Designer Detective (A Fiona Marlowe Mystery) (4 page)

She smiled. “Henry was a good man. He didn't
live long enough.”

“When did he die?”

“Two years after we married.
A horse threw him on an isolated section of the ranch.
Broke
his neck.
By the time we found him, he was gone.”

 
“Did you
ever think to remarry?”

Her eyes turned mischievous. “I had offers a
plenty. But I wanted to make a success of the ranch because Henry had wanted it
so badly. That took all my energy. I built it into a prime cattle operation. I
have good hands working for me. I'm proud I made it into the ranch Henry
wanted.”

“Do you still live there?”

“I'll never leave. I'll be buried beside Henry
in the family graveyard. Henry was third generation rancher. The rest of the
family is there with him.”

“That's quite a story. Devotion like that you
don't see these days.”

“No, you don't,” she said. “Well, I like what
we propose for the new library. When you come back next time, we'll talk about
some of the other rooms. Now, I must rest.”

She paused at the library door. “The memorial service
for Albert is on Monday afternoon, and we'll have a reception here afterward. I
hope you’ll come.”

When I finally got Jake on the line, I said, “I
met Opal Crawford today.”

“You went to the estate?”

“Of course.
I was on
the job and looking for clues.”

“You had dinner yet?”

“No.

“Want to meet somewhere and talk?

“How about the Taverna
restaurant on Washington Boulevard in Westover Village?
What time?”

“In half an hour.”

Jake was sitting at a window in the restaurant.
October dusk had set in. Perpetual little white lights strung around the top of
the walls and wound around the fichus trees made the Taverna twinkle like a
fairyland. Everyone looks better in soft lighting.

“I'll have the tabbouleh,” I said.
“And a glass of red wine.”

“I'll have the steak and Lebanese salad.
Just coffee.”

“No wine this evening?” I asked Jake.

“I'm on the wagon.”

“I should be, too, but
I
so love the taste of alcohol.” I smiled happily when the waiter set a goblet of
wine before me.

“I did, too, until it got away from me. But
that's another story. What did you think of Opal?”

“I loved her immediately. What a smile that
woman has.”

“She's something, isn't she?”

“Yes, I was impressed. We worked all the
details out for the library redo. I'll arrange for the work crew this weekend.
By the way, she said it wasn't me that did Albert in.”

Jake laughed. “She is something else.”

“Here's a clue for you. Did you know that
Albert had a lady friend?”

“Yes. I'm working that one.”

I was a little disappointed that wasn't
breaking news. “Okay, how about this. The hedge around the fountain off the
solarium is clipped in the shapes of hearts, clubs, diamonds, and spades.”

Jake tucked his face into his neck in
disbelief. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Don't you think that’s unusual? I mean, how
many houses have a hedge of card suits?”

He shrugged like he didn't care. “I don't see a
fit.”

“It might be a clue. Did Albert’s wife play
cards?”

“Don't know.”

I
thought this was an important clue, but Jake apparently didn't. I changed tactics.
“Did you notice there's no security on the front door?”

“Yes, there is.”

“No. Someone turned it off because every time
I've let myself in the front door, I didn’t have to push any buttons to disarm
the security. Albert mentioned nothing to me about it when I met with him.”

Jake rubbed his chin. “I never go in that way.”

“Which way do you enter?”

“Through the back entrance.”

“I wonder why I was given the front door key.”

He shrugged. “I'll take a look. Thanks for the
tip.”

“See, I’m helpful.”

He laughed.

“Who do you think did it?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. Opal's convinced
someone gave him the overdose, that it wasn't self-administered.”

I told him what Opal said about Albert being
very precise about his medication.

He nodded.
“Right.
Someone very precise wouldn't accidentally overdose in normal circumstances.”

“The key words are normal circumstances.”

“Right.”

“Did Opal say who she suspects?”

He shook his head. “No one specific, but she's
convinced
it’s
family. Problem is there's so many of
them, and they are all over the globe.”

“What do you mean there are so many of them? I
thought there were no children. And there's only Opal, the sister.”

“Opal and Albert had eight brothers and
sisters, and she is the only one left. But there are lots of nieces and
nephews. Mrs. Lodge's brother in South Africa is still alive and has three
children, plus the grandchildren. There's a sister in England who has a child.
I'm doing background on all the nieces and nephews.”

“But, wait, couldn't you narrow it down to the
ones who live around here? After all, they'd have to know Albert pretty well to
know about his blood pressure medication and what would kill him and when to do
it.”

“Here's the thing. They always had relatives
visiting. Mrs. Lodge loved to have people around. She was a lot younger than
Albert and had the money to entertain.”

“And Opal made her money in ranching?”

“She married a wealthy rancher. No children.
There's money at stake and not all of the family is wealthy. There'll be the
usual money scramble now that Albert and Olivia are both dead. The question is
who gets the money.”

“What does the will say?”

“I don't know. Opal’s meeting with the lawyer
on Tuesday.”

“Opal doesn't look like a rancher's wife
somehow.”

“She is. Has a real pretty spread in Harney Valley,
Oregon.
God's country out there.
That's where I met her.”

Jake and Opal had God’s country in common.
There was an interesting twist.

The food
arrived and I savored the tabbouleh. I considered another glass of wine and
decided not to get too wild and crazy this early in the evening.

“Are there any relatives in McLean?” I asked.

“There is a married niece living in Arlington.
She has one daughter. She was a frequent visitor after Mrs. Lodge died. She looked
in on Albert to make sure he was okay though Hudson took very good care of
Albert.”

“So the niece is suspect. Is Hudson a suspect?”

“Everyone is until I determine who had the
motive.”

“I'm still on the list.”

“Pretty far down.
Motive is weak.”

“That’s comforting.”

At that point, my cell phone vibrated. I looked
at the caller ID.
My romance writer friend, Olympia.
I
remembered we had made plans to go to a movie this evening. I checked my watch.
We had decided on the late show of the latest Viggo Mortensen movie.
My favorite fantasy man.

I finished my wine, arranged my knife and fork
on my plate, and smiled over at Jake. “I've got to be going. I've got a date
tonight.” Of course, I wasn't going to tell him it was with a woman friend.

“Okay,” he said. He didn’t seem at all
disappointed.

“But let me ask again. Who do
you
think did it?”

Jake puckered up his lips and thought. “I
suspect Albert took an overdose.”

“What?”

“I don't think he was as happy as Opal seems to
think. But I got to follow all the angles first.”

“But why?”

“Albert was still working, granted in a
Washington think tank. Don't you think a man of his wealth would've retired by
now?”

“What's that got to do with anything? Maybe he
worked because he liked to work and didn't have any hobbies. And some people
get off on power.”

“I think he was in financial difficulty.”

I had to update Olympia on the case. She’s one
of my oldest friends, and I could tell her anything. Like Kathy the waitress,
she immediately had me romantically linked to Jake Manyhorses. Olympia was a bestselling
writer of romances. Need I say more?

The coming attractions exploded across the
movie screen. We talked in whispers, which disturbed the solitary man in front
of us with the bent up baby Huey cap. He turned around and said, “Hey, if you
broads don't shut up, I'm going to beat the snot out of you.”

Olympia leaned forward and stuck her face in
his. “Just who do you think you are, mister? It's a free country and the movie
isn't on yet. We have important business to discuss.”

“Hey, take your business
somewheres
else, lady. This is a movie house.”

He had a point.

“I never,” said Olympia and sat back. In a
whisper close to my ear she said, “If Viggo Mortensen weren't in this movie,
I'd leave now.”

I admired Olympia’s courage and thought to say
something equally daring, but the guy was mean looking. “We'll be quiet,” I
said to the back of his head. “We don't want to
miss
Viggo Mortensen.”

“Ha,” he said without turning around. “What a
fairy.”

Olympia and I exchanged glances and watched the
movie without a peep.

It was raining when we left the theater. At the
movie's end the tough guy had hustled out of the theater before the credits
were over, lucky for us. We decided to visit the coffee house next door to the
theater. It was crowded with late night theatergoers.

“Great movie wasn't it?” said Olympia. She was
dreamy-eyed. Viggo had once again lived up to expectation.

“Too violent for my taste, but his nude fight
scene in the steam room was superb. There isn't enough male nudity in films
these days. I don't know why Viggo does such violent films. I wish Hollywood
would stop making them.”

“
Mmm
,” said Olympia,
ignoring my riff on violence. “What buns. But tell me more about Jake. Think
he'll ask you out, I mean, on a real date?”

Interesting that
Viggo's
buns led to Jake. Olympia could get romance out of a turnip, complete with sexy
hero, fainting heroine, riveting plot and happy ending.
Turnips,
and I'm not kidding.

I lifted a shoulder. “He bought me dinner this
evening and didn't ask me to be dessert.”

Olympia guffawed. She has this deep, ridiculous
laugh that I loved and that usually got me going. I snorted along with her.

“
What's he look
like?”

“A mix between Morgan
Freeman, George Clooney, and Graham Greene.”

“What kind of a mix is that?”

“Just that.
He looks
like a big mix of something, emphasis on the big. He's a husky guy. He wouldn’t
look good in a suit. They wouldn’t fit him right. He looks like he should be
out riding the range.”

I frowned.

“What?” said Olympia, anticipating the next
plot point, I’m sure.

“I bet he worked for her on the ranch. He should
be on a horse, not driving around the suburbs.”

Olympia arched her exquisitely penciled
eyebrows. “
Oooo
, the plot thickens.”

* * * * *

Saturday morning I slept late. About noon I
started making phone calls to get the library job going. I called a superb
carpenter and painter and left a message to call. I called Hudson about moving
the furniture out of the library, taking down the drapes, and rolling up the
Persian carpets and left a message to call me back. He probably was polishing silver
and didn't hear the phone. I called Colony Furniture Gallery on Lee Highway to
make an appointment for tomorrow afternoon. Yes, interior designers work on
Sunday. Last, I called my favorite drapery store on North Harrison. The proprietress,
my good friend Judith Brooks, employed the most divine seamstress, a Vietnamese
woman who was a genius when it came to drape design. All I had to do was give
her the faintest sketch of what I wanted and presto she'd whip up something
perfect.

Judith answered. She was a working woman after
all. “Fiona? What’s up?”

“I need some drapes.”

“Come over. Kahn is coming this afternoon, and
we'll have you fixed up in no time.” Judith was a woman of action from New York
City, replete with long frizzy hair, dyed red.

Happily, the sun was shining when I finally hit
the road. I love Arlington, but a friend who lives in Northwest D.C. won't come
here. She says she gets lost if she ventures over Key Bridge. For the same
reason she won't come, I delight in living here. Small community neighborhoods
abound like Roslyn where I live -- Westover, Ballston, Shillington,
Clarendon
-- each with little strip shopping centers with
diverse restaurants and shops from every corner of the world. And I’m not
kidding.

Judith's store was in one of those cute strip
malls off Lee Highway. She saw me pull in, waved and met me at the door.

“Hey, you,” she said and gave me a big hug. “I
thought you were out of town.”

“No, I'm working this redo on a library over in
McLean except I found the guy dead in the library.”

Her hand flew to her wide open mouth. “Oh,
my gosh
. I read about that in the Washington Post. You mean that
was your job? They didn't say who found him.”

“I did, believe it or not.”

Judith led me to the big design table she had
in the back room away from the yards of fabric in the sales room. “Sit. Talk. I
want to know all about it. I can't believe you found a dead man on the job. You
don't think this is a new trend in interior design, do you?”