Autumn Alibi

by Jennifer David Hesse

  “What are you looking for?” asked Farrah. “The painting?”

  “Anything. A pill bottle, a diary . . . A gallon of milk.”

  “Milk?” Farrah looked around me to see for herself. “Yep, milk. Real suspicious.”

  “It is when the only guy who lives here is lactose intolerant. Suzanne mentioned it the first day I was here.”

  “Maybe he takes a pill for that,” said Farrah.

  “Or maybe he has the milk because he used it to pour Elaine’s last mug.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Farrah. She turned quickly and tripped on a fringed area rug. She gasped, stumbling to her knees.

  “Are you okay?” I reached down to give her a hand. As I pulled her to her feet, the rug shifted. “Hey, look at that.”

  Farrah turned, and I pulled the rug back. There, in the center of the wood-planked floor, was the clear outline of a trapdoor. Farrah jumped back like it was a poisonous snake.

  “Take it easy,” I said, trying not to laugh. “It’s just a trapdoor.”

  “If there are stairs under there, leading to a dank, creepy cellar, we are not going down them.”

  “Of course not. We’re not fools. I just want to see what it is.” I grabbed the handle and gave it a yank. The door came right up.

  Farrah crouched down to peer inside. “No stairs.”

  I used my phone to shine a light inside. The space beneath the floor was about three feet deep and four feet wide and appeared to be used for storage. It contained some dusty picture frames, all empty, and a lockbox. On top of the lockbox was Elaine’s last diary. I grabbed the diary and thrust it into my jacket pocket. “Help me with this box,” I said.

  Together we hefted the lockbox out of the hole in the floor and hurried to the door. My heart thudded wildly, as I expected Perry to burst in on us at any second.

  “Shouldn’t we cover up the trapdoor again?” asked Farrah, her voice shaking.

  “Yes.” We set the box on the floor and rushed back to close the trapdoor and replace the rug. “Okay, come on!” I said.

  We made it outside and halted uncertainly outside Perry’s back door. The route to the mansion seemed longer than I remembered, and much more wide-open. We could be seen from several directions.

  “Maybe we should hide this in the trees,” Farrah suggested.

  “Yeah. Good idea.”

  Moving in an awkward side-step, we managed to carry the lockbox several yards behind Perry’s cottage and park it behind a large bush. “Stay here,” I said, handing Farrah the diary from my pocket. “I’ll go get the key to the lockbox. It’s still in the room where we were staying.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, there’s no time to waste. Go ahead and call Detective Rhinehardt. I’ll be right back.”

  Farrah sat on top of the lockbox and opened the diary, as I dashed off to the house. I let myself inside and hurried up the back stairs. I was almost to the bedroom when I heard raised voices coming from the front of the house. It sounded like a man and a woman were arguing. Bypassing the bedroom, I ran to the gallery at the top of the grand staircase. Over the bannister, I spied Perry standing in the great room. He had his hands up as if in surrender.

  Moments later Lana came into view. What was she doing here? Perry sounded like he was trying to calm her down—much as he’d sounded when Ray was yelling at him on the day of the gala.

  “Just listen to yourself,” he said calmly. “You sound crazy.” He was backing away from her, toward the west hallway.

  “I am not crazy! All these years I believed my father killed himself. And he didn’t!”

  “I know it’s difficult to accept, but it’s the truth. And you can’t possibly know otherwise.”

  I didn’t like the sound of this. I hurried down the stairs, plastering a forced smile on my face. After all, Perry didn’t know what I’d found in his house. “Hi guys! What’s up? Perry, did you know Lana’s back? Good news, right?”

  Lana rounded on me. “I know the truth. This note is a fake!” She shook a crumpled piece of paper in her balled fist, and I mentally groaned. She must have overheard Farrah and me discussing the note.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” said Perry.

  “She’s clearly troubled,” I murmured, hoping to keep Perry in the dark. “Why don’t we all go sit down in the parlor and talk about it? You both lost someone special to you. It’s such a difficult thing.”

  I tried to send Lana a message with my eyes, but she was focused on Perry. And he was focused on her, as if the note were a deadly weapon. All I wanted to do was stall. Surely, Detective Rhinehardt must be on his way by now.

  Thinking fast, I shouted down the hallway. “Celia! Could you please bring tea for three to the west parlor?” I had no idea where Celia was, or if she could hear me, but I hoped to draw as much attention to myself as possible. Knowing her, she was probably watching us from someplace.

  “Come on, you two,” I said, giving Lana a small push. Reluctantly, Perry led the way to the parlor. But once inside, neither of them sat down.

  Lana walked up to Elaine’s portrait, then suddenly whirled on Perry. “All these years! I thought my father took his own life, because . . . because . . .” Tears filled her eyes, as she trembled with rage. “I thought he blamed me for the death of my real mom! She died giving birth to me. He would never admit it, but after Suzanne left he wouldn’t even look me in the eyes. He probably blamed me for her leaving, too.”

  “Lana,” I said, reaching out to her. “That’s not it at all. Your dad was worried about something else entirely. It had nothing at all to do with you.”

  Perry threw me a sharp look, and I gasped involuntarily. What had I just let slip?

  Lana wiped her eyes and smoothed out the wrinkled paper. “If this note is forged, then that can mean only one thing. Somebody murdered my father.” She took a step toward Perry. “You murdered him!”

  Before I could react, Perry reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun. I didn’t know if it was an antique or a recent model, but I was sure it was loaded.

  Lana shrank back, as I instinctively stepped in front of her. “Perry, put that away. What are you doing?” I tried to keep my voice steady. But I should have known the time for reasoning had passed.

  “Go,” he said, waving the gun. “Both of you, go to the library.”

  My stomach clenched, as I realized what he had in mind. From the library, he’d force us into the gun room. Once there, it wouldn’t be hard to arrange another “accident.” I needed to distract him from his plan.

  “Elaine was on to you, wasn’t she?” I said. “Is that what she wrote in her diaries? She started asking you about certain paintings that had gone missing, and you didn’t have good answers.” His eye twitched, and I knew I’d hit on the truth. “She was downsizing,” I continued. “She’d told Crenshaw as much. Maybe she wanted to start selling off some of the collection, and she asked you for your appraisal certificates. Is that it?”

  He inched closer, forcing us to back toward the door. I could have told him the game was up. We’d found the diaries and the cops were on the way. (I hoped.) But I didn’t like the desperate look in his eyes. He might decide he had nothing to lose and kill us right there, then try to make a run for it.

  Where was Detective Rhinehardt?

  “Dad was in on the scheme, too, wasn’t he?” said Lana in a small voice. “I remember now how you and he were so secretive sometimes. I wasn’t allowed in the library when you talked business. You must have been selling off Grandfather’s collection, one by one. And here I always thought our wealth came from investment income.”

  “I’ll bet Jim wanted out,” I speculated. “He must have felt guilty cheating his own mother, and he wanted to put an end to it. That’s why you killed him.”

  Perry refused to say a word, but his rapid blinking said a lot. I felt Lana tense up behind me.

  “Let me guess,” I said, trying to bait him just a little. “You r
eplaced some of the paintings with forgeries, so it wouldn’t be so obvious the collection was dwindling. The Grant Wood must have been a forgery. That’s why you had to arrange a robbery. The minute the painting was placed on the auction block, the forgery would be discovered—and so would your false appraisals.”

  He shook his head. “Go,” he rasped, waving his gun again. “Now!”

  “What I want to know,” I said, trying to ignore the gun, “is, who is Xavier Charleston? Is he one of your buyers? Is he your link to the black market?” I was just fishing now, but my guesses seemed to hit the mark so far.

  Perry lifted the gun higher and aimed it at my chest. “If you won’t go, I’ll shoot you right here.”

  What’s the difference? I thought. Why did criminals always expect their victims to make it easy for them? By this time our backs were up against the doorway, and I had run out of things to say. I was about ready to try bargaining with Perry, when I noticed the far wall begin to move. What I thought had been a decorative panel was actually a door leading to another secret room.

  Perry jerked his head around. In that instant, I raised my foot and kicked his hand as hard as I could. He dropped the gun to the floor, and I made a grab for it. At the same time, Lana tackled him full on, knocking him backward.

  A whole team of people, or so it seemed, came rushing through the hidden door. Wes and Detective Rhinehardt burst through first, followed shortly by Crenshaw and Ray.

  Then Celia swung open the parlor door and scurried in, bearing a tray with three cups of tea. She skidded to a halt and began counting the number of people in the room.

  “Now there are seven of you!” She set down the tray, threw up her hands, and walked out.

  * * *

  While Rhinehardt cuffed Perry, I told Crenshaw where to find Farrah. He left to go bring her in from her hiding place in the trees. Ray took one look at Lana and dissolved into tears. I’d always suspected he was a big softie, in spite of his gruff exterior.

  Wes gave me a big hug, then pulled back and scowled. I knew he was cross with me, and I couldn’t blame him. But, really, this was not how I’d envisioned this day turning out.

  The parlor door opened again, and Suzanne and Ernesto walked in. “What’s going on?” asked Suzanne. “Perry?”

  Rhinehardt had just read Perry his rights and was now waiting for backup. Perry stared at the floor without a word.

  “I knew he was up to something,” said Ray.

  That’s when Suzanne noticed Lana. She screamed and ran toward her. “My baby! Oh, my gosh! You came home!”

  Lana looked up uncertainly, then broke into a smile and allowed herself to be hugged. I hoped they’d work things out between them, whatever their issues were. I had a feeling I knew now why Suzanne and Jim had been fighting. Perhaps Suzanne suspected what Jim was up to and didn’t approve. That would explain her nervous behavior whenever I tried to talk to her about the art collection. It could also be why she left him in the first place.

  At that moment, Crenshaw and Farrah came up behind me. “Well done, Milanni,” said Crenshaw. “I don’t know how, but you did it again.”

  “Not by myself,” I said, nodding at Farrah and reaching for Wes’s hand.

  Ray wiped his face with a handkerchief and stepped forward. He cleared his throat and tried to sound gruff again. “Too bad you never found the new will. I guess Perry must’ve destroyed it after all.”

  “Actually,” said Farrah, stepping forward, “I don’t think he did. I found this in the lining of the diary.”

  She held up a small tarnished key. With a triumphant grin, she handed it to me. “There was a note on the back inside cover that said ‘parlor window.’ Any idea what that means?”

  A strange sensation passed over me, like a whisper-soft breeze from nowhere. I glanced at the large window—the same one Elaine had pointed to in my astral vision.

  I made a beeline for the window and looked outside. Then my gaze dropped to the interior windowsill. Kneeling down, I looked beneath it and saw a small keyhole. I inserted the key Farrah had found and turned. There was a click, and the sill fell forward, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside was a folded bundle of papers. Opening it, I wasn’t a bit surprised to read an inscription at the top: The Last Will and Testament of Elaine (Jane) Turnbull. I flipped to the last page and saw that it was signed by Elaine and two witnesses.

  I walked over to Crenshaw, whose mouth was hanging open.

  “Here you go,” I said.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Thursday evening, the day after Perry’s arrest, found me at the Loose, enjoying happy hour with Farrah. We clinked appletinis and toasted the end of the Turnbull saga. I was definitely in a celebratory mood. Crenshaw had successfully filed Elaine’s subsequent will in probate court. I had been correct in my guess that Elaine wished to donate specific pieces of artwork that were now long gone from the estate. It would take a while for an honest appraiser to go through the collection and figure out how much was left, but a preliminary review indicated that there were still quite a lot of genuine works—including the Whitney sculpture.

  Happily, Elaine had also left generous bequests to all of her friends and loved ones, including Lana, Suzanne, Ray, Ernesto, and Celia. The mansion itself was still Lana’s to take or leave, and she decided to take it. In fact, she had already moved in, determined to make a go with her interesting little makeshift family.

  On his way back from court, Crenshaw had stopped at my office to cut me a check for all the hours I had put in on the case. When Arlen saw the amount, he nearly dropped his muffin. “Holy cow!” he exclaimed. Then he grinned cheekily. “No pun intended.”

  Wes, of course, was thrilled for his friend—and even happier to have our house back. He was behind the bar now, making silly faces at me every time I shot him a glance. I was smiling his way, when the bar door opened, and Mila and Catrina came strolling in. I waved them over.

  “I feel outnumbered!” Farrah joked, as she made room for the newcomers. “I’m surrounded by witches!”

  “Join us . . .” Catrina intoned in a crackly voice. Then she snickered.

  “Nah, I’ll just live vicariously through Keli,” Farrah replied.

  Mila wanted to hear how everything had turned out at Turnbull Manor, so Farrah and I took turns filling her in. Catrina was spellbound.

  “Wow,” she said. “That Perry guy was one bad dude. I take it he’s the one who faked the suicide note and sent a death threat to Lana?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I heard from Rhinehardt today, and he told me Perry decided to confess. He shot Jim and poisoned Elaine with her own opioid pain medicine.”

  “That’s dreadful,” murmured Mila. “Where were the other members of the household when he took Elaine the poisoned cup of milk?”

  “That was the crazy thing,” said Farrah. “Everyone lied about where they were!”

  “Yes,” I said, “and in some cases for silly reasons. Suzanne and Ernesto were in his apartment—”

  “Having a little tryst,” said Farrah. “And Celia was trying to catch them! That lady has some issues.”

  I nodded. “Ray’s secret was even more unfortunate. He was hiding away in his art studio as the guests were leaving. That’s why he was late in bringing Elaine her nightly cup. When someone mentioned he was walking his dog, he decided to jump on the excuse—false though it was.”

  A waitress stopped by to take orders from Mila and Catrina. As soon as she left, Mila shook her head sadly. “It’s too bad the young woman, Lana, was estranged from her family for all those years.”

  “That was Perry’s fault, too,” I said. “After Jim’s death was ruled an accident, he knew the suicide note would only draw suspicion—especially since it was so badly forged. That’s why he didn’t want Lana to come back. Plus, she was the only one who knew he was already on the scene when the gunshot went off.”

  “By the way,” said Farrah, turning to me, “did Lana ever find her missing ring?”
<
br />   I smiled. “Suzanne had it the whole time. She really does love Lana.”

  Farrah removed the apple slice garnish from the edge of her martini glass and took a bite. “I suppose the missing artwork may never be recovered,” she said. “It’s hard to believe Perry thought he could get away with such a large-scale fraud for so long. But he almost did.”

  “To think,” said Catrina, “you were under the same roof with a two-time killer. Good thing you know how to set up protective energy shields.”

  “Here, here,” said Farrah, raising her glass again.

  At that moment, the waitress came back and set a bottle of lager on the table in front of me. I read the label: Dos Equis XX.

  “I didn’t order this,” I said, trying to hand it back to her. “It must be for someone else.”

  “Are you Keli?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s for you. Courtesy of the hottie with the black beard.”

  I whipped around, scanning the room. “Where is he?” I asked the waitress.

  “Oh, he left right after he paid. Too bad.”

  Farrah and I stared at each other in disbelief. “Xavier?” she said. “What is this, his calling card?” She pointed to the X’s on the label.

  “Like Xorro, with an X,” said Catrina.

  “What?” I looked at her, trying to figure out where I’d heard that before.

  “You know. Zorro always left a Z. This guy leaves an X.”

  “Like the X’s in everyone’s tires,” I said, suddenly remembering.

  “Wait,” said Farrah. “You don’t think Xavier is the tire slasher, do you? He doesn’t seem like the type who would stoop to something so juvenile.”

  Juvenile. Just like the pranks of my mysterious Giftster. Xavier drove a Bentley, and Farrah had seen a Bentley following her shortly before her tires were slashed. I’d also seen one in the alley behind my office right after the fiasco with all the unwanted job applicants.

  Plus, there were all those times I’d caught Xavier looking at me, and the obscure things he’d said to me in the gardens.