Autumn Alibi

by Jennifer David Hesse

  “I believe so.”

  Almost against my will, my mind jumped to that tragic day fifteen years ago. I pictured Jim sitting at the desk, cleaning an antique gun. Though, come to think of it, didn’t people usually clean guns after they had fired them?

  “Was Jim a hunter, too?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. However, it’s my understanding he would frequent the shooting range at Stag Creek Hunting Club.”

  I looked up sharply. Crenshaw was examining a stuffed pheasant in the corner of the room—and studiously avoiding my eyes. A couple of winters ago, he and I had shared a harrowing ordeal at that gun range. He didn’t seem inclined to relive the memory. Neither was I.

  I returned my attention to the desk. There wasn’t much on it: a reading lamp, an ashtray, and a glass paperweight. The drawers contained folded maps, binoculars, pencils and paper, and little else.

  “So, Jim made a fatal error in judgment,” I said. “It’s hard to believe such preventable accidents still occur, but I know they do.”

  “With devastating consequences.” Crenshaw circled the desk, eyeing the chair and everything around it, as if he, too, was envisioning how it might have happened. He looked at the floor for a moment, then examined the cabinet behind the desk. “I would venture to say this floor was once covered by an Oriental rug, likely matching the runner in the library. And the door on this cabinet is not the original. Rather than replace the glass, Elaine must have had the whole door replaced.”

  “Well done, Sherlock.” My voice was light, but I wasn’t really feeling playful. The circumstances were way too horrible—especially if Jim’s daughter had happened upon the scene.

  I went to the cabinet Crenshaw had indicated and opened the door. Four old rifles hung vertically in a row. I assumed they weren’t loaded, but I wasn’t about to touch them. I was more interested in the nick in the wood of the cabinet’s interior. I ran my finger across the rough spot.

  Turning, I caught sight of a cow skull on the wall above. “If only the bones could talk,” I murmured.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  I faced him and had another thought. “Do you think we could get a copy of the police report? From the night Jim died, I mean.”

  He narrowed his eyebrows. “I can ask Detective Rhinehardt. What are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know. I just want to learn all I can about the night Lana disappeared.”

  He nodded and agreed to make the call. I took another slow walk around the room. The eerie vibes I’d felt on my first visit to the manor were magnified in here. As soon as I was satisfied that there were no apparent hiding places for Elaine’s will, I headed to the exit. I was more than ready to get the heck out of Dodge.

  * * *

  Farrah returned to the manor shortly before dinner. We had a few minutes to catch up in our room before Crenshaw would be summoning us to the dining room. She filled me in on her efforts to gather info “in the field.”

  As for Ernesto, she didn’t have much to report. The staff at the bar didn’t remember seeing him the night of Elaine’s death. Neither did any of the regulars. So, she wasn’t able to substantiate his alibi. Her investigation of Xavier, however, proved to be a little more entertaining, if nothing else.

  “I’m impressed you found him so quickly,” I said.

  “It was nothing,” she said, waving her hand lightly. “When I mentioned his name at the Harrison Hotel, the concierge pointed me toward the bar upstairs. Happy hour was just getting started. It was easy to spot Xavier with his full beard and preppy California-style suit. He was at a table by himself, having a drink and a bite to eat.”

  “And you just, what, walked up to him and said you’d like to ask him some questions?”

  “Yeah, basically. I told him I wanted to get into art collecting and wondered if he could give me some tips. Of course, I coated it all with a lot of flattery and flirtation.”

  “Of course.”

  “Unfortunately, I didn’t learn much. He admitted he had hoped to purchase some pieces from the Turnbull collection, but now he thinks that will have to wait. He said he might come back after the estate is settled.”

  “Did he say anything about knowing Elaine?”

  “He said he was glad he had a chance to meet her before she died. It sounded like he’d never met her before.”

  Farrah brushed her hair and touched up her makeup, while I checked my buzzing phone. It was Crenshaw, letting us know dinner was ready.

  “By the way,” said Farrah. “I think Xavier has been to Edindale before.”

  “Oh? Why do you say that?”

  “Because of a couple things he said. Like, at one point, a bachelorette party came into the bar. He said something like it was ‘louder than Ladies’ Night on the River Queen.’”

  “The River Queen? As in, the gambling boat here in Edindale? That went out of business three years ago.”

  “How could I forget?” said Farrah. “It went belly-up shortly after you tipped off the feds to a loan shark operation connected to the casino. Probably not a coincidence.”

  I flinched at the memory. “Well, the casino’s closure might also have had something to do with the death of the owner a few months later—at the Harrison Hotel, no less. But that’s beside the point. Did you ask Xavier about it?”

  “Nuh-uh. He distracted me with his sparkling eyes and pouty lips.”

  “Farrah—”

  “Just kidding. I actually didn’t think anything of it until later. But he did say something else that struck me as kind of funny. He mentioned all the community festivals we have here. We were talking about local artists, and he said he’s not interested in amateur crafty stuff.”

  “What a jerky thing to say.”

  “Yeah. He said he buys museum-quality artwork, not the stuff they sell at all the street fairs and park festivals they have every other month in small towns like Edindale.”

  “Again, what a jerk. But that doesn’t mean he’s been to Edindale. He probably saw the signs for Applefest, and it reminded him of other small-town festivals.”

  “Could be. Anyway, we should keep an eye on him. Maybe we can get more info from him at the gala.”

  “Yeah, him and everybody else.”

  Crenshaw buzzed my phone again, so we headed down to dinner.

  * * *

  Everyone was already seated when Farrah and I took our places at the table. That is, everyone but Ernesto. He was absent once more, even though Celia had set a place for him. She uncovered a casserole dish, served herself, then passed it around the table, family-style. When the dish came to me, I hesitated for half a second before spooning out a generous portion. The creamy potato and veggie concoction, topped with crispy, browned onions, was too delectable to pass up. Besides, even if Celia had laced Elaine’s milk (which I sincerely hoped she hadn’t), what were the odds she would poison six other people, half of whom she barely knew? Knock on wood.

  Fortunately, everyone behaved like civilized adults during dinner. Conversation centered on the upcoming gala. Ray and Celia conferred about last-minute details regarding house cleaning and the caterer’s instructions, while Suzanne chattered excitedly about the guest list and what she would be wearing. Perry listened politely to Suzanne. When he could get a word in, he told Crenshaw, Farrah, and me about a scholarship the Arts Council would be announcing in Elaine’s honor.

  As soon as she had cleared her plate, Suzanne announced that she would be skipping dessert and left the table. Ray and Perry excused themselves a short while later. I was glad to see they at least took their plates to the kitchen. Then Celia stood up and said she would be back to clean up. “I’m going to prepare a plate and take it out to Ernesto. He’s so busy, it’s no wonder he doesn’t have time to come to dinner.”

  Farrah shot me a significant glance. I shook my head in response.

  “More wine?” asked Crenshaw, raising a bottle. Farrah and I each held out our glasses.

  “Where did this come from anywa
y?” I asked, noting the high-end label.

  “Perry brought it up from the wine cellar.”

  “So, it belongs to the estate?”

  Crenshaw nodded and patted his breast pocket. “Not to worry. I made a note of it in my logbook. I’m keeping track of everything.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “As long as people still live and work here,” he said, “I believe they may continue to be supported by assets of the estate. To a point. Of course, the sooner it’s settled, the better.”

  Farrah sipped her wine and licked her lips. “You know, a wine cellar would make a good hiding place. Have you searched it yet?”

  Crenshaw cocked his head, as if intrigued by the idea. “I have not.”

  “Let’s check it out now!” She pushed back from the table and nudged me with her elbow. “Come on, Keli!”

  The entrance to the basement was through a nondescript door at the back of the mansion. Crenshaw led the way, with Farrah close behind him. I followed somewhat reluctantly. I had a thing about enclosed, underground spaces. I’d found myself in life-threatening situations belowground—more than once.

  Stepping off at the bottom of the narrow, wooden stairs, I was relieved to see the area was well-lit, if a little cramped. The low-ceilinged basement was unfinished, but the appliances to the right appeared to have been upgraded in recent years. Straight ahead was an arched wooden door. Crenshaw opened it to reveal a lavishly rustic-looking wine cellar. Along all four brick walls, elegant racks held an impressive variety of wines. In the center of the room a round tabletop perched quaintly atop an old wine barrel.

  Farrah whistled as she ran her fingers along some of the bottles. “There must be thousands of dollars’ worth of vino down here.”

  “No doubt,” said Crenshaw. “Perhaps this would make a good task for you—helping me to document the stock in here. Perhaps tomorrow?”

  “Perhaps,” she agreed.

  I stopped paying attention to the two of them when I glanced through the arched doorway and noticed another door. Another escape route? It was along the opposite wall of the basement. I left the wine cellar and went to investigate.

  The door was made of gray wood and appeared solid and heavy. It was barred by a thick board. I was trying to get my bearings and figure out which direction I was facing, when I heard a dull thud. It came from the other side of the door.

  “You guys!” I called. “Come here!”

  “What is it?” said Farrah, from the threshold of the wine cellar.

  I pointed at the old door with a trembling finger. “I think someone is in there!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  If not for my surging adrenaline, I might have laughed at the picture we made. After Crenshaw heaved open the old door, the three of us crouched in various states of readiness: Crenshaw armed with a penlight, Farrah wielding a wine bottle, and me clutching the board I’d removed from across the door. But it was all for nothing. There was no one behind the door. The only danger I faced was the risk of getting a splinter from the board.

  Crenshaw, the Boy Scout, shined his light onto the dirt floor and crumbling walls of the cavelike room. Decrepit shelves hung precariously along one side.

  “This must have been a root cellar once upon a time,” I said, finally finding my voice.

  “Once upon a long time ago,” said Farrah. She sneezed and backed away.

  I wished we had a bigger flashlight. I wasn’t confident in the tiny beam from Crenshaw’s penlight. I was sure it wasn’t covering every inch of the room. Even so, I had to admit the space appeared to be empty, save for a few dusty cobwebs and unknown creepy-crawlies.

  “You probably heard someone walking upstairs,” he said. “Things often sound strange in basements of this vintage.”

  “I know that,” I snapped. I was feeling petulant. Crenshaw’s adult-talking-to-a-child tone of voice didn’t help. I knew the difference between a sound above me and a sound in front of me.

  At least, I thought I did.

  * * *

  While I got ready for bed a while later, Farrah and Crenshaw stayed up late chatting in the second-floor sitting room. I was happy with how well they seemed to be getting along. In the past, Farrah would have considered Crenshaw a bore, while he would have thought her frivolous. I thought it was very mature of them to find common ground—though what they found to discuss, I couldn’t imagine.

  After putting on my pajamas, I took out Mila’s flying ointment from my suitcase. I sniffed the tube appreciatively, then dabbed a bit on all my pulse points. Leaving a night-light on in the bathroom for Farrah, I went ahead and crawled into bed. Lying on my back, I took three deep breaths and recited my protection mantra to myself. Then I focused on raising the vibrations in my body in another attempt at astral projection.

  To my disappointment, it didn’t seem to be working. Once I thought I felt myself pulling upward, away from my body, only to drop immediately back down. I tried a few more times, but I couldn’t seem to make it happen. Maybe I’m trying too hard. I’m too tense.

  I resorted to a well-practiced relaxation exercise instead. Predictably, I fell asleep. At least, I must have, because I awoke with a start sometime later.

  Farrah was beside me, fast asleep. What had woken me? A noise outside?

  Quietly, I got out of bed and looked out the window. It was a clear night—the waxing moon would be full in just a few days. Everything appeared to be still on the grounds below.

  Then I heard another noise, unmistakable this time. It sounded like a door closing, and it came from the direction of the garage. Straining my neck, I could just barely make out the edge of the garage—and then something else. Two figures emerged from the back of the building. Side by side, they headed down the hill, staying in the shadows.

  I itched to go after them. Who were they, and what were they up to? Was it Ernesto and a buddy going night fishing? Somehow I didn’t think so.

  In the darkness of the bedroom, I fumbled for my shoes. And where were my jacket and phone? I would have to use my phone as a flashlight.

  Just then Josie purred at my feet, and Farrah stirred in the bed. I sighed and set down my shoes.

  Oh, well. This probably wasn’t the wisest idea I’d ever had. I decided to do the smart thing and save my sleuthing for the morning. I got back into bed and stared at the moonlit tree branches outside the window until, eventually, I fell back to sleep.

  * * *

  First thing on Thursday morning, after showering and dressing, I marched outside and climbed the steps on the side of the garage. As I rapped on Ernesto’s apartment door, I tried to decide which question I’d ask first—and which approach I should take to coax him to talk. Should I be friendly, flirty, or firm? Good cop or bad cop? Confident or casual?

  There was no answer.

  More insistent this time, I knocked again. I thought I heard a noise inside, but no one came to the door.

  Darn it. Was I going to have to leave him a note? I couldn’t force him to talk to me. But maybe Rhinehardt could. I’d have to add this to my ever-growing list of things to discuss with the detective.

  For the bulk of the morning, Farrah and I searched and inventoried all the unoccupied bedrooms in the mansion. We were on the third floor, in the former living quarters of two maids, when Farrah flopped onto one of the beds. “Not much to see in here, is there?”

  “You don’t have to stay.” I appreciated her company and her help, but I couldn’t blame her for being bored. This was thankless work.

  “No, no. I want to stay. But you know . . .” She trailed off with a thoughtful gleam in her eye. It was a gleam I knew well. It usually spelled trouble.

  “What?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Think about what we’re looking for: a will that either Elaine hid or someone else stole. If someone stole it, then it’s going to be in that person’s room. The diaries were definitely stolen. So why are we looking in empty bedrooms? We should be searching the occupied rooms.”<
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  “We can’t do that, Farrah.” Sometimes I had to be the voice of reason for my impulsive friend. It was hard when I secretly agreed with her.

  “Why not? Are we detectives or what? Detectives snoop!”

  “We’re not detectives! Not really.” I walked to the window and looked down at the grounds far below. Someone was crossing through the gardens, but I couldn’t tell who. “People have a right to their privacy,” I continued, trying to convince myself as much as Farrah.

  “We’re not cops,” she retorted. “We don’t need a warrant. We’re working for the executor of this estate, and he’s responsible for all the assets on this property. Everyone who still lives here must realize that.”

  “Well, there’s still one problem.” I turned to face her.

  “What’s that?”

  “How do we snoop without getting caught?”

  Farrah’s face broke into a grin. “We just have to wait for the right opportunity. Celia runs errands sometimes, doesn’t she?”

  Before I could respond, my cell phone rang. I held up one finger, indicating Farrah should hold her thought, and took the call. It was a client, Tia Richards, in the midst of a minor meltdown. Her ex-husband had picked their daughter up from school without letting her know. The daughter was fine—they had only gone to get ice cream. But the ex had done this before, and Tia was fed up. She wanted me to draw up a petition to have his custody rights revoked. I had a feeling she would change her mind once she’d calmed down, but I agreed to meet her at my office.

  “I have to go,” I said, when I’d hung up. I explained the situation to Farrah, and she waved me away.

  “Go on. Take care of your client. I’ll go find Crenshaw and see if he wants to start on the wine cellar now.”

  “Better you than me,” I said, heading for the door. “Keep your eyes and ears open down there!”

  She gave me a salute, and I took off.

  * * *

  An hour and a half later, I emerged from my office with a much calmer Tia Richards. I had let her vent her frustrations, and then we came up with a plan. It involved me writing a friendly letter to her ex-husband’s attorney, requesting her to remind her client about the terms of the current custody arrangement—and the importance of following it. Tia agreed to keep her temper in check for the sake of her daughter.