Bad Housekeeping

by Maia Chance

  “Which would suggest it was given to her by someone who knew her well.”

  “Really well.”

  “Like her sister, Jodi.”

  “Yeah.”

  And around and around we went. Crud.

  * * *

  “I’m not going to lie,” Detective Albright said to me in the police station interrogation room hours later. “It’s not looking good for you and Mrs. Winters. This is the second body you’ve just happened to stumble upon.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “The second one.” I guess the cops still had no clue that we’d also stumbled upon Bud’s corpse.

  “Why were you at Megan’s house this evening?”

  Effie and I had agreed to stick to the same fib I told Dad. And speaking of Dad, he was going to be really upset that I didn’t have a lawyer present at this interview. Yes, Albright was grilling me, but if I had a lawyer present, I couldn’t grill Albright. “Well,” I said, “my great-aunt wants to be the next historical society chairman, and we had arranged to meet with Megan to talk about the society and the kinds of improvements she’d like to see in the organization.”

  “On the evening of her mother’s funeral? At ten PM?”

  “It was her idea.”

  “I think you were snooping,” Albright said. “People have been telling me how you and your great-aunt are driving around in a car with a duct-taped windshield, asking questions. What happened to that windshield, Agnes?”

  “I think it was hit by a rock. What people?”

  “Can’t say.”

  Not good. I was losing control of the situation. I cleared my throat. “So how’s the bowling?”

  Albright’s face lit up. Then it closed, suspicious. “Don’t try your Mata Hari stuff on me, Ms. Blythe.” His eyes drifted down to the Star Trek logo plastered across my bosom.

  Well, okay. If Albright thought I was a Mata Hari, then I should work it, right? I leaned forward and tried to bat my eyelashes. I was so tired, I felt like a blinking iguana. “Was Megan Lawrence, um . . . murdered?”

  Albright gazed into my eyes. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “It was murder, wasn’t it? Poison. I saw that macaroni casserole.”

  “Okay, okay. It’s going to be in the newspaper tomorrow, anyway. Yes, Megan was most likely poisoned, and forensics say it looks like the same poison that was used on Bud Budzinski. They’re running tests on the casserole.”

  My breath caught. “Budzinski was poisoned? I thought—I mean I heard—that he had a heart attack.” Those Oreos on Bud’s desk. Had they been poisoned?

  “Everyone thought it was a heart attack at first. But considering that the screen in the office where he was found had been slashed and that Kathleen Todd was murdered, Budzinski’s body went straight to autopsy. He was poisoned with aconite.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A garden plant. Has a few different names. Monkshood?”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “It grows wild, too, but not around here.”

  “So someone fed a flower to Budzinski?”

  “All parts of the plants are toxic, especially the roots. Budzinski had chocolate sandwich cookies in his stomach, and fresh monkshood root was found in there too. But look at what you’ve done to me.” Albright straightened his thick glasses. “Using your feminine wiles to get me to spill the beans.”

  “If you really think Aunt Effie and I are the murderers, I’d already know all this.”

  “You know I don’t want you to be arrested, Agnes—I mean, Ms. Blythe.” Albright’s voice was husky.

  “Isn’t this sort of . . . inappropriate?”

  “Come on, Agnes. I think we both know what you’ve been doing, showing up here in your cute little outfits. You ought to lie low. Stay home. Catch up on your television—there’s a Doctor Who marathon tomorrow. The bowling alley’s another wholesome place to spend time.”

  “Right,” I said. “The bowling alley. Well, is there anything else?”

  “No.”

  I stood.

  “Oh. Wait. Yeah. Police chief wants you and your aunt fingerprinted.”

  “Fingerprinted?” Uh-oh. Once they had our fingerprints, they would match them to the one million fingerprints Effie and I had left in Bud’s office and Megan’s kitchen. As in, they’d know we’d (1) been in Bud’s office and (2) been searching for something at Megan’s. “Sure,” I said in a tight voice. “I’m happy to give you my fingerprints.”

  * * *

  After getting fingerprinted, I looked around the police station for Effie. Even though it was after midnight, a lot of people were milling around. I could practically smell the tension mixed in with stale coffee. But no Aunt Effie. She wasn’t in the parking lot either, although I hadn’t expected that since we’d arrived at the station by squad car.

  I set off down the sidewalk. Dad’s house was only six blocks away. A deep, rustling hush held the town close, and houses were dark and snug. Never had Naneda felt so creepy. Three people had been murdered—three. Somewhere out there, the murderer might be plotting even more deaths.

  I dialed Effie.

  “Did you offer up your fingerprints?” she asked.

  “Yup. You?”

  “I had no choice, and the ink absolutely ruined my mani.”

  “You realize that once they match our prints to all the ones we left in Bud’s office and Megan’s kitchen, they’re going to arrest us?”

  “Oh, yes. I expect it’ll be sometime tomorrow.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In bed at the inn, actually, and I’ve already taken my sleeping pill, and the sound machine is on.”

  “I thought I heard whales. Pepper spray handy?”

  “Naturally. And my handbag with the metal studs.”

  “Well, good night, then. I’ll come over first thing in the morning. We’re running out of time to figure this thing out.”

  When I reached Dad’s house, lights burned in the kitchen.

  Great.

  Dad and Cordelia were waiting in the breakfast nook, both in bathrobes.

  “I’ve been worried sick about you, Agnes,” Dad said. “I just got a call that you were taken to the police station again? You discovered Megan Lawrence’s body? You let the police question you again without counsel present? You could be getting yourself into some serious hot water.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. I got down a glass and filled it at the sink. I gulped down the entire glass and refilled it. “This town’s going to the dogs.”

  “I told you she’s not taking it seriously,” Cordelia stage-whispered to Dad.

  “Yes, I am,” I said. I polished off the second glass of water. “I’m taking it very seriously.”

  Cordelia pursed her lips. “If you were, Agnes, you’d sit tight at home until it all blows over instead of running around with your crazy aunt and getting into trouble. What is it with you two? You’re like a couple of teenagers—”

  “Cordy.” Dad shushed her with a hand and turned to me. “Agnes, I’m just . . . worried.”

  “Tell her, Gary,” Cordelia said.

  “Tell me what?” I asked.

  Dad looked green. “The house was broken into today.”

  “What?”

  “I came home from the supermarket this afternoon to find the place just ransacked,” Cordelia said. She blotted tears with a Kleenex. “Drawers had been pulled out in the kitchen and your father’s study, and all the closets had been searched. Your room in particular, Agnes, had been thoroughly gone over.” This was said in an accusing voice.

  My thoughts flew to yesterday, when the security system had been tripped during my nap. That hadn’t been the wind after all. The murderer thought I had something.

  “Was anything stolen?” I asked.

  “Nothing that we noticed,” Dad said.

  “How did they get past the security system?”

  “You didn’t set it!” Cordelia shrilled.

  Oops. “Did you file a polic
e report?”

  “Of course. And it took me hours to set the place to rights again,” Cordelia said. “This is all because of you and Euphemia, Agnes! You two are meddling, and it’s just stirring up trouble. Do you know what the FedEx man told me today? He told me that he thinks Euphemia is living at the inn! Is that true?”

  I cleared my throat. “Oh. What? Um, no, of course not. She’s staying at a bed and breakfast somewhere over by Skaneateles, I think she said.”

  “She’s lying, Gary,” Cordelia said to Dad in an undertone. “She’s always been a terrible liar.”

  Dad’s eye bags drooped lower than ever.

  Yes. I am a sucky daughter. And I was about to be even suckier. “Dad,” I said, “were you at Kathleen Todd’s funeral today?”

  Cordelia threw her hands up. “Here she goes with the snooping again!”

  “Why do you ask, Agnes?” Dad said.

  “Was Kathleen’s daughter Jodi there?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “What about Jodi’s boyfriend, Jentry?”

  “I’m not sure I’d recognize him.”

  I racked my brains. “What about Susie Pak?”

  “Susie Pak was there, yes—”

  “Dorrie Tucker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Roland Pascal, the French carpenter guy?”

  “Yes—but Agnes, I know what you’re doing. You’re playing detective with Aunt Effie.”

  “The whole town knows it,” Cordelia said in an acid voice.

  “This town is like the primitive villages I read about in my anthropology courses,” I said. “Gossip, witch-hunts, feuds, and clans. It’s just human nature.”

  “Agnes,” Dad said, “I’m going to call Mr. Grimaldi the criminal defense lawyer in the mor—”

  “Dad, no,” I cried. I squeezed my eyes shut, took a deep breath, and opened them again. “I am so, so sorry I am upsetting you, Dad, and making you worried, and, let’s face it, humiliating you and ruining the family name. But I have nothing to hide.” That was seventy-five percent true. “Hiring a lawyer would cause an uproar in town. It will make me look guilty.”

  “That’s better than going to prison, Agnes.”

  “Listen, Dad, there is no way I am going to prison.” I wished I was as sure as I sounded.

  “Well, I can’t do anything without your consent, that’s for sure,” Dad said. “You’re an adult. But I do think you’re making a grave mistake.”

  “Stop worrying so much. This is all going to be cleared up before we know it. Good night.”

  I went upstairs. My room was as tidy as ever. No sign that it had been ransacked by a homicidal intruder.

  And by the way, I was growing increasingly suspicious that this homicidal intruder was Jentry. We hadn’t seen or heard from him since our run-in at Club Xenon. No way would he just call it quits—Aunt Effie’s threats notwithstanding. Jentry was out there somewhere, and he was up to something. I felt it in my gut. And no, it wasn’t the moose special I’d eaten for lunch, but thanks for asking.

  Just as I was plugging my phone into its charger, I got a text from Otis: I heard Megan L was killed? Are you OK? Please let me know. Worried. I texted him back: I’m OK. Yes, Megan L is dead. Poisoned. Otis wrote, Holy cow. Need help? Me: I’m fine. Otis: OK, well let me know if you need anything. Promise? I stared at that last text for a while. What was happening here? How had things gotten so . . . intimate with Otis all of a sudden? And was it really a problem? Before I could stop myself, I texted Promise.

  I showered, got into my pajamas, and crawled into bed. And let me tell you, I slept so well. Was there something wrong with me? I mean, there I was tripping over dead bodies left and right, about to be fingerprint-matched to three crime scenes, in a house that had been broken into and trashed only hours earlier, and lying to my poor Dad—yet I slept like a freaking baby.

  Maybe Roger was right. Maybe there was something to be said for being adventurous.

  Chapter 24

  In the morning, I texted Chester in time to get a ride with him to the inn. He had stopped at Flour Girl for a white paper bag bursting with baked goods and three giant to-go coffees. The coffee was a very good thing because Cordelia hadn’t left any muffins out for me in Dad’s kitchen, and she’d washed the coffee carafe. I’d had no choice but to eat one of the carrot cupcakes I had found in the fridge.

  I sat down across the inn’s kitchen table from Effie. Chester left for whichever room he was currently rewiring. With the demolition scheduled for tomorrow, I had pretty much given up on the inn being saved. I didn’t say this to Effie, though. I saw the slightly bonkers gleam of hope in her eyes.

  “Okay, we’ve got to figure out who the murderer is ASAP,” I said. “I’m expecting the police to show up any minute to arrest us.”

  Effie sipped coffee placidly. “I took especial care with contouring my makeup. There will be the mug shots, you know, and I refuse to look haggard like the last time.”

  I choked on coffee. “You’ve had your mug shot taken before? No. Never mind. I don’t want to know.” I took out a pen and our original list of suspects. I crossed off Bud since he had kicked it:

  Bud Budzinski

  Gracelyn Roy

  Dorrie Tucker

  Jodi Todd

  Roland Pascal

  Susie Pak

  “We can’t eliminate anyone but Bud, can we?” I said. “This sucks. We need to write down everything we know for sure is true about the murderer.”

  Twenty minutes later, Effie had smoked two cigarettes, and I had downed an apple Danish, a cruller, and enough coffee to fuel Air Force One. We had exactly four items on our list, and nothing was for sure.

  1. Murderer was prob. at the wake and overheard Megan talking to me.

  2. Murderer wants Rolodex, since that was only concrete thing mentioned by Megan in conversation.

  3. The murder isn’t about Megan and Jodi’s inheritance, b/c Bud also murdered.

  4. Murderer knows about monkshood/had access to monkshood.

  “Okay,” I said, chewing the pen. “First of all, Dad was at Kathleen’s wake yesterday, and he told me Jodi was there, and so were Susie Pak, Dorrie Tucker, and Roland Pascal. Dad wasn’t sure about Jentry. Also, if the Rolodex is at issue, who do we know was interested in the Rolodex? Dorrie Tucker, for one—remember, she asked Detective Albright about it.”

  Effie tapped ash. “Susie Pak seemed to be looking for something when she came around here.”

  “Then there are all the break-ins. I keep thinking those were Jentry—” My phone buzzed.

  Cordelia had sent me a text: Police are here looking for you. Are you at the inn?

  I stood, stuffing my phone, the paper and pen, an almond croissant, and an apple Danish into my backpack. “We’ve got to go,” I said. “The police may be heading over here as we speak.”

  “You want to go on the lam?”

  “No. But I do want to buy a little more time to crack this case before we get tossed in the clink.”

  Effie was on her feet too.

  * * *

  We didn’t see the cops as we pulled out of the inn driveway and onto Main Street. “Where to?” Effie asked.

  “The only thing I can think of—not that I’m thinking too clearly—is to take a look in every suspect’s yard and see if we can find monkshood growing anywhere.”

  “Jodi was growing flowers out at Shakti Organic Farm, I seem to recall—but let’s go to the McGrundell Mansion first, since it’s the closest.”

  “Roland Pascal, a green thumb?”

  “I am simply being efficient.”

  “Okay,” I said. I knew Aunt Effie was scared to go to the farm, but I couldn’t exactly complain since I was scared too. I pulled up a picture of monkshood on my phone. Tall stalks supported clusters of helmet-shaped purple flowers. The leaves reminded me of carrot greens. “These should be easy to spot.”

  Effie parked across the street from the McGrundell Mansion, and we got out. Roland was no
where to be seen, but his Airstream trailer and pickup were out front.

  “Look,” Effie said. “The trailer is hitched to the pickup. Maybe he’s planning on leaving.”

  “Well, the outside of the mansion looks amazing,” I said.

  We circled around the side of the mansion. Tinny radio music emanated from somewhere inside. “He’s here,” I whispered.

  “Oh, good,” Effie whispered back. “I’d adore a glass of wine.”

  “Focus!”

  We reached the back garden. Geometrical shrubs framed luxuriant late-blooming flower beds. I inspected every purple flower, but none of them looked like monkshood.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  We’d made it into the Cadillac when Roland burst out the mansion’s front door in paint-spattered coveralls. “Pardon me!” he called. “Ladies! For what do you snoop?”

  “Go,” I whispered to Effie.

  She hit the gas so hard that I almost banged my forehead on the dash.

  Next we headed over to Third Street to check out Gracelyn Roy and Dorrie Tucker’s gardens.

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “Don’t stop—there’s a police car.” A squad car idled in front of Gracelyn’s house, and two cops talked to each other on the sidewalk. I slumped low in my seat as we cruised past.

  “Do you think they’re going to arrest Gracelyn?” Effie asked.

  “I think they want to arrest us.” I looked in the side-view mirror. One of the cops was squinting after the Cadillac as we retreated down the block. He jotted something in his notebook before we rounded the corner.

  Uh-oh.

  “Now what?” Effie asked. “Jodi’s farm?”

  “I guess.” The thought of returning to that farm made me pull out the squashed apple Danish from my backpack and take a huge bite. “No, Susie Pak first. Here—I looked up her address. Six-oh-two Maple Crescent.”

  We drove across town to a small subdivision of new homes. They were all beige, with baby trees and weed-free lawns. Susie’s house was somehow the blandest house in her cul-de-sac. I could almost picture her vacuuming her front lawn. No white Mercedes SUV out front, but the two-car garage was closed.

  “Is it possible Susie has a flower garden out back?” Effie said doubtfully, looking at Susie’s empty front lawn. “I’d peg her as the artificial flower type.”