conviction. After a pause she added, “Looking mad.”

  “How so?”

  “Red face. I think the sound I heard was him banging the desk. I couldn’t see what else it could be. But he told me everything was all right and close the door.”

  Joe played around with other lines of questioning for a bit and then excused her to her obvious relief, asking her to send Joan in.

  Joan Davies was in her early fifties, tallish, with regular features, hazel eyes, and striking auburn hair tinged with gray—not beautiful, thought Joe, but probably what people had in mind when they described a woman as handsome. She sat on the couch with her hands clasped but relaxed, her eyes serious and steady.

  “I wanted to speak with you and Esme because oftentimes when someone disappears, understanding the environment they live in and the events leading up to the time of their disappearance can be helpful.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Joe walked Joan through the time between the last time she had seen Mrs. Firth and when Biden Firth had reported his wife missing; he experimented with different approaches but there were no deviations from the account that she had given Harry Deng—the reported argument between Mr. and Mrs. Firth that kept them from attending the charity dinner, the fact that Mrs. Firth’s cell phone was at the house although her purse and coat were gone, the timing of Mr. Firth’s departure from and return to the house the next day, the stained and scotch-scented shirt in Mr. Firth’s laundry basket.

  When that line of questioning seemed to have played itself out, Joe asked, “Why don’t you tell me how you came to work for the Firths.”

  “I started working for them when they moved into this house, right after they were married,” she said.

  “Do both the husband and the wife generally interview candidates for a housekeeper position?” asked Joe, casting about for an approach that might prove fruitful.

  “I’ve only worked for two other families before the Firths and in both those cases the wife did the final interviewing after the agency had done screening interviews.”

  “Is that what happened in the case of the Firths?”

  “Actually, in this case Mr. Firth’s mother, Mrs. Morgan Firth, hired me. My previous employers were retiring to Arizona—they were friends of Scottie Firth so she already knew me slightly and, I believe, got a strong recommendation from them. I believe both Mr. and Mrs. Firth—the Biden Firths—were quite busy preparing for their wedding and Mrs. Firth was busy wrapping up her employment with Firth Investments.”

  “It sounds like your previous jobs were long-term.”

  “Yes, I worked for the family before the Firths for twelve years and for my first family for eight years.”

  “What are the Firths like to work with?”

  “Very fair.”

  Joe expected more, but Joan merely looked at him, awaiting the next question.

  “That’s it? ‘Very fair’?” he asked after a few seconds.

  “Don’t underestimate the importance of fairness,” said Joan a bit severely.

  “No, of course not,” said Joe. “Have you become friendly with them?”

  “No, they aren’t that type. Fair, but not familiar.”

  “Demanding?”

  Joan shrugged. “Not unreasonably demanding.”

  “Which one is more demanding?” asked Joe with a conspiratorial smile.

  “Mrs. Firth,” said Joan promptly but without apparent rancor. “Of course she has more to do with directing the running of the house so that’s to be expected.”

  “Other than the argument that Mr. Firth told you about that kept them from going to the charity dinner, did Mr. and Mrs. Firth argue?”

  “Well, yes, of course, all married couples argue, don’t they,” said Joan with apparent mildness but Joe caught a twitch in her hand out of the corner of his eye.

  “Recently?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Miss Davies, this isn’t a social conversation, it’s part of a criminal investigation. Your discretion would be admirable in other circumstances but it’s not helpful here.”

  She paused then said, “Yes. Fairly recently.”

  “What did they argue about?”

  “I don’t know. They never argued in front of me or Esme but sometimes I could hear raised voices from behind closed doors.”

  “Were the arguments getting more heated or more frequent lately? Over the past few weeks or months, say?”

  Joan considered. “No, I wouldn’t say they were more frequent as recently as that. Only perhaps more frequent over the last year or so.”

  Joe nodded and jotted a note in his notepad. “Any signs of infidelity?”

  He glanced up quickly and saw a jumble of emotions—shock, confusion, indecision, strained composure—cross Joan’s face. She looked down at her hands and said, “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”

  He put his pencil down. “Joan, you’re the worst liar I’ve ever seen.”

  Her head came up, her face red, and she began to sputter out a retort but Joe interrupted her. “I’ve heard rumors, I need to know if they’re true.”

  To Joe’s surprise Joan ask
ed, “What rumors did you hear?”

  “They were shared in confidence.”

  “Shared in confidence with a police detective?” asked Joan, looking at Joe skeptically. Joe revised his opinion of her upward—she might not be a good liar herself but she also was not as gullible as he had first thought.

  “I hear that Mrs. Firth may have ...” he cast about for a word that seemed appropriate to use with Joan “... strayed.”

  Joan raised her eyebrows and a slight smiled played at her lips. “‘Strayed’?”

  Joe shrugged. “You know.”

  Joan sighed and looked over Joe’s shoulder out the front window. After a few moments she said, “I only know of one—a personal trainer who used to come to the house. And that was over a year ago.” She thought for a moment. “Fifteen months ago.”

  “How did you know?”

  “They were up in the exercise room having a session,” said Joan. “They were laughing a lot—I could hear them, I was on the second floor putting away laundry. Then Mrs. Firth came down and said that Stephan—that was the trainer—wanted some kind of special sports drink that was only available at a store in Ardmore and asked me if I could go get some. She had the name of the drink and the store written on a piece of paper. I got my coat and purse and got to my car and then realized I had forgotten the paper and when I went back I heard them.” She had been looking at her hands but now glanced up at Joe with just a hint of a teasing smile on her face. “You know.” She looked back down at her hands and then back at Joe. “That’s all.”

  “Did the relationship go on long?”

  “I don’t know. He stopped coming to the house not long after that.”

  “Were there others?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  He tapped his pencil on the notepad a few times. “Did Mr. Firth know?”

  Joan sighed. “I don’t know.”

  Joe got the trainer’s full name and the interview continued for a few more minutes with Joe probing the marital relationship angle. When that line of questioning grew stale he switched to a discussion of the Firths’ relationship with their daughter. It appeared there was little friction between them when it came to parenting since, as far as he could tell, in general it was Joan and Esme doing the parenting. He asked briefly about Esme but didn’t unearth anything interesting—the two woman seemed on good terms with each other.

  “So who’s looking after Sophie these days?” Joe asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Oh, I’ve been staying at the townhouse since Mrs. Firth disappeared. There’s an apartment on the third floor. Quite nice. It would be convenient if it became a permanent arrangement because then I wouldn’t have to rent my own place. Even when Mrs. Firth gets home, of course,” she added hastily.

  Chapter 9

  It was a week after his interview with Joe Booth and Biden was feeling antsy. At first he had spent most of his time in the house, feeling somehow that staying out of the public eye was safer. He had been surprised that being in the library and walking through the entrance hall or going into the garage didn’t seem to bother him, then it did start to bother him. He would be sitting at his desk reading the paper and suddenly have to jump up—usually he used the opportunity to get himself a drink—or he would need something from the garage and would have Joan get it for him. He wasn’t sleeping well, and switching to the guest room hadn’t helped. Joan and Esme did their best to keep Sophia entertained and quiet, but when she did cry the sound cut through him like broken glass.

  Now on this last day of February—cold and clear, more like December—he had to get out of the house. He decided to go to the restaurant on North 2nd Street and try to work things out with Walters. He hadn’t heard from Walters since the conversation with his father and he assumed Walters had heard about Elizabeth’s disappearance and realized that Biden had other things on his mind than payments on some gentleman’s agreement investment. And of course even his father was not so crass as to ask him about the situation with his wife missing. Biden was sure he could find some other source to fund his restaurant investment, he just needed to smooth things over with Walters until he decided what that was.

  On his way to the restaurant he fought what had now become a near continuous urge to take his car to the car wash—the Ultra option with the interior vacuuming. That detective, Booth, hadn’t been happy to hear he had taken it to the car wash on the way back from Long Beach Island—the first one, Deng, hadn’t asked if he had made any stops and Biden hadn’t volunteered any information. Sometimes when he was home and sure Joan was occupied with Sophia, he would go to the garage with a high powered flashlight he had gotten for the purpose and search the trunk for any traces. And who knows what might be in other parts of the car that he wasn’t even thinking to look for. He had thought about selling the car but was afraid of making the police even more interested in it—for all he knew the police might not even let him get rid of it.

  With these thoughts nagging at him, he was surprised and annoyed to see when he reached the restaurant a sign over the door giving the name of the establishment as Waterman’s. Waterman had been the last name of a favorite uncle of Miles but Biden had argued that it made it sound like a seafood chain. Biden favored a French name and he thought it might not be too late to convince Miles.

  He pulled the Mercedes in behind a contractor’s truck in back of the restaurant. He could hear hammering coming from the second floor of the building and, closer by, the sound of voices which faded as the speakers moved away from one of the open windows on the first floor. The door which would be the service entrance was unlocked and he went in.

  The kitchen was quite far along, with an electrician working on wiring for the grill. Biden passed through the kitchen into the service area, following the sound of the voices. A painter was applying a rich mustard yellow to the walls of one of the several small rooms where diners would be seated. In the room beyond, which had already been painted, Miles stood with a woman who was holding up fabric swatches to the wall.

  “It’ll be great,” she said. “French country, very warm. Plus it would cost a fortune to change it now.”

  Miles Walters fidgeted with a clipboard. “But will it look good in dim light?” he said. “It might be too ... I don’t know ... yellow.”

  “I like it,” said Biden. “I always liked that color.”

  Miles and the woman turned and Biden realized the woman was Miles’s wife whose name he couldn’t remember.

  “Firth,” said Miles, looking surprised.

  “I thought I’d stop by and see how things were going.”

  Miles and his wife exchanged glances. “Going fine,” said Miles.

  Biden wished the wife would go back to choosing fabric or whatever it was she had been doing. He said to Miles, “I thought we could talk about, uh, that thing we had been talking about.” He flushed. No doubt the wife thought he was an idiot. What was her name?

  Miles and his wife exchanged looks again and Miles shrugged. “Sure.”

  “I’ll just check on the electrician,” she said, looking more curious than irritated, and headed back to the kitchen.

  “So, what brings you around?” said Miles, swinging the clipboard at his side between his forefinger and thumb.

  “I guess you heard about Elizabeth,” said Biden.

  Miles stopped swinging the clipboard. “Yes, sorry to hear that. Any news?”

  “No, nothing yet. I’m sure the police are doing their best.” He began unbuttoning his coat. “I’m sure you can imagine I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything else lately.”

  “Sure,” said Miles.

  “Well, I wanted to talk about the investment, see if we can’t work out something that will be beneficial for both of us.”

  Miles tossed the clipboard onto a nearby card table. “Let’s not go there, Biden. ‘Fool me once—’”

  “What do you mean?”

  Miles squinted at Biden. “Have you talked with your dad?”r />
  “He did tell me you had spoken to him about our arrangement,” said Biden coldly.

  “You didn’t leave me any choice,” retorted Miles. “You made a commitment—”

  “I know, that’s why I’m here,” said Biden, exasperated. “To work it out.”

  “Your dad took care of it,” said Miles. Biden’s face froze and he said nothing so in a moment Miles continued. “He called about a week after I talked to him, asked me if I had heard from you. I said no, so we worked out a deal.”

  “What deal?” said Biden, his voice taut.

  “It’s really not any of your business,” said Miles, clearly losing patience with the conversation.

  “It is my business,” said Biden, and he felt his hands forming into fists. “I gave you $80,000.”

  Miles shrugged. “Go ask your dad, Biden. But don’t come to the restaurant anymore. You’re out of it.” And he picked up the clipboard and followed his wife back to the kitchen.

  Biden stood in the empty dining room, surrounded by sawhorses and drop cloths, and felt a familiar anger—his father was making a fool of him once again—bring a burn to his face and churn to his stomach. He strode to the front door and jerked the knob but the door was locked and he couldn’t figure out how to unlock it. He was calculating the least humiliating way he could make his exit when he heard the sound of metal on metal and then the wail of a car alarm coming from the back of the building.

  When he got there, Miles, the wife, and the painter were standing in the back door. They stepped aside to let him through to the sight of the electrician climbing out of the truck whose back end was embedded in the grill of his wailing Mercedes.

  “Holy Christ,” muttered Biden, fumbling with his key chain and stabbing at the button to quiet the alarm.

  “I couldn’t see you parked back there,” said the electrician, looking dejectedly at the damage to the Mercedes.

  “If you looked before you backed up—” began Biden, anticipating the inconvenience of having his car in the shop. He hated to have other people mess with his car—the cheap paper floor mats they put down in a vain attempt to keep the mechanics’ muddy footprints off the carpet, the cloying floral smell of the products they used to clean the car when he took it in for service ... a small smile replaced his scowl. “Accidents happen,” he said. “I’ll need a tow truck.”