Murder, She Edited

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

  I jumped when Luke came up behind me.

  “Find something?” he asked.

  “Yes, but not what I was looking for.” The family Bible was interesting, but it was also a distraction. “Will you put this in the car for me? Then I can get back to searching for the diaries.”

  We should have quit while we were ahead. We’d had all the luck we were going to for one day. Although we looked in every drawer and cabinet we could find, even those I’d already been through, peered under beds, rapped on walls, and looked behind picture frames, there was no sign of any diaries. We even ventured into the musty reaches of the attic to open old trunks full of mothballs and seriously outdated clothing. The most exciting thing we found was a campaign button that said “I Like Ike.” At midafternoon, tired, dirty, and hungry, since I’d neglected to pack a lunch, we headed home to Lenape Hollow.

  “What are you planning to do next?” Luke asked from the passenger seat.

  “I wish I knew. Those diaries have to be somewhere in the house.”

  “No, they don’t,” Luke reminded me. “You said yourself that they may have been there when Tessa left, but they could well have disappeared at any time in the years since. If the police didn’t take them, maybe someone else did. You should talk to that cleaning service Tessa hired.”

  “Interview sixty years’ worth of housekeepers? Oh, there’s a fun task!”

  “Start small, then. Talk to someone at the sheriff’s department. Maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll find the diaries in some dusty corner of an evidence room.”

  I’m ninety-percent certain Luke was trying to be helpful, as opposed to facetious, but with each suggestion he made, I felt more discouraged.

  “We should also search the outbuildings,” he added.

  I glanced his way. He looked serious.

  “Tessa’s instructions said I’d find the diaries in the house.” I found it difficult to work up much enthusiasm for looking elsewhere. I hadn’t inspected any of the other structures close up, but from a distance they all had a distinctly derelict appearance.

  “Tessa was over a hundred years old. Maybe she wasn’t senile, but are you sure her memory was all that great? Maybe she took the diaries with her when she left and just forgot she had them.”

  “In that case, Mr. Featherstone would have found them in her effects, the way he found my mother’s letters, and would already have passed them on to me.”

  “Would he?”

  “You are way too good at playing devil’s advocate.”

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “No. Why do you question the lawyer’s motives?”

  “I was remembering what you told me about his refusal to tell you who inherits if you don’t fulfill the conditions of Tessa’s bequest. Could she have left the property to him? Maybe he’d like to own the house, or the land, himself.”

  I sent Luke a narrow-eyed look. “Are we still talking about that ‘white elephant’ you were afraid I’d be stuck with?”

  He laughed. “That’s the one. Hey, here’s another thought: The old lady was totally gaga and the diaries never existed at all.”

  “So many wonderful possibilities.” I didn’t bother to hide my sarcasm.

  “Giving up?”

  “Not on your life. Are you game for another go after I have the chance to check into a few things? Maybe you could ask Ellen to join us.”

  “Why not? I have to admit I’m intrigued in spite of myself, and Ellen loves a good mystery as much as you do. Do you want us to bring along a crowbar? Maybe one of the Swarthouts had a hidey-hole under the floorboards.”

  That comment coaxed a reluctant smile out of me. “Keep in mind that I don’t own the place yet. Wholesale demolition may be a little drastic.”

  All the same, checking for loose floorboards in the bedrooms went to the top of the list of things to look into on my next visit to the farm.

  Chapter Sixteen

  By the time Luke and I returned to Lenape Hollow, we had our plans in place for the next phase of the search. He phoned Ellen from the car and secured her enthusiastic agreement to help us look for the diaries. The only downside was that she wouldn’t be available until Tuesday. Her hours as a police officer involve shiftwork, which in turn means her days off tend to be in the middle of the week.

  I wasn’t averse to waiting until then to go back to the farm. I had other strings I could pull in the interim, not to mention the work I had pending for clients and on the library newsletter.

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to get hold of Leland Featherstone until Monday at the earliest, when the law firm reopened for business, but I had quite a few questions for Tessa’s lawyer. Even if he wanted to keep me in the dark about who would inherit if I failed to meet Tessa’s condition, he could have no reason to hold back the names of the companies who’d kept the house clean and in good repair over the years. I also wanted to know more about the security company he’d mentioned. There was no alarm system at the farm, and I hadn’t noticed any security cameras. There weren’t even any “this house is protected by” decals in the windows.

  After Luke drove away, I let myself into the house and reset my security system. I was heading for the kitchen to make myself a late lunch when I noticed the madly flashing light on my answering machine. I detoured into the living room to listen to the messages. What I heard left me with plenty of food for thought while I fixed myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

  Every single message had been left by Bella Trent—a series of long, rambling monologues that didn’t make a lot of sense. The gist of each, however, was the same. Bella wanted to meet her favorite romance writer in person and had apparently convinced herself that Illyria Dubonnet would immediately make herself available for such an encounter if her friend—that would be me—made the arrangements. I was to do so at once!

  “If only Bella had believed me when I’d told her ‘Illyria’ was out of the country on a research trip,” I lamented to the cat. “I should have been more specific.”

  Calpurnia looked from me to her empty bowl and back again. I abandoned my sandwich to pick it up, put it in the sink, and run hot water into it to soak off the crusted remains. Then I opened a fresh can of cat food.

  “I could have said she was in Australia at a romance writers’ conference, or on a river cruise somewhere in Europe,” I continued as I scooped Seafood Surprise into a clean bowl. I had to wrinkle my nose against the strong fishy smell. “Maybe a more detailed lie would have convinced her to leave me alone.”

  Calpurnia was far more interested in eating than answering. I left her to it and carried the sandwich and a glass of milk to the dinette table. As I ate, I considered what to do about Bella Trent.

  Introducing Bella to Lenora was out of the question. It wasn’t that my old friend wouldn’t come for a visit if I asked. She’d spent several days as my houseguest the previous August. But it was precisely because of the things we’d talked about during that visit that I knew such a request would be a terrible imposition. She’d gone back to Maine afterward in order to teach for one more year before she retired. Her plans for this summer included writing another of her literate but steamy novels, grubbing in her flower garden, catching up on her recreational reading, and going fishing.

  Since I wasn’t about to agree to Bella’s request, I thought it best that I simply ignore her phone calls. At least she didn’t also have my cell phone number. No one did but close friends and family.

  Reminded that it probably needed a charge, I popped the last bite of my sandwich into my mouth, chewed and swallowed, and washed it down with the remaining milk. Then I fished the cell phone out of the bottom of my tote bag, hunted up the charger, and plugged it in. The screen lit up, showing me it was still a long way from dead, even though I hadn’t used it in ages.

  I have a love-hate relationship with my cell phone. I take it with me when I go out, and have been glad, once or twice, to be able to call for a tow truck or let someone know that I was
running late. I do, occasionally, use it to take a picture, but most of its functions are beyond my level of technical expertise. I don’t know how to text and have no interest in learning.

  For phone calls, my preference will always be a landline. As soon as my chores in the kitchen were done, I settled myself on the loveseat in the living room and picked up the receiver on the extension that sits on the end table, attached to the answering machine. I punched in the number written on the back of a business card I’d been given over a year earlier. When Calpurnia hopped up beside me, I stroked her absently with one hand while I waited, a bit nervously, for someone to answer.

  I heard the click as he picked up. A moment later, Detective Arthur Brightwell of the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department snapped out his name in a harsh, impatient voice.

  Should I respond in a bright and cheery tone of voice or hope that sounding apologetic would elicit more sympathy? I had only a second to decide. What came out of my mouth was somewhere in between.

  “Good afternoon, Detective Brightwell. This is Michelle Lincoln. I hope you won’t think it presumptuous of me, but I have a favor to ask.”

  Dead silence greeted this conversational foray. I was about to try another approach when he cleared his throat. “This isn’t the best time, Ms. Lincoln.”

  “Is there a good one?”

  He gave a bark of laughter. The sound wasn’t particularly encouraging, but it was so in character that I could suddenly picture him with complete clarity. In my mind’s eye, he appeared as a man in his late thirties and only a little taller than I am—perhaps five foot eight—with black hair and a physique that, while not flabby, wasn’t exactly trim, either. In that image, he glared at me, but there was also a distinct twinkle in his eyes.

  “At least you caught me when I’m in the office instead of in the field,” he said in a slightly less antagonistic tone. “You’ve got five minutes. Make it good.”

  I didn’t know Brightwell well, and I certainly wouldn’t have called him a friend, but he had given me his card. I tried to focus on that, rather than on the fact that, when we first met, he considered me a viable suspect in a murder case.

  My words came out in a rush. “I’ve inherited a house in Swan’s Crossing where a murder took place back in the nineteen fifties.” I gave him the exact date. “The victim was Rosanna Swarthout, and her killer was never caught. Is it possible records from the investigation still exist? I’d like to know what the police took away as evidence. As a condition of the inheritance, I’m supposed to edit some diaries left behind in that house, but I haven’t been able to locate them.”

  After I stopped talking, there was another moment of silence. This one had ominous overtones and seemed to stretch out for hours.

  Then I heard Brightwell sigh. “You don’t want much, do you?”

  “Does the sheriff’s department keep records that old?”

  “Keep? Yeah. But they won’t be in the computer.”

  I envisioned a stuffy basement room, crammed to the ceiling with file boxes. “What about evidence from that long ago?”

  “For an open case, everything should have been kept, but I won’t guarantee it was. Look, I’ll see what I can find, but I’m not making any promises. Cold cases aren’t exactly top priority around here, and satisfying the curiosity of civilians is even lower on the list.”

  “I appreciate anything you can do to help.”

  I was talking to empty air. He’d hung up on me.

  “Well,” I said to the cat, “It was worth a try.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Although the next day was Sunday, I skipped church to spend a little more time on material sent to me by my paying clients. When I took a break to check my e-mail, I found a message from an aspiring writer who’d just discovered my Write Right Wright website and was inquiring about hiring me to help her find ways to improve her work. I skimmed over what at first appeared to be fairly typical wording for such a request: “I am in need of an editor for the novel I have just completed.”

  A moment later, I blinked and went back to reread that sentence. What I saw the second time through had me laughing out loud. My prospective client had clearly meant to type the word editor, and that’s what my mind had substituted on the initial read, but what she’d actually written was ediotor. I couldn’t help but wonder if that had been a Freudian slip as well as a typographical error. Perhaps she’d just coined a new word to express her true feelings toward those in my profession. Bella Trent would certainly agree that there was such a thing as an idiot editor.

  It was more likely, of course, that she’d inserted an extra letter by accident. That can happen easily enough, especially when someone is typing rapidly.

  It also makes a good case for proofreading e-mails before hitting SEND.

  After I’d composed, proofread, and sent a reply, I took a break for lunch. I was just fixing myself a sandwich with some leftover pot roast, and reminding Calpurnia that she’d already been fed, when I heard Darlene call to me through the screen door. As it was a lovely summer day, not too hot and not too cool and not raining, I’d left my front door, and most of the windows in the house, wide open. Abandoning the food on the counter, I went to let her in.

  “How come you had the screen locked?” she asked as she followed me into the kitchen. She was walking well, with only a cane to help her balance, and had a large tote bag slung over one shoulder.

  “I’ve been upstairs. Working.”

  That was the truth, although not all of it. Illyria Dubonnet’s biggest fan had left another message on my answering machine late the previous evening, just as I was about to go to bed. Needless to say, I didn’t return her call, but it had alerted me to the possibility that she might drop by in person.

  “Have you had lunch?” I asked.

  “One of us has been in church until a few minutes ago.”

  Darlene’s voice was suitably prim and her tone was annoyingly superior, but she was just giving me a hard time. I don’t doubt my friend’s faith, but I also know it’s mostly force of habit that keeps her attending services week after week. For her part, Darlene knows how boring I find our minister’s sermons, and that I can’t stand his wife’s aggressiveness. Every time I show up for services, she buttonholes me and tries to badger me into volunteering for one of her pet projects.

  “I was just making something to eat,” I said. “It’s nothing fancy, but you’re welcome to join me.”

  Darlene snickered. “Are you sure you have enough?”

  “Of course I—” I broke off when I saw what she’d already spotted. A loaf of bread and a tub of margarine were where I’d left them, but the meat I’d been slicing and had left on the cutting board was nowhere in sight. Neither was my cat. “Calpurnia! Where are you?”

  “If you’re expecting her to bring it back, you’ll have a long wait.”

  I sighed. “How does grilled cheese and canned soup sound?”

  It wasn’t much to offer someone who cooks and bakes as well as Darlene Uberman, but she’s not a food snob. Working side by side we put a meal together and carried the result into the dinette.

  “I want you to see something in one of the files you picked up for me at the library the other day,” Darlene announced after she’d taken a few bites and a sip of her drink.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ll show you after we finish eating. First tell me what you’ve been up to. Have you been back to the farm?”

  It took the rest of lunch to bring her up to date, not that I’d found all that much. To date, the family Bible was the biggest discovery I’d made.

  “I brought it home with me so I could make a copy of the entries, but I’ll have to take it back on Tuesday.”

  “Isn’t it part of your inheritance?”

  “Only if I locate the missing diaries.” I collected plates and glasses and carried them to the sink. “So far, I’ve come up empty. Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to keep finding more questions and no
answers? Those three women lived in that house for decades. Wouldn’t you think they’d have left more of themselves behind?”

  “I may be able to help with that.” Darlene reached into the bag she’d brought with her and extracted a manila folder.

  Abandoning the dishes to deal with later, I sat down again, watching with interest as she spilled newspaper clippings of reviews of plays and programs from dozens of amateur productions onto the tabletop. I took the empty folder from her and looked at the label.

  “Little Theater of Sullivan County,” I read. “I’ve never heard of them.”

  “That’s because they’d disbanded by the time we were old enough to take an interest in such things. Take a look at this.” She opened one of the programs and pointed to the cast list.

  Estelle Swarthout had played the title role in a production of My Sister Eileen. I checked the date. The six performances given by the company had taken place a couple of months before Rosanna’s murder.

  “She was in other shows, too, always with good parts. She appears to have been a regular with the troupe, and the reviews she got are generally pretty good. One of the earliest said she ought to consider a career on the stage.”

  “I wonder why she didn’t.” I thought about that for a moment. “Or maybe she did, after she and Tessa left Swan’s Crossing.” I already knew, from the address on one of the letters my mother had written, that Tessa had lived for a short time in Los Angeles.

  “I don’t think so,” Darlene said. “I couldn’t find much about Estelle online, and certainly nothing to suggest she became a professional actress. I’ve been checking all sorts of places for both sisters and the only other thing I turned up on Estelle is this.” She fished in her bag a second time and came out with a one-page printout. “That’s a page from her high school yearbook.”