Autumn Alibi

by Jennifer David Hesse

  I whistled softly. If this is an original, the occupants of this house should really keep the front door locked.

  A faint creaking sound came from the east hallway. It could have been a door opening or someone’s weight upon a loose floorboard. I peered around the corner and saw nothing but an empty corridor.

  “Hello!” I called.

  Feeling like an intruder, I moved quietly down the hall to the open door of the library. The room was dark. Another step down the hall, and I yelled out a little louder. “Hello? Anybody home?”

  From somewhere within the depths of the house came another sound, dull but abrupt, like a door slamming. “Some welcome,” I muttered, turning back to the great room.

  As I approached the staircase, I stopped short. A woman was leaning over my suitcase.

  “Hello?” I said, more sharply this time.

  She stood and whirled so quickly, she almost toppled over in her four-inch heels. Regaining her balance, her pink-tipped fingers fluttered at her chest.

  “Oh! You scared me!”

  For a moment, we looked at one another questioningly. Though she was old enough to be my mother, there was a vulnerable youthfulness in both her looks and manner. With her bronzed skin, expertly applied makeup, and golden red hair tied up in a baby blue silk scarf, she reminded me of a maturing Hollywood starlet in denial about her true age.

  Suddenly, she laughed lightly and held out her hand. “I’m Suzanne Turnbull. You must be the other lawyer. Keli, right?”

  I shook her hand and smiled. “Sorry I startled you. The front door was unlocked. And just now I thought I heard someone in the hallway.”

  “Probably Celia or Ray,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “I was just heading to the kitchen. Have you had breakfast?”

  “Maybe I should put my things away first,” I suggested. “I hope it’s okay that I brought my cat. She’s very friendly and doesn’t scratch.”

  “Oh, the darling! I wondered what was in there.” Suzanne leaned over and unlatched the crate, making kissing sounds as she offered her hand to be sniffed. Happy to be free, Josie stepped daintily past the woman and leaned her paws forward in a full body stretch.

  “Bring her along,” Suzanne said brightly. “Ernesto will take your things upstairs. Celia made up a room for you.”

  “Ernesto?” I scooped Josie up and followed Suzanne down the curving hallway to the large kitchen, an elegant, airy room with gleaming white cabinets, marble countertops, and a large center table.

  “He’s the groundskeeper and head gardener,” Suzanne explained. “But he does a lot of other things around here, too. Especially since most of the other staff took off.” She filled a bowl of water for Josie, then set about making toast, chattering as she went. “I am so glad you’re here! You’re going to be a big help. Crenshaw means well, but men aren’t really good at this sort of thing, are they? And Elaine had so much stuff! Clothes, jewelry, shoes, books, photo albums . . . I can’t fathom sorting through it all. I’m overwhelmed just thinking about it!”

  “I can imagine,” I murmured. I felt a little breathless just listening to her—and somewhat puzzled. As far as I knew, the burden of going through Elaine’s things wouldn’t have fallen upon Suzanne. Crenshaw was the executor, and Suzanne wasn’t a blood relative. Still, I supposed it was natural for her to feel some responsibility. After all, she had lived with her mother-in-law.

  She placed a crock of butter and a jar of marmalade on the table, along with a stack of toast. “I suppose it will all have to be sold, won’t it?” she asked, taking a seat across from me. “All of Elaine’s possessions—even the house?”

  “Crenshaw will have to complete the accounting first,” I said. “After all the debts are paid, it will be up to the beneficiary to decide what to do with the remainder. Which, of course, is why we’re trying to find your daughter. Were you surprised Elaine left everything to Lana?”

  Suzanne dropped her butter knife with a clatter. Recovering, she spoke quickly, eyes focused on the toast. “No, not really. Lana is Elaine’s only heir, after all. And Elaine always did dote on her.”

  “They hadn’t been in touch, had they?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Has anyone heard from Lana in recent years, that you know of?”

  Suzanne shook her head, still not meeting my eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I said gently. “I can only imagine how difficult it must have been for you . . . back then and even still.”

  Abruptly, Suzanne scraped her chair back and sprang to her feet. “Forgive me! I should have offered you a drink. Would you like coffee or tea? Or—better yet, let’s have mimosas!”

  Without waiting for an answer, she went to the refrigerator and took out a container of orange juice and a bottle of sparkling wine. From a glass-doored cabinet, she grabbed two champagne flutes and set them on the table. As she filled them, she shot me a sly look.

  “I don’t know about you, but I do enjoy the finer things in life. I mean, it’s not like I married for money. Jim was just a student when we met, with a dual degree in art history and business. His parents didn’t support him. After he graduated, he worked in the corporate world for a couple years, until his mother asked us to move in with her. But then, let me tell you, it didn’t take long to get used to the perks of living here!”

  “I can imagine,” I said, looking around. We clinked glasses and sipped our drinks. It was surprisingly refreshing.

  “Are you married?” asked Suzanne.

  “Um, no. But my boyfriend and I live together.”

  “Girl, you better lock him down!” She wagged a finger at me, then laughed. “Of course, it doesn’t always work out. Jim and I were separated by the time he died. I had moved out, more or less permanently. I only came back later when Elaine asked me to.”

  “That was nice of you to come back.”

  “Yeah, it was kind of surprising, since I wasn’t exactly her favorite person in the world. To be honest, we butted heads all the time. So, even though I’ve lived here for years, I never expected it to be forever. That’s why I’ve always got my eyes open for new husband material. Preferably in the form of a wealthy, older man, if you get my drift.”

  I only smiled, as she took another swig of her drink. Then she laughed again.

  “Look who I’m talking to! Don’t listen to me. You’re a lawyer. You can bring home your own bacon.”

  “True.”

  “Same here. I’m a businesswoman. I was a makeup artist before I met Jim, and now I’m an independent saleslady for Carrie Cosmetics.” She raised her glass. “To women’s lib!”

  I took another sip, then set my glass down and pushed it away. The sweet-tart cocktail was going down a little too easily. “Suzanne, I wondered if I could ask you a few questions about Lana. As you probably know—”

  “My, you have gorgeous cheekbones!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I can show you some contouring tricks to enhance them. And your eyes! They’re hazel, right? So pretty. But with a little shading here, a little highlighting there, I can make them really pop. You should let me give you a makeover!”

  I sighed. I wasn’t particularly interested in making my eyes pop. On the other hand, if it would give me more time to question Suzanne, it was worth a shot. “Sure. Why not?”

  “Wonderful! Your boyfriend will flip by the time I’m through with you. The bombshell look is my specialty.”

  I had to laugh. “Oh, well. My boyfriend is actually in Chicago for a few days. In fact, he’s following up on a possible lead to Lana. He’s trying to track down a woman who might have been friends with her.”

  Suzanne’s face clouded over, and she took a gulp from her drink. I was about to apologize again, when she spoke up, a hard edge to her voice. “You know, even if you do find her, it doesn’t mean she’ll come back. You can’t make her come back.”

  “Er, you’re right. She could disclaim her inheritance. Or she could hire an attorney to ha
ndle everything for her. But first we have to locate her.”

  I waited for Suzanne to say something. When she didn’t, I pressed on. “You might be able to help. If this lead doesn’t pan out, I think I’ll post a public notice in a few area newspapers. Would you like to help craft the message?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh.” I was beginning to wonder if Suzanne didn’t want to find her daughter.

  “You don’t understand. Lana doesn’t want to hear from me.”

  “Are you sure? After so many years, how—”

  “I’m sure! Lana will never come back, because . . . because she hates me!”

  Suzanne jumped to her feet, pushing against the table with such force that her glass tipped over. Without a backward glance, she bolted from the room.

  Stunned, I looked from the doorway, to the puddle of spilled mimosa, to my cat, who stood stock-still in the corner.

  “Yeah,” I said softly, grabbing a towel. “That just happened.”

  Chapter Ten

  I sensed a presence behind me even before I heard the familiar throat-clearing. It was like his own personal introduction before every bon mot he fancied himself saying.

  “When I asked for your help,” said Crenshaw, “I didn’t intend for you to become the help.”

  “Ha ha,” I replied, thrusting a mug into his hands. “Pour yourself the last cup of coffee. I need to check my phone.”

  After cleaning up the mess Suzanne had left, I’d loaded the dishwasher, rummaged through the pantry, and made another pot of coffee. My phone had buzzed a couple of times, and I was only now ready to see who had called. When I recognized the name of one of my clients on the caller display, I had the sinking feeling I should have answered it sooner. I quickly punched in her number.

  “Hello, Allie?” I said, when she picked up. “I’m sorry I missed your call. What can I do for you?”

  “I think I might have made a mistake,” Allie said apologetically. “I thought we had a ten o’clock appointment. I waited outside your office for twenty minutes, but I started to feel awkward just standing there, so I left. Did I write down the wrong day?”

  I slapped my forehead. “Oh, dear. I think I’m the one who messed up. I’m so sorry. Let’s pick a new date, and this one will be on the house. No fee.”

  After finishing up the call with Allie, I made sure to enter the new appointment in the calendar on my phone—something I neglected to do when I’d made the first one with her two weeks ago. Then I immediately placed another call, this time to the classified ad department at the Edindale Gazette. My help-wanted ad would run the next day.

  When I turned back to Crenshaw, he was leaning against the counter sipping coffee and watching Josie. She had made herself comfortable on top of the wine cabinet. Twitching her whiskers, she stared right back, as if daring him to defy her. He raised one eyebrow.

  “Is this your cat?”

  “She’s mine and I’m hers. We’re kind of a matched set.”

  “There’s a dog on the premises someplace. Belongs to Ray, I believe. You might want to keep her inside.”

  “Thanks. She looks after herself pretty well, but I do intend to keep her close.”

  He poured me a cup of coffee and handed it to me, inclining his head toward my cell phone. “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah, perfect.” I blew on my coffee and took a careful sip. “I met Suzanne. Have you talked to her much?”

  “I tried. She wasn’t very forthcoming with me. She talked a lot without saying anything and effectively changed the subject every time I asked about her daughter.”

  “Same here. I mean, I get that it must be upsetting to talk about a child who ran away. But she acted . . . almost guilty. And a little angry. I wonder if she and Lana fought before Lana took off.”

  Crenshaw shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it. Would you like a tour of the house now?”

  He showed me around the main floor first. We made a large circle, pausing at each doorway, including the dining room, parlor, library, and conservatory. Josie followed us, sometimes veering off to explore on her own, but never straying far. I wondered if she sensed the strange, melancholy atmosphere I’d picked up the first time I laid eyes on the house.

  When we returned to the kitchen, Crenshaw led the way to the back staircase. On the second floor, there were two wings, divided by a central gallery at the top of the main staircase. We made a quick pass through the loftlike gallery, with Crenshaw pointing out some of the more valuable paintings. The most interesting one, to me anyway, was a family portrait: Harold Turnbull, seated like a king on his throne; Elaine, his dutiful wife, standing next to him with her hand resting lightly on his shoulder; and their young son, Jim, with freckles and a cowlick, sitting on his father’s knee. The pose was formal, but their facial expressions were natural, almost playful, even, as if the family were sharing a private joke with the artist. I smiled softly and felt an unexpected lump in my throat. Was it because this family was now gone? Their lives, their happiness, a thing of the past? Or was it something more personal, a sort of longing for something missing in my own life?

  “Are you coming?” asked Crenshaw, breaking into my maudlin daydreams.

  “Yes. Carry on.”

  Each wing on the second floor contained a master suite, a guest bedroom, and a lounge. In the east wing, Crenshaw pointed out Suzanne’s room, with its closed door, and the guest room, which used to be Lana’s. “They didn’t preserve it,” Crenshaw informed me. “After Lana’s twenty-first birthday, Elaine and Suzanne boxed up her things and converted the room to another guest bedroom. Whatever they kept is now in boxes in the attic.”

  Elaine’s master bedroom was in the west wing. We didn’t linger, because Crenshaw was eager to show me the rest of the house. When we came to the guest room in that wing, I was happy to see my luggage had been placed on a cedar chest at the foot of the bed. I dashed in to set up Josie’s portable litter box and a bowl of food in the en suite bathroom. She made herself comfortable on top of the bed, so I closed the door to keep her inside.

  The back staircase continued upward to a third floor, which consisted of four rooms: three bedrooms—Celia’s plus two that had been occupied by staff who had since departed—as well as a large space used for storage. A tall window in the storeroom offered a panoramic view of the grounds in back of the house. Beyond the gardens, I spotted a hedge maze, a tennis court, and a swimming pool, which was evidently drained and covered for the season. Farther away, a sizable grove of trees gave way to rolling farmland, calling to mind the Grant Wood painting displayed in the great room.

  “What are all the buildings down there?” I asked.

  “I’m not even sure I know all of them. There are two guesthouses on the property, one used by Ray and the other by Perry. There’s a pool house, a garden shed, and, somewhere out there, an old springhouse. And there’s a garage, of course. It used to be a carriage house and has an apartment upstairs. That’s where Ernesto Cruz lives. He’s the groundskeeper and head gardener. He had shared it with the chauffeur before the chauffeur quit.”

  “Where is everybody now?” I wondered. During the whole of the tour, we hadn’t run into a single resident of the manor. We hadn’t even heard any creaking floorboards.

  “I have no idea. I expect they’re around here someplace.” He peered out the window once more. “Look. There’s someone now.”

  Following his gaze, I spotted the slight figure of a dark-haired man in work clothes. He wore a fisherman’s cap.

  “That’s the man I saw at the window in the drawing room!”

  “That’s Ernesto. He was probably trimming the shrubbery when you saw him before. It looks like he’s doing garden work now, too.”

  “Are you sure about that?” As we watched, Ernesto glanced over his shoulder in a move that could only be called furtive. Seeing no one around, he left the path and made his way to a shadowy enclave behind a pine tree. Then h
e just stood there. He would have been hidden, if not for Crenshaw and me spying from the third-floor storeroom. We looked at one another, then looked back down at Ernesto. He kept glancing around and checking his watch.

  “Who do you suppose he’s waiting for?” I asked.

  “I think we’re about to find out.”

  Crenshaw was right. Another figure emerged from the trees along the border of the English garden. It was a petite woman, dressed in a light blue maid’s uniform under a long brown cardigan. Celia.

  “Seems a rather unusual place to discuss household matters,” said Crenshaw.

  “I wish I had binoculars.” I squinted at the pair, doll-like in the distance. From what I could tell, Celia seemed to be doing most of the talking—and Ernesto was not happy about what she had to say. A moment later, they parted, each leaving the way they had come.

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “And so it begins,” said Crenshaw.

  * * *

  For the rest of the morning, Crenshaw worked in the library going through Elaine’s paperwork. While Ray made sure the monthly bills were paid, Elaine had filed her own taxes and managed her own investments. Crenshaw was still trying to sort through her various accounts. He left me in Elaine’s room to catalog her personal things and search for anything resembling a handwritten will.

  Armed with a clipboard and pen, I walked slowly around Elaine Turnbull’s spacious bedroom. King-size bed with ornately carved headboard. Matching mid-century bureau, dressing table, and two nightstands. Faded Persian rug. Flat-screen TV on the wall. Overflowing bookcase in the corner—Elaine was evidently fond of historical romances. Crushed-velvet daybed by the window. Walk-in closet filled to the brim with racks of dresses, skirts, blouses, and pantsuits; shelves of shoes; boxes of scarves; and a wall-mounted jewelry cabinet filled with necklaces, bracelets, rings, and pins.

  I dutifully recorded everything I saw, knowing that an appraiser would likely have to come through and do it all over again. Still, it would be useful for Crenshaw to at least have a starting point. Throughout my inventory, I kept an eye out for any scrap of paper that could be the missing will. Though there were plenty of papers on both sides of the bed, none of them were particularly interesting. It wasn’t until I had given the closet a thorough once-over that I found something of any real promise. In a far corner, beneath a stack of throw pillows, was a fireproof, steel lockbox.