Lilac Avenue (10 page)

“I appreciated the help tonight,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”

“May I call you sometime, Claire?” he said. “May I text a friend?”

“Sure,” she said. “I’ve really got to go now.”

“I still do, you know,” he said, “and it’s killing me.”

Claire ended the call rather than ask what he meant, because she knew. Her whole body flushed, and she felt unbearably hot. Her stomach roiled, and she regretted the sip of beer she’d taken.

“Silly ass,” she said to the cool night air, to the bright stars in the black sky, and to the west, where it was still sunny and hot in California. “To hell with you both.”

Still, later on, lying in bed, she went back over the call, replaying every word. She especially enjoyed that last bit, even though it made her cry.

After Claire left Mamie’s house, Scott did not immediately call the sheriff’s office. Once homicide investigator Sarah Albright got involved he would instantly be demoted to the position of errand boy. Because Mamie’s nephew Knox, the former bank president, was under investigation by the FBI, Sarah might be eager to tie Mamie’s death to that investigation in order to insert herself in the federal case, an even better opportunity to eventually stand behind someone important in any televised press briefing. If the investigation into Mamie’s death did not tie into that investigation, Sarah would lose interest and nothing would be resolved. Scott wanted to gather as much evidence as he could in the event that if Sarah dropped the ball, he could pick it up and run with it.

Scott went up the long, intricately carved wooden staircase with the intention of finding Mamie’s bedroom or study. On the second floor was a long, dimly lit hallway with many closed doors along its length. There was a long, threadbare carpet runner on the floor, and t
he wall sconces of amber-hued glass looked as if they had been converted from gas fixtures early in the previous century.

If ever there were
a house that looked as if it should be haunted, it was Mamie’s. Scott expected to hear ghostly footsteps or to walk through a mysterious cold spot. He opened and closed many doors that lead to elaborately decorated bedrooms and cold, tiled-floor bathrooms which featured claw-footed tubs and antiquated toilets. At the end of the hall he opened the last door. This, without a doubt, was Mamie’s domain.

Scott assumed this had been her parents’ room when she was a child. The window treatments and dramatic draperies on the huge four-poster bed were faded hunter green velvet, and the bed-covering was a heavy satin eiderdown in a faded burgundy color.

To the left of the massive bed was an ornately carved ormolu-gilded glass display case supported by elegantly curved mahogany legs. Inside this cabinet was Mamie’s collection of hand-blown glass swans, a design commissioned for her by her father when she was a child. He must have hoped she would transform from an ugly duckling into one of these gracious creatures. It had been a romantic tribute from a doting father, but a vain hope, nonetheless.

On the other side of the bed was an ornate desk that matched the display cabinet, but the gilding had worn off at the front. Someone, probably Trick, had pulled open every drawer, and papers were scattered everywhere. Scott reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves, which he put on.

The majority of the documents represented unpaid bills, many from businesses in Rose Hill: one from her ophthalmologist, one from the pharmacy downtown. But there were also threatening letters from utility companies, credit card issuers, and most alarming, the bank from which her nephew had recently been fired. Evidently, Mamie had taken out a second mortgage and was six months behind on the payments. The latest notice conveyed the bank’s intention to seize her home as collateral for the defaulted loan.

In the top drawer of Mamie’s desk was an old revolver, which Scott carefully picked up and examined. It was obviously antique, with an inlayed ivory handle and delicate scrollwork on the barrel. Scott carefully unloaded the bullets, which looked as if they were handmade of poured lead. The presence of a loaded gun in the bedroom of a frail, legally blind old woman was certainly disturbing. If she were going to kill herself, wouldn’t she have used this instead of poison?

It certainly looked as though Mamie’s world had fallen down around her ears.

‘
Could she have killed herself?’ Scott wondered.

The disturbing appearance of her body after death certainly seemed to indicate she died in agony. The carpet smelled of a
noxious substance where whatever had been in the tea cup was spilt. Was she poisoned by someone, or did she intentionally ingest some toxic substance?

Scott looked in the stack of romance books on Mamie’s bedside table, but there was no money in them. They appeared to be unread, the spines not yet broken. There was a water glass next to them with no water in it. He smelled the glass but there was no scent from any residue. There were prescription bottles, including a sleep aid, one for cardiac arrhythmia, and a bottle of eye drops for her glaucoma. Scott had known
Mamie was nearly blind, but hadn’t known the cause.

On the wall there were large, gilded wood, oval-framed photos of Mamie’s parents, the paper sepia-toned and faded at the edges. Her father
, Gustav, was a stern-looking, barrel-chested man with full, sweeping whiskers. Her more delicate, fair mother was pretty in a sharp-featured way. Mamie did not resemble her, of course. Scott imagined she must resemble the maid, Phyllis’s great-great-great-grandmother.

Scott found a large photo album on a shelf, set it on the desk, and looked through it. He flipped back to the era of Mamie’s baby pictures and finally found a photo of the staff, lined up on the front porch of the big house, with the family in front of them. There on the end was a petite, dark-haired maid who looked a bit like Phyllis. It was the big dark eyes and defiant look on her face that reminded him of her.
Scott slipped the photo out of the corners that held it and put it in his breast pocket.

Scott examined her en suite bathroom and did a cursory search of her wardrobe and chest of drawers, but he did not find any additional clues. There were no secret diaries stashed beneath her mattress, no concealed passageways hidden by false bookshelf fronts. Scott even rolled back the carpets, half hoping to find a trap door.

The third floor was dusty from disuse, featured additional bedrooms, although smaller than those on the second floor and less lavishly decorated. The fourth floor was little more than a warren of cold cubby holes. The sagging iron beds had bare, thin, stained mattresses rolled up at the ends. In the corner of one bedroom a skeleton of a mouse was snapped in an ancient wooden trap.

Scott noted that, poorly as these rooms were furnished, they had a splendid western
view of the Little Bear River Valley, and all of Rose Hill, from the college on the south end all the way to the farmers market on the north end. Down by the river sat the hulking Rodefeffer Glassworks buildings, the fortune from which this house had been built. It had been closed for many years, and was slated to be reopened by a new owner as a bicycle factory.

The door to the attic was locked. Scott considered his options, and decided he would not be satisfied if he left any room unexamined. Mamie’s keys turned out to be hanging on a hook in the kitchen by the back door. She must not have been worried about safeguarding whatever was in the a
ttic.

After jogging back up three flights of stairs, Scott unlocked the door and ascended the narrow attic stairway into the dark, cramped space under the eaves. He was greeted by the smell of decaying paper, dust, and mildew. He sneezed, and wondered how long he could stay up there before the combination of allergens triggered a debilitating migraine, to which he was prone. He couldn’t find a light switch, and while looking for one, almost fell over a big heavy trunk.

Scott ran back down three flights and out to his car to get a flashlight, and when he returned to the attic he was out of breath. By the light of his flashlight he found the ancient light switch, set high in the wall, and when he pushed the button, it lit up a line of bare light bulbs hanging from the rafters. The long, low space was punctuated by eaves with dirty rectangular glass windows.

The attic was packed from stem to stern with crates, barrels, boxes, trunks, wardrobes, and sheet-covered furniture. It would take days to search through this, he thought. There were copious cobwebs and dust webs, the profusion of which seemed to indicate the space had not been disturbed for many years. Sco
tt turned off the lights and locked the door at the bottom of the stairs. He pocketed the keys.

Back in the kitchen, the wide, ceramic, double-bowl sink was still wet from where Phyllis had washed the dishes, and the bottle of dish liquid still sat, open, on the sloping sideboard. The cup and saucer were already dry. Scott used the tip of a pen to open the cupboard underneath the sink. Among the bottles of cleaners and cleaning implements were several bottles of what could easily be considered lethal poisons. Scott closed the cupboard and used yellow caution tape to tie the cupboard knobs together. He pointed his flashlight down the sink drains but nothing seemed to remain in the garbage disposal side.

The garbage can was empty as well; even the liner was gone. Outside next to the house he checked the garbage bins, but they too were empty. Had Phyllis taken the garbage with her? He made a note to ask her.

He searched the rest of the rooms downstairs, but everything seemed to be in order. In the basement sat the mammoth boiler for the furnace, a modern washer and dryer, and an ancient-looking cast iron hot water heater. The door to the steps up to the backyard was bolted.

Overall, the house seemed too tidy to belong to an elderly, disabled woman who had fired all her staff a month before. Scott made a note to call her former employees to find out if someone was still working for Mamie, possibly paid with the cash stashed in her romance novels.

Scott went back upstairs to make the call to the sheriff’s office. He could have used his cell phone, but unfortunately
, there was a lively contingent of senior citizens in Rose Hill who could listen in on some cell phone calls by using their old-school, now illegal radio scanners. He liked to use a corded landline when he didn’t want them to know something, although they could be very useful when he did.

After he made the call to Sarah, he called Maggie, to let her know he might be very late, and would almost certainly
miss the pub quiz competition, but she didn’t answer. Then he remembered that Maggie and Hannah attended the Interdenominational Women’s Society meeting every Tuesday night, so he left a message.

Forty minutes later Scott watched from his seat on the front porch as Sarah Albright’s squad car zoomed up Pine Mountain Road and turned right onto Morning Glory Circle. The ambulance from the county EMT was already parked at the curb, and she spoke to the driver before she made her way up the steep stairs to where Scott had risen to his feet to shake her hand.

Sarah was petite but muscular, with a cap of shiny dark hair, hawk-like dark eyes, and a confident swagger. Her dark pants fit like a second skin, and her white blouse was unbuttoned just one below what would probably be considered professionally appropriate by most employers. She smiled when she met his eyes, and then gave him a head-to-toe appraisal that seemed to please her.

“Chief Gordon,” she said, as she squeezed his hand until it hurt. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“No,” Scott said. “Things have been quiet for awhile.”

Years ago Sarah would have made some remark about him missing her, or about how nothing could happen in such a small, inconsequential place as Rose Hill. That was before she had been called on the carpet by the sheriff for her unprofessional behavior, and as a consequence, had undergone sensitivity training. Now, although Scott could see in her expression that she still had the same thoughts, she repressed the urge to share them.

Sarah led her assistant and the photographer inside, and after Scott directed her into the room, he stood back by the door. As she looked at the scene, Sarah spoke into her handheld recorder as her assistant took notes. She noted the appearance and position of the body, and the area around it. The photographer snapped flash photographs, careful to stay out of Sarah’s way. When Sarah was in a room the tension level rose proportionately to her intense focus. No one wanted to interfere lest she forget her recent training and lash out.

When it was his turn, Scott told her what he knew, showed her the books full of money, the ransacked desk in her bedroom,
the gun, the available poisons, and the empty garbage pails. She listened impatiently, interrupted frequently, and rolled her eyes several times.

“What makes you think this is murder?” she asked. “So far this is all just conjecture on your part.”

Scott told her about the poison pen letter and Mamie’s relationship to Phyllis.

“Plus the drawn-
up limbs and the look on her face,” Scott said. “Is it possible to die naturally and look like that?”

Sarah shrugged.

“Only the medical examiner can tell if she was poisoned,” Sarah said. “She might have had some kind of seizure. We’ll have to wait for a toxicology report; six weeks, maybe more.”