Designer Detective (A Fiona Marlowe Mystery) (3 page)

He looked at the envelope. I could see he was
impressed by the nod of his head. “Thanks. I didn't see the car. I'll follow
up.”

“See, I'm trying to be helpful.”

“I appreciate it. Are you going to tell me what
the butler told you?”

“He must have told you the same thing.”

“Let's compare notes.
You
first.”

“The most interesting tidbit was the sister who
is the executor. Is she the one who hired you?”

“Matter of fact she is.”

“You owe her a favor?”

“Yeah.”

“What was the favor?” I was being a bit nosy.

He squirmed a little. “She helped me out once.
Long time ago.
Let's leave it at that.”

I filed that for later reflection.

“Tell me,” I said. “Do you think she'll pay me
if I finish the job?”

He shrugged. “I don't see why not. Between
Albert and his wife they had enough money to run California.”

“That wealthy, eh?”

“I'm exaggerating but yeah, they have money.”

“How do you know?”

“Wait a minute. I'm the private investigator
here. I ask the questions.”

“I think you need help.” That was out of my
mouth before I had time to censor it. What was I saying?

“I work alone.”

I shrugged. “If I'm in there every day, there's
no reason to think I wouldn't pick up valuable information.”

His brown eyes closed to slits. “What's in this
for you?”

 
I guess
he thought I wanted a take. Not a bad idea. I cocked my head to the side, a
habit that helps me think and scheme better. “I’m curious, intrigued,
fascinated. And I’m really good at crossword puzzles and Sudoku. You need
someone with a sharp mind like mine to help you. It’s obvious that a family member
did it. Money is the motive.”

“Might be family.
Might be money.”

“Include the executor.”

“I don't think so. She's over eighty
years
old and got money.” But he didn't look so sure. He was
folding a paper napkin in tiny squares.

“What's your theory on whodunit?” I asked.

He stopped fiddling with the napkin and gazed
out the window. Small drops of rain splashed the windowpane. The traffic on
Wilson Boulevard moved sluggishly, seduced by the rain.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, turning to look
at me, “I don't know why she wants me to investigate. She seems to think I have
superior investigative abilities since I figured out who was rustling her
cattle a while back. She called awful
quick
after you
found Albert on the floor. It was almost like she knew it was coming and had
already decided to conduct an investigation of her own. Like maybe she
suspected somebody.”

Now we were getting somewhere. “Does she have a
name?”

“Opal Crawford.”

“Married?”

“Husband died a long time ago.”

“Does she live here?”

“Nope, lives on a ranch in southeastern
Oregon.”

“We should get more background on her. After
all, if she inherits, she’s a suspect.”

He looked at me sideways.
“We?”

“Hey, I'm not looking for a cut. I just want to
get paid for the work I do. I'm fussy that way. Help me get my money. I'll help
you get yours.”

He parked his chin on his fist and ran his
tongue around his teeth with a focus on my eyes that sized me up in one quick
take.

“Okay. But you're not off the hook as a suspect
until you have someone can verify your whereabouts Tuesday night.”

“Gosh, I wish I could say George Clooney or
Viggo Mortensen spent the night. But they were busy Tuesday. It was just little
me in bed with my chicken pillows.”

“Chicken pillows?”

“I'll show you my collection sometime.”

I left Cafe Francois and headed for the Lodge estate.
I wanted to do some work and talk to Hudson about Opal Crawford. As I drove
through the gate of the estate, my sharp eyes detected that the beat up car in
the ditch was gone. Maybe the owner had it towed. Maybe a neighbor had
complained to the police, and they removed it. Maybe it had nothing to do with
Albert Lodge’s demise. But I wondered.

I knocked on the door and rang the bell, hoping
that Hudson would be in. He did not appear. I waited and rang the bell
intermittently for a few minutes but nothing. I whipped out the key and let
myself in, after the usual wrestle with the lock.

 
Throwing
my jacket on the couch, I commandeered Mr. Lodge's large mahogany desk for my
work area. I was about to sit down and input the layout of the new library
while it was still fresh in my head when it occurred to me that now might be
the perfect time to sleuth around the house looking for clues. I'd only take a
few minutes.

First, I had to find out if Hudson was about.
Maybe he hadn't heard the bell, although I'm sure it rang in the kitchen. Calling
his name, I headed for the kitchen. I searched but found no evidence of Hudson’s
recent occupancy, which was odd. No enticing smells from the oven. No silver
service standing ready for tea.

I stood
at the French doors that overlooked the swimming pool. Raindrops flipped coins on
the water. I reflected on the money needed to maintain an estate of this
magnitude. It boggled the mind. But where were the people? No laughter rang
through the myriad of rooms. The house sat empty with exquisitely coiffed
gardens and rooms, anti-theft systems, and multi-car garage, waiting. I wasn’t
sure for what.

A disturbing thought surfaced in my ever-alert
mind. There was no burglar alarm on the front door. I didn't have to punch in
any code or switch off the alarm before it sounded. Mr. Lodge must have been a
trusting soul. I wondered if Jake had noticed the lack of security. He hadn’t
said anything, but that was an important clue right there in my detective book.
No security on a valuable house bore further investigation.

I decided to tour the back rooms for clues and found
pantry after pantry of imported dry goods, silverware, sets of ornate dishes, plush
towels, silk sheets, and other extravagances needed to run the wealthy
household. A hallway connected the pantries, and I caught a fragrance of damp
soil and greenery. I followed my nose to a charming conservatory tucked away in
the west wing.

The
exterior wall of windows fanned out in a half hexagon shape. Outside, boxwoods
surrounded a wide brick patio. The shrubs were clipped in shapes of a suit of
cards -- clubs, diamonds, hearts,
spades
. The whimsy
of it brought to mind
Alice in Wonderland
.
Then again someone might have a gambling habit. A low brick wall trimmed in
yellow mums surrounded a single spray fountain in the center of the patio.

A wicker chair with rose cushions faced the
patio. On a stand a book lay with a pair of reading glasses on top. I put the
glasses carefully aside and picked up the book --
Remembrance of Times Past
by Marcel Proust. Someone with the fortitude
to read Proust might be interesting to talk to. My bet it was Albert’s sister,
and I wondered where she was.

Feeling guilty about snooping, I hustled back
through the pantries and collided with the door from the garage, which opened right
in front of me. Hudson stuck his head around the door to see what he had hit.

“Miss Marlowe. How good to see you. We saw your
car in the front drive. Might I be of assistance?”

“No, actually, I was giving myself a little
tour. You know, to get an idea of how other parts of the house were furnished.”

“What is it, Hudson?” a quiet, disembodied
voice said. “Is someone there?”

Hudson turned back and said, “Yes, ma’am. It is
Miss Marlowe, here to attend to the redesign of the library.”

“I see. Let's have tea. I feel chilled to the
bone.”

He stepped into the hall, and Opal Crawford
followed him in. She looked at me and smiled. Her eyes danced. I liked her at
once.

“Tea?” she said to me.

“I'd be delighted.”

While Hudson was assembling tea, Opal led me to
the music room complete with piano and harp. Red Persian carpets adorned the natural
wood floors in a conversation grouping including two facing loveseats in gold
stripe. She sat on one and patted the seat beside her.

“This room is too formal, don't you think,
dear?” Opal said to open the conversation. “I never liked Olivia's taste in
decorating. She was English, you know. Rather stiff and conservative. I do like
a music room though.”

The smile she turned on me, I’ve seen on cherubs.
I succumbed to her charm. She didn’t seem disturbed in the least that they
found me wandering around the house. And she didn’t look like she lived on a
ranch out West. I was expecting leather, fringes, denim and boots. She wore a
polyester knit suit in navy blue.

“The library is the same way,” I said, “though
I don't have trouble with English formal. That’s the way they are.”

Opal sighed. “Yes, they are. I think Albert was
happy with her, or he always pretended he was. Albert excelled at pretense, but
he had a good heart.”

“When did you arrive?” I said.

“Yesterday.
When Hudson
called me, I booked the next plane to Washington, D.C.”

“And before you left you
called Jake Manyhorses.”

Again, no surprise.
“Yes,” she said. “Then you've met him.”

“He came to see me the night of Mr. Lodge's
death. I'm a suspect, you know.”

She smiled. “Jake's very good. He'll get to the
bottom of this.” She peered into my eyes. “You didn't do anything wrong, dear.
Jake's just doing his job.”

“Then you think there is something amiss?”

“Absolutely.
Albert
was given an overdose. He would never have done that himself. He had one of
those little pillboxes with the days of the week, and he carefully put his
medications in each day. He was very precise about things. He would never have
taken an overdose. There was no point. He wasn't unhappy.” She stared off into
the distance for a while, her hands resting quietly in her lap.

“Olivia
died about a year ago.
Stroke.
She went just like that.”
Opal snapped her fingers for effect. “They weren't close but they were fond of
each other. They often went their separate ways, what with her family in England
and South Africa. No, Albert was a well-adjusted person and took things in
stride. He even mentioned a lady friend in our last conversation. I was happy
for him.”

“Lady
friend
? Did he
mention her name?”

“No, he didn't. Now I wish I had asked. I'm
sure Jake will find out who she is.”

“How old was Albert?”

“Eighty-two.
Our family
is long lived. Our father died when he was one hundred. He was fit as a fiddle
and had a keen mind until a heart attack took him.”

Hudson entered with tea on the fancy silver
tray, and Opal poured. “One lump or two?” she asked.

“Just cream for me, thank you,” I said. She
handed me a cup and saucer and offered a small crystal plate with cookies. I
took one. Ginger snaps.
Homemade.
I could live like
this.

Opal sat back into the loveseat and sipped her
tea. “Well, Miss Marlowe . . .”

“Please call me Fiona.”

She smiled and said, “Fiona.
Lovely
name.
Is that Irish, dear?”

“It is. I have a strong strain of Irish on my
mother’s side of the family.”

“I have a bit myself.” Her soft blue eyes twinkled
like she might belong to the Irish little people. She wore a light dose of
blusher and lipstick that went well with the snowy white hair. This was
anyone's favorite aunt. I adopted her forthwith.

“My dear, we must talk about the library.”

I held my breath. She was going to fire me.

“You might show me what you've done and what
you have in mind and how long you think it will take. I suppose we should
spruce up the place a bit and get rid of some of these heavy drapes. The house
will have to go on the market.”

“You mean
,
you want me
to continue with the library?”

“Of course.
Albert
wanted it, and it is something I could do for him. I'm executor of the estate.”

“Jake mentioned that.”

“More tea?” she asked.

“Yes, please. I could show you the new floor
plan with furniture. I thought we might forego drapes and use simple tiebacks
and valances. After all there isn't anyone around to peek in. The natural light
would cheer up the room.”

“I like that. What else?”

“Why don't we go to the library, and I'll show
you my ideas?”

* * * * *

I called Jake when I got home, that is, after I
called my cell phone provider and got my cell phone reinstated. That took the
better part of an hour. No one speaks English anymore on help desks. This
support person was in Belize of all places.

The hour in the library with Opal was time well
spent. She had good ideas. We decided to replace the green paint with tan and
use off white for the bookshelves, window and door trim. The huge mahogany desk
would remain until the house sold. Opal would remove the personal photos and
memorabilia from Albert's travels. She didn't tear up once. I admired her
fortitude. I could tell from the way she handled Albert’s personal items like
the photos that she was fond of him, but she didn't give way to weepy
hysterics.

One photo was of a young couple in cowboy
attire. “This is Henry and me,” she said, looking as close to wistful as I had
seen her. “We were so young.”

I took the photo in hand and studied it. “What
a handsome couple.”