by Jack Parker
"That's not a bad idea," Shawna said.
"It's a really good idea, Cheryl" Gracie agreed. "They'd know about Robbie's allergy of course, but who would think she'd dig cookies out of the trash and eat them? They could duck into the kitchen for some reason, to put their glass on the counter or something, and it wouldn't take but a second to throw the cookies in the trash. Nobody would see them do it, so nobody would even know they'd had the cookies with them that night."
"Then it couldn't be one of the brothers, because where would they hide the cookies?" Shawna said.
"Yeah, did either of them have bulges in their pockets, Gracie?" Cheryl asked.
Gracie thought for a moment and then shook her head. "Must've been one of the women; they'd hide them in their purse. I'm trying to think if any of them carried big purses, but I wasn't really paying attention."
Just then Gracie's cell phone rang. She grabbed it up and looked at the caller ID, but didn't recognize the number. Shrugging, she answered anyway, a look of uncertainty on her face. Shawna and Cheryl listened to Gracie's side of the conversation with growing interest.
"No, I'm sure you don't have anything to worry about," Gracie said into the phone. "Because it doesn't make any sense that you would. Why now? What would he have to gain?" Another pause. "I understand that you're worried. I can't prove it, but I really don't think you're in danger. I promise you I'm going to find out what's going on, but in the meantime is there somewhere you could go?" Gracie looked both concerned and irritated. "Okay then. And call me if you need to, even if you just want someone to talk to. Bye."
Gracie ended the call and turned to her friends. "Karen Stubblefield," she said. "Apparently Ken's been asking if anyone else is allergic to nuts."
"And?" Shawna prompted.
"Jason Wheeler is, just like his mother," Gracie said, drawing out the drama. "But so is Karen. She may let her husband walk all over her, but she's no dummy. She realizes that Ken's thinking someone else may have been the intended victim. And she's afraid that Charlie is trying to kill her."
CHAPTER 76
Wednesday
"Gracie?" Clarissa called out. "Honey, are you still up? Tomorrow's a school day and you need your beauty sleep."
Gracie appeared in her doorway. "I know, Mom, but my mind's so full of clues that don't seem to go together that I don't feel like going to bed."
Clarissa smiled. "Let's have a bowl of ice cream and you can tell me about it. Maybe I can see something you haven't, but sometimes it helps just to lay it all out."
Gracie returned the smile. "Thanks." She flipped the light switch off on her way out of her room to conserve energy and followed her mother into the kitchen.
A few minutes later they were both settled in the living room, digging into their ice cream. Clarissa let the silence hang, giving her daughter time to figure out where to begin.
"First of all, Mrs. Redmond died from an anaphylactic reaction due to a nut allergy," Gracie said. She waved her spoonful of Rocky Road in example of the nuts, then ate the ice cream. "But after that it starts to get weird."
"I'm assuming an older woman with a serious allergy would know better than to eat nuts," Clarissa said wryly. "And weird in what way?"
"Weird in several ways," Gracie said. "There was a plate of chocolate chip cookies on her bedside table but none of 'em had any nuts, nor was there peanut oil in the dough."
"Could she have gotten one with nuts by mistake?"
Gracie considered that while she ate another bite. She looked up at her mother with disgust plain on her face. "I wish you hadn't even said that, Mom. There's enough things that don't make any sense as it is and I don't need another." Clearly putting the idea out of her mind she continued. "Anyway, Jason Wheeler's fingerprint is on the plate. He's her youngest, and apparently favorite, child. He says he knocked the plate off by accident when he found his mother dead, and picked the cookies up without thinking."
Clarissa nodded. "Reasonable enough."
"I think so," Gracie said, nodding. "Ken seems to believe him too. He said there were crumbs on the carpet and rug-fuzz on the cookies."
Clarissa turned her spoon upside down to lick it clean. "What if there were several cookies with nuts; I remember us talking about the fact that she had a cold and thus her sense of taste and smell would be impacted. Maybe he dumped them on purpose, so he could pick out the bad ones."
"And then claimed it was an accident," Gracie said excitedly. "It's entirely possible. But there's more."
Clarissa merely nodded encouragement for her to go on.
"Jason is allergic to nuts, too. And so is his sister-in-law Karen Stubblefield. Karen called a while ago scared to death, thinking her husband Charlie was trying to kill her."
"So how did Mrs. Redmond end up with the bad cookies?"
"Cheryl thinks that because Ms. Rodgers and I were there the killer got scared and threw them in the trash, and that Mrs. Redmond dug 'em out and ate 'em."
Clarissa tilted her head to one side in tentative agreement. "It strikes me that Ms. Rodgers makes a wonderful patsy, given the enmity in that family. Then again, if she'd seen anything out of the ordinary that evening she'd certainly tell Ken about it because she had no wish to protect the others."
"Not to mention that she'd be the first suspect," Gracie said. She paused to scrape the last bits of ice cream from her bowl. "Jason told Charlie that he'd found their mother's Will, then changed his story and said he didn't know where it was. Cheryl and I visited with their sister, Loretta Logan, this afternoon and did a little snooping."
"Gracie, you didn't!"
"I did, and I found the Will. It leaves everything to Jason." She offered a predatory grin.
Clarissa bit off half of a particularly large bite, savoring it as she thought. "That might be considered motive for Jason to kill her, or for one of his siblings to kill him so they could inherit more money."
Gracie nodded. "I don't see Loretta taking the Will to protect Jason, but she might've done it so Charlie would get some money. And I don't think Charlie's trying to kill his wife."
"You said Ms. Rodgers would've told Ken if she'd seen anything odd, and I know you would've. May I assume that you didn't see these cookies?"
"Not a crumb," Gracie agreed. "But we left before the others did, so we don't know what happened after that."
"Was there something about Friday's court hearing that's important? That would make it necessary to kill her before the hearing?"
"Not that we can figure out," Gracie replied. "The hearing was to help determine if the Trust was valid or should be part of Mr. Redmond's Estate. Ms. Rodgers and Mrs. Redmond would each get half the money if it went to the Estate, otherwise Robbie Redmond could possibly get it all. All five kids were named secondary beneficiaries after her death. Apparently John – no doubt at his wife's demand – didn't include the step-daughter that lives out of the country."
"So if anyone was a potential victim it would've been Ms. Rodgers!" Clarissa said, laughing.
"Exactly. And she's not allergic to nuts. But it's to everyone's advantage that Robbie died before she had a chance to spend the money."
Clarissa frowned in thought. "That logic applies to either situation, regardless of whether the money came from the Trust or the Estate. Has that been determined yet?"
"No," Gracie said. "The judge ruled that Mr. Redmond's Trustee has to turn over all her papers to the other two lawyers so they can look for any problems. And before you ask, we figure Mrs. Redmond wanted the money to go to the Estate so she could buy new clothes to impress suitable marriage candidates so she could continue buying new clothes and maybe get accepted into higher social circles."
Clarissa shook her head in amusement. "Half in the hand now is better than getting it all later. I'd bet the Trustee wasn't going to be generous. Try as I might, I can't see how Mrs. Redmond could possibly influence that hearing."
"Meredith said it was all boring legal stuff, citations and arguments from all three
lawyers. She was glad she didn't have to testify because she couldn't understand most of it."
"You're right, Gracie. None of this makes any kind of sense. Some pieces fit together, but not all and that's no good. You've talked to everyone?"
"Yeah. Well, I talked to Karen instead of Charlie. I don't think he likes me; he pretty much threw me out when he came home and found me there. Do you suppose that makes him guilty?"
"I suppose it might be a sign of guilt, but more likely he's mourning his mother's death and didn't like you asking questions," Clarissa said.
"He was pretty rude to Meredith that night, too. Maybe it's guilt by association. I just don't know what to do next!"
Clarissa considered the situation. "I think I'd go chat up Mr. Redmond's Trustee."
"Connie Canardi?" Gracie asked. "She's not a lawyer anymore, but I bet she still acts like one and lawyers are good at saying 'no comment'. What's she gonna tell me?"
"Don't go there specifically asking questions about the murder," Clarissa advised. "That Trust figures into this somehow, and you've got a Trust. Take her a copy and make up something you're 'worried' about; tell her the Redmond family recommended her highly and you want her opinion. You might even hint that you're thinking about having the Trustee changed. It doesn't matter that she's not practicing anymore, she still knows the law and could act as Trustee."
"Ooh, I like it!" Gracie said, laughing. "She might tell me something about the other Trust as a comparison."
"Canardi, Canardi," Clarissa mused. "Why do I feel like I've heard that name before?
"Meredith says she looks like a bird, a canary; tall and skinny with wild red hair."
Clarissa snapped her fingers. "Got it! Your father dealt with her several years ago on one of his schemes. He said the woman was aptly named, and nervous as a bird because she was trying to cheat him; but of course she didn't get away with it. That's a better opener than the Redmonds, though you can say the murder reminded you of her. Go see what tune this bird sings."
* * * *
Monday after school Kelly walked down the steps to the spot where he usually met Gracie, but only Shawna was there.
"Hey, Shawna. Gracie still inside?" he asked.
Shawna rolled her eyes. "Yeah, and she might be there for awhile. I'm supposed to give you the message and then go back and help."
He raised an eyebrow in a mute question.
"Cheryl's making her up to look like a rich girl."
Kelly frowned. "Why would she want to do that? She is a rich girl!"
She laughed. "She's off on a mission to talk to Mr. Redmond's Trustee. It turns out her dad knew the lady and her mom suggested she pretend like she's got a problem with her Trust so she can see if she'll talk about Mr. Redmond's."
"I thought we decided the Trust doesn't have anything to do with the murder." A look of disgust crossed his face. "I suppose she'll want me to go with her, too."
Shawna shrugged cheerfully. "She didn't ask me. I guess if I didn't want to help her snoop around Mrs. Logan's house she knows I wouldn't dare do it in a legal office. And don't ask me what she thinks she might find out, either! Personally I think she's grasping at straws just to go there."
"Guess I'd grasp at straws too if I were suspected of murder," Kelly said. "But didn't she say she couldn't get hold of this lady?"
"Yeah, she must've left a dozen messages on her answering machine since Thursday morning, but the woman never returned her call."
"Seems odd, her not interested in getting a new client," he mused. "What's Gracie gonna do, just show up and hope she's there?"
"Pretty much," Shawna replied.
Cheryl walked up behind them saying, "Boo!"
They turned around and saw Gracie with her; they almost didn't recognize her.
Kelly whistled in appreciation. "You look fabulous!"
Gracie pirouetted to give them the full view. Gone were the jeans, cotton shirt, and canvas shoes. She wore one of Cheryl's dresses, this one with diagonal stripes of cream and brown belted with a gold chain. The somewhat low neckline framed a necklace of large brown glass beads, and matching earrings dangled from her lobes. Cheryl had gone light with the makeup enhancing Gracie's natural good looks, and pulled her long brown hair up into a knot on the back of her head.
"I just hope I don't fall in these heels!" Gracie laughed. "Do you really like it, Kelly?"
"Honestly?" he asked. At her nod he continued. "I like you better in jeans. But it is kinda fun to see you all dressed up."
"Well, I'll be glad when I get home and wash this stuff off my face. It feels weird. Are you going to Chris' again?"
"I am," he replied. "How about you call me when you're headed home, and I'll meet you there. There isn't a whole lot we can do until he gets a carb kit anyway. I'd really like to hear what you find out."
"He was afraid you'd want him to go with you," Shawna put in. "I was afraid you'd want one of us to nose around while you talked to the woman."
"Nope! Not this time," Gracie said. "I don't expect this to take long; I'll call when I leave her office. Wish me luck!"
"Good luck, Gracie!" the other three chorused.
Gracie had to kick the borrowed shoes off to drive, afraid she'd have an accident because she was paying more attention to the different feel than to the road. She had no trouble finding the address in question even though she wasn't familiar with the streets in the old neighborhoods close to the downtown area. They were all straight and well-marked, with no funky side streets or quirky two-block-long roads. The building she was looking for was an old house, doubtless once a grand mansion but decidedly faded now. She parked the Prius and looked around the paved-over former front yard.
"Not very many cars here," she muttered to herself. She glanced at her phone to check the time. "3:48. I hope she hasn't decided to go home after a grueling day of whatever it is she does with oil leases. Maybe she spent time liaising with practicing lawyers on the ins and outs of a lease." She snickered softly, picturing a bunch of legal beagles sitting around the table of a cozy neighborhood bar starting in on their first Martini.
She walked up the steps and boldly opened the front door. A young woman at the receptionist's desk looked up from her monitor and chirped, "Hello, how may I help you?"
"I have an appointment with Ms. Canardi," Gracie lied.
The woman pointed to her right saying, "Just go right through there. That's a lovely dress; if it's not too personal would you tell me where you bought it?"
Gracie had turned to head towards Canardi's office but now stopped in mid-step. "Uh, let me think. Oh, I know! It was from La Petite Boutique." That was the pricey fashion store her step-mother Jennifer worked in. She had no idea where Cheryl might've gotten the dress, and that was the first thing that popped into her head.
The receptionist's face fell. "I hear that place is pretty expensive," she said morosely. She offered a wry smile and stage-whispered, "They like me to look good out here, but they don't pay enough for me to do it."
"Just ask for Jennifer and tell her Gracie sent you and she'll give you a discount." Gracie winked at the woman as she walked away. Jennifer might even help her out with that introduction.
"Thanks!" the receptionist called out.
Gracie walked into another, smaller, reception room; no bubbly young woman sat at the desk. She glanced around looking for some sign of a live person. Finally she called out, "Ms. Canardi?"
From behind a closed door she heard a response. "Have a seat and I'll be with you in just a minute."
But she had too much nervous energy to sit still and wait. There were banks of file cabinets along one wall, but she was afraid to rifle through them. Her luck the Trustee would come bursting out of that closed door the instant she had anything interesting in her hands. Not only would that defeat her purpose, but the woman might well have her arrested.
Instead she looked around the room, for what she didn't quite know. It looked like a man-cave with heavy wood furniture upholst
ered in leather or dark rich fabric, lots of potted plants and understated lighting. Perhaps the woman felt that clients would take her more seriously with the masculine décor. Everything - even the reception desk - looked like an expensive antique. Her eye lit on one of the club chairs and she realized the arm was missing a section of brass tacks. The chair next to it had a scratch on one wooden arm, and little chips on its legs. She spied a crack in the leather of one couch cushion. On closer inspection the plants were all fake, and dusty.
She turned back to the desk; something about it nagged at her mind. It contained the usual items: computer monitor, telephone, large desktop calendar, and a thick pile of mail. Then it hit her – the desk was way too clean. There was no message pad by the phone nor pencils anywhere, and the monitor was turned off. Maybe it's her day off and the boss insists she put everything away, she thought.
The monitor was a flat screen, but when she looked closer she saw a large scratch in the lower right corner. What she didn't see was a cord coming out of the back. She leaned over the desk to see if there was a tower; there was, but it was proudly labeled 'IBM PS/2'. It looked old, though she wasn't a computer geek. She began to see a pattern here, one of trying to make the place look more prosperous than it apparently was. Perhaps Canardi had once done well enough to afford the antiques, but she wondered if the woman could even afford a receptionist now. Maybe she'd quit practicing law because she wasn't making enough, though the new line of work didn't seem to be much better yet.
Idly she picked up the days' mail and flipped through it. She kept her back to the door so Canardi couldn't see what she was doing if she came in. This has to be from more than one day, she thought. There were a number of envelopes that looked like they might be bills as well as the usual junk mail. Toward the bottom she found a handwritten envelope – with a return label from Roberta Redmond! She held it closer to see the cancellation date; it had been sent the day before the woman died.
She heard a noise from behind the closed door and hurriedly dropped the bundle of mail. But the door didn't open. She started to pick up the mail again, wondering if she dare take the letter. Instead the calendar caught her attention. Each day's square contained several notations of appointments. There was an appointment for 3:30 this afternoon; perhaps that was why the door was closed. She reached for the letters again, wanting to steal the letter but afraid to actually do it.