Ellen McKenzie 03-And Murder for Desser (13 page)

Chapter Thirteen

The real estate office where I had worked for almost a year, Santa Louisa Home and Land, was owned by an old friend of my family, Bo Chutsky. Bo and my father had played golf, gone to Rotary, and played poker once a month with “the boys” the whole time I was growing up. Bo knows everybody in town and has handled most of their real estate transactions over the last forty years. He also knows where all the bodies were buried, but getting him to tell you anything he issn’t ready to relate is a bit like trying to pry open a clam guarding its pearl. That’s why I stopped by Hazel Chutsky’s desk for a nice cozy chat.

Plump, sweet-faced, Hazel had raised two children and was supervising the rearing of her six grandchildren. Several years ago, she moved from housewife to office manager. She keeps the files, pays us our commissions, yells at us if we make a mistake, and soothes and comforts us if a deal goes south. She knows as much about this town and what goes on as Bo, but she’s much more willing to talk. So, when I asked her what she knew about Carlton Carpenter and his handling of the sale of the old Adams mansion to Otto Messinger, I struck gold.

“I never understood that whole thing.” We’d settled down at her desk, her with a cup of tea, me with a cup of coffee. “Abigail Adams—she was so proud of her name, you know, but she wasn’t any relation to the John Adams family even if she did give herself airs—anyway, she hated Carlton. He’s so darn good looking; he was always getting into trouble with some girl when he was young, and I guess one of Abigail’s granddaughters got smitten. I think there was a baby, but it got so hushed up, I was never sure.” She clucked in sympathy for the unfortunate Abigail, took a sip of tea, and went on. “Anyway, you could have knocked me over with a feather when I heard he got the listing on that old house. I bet Abigail turned over in her grave more than once when that listing got signed.”

“How did he get Otto as a client?” I asked.

“No idea, but we’ve all sure wondered. That Otto must have had a ton of money, though. I hear they’ve torn the whole kitchen out and put in a new one, refurbished the pool, and added a deck. They’ve just completely redone the whole house. Even filled it with real antiques. Doesn’t make any sense to me, but whatever floats your boat.”

“How did Otto get around the parking requirements?” I asked. “The city is usually pretty strict about that kind of thing, especially in the historic areas.”

She started to laugh. “That Carlton. He thinks he’s so sharp, but this time he cut himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, this is gossip, so don’t tell anyone I told you, okay?” She leaned toward me and lowered her voice. I put my arms on her desk and gave her my full attention. “You’re right about the parking and it seems Carlton ‘forgot’ to mention that it might be a problem. When that Messinger man went down to the city to get his restaurant permit, they refused him because he didn’t have enough parking spaces around the house. So, the way I heard it was, he stormed into Carlton’s office, screaming at the top of his lungs, threatening to sue, to have Carlton’s license, or maybe just cut him up into little pieces and stuff him down the meat grinder. I guess Carlton was so scared he just about wet himself.”

“So then what happened? The bed and breakfast is set to open, including the restaurant part, so they must have resolved it some way.”

“Yep. Carlton bought the lot next door to the Adams mansion, the one with the little ol’ red teardown house, and deeded it over to Otto.”

“No kidding,” I said, stunned. “That must have cost Carlton a bundle.”

“Close to one hundred thousand,” she said, more than a little satisfaction in her voice.

Non-disclosure is the cardinal sin in the real estate business, and to have both ends of a deal and put your client in the kind of jeopardy Carlton had put Otto in, was inexcusable. Not to mention a potential lawsuit, a certain reprimand by our board of realtors, and a real possibility of much harsher punishments. I couldn’t believe Carlton would be that stupid. The unethical part didn’t surprise me much.

“Where did he get the money? He bought himself a partnership in Silver Springs Winery about the time the escrow on the Adams place closed. Unless Carlton’s changed a lot, that should have been about all the cash he had.”

“He hasn’t changed. I don’t know how he swung it, but it got Otto Messinger off his back for a while. That man could really carry a grudge. I hear he was still going to sue Carlton and was telling everyone in town who’d listen that he was going after Carlton’s real estate license as well. Don’t know if he could have made it stick, but he sure could have made Carlton’s life a living hell. ”

“Yeah,” I said, my brain churning ideas like a bread mixer. “Yeah, a living hell. Well, better get back to work. See you later.”

“Ellen,” she stopped me, “you got your ads done for those new listings you took?”

I assured her I did and handed over the photos I had taken, and then we went through the file to make sure all the signatures were in the right places before I finally got back to my desk. I sat for a few minutes, going over everything in my mind. Sabrina was out. She had to be. Carlton was our man, I was sure of it. So Otto was going to sue him and, worse, try for his license. That meant Carlton couldn’t work. He was probably broke; he had to hate Otto, and he was going up the back stairs, alone, the night of the dinner. All I needed to do now was confirm he had been in the kitchen with Otto and that they had fought, or that somehow he knew that Otto was on the deck. Then I’d be ready to spring my theory on Dan.

I picked up the phone to call Larry. He would know if Carlton had talked to Otto. No answer. I let it ring. Please, pick up, I thought. I wanted that one piece of information before Dan arrived that night, and I wanted it on the phone. I did not want to track Larry down in person. I hung up. Where could he be? Outside, talking to workmen, no doubt. I flung myself back in my chair. Which did I want more? To not see Larry or get the information I needed before I saw Dan tonight? I thought about getting trapped in a bedroom, about Larry constantly reaching for my hand, about how awkward it would be if I had to—oh well. Information gathering won. I sighed, picked up my purse, put my phone on voice mail, and headed for my car.

Chapter Fourteen

The place was swarming with workmen, but there was no sign of Larry.

“Hey, Ellen,” called a stocky, balding man, brown muscled arms showing under his local wine festival-emblazoned tee shirt. “What are you doing here? Trying to get a listing?” He laughed heartily at his little joke. I didn’t find it especially funny, but I joined in. Ed McNamara and his crew did a lot of small termite and repair jobs for me, often with little or no advance notice, and I needed to keep them on my side.

“Hey, Ed. I didn’t know you were doing this place.”

“Yeah, and it’s been great. I think.”

“What do you mean?”

Ed walked over closer and lowered his voice. “It’s been great in some ways, sure has paid well, but that guy’s loony.”

“Too demanding?” I asked sympathetically.

“Can’t make up his mind. Wanted French doors in that little dining room where the bay window was. No problem. Only he changed his mind three times, and we ended up not doing them. I’ve mixed six colors of paint for one upstairs bedroom. We’ve changed moldings, moved bathroom cabinets around, rehung shelves—the guy’s crazy. But the more time we spend here, the more money I make.” This last he told me with a large grin. “It’s the decorator lady he really drove nuts. I think she finally ignored him and just went ahead. Said she’d never get the fabric ordered if she waited on him. Anyway, after we finish that deck out there, we’re done.”

The deck extended out from the breakfast room, around an old oak tree, and wound around the back of the house where broad steps led down to the pool. It was going to be fabulous for summer morning breakfasts or late Sunday afternoon wine sipping.

“Otto was difficult,” I told Ed, “but the final product is great.”

“Otto. That was the guy who got killed, wasn’t it? No. I mean the other guy.”

“Frank?” I asked, surprised.

“Frank’s the other old guy, isn’t he? I’m talking about the nervous one, the guy with the twitch.”

I almost laughed out loud. Frank wouldn’t have been pleased to know that he was the “old guy.” I was surprised, though, that Larry was making all of the decisions, first for Otto, now for Frank. No wonder his eye twitched. Only that didn’t sound like Frank. I couldn’t see him giving up running the show, whatever that show might be. However, I wasn’t here to worry about new doors, fabric, or porch railings. I was here to find out if Carlton had come into the kitchen Saturday night, and if so, why? While I was at it, I’d ask about Frank. I was sure Larry would have said something, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

“Where is he?” I asked Ed.

“Which one?”

“Larry. The one that twitches.”

“Coming your way.”

There he was, rushing towards me, hands outstretched, ready to grab mine. I could see Ed out of the corner of my eye, amusement and amazement plainly written on his face. I was going to take a lot of heat the next time he visited the office. The temptation to turn and run was strong, but the thought of Carlton and how I was about to prove him guilty of Otto’s murder rooted me to the spot.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” he started, fumbling for one of my hands. “I was going to call you. Everything is turning out so nice, and I wanted you to see it, especially the dining room. Come look.”

Ed’s face was a study. He knew Dan, knew we were going to be married, everyone in town knew it, and here I was being practically mauled by someone else. The small-town news network was about to go into warp speed. Damn!

“I thought you might have changed your mind about coming to the dinner next Saturday,” Larry said, evidently oblivious of our audience. “Come on.” He tightened his grip on my hand and started pulling me toward the house. Short of sitting down or screaming, there wasn’t much I could do, so without a backward look, I let Larry lead me inside.

Someone had worked a miracle. The dining room had been a shell Sunday. Now it was magnificent. Wood floorboards, polished bright, were partially covered with a jeweltone oriental rug. Silk window hangings hung at the sparkling-clean long windows, freshly painted crown moldings set off the high ceiling, and there was no trace of the flocked wallpaper. An antique landscape painting hung above the hand-carved mantel, from which all traces of soot had been removed. A beautiful Chippendale sideboard overflowed with delicate china and freshly polished silver.

“Aren’t these elegant?” Larry asked, waving at the three round mahogany tables that graced the room. Each had eight intricately carved chairs around it. “See how beautifully the tablecloths complement the rug and the wall hangings.” Larry’s beaming face turned anxious as he faced me, and his eye started to twitch again. “I picked it all out.”

“They’re gorgeous,” I said. “The room—the whole house—is fabulous.” Larry’s eye stopped twitching.

“I’m so glad you like it.” He looked around the room with the same proprietary air he’d had when he showed us the kitchen. “This whole thing, cooking with someone as talented as Otto, creating this house, has been like a dream come true.”

I must have looked a little surprised, because he smiled at me, that same smile that made me so nervous, and gently picked up my hand before I could hide it. He started the stroking thing again, but it seemed different. Distracted. “You know, all I ever really wanted to do was be a chef. My father thought that was for, well, not for a real man. I told him over and over that cooking, real cooking, was like great art, but he didn’t believe me. All those years in France, and he didn’t understand. But I got my chance. Otto gave it to me. Some people thought he was difficult, but I thought he was a great man.”

I was so surprised I forgot to pull my hand away. Otto great? That wasn’t the way I’d heard it. But if Larry thought so… I wondered what he thought of Frank.

“Let me show you the rest of it.” We stepped further into the room and, retrieving my hand, I slowly followed him around, ending in front of the sideboard.

“Good grief, Larry,” I exclaimed. “Where did you get this silver? It’s sterling!”

“I know. We’ll only use it for the formal dinners. I have something a little less ornate for every evening and for the breakfasts. Come on.”

Stunned, I let Larry lead me through the rest of the house. Where had all these antiques come from? And the carpets! A bone china tea service sat on a low table between two silk-covered chairs in one of the bedrooms. I picked up a cup. Limoges. Why would anyone put out something like that for a guest to break? Or steal? But the house was beautiful. Larry threw open each bedroom door with a flourish, making sure I noticed the handmade quilts, the antique brass headboards, the museum-quality highboy. All the bedrooms were exquisite; all the bathrooms offered gleaming porcelain and plush towels. All but Jolene’s. Her door was closed, and, this time, Larry didn’t offer to open it. He didn’t mention her.

“There are two more bedrooms to finish before next Saturday, but I’ll get them done. I’ll have fresh flowers in all the rooms, of course, and I have flowers planned for those little tables as well.” Larry pointed at small tables set in the hallway. A collection of silver salt dishes sat on one of them, a leather-bound book on another. If the food turned out half as good as the decorating of the house, there would be glowing reports in magazines and newspapers from coast to coast.

“Come on downstairs.” Larry pulled me toward the only other closed door. He pushed it open and announced, “This was the old servants’ staircase. You saw it Sunday, but you didn’t have time to go down. It leads right into the kitchen. It’s going to come in handy again for, oh, all kinds of things. Hurry up. I want to show you the menu.”

He led me down the steep flight of stairs, not saying anything. I followed more slowly, clutching the railing, placing each foot carefully on the steep treads. He ducked under the low doorframe and turned to watch as I navigated the last step. We had arrived in the kitchen, just next to the pantry.

Between my admiration of the house and struggling with my personal problems, I had almost forgotten Carlton. As we walked into the kitchen strewn with half-unpacked dishes and stacked wine crates, thoughts of him returned. How was I going to work in my questions around Larry’s enthusiastic explanations of his dinner plans?

“What do you think?” He spread out handwritten menus all over the counter, shuffling them like a deck of cards. “Do you think the fumé blanc is good with the clear soup? Or should I have a rosé? Wait, you can tell me what you think.”

He jumped up and practically ran to the wine rack. Before I could protest, he had the cork out of a bottle and had poured a little into two glasses. Handing one to me, he held the other up to the light, swirled it, watching it as it coated the inside of the glass, buried his nose in it, breathing the aroma, then came up for air. “The pairing of wine and food must be perfect. Don’t you agree?”

I’d heard Mark and Sabrina talking about pairing, about acidity, fruitiness, nose, all terms I had not understood. I wasn’t about to join Larry in some strange discussion where I was lost before I began. Besides, this wasn’t giving me what I wanted to know. So I put down my untasted glass and blurted out, “Larry, about Saturday night.”

He stopped abruptly and stared at me. “What?”

“Last Saturday night,” I repeated, “you said Sabrina was in the kitchen and Jolene came in. Is that right?”

“Sabrina wasn’t there when Jolene came in. She came in after Otto and Jolene had started to fight.”

It was my turn to pause. “Right. That’s what Sabrina told me. But did anyone else come into the kitchen? Like, after they left?”

“Who?” He put his own wineglass down and stared at me, apparently confused. I felt irritation rising. This was not that hard a question.

“Like Carlton, for instance. Did he come into the kitchen? Did he speak to Otto? Did they argue or anything?” If this were a trial, my questions would have been thrown out of court, but, since Larry seemed so obtuse, I felt a little witness leading was needed.

After a couple of minutes, he replied, “Otto was gone.”

“What? Are you saying Carlton did come in?”

“He stuck his head in the door, that’s all,” he told me slowly.

“What did he say?” I was getting more and more impatient. “And what did you say?”

“He wanted to know where Otto was.” He dragged out each word. “I told him he was out on the deck.”

“And then what?” I was getting excited. This was exactly what I needed.

“Nothing.”

The man was maddening. “What do you mean, nothing? Something must have happened.”

“He went away.”

“He went away,” I repeated. “Is that all? He just went away?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see him again?”

“Not until we served the dessert course. He was sitting at your table.”

I knew that. What I didn’t know was where Carlton went after he left the kitchen. I had an idea, but no proof. “You don’t know where he went?”

“No. Why are you asking all these questions? Do you think Carlton killed Otto?”

I didn’t know what to say. I thought there was a better than even chance Carlton had picked up a wine bottle, sneaked out the front door and around to the deck, smashed Otto over the head, opened the gate and pushed him in, then tossed in the champagne bottle, hoping the police would think it was the murder weapon. But it somehow didn’t seem an appropriate discussion topic with Larry. Dan, yes, Larry, no. So I wracked my brain and came up with, “I have no idea who killed Otto, but I thought it would be a good idea to know who was where.”

Larry stared at me. “I’ve told the police most of this. They know Mark was looking for Sabrina, and they know all about Frank.”

Frank. “What about Frank?” Sabrina had said he had been in the hallway when she dragged Jolene away from her argument with Otto, but I had been so convinced Frank hadn’t entered the kitchen I had almost forgotten about it.

“He wanted to talk to Otto.” Larry didn’t seem very interested. “You know, I really didn’t want to work with Frank. I don’t like him much. But he’s really good. Otto taught me a lot, but I think Frank is even better than Otto. I’m going to learn a lot, and when I’m ready to go solo, I’ll be better than either one of them.”

I had no idea that being a chef, a great one, meant so much to Larry. Obviously I’d never thought about it, but he had, lots. There was an eagerness, an intensity in his voice when he spoke about it that made me almost hurt for him. Had I ever wanted anything that much? Susannah maybe. Getting away from Brian. But nothing the same way Larry seemed to want this. I found myself hoping he’d make it, that he wouldn’t be hurt. But that still didn’t tell me about Frank.

“Larry, did Frank talk to Otto?”

“No. Otto had stormed off out of the kitchen, and I told Frank he was in a bad mood.”

“Then what did Frank say?”

“He laughed.”

That I could believe. “And?”

“He said he’d catch him later and left.”

Something I’d better do as well. I pushed my wineglass away and gathered up my purse.

“Aren’t the police supposed to be asking all these questions?” he asked, an anxious expression on his face. “You could get hurt.”

Hurt? Me? How ridiculous. “Sabrina’s worried,” I told him as I pushed back my chair. “That dinner meant a lot to them. Did you tell the police about Carlton?”