“So what did you do?”
“Aunt Alicia cashed one of my grandmother’s checks and snuck out and mailed it to General Delivery, Metairie, and after I picked it up, I went to New Orleans and rented a room and found a job. I’d never done any of that before.” She sounded rather proud. “I gave them Harley’s name and Social Security number. I figured girls could be named Harley, too. And it was a real Social Security number. I had it written in my bill-fold. I knew everything about Harley.”
“And he came down when he figured it was safe?” Angel wanted to cut this true confession short. She (and Harley) were shifting restlessly.
“And got a job at the lumber place. And then we rented this cabin. And here we’ve been for all this time. Until you found us. Who the hell are you two?”
“I own the Julius house,” I said.
“Oh, you’re the one Alicia called about. The one Harley was supposed to get rid of. The one who was asking so many questions, with too much time on her hands.”
I could have done without Angel’s cocked eyebrow.
“But he said he screwed it up. And he was too scared, being back in that area where someone might recognize him, to try again. He was so mad . . . Listen, I’ll bet you don’t care, but really I’m in awful pain.”
“Why didn’t your great-aunt just sell her house and drop the phone number?” It was the last question I really wanted an answer to.
“She and Grandmother both had to be there for a house closing; they owned it jointly. And if Alicia cut off the phone, where was she supposed to be? People did call her from time to time . . . and she had to get her mail somehow. So she got the idea of renting it to that tub of lard, her cousin’s daughter, so she could get some money to live on till the estate was probated . . . four months! We almost made it!”
And her confessional mood changed suddenly to hatred, all directed at me. She actually managed to heave herself at me, despite the broken knee, despite bound hands. I found myself wondering if it were true that Harley had wielded the hammer in all three murders.
“I’ve had a thought,” Angel said, unmoved by Charity ’s desperation. “If the forensic anthropologist examined those bones the day after you found them, he knew that one skeleton wasn’t Charity. He must have told them it was an old woman. So who are the police going to question first?”
“The woman they think is Mrs. Totino.”
“Right. So why hasn’t she called down here to warn these two? Why didn’t she tell them the bodies had been found?”
I could tell from Charity’s face she was asking herself the same thing. I was regretting not calling Sally Allison. I would have known so much more. I could have called the police anonymously, if I had figured out Charity Julius was alive; I wouldn’t have been so shocked by a confrontation with a woman I thought was dead these past six years. And now we wouldn’t be in the strange fix we were in now.
“They’ve got her in custody, or they’re watching her so closely she thinks they’re tapping her phone calls,” I said. “I bet she never called these two from her own phone anyway.”
“Think Alicia will break?”
“I bet she will. Not because she’s fragile, but because she’ll want company, someone to blame the actual murders on. Yeah . . . once they actually question her identity, she can’t keep up the pretense that she’s Melba Totino, at least not for long.”
“This is going to be awfully hard to explain,” Angel commented.
That was an understatement.
“I have to go to a hospital,” said Harley clearly.
He was badly hurt, and so was Charity, and damned if I knew what to do with them.
“Shelby’s not gonna like it if I get arrested for assault, ” Angel said. I hardly thought Martin would enjoy my arrest either.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Angel told her two white-faced victims. “We’re gonna leave, and we’ll call the police from a pay phone.”
“What fucking good is that going to do us?” Harley asked.
“For one thing, you ungrateful moron, they’ll take you to the hospital. Now, I’d like to point out that we could just leave you here to rot, or we could kill you, and I guarantee no one would miss you.”
I turned away so the two killers couldn’t see the shock on my face.
“We’ll tell them you did this,” Charity spat. “You’ll do jail time.”
“No I won’t, and I’ll tell you why,” Angel said calmly. “Because we’re not gonna tell the police about Harley trying to kill us. And we’re both alive to tell about it, and positively identify him, too. But the minute you tell the cops about us, we tell them about you. At least this way you’ll only stand trial on some old charges, with no evidence left to collect or eyewitnesses.”
It wasn’t much, but it was something, and in the end they agreed. What choice did they have? We wiped my fingerprints off the fishing rod and anything else I might have touched in the closet, and Angel, I saw with some amazement, was wearing plastic gloves. I was feeling uncomfortably like a criminal myself.
They didn’t ask why we hadn’t told the police about Harley’s first attack, thank goodness.
We left the house and didn’t speak to each other until after we’d stopped at the next convenience store. Angel was driving again, and she parked rather over to one side so the rental car wasn’t readily visible from the clerk’s counter. She got out and used the phone. I waited numbly, slumped in my seat.
We negotiated the rest of the drive still in the same silence. When we were once more in our Hyatt room, light-years away from the cabin by the bayou, Angel said she was very hungry, and I realized I was, too. Wastefully, we ordered room service, and while we waited for our food, we took turns in the shower and changing clothes as though we could wash away the morning.
I was depressed and tired and it was just noon. Angel, on the contrary, seemed to have a blaze of triumph about her. For her, I thought, the morning had been a vindication. She had protected my life successfully and proved her worth, her effectiveness. But that triumph was offset by watching the suffering of the nasty couple from whom she’d rescued me; she wasn’t cold enough to be indifferent.
When our food came, we were ravenous.
“Think they’ll tell?” Angel asked as we swapped bites of our desserts.
“Don’t know,” I said. “It’s a toss-up. Let’s go home.”
“Good idea. I’ll call the airline after I finish this cake.”
Within an hour we were on our way to the airport.
Chapter Seventeen
We couldn’t escape rain that day. It was pouring in Atlanta. Shelby had maneuvered close to the door somehow, and we loaded in our luggage and got into the car—Martin’s Mercedes—with a minimum of fuss. Angel and Shelby were very glad to see each other. Shelby passed a paper over the seat to me; I was buckled in in the back. It was a copy of today’s Lawrenceton Sentinel and the headline did not pack the punch it would have this time yesterday.
“Autopsy Results Surprising,” read the headline, an understatement if I’d ever seen one. In a low voice, Angel began telling Shelby what we had seen and done that morning. I read between the lines of the story Sally Allison had written so carefully. The forensic anthropologist, faced with what seemed a straightforward job of identification, had been surprised (and perhaps rather pleased) to find his job was more complicated than he’d thought. I would like to have seen Jack Burns’s face, and Lynn’s, when they found the third body was not Charity Julius. It was apparently Lynn who’d gone to Peachtree Leisure Apartments to find if the purported Mrs. Totino had any ideas about the identity of the third corpse. Ever since the bones had been brought down from the roof, this must have been the moment the old woman had been dreading. Lynn had not allowed Duncan, the security guard, to call ahead, but Alicia must have been watching the closed-circuit TV channel and must have recognized Lynn as the police officer who’d come by before to tell her the bodies had been found. She’d opened her window and
jumped.
“How much would they have realized from the murders? ” Shelby asked.
“Huh? Oh. The purchase price of the house, the money that Mr. Julius had accumulated to start his own business, and I guess whatever money was due from life insurance policies. I suppose the company has to pay up if the missing person is declared dead. If they just could have gone four more months without the bodies being discovered, the three of them could have scattered to the four winds once the money was in their hands.”
“You think she would have given Harley and Charity their share?” Angel asked as we changed highways to go northeast to Lawrenceton.
“I think so. She’d seen Harley in action.”
“It must have been galling, to have been so strapped for money all those years—the old woman, I mean.”
“Yes, for her. It may not have made much difference to Harley and Charity. They didn’t kill the people they killed for money; the money was Alicia Manigault’s idea, first and foremost.”
A teenage romance that went wrong; the Ballad of Charity and Harley.
I wondered what the Louisiana police were making of the two.
As we entered my hometown, I had a hard time believing I had questioned a seriously injured young woman as intensely as I had. I also had a hard time believing she’d hit me in the stomach hard enough to cause the deep bruise even now developing in the soft tissue around my navel.
I hadn’t heard from Martin in two days. I wondered how things were going for him in Guatemala. I missed him, abruptly and passionately. Tears began to well up in my eyes, and I took off my glasses to dab at them with a Kleenex.
“Martin called,” Shelby said out of the blue. We were turning on the road out of Lawrenceton that led to the house. “He tried your hotel room but found you’d checked out. I have to go back to the airport tonight to pick him up.”
“I’ll let you, rather than going myself,” I told him. I was too tired to face the airport more than once that day, and I would rather be warm and rested and in bed when he came home than tired and wrinkled and public at the airport.
We pulled into the driveway, Shelby trying to tell me about the security systems he’d been investigating while we were gone, me not giving a damn.
“Are you afraid of going in?” Angel asked. The rain was coming down in earnest as we got the bags out of the trunk. We crossed the garage to open the side door and take the covered walkway to the kitchen door. Madeleine sat regally, tail wrapped around her, by her food dish.
“No,” I said, and realized it was true, “I’m not afraid of this house. There aren’t any ghosts here. The people who would have become ghosts are the ones who are still alive, down in Louisiana. The people who died were too nice to be ghosts.”
Now, this babble gives you some idea of my exhaustion, and the look Shelby and Angel gave me simultaneously told me I was becoming weird. But the house didn’t scare me; I felt happy to be in it again. I breathed a sigh of relief when the Youngbloods left to go up to their apartment for their own reunion, after I’d refused Shelby’s offer to carry my bags up to my bedroom.
The light on the answering machine was blinking. I pressed the “Play” button to hear my messages.
My mother: “We’re back, and we had a wonderful time! The message you left saying you were going to New Orleans was kind of confusing, Aurora. Is Martin with you or not? Is this thing about the bodies upsetting you? Call me when you’re home.”
Emily Kaye: “Roe, I’m sorry to be such a pest, but we really do need help on the Altar Guild. Please call me at home when you get back from wherever you are. Oh, by the way! Aubrey and I are engaged!”
Aubrey: “Roe, if you’re upset about the discovery at your house, please call me. I want to help if I can. And I wanted you to know, first: Emily says she’ll marry me.”
I made a face into the reflective glass of the clock.
My mother: “You know, Aurora, I really wish you had left the name of your hotel with Patty at my office. It’s very aggravating not being able to get in touch with you, to make sure you’re all right. My understanding from calling Martin’s office is that he is not with you. So what are you doing in New Orleans?”
I hoped the antique earrings would soothe her.
The other messages, in order: Sally Allison, Sally Allison, and Sally Allison.
I headed up the stairs, looking at my beautiful house with pleasure, glad to be home. Later my husband would be home; we would talk; everything would be all right.
But when I entered our bedroom, I had a sudden picture of a dark-haired girl seizing an elderly woman and forcibly shoving the gray head through the window so it could be stove in with a hammer.
I banished that vision firmly.
This was my house.
Don’t miss any of the Aurora Teagarden Mysteries
Real Murders
(December 2007)
A Bone to Pick
(February 2008)
Three Bedrooms, One Corpse
(March 2008)
The Julius House
(June 2008)
Dead Over Heels
(August 2008)
A Fool and His Honey
(February 2009)
Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!
For former librarian Aurora Teagarden,
deciding if she wants to go into real estate
becomes a life-or-death choice in ...
Three bedrooms. One Corpse
AN AURORA TEAGARDEN MYSTERY
by New York Times bestselling author of
A Bone to Pick
and the Sookie Stackhouse Novels
Charlaine Harris
"A heroine as capable and potentially complex as P.D. James’s Cordelia Gray."
—Publisher’s Weekly
penguin.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Don’t miss any of the Aurora Teagarden Mysteries
(4/10) The Julius House Page 18