“Extraordinary,” I said to help him along.
“Yeah, nothing like that. We were soul mates, you know. Close.”
He strung out that last word as if it had five syllables.
“Compatible.”
“Yeah, that too. She was my muse.”
“Artist?”
“Actor.”
“Working now?”
“Yeah, just got a good part before … she left. Say, why are you asking all these questions?”
“Detective. I ask questions.”
“Why you checking into a suicide?”
“Looking for reasons,” I said. “Was she depressed?”
“No way. Life was good and getting better.”
“How so?”
“She was promoted at work,” he said and leaned back onto the sofa and looked toward the ceiling.
“Promoted.”
“That’s what I said. They made her a hostess on the weekend. That’s big money … would have been big money for us. And we needed it.”
I looked around the messy apartment which surrounded the unkempt young man lying nearly prone on the sofa in front of me.
“For the maid?”
“Hey, I don’t normally live like this. I’m grieving, lady.”
He jumped to his feet and stumbled over to the small window that looked out onto the alley behind the apartment. I moved behind him to the window in case he decided to jump. I looked over his left shoulder. I could see trash cans and some short bushes. Great view.
“Sorry for your loss,” I said. “You and Melody have debts?”
“Nothing big, like colossal and all. No, we needed the extra money because of the baby.”
“The baby.”
“She was pregnant.”
9
“I need an introduction,” I said to Uncle Walters while I chewed my fried clams.
We were sitting in the Oyster House once again dining sumptuously. I decided to forego the chowder this time and ordered a platter of fried clams. Sinful, but delicious. Maybe sinful and delicious.
“With whom?” he said while he indulged in his own platter of fried clams.
“The detective who investigated the death of Melody Legrand.”
“You’re assuming a detective investigated her death,” he said.
“I am. They called you in to verify the authenticity of the recording, right?”
“How did you know that?”
“Clever sleuth I am.”
“Rogers,” he said as to answer his own question.
“Her, too,” I said.
“Her capabilities are extraordinary,” Walters said.
“You should know.”
“I should, shouldn’t I.”
“I need to talk with the detective.”
“You have questions.”
I finished my mouthful of clams and then said, “Some. Did you know that Melody was pregnant?”
He stopped chewing and sipped his wine. He thought for a few seconds before answering.
“I did not know that.”
“You think the police knew this?”
“I am not privy to what the police know or do not know regarding the demise of Melody Legrand,” Walters said.
“They didn’t share with you their thoughts?” I said.
“Seldom does the law enforcement system share anything with the likes of me,” Walters said without a hint of bitterness or remorse.
“But still they consult with you from time to time.”
“They call when they are stumped or need my expertise in regards to photography or some other distant field alien to their gray matter. They hire me as a consultant. To say that they consult with me implies that they listen to what I say.”
I ate some clams for a few minutes while Uncle Walters zoned into pensiveness. Not only was I used to his quiet periods, I actually enjoyed them. It gave me the opportunity to do my own pondering while I relished the delicious clams in front of me.
“Does pregnancy support or refute the belief that Melody did herself in?” Uncle Walters said breaking our silence.
“It could go either way,” I said.
“Which way do you go with it?”
“Too early to tell. I need to know more about Melody.”
“It does flavor her death.”
“It’s certainly an important ingredient to add to the mix,” I said.
“So who’s next on your to-see list?”
“The mother and friends.”
I finished my clams and wanted to order more, but modesty forbade it. I didn’t want to embarrass my uncle. He knew too many people and I had to behave. Gluttony was probably not a sin in Boston, at least not at the seafood establishments. Still. As long as I was working this case, I could return to the Oyster House again for their seafood delights.
“I could go with you, if you would not mind the company,” Walters said.
I tried not to sound too surprised when I answered, “I always enjoy having you around. Simon told me that the Duchess lives just off of the Mystic Valley Parkway on the Lower Mystic Lake. The ride there would be enhanced by your company.”
“No need to butter me. I want to meet this woman and see the sights of the Mystic Valley. And, I think her name is Duchess without the the in front,” he quipped.
“I’ll try to remember that. Is tomorrow too soon for our road trip?”
“Any day is a good day for travel, my love,” Walters said. “I will be happy to drive.”
“Suits me. It’s your backyard anyway.”
Later that night I called Rogers and she gave me a list of some of Melody’s friends while she was a student at Regis College not far from Weston.
“She dropped out some time during the fall of her junior year,” Rogers said.
“Known associates?”
“You make her sound criminal. You mean friends and acquaintances, I’m sure. I’ve got a former roommate and some likely friends from a photograph that appeared in the campus newspaper.”
“Likely friends.”
“They shared a two week hike along the AT from Maine southward. They were either friends or they hated each other by the end of the two weeks,” Rogers said.
“How astute of you to conclude that,” I said.
“Logic, not astuteness.”
Rogers created a file and then sent me the names, current addresses, and phone numbers.
“Melody was the only one of the troop that dropped out?” I said.
“All seem to be in their final year of school at Regis. My info comes directly from the college transcripts on file at Regis as of early this morning.”
“Too soon for the legal authorities to track you and put you in the slammer,” I said.
“Tracking me is out of the question. What is this slammer thing?”
“A place you will likely never see,” I said.
“Oh,” she said after a few seconds, “you are referring to incarceration, as in the jail or prison. Slammer, huh? Does that come from when they slam the iron door shut on you after you have been arrested?”
“As good as any description for that term,” I said.
10
Riding shotgun with Uncle Walters took me back a few decades to my childhood. His knowledge of people, places, and events poured out from him like he was reading some encyclopedic article. Some would find his data boring; however, I think I was so in love with my uncle, that I could listen to him read a 1040 tax form, completely filled in with the pertinent numbers and other assorted statistics.
Massachusetts offered us a glorious day to travel Highway 60 between Medford and Arlington. We found the home of Duchess Leigh Legrand just off of the Mystic Valley Parkway on the edge of Lower Mystic Lake in the area of West Medford. Her house was on Pine Ridge Road just off of the Mystic Valley Parkway.
Three stories tall, I guessed that she had some eight to ten bedrooms, and enough yard surrounding the place to merit a staff as opposed to a singular yardman. Consideri
ng what I had been told about this woman, her home was less assuming than I expected.
We parked in the circular drive somewhere near the front door. It must have been the butler’s day off. A short, attractive woman answered the door and I surmised that she was Simon’s ex and Melody’s mother. The one decent photograph which Rogers had found of Melody made her almost an exact replica of the lady standing in the doorway of this larger-than-necessary home in the Mystic Valley.
“May I help you?” the lady said.
“I hope so. I’m Clancy Evans and this ….”
“Walters Clancy,” my uncle interrupted before I could finish the intro, “at your service.”
He even bowed a little as if greeting royalty.
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying,” she said and began to close the door.
“I’m investigating the death of your daughter,” I said before the door fully closed.
The door stopped moving and the woman stared at me through the narrow gap between the door and the door jam. She remained speechless longer than I thought expedient, so I kept talking.
“I would like to talk with you about your daughter, Melody, if you have the time.”
She opened the door wider and stepped back to allow us to enter. She still had not spoken to us by way of greeting or otherwise since I had mentioned the death of Melody. She pointed to a room just off of the hallway to the left. It was larger than any three of my apartment rooms. Considering I only had a living room space used often as a dining area, a kitchen, a bedroom and a bath, that would mean that her sitting room was practically larger than my entire living quarters. Living in the lap of luxury was never my cup of tea, to mix metaphors.
“I’m Duchess Legrand,” she said at last as she pointed to the pink French provincial sofa located in the middle of the parlor. I took her gesture to mean that was the place we were to sit, so I sat down in the barrage of pink. Uncle Walters waited for the Duchess to be seated. She glided gently into the pink French provincial chair near the sofa but separated from it by a marble top table and a lamp. The lamp had a pink shade, naturally. I suspected the table and lamp cost more than my Jeep.
“Why are you investigating a suicide?” she said as she crossed her legs. She was wearing a white pants suit with white sandals. The jacket of the suit looked to me as if it needed one more button at the top to help her be a tad more modest in her presentation. Plunging neckline would have been an understatement. However, I must admit that she was endowed enough to wear such a garment. Out of my league in so many ways. Somewhere lurking under the low-cut jacket was a pink silky thing that matched the color of the furniture on which we were sitting. Yikes.
“Your ex-husband hired me to find out why Melody took her life,” I said.
“I should have known that Simon would be behind this. Well, I am sure that he is looking for whatever reasons will excuse him from all liability.”
“Don’t know his motivations. My job is to try to find out what happened to her and why.”
“Some might call your job a fool’s errand,” she said.
“Crossed my mind as well. Aptly put.”
“But you were happy to take his money.”
She said it so pleasingly that I almost missed the fact that she had just insulted me. Walters cleared his throat because he knew me well enough to know that I had a retort and was aiming at her heart.
“Mrs. Legrand,” he said, “it never hurts to do some research into why a person takes their own life. Sometimes facts emerge that are unknown to the family and friends.”
“Simon’s looking for appeasement,” the Duchess said. “He wants to be absolved from having anything to do with her death.”
“Do you think he had anything to do with her death?” I said.
“I do. And I am responsible as well.”
“Parental liability?” I said.
“That would be the truth, would it not?” she said as she looked down at her sandals as if admiring them. Her toenails were painted pink, also matching the color of the silky blouse and the furniture. Talk about color coordination.
“At some point a child breaks the parental ties and is on her own. We each must accept responsibility for ourselves,” Uncle Walters said.
“I guess,” Duchess said as she stood up and walked over to the large bay window that offered a view of a small portion of her estate. “Melody was anything but a dutiful daughter.”
“On the wild side?” I said.
“Hardly. She was an A-student with artistic flair. Talented, oh, so talented. She could have done anything she wanted. But she was obstinate. She was headstrong. She had to do things her way and refused to listen to anything I would say.”
“The same with Simon?” I said.
“I don’t know about that. She lived with me for most of her life. She saw her father twice a month, mainly on the weekends. We’ve been separated, uh, divorced for many years. Simon was from a different class.”
“You mean he was older than you?” I said.
“No, Miss Evans, I mean that he was from a lower class. Our marriage was mainly because of lust and hormones. He was handsome, and once upon a time in my life, I thought that sufficient. I was wrong. I finally came to my senses and got rid of him.”
I looked at Walters and he shrugged a tiny bit to let me know that her remark had been noted. We were talking with aristocracy and she knew it.
“Would you tell us more about Melody and her personality?”
“Besides being hard-headed and disobedient?” she asked.
“Besides that.”
“From the time she was eleven or twelve she wanted to be on her own. She used to threaten me that she was going to move out of my home and live all by herself. I don’t think Melody liked me.”
“I can’t imagine that,” I said. “Were those her words?”
“What words?” she said.
“That she wanted to move out of your home?”
“Yes, she said something to that effect. I don’t recall the exact words. It’s been ages since we argued and had those kinds of spats.”
“Your home, spats, and time passing so quickly … yes, I can imagine it was tough on you raising such a difficult child,” I said.
“Did Melody have a lot of boyfriends?” Walters interrupted before the Duchess could respond to my sarcastic comment.
“No. Boys were not the problem. Independence seemed to be her focal point from puberty onward. She wanted out.”
“And when did she leave?”
“When she went to Regis. She tolerated me through high school and was finally free when college came along.”
“Did you see her much after that?”
“You mean did she come home any after she went to college?”
“That, too,” I said.
“No.”
“No Christmas or spring break returns?” I said.
Duchess Legrand shook her head but did not seem to be even mildly disturbed by the disclosure. It was like one of the yard staff left and never came back. No emotion.
“Did you ever call her to check on her?” I said.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why would I want to call someone who hated me and wanted out? I let her go. She had her father’s money, I suppose, and she had no need of my presence in her life. Besides, I had societal concerns with which to deal.”
“Societal concerns,” I repeated.
She walked back over to the front of the pink sofa and stood directly in front of us.
“I am the chairman of the Ladies Afternoon Tea, the chairman of my country club’s flower committee, and the director of the Mystic Valley Bridge Tournament. I am too busy to be worried by some adolescent who refuses to acknowledge her roots, her status, and her position in my society.”
“Oh,” I said.
11
Regis College was located in Weston, east of downtown Boston and southeast of Duchess Lei
gh Legrand. It was over an hour away from Mystic Valley, but not nearly far enough to suit me. I wondered why Melody hadn’t gone to UCLA. I would have, just to get away from the Duchess.
Our trip was mostly silent. Uncle Walters seemed to be pondering heavily about something. His silence while traveling was a bit unusual for him, although not for me. Sam and I could travel for hours without ever speaking to each other. Since Sam the dog seldom speaks to me, that’s not as difficult as it sounds. But for my uncle, it was a Herculean task to go silent. I could remember my frequent childhood trips with him and his travel guide dialogue making the event go faster and more entertaining.
“Lost in your thoughts?” I said breaking our silent trip finally as we neared the campus of Regis.
“Lost in bewilderment,” he said.
“The Duchess.”
“Her laissez faire attitude,” Walters said. “Parenting has to be intentional.”
“It helps if the parent has a conscience,” I said.
“Is that supposedly connected with some kind of feeling towards the offspring?” he said.
“You mean besides disdain and the idea that the child is interrupting something more important?”
“Something on that order,” he replied. “Some people should not have children.”
“I have that belief myself. Take me for example.”
“I did not have you in mind,” he said.
“I’m a bit preoccupied with my work. Children take time.”
“True, but you also are concerned with people. That would put you a little higher on the list of people who could parent if they had the opportunity. You simply choose not to.”
“Perhaps,” I said as we pulled onto the campus.
“You have that list of Melody’s friends?” he said.
“Short list.”
“So we don’t have to split up and save time.”
“I think we can do a tandem interview. Besides, I want your considered opinion about what we learn.”
We sat in the office of the Admissions Director, Mr. Novak, for more than an hour waiting our turn. There was no one else in the office waiting with us. It seemed that our turn would never come. By the time I had flipped through most of the magazines from the prior decade, I was about to give up and go searching the campus without assistance. I think I could have located the complete list by this point. The lady with the dark rimmed glasses sitting behind the steel desk finally acknowledged us.
Desperate Measures Page 4