A Vision of Murder

by Victoria Laurie

  “Did it help?”

  “Yeah, the smell is now tolerable, however, because the windows were open the house became cold, and a pipe burst, causing major water damage.”

  “No!”

  “Yes! So, I’ve had a repair crew over there for two days fixing everything up nice and tidy.”

  “And, it’s ready to go now?”

  “Oh, you’re funny,” Cat said, the absence of humor in her own voice telling me she was close to the edge. “No, Claire stepped one foot in the door ten minutes ago, and pulled it right back out again. Apparently, the carpet is still damp and is giving off a musty odor.”

  I shook my head back and forth. Poor Cat, she was one sharp cookie, but our mother had a lot more experience manipulating people into granting her every whim. After all, she’d been at it for considerably longer. “When are you going to send them packing?” I asked. I had no problem telling my parents what flight they could take on their way out of town.

  “I can’t,” Cat said tiredly as she let out an exasperated sigh. “I know I should stand up to her, Abby, but every time I get near that woman I turn into a five-year-old.”

  There was a pause before I asked, “When do the carpet guys show up?”

  “First thing tomorrow morning.”

  I chuckled in spite of myself. “Cat, when are you gonna learn?”

  “I know, I know,” she said and I could hear the tension in her voice. “Can’t you talk to her for me?”

  I barked a laugh into the phone and said, “No friggin’ way, my friend. You got yourself into this mess, and I’m not going to do your homework for you. You’ll never learn until you stand up to her, and I wouldn’t be helping you if I stepped in. Call her right now—I’m assuming you’re still at the Four Seasons?”

  “Yes . . .” Cat groused.

  “Okay, so get off the line with me, ring her up and tell her flat out to pack up her crap and hit the road, Jack!”

  “I’ll think about it,” Cat whispered.

  I backed off a little and offered, “She can’t stay there forever, honey. Eventually she’ll get bored and want to go back home.”

  “One would hope so.”

  “Call me tomorrow and give me an update, okay?”

  “Oh! Speaking of updates, how’s our project coming?”

  Ugh! I’d almost gotten away without having to talk about Fern Street. “Still haunted,” I confessed. “But we’re looking to resolve it soon and then Dave can head back to work.”

  “He’s not working on it?” Cat asked sharply. “You mean to tell me it’s just sitting there soaking up mortgage interest and he’s not even working on it?”

  “Uh . . . well . . . see . . . the thing of it is . . .” How could I tell my sister that because of two very harrowing experiences my handyman was now wearing garlic as an accessory and sleeping with the lights on.

  “Abby, you tell that man to get his butt in gear and get to work. I have put some considerable resources together to purchase that property, and my money can’t turn a profit if it’s just sitting there, stalled.”

  “Let me handle it,” I said sternly. I had no doubt that if we didn’t get rid of our ghostly tenants soon, my sister would take matters into her own hands, and I wanted to avoid that at all costs.

  “I mean it, Abby, time is money.”

  “Don’t you have a call to make?” I threw back, wanting to end this conversation.

  There was a sound like a growl on the other end of the phone line as I pictured my sister’s eyebrows lowering. “Don’t be mean,” she scolded. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “ ’Night, Cat,” I said and we disconnected.

  Later that night as Dutch and I lay in bed together he said, “I’m supposed to work in the pool tomorrow for my physical therapy. My PT said it should take a couple of hours. Why don’t you go furniture shopping while I’m working out?”

  I smiled in the dark as I stroked Dutch’s hand and snuggled closer to him, relishing the feel of his warm skin against mine. “Trying to keep me distracted and out of trouble, huh?”

  “I noticed Englander’s Furniture is having a sale,” he coaxed.

  “Okay, okay,” I said as I gave his shoulder a kiss. “I’ll go furniture shopping. But in return you have to help me with that box and call your friend at the Bureau.”

  “I’m already on it,” Dutch said, pulling me on top of him and kissing my neck.

  “Hey,” I said in mild protest. “This is the sort of thing that can get us into trouble.” Secretly I didn’t want him to stop, but I knew his injury wouldn’t allow anything more than a good tease, and we were sexually tense enough as it was. I felt like I was going to explode if he didn’t hurry up and get well soon.

  “This?” he asked as he moved to my ear.

  “Cowboy . . .” I said breathlessly. Oh, God that felt good!

  “How about this?” he asked and moved to my lips.

  “You’re rotten,” I said after he’d melted me like butter.

  “I never claimed to be otherwise, sweethot,” he chuckled and kissed me some more.

  Chapter Eight

  The next day found me happily bouncing my bum from couch to couch on the Englander’s Furniture show-room floor. I was torn between an easy-to-clean mocha-colored microfiber suede loveseat with matching chair and ottoman, or an overstuffed, fabric cream-colored couch. Unable to decide I let the crew weigh in; they went with the microfiber, which was a smart move considering my penchant for eating ravioli in the living room.

  While I was following my salesman to the front checkout I passed a living room display with a familiar fixture. “Hold it!” I said and darted over to get a closer look. There, on one of the bookshelves, was a box very similar to the one still hidden in my backseat. “Ohmigod!” I said to my startled salesclerk. “How do you open this?”

  My salesman paused to gape at me for a moment as I shook the box to hear if anything rattled inside. Finally he indulged me by flipping it upside down and sliding his finger along a thin panel of wood. The panel moved easily, then he slid his finger along another panel and it moved as well. One more panel was slipped to the side and abruptly there was the smallest of popping sounds. The salesman flipped the box right up and gently removed the top of the box. “Voila!” he announced proudly. “These are Japanese puzzle boxes. They were all the rage years ago and they’re making a comeback now,” he explained.

  “Awesome!” I said, bouncing on the balls of my feet.

  “Would you like to add this to your purchases today?” he asked me, holding up the box, dollar signs dancing in his eyes.

  “Nope. But I need to hurry with my other stuff. There’s something I gotta do.”

  I paid for my new furniture and set up delivery for the following week, then bolted out of the store and flew to my car. My hand shook as I pushed the button on my key ring releasing the SUV’s locks and retrieved the box from the backseat. I then scurried into the front seat, anxious to see what treasures lay hidden after all these years. This was the key to Liza’s murder, I was sure of it.

  I got settled and flipped the box over, searching for a similar panel on the bottom of the box. I found one panel that was so subtly off color from the others as to not be distinguishable unless one was looking for it. Nervously I ran my finger down it and to my complete joy it moved. I slid it out of the way and then felt for the next panel. In two more moves I had the box open. “Eureka!” I said into the silence. Slowly I removed the lid, mindful of anything that might slip out. I discovered that the box contained a little book, about the size of a small notebook, bound in leather and looking very worn. I carefully reached in and extracted the item, then looked back inside the box one more time to see if there might be something else.

  Could this be all there was? Just this little notebook? This was worth killing for? I set the box aside and held the book in my hands. I turned it around and around but couldn’t see any writing on the cover or the back. Gingerly, I opened the cover tr
ying not to tear the worn leather. Inside were pages and pages of columns with names, notations, abbreviations and numbers all written with a precise hand. I looked at the notations, but couldn’t make sense of them; they seemed to be in a foreign language.

  The names all had a foreign ring to them as well, and I scratched my head as my finger slid down the second to last column of abbreviations that listed “dmt” regularly but also included the occasional “sr” or “ém” and sometimes to the side of these was written “or” and “agt.” The last column simply contained a number, but there seemed to be no sequential order, and often the same numbers would repeat for many rows. I continued to flip carefully through each page, there were only about twenty-five or so, but nothing seemed to make sense.

  Finally, I shrugged my shoulders and placed the notebook carefully back in the box, setting it on the seat as I flipped on the engine. Maybe Dutch would have better luck with the hieroglyphics.

  I pulled into the PT’s office and saw him already waiting for me out front, his hair wet and a rather pained expression on his face. “Tough session?” I asked when he got into the car.

  “That woman’s relentless,” he said, referring to his physical therapist.

  “Well, you said yourself you wanted to be back to the Bureau as soon as possible. I’m sure she’s just working on the agenda you set for her.”

  Dutch scowled at me and leaned forward to scoop up the box, which I’d set on the floor of the car while he got in. “You handing this over?” he asked me.

  “Oh! Guess what! I figured out how to open it!” I said excitedly as I pulled into a parking space and snatched the box out of his hand. Flipping it over I moved the panels, then flipped the box over and pulled up the top as I said, “Ta da!”

  “You figured this out all by yourself?” he asked me.

  “Well, not exactly. Turns out Englander’s sells these by the dozen, and my sales clerk was only too happy to demonstrate.”

  “Was this the only thing inside?” Dutch asked, taking out the book.

  “Yeah, and I was hoping you could help me figure out what the heck it means, ’cuz I can’t make heads or tails out of it.”

  “It’s written in French,” he said.

  “Can you read it?” I asked, about to be impressed.

  “Only a little. I’m better at Dutch and German but I got another friend of mine that might be able to help us decipher this.”

  “You know, for a guy who sits around on weekends watching old movies with his girlfriend, you sure got a lot of friends I’ve never heard of.”

  “I know people,” he said with a wink.

  “Apparently,” I said and pulled back out of the space.

  “I’ll make a call when we get home,” he offered. “This might be a good time to catch T.J., anyway.”

  “T.J.?”

  “Yeah, he was another roommate of mine back in the day.”

  “What’s T.J. do these days that makes him an expert on French scribbles?”

  “He’s a professor at U of M. He teaches fourteenth-century French literature.”

  “Impressive,” I said.

  “Yeah, he’s one smart guy. I haven’t seen him in years. . . .” Dutch said thoughtfully, then chuckled as he remembered something.

  “What?” I asked, as we drove.

  Dutch laughed again. “Nothing, just that T.J. and I used to have some wild times together.”

  “How wild?” I asked giving him a sideways glance.

  “Kowabunga wild.”

  “Hmmm,” I said, feeling uncomfortable. Already I was getting too much information. “That’s nice.” Thankfully, we pulled into Dutch’s driveway right about then and made a hasty shuffle into the house. The temperature had dipped and it was frigid outside.

  “Why don’t you go make us some lunch, and I’ll call T.J.?” Dutch said when we got in the door.

  “Kowabunga,” I retorted and trotted off to the kitchen.

  Dutch joined me about fifteen minutes later and announced, “I got a hold of him and he said he’d be very interested in helping us out. Do you want to take a road trip right after lunch?”

  “I’m game,” I said as I pushed a plate at him.

  We ate quickly then got back in the car and headed west toward Ann Arbor. The trip took about forty minutes and in that time, Dutch recounted just about every sordid, wild and crazy adventure he and T.J. ever had. Most of them involved booze and loose women, so I feigned interest and discreetly kept turning up the radio volume.

  Finally we reached U of M’s campus and spent another twenty minutes circling the block in front of T.J.’s building to find a decent parking spot. While Dutch took his time getting out of the car, I retrieved the box from the backseat and came around to his side. “Still sore?” I asked, noticing an exaggerated wince as he pivoted to shut the car door.

  “It’s always worse after therapy,” he said, closing the door. He turned back to me and wrapped a loose arm across my shoulder as we headed toward T.J.’s building.

  When we got inside Dutch walked over to an information board, and scrolled his finger down the list of names. “Here he is,” he said after a moment. “Professor Thomas J. Robins. Come on, Edgar, he’s on the third floor.”

  We took the elevator up and were able to find T.J.’s office without much trouble. Dutch walked through the open door first, trying to tuck his cane behind him in a manner that suggested he was suddenly self-conscious. “T!” he said jovially to a man standing up and coming around the desk to greet him.

  Dutch and T.J. gave each other one of those big bear hugs manly men exchange and I took that moment to study Dutch’s old friend. T.J. looked about the same age as Dutch and was similar in build with strawberry blond hair and smart wire-rimmed glasses. As the two men slapped each other on the back I cocked my head a bit. My intuition said something was off about the scene, but I couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

  After a moment Dutch backed away and turned to me, “Buddy, I’d like you to meet my girl. This is Abby Cooper. Abby, T. J. Robins.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, leaning in to shake T.J.’s hand.

  “Likewise,” T.J. said. Liar, liar . . . pants on fire . . .

  I shook my head slightly hearing the sing-song chant in my mind. That was weird.

  “So, Dutch, what do you have for me?” T.J. asked, indicating two leather chairs for us to sit in while he took his own seat behind a metal desk piled high with books and papers.

  “Like I started to explain to you on the phone, Abby found this box in a house she just bought. It was hidden under some floorboards, and had likely been there for a couple dozen years. Anyway, we figured out how to open the thing, and inside was this little booklet . . .” Dutch paused and turned to me expectantly, and quickly I flipped the box on its end and popped the top. I extracted the booklet and handed it to Dutch who handed it over to T.J.

  “Hmmm,” T.J. said as he opened to the first page. “Do you know if there was a jeweler connected to the house you purchased?” He looked up at me.

  “Yes!” I said excitedly. Finally, someone who could help us. “Does it mention his business in there?”

  “Well, not exactly,” T.J. said, turning the pages and scanning the notations.

  “What does it mention?” Dutch asked.

  “For starters, it talks about gemstones, like diamonds, rubies and emeralds. See these notations?” he said, holding the book open to point at the column I’d been most confused about. “ ‘dmt’ is a French acronym for diamant, or diamond; ‘or’ is French for gold and ‘agt’ is for argent or silver. Most of these appear to be about diamonds, but there are enough of the others mixed in here to be significant. The numbers to the right of the gemstones appear to be carat weights. Like this first line where it says, dmt one point five. He must be talking about a one-point-five carat weight diamond. The person who wrote this kept it like an inventory of some kind, and there are other notations of interest here . . . Straus . . . Videlburg . .
. Brencht. Curious.” T.J. said.

  “What do you think it means?” I asked.

  “Off the cuff, I’m not sure. But I love a good mystery. Why don’t you two allow me to hold on to this for a few days and let me see if I can’t make more sense of it?”

  “Sounds good,” I said smiling at him, grateful for the help. “Why don’t you call me if you get anything good,” I offered as I reached for one of my cards.

  “I have Dutch’s number,” T.J. said shooing my efforts away with a flip of his hand. “I’ll just call him if I come up with something.”

  My intuition buzzed loudly in my ear just then and I cocked my head as T.J. set the book down and turned his attention to my boyfriend. Discreetly I shot my intuitive arrow at T.J. and after a moment I had to work at stifling a laugh as I realized what my guides were trying to tell me. Now that I looked, it was so obvious I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it right off the bat.

  Dutch and T.J. caught up for another half hour, both men laughing at the good times they’d shared with their booze and loose women. I grew bored after about fifteen minutes and waited patiently for the two men to talk themselves out. Finally, as the afternoon sun began to wane, Dutch got up to take his leave. T.J. leaned in for another bear hug and said, “It has been way too long, buddy. You need to call me more than once in a blue moon.”

  “I know, I know,” Dutch said apologetically. “I promise, as soon as the old keister’s mended, we’ll hang out, maybe catch a Red Wings game or something?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” T.J. said happily. Turning to me, he politely shook my hand again and said, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Abby.” Liar, liar . . . pants on fire . . .

  “Likewise,” I said with a grin.

  Dutch and I left T.J.’s office and headed back down the hallway. “He seems nice,” I began.

  “Yeah. He’s the greatest,” Dutch said.

  “And he thinks the world of you,” I said, working to stifle a giggle.