Beads of Doubt

by Barbara Burnett Smith

  He stared at me, saying nothing, until finally a voice from behind me said, “I’m okay, and so are all my crew.” It was Bruce.

  I turned around and saw that he looked worn. “Oh, Bruce, I’m glad.” I took a huge breath. “You seem tired.”

  “I am.”

  The cop said, “Ms. Camden, I understand that you had a party at your house last night.”

  “What? Oh, yes, but it wasn’t actually my party. It was the opening reception for the Bead Tea that’s being held. It starts today. It’s sponsored by the Ovarian Cancer Organization and the Bead Society.”

  “Do you have a list of the guests?”

  I shook my head.

  Beth said, “I’m sure we can get you one. Judy would have it. I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Beth Fairfield. I have a booth in the tent this weekend. The big teal and white striped tent? There will be vendors and I’m one of them.”

  He seemed interested. “Doing what?”

  “Selling jewelry.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. I was relieved to be out out of the conversation. “And who is Judy?” Granger asked.

  Beth explained that she was the president of the Ovarian Cancer Organization. “I have her number someplace. I’m sure Kitzi has it, too.”

  “Any chance you can get it for me?”

  I shivered in the morning sunlight. Judging from the coroner’s van and the ladder against the Dumpster, I could only conclude that someone had been killed and their body left in the Dumpster. And this sergeant thought that the people who had been in my home last night might have something to do with it. Maybe one of those people was dead, lying not twenty feet away, hidden by the steel walls of the Dumpster.

  The sight of all the police vehicles had surprised and frightened me. Once I had known that Bruce and his crew were safe, I hadn’t thought much more about who had died, or why they were here. The nonchalance of the sergeant had lulled me into a false calm. I wasn’t feeling calm now, and the ease of the conversation between Beth and him wasn’t helping.

  “Not a problem,” Beth said to Sergeant Granger. “We can get Judy’s phone number to you in less than an hour. Unless you need it sooner. We were just going for a walk.”

  “That will be fine,” he agreed and handed her a card. They had a conversation about which number she was to call.

  I was staring at the Dumpster. What kind of a person killed someone and then just threw the body in a trash receptacle?

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Can you tell me who is dead? I assume someone is dead.” I gestured to the coroner’s van.

  Sergeant Granger’s expression held surprise as he turned to me. “I’m sorry, but we aren’t ready to release any names yet.” He turned back to Beth. “If you’d give me your phone number, I’d appreciate it. I’d like to set up an interview.”

  Bruce had stepped a few feet away, and I followed him. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked. His coloring was normally ruddy from all the time spent outdoors, but this morning his skin was a dreary ash.

  “I’m fine.” He continued walking and I stayed with him.

  “You want to talk about it?” I asked.

  “Are you going to give me a choice?”

  And then I realized the source of his drained appearance. “You found the body, didn’t you?”

  “And the blood. And what killed him.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, but Sergeant Granger was deep in conversation with Beth and paying no attention to us. “Him?” I said. “It was a man?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Damn. But why? I mean, what were you doing? You can’t see into the Dumpster unless you’re seven feet tall, and you aren’t. And there—wasn’t anything in there—well, it was supposed to be empty, wasn’t it? How did you happen to find him?”

  “You writing an article?”

  “Inquiring minds,” I said. “I just want to know how you happened to find him. Do you mind telling me?”

  He thought about it for a second. “When I came up the drive I saw a trail of,“—he swallowed—”of something dark coming out of the Dumpster. At first I thought it was oil, and I was pissed because it was staining the driveway. As you know, the owners aren’t going to stand for that. Then I ran my boot through it and there was red. I needed to figure out what it was so I could get the stain off.” He rubbed his face with his hand. “I could see through a seam of the Dumpster, but I couldn’t see enough, so I climbed up the side. He was on his stomach, and the back of his head was . . . wasn’t there.”

  “My Lord.” I held back a gag and took in some air. “Did he fall into the Dumpster? An accident, maybe? I mean, what did you do?” I hoped I was sounding clinical, and I hoped my stomach believed that I wasn’t upset by this.

  “I climbed in and checked his pulse, but there wasn’t one. And no, it wasn’t an accident. The bottom of the Dumpster is flat, and he couldn’t have fallen from the top and done that kind of damage. Besides, I’m pretty sure I found what did it.” A shudder ran through his body. “Anyway, I turned him over.”

  “Did you recognize him?” I lowered my voice. “Was it someone you knew?”

  “I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you that.”

  “But you’re pretty sure this was murder? You can’t possibly think that I killed him. Come on, Bruce. That’s ridiculous.” We had continued walking and now we were nearing the corner, out of earshot and sight, and I hoped, out of mind of the sergeant. “Well? Are you going to tell me, or do I have to beat it out of you?” His lips turned white, and for a second I thought he was going to vomit. “I’m sorry. Damn. I didn’t mean that.” But now I was pretty sure of the murder method, and it gave me chill bumps on my arms.

  Bruce leaned over and picked up some nails that were scattered in the dirt. Then he looked back to see if we were being watched, and when he realized that no one was paying any attention, he stood and said, “I knew the guy who was murdered. He probably deserved killing, but I didn’t do it.”

  “I believe you. Who was it?”

  “Andrew Lynch.”

  I could feel my eyes strain outward. “Houston’s . . . protégé . . . assistant, whatever he was? That Andrew Lynch?”

  “That’s the one.”

  I leaned back against a telephone pole. This was a shocker. Andrew Lynch was dead. I looked up at Bruce. “You said the back of his . . . uh, you said that you found what you think killed him. What was it?”

  “A big brass candlestick.”

  “A brass—” I had to take in air. “About this big?” I held my hands about two feet apart, and Bruce nodded. “And the base had brass leaves? And two more sections on up the candlestick?”

  Again he nodded. “How’d you know?”

  “And really heavy?”

  “Yes. Now tell me how you know?”

  I had to stop the whirling of my brain. “I think,” I said, “I think that Andrew was killed with my candlestick from the conservatory.”

  Despite early morning death, Beth and I had power walked for over thirty minutes. I wanted to tell her what Bruce had said, but I held back at first, not wanting to make the morning as frightening for her as it was for me. Then, because of the intensity of the workout, I couldn’t talk anyway.

  By the time we got back to the Manse, I felt frightened and violated—more so because it appeared likely that my candlestick had been used to kill Andrew. I wanted to go back to bed. That’s what I do when I’m stressed—I sleep. Unfortunately, sleep was not an option. I had promised to make myself available during the day, greeting guests and acting as hostess.

  Beth was energized and she practically flew up the back stairs to shower. I detoured to the living room, hoping against hope that the candlesticks were still on the sofa table. They weren’t. Neither one, which seemed a little odd. One of them should have been there.

  I checked the conservatory, which had been turned into a tearoom, with dozens of small white tables and white wooden chairs. Each table had teal cloth napkins,
with a beaded napkin ring of clear glass beads interspersed with sparkling peach beads. The conservatory had never looked so charming.

  Unfortunately, the fireplace had never looked so bare. The mantel had nothing on it. Not two candlesticks, not even one. The tourmaline necklace wasn’t there, either, but I thought I remembered that it was going to be shown in a booth in the tent.

  It was disconcerting not to find the candlesticks, but not surprising. What I couldn’t figure out was why both of them were missing. That made no sense. It also meant that not only had Andrew been in my home last night, but so had the murder weapon, and probably the murderer. While Andrew hadn’t been a completely upstanding business person, I couldn’t see him trying to steal two decorator items. And why? I personally never liked them all that much. They were okay, and they were part of the legacy of the house, but certainly not easily hidden. They were two feet long, and they were heavy. You couldn’t hide them under a coat, which, of course, no one had been wearing last night, given the Austin weather.

  A part of me wanted to tell the police that the murder weapon had come from my house, but I wasn’t supposed to know about the murder weapon. If I said anything it would put Bruce in a bad light. It might even make him a suspect.

  I yawned and went up to my room and showered. I was dressed and starting to put on my makeup when Beth raced in.

  “I called Judy with the Ovarian Cancer Organization; she’s on the phone now. She wants to fax me the guest list, but your fax doesn’t work. The rubber is all messed up.”

  “Sinatra ate it. Why don’t you talk to Granger? I’ll bet the station has a fax number.”

  “Thanks.” She was halfway out the door when I stopped her.

  “Why don’t you let me handle that, since you have so much more to do for the booth?”

  “Uh . . .” She paused. “No problem. I’ll take care of it.” Then she raced out again. The speed of that woman was increasing in direct proportion to the amount of weight she was losing. It needed to stop soon or our almost-fifty-year friendship was going to end; I wouldn’t be able to keep up with her.

  By the time I made it downstairs, the volunteers were everywhere, and there was a line of people at the front door waiting to get in to have tea. Luckily each ticket had a seating time, so the line wasn’t too long. Others were milling outside the tent waiting for it to open.

  I was on a mission. That damned candlestick had to be somewhere, and that somewhere had to be in my house. I looked in the conservatory again, just in case I’d missed it earlier—as if that were even possible. I went around the entire room, looking behind plants and under tablecloths. I was practically under a serving table when someone spoke to me.

  “Hi. Did you need some help?” It was Lauren from Houston’s office. I crawled out and smoothed my hair as I stood up. “Oh. Miss Camden.” She backed up. “I didn’t know it was you.”

  “It’s all right, Lauren. I’m not going to bite you.”

  “Oh, I know.” But she didn’t look like she believed me.

  “I am looking for a very large brass candlestick. Actually two of them that were on the fireplace. Have you seen them?”

  “Uh, no, ma’ am. ”

  “Thank you. And don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ ”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said, then stopped. “Uh, I’m sorry. I just forgot.”

  I looked at her for a moment. She was not dressed quite as top-of-the-line as she’d been yesterday in Houston’s office, but she still looked nice in black slacks and a white shirt, which was standard fare for the servers at the tea. I couldn’t help but wonder if she knew about Andrew.

  I decided she didn’t. I could only hope that when she found out she was back at Houston’s, fending off visitors or whatever her main job was. I didn’t want her here. I didn’t want that murder any closer than it already was.

  She was still watching me warily, which was her problem, not mine. “Lauren, I didn’t realize you were going to be here. You must be a member of the Bead Society. Or the OCO.

  “Uh, no, ma’a . . . I mean, no, I’m not. Houston sent me down here, kind of as a donation. He’s paying me to be here, since Rebecca can’t work this hard, and he’s busy.”

  I nodded. “That’s very nice of him. Thank you.”

  “It’s a really pretty house.”

  “Thank you.” She was so ramrod straight I was tempted to say “as you were, soldier,” but I didn’t. I went looking in several of the coat closets and even the pantry, but by that time the front doors were open and guests were coming in.

  When we have big events at the Manse, my mother and I become minor celebrities. Not movie star status, no secret service or hulking bodyguards, but we do make a point of walking through and visiting with people. We also end up getting our picture taken with dozens of guests, and we autograph menus or tickets or such. No one has ever asked me to sign a body part, and I’m just as happy with that. I did sign several T-shirts one year, after a bike race, but that’s all.

  Our family has always figured if we aren’t willing to do such things, then we should simply stay out of sight. Nowadays my mother can go to the gatehouse and she isn’t bothered. In the Manse itself we have some of those velvet ropes to close off areas we don’t want guests in. We don’t use them often, since we know people like to look around, but there are times when they are quite useful, like when I had the flu and I was upstairs with several boxes of Kleenex, bottles of aspirin, and two good books. I also had a box of chocolate-covered cherries, which I’m positive have vitamin C in them. Well, they are fruit. In any case, I didn’t want people seeing me that way.

  Another classic example is the time Sinatra had accidentally been closed up in an upstairs bedroom for a full day. The room was not fit for company when the Juvenile Diabetes Research Association had a fund-raiser that evening, so the velvet rope went up. I’m sure people think there’s an exotic reason that we close off certain rooms, but the smell of cat poop is exotic enough for me.

  On this particular day I had insisted that my mother rest and only show up for the last two or three hours, which meant I was to be out front, at least for a while. And that’s exactly what I did during my first hour: I greeted people, visited with friends and supporters of the organizations involved, and even snitched half a scone—a bite-size scone—which I did not intend to tell Beth about.

  During the second hour people started coming in with my phone jewelry, asking me to sign the instruction cards that were attached. I was pleased to do that, since it was all helping to raise money and awareness to fight ovarian cancer. It was also during that hour that I found someone who could tell me why Tess, my former assistant, wasn’t there.

  “Kitzi.” Judy O’Bannon, the president of OCO, caught me just as I was coming back from the bathroom. “I heard that you were looking for Tess Lewis,” she said.

  “I was and I am. Last I talked to her she was going to be here.”

  Judy looked concerned. “When was that?”

  I had to think about it. “Not too long ago. Maybe about a month. Why? What’s happened?”

  “She’s in the hospital.”

  We stared at each other, and I had the feeling that Judy knew things about ovarian cancer that I would hopefully never know. Her expression frightened me. “Is she—I mean, is her cancer . . . ?”

  Judy patted my arm. “I don’t know anything, Kitzi. Last night someone told me that Tess’s doctor put her in the hospital. It hasn’t been that long, just since Tuesday. I was planning on stopping by this weekend.”

  “I’ll go see her this afternoon,” I said. “Damn it. Someone has to do something about this cancer. Find a cure. Get the word out on how deadly it is, and how tricky the symptoms are.”

  Her smile was sad. “We’re trying, Kitzi. This weekend is a start, remember?”

  I was not only preaching to the choir, but I was also griping at the choir director for not doing enough. “I’m sorry. I just get frustrated. Do you know which hospital Tess is in?
”

  She told me, then added, “It could be nothing. Maybe just an intestinal blockage. It’s not uncommon after women have a very aggressive surgery where some of the intestine was removed.”

  I agreed, and thanked her. Our conversation had made me even more aware of the importance of what we were doing, which sent me back to my hostessing duties with a renewed smile. I took pictures with guests, and huge tables of guests. We had roving photographer who put the shots on a bulletin board for purchase, proceeds going to the OCO.

  That was the second hour of my duties, and the third hour was lunch, which is when I left the house to spell Beth, who was selling things. I hoped. It was the first chance I’d had to really think about Andrew’s murder. It seemed as impossible now as it had earlier, but through the foliage around the parking area I could see snatches of yellow crime-scene tape. I wondered what our guests thought about that, and if any had realized what a terrible crime had taken place. With my candlestick.

  And somehow I had to talk to the sergeant about that. I just couldn’t figure out how without making Bruce look bad. I unjumbled some ideas about that, and finally set aside the whole mess. There would be plenty of time later, after lunch and a few more hours in the conservatory and some time at the hospital with Tess.

  The tent was busy, which I took to be a good sign for the Bead Society and the OCO. It was so crowded that even the food booth had been moved outside to make more room. I started down the first row of vendors and forgot all about illness and murder. I was busy ogling all the beads and the items made with them. A bead-induced trance.

  The first display that caught me had stunning flowers, all created with tiny seed beads. Purple bead gladiolas and elegant white lilies stood in a tall vase. Delicate hyacinths were nestled in an Easter basket, and colorful gerbera daisies all of beads sat in a maple-syrup bucket.

  The crowd moved me forward, and I was facing a booth filled with watches. Hundreds of watches, all with beaded bands. Some were strung with semiprecious stone chips and looked southwestern. Others had bands of delicate pearls, which gave them an elegant and formal look. There were crystal bands and some of seed beads and some with unique mixes of all types of beads. I had no idea how I could select just one watch out of so many beautiful ones. I’d have to have one for every facet of my personality, which would certainly break the bank . . .