I did a last pass through the house to make sure we hadn’t disturbed anything and came back to the office to find Annabel sitting in Weaver’s desk chair, reading a paper.
“Found anything interesting?” I asked.
“Not interesting,” she said. “Just annoying. Some kind of memo from a vice president at First Undermountain Bank. That’s the greedy bastards who foreclosed on the emu farm and wouldn’t sell it to me.”
“He probably gets a lot of memos from them,” I said. “He’s on their board, remember?”
“Was on their board,” she corrected. “Our killer just created a vacancy. This is a memo someone wrote complaining about how the repossessed emu farm is costing them too much and asking how soon their plan for unloading it can go forward.”
“Maybe that spells good news for your hope of establishing an emu sanctuary.”
“We won’t need that now that we’ve finally got your Grandfather to pay attention to the birds,” she said. “I still might like to buy it, but I think the emus will be fine with this Caroline person. And anyway, this letter is from eight months ago. They’ve turned us down again since then. Whatever plan they’ve got doesn’t involve us or the emus, that’s all I know. Not sure it’s significant. I just wonder why this was sitting out in his inbox.”
“No idea.” I scanned the memo over her shoulder. Then I took a picture of it, just in case.
“Then again, maybe it’s good news,” she said. “What if Weaver was somehow working to block the sale of the property to us. Well, to me now. Maybe if I asked again, they’d sing a different tune. Even though we don’t need the farm quite as much now, it would be interesting to see.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But why don’t you wait until they catch Weaver’s killer before you approach them. Because jumping in with another offer right now might make the chief think you have a serious motive for getting rid of Weaver.”
“I thought the chief was set on this Williams person as the culprit,” she said.
“She’s leaning that way,” I said. “Don’t distract her. And let’s get out of here. I think we’ve established that if Chief Heedles spent more than an hour searching Weaver’s papers she was wasting her time.”
She nodded.
We crept to the front door, turned our headlights off, and waited until our eyes adjusted to the dark and we could be sure the coast was clear. Then we stepped out onto the porch.
“Maybe we should turn our headlights back on,” I suggested. “You don’t want to fall down in the dark.”
“Maybe we should wait till we’re safely in my yard,” she said, as she lifted up the crime-scene tape. “Unless you’re afraid of falling down. I have eyes like a cat since my cataract surgery.”
We slunk along Weaver’s front walk and then down the sidewalk until we were in front of Annabel’s yard. Then we both straightened up, turned on our headlights, and strolled up the walk to her front porch.
Dr Ffollett was waiting just inside Annabel’s front door.
“Where have you been?” he hissed to Annabel. “I got here with your groceries and the house was empty and the door open! And what’s she doing here?” He glared at me.
“She’s been over at Mr. Weaver’s house, snooping,” I said. “And although I disapprove of the snooping, I’m here to make sure we have our stories straight, in case anyone spotted her over there and called the cops. How about ‘we thought we saw something suspicious, so we went over to check it out.’ Work for you, Miss Annabel?”
“Works fine,” she said. “Thanks.”
“You didn’t,” Dr. Ffollett groaned.
“So now what?” I asked Annabel.
“I have no idea.”
“I’m going to send Stanley the picture I took of that memo,” I said. “As soon as I get someplace where there’s a cell phone signal. Or I’ll show it to him tomorrow.”
“You think it’s significant?” She sounded eager.
“No,” I said. “But it’s the only even mildly interesting thing we found.”
“True,” she said. “Why would a bank that’s dying to sell a millstone round its neck turn down a legitimate offer?”
“You’re sure your offer was competitive?” I asked.
“I—we made several increasingly large offers,” she said. “Our last one pretty much asked them to name their price. And they know we can afford it.”
“Are they your bankers?”
“I’d sooner trust my money to a pack of hyenas,” she said. “But banks have ways of finding out these things. They knew.”
“So it’s puzzling,” I said. “Let’s see what Stanley can find out. Can you get us copies of your correspondence with the bank?”
“Of course.” She walked over to a small secretary desk, flipped down the hinged desktop, and sat down in front of it. She selected a pen from a small blue-and-aqua pot—more Biscuit Mountain Art Pottery, I was sure—and pulled out a five-by-eight-inch three-ring notebook with an elegant flowered cover.
“Our attorney has all the paperwork,” she said. “I’ll write a note asking him to make copies for you. Dwight can drop it off with him in the morning.”
As she spoke, she was writing down something in the notebook. I suddenly realized I was Miss Annabel’s equivalent of my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe.
It was almost like watching a much older version of myself. Although I doubted I’d ever learn to keep my notebook as clean and tidy as Annabel’s. Well organized, yes, but scruffily so. I could never hope to write as neatly and precisely as she did.
She pulled out a sheet of notepaper and began penning her note, while I looked on. She had fine, old-fashioned copperplate handwriting, and when she occasionally printed a word, for emphasis, her printing had the same elegant, calligraphic quality as Dad’s, as I’d noticed before on the emu inventory. Was there a genetic component to handwriting style? Would Cordelia’s printing have looked even more like Dad’s? And why hadn’t I gotten a little more of that particular gene?
Annabel finished her note, and was reaching for an envelope when she noticed me looking over her shoulder.
“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to hover.”
“I don’t mind having someone watch me work on my memorandum book.” She tucked the note in the envelope as she spoke, and licked and sealed it. “Just don’t ever touch the notebook. Drives me insane.”
“I feel the same way,” I said, patting the tote that currently held my own bulging three-ring notebook. “Ask me to do something, fine; but hands off the notebook.”
She nodded with matter-of-fact approval, as if I’d made the only sensible reply—and the one she expected of me.
Something suddenly clicked. Not just the fact that she had a fraternal twin of my notebook. The similar way our minds worked. Her fierce anger at Grandfather. The disconnect between the timid Annabel others described and the strong, forceful woman I’d come to know.
“You’re not Cordelia’s cousin, are you?” I said aloud.
She looked up and frowned slightly. Dr. Ffollett made a little squeaking noise, but we both ignored him.
“You’re Cordelia, aren’t you?” I said. “You’re my grandmother.”
“Took you long enough,” Annabel—or, rather, Cordelia—said, with a slight chuckle.
Chapter 27
I just stared, and she sat there, smiling slightly, her head cocked to one side expectantly. But what was she expecting? A hug from her long-lost granddaughter? A rebuke for having kept me in the dark so long? A volley of recriminations? I wasn’t sure myself which was most appropriate. All the anger, sadness, and sheer bafflement I’d been dealing with since Stanley had told us his news boiled up and again it was a while before I trusted myself to speak.
I tried to keep my face from showing how I felt, but I suspected Cordelia could tell. Just as I could tell that she was faking her calm, smiling expression.
“Why?” I asked when I finally thought I could manage a calm voice.
“So many possible whys,” she said. “Which one do you want me to start with?”
I wanted to start with “Why the hell didn’t you ever try to get in touch with us?” but I didn’t think it would make for a very good start to our suddenly redefined relationship. “And how could you do this to your own son?” was even worse. I’d decided now how I felt toward Cordelia. Mad as hell. Probably a feeling I should grapple with in silence, rather than lashing out and spoiling things forever.
“Let’s start with why you were pretending to be dead.” That seemed safe.
I could tell from Cordelia’s expression that she was relieved to start with such a relatively neutral question.
“Weaver didn’t hate poor Annabel,” she said. “He hated me. I didn’t realize he hated me enough to kill me, or I’d have taken precautions. But standing over her body, I knew I was in danger. At least I thought I was. And I also thought if he figured out I was still alive, he’d try again, and I wouldn’t even have Annabel as a witness.”
“I assume you got Dr. Ffollett to switch your dental records,” I said. “So they’d think she was you.”
“I did nothing of the kind!” Dr. Ffollett snapped. “They didn’t identify her body from her dental records. They identified her—misidentified her—from her partial plate.”
“I’m sorry, but isn’t that more or less the same thing?” I asked.
“No! It is very definitely not the same thing!” he exclaimed. And then seeing my puzzlement, he elaborated. “In some states dentists are legally required to mark any removable prosthetic or orthodontic device with the name or social security number of the patient to whom it belongs. And even in states where it isn’t required, it’s a responsible thing for a dentist to do. I’ve always done it.”
“And Dr. Ffollett has been the family dentist for years,” Cordelia added. “He’d made partial plates for both of us.”
“With their proper names on them,” Dr. Ffollett muttered.
His indignation amused me, and I had to work to keep from smiling or even giggling. I glanced toward Cordelia and realized she was doing the same thing. A little of the anger I’d been feeling toward her fell away.
“So the police found Cordelia’s partial plate with Annabel’s body and assumed they’d found Cordelia.” I turned to Cordelia. “I don’t suppose Annabel really went out to the shed wearing your partial plate by mistake, now did she?”
“She didn’t,” Cordelia said. “I put it there.” And then, seeing from my face that I wasn’t satisfied with the answer, she went on. “Here’s what happened. Just the way I told you before, except it wasn’t me who went out to turn off the generator. I was feeling poorly. Bad head cold. I suggested we just leave it on for the night, but Annabel said don’t be silly, she could do it. She knew how—she just didn’t like doing it much, and most nights I didn’t mind. She was already ready for bed—had her plate soaking in the bathroom—so she just put on her bathrobe and ran out to the shed. I wasn’t lying about keeping an eye on her. She wasn’t as sturdy as me. She went behind the shed, the generator stopped—and then less than a minute later the flames shot up. I knew right away the fire wasn’t an accident. I went out there and saw … saw…”
She closed her eyes and swallowed. Then she set her jaw and opened them again, with a fierce expression. A little more of my anger faded.
“There was no hope for Annabel. I could see that. She was dead, and the fire had already reached her. And I knew who’d done it. I saw a figure sneaking away toward his house, and I was sure it was him. And I figured once he found out he’d killed the wrong cousin, he’d try again. So the first thing I did was run inside to get my partial plate from the medicine cabinet. By the time I got back out, the fire had spread so far I couldn’t get near where she was lying, so I just threw the plate in and hoped the police would assume it had fallen out when she fell or something.”
“And they did,” Dr. FFollett put in. “I knew as soon as I heard about the accident—”
“The non-accident,” Cordelia corrected. “The murder.”
“The fire, then—I knew it was a mistake. That it couldn’t possibly be Cordelia.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“I don’t wear the plate anymore,” she said. “Got an implant—how long has it been, Dwight—thirty years?”
“Thirty-two as of April,” he said. “I checked my records. I assumed the police would be requesting them. I came over to warn Cordelia that I wasn’t going to lie. That when the police questioned me, I’d tell them it couldn’t be her. That it was Annabel.”
“But the fools never asked,” Cordelia said. “So since Dwight promised to keep my secret until they did, for now I’m safe.”
“And my professional ethics are in tatters,” Dr. Ffollett said.
“It’s your ethics or my life,” Cordelia snapped. And then her face softened. “I understand that if you’re asked, you have to tell. And I’m as disappointed as you are that they never asked, because that would have meant they were taking the case seriously. Instead of hoping people would forget about it. Or maybe hoping I’d die and stop bothering them.”
“I’m surprised the medical examiner didn’t compare the plate they found with Annabel’s teeth,” I said. “Unless of course the two of you were missing precisely the same tooth or teeth—”
“We were,” she said. “It’s a genetic condition. Runs in the Lee family. It’s called—”
“Peg lateral,” I said.
They both stared at me.
“How do you know about that?” Dr. Ffollett asked.
“Dad has it, too,” I said. “He’s missing one of his lateral incisors. And while my brother, Rob, and I weren’t affected, my sister Pam is missing the same tooth.”
“Upper right side?” Cordelia asked.
I nodded.
“Fascinating!” Dr. Ffollett exclaimed. “Have you ever sent in your DNA to the National Geographic’s Genographic Project? You might have Native American ancestry. Peg lateral tends to be more common in certain Native American tribes. Although usually both upper lateral incisors are affected and the tooth is very small rather than completely missing. This could be a different mutation entirely! I’ve always thought it would be a fascinating subject for a paper, and now with two more subjects—”
“If you had an implant over thirty years ago, why did you still have your partial plate lying around?” I asked Cordelia.
She shook her head.
“Beats me,” she said. “Why do we have kerosene lanterns and butter churns lying around? Seemed a waste just to throw it out. Or maybe I had a premonition that someday the old plate would be useful.”
“A pity you didn’t also have a premonition that the old kerosene lantern in the shed would cause problems,” Dr. Ffollett said.
“I’m not even sure that was our kerosene lantern,” Cordelia snapped. “I think someone planted it. Weaver. Or whoever killed Annabel.”
“Did you really think you’d get away with it?” My voice was perhaps a little sharper than it needed to be. I wasn’t completely past the anger. “Didn’t you realize that sooner or later someone would find out?”
“I didn’t think I needed to get away with it,” she said. “Not for long. I thought the police would investigate, get the goods on Weaver, and arrest him. With him locked up, I’d be safe, and I could come out of hiding. If I’d known the whole thing would still be dragging on six months later, maybe I’d have taken my chances.”
“Chief Heedles said you’d given her a statement right after the murder,” I said. “Didn’t she suspect anything?”
“One little old lady looks pretty much like another to most people,” Cordelia said.
“Then there’s the fact that you pretended to be so overcome with grief that you had taken to your bed with a cold compress over your eyes,” Dr. Ffollett said. “One little old lady with a washcloth covering her whole face does look pretty much like another, I’ll give you that.”
“
If you gave a false statement to the police—” I began.
“I never lied,” she said. “I never pretended she was me. I always referred to her as ‘my cousin’ or ‘she.’”
“I assume you attended the funeral,” I said.
“Heavily veiled, and leaning on poor Dwight for support,” she said. “We were much the same height, Annabel and I, and since she was known to be such a recluse, everyone pretty much left me alone.”
“And what about your cousin’s estate?” I asked. “Does she have beneficiaries who might not be too pleased with you?”
“She never married, and I never had any other children,” Cordelia said. “I’m her beneficiary, as she would have been mine if I’d gone first. And Dwight’s the executor.”
“And since I’m not keen on going into court under false pretenses—” Dr. Ffollett began.
“He’s been dragging his heels, on my orders,” Cordelia said. She sighed and shook her head. “It was never supposed to last this long. But maybe now’s the time to come clean. Whether Weaver did it or this person the chief has locked up, I should be out of danger.”
“Or maybe you’re in just as much danger as ever,” I said. “What if Mr. Williams isn’t the killer either? But yes, I agree—you need to come clean. To the chief, if nothing else. If she’d known the truth before, maybe she’d have taken your evidence more seriously.”
“Why?” She sounded puzzled. “Am I a more credible witness than Annabel?”
“Where were you when you saw Weaver?” I asked. “Here in the house? Or out by the fire?”
“Out there,” she said. “Almost at the fire.”
“The way I heard it—and the way the chief heard it—you were here in the house. Much farther away, under conditions that weren’t exactly optimal.”
“You have a point,” she said. “Conditions weren’t optimal for observation out there, and from way up here in the house? And I’m beginning to wonder if I only thought it was him because whoever it was ran straight toward his house.”
“And even if it was him, what if he wasn’t the killer?” I suggested. “What if he saw something going on and ran out to see what it was—he loved to snoop, I’ve noticed that already. And then when he saw Annabel dead, maybe he thought, ‘Holy cow! What if they blame me?’ He’d have run away, back to his house, right?”
Meg Langslow 17 - The Good, the Bad, and the Emus Page 27
