For Letter or Worse
Page 11
“Life insurance?” Delta echoed.
“Yes. The murdered woman and her husband had taken out insurance on each other’s lives. So now that she’s dead, he’s getting a lot of money.”
“What?” Delta’s eyes widened, and she shot upright in her chair. “So, he profits off her death anyway. Jonas thought he didn’t, because he is heir to her estate, but she owns virtually nothing. He didn’t mention any life insurance to me.”
“Victory,” Mrs. Cassidy said with a grin. “I admit we had an unfair advantage. Bessie talked to Tammy at Mine Forever, and she told me that Sally Drake had met her husband there and they had argued over coffee. Something about that life insurance. She wanted to make someone else the beneficiary. Her brother Calvin, I think.”
“Oh. That might make sense if she was going to stay here and was going to work in her brother’s company. Maybe she even offered to put the death benefit in his name in exchange for a place in the company? Might have been an inducement. Would explain why Una Edel hadn’t liked Sally at all. Moving in, with no knowledge of design, and buying her way into the Drake Design company. I’ll have to tell Jonas about this right away.”
“After breakfast.” With a stern look, Hazel gave her a pancake and poured new batter into the pan. “Did Tammy have anything else to reveal?”
“Yes,” Delta mumbled around a bite. “Did she also see Sally with another man? Not her dark-haired, stocky husband, but a tall, blond guy?”
“I don’t think so.” Mrs. Cassidy frowned. “Is that her new boyfriend?”
“No…” Delta paused before she could underline her answer. Why not? Jonas had said the blond guy had seemed to plead with her. Maybe she did have a new boyfriend around here, and they had fallen out with one another? About the husband appearing? Had the new boyfriend maybe worried the husband would be persuasive enough to get Sally to give him another chance?
“Could it be her boyfriend?” she mused aloud. “Has anyone heard anything about Sally Drake having a boyfriend here in Tundish?”
Mrs. Cassidy shrugged. “She had only been here for a short while. But I have no idea how fast people get attached these days. I read something in the newspaper about a couple meeting and marrying within fourteen days. A bit fast if you ask me. How much do you know about each other then?”
Hazel leaned against the sink with a pensive look. “Everybody thought Sally came here because her brother has his villa here, and she wanted to come and work for him now that she had lost her LA job. But what if she met another man, maybe months ago, and then decided to leave her husband and her work at the art museum behind and come here to be with this new lover?”
“I heard she got fired from her job and didn’t leave of her own accord,” Delta said.
But Hazel continued, waving the whisk, “The new lover had never meant for her to be quite so drastic right away, and didn’t want her to come here. Or he did want her to come here and then commit to him, while she was still having second thoughts. Enough potential for conflict, especially with her husband in town.”
Delta said, “We don’t know much as long as we have no idea who the blond guy is. These pancakes are really delicious.”
“Pancakes!” Hazel swirled around and dove for the pan. “Phew, saved it before it burned to the bottom of the pan. Who wants one more?”
They ate and chatted for a while, Delta also digging out her notebook and adding the life insurance information to the case file. Mrs. Cassidy took her leave, saying she would message them with anything new she heard. “See you tonight for rehearsal.” Nugget ran after her, disgruntled that she hadn’t gotten any sweet goodies.
“Rehearsal. I had almost forgotten all about that,” Delta said. Hazel and she had agreed, almost on a whim, to be part of the Paper Posse’s performance at Tundish’s annual town festival the first weekend of November. They got together once a week to rehearse at the community center.
“Me too.” Hazel sank on a chair and whisked a lock of hair from her face. She tried to pull it back into a ponytail, but it was still too short to fit an elastic band around it. With a sigh, she let it fall back in place. “This case has a lot of angles, it seems. The more we learn about Sally, the more people we find who might have been at odds with her.”
“And then to think people told us she was so quiet, and everybody liked her.” Delta tapped the figure of Zara Kingsley in her file. “We should find out if she already knew Drake before she came to work for the family. Why she came to work for the family. She told me she needs the money, but does this job really deliver so much more in pay than something else?”
“She won’t tell us herself, and we can hardly phone Drake about it. He’s devastated over his sister’s death.”
Delta nodded. She picked up her phone and checked the website of Marc LeDuc’s online paper. Despite her annoyance at his tactics, she had to admit he managed to dig up information, and some silly thing he said might actually lead them to a real clue. “Wow, listen to this. ‘Murder villa up for sale? Rumor has it that Calvin Drake of Drake Design will put his villa up for sale after the recent gruesome crime on his premises. Two days ago, his sister, Sally Drake, was killed during a party where most of his friends and acquaintances were gathered. The woman, who was staying at the villa throughout messy divorce proceedings, was found stabbed in the back of the garden on the edge of the forest. It’s poignant to note that shortly before the dead body was discovered, the police had arrived on the scene to investigate a threat against the hostess and birthday girl, Lena Laroy, Drake’s third wife. The question now is: Was the threat really directed against the murder victim, and were the police looking in the wrong direction? Or is the entire Drake family a target? Calvin Drake’s decision to sell off the villa right away seems to suggest he is feeling the evil influence of the place.’”
“Evil influence,” Hazel scoffed. “It’s merely a house by the water.”
“Apparently not. Marc isn’t done yet. Listen to this bit of in-depth research he did.” Delta continued to read in a weighty tone as if narrating a documentary, “‘The villa dates back to the forties, built by a rich industrialist who aimed to use it as a holiday home. On the evening of May 19, 1959, at the boathouse that once resided on the grounds, the dead body of Athena Barrows, the industrialist’s new bride, who had only wed him seven weeks before, was discovered. She was stabbed to death, and her killer has never been found. Barrows demolished the boathouse shortly after, haunted by his wife’s untimely death there. He sold the villa in 1961. Is there a sinister connection between this earlier unsolved crime and the current murder of Sally Drake?’”
“Does Marc mean that it might be the same killer still lurking about?” Hazel asked with wide eyes. “It’s over sixty years ago. That guy must be eighty!”
Delta pursed her lips. “He seems to mean that the house is a bad place to live. I have heard of people who investigate before they buy a house as to whether a violent death happened there, because they don’t want to live in such a place. I can imagine it’s kind of creepy, especially if the crime was never solved.”
“I see.” Hazel nodded. “But Drake wasn’t afraid.”
“Or he didn’t know. I wonder if he ever heard that story about the boathouse murder in the fifties. Especially with the boathouse being demolished, there might not have been a reason to say anything about it. And as it’s so long ago, the real estate agent might not even have known it. I wonder how Marc found out about it.”
“Ask him,” Hazel wriggled her brows.
“Please.” Delta shook her head. “I don’t want to talk to him about anything. Maybe there are mentions of it online? I’ll have a look.” She entered the words boathouse murder Tundish 1959 into the search engine. “Ah. Here it is. Marc got it from his own father’s newspaper. The Tundish Trader reported on it in May 1959. The old editions are digitalized and accessible via the local library, if you have a li
brary card. I can only see the headlines now. I have to log in to read the actual article.”
“Excellent reason to get a library card,” Hazel said. “I’ve been meaning to get one ever since I moved here, but you know how those things go. I never got around to it. But now you can go and get one, and then you can read that article and borrow some nice books to read.”
“Great idea.” Delta put down her phone. “Off to the library then.”
Chapter Eight
Tundish’s library sat in the shadow of the community center. The modest entry led into an inviting reception area with a bulletin board where Mine Forever and the gold-mining museum had put up flyers about their activities. Delta made a mental note to add a leaflet with information about their next workshop. She went to the desk and asked the librarian for a library card. The woman, in her fifties, with a long vest, corduroy pants, and a badge that read Ethel, quickly prepared the card for her, asking for her personal information and entering it into the computer. Delta said, “I can look into the archives with this, right?”
“Yes, we have a lot of digitalized information about Tundish. Students helped us out last year as part of their graduation project. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“Yes, the boathouse murder in 1959. A woman named Athena Barrows was stabbed in a boathouse by the lake. It was never solved. I mean, the killer wasn’t caught.”
“I see.” The librarian handed her the card. “You can use it right away if you like. There are computers over there. Feel free to ask me if you don’t get the right results.”
“Thanks.” Delta crossed to the computers and sat down. She entered her library card number and could search the digitalized archives. She discovered that the boathouse murder had been a hot item for days on end, and the Tundish Trader had written about it with a sort of sensationalist glee she hadn’t expected in the fifties. But then Barrows, the house owner, had been a well-known person, and his wife—judging by the information about her—a sort of star. A young socialite who had done some modeling work and then met Barrows during a summer vacation on Rhode Island. Glamour at its finest.
The resemblance to Lena Laroy couldn’t be overlooked. Again, Delta wondered if she had been the one meant to die, and Sally had been killed by mistake. But while the dresses had been similar in color and style, they hadn’t been exactly the same, and the two women had been quite different in build as well. Still, she and Jonas had to keep the possibility in mind. If Lena had been the intended victim and Sally had been killed only by mistake, it made no sense to look for the killer by investigating motives of people who might have wanted Sally dead. What were the motives for wanting Lena dead?
Delta stared in deep thought at the computer screen. Had the old murder at the boathouse given the killer an idea? Had he or she meant to set it up the same way? Lure the victim away from the party and then attack at an isolated spot?
But what had Athena Barrows been doing at that boathouse? And what had Sally been doing alone at the back of the garden? A secret meeting? With her husband? A new lover? Someone else altogether?
“Have you found what you’re looking for?” The librarian popped up by her side and looked at the screen.
“Yes, thank you.” Delta smiled up at her. “You don’t happen to know if there is any more information on this boathouse murder? I mean, in a book or something? These newspaper reports are rather haphazard. Not much was known at the time, and as the killer was never caught, there wasn’t a trial or anything where they could establish the facts.”
“No, of course not; that does sound rather complicated.” The librarian chewed on her lower lip. “I don’t know if it made it into a book. If there were so few facts… But we have a bit of a historian here in Tundish. Mr. Coldard. He might be able to help you. He wrote several books about the area. If anybody knows a bit more about this boathouse murder, it’s likely to be him.”
“Great. Can you give me his contact information?”
“I wouldn’t call him if I were you. He’s quite deaf, and you have to yell to get through to him. I’d drop by his place. He loves visitors. And he doesn’t go out much anymore, so there is a good chance you’ll find him at home. I’ll write down the address for you.” She crossed to her desk and wrote something on a notepad, then tore off the sheet. “There you go.”
Delta logged off and came to her to fetch the sheet. “Thanks so much.”
“Any time.”
Outside, in the crisp air of a late autumn morning, Delta wondered if she should go and see Coldard right away. The librarian had kindly added directions to his address, and it didn’t seem to be far if she went by car. She did feel a bit guilty about not doing her bit at the shop, but she would try and catch up later. Right now, this link with the fifties unresolved crime intrigued her, and she wanted to get right on it. With a grin, she crossed the street to the parking lot beside the church.
* * *
Delta parked her car beside the dirt path leading to the cabin in the distance. It was a wooden structure on a brick base, with a porch full of empty hanging baskets, swinging in the breeze. Delta got out of the car with her phone in her hand and walked down the path. There was an eerie silence in the forest around her, and she again thought of the lurking killer in Tundish, making her glance over her shoulder. Perhaps it had been a better idea to take along Jonas?
She stopped and texted him: “I’m at a rather isolated cabin in the woods, belonging to a guy named Coldard, a local historian who should be able to give me some information that might be useful in the case. I’ll text you again in ten minutes.” She wanted to add: If I don’t, come look for me, but she thought that might look overdramatic.
A twig snapped, and she almost jumped.
“Just a bird.” The high-pitched voice came from the porch. A frail, elderly man came to the top of the steps. He waved at her. “Come over, girl.”
Delta walked over, clutching the phone. She spoke loudly and clearly. “Mr. Coldard? I’m Delta Douglas. I live in Tundish and run a stationery store. I want to ask you something about local history. At the library, they said to find you here.”
Coldard reached out his hand. “Coldard. You live in Tundish? I never saw you before.”
“I moved to town recently.”
“You don’t have to shout.” Coldard smiled at her. “Nothing wrong with my hearing.”
Like some elderly people she had met before, he probably ignored his hearing trouble. She continued to speak loudly and clearly. “I want to ask you something about the villa that was owned by Barrows, the industrialist.”
“I said that you don’t have to shout.” Coldard winked at her. “Mrs. Sheffield, the head librarian, wants to turn me into a project. Have hot meals delivered and my house cleaned up. I pretend I can’t understand what she’s asking. There is nothing wrong here.”
Delta looked at his hanging baskets. “Those had better come off before winter hits. You should store them indoors, and then you can use them again in the spring. Shall I take them down? In exchange for the information.”
“As long as it’s an even deal, young lady. No favors toward an old man. I’m not a sad case. Yes, my wife died, and things haven’t been as tidy as they used to, but I can still take care of myself.”
Delta had to admit he was dressed neatly and looked sharp and alert. On a table on the porch were stacks of books and an old typewriter. “You sit out here to work? Isn’t that cold?”
“I dress up warm and put a blanket across the old legs. I like being out-of-doors. More oxygen, you know, good for the brain.” He gestured at the paper in the typewriter. “I’m writing a new book.”
“Oh, good for you.” Delta reached up and took down the first hanging basket. She took out the inner plastic pot with some dry earth in it and put it on the porch while placing the basket to the side. “You can tell me a bit about the Barrows villa.”
“Interior designer,” Delta said. “This man Barrows was an industrialist?”
“Yes, he had factories, and he invested in railways and airports. He was into everything, really. A self-made millionaire. With a beautiful young wife who got murdered.” Coldard observed her with his pale eyes. “Are you here for details on that murder?”
Delta took her time to extract a plastic pot with some dead plant remains from a basket. The pot had a crack all round and was really ready for the trash.
“Did Marc LeDuc send you?”
She turned to him in a surprised jerk. “No, not at all. Has he contacted you too?”
Coldard grimaced. “He was so indoctrinated that I don’t hear well, he had written his request down on paper. In capitals. He showed it to me like I’m some kind of idiot. I pretended I couldn’t read it. He looked about him with a sort of disgusted air and left again.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m hardly friends with Marc LeDuc. My best friend was in some trouble a few weeks ago, and he wrote nasty things about her in his paper. It could have hurt her very badly had it not been cleared up quickly. I avoid him where I can.”
Coldard nodded. “That makes sense. He’s as cold as ice. I used to know his father quite well. He let me write columns for the Tundish Trader about local history. But a few years ago, he told me I was getting too old for it and people wanted something new. Practical tips and all that, a baking column or something about gardening.” He snorted. “No wonder his sales are going down.”
“Can you tell me more about the murder of Athena Barrows?”