A Vision of Murder

by Victoria Laurie

  “Uh-oh,” I said.

  “When I told her I wasn’t going back into that house until it’d been leveled, she got all huffy on me and hung up!”

  I groaned, “You actually said that to her?”

  “Well, yeah. I thought you told her we weren’t touching that house until someone performed an exorcism.”

  “Nope,” I said setting my shoulders. This wasn’t good. Cat was far easier to deal with when she was eight hundred miles away versus up close and personal. Now that the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, about our investment property, there was no telling what she’d do with the information. If Dave had only kept his yap shut I could have stalled for a few more days or even weeks.

  “Did I goof?” Dave asked me, noting the expression on my face.

  “No, but I did by not handling Cat this morning when she threatened to come into town,” I said with an exasperated sigh.

  “Sorry,” Dave said sheepishly.

  I shook off the tension setting in my shoulders and said, “Don’t sweat it. Listen, Dutch and I are headed out. Will you be okay here by yourself?”

  “Sure. I’ve got the wood in my truck. I’ll board up the window same as I did at your place, take the measurements and order you a new window from the Depot. It should only take a week or two to come in.”

  “Thanks, buddy,” Dutch said as he handed my coat to me. “We’ll be available by cell if you need us.”

  We left the house and headed to my car. I noticed that Dutch had left his cane inside and I said, “You leaving the third leg behind?”

  “Yeah,” he said, rounding to his side of my car. “It’s time I started walking on my own.”

  I smiled encouragingly at him. After all, the sooner he was back to normal the quicker we could get on with getting acquainted, and given my current level of horniness I figured that was definitely a good thing.

  I got in my side, and when Dutch was seated I started the car and pointed it in the direction of Opalescence. Noting the direction I was headed, Dutch chimed in with, “We’re not going to the shop, Abby.”

  “We’re not?”

  “Nope. He doesn’t open for business until eleven a.m. It’s only nine thirty. We can surprise him at home.”

  “How do you know what his hours are?”

  “I remember from when I went shopping for your necklace.”

  “Ah,” I said, nodding my head. Dutch had a fantastic memory for these sorts of small details, which definitely came in handy in his line of work. “So where are we going?”

  “Fourteen and Lahser, he’s got a house in a sub over there.”

  “Just let me know where to turn,” I said.

  We arrived a little while later in front of a good-size Colonial nestled among similar looking houses in a fairly affluent part of Bloomfield Township, a neighbor to the west of Royal Oak. The houses in this neighborhood had a little land between them, and each home hosted a spacious front yard. James’s house was beige with black shutters and had an attached garage.

  I parked my SUV in the driveway and as we got out I noticed movement among the front curtains as they were pulled slightly apart, then, when I darted a look, pulled firmly closed again.

  I followed Dutch as he limped up the walkway careful not to put too much weight on his injured foot. I consciously slowed my pace so he wouldn’t feel rushed. Poor guy, we’d had our share of injuries lately and I wondered when things would ease up for us.

  We got to the front door and Dutch pushed the doorbell. From inside we heard the “Bing-Bong!” announce our arrival. While we waited at the door I took in the surroundings, and noticed that James still had his Christmas lights up. I figured with all the commotion at his shop lately, he probably hadn’t gotten around to taking them down yet.

  Dutch and I waited probably sixty seconds before he hit the doorbell again. “I know he’s home,” he said.

  “I’m right there with you,” I replied. “I saw the front curtains peel aside when we first pulled up.” As we waited again, I noted something that wouldn’t normally have caught my attention, but for some reason made me cock my head and listen. “Hit the doorbell again,” I said to Dutch after a minute. He did and I listened again. It was what I didn’t hear that bothered me, but before I had a chance to say anything to Dutch, the front door opened a fragment and two dark brown eyes peeked out through the crack.

  “Go away!” hissed James.

  “Good morning, Mr. Carlier. I’m Agent Rivers with the FBI, and you remember Abby?” Dutch said, flashing his badge for effect.

  “I said go away!” James repeated.

  “Not until you talk to us,” Dutch said calmly.

  “I can’t talk now,” James insisted. “I have to get ready for work.”

  “Where’s your dog?” I said, asking about what had bothered me since Dutch pressed the doorbell. All dogs bark at doorbells, and I’d noted the silence that followed our arrival on James’s front steps.

  “I had to give her away,” James said, his eyes flickering to me.

  “Why?” I asked, trying to keep him talking.

  “She was too much . . .” James tried to explain. “She was too much trouble.” Liar, liar . . . pants on fire . . .

  “But I thought you said she was a great dog,” I insisted. Something really bothered me about James giving his dog away. He was lying through his teeth about it and I couldn’t figure out why.

  “Well, I was wrong. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said and began to shut the door.

  Dutch put his hand on the door, not forcing it open, but definitely preventing it from shutting. “James, we need to know about your brother, Jean-Luke. Is he here?”

  There was a gasp from James, who said, “I can’t talk about him!”

  “Listen, if you’re hiding him here there could be severe consequences for you,” Dutch said, his hand still firmly on the door. “He needs to go back to Mashburn where he can be monitored and treated.”

  From the other side of the door came a hollow laugh as James said, “Luke won’t go anywhere he doesn’t want to, Agent Rivers.”

  “It sounds like you’re afraid of him?” Dutch said again. “We can help you, James. We can protect you.”

  Again James laughed. “He’s smarter than you think. If he wants to inflict pain, he’ll find a way.”

  “So tell us what he wants with the puzzle box,” I said, my voice calm and low.

  “He wants his treasure back,” James replied cryptically. “His bloody, dirty, treasure!” And with that he slammed the door in our faces.

  “What the hell was that?” I asked Dutch as we heard the dead bolt slide home from the other side of the door.

  “You got me, sweethot,” he answered, scratching his head. “Come on, he’s not going to play nice today. Let’s go see Candice’s grandmother.”

  We backtracked across town and headed northeast until we got to Pleasant Ridge, a town that buffers Royal Oak and Ferndale. Pleasant Ridge is a small community, but known to have real estate tags higher than Royal Oak. We made our way along the quaint streets dotted with typical midwestern suburban homes until we arrived at the address on the piece of paper Candice had given me.

  Again I parked in the driveway and got out, waiting for Dutch to take the lead. We used the knocker this time and the door was promptly opened by a beautiful old woman with shiny silver hair, perfect makeup and nearly flawless skin. I smiled as she greeted us and extended my hand. “Madame Dubois?” I asked.

  “Ah, you must be Abby Cooper, no?” she asked me, her English exotically laced with a French accent.

  “Oui,” I said, remembering the only word I’d retained from four years of high school French.

  “Bonjour!” she said happily as she waved us indoors. “Come in, come in from ze cold.”

  We walked into the stifling heat of her front hall, Dutch taking off the light jacket that he’d worn on the unusually mild day. I quickly followed suit as the thermostat had to be set in the mideighties. Mad
ame Dubois took our coats and set them on the banister leading to the upstairs. “Come, come,” she said and fluttered into the living room. “Would you like some tea to warm your bones?” she called over her shoulder. “I’ve just put on a fresh pot.”

  I smiled gamely at Dutch who was tugging at his shirt and eyeing me with a “She’s kidding, right?” look.

  “We’d love some, thank you,” I called and elbowed Dutch in the side as I mouthed, “Behave!”

  As Madame Dubois set off to fix our tea, Dutch and I headed into the living room and both of us came up short as we caught sight of the decor. The room was an explosion of pink, pillows and lace.

  I gaped at the surroundings as I took in walls that were papered, a pattern of pink and white stripes, the carpet a dusty pink pastel. The couch was soft rose, with half a dozen assorted pink and lace-trimmed pillows. Facing the couch sat two blush-colored wing chairs draped with their own chenille pink afghans. The room was like an eruption of Pepto-Bismol.

  Dutch gaped with me, his features reflecting something between horror and disbelief. After a minute he looked at me as if to say, “Where do I sit?” and I rolled my eyes and pointed to one of the wing chairs. He sat carefully on the edge of the chair, afraid some of the color might rub off on his clothes. I took the other chair and tried to get the thought of indigestion out of my head.

  Just then Madame Dubois swept back into the room carrying a white tray with a pink teapot and several matching cups and saucers and cookie plates. Dutch got up to help her with the tray, and she shooed him away with a smile. She set the tray down and arranged each plate on the coffee table in front of us, then poured each of us a cup of tea and set those out as well. Without pause she shuffled back into the kitchen and came out with another, larger plate, stacked high with cookies in the shape of hearts with pink frosting.

  Dutch smiled and took a cookie, but his face said he’d lost his appetite. As Madame Dubois came around the table and took her seat she drew a deep breath and waved a hand at the room. “You like?” she asked us. “I decorated eet myself.”

  “Very nice,” Dutch said. Liar, liar . . . pants on fire . . .

  “Lovely,” I added as my lie detector went off again in my head.

  “So, you want to know about zis man, Jean-Paul Carlier?”

  I took a tiny sip of tea, more for show than for thirst and said, “Yes. Did you happen to know him?”

  “But of course,” Madame Dubois said as she poured her tea. “Everyone knew Jean-Paul.”

  I caught Dutch’s eye and winked at him, then turned back to Madame Dubois. “What can you tell us about him?”

  “Well,” she began, settling back on the couch and raising a finger to her chin as she collected her thoughts. “For starters, he was, how you say . . . a rat bastard.”

  Dutch sputtered his tea, and followed that with a heavy cough, and Madame Dubois and I both turned to look at him. “Sorry,” he said as his face flushed red. “Wrong pipe.”

  I rolled my eyes at him and turned back to our hostess. “You were saying?”

  Madame gave Dutch one more curious look while he pounded his chest with his fist. She continued, “He was a real shit.”

  “I see,” I said, stifling a laugh. “Because . . . ?”

  “Well, for one sing he was a thief.”

  “Thief?”

  “Yes. It was well known among ze French community here zat eef you needed your diamond jewelry cleaned, you avoided Jean-Paul’s. My dear friend Anna-Marie took heem her two-carat diamond broach, and returned with a one-point-six carat broach. Jean-Paul would switch ze diamonds and tink noting of eet.”

  “Why didn’t she get the police involved?” I asked.

  “Oh, mais oui, but she deed. However, she could not prove zat ze diamond had been switched, because she had no pictures, and no sales receipt. Ze broach had been in her family for generations, and Jean-Paul got avay with eet.”

  “So, other than larceny, was there anything else that Jean-Paul was underhanded about?” Dutch asked.

  “But of course,” Madame said, taking another sip of tea, and then biting off a bit of cookie before continuing. “He broke hearts everywhere he went.”

  “He was a ladies’ man,” I summarized.

  “Why, yes. After hees wife’s death he had a string of girlfriends. But zen he settled with one woman for nearly twenty years, until he died.”

  “Until, he died?” I asked.

  “Why, yes. But, of course, he broke her heart too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jean-Paul cheated on her with a much younger woman.”

  My radar began buzzing and I set my teacup down, then leaned in toward Madame Dubois. “Do you know who this much younger woman was?”

  “Mais non,” she said with a sigh. “I saw her a few times, but we were never introduced.”

  Dutch had also leaned forward in his chair. “What did she look like?”

  “She was pretty, blond and petite. She was like a little doll and no one could understand what she saw in Jean-Paul.”

  It was Liza, I thought excitedly. Madame Dubois was talking about Liza! “What happened to her?” I asked.

  Madame Dubois said, “Je ne sais pas. One day Jean-Paul was back weeth Simone.”

  “Simone?”

  “Oui, ze woman I told you about who cared for heem until Jean-Paul died.”

  “Is Simone still alive?”

  “Oui, yes.”

  “Where can I find her?” I asked, reaching into my purse to pull out a pen and piece of paper.

  “Why, she is living with her sister, two streets over. I will get you ze address if you’d like.”

  “Yes, please!” I said excitedly.

  Madame Dubois got up from her pink couch and shuffled into the kitchen. As she exited I looked at Dutch and mouthed, “Jackpot!”

  He nodded and whispered, “Let’s get the address and get the freak outta here.”

  I stifled a chuckle as Madame came back into the living room, toting a pink lace-covered address book. “Here eet ees,” she said as she paused on a page. “Simone lives at 126 Arlmont. If you take a left at ze stop sign and go two streets over you weel find her street right away. Hers ees ze tird on ze right.”

  “Merci!” I said, jumping up after I’d written down the address. “Madame Dubois, thank you so much for your time. We’ve kept you too long and really must be on our way, but thank you again for your lovely hospitality, and valuable information.”

  “My pleasure,” she said sweetly, beaming at Dutch and me as we hurried over to our coats. Just as I was wriggling into mine, Dutch’s cell phone chirped, and he nodded to Madame Dubois and ducked out the door. I smiled, shook the sweet woman’s hand, and followed behind my boyfriend, relishing the cooler air outside the moment it hit my face.

  Dutch was waiting for me on the front lawn, his hand on his forehead and his mouth a small “oh” as he listened intently. “She’s driving a what?” he asked, looking at me with wide eyes and shaking his head in disbelief, then he added, “And she drove it over what?”

  I walked to him, wondering what the commotion was about, just as Dutch began laughing. Someone must have said something incredibly funny on the other end of the line because he suddenly doubled over and began clutching at his sides.

  His laugh was contagious, and I found myself chuckling with him, as I waited for him to tell me what was so funny. Finally, he said, “Okay, Milo, we’ll be there in a few minutes. Try not to make her madder.” He clicked off the phone.

  “What was that about?” I asked as my boyfriend continued to laugh so hard his sides shook and tears leaked out of his eyes.

  “I think I’m gonna have to show you this one, Edgar. Come on.” And with that he walked to my car and waited for me to unlock the doors. Curious, I followed after him—my spidey-sense giving me the feeling that whatever Dutch wanted to show me, I wasn’t going to like it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dutch said only one thi
ng to me between chuckles as I started the car: “Make your way over to Fern Street, Abby.”

  I groaned as I pulled out of Madame Dubois’s driveway. “What’s happened?” I asked, but this made Dutch only laugh more.

  Ten minutes and lots of really annoying laughter later, I was thoroughly irritated. “Will you please tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “Can’t really put it into words, sweethot,” Dutch said, torturing me.

  When we pulled onto Fern Street I understood completely what he meant. On the front lawn of my investment property, perched in the cab of a bulldozer and waving her arms as she yelled at the police surrounding her, was my sister, Catherine. “Ohmigod! She’s gone over the edge!”

  Dutch ducked his head and began shaking with laughter again. I stepped on the gas and sped toward the scene, hitting him with my free arm and yelling, “It’s not funny!”

  I screeched to a halt and tore out of the car, running to Milo who was holding a bullhorn to his lips, ready to yell through it at my sister.

  “Milo!” I shouted.

  He swiveled his head toward me and lowered the bullhorn. “Thank God you’re here!” he said as I neared.

  “What the hell’s going on?” I asked.

  “Your sister’s a lunatic!” Milo bellowed. His eyes large and angry, his fingers clenched around the handle of the horn as he raised it and shouted, “Lunatic!” at Cat, who turned in the cab to glare at him and give him the finger.

  “Where did she . . . ? What has she . . . ? How . . . ?” I stammered as I looked at the havoc my sister had apparently caused. The fence that had once lined the property lay in a crumpled heap where it had been squashed by the dozer that was inching toward our investment property, while a group of police officers stood bravely in front of it and tried to get my sister to stop.

  “She ran over my car!” Milo shouted through the bullhorn as he pointed it at me, the sound so loud it rang through my head like a gong.

  I gasped as I turned back to him, “No! Not the beemer?”

  “Yes!” Milo shouted again through the bullhorn but directed it this time at my sister.