The Charlatan Murders

by Jennifer Berg

  “An apartment lease?”

  “No, Donna is a decorator. She has a shop on Highland, near Freddy’s bookstore. Both properties were leased from my mother. Last fall, Donna decorated my music room, and she added these beautiful imported pillows from Italy and some Chinese lamps. And Paul’s girlfriend, Miss Sinclair, was here, but she doesn’t stand to gain anything either.”

  “Perhaps indirectly through Paul?” Riggs suggested.

  Julia shook her head. “I don’t think so. Camille is a very independent woman. Besides, I believe she has her own money.”

  Riggs finished his coffee, and Julia poured him another cup.

  “Mrs. Shrubb, do you know where Mrs. Peabody worked before she came here?”

  “I don’t know,” Julia said. “She was quite young when her husband died, and since she had no children or family, it was easy for her to take a full-time post here with my parents. Back in those days, we also had a nanny and a live-in housekeeper, so Mrs. Peabody was able to keep to herself.”

  “And what about Rosemary Miller?”

  “She’s been here about ten years.” Julia looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember. “Let me see. I don’t think she’s from Seattle originally. It seems to me she moved here from Oregon or San Francisco. Yes, that’s right, San Francisco. As I remember, Rosemary used to work for a firm called…” Julia considered a moment, and then she snapped her fingers when she remembered. “Marshall Trust and Investment. She was the secretary to the president or something like that. Mother was very particular about employing an efficient secretary, and Rosemary came highly recommended.”

  Riggs made a note. “Now, I understand the party broke up late last night. I assume that you, your husband, and your son all went home together.”

  “Yes…oh, no. My husband and I left here at the same time as everyone else. It was just about midnight, I think. But Alex left early, just after my mother went to bed. That was maybe a quarter after ten. Alex wanted to go to his friend’s house.”

  “That’s rather late for a visit, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but my son is about to graduate and go off to college on the east coast, and these are the last weeks with his friends. They were having a party, but Marcus and I wanted him to see his grandmother.”

  “Can you vouch for what time he came home?”

  “Why would I need—oh…oh, you mean, you’re asking me if Alexander has an alibi? But he’s just a boy. You’re not seriously suggesting that he possibly could have murdered his own grandmother?” Julia stood up and took a deep breath. She turned her back on Riggs and walked over to the globe. She pressed her finger against it and pulled it toward her so that it rotated.

  “Mrs. Shrubb— ” Riggs began.

  “I’m sorry,” she interrupted him. She turned around. “Of course, you have to ask these questions; it’s your job. And you need to eliminate suspicion from the family so that you can move the investigation forward.” She began wringing her hands. “Let me see, last night…I didn’t hear Alex come home, but he always comes home by one or two o’clock at the very latest. My husband is a light sleeper, so he would probably know the exact time. Alex drove the Kaiser Darrin, and Marcus probably heard him coming home. And, of course, Alex’s friends will all be able to confirm that he was at the party with them.”

  Riggs stood up and smiled. “I’m sure they will, Mrs. Shrubb.”

  Chapter Nine: Mr. Paul Abbott, President

  Even in his casual Hawaiian shirt, the acting president of Abbott Enterprises strode into the room with all the confidence of a man who is accustomed to being the center of the action and in charge of it.

  Paul Abbott pulled an ornate wooden box out of a cupboard and offered Riggs a cigar. When Riggs declined, Paul took one for himself. But he didn’t light it. He sat on the long sofa and indicated that the policeman could sit opposite him. As soon as Riggs sat down, Paul leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees so that he was leaning closer.

  “I don’t mind telling you,” he said in a confidential tone, “this is one hell of a mess. I’m cringing to think of what the newspapers are going to make of this one, and I appreciate your discretion.”

  Riggs could hear the police chief’s threats echoing through his brain. The Mayor, the city council. The newspapers. And Michael Riggs is expendable. He turned a page in his notepad.

  “I understand it’s very difficult, Mr. Abbott. My job is to investigate the matter thoroughly, but of course, I’ll do what I can to avoid any unnecessary…sensationalism.”

  “I appreciate that.” Paul adjusted a gold signet ring which he wore on the pinky of his left hand. “I’m sure you know what devils the pressmen can be. My mother is dead, murdered no less. It’s unthinkable. My head is still swimming, but you can bet the ranch, those boys downtown will be shouting headlines before we get her in the ground. Why, I just can’t believe a thing like this could happen, not in the Abbott family. Of course, I never thought my mother would live forever; we’re all human after all.” He smiled and added, “Although, between you and me, if any person were going to beat death, it would have been my mother.” He leaned back in the chair and shook his head. “Honestly, when Camille woke me up to tell me about Walter’s telephone call, I thought she was joking.”

  “Camille, is that your wife?” Riggs knew better, and he watched Paul’s face carefully.

  “My wife? No, Camille’s a friend of mine. As a matter of fact, she’s a very good friend.” He winked. “Of course, Mother would have liked me to marry her…she even said as much last night, but Camille has no interest in marriage, and—hell, it doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

  “And was she with you last night, Miss… ”

  “Miss Sinclair,” Paul said. “Camille Sinclair. You probably know her from her stage work. She’s a prominent local actress. Currently, she’s rehearsing Kiss Me, Kate for the Fifth Avenue Theater.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t run in theatrical circles,” Riggs admitted as he jotted Camille’s full name in his notepad.

  “Well, I’m sure your wife would love the show,” Paul said. “In fact, I could get you a couple of tickets for opening night if you’d be interested.”

  Riggs glanced up from his notepad and shook his head. “Could I have Miss Sinclair’s address?”

  Paul didn’t flinch. “It’s the same as mine,” Paul said, just as casually as before. And he gave the name of an upscale high-rise in Bell Town.

  Riggs wrote down the address. “Okay, Mr. Abbott, could you tell me who all was at the dinner party last night? I understand your sister’s husband, Mr. Shrubb, was here, and their son. Were there any other in-laws present?”

  “There aren’t any other in-laws.” Paul adjusted his ring.

  Riggs leaned back. “I thought Walter…”

  “Oh, yes. Walter is married, I guess,” Paul remembered. He waved a hand as though he were brushing something irrelevant out of the way. “But we haven’t seen Victoria in ages.”

  Riggs looked up, and Paul tried to explain. “It was a whirlwind affair, a fling. They got married in January, even though they had only just met. Mother had a fit. But it didn’t last long. As far as I can tell, Victoria must have left Walter a few months ago. Poor guy. He’s still shaken up by the whole thing, and he was never a great talker in the first place, so nobody really knows what happened. Point is, Victoria’s gone. And I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until she files for a divorce, especially now that Walter is a rich man.”

  “Why would she want a divorce?”

  Paul shrugged and lowered his voice. “Well, you’ve met Walter. He’s a good-looking man and a crackerjack at money. He does all the company finances, but he never was any good at talking to people, and he’s a bore at parties. And since the war, he’s gotten even worse. Don’t get me wrong, he’s okay around family, but strangers set him off.”

  “In what way?”

  “He just clams up. As a kid, Walter never spoke in front of strangers at
all. My parents hired a special tutor for him. He would have to know someone for months and months before he could utter a single word in front of them.”

  “That must have made school difficult,” Riggs said.

  Paul nodded. “My father donated a fortune to the schools to buy their sympathy, but if a teacher so much as asked Walter a question, he would go completely mute. It got easier for him over the years, but it never entirely went away. Fortunately for him, it’s my job to do all the talking, so Walter gets to hide in his office. Most days, he only has to interact with his secretary and a couple of managers. He hardly ever goes to parties, and when he does, he barely socializes and leaves early. None of us ever expected him to manage a relationship, let alone get married, and especially not to a woman like Victoria.”

  Riggs set the notepad down. “What sort of woman is Victoria?”

  “She’s a delightful minx,” Paul said. “But not in the usual way you expect from a gold-digger. I don’t mean she isn’t a bombshell. But Victoria is smart and educated, and she doesn’t try to hide it, not even to make herself more attractive. But there’s something else about her, something about her that a guy can’t help but notice.”

  You liked her, Riggs thought. Out loud, he asked, “Do you know if there’s any animosity between them? Is Victoria demanding large support payments, anything like that?”

  “She wouldn’t have to demand anything,” Paul said. “She got under Walter’s skin bad. He’d give her anything she wanted. And what did she see in him anyway? A boring stick-in-the-mud who’s no fun at parties? Victoria could have had any guy she wanted, but she had to get her claws into Walter, the one guy who may never be able to recover.”

  “Victoria must be very charming,” Riggs suggested.

  “Victoria is a charlatan, and she really played my poor brother for a sap.”

  “She’s a damn nuisance!” Paul went to a cupboard and opened it to reveal a collection of scotch and tumblers. “Would you like a drink, Inspector? I don’t think these bottles have been touched in years, but it’s good stuff.”

  Riggs declined, and Paul helped himself.

  “And what about Freddy’s girlfriend, Miss Holt?” Riggs asked.

  “Oh, Donna’s all right.” Paul shrugged. “She’s pretty and smart but a little too predictable for my taste. She does interior decorating or something boring. She has a shop by Freddy’s bookstore.” Paul sighed as if the idea was already boring him to death.

  “Do you know her well?”

  “Not especially. When Camille moved in with me last year, she hired Miss Holt to redecorate the apartment. Camille said she couldn’t live in a bachelor’s flat even if it was a penthouse.” He grinned. “Those two planned out every little detail. Naturally, I thought they were just gossiping, but in the end, they really made the old place look amazing. They did wall-to-wall carpeting and fancy pillows and all that sort of thing.”

  “And what is your opinion of Miss Miller?”

  “Rosemary? Oh, she’s not bad, but she’s all business, of course. I don’t think she’s ever had a fun day in her life. But she’s a private secretary, so you can’t hold that against her. She put up with my mother for ten years, which is more than I could do. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind having a secretary like her on my staff. Most of the girls in my office are good to look at but can barely manage a typewriter. But Rosemary runs a tight ship, and it doesn’t hurt that she’s got those legs.”

  Riggs smiled and leaned forward. “Do you trust her?”

  Paul sipped his scotch. “There’s no reason not to.”

  The inspector leaned back and checked his notes. “Now, can you tell me what time you left here last night?”

  “It must have been around midnight, give or take twenty minutes.”

  “Did everyone leave at the same time?”

  Paul nodded. “More or less. My mother went to bed at about half-past ten. Then Rosemary went to bed, and Alex went to a friend’s house, right afterwards. But the rest of us stayed for another drink and a round of canasta. Eventually, the party broke up, but we all stood around in the driveway and talked for a bit. We must have been there for ten or fifteen minutes because one of the women ran back in for something—I think it was Julia—and a few minutes later, we all said goodnight and got into our cars.”

  “So, there must have been…three cars in the driveway, is that right?”

  Paul took out his handkerchief and wiped the back of his neck. “Let me see, Camille and I were in my Commander. Donna drove Freddy in her Hornet, so they left together, and Walter was driving that old Studebaker of his. Walter’s got a thing for fixing up old beauties. I can’t imagine why. Probably because he doesn’t have to talk to anyone.”

  “What about Mr. and Mrs. Shrubb?”

  “Oh, Julia only lives next door, so they walked through the grove. There’s a path that connects. It’s pretty passable, even in the dark. I think Alex may have taken their Kaiser Darrin when he left for his friend’s house.”

  “I see. And did you see or notice anything that was out of the ordinary last night?”

  Paul sipped his drink. “Nothing that I can think of.”

  “Where did you go when you left here?”

  “Am I a murder suspect, Inspector?” Paul asked with a grin. “I’ve been accused of a lot of misdeeds in my life, but I’ve never been accused of murder.”

  “It’s only a routine question.”

  “I went straight home. And Miss Camille Sinclair can testify that I was in bed all night long,” Paul added with a smirk.

  Riggs smiled, put his pencil away, and looked at Paul Abbott directly. “Now, Mr. Abbott, I have to ask you a direct question, and I want you to consider it carefully before answering. Do you have any idea who could have wanted to harm your mother?”

  “Me, for one. And Walter for another, and Julia, and Freddy, and Marcus, and probably a few more to boot.” He leaned back and crossed his legs. “She was a cantankerous old gal, and she made all of us half-crazy with her endless criticism. But, if you’re asking if any of us did harm her, the answer is no. I didn’t murder my old mother, and the rest of them wouldn’t have done it in a thousand years.”

  “You seem very sure about that.”

  “I am sure, and I can tell you why.” Paul uncrossed his legs and leaned forward so he could rest his elbows on his knees. “First, you can take Walter. He won’t even bend a few cents to save on his taxes. There’s no way he’d break a real law. It’s just not like him. And Julia’s too nice for her own good; she couldn’t hurt someone else no matter how much they deserved it. Marcus has a backbone, but he worships Julia, and he would never do anything to upset her, so you can rule him out, too. And Freddy? Well, Freddy’s in a different boat altogether.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Freddy has his own livelihood, so he hasn’t had to put up with mother like the rest of us. Why would you murder someone who you could simply avoid? So, you see, Inspector, if you want to solve this murder, you’ll have to look outside of the Abbott family.”

  Chapter Ten: Mr. Freddy Abbott, Bookseller

  Inspector Riggs was still waiting for the youngest Abbott son when he heard the doorbell ring. He walked to the hallway just as Rosemary opened the front door. Two men were standing on the step. One of them was holding a camera, and the other one was holding up a press card. He was talking and moving fast, so fast he was already clearing the threshold, when Riggs came up behind Rosemary and held up his hand.

  “Well, if it isn’t Riggs.” The reporter smirked. The photographer was trying to catch a glimpse of the crime scene over Riggs’ shoulders. “We need to talk to the man in charge. Who is it, Cheshire?”

  “I’m in charge.”

  “Is that so?” The reporter looked at Riggs and smiled. “Well, that’s all right, then.” He elbowed the photographer. “Harry, haven’t I always said the chief outta promote Riggs?”

  The photographer nodded dumbly.

&nbs
p; Fisher came out of the office and watched.

  The reporter went on. “What I like about you, Riggs, is that you’re an intelligent man. You understand the civic duty of the value of the press. Now, if we could maybe get some interviews— ”

  “Sorry, boys, but we’re treating this like a crime scene.”

  “But the whole house can’t be a crime scene,” the photographer objected.

  “It is until I say it isn’t,” Riggs informed them. “And that includes the grounds. I’ll make a statement later. In the meantime, if you boys want to interview anyone, you’ll have to do it elsewhere.”

  “You’re interfering with the freedom of the press!” the reporter objected.

  “I’m protecting evidence,” Riggs corrected him. “Inspector Fisher, escort these men from the premises and close the gate behind them. And post a man so that it stays that way.” The newsmen continued their objections, but Riggs ignored them.

  “How about you, Sister?” the reporter asked Rosemary. “Our readers would love to hear your side of the story. Maybe over lunch? What’d ya say? I’m treating.”

  Rosemary shook her head. Fisher was corralling the men back to their black orange-topped Nash. They were still protesting, but Fisher had them moving in the right direction.

  “But don’t you want to have your photograph in the newspaper?” the photographer pleaded.

  Riggs closed the door. “That won’t be the last time you’ll hear from the newspapers,” he said. “But you don’t have to speak to them or even answer the door unless you want to.”

  Behind him, Freddy was standing in the hallway and staring. Riggs thought he looked like a deer in the headlights, but the youngest Abbott recovered and followed the inspector into the library. Riggs closed the door, and Freddy sat and waited.