Blessed Is the Busybody (19 page)

Lucy turned. “No lockbox yet. There’s going to be an estate sale in a couple of weeks, then the house goes on the market. And guess who’s been hired to sell it?” She dangled a house key in front of me. “My listing, and you’re here to help with the appraisal. You can tell me what we need to do to get the best price.”

“You have the listing!” I paused. “Who gave it to you?”

“Gelsey’s heir. Or I should say her husband’s heir.”

“Explain.”

Lucy was clearly thrilled to do so. “When Herb Falowell died, he left everything to his only living relative. Gelsey was given use of the house and everything they owned until her death, as well as a generous annual allowance. She had some money she’d brought into the marriage, and that’s probably what’s going to your church. But she couldn’t sell any of Herb’s assets. It was some sort of paper she signed before they were married. Did they call them prenups that far back?”

I remembered Sally Berrigan telling me that Gelsey had been forced to stay in Emerald Springs because of some technicality in her husband’s will. Hel-lo technicality.

Of course Gelsey hadn’t really wanted to move to Boston, anyway, since as far as I could tell, she’d never known a soul there.

“You’re missing something important here,” Lucy told me.

“The reason you were given the listing?”

“Not exactly. Who gave it to me!”

“The relative.” I narrowed my eyes. “Who? It’s somebody I know, isn’t it?”

“Not only know, work for. Bob Knowles is Gelsey’s husband’s nephew. Bob’s mother was Herb Falowell’s sister.”

“Go on!” I sat back. “How come nobody ever told me?”

“I’m not sure how many people know. Bob never lived in Emerald Springs until he moved here to open Book Gems, and Herb’s been dead a long time. I doubt Gelsey introduced Bob to friends as her beloved nephew. And why would Bob want people to know he was in town counting the heartbeats until Gelsey flatlined?”

“You think that’s why he moved here?”

“I imagine he could taste that money, don’t you? And Gelsey wasn’t getting any younger. I think he was just waiting to pounce.”

I remembered my conversation with Joan Barstow. “Did Herb own salt mines in Cleveland?”

“Herb was Mr. Salt Mine himself. And that was family stuff, stuff he inherited. On top of that, he made a fortune here in town. Herb was the guy who designed and developed Emerald Estates.” She gestured to Gelsey’s fake Tudor. “This is one of the very first houses. He knew exactly what people wanted and gave it to them. Houses that look more substantial than they are. Traditional exteriors with luxury touches inside. Space, views, a bit of grandeur. Houses where people can feel a little superior, even in a nowhere place like this one. Have you been inside Gelsey’s?”

“When we first arrived and once afterwards. The first time, Gelsey gave me a tour, but I was in a daze. I couldn’t believe Ed and I were moving away from the land of lobbyists and orange alerts.”

“I bet you’re sorry you did.”

I considered that. “Really? No. If we leave—and these days it’s more like when we leave—I’m going to miss Emerald Springs. And you, of course.”

“Ah, Aggie . . . Maybe you won’t have to go.”

“Maybe we wouldn’t if I hadn’t talked my husband into coming over here to see Gelsey the night she was murdered.”

“I still don’t understand what was so important that visit couldn’t wait until morning.”

“You and most of the town.”

“Well, come inside with me. We’re going to check out
everything.
” Lucy wiggled her brows. “I do mean everything. And if you just happen to open a few drawers and paw through a few papers, who will know?”

Lucy was giving me the opportunity to search Gelsey’s house to see if there was anything that might help Ed. Of course, the police had been here first. But what did they know?

I reached for the door handle, and my hand froze. “Good grief, Luce. Bob Knowles is the
heir.
Bob Knowles told me he was having serious financial problems.”

“Not any-more . . .” She sang the words with glee.

Without a doubt, Bob Knowles had possessed the best possible reason to want his aunt dead. Since he had never mentioned Gelsey, and she had never mentioned him, I was pretty certain they had not spent Christmases and birthdays together. More likely he had been half a mile away hoping she choked on a turkey bone or cake crumbs.

By why would Bob want Jennifer dead? Unless he had somehow discovered her real identity and knew if she told Gelsey who she was, Gelsey might find a way to override Herb’s prenup and leave some of his estate to her daughter.

“Oh, brother . . .”

Lucy opened her door. “You’re already thinking and you haven’t even gone inside. It’s showtime.”

I followed Lucy up the walkway. As fake Tudors go, this one’s not bad. Although the crossbeams have never held anything heavier than a nail, the stucco is well done, the windows effectively multipaned, and the steep roof has an attractive side gable. I remembered now that the architecture had helped generate the “Lady Falowell” nickname.

The walkway was vintage brick, bordered on both sides by what must have been truly lovely gardens in the spring and summer. Now they looked sad, as if the weeks since Gelsey’s death had taken the heart out of them. No one had told the gardener to replace the spent snapdragons with pansies, the ageratum with chrysanthemums, or to cut back the lifeless black-eyed Susans.

“I’d tell Bob to spend a few bucks getting the borders in shape,” I told Lucy. “Nobody wants to be reminded of the work that goes into a garden. They just want to bask in the glory.”

“Any other impressions?”

“A new doormat, maybe, and the door needs cleaning . . .” I stepped closer. “No, it needs a fresh coat of paint, maybe something other than black? I’d have to see the house in daylight, but maybe spruce green or burgundy? The front should look welcoming. The windows are an asset. I’d have them cleaned so they sparkle like diamonds.”

“Wow, poetry.”

“You did ask, right?”

“I’m making notes.” She wasn’t, at least not literally. In fact the only thing in Lucy’s hand was the key. She opened the door.

The house had been closed up too long, and under the stale odor of uncirculated air was Eau de French poodle. I hadn’t thought about the dogs since the night one had chewed on my husband. “By any chance do you know what happened to Trixie and Dixie?”

“Please! Jean Pierre and Genevieve. I think a woman at the end of the street took them.”

I was sorry the dogs couldn’t talk. For that matter, I was sorry at least one of them hadn’t been smart enough to tell the difference between a murderer and a friend.

I wrinkled my nose. “Tell Bob he needs to have the house cleaned top to bottom, especially the rugs, and all the windows opened for at least twenty-four hours before he puts the house on the market.”

“I already have. He argued, but I told him my commission depends on the selling price, and that shut him up.”

I was glad to help, but I was less interested in whether the house sold for two hundred thousand or two twenty-five than in what I might discover about Gelsey. I was also wondering if I was going to happen on a certain 8 mm movie. This was one flick I wanted to see.

The rooms were filled with antiques. I wandered the first floor, fingering everything, and stopped at a cranberry opalescent epergne with three lilies and a central trumpet on a drop leaf mahogany table by the window. “This will bring Bob enough money to stock a couple of shelves with children’s books.”

In the glass case beside it I noted a particularly fine collection of Staffordshire figures depicting stories from the Old Testament and stopped to admire them. “There’s too much stuff everywhere for today’s tastes. I suppose the estate sale will take care of that?”

“I think I’ve talked Bob into getting rid of the collectibles and just about half the furniture. The house will show better if it’s still furnished. I think once the house is sold, a good auction house will take the rest on consignment.”

I found this sad. Gelsey had been so proud of her house and all the contents. Now it was just so much cargo to disperse.

We discussed what to keep while the house was on the market and what to sell, whether to paint rooms and what neutral shades were best. As we strolled through the cherry-paneled study I opened side table drawers, lifted a few books from shelves and thumbed through them for hidden documents, searched through cabinets, checked under the few photos in gilded frames. I even checked behind paintings for a hidden safe. I’ve learned everything I know from A&E’s reruns of
Murder She Wrote
.

The kitchen needed to be updated. We pondered the possibilities and decided the most effective and least expensive solution was to have the small patches of striped wallpaper removed and the walls painted a peachy white to neutralize the celery green laminate countertops. I suggested Lucy clear everything from the counters except the Majolica canisters. The drawers were a bonanza of kitchen utensils that looked as if they had never been used. There was nothing else of interest.

“The police left the house in pretty good shape, considering,” I said as we started upstairs. We had both carefully stepped around the spot where I assumed my husband had found Gelsey. The Persian carpet was missing now, a “dead” giveaway.

“I’m not sure how hard they searched, but I called Detective Sergeant Roussos myself and told him once they were finished, this house had better not look like Genghis Khan and his hordes were visiting.”

I was sorry I hadn’t been a bird on that telephone wire.

Lucy was seriously taking notes now, and we progressed from room to room. I searched, she asked for advice on what to do about wood floors and outdated bathroom tile. Turquoise and salmon may yet come back in style. Gelsey was prepared.

Our last stop was the master bedroom. I paused in the doorway and had a prolonged attack of guilt. I felt like an intruder. I could smell the faintest hint of Chanel.

“What do you think?” If Lucy knew what I was feeling, she didn’t let on.

“Not as large as they build now, but not too bad. The carpet looks newish.” The carpet was white plush, the walls were white, the heavy brocade bedspread was white. The antiques ranged from dark oak to rosewood. Not my taste, but effective.

“I thought we’d clear away this and this.” Lucy walked around the room pointing to a bookshelf, a writing desk from the nineteenth century, a table holding a small carved oak chest. “We’ll leave the bed, one dresser, maybe the nightstand. What do you think?”

I thought the chest was exquisite. It was maybe sixteen inches high, about the same width and perhaps twice as long. It was intricately carved in what looked like Renaissance style, with angels glaring from each side. The middle panel was set with lovely, detailed marquetry. As I had expected, it was unlocked. If the chest had been locked at Gelsey’s death the police had made certain it no longer was. Inside, I sifted through a collection of delicate lady’s handkerchiefs from another age, all with
R
embroidered in different colors and scripts.

“Look, she made a collection of old handkerchiefs. More ersatz heirlooms?” I wondered if the young Wanda Ray had haunted flea markets and antique malls.

Lucy stood beside me and shook her head. “A Railford to the end, huh? Do you suppose she pulled them out at appropriate moments to prove her lineage?”

I put the top down gently. Something was niggling at me. As a teenager I had seen a chest like this one at a booth at one of Junie’s fairs. There were often antique dealers at these events, and through the years I had learned a lot from them, as an antidote to boredom. Junie had been selling floral headdresses that year, and my sisters and I had been forced to wear them and walk through the crowds to advertise, ribbons streaming behind us.

One of the antique dealers had called me over to get a better look, and we had struck up a conversation. He had shown me his stock and told me a little history, sensing my interest. There had been a chest like this.

“Whoa . . . Watch this, Luce.”

She had wandered off. Now she came back to stand beside me. “Watch what?”

“If I’m right . . .” I grasped the panel on the side and began to inch it upwards.

“Aggie, you’re not going to destroy a valuable antique here, are you?”

“Not if I’m right. If I’m wrong, Bob can dock my pay for the next decade.”

The panel slid up and off. And under it, at the bottom of the chest, was a drawer. “Voila!”

“How’d you know?”

“I’ve seen another one. Chests like these were made to protect old documents.”

“It’s locked.”

“Right.” I deflated immediately. “Right . . .”

“If it’s locked, that means there’s something inside worth locking away.”

“Where would you keep the key?”

Ten minutes later we found the key under the moss in a pot of white silk orchids beside Gelsey’s bed. It was pretty clear she hadn’t been too worried about anyone sneaking in and opening the hidden drawer. I was relieved we wouldn’t have to jimmy the lock, although Lucy assured me that she was up to the task.

The drawer slid open to reveal a stack of papers and photographs. “Be still my heart.” I took the drawer to the bed with me and perched on the edge. Lucy joined me. If I’d had any lingering doubts that Gelsey Railford Falowell was really Wanda Ray Gelsey, they were laid to rest immediately.

“Gorgeous Gelsey.” I held up the top photo, autographed by the former resident of this room, and Lucy snapped on the bedside lamp so we could see better. “My God, she
was
gorgeous, wasn’t she?”

The woman who stared back at us had heavy black hair in waves to her shoulders, a pout, and a figure that predated silicone implants. The photo showed large God-given breasts covered in sequins and rhinestones, a wasp waist covered in nothing at all, and rounded hips barely disguised by chiffon harem pants with glittery adornments in strategic places. On her head she wore a massive creation of ostrich feathers, beaded flowers, and cascading sprays of rhinestones; on her arms, elbow-length satin gloves.