“Mr. Morrison,” Deputy Harishan called. “I need to talk to you again.”
Brian stopped. “I told you everything I know when I was in the office yesterday.”
“Not quite everything,” Deputy Hardishan said, a meaningful edge to his voice, and I had the sudden epiphany that Brian, not the two of us, was the main focus of today’s visit from the law. Although the deputy still turned and gave us a hard look. “I also may need to talk to the two of you again later.”
So we weren’t off the hook, but apparently we were dismissed for the moment. Not giving the deputy time to change his mind, but not wanting him to think we were overly anxious to get away, we did our own casual saunter to the pickup. Once inside, we looked back to where Brian and the deputy stood by the car. Kathy came out and tucked her hand under Brian’s arm. Woman Standing by Her Man. I also spotted Sheila’s car parked over by Duke’s trailer.
More discussion and then Brian motioned Kathy to go back inside. She seemed reluctant to go, and he actually gave her a little boost. He didn’t appear to be under arrest, but he got in the car with the deputy, and they drove away. Kathy stood at the door to their apartment, clutching the knob with both hands behind her and watching the departing car.
“I wonder what that was all about.”
“I’ll go over and see if she’s okay,” Ivy said. “If she needs help or anything.”
Ivy emptied the rocks in her pocket into the plastic bag of beach rocks she’d earlier picked up at the cove and headed toward Kathy still standing at the door. I knew she had to be as curious as I was about the little scenario we’d just witnessed, but, knowing Ivy, I also knew she wasn’t going to Kathy simply out of curiosity; she was concerned about the woman.
IVY
I halfway expected Kathy to scurry through the door and leave me standing outside like a stray cat, but she just stood there. I couldn’t tell from her expression what she was feeling. Bewildered? Dismayed? Angry?
“Is anything wrong?” I asked. “Can I do anything to help?”
Her gaze finally focused on me. “No. Everything’s fine,” she snapped. “The deputy had a few more questions to ask Brian, that’s all, and Brian told him he’d rather do it at the station than here.” She straightened her sagging shoulders. “People call in with the most absurd ideas when there’s a crime, you know.”
“The sheriff’s office got a tip about something?”
“It’s all such a ridiculous waste of time. That’s why Brian said he’d rather do the interview at the station instead of here. So it wouldn’t waste my time as well as his. Brian is always so thoughtful. He knows I have things to do.”
A rather lengthy comment, and it made me think of some old saying about methinks the lady doth protest too much, especially when she added, “I’m reorganizing the kitchen cabinets.”
Yes, that was so important. We all need to keep our spices and boxes of cereal organized.
“Alphabetical?” I inquired politely. “Or by size of container?” She just glared at me, and I added, “Everything’s okay, then?”
“Everything’s fine. I told you that. Brian has already been very helpful to the law officers, you know. Telling them about his lunch to talk investment properties with that woman who was killed, which was apparently the last time anyone saw her.”
I had the impression the deputy hadn’t spelled out what the tip was about, at least to Kathy, but she probably suspected it was about Brian’s non-business relationship with Renée. Which was no doubt why Brian preferred to be interviewed at the station rather than at home.
So, who had the tip come from? There must be various people who knew about Brian and Renée’s affair and might alert the sheriff’s office to it, people I didn’t know. But the one name I did know, Sheila, jumped into my head and stuck there like a piece of gum under a movie seat.
“Have you heard from your nice friends since they left?” Kathy asked. “I forget her name. Mildred? Marvella?”
A deliberate change of subject, and an equally deliberate mangling of Magnolia’s name. Kathy knew perfectly well what Magnolia’s name was. Being recognized by Magnolia had been an obvious knee-rattling shock for her, but now she was trying to give the impression that she barely remembered this former neighbor.
“Magnolia,” I said.
“Oh, yes, of course. Magnolia! So nice to see her again. Does she keep in touch with neighbors back in Missouri?”
“They still own their home there, so they go back occasionally. But neither of us really stays in touch with anyone. The neighborhood has changed, and most of the people we knew are dead or moved away.”
I thought I caught a slight relaxing of Kathy’s shoulders, as if she was relieved to hear that. She gave an elaborate sigh. “Isn’t it sad how things can change so quickly? I didn’t live there long enough to get attached to the neighborhood, and I was so busy taking care of Andy, of course, that I never really got to know anyone. But I do remember it as a lovely street.”
“Well, I know you have work to do, so I won’t keep you from it. But if there’s anything I can do—”
“Thank you. You’ve already done enough, I’m sure.” She smiled sweetly, as if she was really grateful, but I caught the snarky undercurrent.
So, what did that mean? I’d already “done enough.” Did she think that tip to the authorities had come from us?
Back at the motorhome, Mac remembered he’d dropped the shovel up by the hole Brian had fallen into. He wanted to retrieve and return it, of course, but we decided that could wait until later. We’d both had enough hill climbing for one day. He took BoBandy out for a short walk instead.
I wanted to talk to Sheila and find out if she knew anything about Renée’s ex-husband, but she wasn’t home from Duke’s yet. Then another curiosity intervened. I was almost certain Kathy had been relieved when I said that neither Magnolia nor I kept in close touch with neighbors back in Missouri. Why? I dug in my purse for the information about Magnolia’s friend back in Missouri that I’d scribbled on a scratch pad.
I had to locate a phone number to go with the name, a rather lengthy process since I’d never done it on the cell phone. Even after I had the number I didn’t expect to reach Franny Lisbon right away, but after only two rings a woman answered with a cheery hello.
“Hi. Is this Franny Lisbon?” Hastily, to forestall an immediate hang-up because I probably sounded like a telemarketer, I added, “We’ve never met, but I’m a friend of Magnolia’s from there on Madison Street, and—”
“Oh yes, Magnolia! I haven’t seen her since—” She broke off as if suddenly realizing that volunteering information that Magnolia was away from home was a bad idea. “But they’re coming home soon. Maybe today! I always keep a close watch on their place for them. And this is—?”
I knew Magnolia and Geoff wouldn’t be home today, but I appreciated Franny’s attempt to rectify her slipup on giving out information about an empty house to a stranger. “I’m Ivy MacPherson. Although I was Ivy Malone when I lived on Madison Street, across from Magnolia and Geoff. That was before you moved to the area, so we’ve never met. They came up to our wedding in Montana.”
“What color was Magnolia’s hair?”
At first I thought it was just a friendly question, but then I realized she was checking me out. If I really was Magnolia’s friend, not some stranger planning house burglary, I’d know about Magnolia’s ever-changing hair color. “It was a lovely orchid for the wedding, but she’d changed to royal purple when I saw her a few days ago. They’d been in Idaho on one of her genealogy trips and were headed for Arizona.”
Franny chuckled. “That’s our Magnolia, isn’t it? She must have the widest array of hair colors and the biggest family tree on the planet.”
Okay, that took care of the formalities. I was properly identified, and perhaps I’d given Franny a tidbit or two so she could maintain her status as local gossip queen. “Why I’m calling is, I wonder if you re
member a neighbor over on Jefferson Street, Genevieve Higman. Her husband’s name was Andy, but he died, and she moved away.”
No hesitation from Franny. She instantly yanked Genevieve out of a mental file of old gossip. “Yes, I remember Genevieve. I didn’t know her well, but I’ve wondered what became of her.”
“So you don’t know where she went when she moved away?”
“No. She just disappeared after her husband died. It was a little strange. Rude, actually, now that I think of it. I mean, I used to take her cookies or an occasional casserole. I even sat with Andy a couple of times when she had errands to run. And then she just up and left without a word.” It sounded as if my asking about Genevieve Higman had revived an old grievance about the woman.
“I suppose the job of taking care of someone twenty-four seven can become overwhelming.”
“Yes, I suppose so. I don’t think they’d been married too long, and she’d spent several years taking care of an ailing mother before him. I do believe she was rather overwhelmed. I hope she’s getting along okay.”
Not married long? I’d thought, from the way Kathy talked, that she and first husband Andy had been married a long time. But perhaps, from her age, I’d just assumed that. Did any of this change my suspicions about that first husband’s death? Or just raise more questions?
“She sold the house?”
“They were just renting.”
“Was it a happy marriage, do you think?”
If the question surprised her, she gave no sign of it. “I suppose so, at least as happy as was possible in her husband’s condition.” Franny hesitated before her voice lowered to a confidential level. “I probably shouldn’t say anything . . .”
I hesitated too. Probably shouldn’t say anything was undoubtedly a signpost on the pathway to gossip. Maybe I should just back out of the conversation . . . But for me, of course, this was investigation, not gossip. Although there sometimes seems a rather fine line between the two.
“But after one of the times I sat with Andy, a friend told me she’d seen Genevieve coming out of a motel over on the other side of town. Genevieve had told me she had to go to the doctor’s office and get a bill straightened out. So I, you know, wondered. I mean a motel, in the middle of the afternoon?”
I made one of my brilliant comments. “Umm.”
“But she was alone, my friend said.” Franny paused before adding in a virtuous tone, “So probably she was just visiting out-of-town friends after she’d been to the doctor’s office. Or something like that.”
“Did she ever mention other family?”
“Just that mother who died. Cancer, I think it was.”
“Her husband died of a heart attack, didn’t he?”
“Yes. He’d had heart trouble for quite some time, although we didn’t know that right away. He was out and around a time or two when they first came, but he became bedridden rather soon.”
“Maybe they moved to the area for better medical treatment for him?”
“Could be. Although he certainly got a lot worse after they came here. She had enough medications lined up on the counter to start a pharmacy of her own. Poor guy. And he’d gotten so terribly thin. I hardly recognized him. But Genevieve took devoted care of him,” she declared. “I can certainly say that for her.”
“When you were sitting with Andy, did you talk to him?”
“Not really. Genevieve had said he’d probably sleep most of the time, and that’s what he did. Though one time when he woke up he was quite agitated and kept asking for Evie. I mentioned that to Genevieve, and she said Evie was his sister. Who’d died years ago.”
“How sad. Did he ever seem afraid?”
“Afraid? No. He just wanted his sister Evie. And her long dead. So, poor guy, it wasn’t just his heart that was bad. His mind was failing too.”
I was fairly certain Franny suspected Genevieve may have had a relationship going on outside of devotedly caring for husband Andy, but I didn’t catch any hint of suspicion about her hurrying his death along. And if she did have that suspicion, I was also fairly certain she’d mention it. Franny was not a zipped-lip keeper of secrets.
“You know, this is really odd,” she said suddenly.
“Odd?”
“I hadn’t thought about Genevieve for a long time, but now you’re the second person to ask about her within the last few days.”
Another repetitive echo from me. “The second person?”
“Yes, it was, let’s see, a week ago Thursday that a man came to the house inquiring about her. Although his inquiry was of a more, oh, official nature I guess you’d call it.”
“You mean law enforcement?”
“No. He was a private investigator.”
A private investigator? I was startled. Did someone else have suspicions about Genevieve? “Did he say why he was looking for her?”
“Not specifically, but I think, from little things he let slip, that it was about an inheritance. I’m very observant about things other people might not notice,” she explained as if she were sharing a confidence. “Why are you looking for her?”
Because I suspected she may have killed her first husband back there in Missouri. Because I suspected she and/or her current husband may have killed a woman here. I didn’t want to blurt out such tabloid-worthy accusations, but neither did I want to manufacture some pie-in-the-sky story. The truth and I sometimes have an uncomfortable relationship, but it seems to be a permanent relationship, not one I can toss away like old pantyhose. So I dodged an explanation and tried a different route.
“I think I’d like to talk to this private investigator. Did he leave a card or any way to get in touch with him?”
“Yes, he did. But you haven’t said why you called to ask about Genevieve.”
I couldn’t tell if she was really concerned about my motives or just curious enough to push the issue. “I’ve recently had some unexpected contact with Genevieve out here on the West Coast. Magnolia was here and talked to her too.” I didn’t mention how not glad to see us Genevieve/Kathy was, but I did say, “We were both a bit concerned about her. She uses her middle name now, and she’s remarried and seems happy enough, but—” I broke off and searched for a but that didn’t include suspecting she was a killer. “But I’m sure an unexpected inheritance would be most welcome,” I finally added brightly.
“The thing is, after the man left—” Franny’s voice dropped to that confidential level again. “I hate to say this because he certainly seemed nice enough, but I wondered afterward if it was some kind of scam.”
“Scam?”
“You know how they’re always warning you about people on the phone pretending to be a grandson or an IRS agent or something. I happen to know Genevieve came into a big insurance payoff when her mother died. That happened before Genevieve and Andy moved here, even before they were married, I think.”
“You did mention they hadn’t been married long.”
“Anyway, I’ve wondered if this man who was looking for her was trying to pull some crooked scheme to do her out of that insurance money. I have no idea what kind of schemes crooks try to pull, but he just didn’t look like a private investigator.”
“That’s why dishonest schemes work. Honest people can’t figure them out.” I hesitated, feeling a little guilty because my mind quickly tossed up a possibility. What did that say about me? “I’ve heard about a scheme to get a victim to pay a finder’s fee before they’ll provide information about collecting an inheritance. But then, after the victim pays, the con man is long gone. Because there never was any inheritance.”
“Oh, how awful. Preying on someone like that. You can’t trust anyone anymore, can you?”
“In what way didn’t he look like a private investigator?”
Franny’s sudden laugh sounded self-conscious. “I suppose those of us who’ve never met a real private investigator get our ideas about how they look from movies or TV. Handsome and
suave, but tough underneath. And very attractive to women, of course.”
“So what did this man look like?”
“He was kind of, well, chubby. Our street is on a bit of a hill, you know, and by the time he got up the steps to my door he was puffing. He wore glasses that he had to keep pushing back on his nose, and his hair was in a comb-over style to cover a balding spot.”
A fairly observant woman, Franny Lisbon. “Not exactly a James Bond or Magnum PI type, then,” I said.
“No, but don’t get me wrong—he didn’t look scruffy or sleazy. He wore a very nice suit, and his handkerchief was clean when he got it out to wipe his forehead. If I were guessing, I’d say he looked more like an accountant than a private investigator. But we shouldn’t stereotype people on the basis of how they look,” she added as if chastising herself. “And he did have a marvelous voice, very deep and manly.”
“Maybe his not looking like a private investigator enables him to be a very good private investigator,” I suggested. “Kind of throws people off guard.”
“Yes, that could be.”
Although it also occurred to me that an accountant might well be able to come up with a nifty inheritance scheme.
“I certainly wouldn’t want Genevieve to miss out on an inheritance if there really is one, just because I thought the private investigator didn’t look right. There was that other detective on TV who always wore an old raincoat that looked as if he’d slept in it.”
“Columbo?” I suggested.
“Yes, that’s the one. Do you intend to contact this man?”
“I’m not sure. What did he want to know about her?”
“The main thing, of course, was that he wanted to find out where she was now. But he also wanted to know how well I’d known both Genevieve and Andy. How long they lived on Jefferson Street, and did I know where they’d lived before that. Did she seem to be taking good care of her husband and was he ever in a nursing home. Oh, and pictures. He wanted to know if I had any photos of her or her husband.”
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