Autumn Alibi

by Jennifer David Hesse

  “He? Your new assistant is a man?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “I don’t know. It just seems unusual, that’s all.”

  “Not really. Men can be administrative assistants, too.” I smiled in spite of myself. I could have told Wes that Arlen wasn’t interested in women in any romantic kind of way. But it didn’t seem especially important at the moment.

  “So, tell me,” I said. “How is it going with your search? Any word from Lana yet?”

  “No,” he said, sounding a bit defeated. “And I think Penny is getting tired of all my messages.”

  “How many have you sent?”

  “A few. I really thought Lana would respond to me.”

  “Are you sure Penny is passing along the messages?”

  “Yeah, she is. She’s been helpful. In fact, she finally dropped a useful hint. She let it slip that Lana might have gone to stay with an old friend for a while. She wouldn’t tell me the friend’s name, but she said she thought it was someone Lana went to school with.”

  “High school?”

  “I assume so. I don’t remember Lana hanging out with anyone in particular, but then again we weren’t close. And I wasn’t all that observant. As soon as I get back to Edindale, I’m gonna look up some old classmates and see if anyone else can come up with a name.”

  “Sounds like a good plan,” I said. “And I can ask Suzanne. If Lana had any good friends, you’d think her mother would know.”

  “Ah, so the race is still on?”

  “Of course!”

  I only hoped Suzanne wouldn’t flip out this time.

  * * *

  By the time I returned to the manor, it was well past noon. Farrah was on her way out the front door as I walked up.

  “Where ya goin’?” I asked. “Want to go grab a bite to eat?”

  “I have to meet a client, but I’m glad you got here before I left. There’s something I have to tell you.” She grabbed my arm and lowered her voice. “I talked to some of the neighbors this morning.”

  “Oh? What did you learn?”

  “Nobody saw Ray the night of Elaine’s death. They only saw his dog, Barney. They assumed Ray wasn’t far behind, since he always lets Barney off the leash. But they admitted they never actually saw him.”

  “Another bogus alibi,” I said.

  “Exactly. So, I went to ask Ray about it. He was super-defensive.”

  “Wait—you didn’t accuse him of lying, did you?”

  “Not in so many words. I told him I was trying to clear up some confusion about the sequence of events that night.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He got real angry. Said we’re wasting our time, and Dr. Lamb doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He said we should be trying to figure out where Elaine hid her new will.”

  “So, he thinks she hid it? I wonder why he’s so sure of that.”

  “You can try asking him,” said Farrah. “I’m pretty sure he’s done talking to me. Speaking of which—I also tried talking to Ernesto. I waved at him across the lawn and started toward him. Instead of waiting, he just tipped his hat at me and jumped on a riding lawn mower. You would have thought I was trying to sell him some Carrie Cosmetics.”

  I shook my head. “Well, Suzanne seems to know Ernesto fairly well. I’ll try to get some more information out of her. I want to talk to her more about her daughter anyway.”

  “Good luck. I’ll be back later, but first I’m gonna stop by that bar Rhinehardt mentioned. I want to see if anyone remembers seeing Ernesto. It would be nice to be able to cross at least one name off the suspect list, you know?”

  “I’m with you there, sister. That reminds me: I’d still like to track down that art collector, Xavier Charleston, and ask him a few questions, too.”

  “Leave it to me. I’m on it.”

  “Are you sure? How will you even know where to find him?”

  “Easy. I’ll start at the most expensive hotel in town.”

  With a smile and a wave, Farrah took off down the sidewalk toward her car. A small flock of geese honked overhead, drawing my attention skyward. In that moment, I felt a whisper of gratitude fill my heart. Part of it felt like my ever-present gratitude for Mother Nature, but another part seemed to come from without—like a ghostly prayer from the departed family who had once inhabited this place.

  Rubbing my arms, I turned back toward the house. The main focus of my appreciation right now was toward Farrah. I was grateful not only for her help, but also for her enthusiasm. Otherwise I might start to get discouraged by the daunting task we’d taken upon ourselves. Sometimes it seemed like we had more suspects than a game of Clue—and none with convincing stories.

  I was still thinking about all the flimsy alibis as I went to my room to change out of my suit and play with Josie for a few minutes. In the interest of eliminating suspects, I decided to double-check Celia’s alibi. I looked up Ruby Plate Catering and dialed the company’s phone number. A man picked up.

  “Ruby Plate, offering fine food and impeccable service, fit for the royals.”

  “Hi,” I said. “May I speak with . . . Ruby?”

  “Uh, Ruby isn’t a person. Do you mean Sylvia?”

  “Yeah, sorry. Sylvia is the owner, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Owner, chef, and mom—to me. I’m her son, Trevor.”

  “That’s nice,” I said. “You must be proud of your mom. I’ve heard great things about her food.”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s the best.”

  “Is she around now?”

  “No, she’s on a job. Can I take a message?”

  “Hmm, no, I guess not. I wanted to ask her about a particular job—and give her my compliments. It was a private dinner at Turnbull Manor about a week and a half ago.”

  “Oh, sure. I worked that one.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, I help out sometimes. I can pour water, bus tables. Stuff like that.”

  “That’s cool. Did you go along to take the leftovers to the food pantry as well?”

  “Yeah, we always do that on our way home. Mom would rather die than throw away any of her food.”

  I was liking Sylvia more and more. “That’s awesome. Say, do you happen to remember what time it was when you dropped Celia off back at the mansion?”

  “Huh?”

  “Celia Meeks. She lives and works at the manor. Didn’t she go along with you to deliver the food?”

  “Nah. It was just me and mom in the van. Gloria, the other server, drove herself and went on home.”

  “Are you sure? Do you remember seeing Celia in the kitchen that night? Do you know who I mean?”

  “Yeah, sure. Mom and Cee Cee go way back. They were neighbors when my mom was a kid.”

  “They were friends?”

  “Sure, family friends. Cee Cee—Celia—is closer to my grandma’s age.”

  Interesting.

  “Thanks, Trevor. You’ve been helpful. Maybe I’ll see you at the gala on Friday.”

  So much for crossing off Celia’s name from the list. The fact that she lied made her more suspect than ever. But what should I do about it? Confront her? Ask her to explain herself? At a minimum, I would tell Detective Rhinehardt. Alibis were falling apart around here like cheap furniture.

  I went downstairs to the kitchen to scrounge up some lunch. Celia was nowhere to be seen, and I was kind of glad. I was feeling increasingly nervous about being in a house with a probable murderer. And if Celia was the one who poisoned Elaine’s milk, I definitely didn’t want her preparing my food.

  I found the makings of a lettuce salad in the refrigerator and set about putting it together. As I peeled a carrot, chopped a bell pepper, and washed a handful of cherry tomatoes, I thought more about the headstrong maid. Did she really have a motive for murder? Elaine wrote in her diary that Celia had been in love with Harold. I wondered why Celia stayed on after he married Elaine. Maybe she needed the job and didn’t have a choice. Or maybe she still wanted to b
e close to Harold. Maybe she even hoped he would one day leave Elaine.

  I sprinkled some sunflower seeds on my salad and drizzled on some vinegar and oil. I ate at the kitchen table, still feeling a little funny about making myself at home here. Out of all the residents, this place felt most like Celia’s home. She had been here the longest, and she seemed to take charge of things, at least when it came to food and cleaning. Then I had a darker thought: Maybe that’s how she wanted it. She wanted to be the lady of the house. Did she finally decide she was done answering to the “other woman”? Did she decide to do away with her? I shivered at the thought.

  Elaine had also mentioned she caught Celia going through her jewelry. Was that more evidence of Celia’s wanting to take Elaine’s place? Or was she just a thief? If only I still had the diaries. Who knows what else I might have learned?

  There was one thing in Celia’s favor, I realized. She was a small, elderly woman. I wasn’t sure if she could have managed carting off the heavy lockbox, especially up or down the stairs.

  On the other hand, I had noticed more than once that she seemed to be stronger than she looked.

  The side door opened with a rattle, and Ray came in carrying two bulging grocery bags. He gave me a startled look when he caught sight of me, then nodded his head and set the bags on the counter.

  “Hello,” I said, feeling like Goldilocks face-to-face with Papa Bear. I might have to reconsider my idea that Celia was the head of this household. Ray had lived here for many years, too. As he unpacked the groceries, I took my lunch dishes to the sink and washed them out.

  “Celia sure is a good cook,” I said, by way of small talk. I was curious about the living arrangement at the manor. It was such an odd dynamic, when I thought about it. The residents here weren’t quite family, yet they shared meals and a living space. It called to mind the early twentieth-century boardinghouses I knew only from old movies and books.

  Ray must have sensed my curiosity. “The guest cottages have small kitchens. It’s easier to have most meals here in the house.”

  Of course, it is, I thought, when someone else is doing the cooking and cleaning.

  “In fact, Elaine used to insist on it,” he continued. “She joked sometimes about ‘the boys out back,’ meaning Perry and me, and the staff who lived above the garage. She liked to have people around her and was always inviting people to dinner. It kept Celia busy, too, which made her happy.”

  “Sounds lovely,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, it’s all going to change if the real will doesn’t turn up.”

  It’s already changed, I wanted to say. It changed when Elaine died. How could Ray even imagine things might go on as they always had? Did he think Elaine was going to bequeath the manor to him, complete with the staff and the money to keep it running? Or was it his plan to make it look as if she had? Could he have made a fake will and then somehow lost it?

  “Ray, tell me again what you think happened to the will?”

  He turned his back to me and reached into a grocery bag again. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “All I know is Elaine was acting odd the last couple days before she died. I think it was the medication. She was paranoid and suspicious. I think she hid the will, so Suzanne wouldn’t see it and beg for a bigger inheritance.”

  Or any inheritance, I thought. Under the existing will, Suzanne didn’t receive a thing.

  As I watched, Ray hefted a plastic jug of milk and tried to set it on the counter. He missed. The carton dropped to the tile floor and split open, splashing milk in all directions.

  Ray cursed, and I sprang back. Wanting to help, I looked around for a towel, but Ray pushed me aside.

  “Get out of here,” he growled. “I’ll take care of it.”

  He didn’t have to ask me twice.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I went to the library to find Crenshaw—and stopped short at the doorway. There were books everywhere—piled on the tables, desks, and chairs, stacked waist-high on the floor. At first, I thought the place must have been ransacked. Then I saw Crenshaw on the far end of the room, methodically removing books, fanning through them, and adding them to a tall stack beside him. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he seemed to be absorbed in his task. I walked right up next to him and folded my arms.

  “Are you crazy?” I asked.

  He gave a start and looked up. “Keli! Hello. I’m glad you’re back. I could use a hand in here.”

  “A hand? It looks more like you could use a platoon of librarians. And some boxes.”

  “I’m not packing the books. These all need to go back on the shelves.”

  I looked around in consternation. “Are you searching for the will inside the books? Why didn’t you just replace each book after looking through it?”

  “I’m not looking only inside the books. I’m also looking behind them. It occurred to me that the space behind a row of books would make an ideal hiding place for a folded piece of paper.”

  “Still . . .”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” he said, a touch defensively. “This is not the most efficient course of action. I admit I became a bit zealous in my search and didn’t want to lose track of where I’d already looked.”

  I picked up the nearest book and read the title: The Castle of Otranto, A Gothic Story, by Horace Walpole. I set it back onto the stack. “Do you have someone lined up to come in here and do an appraisal? I have a friend in the old-book business.”

  “I would be most obliged if you would call your friend. That would be helpful. If we don’t find another will by the end of this week, I’m going to have to proceed with the only one we have.”

  For the rest of the afternoon, I helped Crenshaw remove and glance through the remaining books, and then replace them all back onto the shelves. It was slowgoing, especially since I kept finding myself wanting to read the book flaps. The Turnbulls had an eclectic taste in literature. They seemed to own everything from art history and poetry to pulp fiction.

  At one point, I found myself standing near the portrait of Harold Turnbull. “You were quite a diverse collector, weren’t you?” I said to the painting.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Crenshaw, walking up behind me.

  “Old man Turnbull.” I pointed to the portrait. “He didn’t seem to favor any particular period or style in his collections. His books are as varied as his paintings.”

  “Ah. I’m sure some of these were Elaine’s or Jim’s, but it’s true that they represent a broad range of tastes.”

  “That reminds me. At the museum yesterday, you said something about me raising a touchy subject when I asked if the EAM ever displays private collections. What was that all about?”

  “It’s a question of ethics.” Crenshaw sat down at a library table and took on a professorial mien. “When a museum chooses to display certain works, it indicates those works have artistic merit. In turn, this serves to increase the value of the works. Therefore, showcasing a private collection can be seen as benefitting the collector. If a museum or curator is accepting money from the collector, one might wonder if they’re being bought, so to speak. Perry did the right thing by leaving his museum job.”

  I supposed that made sense. I didn’t know how much curators made, but the Turnbulls must have paid more. Still, it wasn’t like this was New York City or LA. “It’s hard to imagine private art consulting would be a lucrative field here in Edindale, especially if you work for only one collector.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  I didn’t doubt it. I’d been surprised so many times in the past few days, it was becoming my new normal.

  I glanced over at the door to the gun room and remembered how Perry had surprised me in a big way on my first visit to the manor. As I recalled, I had been about to open the antique filing cabinet. I wandered over to it now.

  “What’s in here?” I asked, pulling open the top drawer.

  “Nothing anymore,” said Crenshaw, turning in his chair. “It was filled with ol
d receipts and provenance documents for the artwork Harold bought and sold over the years. I took it all to the office to be scanned. And no—there was no sign of a will among the papers.”

  “I figured as much,” I said. “But wouldn’t Perry have needed those documents to assist with his appraisal?”

  “He’s already been through them and entered the information on his own spreadsheets.” Crenshaw joined me at the cabinet and opened the bottom drawer, as if to confirm it was empty. “Perry mentioned that Jim had begun to create an electronic database of his father’s collection. He died before he had a chance to finish it, and now the software is outdated.”

  I stared at the nearby hand-carved oak door and engaged in an internal debate. On one hand, I knew every room of the mansion should be searched. On the other hand, I wasn’t exactly eager to see the place where Jim had accidentally shot himself to death. Crenshaw made the decision for me by unlocking the door and pulling it open.

  “I neglected to show you the gun room on our tour the other day,” he said. “It’s one of the few rooms that is kept locked at all times.” He went in and flicked on the overhead light.

  I followed him inside and blinked. More than an armory, the room resembled a den—or an upscale man cave. To be sure, there were plenty of guns. They were prominently displayed in glass-doored cabinets and on hooks above a stone fireplace. But the dark paneled walls were also adorned with mounted antlers and animal skulls, as well as scenes of fox hunts painted in oil. To the left was a large executive desk. To the right was a brown leather couch, which faced the fireplace—and a shaggy bearskin rug on the floor near the hearth. A few well-preserved birds perched here and there, while a moose head stared balefully from the far wall. I shuddered involuntarily.

  “Harold liked to hunt,” Crenshaw said dryly.

  I was reminded of Arlen’s comment that his trophy mounting business had slowed down. Surely there was still a demand in some places, but it was definitely an old-fashioned look.

  As I took in the room, my skin began to prickle. I took a tentative step toward the desk. “Is this where Jim was when . . .” I didn’t have to finish the question. Crenshaw knew what I meant.