by Jane Tesh
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
“A couple of days ago. She came out to get her mail the same time as me, and I gave her a little wave.”
“When did she put up her house for sale?”
“About a month ago. She’s moving to a condo at Silver Hills.”
“No family? Nobody she’d go visit?”
“I heard her mention a cousin once.”
I could hear cheeping sounds from the house. “What about her pets? Can she have them at Silver Hills?”
“Yes, that was why she chose that place. She has cats and birds and some kind of lizard.”
“Does Viola have any health issues? Any sort of condition that might have caused her to wander off?”
“Oh, no. She’s sharp as a tack.”
“Would you say she was friends with everyone here in the neighborhood?”
“Like I said, she kept to herself, but she never was mean to anyone. Nobody would have cause to harm her.”
I’d heard that before. “Would you let us look around her house?”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
Camden didn’t have to pretend to be concerned. “Ma’am, Viola and I work together at the theater, and I’m really worried about her. I promise we won’t disturb anything.”
Not many women can resist the appeal in those big blue eyes. “All right. But just for a few minutes.”
The neighbor took a key from a hook inside her door, and we walked across to Viola’s house. As we entered, we were met by a chorus of cheeps and squawks. There were three birdcages in the living room. In one cage, two little blue budgies scooted back and forth on their perch. In another, a large green parrot cocked his head as if giving us close inspection. The third cage was occupied by two small gray birds. There was also a glass cage where a bored-looking lizard sunned himself under a light bulb. Three striped cats ran out and immediately coiled around Camden’s legs, purring furiously.
The neighbor tried to shoo them away. “Oh, every time someone comes in they think they’re getting more food. You’ve already been fed today, all of you. Let me check your water dish.”
She went down the hall to the kitchen. Two of the cats trotted after her, but the third stayed a moment longer, his yellow eyes staring at Camden.
“Uh, oh,” he said.
Cam tells me he can get impressions from animals when they let him. “Are they telling you something?”
“This isn’t good, Randall. I need to talk to Jordan.”
“Let me have a look around first.”
I knew Viola was in her seventies, so to find her bedroom as frilly and pink as a teenage girl’s was a surprise. Framed posters for plays decorated the walls, along with fancy wide-brimmed hats and scarves she must have used for costumes. Her dressing table was also pink with an array of perfume bottles and paperweights, all shaped like hearts. The rest of the house was devoted to her pets. All the furniture was covered with blankets or towels. I counted six different cat beds, three scratching posts, a playhouse, window seats, and enough cat toys to fill two large plastic containers. The cat food in the kitchen could’ve supplied a cat army, and large bags of birdseed were stacked in the pantry.
The neighbor waited by the door, arms folded. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got errands to run.”
She locked the door as we left the house. I thanked her for her help, and as soon as she was back in her own house, I called Jordan.
“Camden thinks he has something on Viola Mitchell.”
I was pretty sure I heard Jordan’s veins pop. “What the hell are you doing? I told you that was not your business.”
“You want to hear it or not?”
“Put him on.”
I handed my phone to Camden. “Jordan, you need to check the basement.” Jordan must have answered, “We already did,” because Camden said, “Check it again.” He returned my phone for the cop’s warning.
“This had better be good, Randall.”
“You know it is.”
“Where are you?”
“At her house.”
“Damn it.”
“Camden was concerned about her. They’re doing a play together.”
“That is the flimsiest excuse you’ve ever come up with. If you’ve contaminated a crime scene—”
“You’ve been in her house, right? Every inch is contaminated by some kind of animal.”
“Don’t touch anything else. I’m coming over.”
In ten minutes, a squad car pulled up and Jordan got out. A second squad car parked behind. A charging rhino would have second thoughts about confronting Jordan when he was in one of his thunderous moods. He whipped off his sunglasses, his squinting eyes blue chips of fire.
“One of these days I’ll have your license, Randall, and when I do, I’ll make you eat it.”
“You’re just jealous because I have a clue.”
“No, you have Cam, and you know how I feel about you dragging him into these situations.”
“He didn’t drag me,” Camden said. “I wanted to come check on Viola.”
Jordan’s little eyes narrowed even further. “And you think she’s in the basement?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What tipped you off?”
“The cats.”
Jordan paused. “I’m not even going to ask.”
It took twenty-five minutes for the policemen to find Viola Mitchell’s body buried under the basement floor. By the time the coroner arrived and the ambulance, all the neighbors had come out to see what was going on. Their curious voices turned to gasps and little cries of “Oh, my God” and “What happened?” as the EMTs carefully lifted a body bag onto a stretcher. Camden steadied himself against the Fury. The neighbor who’d let us into Viola’s house stared in horror.
“I can’t believe this! You mean all that time I was in there taking care of her pets, she was lying dead underneath the house? Who would do such a thing?”
Jordan assured her that in light of this new development, the police would question everyone again. He cut his eyes at me. “The police and only the police are handling this investigation. Does everyone understand?”
“Can I have a look in the basement?” Camden asked.
“After we’ve finished.”
Camden and I watched Jordan explain to the neighbors that it appeared Viola was the victim of a homicide, so anyone with any information should come forward. He reminded them that Viola’s house was now a crime scene and to stay off the premises. From their stunned expressions none of them wanted to be anywhere near the house.
Camden looked queasy. “Are you sure you want to go down there?” I asked.
“I’m okay.”
“I want in on this.” I glanced over to where the neighbor woman was being questioned by an officer. “Maybe she knows how to get in touch with Viola’s cousin?”
“Someone at the theater might know.”
After a while, Jordan motioned us over. We went back into the house and down a flight of stairs to the basement, a large unfinished room that ran the length of the house. The space was cold and smelled of dust and stone. Part of the floor was concrete, but another section was smoothly packed gray dirt or had been until the police dug it up to discover Viola’s body.
Camden slowly moved around the hole. The murderer must have planned to bury Viola here because the makeshift grave was neatly squared.
“How tall was Viola?” I asked.
“Almost as tall as you.”
“So the murderer knew what size the hole had to be and had plenty of time to dig it.”
“And knew Viola lived by herself and rarely had company. He or she wouldn’t have been disturbed.”
Jordan watched him warily. “You’re not sensing anybody else in there, are you?”
Camden stooped down and felt the floor. “Something in the wine.”
“Poison?”
“A present.”
Jordan turned to one of his men. “Check the trashcans. The bottle might still be there.”
“A present from a friend. A card. Congratulations. You Deserve It.”
I felt sudden chills. “That could be taken several ways.”
Camden shook off whatever he’d been seeing and stood up. “She was already dead when she was brought down here.”
“Any impressions about the killer?”
“He’s all covered up. I can’t get anything.”
“Covered up? Black clothes? A mask?”
Camden rubbed his eyes. “I can’t tell. Sorry.”
“We’ll take it from here.” Jordan pointed. “You two go home.”
Chapter Two
“And with a voice too eager…”
I was hoping for another look through Viola’s house on the chance she had an address book or a letter from her cousin, but there was no getting past the wall that was Jordan Finley. I might have better luck at the theater. Camden had had enough murder on his mind, and I did have a client on the way, so we headed home. We stopped at the Quik-Fry to get him a milkshake, which he says calms him down, and which I believe is just a good excuse to eat more ice cream. At the house, he said he was going to check on Fred and sit in the park for a while. I sat on the porch to wait for Mrs. Folly Harper.
Mrs. Harper arrived a few minutes later in her peach-colored Cadillac. She was a well-rounded little woman with an elaborate blond hairdo and aggressively coordinated clothing. The suit, shoes, and leather handbag were all peach-colored and her large gold earrings matched the clasp on the bag and the buckles on the shoes. She had three thick gold bracelets on one plump wrist and a gold and diamond watch on the other. When she held out her hand, I noticed a gold ring on every finger. Her nails were also peach with white tips.
“Hello! You must be Mr. Randall. I’m Folly Harper. I’m so glad we could meet at last.”
I wore my best dark suit, blue shirt, and blue striped tie. My hair was combed. Unlike Camden, I care about how I look. I could tell Mrs. Harper liked what she saw. Most women do. That’s one of my problems. Not a pressing one.
I shook her hand. “David Randall. Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Harper.”
I escorted her into the house and to the right. I showed Mrs. Harper to the chair and took my seat behind the small polished mahogany desk. She’d applied an expert, though thick, layer of peach makeup, but I figured her to be around fifty. Her blue eyes with dark, curled lashes took in the bookcase, plants, and curtains Kary had added to give the place a reassuring atmosphere.
“It must be much more pleasant to work out of this fine old house instead of a soulless skyscraper.”
Since Parkland has three buildings tall enough to be considered skyscrapers, I had to agree. “Yes, I enjoy walking down the stairs to work instead of fighting traffic into town every day.”
“Oh, you live here, too? How very convenient.” She leaned forward, clutching the peach-colored purse. “Let me explain my situation, Mr. Randall. I have a business associate who unfortunately skipped town with a large amount of my money. I didn’t want to go to the police because, quite frankly, this whole matter is very embarrassing. I treated George like my own son, and I don’t want the whole world to know how he betrayed me.”
I promised her I’d be discreet. “I’ll need George’s full name and his last known address, and if you have a picture, that would be helpful.”
“George Mark McMillan, 1925 Sable Court. I should have suspected something. Eight is not a good number for me.”
I paused before typing the information into my computer. “Eight?”
“Yes, 1925 adds up to eight,” she said as if this explained everything. “One plus nine is ten and two plus five is seven. If you take ten and add the one and the zero, you get one. One plus seven equals eight.”
Ooo-kay. “When I locate Mr. McMillan, do you want me to confront him, or call the police in at this point?”
“Oh, no, no, don’t call the police. I’ll handle things from there. I’m sure I can convince him of his wrongdoings and get my money back. It’s crucial for my company right now.”
“What is your business?”
She searched her pocketbook again and handed me a brochure. “BeautiQueen Cosmetics.”
According to the brochure, BeautiQueen was a local company, one of those home cosmetics deals where women have parties and make each other up, apparently in shades of peach.
“My late husband and I started the company. George is my partner. Everything was going so well. I can’t imagine why George would leave now.”
“He never said anything to you like, I’m bored, I need a change, I need a vacation?”
“No, but I would have understood any of those reasons. We were a team, Mr. Randall. We discussed everything.”
Apparently not everything.
“A picture?”
She dug around again in her peach-colored pocketbook. “I think I have a picture—yes, here we are at the company picnic.”
She handed me the photo. Folly Harper in all her sunlit peach glory and a serious-looking man with dark hair and a thick moustache stood squinting into the lens. George McMillan was medium height, burly and square, his posture stiff and his head tilted up as if to say, “Yeah, I work for a cosmetics company. Wanna make something out of it?”
“Do you have any idea why he took your money and ran?”
She took turns twisting her gold rings. “I’m completely perplexed. We were working together on several projects, and I knew together we could revolutionize the business.”
I asked her for more details. She told me George had a large dog, drove a blue Ford Explorer, and often talked of visiting Florida.
“Would he take the dog with him?”
“Oh, yes. He’s very fond of his dog.”
“Any particular place in Florida?”
“I believe he mentioned Clearwater.”
So he puts the dog in the SUV and hightails it to Clearwater for a little R and R. This case was as good as solved.
I was curious, though, as to why Mrs. Got Rocks here chose the Randall Detective Agency when she could easily afford one of the big corporations in town. “Were you by any chance referred to me by another client?”
“No, I chose you because you were the sixteenth listing in the phone book.”
I added the numbers. “Don’t tell me. One plus six gave you a lucky number seven.”
She smiled. I’d scored points there. Hope they added up to something good. “I really don’t want any of this to get around. My friends all think I’m too flighty and too trusting. I don’t want to hear ‘I told you so’ everywhere I go. I told them George had gone on a business trip for me, to learn about the latest colors for spring, but I can’t keep that story going for long.”
“I understand,” I said. “I’ll work as quickly as possible.”
She took out a peach-colored leather checkbook, wrote me a peach-colored check, and handed it over. “I appreciate this very much, Mr. Randall. I’ve worked hard to build up my clientele, and I’d hate for a scandal to ruin my plans. By the way, are there any ladies in the house? I’d love to leave a few samples of BeautiQueen products for them.”
“There are two ladies.”
She beamed, her financial troubles forgotten. “Excellent! Let me get some things out of my car.”
I wanted to say, don’t bother. Kary didn’t need any enhancement, and Angie, Rufus’ wife, would need a bucketful. Mrs. Harper came back to the porch and gave me a little peach-colored paper bag with tubes and sticks inside.
“My card’s in there and a brochure listing the complete line of BeautiQueen products. Have them call any time. My machine’s set u
p to take orders day or night.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll call you as soon as I have some information.”
She waved good-bye and got into her car. She was pulling out of the driveway when Ellin’s car drove up. Ellin had to wait until Mrs. Harper was out of the way. Then she zipped into the driveway and almost unhinged herself getting out of the car. She hurried up the porch steps.
“Was that Mrs. Harper? Mrs. Folly Harper?”
“Yes.” I jiggled the bag. “She left some treats.”
Ellin looked astonished. I thought it might be the little bag or the idea of me giving her something. “What was she doing here?”
“She’s a client.”
I thought I was going to have to scrape her jaw off the lawn. “She’s a client?”
Maybe this would work better if I made myself perfectly clear. “This is a detective agency. I have clients. Mrs. Harper is a client. I will detect for her. She will pay me.”
Ellin ignored my sarcasm. “Mrs. Folly Harper is one of the Psychic Service’s most avid supporters.”
“I won’t hold that against her.”
“Did she meet Cam?”
“He went to the park to check on Fred.”
Her reaction startled me. “Damn! She’ll be back, won’t she? Don’t you give your clients updates, progress reports, something like that?”
She was seriously worked up. Not a good sign. “I keep them informed about the case, sure. What are you babbling about?”
“She’s been dying to meet Cam. Didn’t she know this was his house?”
“She didn’t mention him.”
“She must not have known, or she’d have asked about him. When will she be back, did she say?”
“Wait a minute.” I had her number now. “You know Camden doesn’t want to tell anybody’s fortune. Didn’t we decide we wouldn’t do this anymore?”
Like Camden, Ellin has big blue eyes, but hers can flame on like an acetylene torch. “There’s no ‘we’ here, Randall. Mrs. Harper only wants to ask Cam a question, that’s all. She’s a very wealthy woman. He could name his price.”
It’s always about the money. “Good lord. You’re going to marry the man, and you still don’t get it. What are you doing back here, anyway? I thought you’d done enough damage for one day.”