Autumn Alibi

by Jennifer David Hesse

  “There were three individuals from Ruby Plate Catering,” Rhinehardt affirmed. “The owner, who is also the chef, plus two servers. They cleaned up and left by eight-forty-five. The housekeeper, Celia Meeks, helped out in the kitchen. She then left with the caterer to deliver the leftovers to a food pantry on the other side of town. She didn’t return until nine-thirty.”

  “Aw, that’s nice,” said Farrah.

  “At some time around eight-thirty or so, Elaine said good-bye to her last guest and informed the household she was going to her room. She passed through the kitchen on her way to the back staircase. She did not stop for a nightcap, water, or any other refreshments.”

  At this point, I stopped writing and focused on listening. These were the last moments of a woman’s life he was talking about.

  “Over the next half hour or so,” he continued, “Ray took his dog for a walk around the neighborhood, Suzanne went to her room to post on social networking sites, and Perry went to his cottage and made a telephone call.”

  “Who did he call?” asked Farrah.

  “Xavier Charleston. He had left for the gallery opening, as I mentioned. Several attendees confirmed he was in the lobby on his phone during the time in question. And Mr. Charleston himself offered to produce his phone records. But, again, I hadn’t gotten that far.”

  “They could be in cahoots,” Farrah pointed out. “Perry could have set his phone down while the call was still connected. Phone records don’t necessarily prove he was really talking.”

  “Plus Xavier is a suspect, too,” I added. “If two suspects each provide an alibi for the other, shouldn’t that cancel out both alibis?”

  Rhinehardt raised his eyebrows, though I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or bemused.

  “Okay, what happened next?” I asked.

  “Next,” the detective continued, “a little after nine o’clock, Ray returned from his walk and put his dog in his cottage. He went to the kitchen in the manor and prepared a mug of warm milk with cinnamon for Mrs. Turnbull. He took it upstairs, found her unresponsive, and called nine-one-one.”

  My mind whirred, poking a million holes in Rhinehardt’s account of things. “About Ray’s walk—do you have a list of the neighbors who saw him?”

  Rhinehardt gave me a patiently questioning look, as if to say, “What do you take me for?” Of course, he had a list.

  “I mean, may I see the list?” I amended.

  “I suppose you could go door to door as easily as I did,” he muttered, as he flipped to a page and handed me his notebook. I grabbed my phone and took a photo of the page.

  “How about the names of Ernesto’s buddies at the bar?” asked Farrah. “And the name of the caterer?”

  Rhinehardt’s radio squawked, and he stood up. “I need to get going, ladies. I’ll text you the names, if you promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Keep me informed of anything and everything you uncover. And be careful.”

  * * *

  The detective’s visit, combined with Farrah’s enthusiasm, had reignited my curiosity. I was ready to go back to the manor. Farrah quickly packed an overnight bag, and we bustled outside to her Jeep convertible. I made a habit, now, of checking the tires of every vehicle I was about to board. Luckily, the vandal hadn’t struck the same car twice—yet.

  On the drive across town, I used my phone to look up Suzanne Turnbull. As an official spokeswoman for Carrie Cosmetics, she was all over social media. I browsed a few of her profile pages, then clicked over to Facebook. It took me a couple minutes to scroll all the way back to her posts on the night of September 1. Sure enough, starting at 8:45 she had uploaded a new post every two minutes—complete with pictures, emojis, and hashtags. I read the names of some of the products she was promoting.

  “Evidently she sells more than makeup,” I said. “Listen to this. She’s got ‘glowing serum,’ ‘anti-aging firming cream’ . . . ‘Bee venom lip plumper.’ Ouch.”

  “Sounds a little intense even for me,” said Farrah.

  I snickered lightly as I hopped over to another Web site and found similar results. I read a few snippets out loud, together with the date-stamped times. “Eight forty-eight: ‘Check out this BOGO deal . . .’ Nine o’clock: ‘New product! Gold-plated eye bronzer.’”

  “Eye bronzer? Who ever heard of eye bronzer?”

  “Nine o-four: ‘Get your sexy on with . . .’” I trailed off as a thought occurred to me. Farrah must have been thinking the same thing.

  “You know,” I began.

  “Isn’t it possible to—”

  “Schedule your posts?”

  “Yes!” said Farrah. “Of course, it is. At least, I know you can on business accounts.”

  “I bet there’s an app for that, too. These time stamps prove nothing!”

  “Call Detective Rhinehardt.”

  “Not yet. I have a feeling I’ll have a lot more to tell him before too long.”

  Farrah stopped at a gas station to fill up her car and stock up on snack food. We didn’t know if there would be anything to eat when we arrived at the manor. Crenshaw had called Celia to let her know we would be absent from dinner. He was dealing with his car when Farrah whisked me off to her apartment. I had told him we’d see him later.

  While Farrah was inside the store, I took the opportunity to shoot a text to Wes.

  “Where’s my check-in?” I demanded. “I miss my sexy newsman.”

  He replied at once. “Miss you, too, babe. Sadly, my investigation has stalled.”

  His investigation. It still made me smile to picture him gadding about Chicago like some kind of modern-day Dick Tracy.

  “Too bad,” I replied. “So, I’m still in the game?”

  “Ha! Never fear. I’m still working on Penny. I may get more out of her yet.”

  I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. Now I was picturing him interrogating Veronica Lake . . . On the other hand, Penny was the only concrete tie we had to Lana’s current whereabouts. If Wes could get her to talk, more power to him.

  Right?

  I asked Farrah as much when she returned to the car. She pondered it for a moment, then nodded. “Absolutely. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Wes is so gaga over you, he’d never stray. You and he have a storybook romance. I’d even call it epic.” She turned the car onto River Road, and we were soon in Edindale’s historic district. Old-fashioned street lamps lined the boulevard, creating a cozy, almost romantic atmosphere. “Sometimes I envy you,” Farrah added wistfully.

  “Envy me? You’ve had your own ‘epic’ relationships. And how many proposals have you had now? You could easily settle down if you wanted to.”

  “Yeah. I suppose.” She concentrated on driving and didn’t say any more. I might have pursued the topic, but we soon arrived at the mansion. Farrah parked her Jeep behind my car and cut the engine. I grabbed the snack bag, and she reached for her overnight satchel in the back seat.

  The neighborhood was dark and quiet. As we walked up the sidewalk, I raised my hand, motioning for Farrah to stop. “Let’s go in the back,” I said softly.

  “Lead the way.”

  We walked down the driveway toward the rear of the house. I wasn’t quite sure why I wanted to go back there. Something about the night air and abundance of greenery seemed to beckon me. Invisible crickets croaked rhythmically, echoing in the underbrush. As we passed by the garage, I noticed a light shone in Ernesto’s apartment. But the moment I looked, it blinked off.

  When we reached the topiaries at the entrance to the English garden, Farrah slowed her steps and looked around. “Talk about atmosphere,” she said, in a hushed tone. “Where is this fog coming from?”

  Sure enough, a fog had begun to roll in from the bottom of the hill where the trees grew thicker. I remembered seeing Ernesto walk off with a fishing pole. “There’s a pond or lake down there somewhere. And Crenshaw mentioned a springhouse, so maybe there’s a spring, too.”

  Su
ddenly, a dog barked and I jumped. For an instant, a howl sliced through the peace like in The Hound of the Baskervilles. Then Barney came trotting down the path.

  “Hey, little guy,” said Farrah. “Are you lost?”

  “He’s not lost,” I said. “He lives here. This is Ray’s dog.”

  Farrah checked the time on her phone. “It’s almost nine o’clock. Shouldn’t he be on his nightly walk right now?”

  “I’m not sure how routine it is. But Ray did say Barney has the run of the place, so I guess he gets his exercise.”

  I patted the top of Barney’s head, but he didn’t want to sit still. He pranced happily from me to Farrah, tail wagging.

  A flash of light caught my attention by the Zen maze several yards away. I peered into the gloom. The light disappeared and all was still—until something moved in the shadows. Watching intently, I gasped when I saw a person glide behind the rose arbor.

  “Did you see that?” I hissed.

  “See what?” Farrah was busy scratching Barney’s belly.

  “There’s someone over there in the trees.”

  “It’s probably Ray, looking for his dog.”

  “No. It was a woman.”

  We heard footsteps coming from the house and turned to see Crenshaw walking toward us. The crisp smell of his aftershave preceded him. I figured he must have showered after changing his tires.

  “Do the two of you plan on coming inside anytime soon?” he asked, impatient as ever. “Celia wants to know if she should warm up dinner.”

  “In a minute,” I said, edging toward the shadows.

  “Keli, where are you going?” asked Farrah. “Let’s go in now.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Before they could stop me, I jogged over to the arbor and slipped inside. I looked around, straining to see in the darkness. The path lights barely illuminated the ground in front of my feet. I crept along slowly so I wouldn’t trip.

  On one hand, I realized it wasn’t unusual to come across a person out here. Several people lived on the Turnbull property. But there was something about the woman I saw that was not at all usual.

  A soft metallic creak reached my ears. The garden gate. Picking my way around flowers and statues, I reached the wrought-iron gate in time to see it barely swinging on its hinges. Outside the formal garden, the manicured lawn gave way to bushy trees. The ground lights stopped here.

  I took another step into the darkness and paused. Where had she gone? She must know the property well, I thought. I hadn’t heard any sounds of tripping, falling, or bumping into trees—like I was in danger of doing.

  After about a minute of blind groping, I had to stop. If I went much farther, I was liable to fall into the pond. Disappointed, I started to turn back. I also didn’t want to get lost. As it was, I could no longer see any lights from the house or gardens.

  I was trying to locate the gate again when the clouds parted, finally allowing a beam of moonlight to penetrate the fog. At that moment, I perceived the rustle of a low-hanging tree branch. I made myself still as a statue and waited, my heart thumping loudly in my ears. Before long, a shadow emerged from the trees and took the form of a woman. For a split second, she crossed into the moonlight before disappearing into the grove at the bottom of the hill.

  I couldn’t have followed if I’d wanted to—I was paralyzed from shock. Of course, I might have been mistaken. I must have been mistaken.

  Because if I wasn’t, then the woman I just saw was none other than Elaine Turnbull.

  Chapter Nineteen

  By the time I returned to the gardens behind the house, I had begun to doubt my own eyes. The atmosphere here was the perfect setting for a ghost story. Plus, after my interrupted astral experience this afternoon, I was only too eager to see Elaine again. If anything, my subconscious probably conjured an imaginary ghost. It was probably only Suzanne creeping about in the yard—for Goddess knew what purpose.

  As I rounded the corner at the topiary garden, I caught sight of Farrah and Crenshaw, side by side on a stone bench. Farrah was swinging her legs and Crenshaw was talking with his hands. I heard the murmur of their voices but couldn’t make out their words. They were probably talking about me.

  With my eyes on my friends, I failed to see the man rush toward me from the opposite direction. We nearly bumped into each other.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed, taking a step back.

  “¡Dios mio!” Apparently, he hadn’t seen me either. He pressed his hand to his chest and sprang aside. I reached out with both hands to keep him from running away.

  “Ernesto? What’s your hurry?”

  “Sí. Yes. Sorry.” His eyes darted around. I wasn’t sure if he was expecting someone or looking for an escape route.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” I said. “My name is Keli Milanni. I’m staying at the mansion for a few days.” I offered my hand for a handshake, leaving him no choice but to take it.

  “Ernesto Cruz. Nice to meet you.”

  He was an attractive man, maybe in his late thirties or early forties—a few years older than me at any rate. He was also just a little taller than me. In spite of his baggy work clothes, I could tell all his outdoor labor kept him in good shape.

  By this time, Crenshaw and Farrah noticed us and sauntered over. “Is everything all right?” said Crenshaw. “Oh, hello, Ernesto.”

  “Hello.” Ernesto nodded, and looked down. Was he really that shy, I wondered, or was he hiding something?

  “Ernesto,” I said, “I thought I saw a woman out there, under the trees. Did you see anyone?”

  “Woman?” He acted confused.

  Farrah laughed lightly and touched my arm. “You should have your eyes checked, Keli. As you can see, this is no woman.” She held out her hand to Ernesto. “I’m Farrah Anderson. You must be the landscape designer I’ve heard so much about. I can’t wait to see the gardens in the daylight.”

  “Let’s all go in for a bite to eat, shall we?” said Crenshaw. “Ernesto, Celia mentioned you weren’t at dinner either. You’d better come along or risk offending the cook.” He ushered the gardener ahead of him, leaving no room for argument.

  Celia’s eyes lit up when she saw the bunch of us file into the kitchen. “One, two, three, four . . . Everyone to the dining room! I’ll bring in the food.”

  Ernesto said something to Celia in Spanish. From his tone, I gathered he was protesting. He probably didn’t want to sit down for dinner with three lawyers he barely knew. Who could blame him?

  They were still arguing when Suzanne came in by way of the back staircase. “What’s going on in here?” she asked. “Is there any food left?” So, she missed dinner, too, I noted.

  Celia turned on Suzanne. “Mr. Betz called.”

  “Winston? What did you tell him?”

  “I told him you weren’t here. I didn’t know where you were. How would I know?”

  Suzanne let out an exasperated sigh. “These old coots who don’t believe in cell phones,” she said to the room. “They have a home computer they sit at all day, but cell phones are ‘too modern.’ I better go call him back.”

  After Suzanne left, Celia handed Ernesto a covered plate, and shooed the rest of us into the dining room. Ernesto left out the side door, presumably to eat alone in his apartment.

  Farrah, Crenshaw, and I settled in at one end of the long table. Crenshaw picked up a bottle of wine from the sideboard and filled three glasses.

  “Is it presumptuous of me to assume you both will join me for a wee nip?”

  “No,” said Farrah. “But it was presumptuous of Celia and Ernesto to assume we don’t speak Spanish.”

  Crenshaw raised an eyebrow, and I stared at Farrah. “They’d be right, wouldn’t they?” I asked.

  “No way! I had, like, six years of Spanish in school. Plus, I used to date a guy from Puerto Rico. I may not be fluent, but I can get by.”

  “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” said Crenshaw, sounding impressed.

>   “Well, what did they say?” I asked.

  “It’s funny. At first—”

  She broke off as Celia teetered in with a giant tray loaded with food—including three bowls of hearty bean soup, a basket of crusty bread, and a dish of homemade red cabbage slaw. Crenshaw jumped up to help her, and for once she didn’t argue.

  “Oh, wow, this looks heavenly,” gushed Farrah.

  I agreed. “It smells wonderful. Celia, please let us clean up after ourselves tonight. I insist.”

  “Very well,” she said after a short pause. She looked rather relieved.

  We tucked into the food before she left, duly exclaiming over how delicious everything was. A few minutes later, I pointed my soup spoon at Farrah. “Well?”

  “Well? Oh, yeah. So, at first I thought Celia was going to be motherly, you know? She was telling Ernesto he needed to eat. But then it got a little weird. She said something like ‘Don’t forget what I know.’ And, ‘I’m not a fool.’ He said, ‘You have it all wrong. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ And then she said, ‘I saw you with my own eyes. I saw you with the lady.’”

  “The lady? What lady?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Farrah said. “But then Celia said, ‘You owe me. Quiero mi dinero. I want my money.’”

  “Interesting,” said Crenshaw. “What do you make of it, Keli?”

  For a moment, I was stunned Crenshaw was asking for my opinion. He must really think I’m some kind of detective, I thought. I guess I’d better get to detecting. I took a sip of wine before answering. “I’d say Celia is blackmailing Ernesto. Remember when we saw them down in the gardens, having their surreptitious little rendezvous? She was probably shaking him down then.”

  “What’s the big deal about being seen with a lady?” asked Farrah.

  We were all silent, as we considered the possibilities. “Perhaps,” Crenshaw finally said, “the ‘lady’ in question was the lady of the house. Meaning Elaine.”

  Farrah put down her wineglass. “You mean, Celia saw him with her before she died?”

  “Or immediately afterward,” I suggested. “In Elaine’s diary, she mentioned that Ernesto was a bit hot-headed. And there was an incident not long ago. Evidently, Ernesto was upset because he thought Elaine had accused him of taking advantage of her.”