“I know.”
“—to sculptures by Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney, to Lalique glass and jewelry. I daresay Harold enjoyed the thrill of the hunt and subsequent bidding wars nearly as much as he enjoyed possessing the pieces themselves.”
Wes, who had begun wandering the room, stopped behind Crenshaw’s back and rolled his eyes. It was a natural reaction to Crenshaw’s habit of speaking like an English lord. I tried not to laugh as I tuned back into Crenshaw’s speech.
“The Turnbulls’ son and only child, Jim, shared his father’s interest in art. When Harold passed away—this was at least twenty years ago, or so—Elaine inherited the art collection and appointed her son to manage it. Jim moved back into the manor house with his wife and daughter. Sadly, Jim passed away only a few years later. That’s also when his daughter disappeared.”
“What?” I had begun to wonder why Crenshaw was telling me all this. Now I had an inkling. “Who disappeared?”
“Lana Turnbull. Jim’s daughter and Elaine’s granddaughter. She’s also Elaine’s sole heir.”
“She disappeared?”
“Well, she ran away, really. She was seventeen years old. That was fifteen years ago. In fact, that’s what I wanted to discuss with you. If you’ll follow me, let’s proceed to the—”
He broke off as a uniformed maid hurried into the drawing room.
“Ah, Celia,” said Crenshaw. “You found us.”
A tiny, gray-haired woman with sharp, black eyes, Celia marched up to Crenshaw with a tray held tightly in her knobby fingers. On the tray was a sweating glass pitcher of lemonade and two highball glasses half-filled with melting ice.
“You said you would be in the conservatory,” she scolded. “And you said there would be two of you!”
Wes moved to relieve Celia of the rattling tray. She deftly swerved from his reach.
“I’ll get another glass.” Quick as a bird, she whirled and stalked out of the room.
Crenshaw pinched the bridge of his nose as Wes and I exchanged an amused glance.
“Maybe we should sit here,” I suggested, pointing to a grouping of armchairs conveniently arranged for conversation. “Then she’ll know where to find us.”
“Very well,” said Crenshaw. He gestured for me to lead the way, so I did.
“So, you were saying that Lana Turnbull ran away when she was seventeen. And she lived here at the time, with her parents and grandmother? And this was right after her father died?” My curiosity was piqued already.
A flicker of concern crossed Wes’s face. He pressed his lips together and stood to one side as he waited for the answer.
Crenshaw nodded. “Lana’s mother reported her missing. Of course, Suzanne was already speaking with the authorities because of Jim’s death.”
“How did Jim die?” I asked.
“There was an accidental shooting. He collected antique firearms and apparently shot himself while cleaning one. No one knows if Lana witnessed the accident or if she came upon his body afterward, but people assumed she was traumatized by the event. Either way, she fled and did not return.”
“How awful.”
Wes spoke up in an oddly quiet tone. “Are you trying to find Lana now? To let her know about her inheritance?”
“Not only that,” said Crenshaw, “but also to settle the estate. Everything is in flux until she is found. Or until every effort has been made to find her.”
“So, that’s why you called me,” I said. Although I wasn’t in the business of finding things, I couldn’t deny the reputation I’d acquired. Somehow I had managed to locate lots of things over the past few years, from lost heirlooms and hidden tunnels to dead bodies—and the secrets, clues, and evidence that led to the persons responsible for the dead bodies. In other words, the murderers. Maybe it was my dogged persistence or my detail-oriented legal mind. Or maybe, as I suspected, it had something to do with the spells I casted and the divine guidance I received. As a Wiccan, I believed wholeheartedly in magic—a belief that was justified time after time.
I didn’t think Crenshaw knew the extent of my spiritual practices, though he did know I traveled in some unconventional circles. He also knew about the crimes I’d helped solve.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” he admitted. “Of course, the firm already retained a licensed private investigator. I have the agency’s report in my briefcase.” He leaned over, reaching toward the floor, then straightened and rolled his eyes. “Which is in the conservatory. I’ll be right back.”
As soon as Crenshaw left the room, I looked up at Wes. He seemed lost in thought. Then suddenly, he chuckled.
“What is it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. There’s just something so cinematic about this whole thing, you know? You’re called to this grand old mansion and presented the ‘Case of the Missing Heiress.’” He raised his fingers to make quotation marks. “It’s like the start of an old black-and-white detective flick, or a mystery novel or something.”
I grinned. “That sounds about right. Crenshaw does have a flair for the dramatic.”
I stood up and wandered over to a large vase of pink and purple hyacinth. Closing my eyes, I leaned down to inhale the sweet, luscious fragrance. It was a springtime scent, out of place on this early September day—which brought back the dreamlike, off-kilter sensation I’d had earlier.
A shadow fell across the floor in front of me. I looked up and gasped. Instead of Crenshaw, I was faced with a strange man, staring down at me in a dour silence.
Wes darted to my side. “Hey, there,” he said, in a casual, friendly way, but with an underlying guardedness I shared.
The stranger nodded his head stiffly and remained quiet. He was a tall, solid-looking man with icy blue eyes and a shock of short, white hair. I guessed him to be in his late sixties or early seventies.
Trying again, Wes stuck out his hand and introduced us. “Wes Callahan. And this is Keli Milanni. We’re here with Crenshaw.”
With apparent reluctance, the man shook Wes’s hand. “Ray Amberly,” he said, in a gruff voice.
I waited for further explanation, but none was forthcoming. Luckily Crenshaw returned, putting an end to the awkward staring contest.
“Ah, I see you’ve met Mr. Amberly,” said Crenshaw.
“Sort of,” I murmured.
“Mr. Amberly was Elaine’s personal nurse and caretaker,” Crenshaw continued. “He also lives here at Turnbull Manor.”
“I was more than that,” cut in the older man. “I was Elaine’s companion. I looked after her for almost a dozen years. We were very close.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Amberly,” I said.
I thought I detected a slight softening in his rigid countenance. “Might as well call me Ray,” he said.
“Now then,” said Crenshaw. “I have some business to discuss with Keli. Would you excuse us, Mr. Amberly?”
“Is it about the will?” demanded Ray. “I need to talk to you about that.”
Crenshaw’s eye twitched. I recognized the impatient look. “We’ve already discussed it. The will Elaine filed a few years ago is her last will and testament, signed by witnesses, notarized, and never revoked. The probate court already established the will is legal and valid.”
“I tell you there’s another will. She changed her mind and made a new one.”
At that moment, Celia entered the room, once more bearing a tray of lemonade. This time there were three glasses, as well as a plate of cookies. She stopped short when she saw us.
“Now there are four of you!”
Crenshaw’s cell phone rang. He snatched it from his pocket and retreated to a corner, plainly relieved for the excuse to escape.
Wes reached for a cookie, but Celia pulled the tray away and whirled around, muttering something about preparing a fourth glass. I would have suggested that she leave the tray, but she was gone before I could open my mouth. Ray, meanwhile, had walked over to Elaine’s portrait over the fireplace. As he stared at
the painting, his stony face took on a morose air.
My ears pricked up at the sound of Crenshaw’s deep voice, which was uttering notes of alarm. I sidled over to him as he wrapped up the call.
“Yes. Yes, I will. Thank you for calling. Good-bye.” He slid his phone into his pants pocket, then grabbed a handkerchief from his jacket and began to mop his forehead.
“Is everything okay?”
“Ah, yes. That is, no. I don’t know.”
“Who was on the phone?”
“That was Dr. Lamb, Elaine’s attending physician. He was out of town the night Elaine died, so he didn’t sign the death certificate. He was just reviewing the coroner’s report and became troubled by something.”
“Oh?”
Crenshaw’s already lowered voice dropped to a whisper. “Two things, actually. One, the report stated there was a bluish tinge to Elaine’s skin and lips, yet the coroner didn’t order a toxicology analysis. Elaine had cancer, so the coroner evidently felt an autopsy was unnecessary. However, there was another disturbing item. The list of Elaine’s medications in the report did not include the opioid painkillers Dr. Lamb had prescribed.”
“What does that mean? What does he think happened?”
“Dr. Lamb is convinced Elaine overdosed on the painkillers. And since the bottles were missing . . . he suspects foul play.”
Chapter Three
Right after Crenshaw’s bombshell, Celia returned for the third time bearing her tray of drinks and snacks. The lemonade was watery with melted ice, and too sweet for my taste, but I still drank it in big gulps. The prospect of another unbidden murder investigation had made my mouth go dry. I was never particularly keen on practicing criminal law—preferring instead to focus on family law matters and transactional business. Unfortunately, the Universe often had other ideas.
Crenshaw invited everyone to sit and help ourselves to the refreshments. He gave me a knowing look and touched the side of his nose. I took the hint and remained mum about Dr. Lamb’s suspicions. Wes grabbed a cookie and squeezed my shoulder before sitting. Ray took a glass but remained standing. I had the impression he didn’t feel like being social but wanted to be part of any discussions concerning Elaine’s will.
Crenshaw steepled his fingers as if gathering his thoughts, then turned to the caretaker. “Mr. Amberly— Ray—let’s talk about this purported new will for a moment. Did you ever see it?”
“I saw Elaine working on it. About a month ago, she sat at her desk in the library, marking up the old will and drafting a new one. I didn’t see it up close, but I know that’s what it was.” He took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh before continuing. “She even made a joke about it. She said, ‘Ray, do you know what a handwritten will is called?’ At first, I thought she was telling a riddle. She had a quirky sense of humor. I said, ‘What?’ And she said, ‘A holographic will’!”
“That’s correct,” Crenshaw put in. “It comes from the Latin holographus, meaning ‘written in full, in one’s own hand.’”
“Yeah, well, we joked about holograms. She said she would love to make a 3-D image of herself reading the will, like Princess Leia in Star Wars.” Ray bowed his head and coughed. “The point is, she knew what she was doing. And I know she finished it, because she mentioned asking two of the landscapers to come inside and witness her signing it. She told me that beneficiaries aren’t allowed to be witnesses.”
Meaning Ray assumes he’s a beneficiary. I made a mental note of the information.
“That’s correct,” said Crenshaw. “Under Illinois law—”
“Have you questioned the landscapers?” I interrupted. Sometimes Crenshaw’s love of his own voice detracted from more pressing matters.
“I tried,” said Ray with a frown. “They must have been part of the temporary crew that’s only here in the summer. I can’t find anyone who remembers signing the will.”
“Well, where might she have kept a handwritten will?” asked Crenshaw.
“It’s hard to say,” said Ray. “Elaine wasn’t terribly organized with her paperwork. That’s why I pay—paid—the bills. There’s the desk in the library and some boxes and baskets of papers in her room. I looked in both places and didn’t find it. To be honest, I think she might have hidden it.”
“Hidden it?” echoed Wes. “Why would she have done that?”
“She probably didn’t want Suzanne to see it,” said Ray. “Elaine didn’t trust her daughter-in-law. Or maybe Suzanne took it herself, after Elaine passed on. I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“One moment,” said Crenshaw, rubbing his temple. “If I have this right, you’re saying that either Elaine hid the will or else Suzanne stole it—and presumably hid or destroyed it. And, even if Elaine didn’t hide it, you don’t know where she would have kept it . . . but she had a substantial amount of papers in her bedroom and she wasn’t very organized. Is that correct?”
“That’s what I said.”
“I wonder . . . if it’s not too painful, would you mind walking us through what happened the night Elaine died? Perhaps it will help to refresh your recollection regarding what you saw in her room. I’m sure things were chaotic. Perhaps you or Celia, or one of the paramedics, might have moved some papers and, in the process, misplaced the will.”
Crenshaw surreptitiously touched the side of his nose again, while giving me the briefest of glances. I guessed this was his new form of silent communication. Wes looked curiously from Crenshaw to me. I knew he could tell something was up. Ray didn’t seem to notice.
“I suppose I can do that,” Ray said. “It’s true that things were chaotic. We’d had a dinner party that night, so our regular routine was already all messed up.”
“And she seemed all right at dinner?” Crenshaw asked.
Ray nodded. “She was in good spirits. She had made a sizable gift to the Edindale Art Museum. It was a celebratory dinner. Although . . .” He trailed off, squinting his eyes.
“Yes?” Crenshaw prompted.
“Maybe she was a little quieter than usual. At one point I thought she looked worried. I figured she was thinking about her illness. She’d recently had a relapse and wasn’t looking forward to starting up chemo again.”
“She was a gracious lady,” Crenshaw said. “I’m sure she put on a brave face for her guests.”
Ray nodded curtly. “Everyone left between eight-thirty and nine o’clock—some people had another event to go to. By that time, Elaine was pretty tired. She said she was going up to her room. At around nine-thirty, I brought up a glass of warm milk with cinnamon, like she had every night. I knocked on her door, but she didn’t answer. I thought this was unusual, since I could see that her light was still on and heard the TV. I knocked again, then went inside. She was lying across the bed at an odd angle, like she’d fallen. I called her name and shook her, but she was unresponsive. I gave her CPR, then called nine-one-one. You can imagine the rest.”
I studied Ray while he spoke. Maybe it was my imagination, but, unlike his earlier displays of emotion, he seemed to recite these facts like well-rehearsed lines.
“Did you notice any papers in the bedroom?” asked Crenshaw.
Ray crinkled his eyes. “Yeah. Books, papers, magazines. There were papers on the nightstand, on the vanity, on the floor. I don’t remember seeing anything that looked like a will.”
“Hmm,” said Crenshaw, pursing his lips. I felt sure he wanted to ask if there were any pill bottles in evidence, but it would be an unusual query. As for me, I was trying to imagine what had occurred in the half hour since she’d gone upstairs.
“Was she still wearing her dinner clothes?” I asked.
“No, she had on her dressing gown. I believe she was climbing into bed when she had her attack.”
Wes voiced the next question I wanted to ask. “Where was Suzanne during all this?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere in the house. When I realized Elaine was unconscious, I yelled for help. Celia arrived first. I told her to go downs
tairs and let the paramedics in. Suzanne must have heard the front door, because she came upstairs right behind the EMTs. She took one look at Elaine and fainted. One of the EMTs had to attend to her.”
He didn’t sound very sympathetic, I thought. I guessed I couldn’t blame him, under the circumstances.
Everyone fell silent. Crenshaw bowed his head and contemplated his fingers in a posture of deep thought.
I checked my watch. “Crenshaw, I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave soon. I have another appointment today.” It so happened that the appointment was with my closest pal, Farrah Anderson, whom I saw several times a week and spoke to or texted every day. But Crenshaw didn’t need to know that.
“I can stay,” Wes volunteered.
I looked at him in surprise. What the heck?
“You can take my car, babe,” he continued. “I’m sure Crenshaw can give me a ride home. Right, buddy?”
Crenshaw stared at Wes. Apparently, he was as flummoxed as I felt.
“Well,” I murmured, “I don’t have to leave just yet.”
Ray looked at each of us in turn. “What about the missing will?”
Crenshaw pushed himself slowly to his feet and faced Ray. “If the holographic will is found, I will present it to the probate court for review. I’ll keep a close eye out for it as I inventory Elaine’s things. In the meantime, let me know if you have any other ideas about where it might be.”
Grudgingly, Ray nodded and set his glass on the table. “Will you hold off on administering the old will?”
“For the time being, yes.”
After Ray left, Crenshaw sat down again and reached for his briefcase, muttering under his breath. “Administering the will is delayed anyhow, in light of the missing heir.”
“So the agency you hired didn’t have much luck?” I asked. “How did they even know where to start? Was Lana in touch with her family after she ran away?”
“I don’t believe she stayed in touch, but she didn’t disappear from the face of the earth,” he said. “Evidently, Lana had a credit card, which she continued to use for several months after she left. Her grandmother paid the bills.”
Autumn Alibi Page 2
