Autumn Alibi

by Jennifer David Hesse

  “Why?” I echoed. “Because they don’t want me to read them, that’s why. The thief must know, or suspect, there’s something incriminating in them.”

  “Regarding Elaine’s last will and testament?”

  “Maybe. Or about her death.”

  “About that,” said Crenshaw, reaching for the coffeepot. “Detective Rhinehardt doesn’t think there’s enough evidence to open an investigation.”

  “Really? He told you that?”

  “Yes. I spoke with him this morning. He acknowledged it’s entirely possible Elaine overdosed on opioids, as Dr. Lamb suspects. However, there’s no proof they weren’t self-administered. Although . . .” Crenshaw trailed off, tapping his finger on his lips.

  “Although what?” He could be maddeningly slow to get to the point.

  “Yesterday the detective showed me the coroner’s report. It included an interesting detail the doctor neglected to mention in our phone call.”

  “What detail?”

  “The coroner noted that there was a substance resembling dried milk on the front of Elaine’s nightgown. It smelled of cinnamon.”

  I set down the muffin I’d been about to bite into. For some reason, the mental image of a coroner sniffing a dead body had killed my appetite.

  “As you’ll recall, Ray told us Elaine used to drink warm milk with cinnamon,” Crenshaw said.

  “I remember. He said he was bringing her a cup when he found her. Could he have spilled it on her?”

  “I don’t think so. At least, he told Rhinehardt he didn’t. The coroner opined that she had spilled it on herself when she passed out—meaning she’d already had her milk by the time Ray came to her room.”

  “Was there a cup on the floor or bed?”

  Crenshaw shrugged. “No one mentioned seeing one that I know of. In any event, returning to my original point, if Elaine overdosed on her opioid pills, she might have taken them herself—either accidentally or on purpose.”

  I considered the possibility. Had Elaine been so depressed at the return of her illness that she no longer wanted to live? Or was she so tired, and in so much pain, that she didn’t realize she’d taken too many pills? Neither of these scenarios rang true to me. I shook my head. “If she took the pills, then where’s the pill bottle?”

  “It could have rolled under some furniture. It could have been tossed in a wastebasket and discarded without anyone being the wiser. Its absence doesn’t prove it was used by a murderer.”

  I knew he was right. Logically, there were any number of possibilities. The idea that there might be an innocent explanation should have given me comfort. The problem was, I didn’t believe it.

  “We’ve got no murder weapon,” Crenshaw continued. “No apparent motive.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” I said. “Elaine made some very suggestive comments in her diary. From what she wrote, it sounded like everyone around her had a possible motive.”

  “All right. Let’s turn, then, to hypothetical number two. If the pills were not self-administered, someone must have given them to Elaine, presumably without her knowledge. Given her habit of drinking warm milk, and the stain on her dress, let’s suppose that someone spiked her milk.”

  “I was already supposing that.”

  “Let us further suppose,” Crenshaw went on, ignoring my comment, “that she drank the milk in her room. Rhinehardt told me that everyone he questioned agreed that Elaine was empty-handed when she went upstairs after the party. Moreover, Celia and the last of the catering staff confirmed that Elaine passed through the kitchen without stopping. Therefore, someone must have brought the milk to her room.”

  Nodding, I picked up the thread. “After she drank the milk and passed out, that same person left with both the mug and the pill bottle. Or maybe just the mug. They must have already had the pills, right? They probably mixed the pills into the milk in the kitchen—or someplace else—before bringing the poisoned cup to Elaine.”

  “Yes, well, there’s one problem with this whole scenario.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Based on everything we know—the estimated time of death, the dosage of the missing pills, the spilled milk on her nightgown, et cetera—Elaine would likely have ingested the tainted milk between nine o’clock and nine-twenty.”

  “So?”

  “So, everyone living in this house has a solid alibi for that period.”

  I frowned at this piece of news. “They do?”

  “They do. This is what Rhinehardt explained to me a little while ago.”

  “Well, what about the dinner guests? Or the staff who quit?”

  “It was a rather intimate gathering, and all the guests had already left by that time—”

  “Even Xavier?” I cut in. “Suzanne mentioned he arrived late to the party that night.”

  A flicker of doubt crossed Crenshaw’s face, but he seemed to brush it off. “I assume so. In any event, as for the staff, all but Celia and Ernesto had left as well. Most had clocked out, figuratively speaking, and gone home when the caterer left—around eight-thirty. The three former staff who still lived at the manor, the butler, a kitchen maid, and chauffeur, had also left. The former two spent the evening at the hospital with a friend, while the chauffeur drove to his brother’s house out of town. Rhinehardt assured me their stories checked out.”

  “Could someone have sneaked back in?”

  “Evidently the butler armed the security system before he left. Only the residents of the manor have the code to come in and out of the house. And, as I said, the residents all have verifiable alibis.” He used his fingers to tick off each alibi. “Ray was walking his dog in the neighborhood. Perry was on the telephone with someone. Suzanne was online. Celia was with the caterer. Ernesto had gone out with friends.”

  I scowled into my coffee. Rhinehardt was a good detective, but I wasn’t satisfied with his conclusion. I wondered how closely he’d probed everyone’s statements.

  “I wish I would have taken notes when I was reading Elaine’s diary,” I said, half to myself. “Or, better yet, photos of certain pages. Then Rhinehardt could see there’s a reason to investigate further.”

  Small creases of worry appeared between Crenshaw’s eyebrows. “I agree it is troubling that someone took the diaries. All the more so given that they entered your room while you were sleeping. That was extremely risky.”

  “It’s troubling and it’s telling. We should tell Detective Rhinehardt.”

  “Yes. I do believe it’s worth mentioning—do you need to get that?”

  “Get what?”

  “Isn’t that your phone buzzing?”

  I looked at my purse in surprise. I’d been so focused on hypotheses of murder, I’d tuned out the ceaseless drone of my cell phone. I took it out now and saw that the incoming call was from yet another unfamiliar number. I decided to answer it.

  “Keli Milanni here.”

  “Hi,” said a woman’s voice on the other end of the line. “I’m calling about your ad for a legal assistant. I have four years of office experience, and I think I would be a great fit for the job.”

  “Oh! That’s great. Um, let’s see. I’ll be scheduling interviews in the near future. In the meantime, would you mind calling back and leaving your name and number in a voice mail?”

  “I can’t do that. Your voice mailbox is full.”

  “It is? Of course. Sorry. Um, just a sec.” I rummaged through my purse for a scrap of paper and a pen and took down the caller’s contact information. The moment I hung up, my phone buzzed again. I sighed and tossed it back into my purse.

  Crenshaw gave me an amused look and shook his head. “So, what can you tell me about the search for Lana?” he questioned. “Any progress on that front?”

  “What? Oh, yes. Wes found a promising lead in Chicago.” I took a sip of cold coffee and made a face.

  “Knock-knock!” said a friendly voice from the doorway. I looked up to see Farrah, radiant in a wrap dress and loose chignon.r />
  “Farrah! Come in. Want some cold coffee and a muffin?”

  She sat down and grabbed a muffin. “I can’t stay. Just thought I’d stop by on my way to the university. I’m giving a guest lecture on legal research. I tried your phone, but your voice mail is full and you don’t answer texts anymore.”

  “How did you get in?” demanded Crenshaw. “I expressly requested everyone to keep the doors locked at all times.”

  Farrah flashed him a wry grin. “Well, I didn’t break in. The maid was shaking out a rug when I walked up. She told me where to find you.”

  “Ah, I see. Er, I apologize for being so abrupt. It’s just that security in this place is woefully lacking.”

  “I can vouch for that,” I added. “I’m thinking about booby-trapping my bedroom door tonight.”

  Farrah’s eyes grew wide. “Why? Did something happen?”

  “I’ll fill you in outside. Come on. I’m following you downtown.” I pushed back from the table.

  “You’re leaving?” said Crenshaw, sounding like me the day before. “There’s still quite a lot of work to do here.”

  “I want to see Detective Rhinehardt. I also need to stop by my office, clear all my voice mail messages, and schedule some interviews.”

  My expression must have betrayed how little I was looking forward to the latter tasks. Farrah gave me a sympathetic look. “Do you need help, sweetie? I have time after my class. I can schedule those interviews for you. All I need is your voice mail password.”

  “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “You don’t have to. I just offered.”

  Crenshaw cleared his throat loudly. “How long will you be gone?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, as I shouldered my purse and headed for the door. “I’ll be back.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Unfortunately, I was back a lot sooner than I wanted to be. Detective Rhinehardt wasn’t in his office, and the desk sergeant didn’t know when to expect him. I left a message asking the detective to call me as soon as possible. Next, I swung by Moonstone Treasures to talk to Mila. Much to my disappointment, she wasn’t available either. Catrina informed me her boss would be in the divination parlor all morning giving back-to-back tarot readings. While Catrina was always up for a chat, especially about witchy matters, what I really craved was Mila’s calm guidance and experienced advice. I wanted to know why my protection charms hadn’t worked last night.

  I picked up a few items in the shop, including a new bundle of dried sage and a black tourmaline stone. If I was going to stay in that room again another night, I was going to have to double down on my energetic defenses.

  When I’d told Farrah someone came into my bedroom while I was sleeping, she’d nearly flipped out.

  “Are you kidding me? This is insane! That does it. I’m going to stay there with you tonight—and every night until you’re done with this crazy job.”

  “Wait, what? You want to stay at the manor?” I’d been sure she was going to urge me to leave the place.

  “Obviously Crenshaw isn’t watching your back like he should be. Wouldn’t you feel better having a real friend nearby?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “But nothing. It’s settled. I’ll meet you there this evening. What time is dinner?”

  I laughed and gave her a hug. It was a relief to know I wouldn’t be alone in the guest room. Plus, Farrah could help me search the mansion. In my head, I ticked off the ever-growing list of things I was looking for: a missing will, clues to Lana’s whereabouts, the missing pill bottle, the filched diary, and the stolen lockbox. There was probably more. It was hard to keep track.

  With Crenshaw’s sense of urgency and Wes on pace to win our bet, I decided to return to the manor. I headed back to Edindale’s historic district and drove up the broad, tree-lined boulevard leading to the Turnbull property. After parking in front of the mansion, in the same spot as before, I slowly stepped onto the grass and lingered by the car door. I kind of dreaded going back inside.

  Tilting my face toward the sky, I breathed in the fresh, rain-washed air. A strong breeze blew in from the east, lifting my hair and ruffling the feathery branches of a mature honey locust tree near the boulevard. It lifted my spirits as well. I marveled at the swirl of tiny yellow leaves fluttering to the ground like gold coins from heaven. Reaching down, I scooped up a small handful, letting the cool, slippery leaves slide through my fingers.

  All around me, Mother Earth whispered her irresistible invitation: Stay outside.

  “All right then,” I responded. “Why not?”

  I gazed across the sloping front lawn and took another look at the stately Georgian mansion. I guessed the home was probably built in the early 1900s. Although the interior had been modernized to some extent, the grounds appeared to be timeless. There were no visible satellite dishes or telephone wires, no tacky lawn ornaments, children’s toys, or Adirondack chairs. Nor were there any high gates, intercom systems, or security cameras. Anyone could walk right up to the house, from any of its sides.

  I took a quick scan of the neighborhood. The Turnbull home occupied a corner lot, with a row of mature pine trees blocking the adjacent street to the west. To the east, a short stone wall separated the Turnbull land from its nearest neighbor, another elegant, old mansion. Across the street, expansive, well-tended lawns provided a natural buffer for the nearly-hidden homes set at a distance from the boulevard and from one another.

  Between the mansion and the old stone wall a blacktop driveway wound to the rear of the house. I followed it now, all the way to a three-car carriage house garage. At least, I figured it was a garage because of the wide doors. Emerald green ivy climbed the whitewashed walls, while delicate flowers spilled charmingly from two upper-story window boxes. More than anything, it resembled an English country cottage.

  This must be where Ernesto lives.

  As I admired the carriage house, I thought I detected movement in one of the curtained windows. Or maybe it was just the flowers dancing in the wind. An exterior staircase on the side of the building led to a second-story portico-covered entrance. I should introduce myself to Ernesto, I decided. Then maybe he won’t be so bashful.

  I had just started for the stairs when I heard someone whistling on the other side of the house. It was such a jaunty, unexpected sound. Walking around the house, I soon spotted Ernesto in his ever-present fishing cap. Only, this time he carried a fishing pole over his shoulder and a tackle box in his hand. He was heading down the hill toward the grove of trees.

  My first impulse was to follow him. He was hiding something, I felt sure. But what was I going to do, lurk in the trees and watch him fish? Now who’s the weirdo? I laughed at myself and realized I should just go introduce myself to the fellow as I had originally intended. However, by this time he was already out of sight, and I didn’t feel like running after him. Better to meet him at dinner—or any other situation with other people around.

  I proceeded to the gardens instead. The moment I stepped through the wrought-iron arched rose trellis, I felt I’d been transported to a fairy land. While the plantings were tidy and organized, as English gardens usually are, there were personal touches throughout. Spouting fish bubbled over a basin fountain. A chubby Buddha smiled mischievously among decorative grasses. A glass, mosaic butterfly glittered in the sunlight. As I strolled along the crushed oyster-shell pathway, past sculpted boxwoods and clusters of white, orange, and pink flowers, I smiled at the whimsical statues and fountains.

  When I emerged, I found myself near the kitchen garden at the back of the house. Now that I had my bearings, I made my way to the guesthouse I’d seen from my bedroom window. As I approached, I noticed a side door was ajar. A golden retriever bounded over to me, tail wagging. After sniffing my hand, the dog turned in a circle and went back inside. Naturally, I followed.

  The door led to an enclosed porch that seemed to have been converted to an artist’s workshop. Paint-splattered cabinets lined one
wall, beneath which were cluttered tables stacked with pictures, props, and paints. In the corner beside a window was Ray, sitting at an easel and squinting in concentration. He gave a start when he caught sight of me.

  “The dog let me in,” I said, with what I hoped was an engaging smile.

  His stony countenance cracked, revealing the first hint of his own smile. “I lose track of time when I’m in here. Sometimes Barney has to run off with my brushes before I remember to feed him.”

  Barney trotted over to Ray and placed a paw on his knee. “He looks well-cared for to me,” I said, noting the dog’s shiny coat, bright eyes, and lolling tongue.

  Ray scratched Barney behind the ears. “He’s spoiled is what he is.”

  I took another step toward Ray, but not too close. I’d clearly entered his private domain, and I was afraid he’d kick me out at any minute. “So, you’re a painter,” I said casually. “You must have fit right in with the Turnbull family.”

  He gave me an odd look. “I never knew Harold Turnbull. He’d passed away years before I met Elaine.”

  “You knew their son, Jim, though, didn’t you?”

  “Not well. I met him a few times, if he happened to be around when I stopped in to see Elaine. It was only after he died that she asked me to move in.”

  “Did you meet Lana, too?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. She was a teenager, but she’d still come to see her grandma almost every day after school. They’d talk and work on puzzles together. It was Elaine’s favorite part of the day.”

  “It sounds like they were close.”

  “You could say that. Had a lot in common, too. Independent, creative, stubborn.” A sad smile flickered across his face. “Lana’s named after her grandmother, you know. Lana is a nickname for Elaine.” He looked out the window, almost as if he were peering into the past. “Elaine was called ‘Laney’ when she was younger. At least that’s what she told me.”

  I had the impression Ray wished he’d met Elaine many years earlier. But I didn’t want to go back in time quite that far. I wanted to know more about Elaine’s granddaughter. “Given how close they were, it seems surprising that Lana didn’t keep in touch with Elaine after she left. Or did she?”