by Judy Alter
“I’ll be late,” I said. “Can’t ask Marj to close too often.”
“No problem. I’ll open some wine.”
“Sounds good. I can hardly wait.” I blew him a kiss as he left.
In truth, I had an errand on my mind. I’d already called Edith Aldridge to ask if I could come by about two or a bit after. She’d protested it was awfully early for tea, but I assured her I didn’t need tea. I just had some questions. All this, of course, after asking how she was and making sure she hadn’t had any more scares.
“I don’t scare easily,” she said, once more adopting that frosty tone. “But there have been no more incidents.”
I left the café, promising to be back well before the supper rush, and arrived at the mansion just after two, armed only with a pen and the small legal pad I’d stuck in my bag.
Edith Aldridge greeted me as cordially as always, but this time she was dressed in a gray pantsuit—maybe ten years out of date, but what was once an expensive pantsuit. The jacket topped a lilac silk shirt, and heavy silver beads hung around her neck. Perhaps she instinctively knew that gold wouldn’t have worked with those colors—but I liked the silver.
“I’ve an early dinner appointment,” she explained, “but I assume we’ll be well through by five.”
“Yes, ma’am. I have to be back at the café before then. But I just have some questions. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I think if we’re going to figure out why the stepchildren are all back in the area, we need to find out the truth about your late husband’s murder.”
“The truth?” she murmured. “I told you. I was acquitted.”
“Of course, but if we’re going to figure out what’s going on today, we need to figure out who did kill him. After all, Mrs. Aldridge, I have a stake in this too. David Clinkscales is a very special person in my life. And he was nearly killed. His house was destroyed.”
She looked at me with what I thought was honesty. “I guess I’ve been so wrapped up in my own troubles, that I hadn’t realized the enormity of what happened to David.”
Without an invitation, I settled myself in a chair, whipped the pad and pencil out of my bag, and said, “How did you meet Mr. Aldridge?”
She didn’t sit but began to pace. When I asked my question, she let out a sound that was half laughter, half harshness. “How did you meet Mr. Aldridge?” she repeated, as though the irony of the question amused her.
“I was a cocktail waitress at the old Baker Hotel in Dallas. Dirt poor, but they gave you what I’d call skimpy cocktail outfits, and I was good-looking in those days, if I do say so. But nobody had taught me manners or grammar, until Walter took me on as a project. You might say I was Eliza to his Henry Higgins. He taught me to dress, speak, eat properly, even dance—he made a lady out of me, and I was always grateful. But once I was ‘finished’—his term, not mine—he found other Pygmalion-like subjects. In other words, he cheated on me, including financially, and railed that I couldn’t run the house on the reduced budget he gave me. And the older he got, the more he drank. I suspected all along that he was in financial trouble.
“I used to lie in bed and listen to him roaming about downstairs, sometimes throwing things—I always hoped it wasn’t the Limoges he’d given his first wife, Alicia. Several times I thought I heard him fall. His best friend at night was a bottle of bourbon.”
“What happened to Alicia?” It was an interruption but an important one.
“She committed suicide. She was the mother of his children, and he drove her to that point. I know he did. I think they should all hate him, but they hate me.”
I squelched a “Wow!” and managed to say calmly, “Let’s get back to the night he was killed. What did you see or hear?”
“That night I woke and realized he hadn’t come upstairs. By then I kept a derringer for self-protection, and this night I grabbed it and put it in my pocket. I found him slumped over his desk, a pistol lying in front of him. It was a stupid move that I regret to this day, but I picked up the gun and smelled it. It had been fired recently—what else could I have expected?”
This tale was getting more bizarre. I itched to check it out on the web, but for now I was a captive audience and, I admit, mesmerized by the calm recital of her story. “What happened next?”
Her gaze had gone far away, and it took a minute for her to call herself back to reality. “I called the police, of course. They told me not to touch anything, but it was already too late for that. Walter usually kept his desk neat as a pin, no stacks of paper, nothing to indicate that he ever did any work there. But this night, papers were strewn everywhere. Even his checkbook was open, and it appeared he’d started to write a check. It was dated, and he’d written in thirty-thousand dollars—I was appalled. But he hadn’t yet made it out to anyone. I looked without touching, though it was a terrible temptation.”
I let her rest a minute as she seemed lost in her own thoughts. At last, after a glance at my watch, I urged her to continue.
“The sheriff came—I don’t remember what his name was, not this persnickety young fellow we have now—and a couple of deputies. They went over the entire house, gathered up lots of Walter’s papers, and told me no one could enter the office, put that awful yellow tape all across the door like a spider web. Then they questioned me until the wee hours of the morning—what had I heard? Seen? Didn’t I know my husband had at least one visitor? What was unusual? I told them about the mess on the desk and the unsigned check.”
“They didn’t arrest you, did they?”
She smoothed one pant leg nervously. “No, not exactly. They advised me to call my lawyer.”
“David?” I squeaked.
“No, this would have been Walter’s lawyer, but he was the only one I knew. I fired him after the trial and hired David much later when I thought I needed a lawyer.”
I wanted to ask how she found David, but I was getting ahead of the story…and the afternoon was flitting away. “Did you call the children?”
“Rose and James were at home; Rodney was away, and I asked the sheriff to notify him.” She looked at her watch for the eighth or ninth time. “I don’t know that any of this has been any help, but I really do have to be on my way. We can talk again if you want.”
I wanted. “Yes, I’d like that. May I call you?”
“That would be fine. One other thing. They did find signs that someone broke in through the French doors behind Walter’s desk.”
Major information! “Was Walter shot in the back or”—I hated to say it—“in the face or chest?” In other words, did he see it coming?
“There was a single bullet hole in his chest.” She said this as impassively as she’d recounted the rest of the story. “Sheriff said it was a well-placed bullet. The shooter knew what he was doing.”
I was relieved he wasn’t shot in the head. A single well-placed bullet in the chest by a skilled shooter. A professional hit? Questions ran through my mind, but I knew when it was time to leave, and I rose.
“I don’t want to keep you, and I have to get back to the café. But thank you, Mrs. Aldridge. You’ve been a huge help, and we’ll get to the bottom of this yet.”
In the car, I reviewed my unasked questions. Where was a recluse going for such an early dinner, and why was it so important? Where was Rodney when his father was shot? Was Walter a gambler, with debts? Did he associate with what Gram would have called “the wrong kind of women?” The head of a high-priced call-girl operation might have sought overdue payment. Definitely we needed to look into Walter much more thoroughly. What was Steven Connell doing to earn his keep? A vague memory came to me with a start. Hadn’t she told us before she was out walking with her dog and didn’t hear the shots? What dog? None in sight now. Did she forget her first story? Oh, what a tangled web we weave….
Back at the café, I put on an apron, sent Marj home, and threw myself into dinner prep. Supper hour was well under way when Mrs. Middleton and her daughter walked into the restaurant…an
d right into my trap, although she almost sidetracked me by greeting me before I could say “Welcome.”
“Hello, dear, how are you? Your sister was going to serve us meatloaf tonight. And I thought we were getting gourmet meals. I never ate meatloaf in my life, and I don’t intend to start now.”
Thrown off a bit, I said, “You should come here for lunch tomorrow and have a meatloaf sandwich. There’s nothing better. I use the same recipe Donna does.” It occurred to me to wonder what this unlikely mother/daughter duo did all day. I’d have to ask Donna.
Meantime, Mrs. Middleton dismissed my sandwich suggestion with a wave of her hand. “We came to have that pork cutlet you’ve added to the menu. I used to eat those as a child, and I want to see if yours hold up.”
Nothing like putting me on the spot.
Melissa almost interrupted her mother to say, “I’ll have a chef’s salad. Oil and vinegar, please.”
Now there was a girl watching her weight. Probably didn’t want to grow pudgy like her mama.
I went off to turn the orders in, and when they were ready I came back carrying two plates. “Chef’s salad for you,” placing the salad in front of Melissa, “and chicken-fried pork for you, Mrs. Mitchum.”
I almost dropped the plate she jumped so suddenly. She was halfway out of her chair, when she sank back down, looked at me blankly, and said, “What did you call me?”
First smile I think I’d ever seen from her daughter.
“You are Rose Mitchum, aren’t you?”
She looked at her plate and muttered, “Rodney will kill me.” Then she looked up at me and asked how I knew.
“An educated guess. I’m a friend of your stepmother’s.”
“Hah! That woman has no friends, young lady. Beware, she’s using you for something.”
A thought that had definitely occurred to me before.
“Rodney was in a few days ago, and I know James lives in the next town over. What brings you all together? A family reunion?”
“You might say that,” Rose said. “If Rodney comes in the next few days, please don’t tell him I was here.”
I practiced my surprised look. “Really? Why, I got the impression from him and from Edith that all of you were close.” The use of the casual reference to Edith was a brilliant touch, I thought.
Melissa piped up for the first time. “Like vipers in a pit,” she said without expression and dove into her salad. I noticed that she had impeccable manners and figured she was off to the modern equivalent of finish school, although so many women’s colleges, like Sweetbriar, were closing these days. I was sure Mama Rose would find something for the darling daughter with whom she had a difficult relationship.
I left them to finish their dinner. During a lull, I thought about the Aldridge family—sure there was money and a big house involved, but they were the prickliest people I’d ever met. They made Donna and me look glued at the hip.
When I cleared their table, Rose Mitchum had the grace to say that her pork was every bit as good as she remembered.
“Thank you. Because you’ve been such good customers and so helpful to me, your dinners are on the house tonight.”
“Oh, no, you mustn’t do that.” All the proper protests.
“I’m the owner, and I can do that. Y’all come back for meatloaf sandwiches tomorrow.”
Rose Mitchum smiled vaguely, murmured “Yes, of course,” and reached for her sweater. After they were gone, I found she had left me a ten-dollar tip. Not as sophisticated as she wanted to be or she’d have known you don’t tip the owner. On the other hand, maybe she thought I really needed the money.
The next morning Donna called to report that the Middletons, mother and daughter, had checked out, without paying their bill. “Mrs. Middleton stiffed me, Kate.” Donna muttered something about meatloaf, and said, “I think I’m giving up the gourmet dinner option.”
“Good plan, Donna. By the way, her name is Rose Mitchum.”
“What does that mean? But I was already was already pressing end on my cell phone.
Chapter Thirteen
Normally, I would be in a hurry to get home and tell David all that I’d learned that day. But a part of me was angry with him. No, that wasn’t the right word. I was resentful. I resented his absorption in his new house and his lack of interest in the affairs of Edith Aldridge. He was the one who got a retainer fee from her, who was her legal representative, and I was the unpaid one doing all the work. And wondering about Edith and truth. I would go into a brightly lit kitchen with pictures spread all over the table, along with architectural plans, and a man semi-drunk on excitement. I took a deep breath, opened the gate, and stomped my way to the back door.
Instead, the kitchen was almost dark, the stove light being the only one on. With a clutch at my heart, I opened the door and called, “David?”
He answered quietly. He was sitting at the kitchen table in the gloom, a half empty glass of wine in his hand. “I’m right here.”
Relieved, I asked, “What are you doing in the dark?”
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“About you and Edith Aldridge and my new house. Sorting out my priorities.”
And who or what comes out on top of the list? I didn’t ask aloud but waited for him to respond.
His voice was low and soft. “I’ve had them all wrong. Jennifer always told me that I got carried away with what interested me and didn’t pay attention to what those around me cared about. I thought she was selfish, because she didn’t care about the things I did. But now I think I was the one who was selfish.” He stood and stretched. I noticed he didn’t have the crutches. A cane hung on the back of his chair, but he placed one hand lightly on the table for balance.
I set down the supper I’d brought—two BLT sandwiches—and poured myself a glass of wine. Then I sat at the table.
“Cary took me to the doctor today. No more crutches. He says it’s time I learned to walk again on my own two feet.” He gestured toward the cane. “And I can drive. I drove us home, just to get the feel of it again, while Cary was in the car. Cary said an interesting thing. Said he guessed it was the last day he’d be driving me, and he’d miss it, but he was glad I could get back to being me. That struck me, that phrase: ‘back to being me.’”
I waited, almost holding my breath.
“I haven’t been me. I’ve been some guy I wish I didn’t know, some guy who thought the world owed him because he’d been beaten up and his house burned. I used plans for the new house, like a spoiled child demanding his own way. I ignored Edith, who is my professional responsibility, and I ignored you, letting you do whatever had to be done with Edith. If you left me, now that I’m almost whole again, I wouldn’t blame you. But I’d be devastated.”
I was stunned. But I didn’t think I should say, “Oh, you haven’t been that bad,” or “It’s all right.” Because it wasn’t, and it was the truth. I’d been waiting for David Clinkscales to come back. “I won’t leave…or ask you to leave.”
A wry chuckle. “That’s right. I’m in your house. And I have no other house to go to.”
“You have an apartment in Dallas, but don’t go there.”
“As a matter of fact, I am going there for a day or two. I need to get the Aldridge records, and I want to check with Steven. You’re right. Something’s funny there.” He wandered over to the counter, keeping close enough to furniture that he could steady himself if necessary. “What’s for supper?”
Now I wished I’d brought a real supper. “Sandwiches. BLT.”
“Perfect. Let’s eat. I’m famished.”
And so we ate and talked. He couldn’t believe that Rose Mitchum had been right under our noses for almost a week.
“And Steven didn’t find that out? I presume she had a car, with a license plate he knows. He knew she was in the area. How could he miss?”
“That’s one of my questions: how did he know they were in the area? How did Edith know? I didn’t ask today beca
use I’d overstayed my welcome.”
“Today?”
“Oh, yeah. I didn’t get to that part yet. I went to see Edith, asked her to recount the night of her husband’s murder. She told an interesting tale, compared herself first to Pygmalion and then portrayed herself as an abused wife—emotionally, not physically, though she claims she lived in fear. Her story held together—at least it was consistent. She says the French door to Walter’s office was broken, and that as he was shot he was writing a check for thirty thousand dollars.”
“I’ve heard some of that before,” David said. “After all, I am her lawyer. Even if I haven’t been acting like it.”
“I have so many questions, I need to make another list.”
He clapped a hand to his forehead and said, “God help me.” But he was smiling—sort of.
“Can’t you get court records in Canton? And shouldn’t the sheriff have records of the investigation?”
“Who knows, after thirty years? And the question is, will he share them? I can poke around and find out. If court records are in Canton, why did John and whatever-his-name is beat the shit out of me to get them?”
I shook my head. “Maybe they didn’t know that. Maybe they thought you had more. Maybe they’re so disreputable, they didn’t think anyone would let them look. I didn’t even think that those records might be so close, so probably they didn’t either.”
“I didn’t think of it either. But I still need to go to Dallas, check in at my office. I’ll get copies of the copies there and bring them back. Better than sitting in the courthouse studying them. I’ll stay overnight, maybe longer, but I’ll keep you posted.”
“I’m getting on the Internet tomorrow to see what I can find out about Walter Aldridge. You know, Edith has kept us so busy with threats and the children’s conspiracies that we’ve—at least I’ve—lost track of the original question: Who killed Walter Aldridge and why?”
We turned in shortly after that and had a glorious reunion. But I thought it was good that David was going to Dallas. He was taking responsibility, which was the David I knew and loved.