Murder at the Mansion

by Janet Finsilver

  Keeping my flashlight aimed at the floor, I glanced up and could see the light of the doorway at the end of the passageway. I quickened my pace, anxious to get out of the darkness. Suddenly, the light disappeared. Solid black ahead.

  Someone has closed the door.

  I froze, my heart pounding so loudly I thought it would echo off the walls. I was scared to bring the light up and see who or what was there. The murderer must have used this passageway. Had he or she come back?

  A light flashed on, the beam shone directly in my eyes. I winced and turned my head, blinded by the brightness.

  “Ms. Jackson, what are you doing in here?” Deputy Sheriff Stanton demanded.

  My knees almost buckled with relief. Then I thought about his question. What was I doing in here?

  “I . . . I . . . it seemed to be the right thing to do. I checked for footprints, but the floor was wiped clean. I . . . I . . . wore gloves.”

  “Let’s go outside.” In the washroom he frowned at me and shook his head. “Ms. Jackson, if you find anything in the future that’s of interest, don’t proceed to investigate on your own. Wait for us.”

  A fair request. “Okay.”

  The frown remained. “Did you find anything I should know about?”

  “Nothing unusual. The rooms are locked with dead bolts on the outside. There’s a way to secure them from inside the room if you know the metal rod is there.”

  He gave me a skeptical look, turned away, and entered the servants’ passageway. Relieved to be out of the stifling hallway, I put my shoes on and stepped into the kitchen. The brightly lit room was a pleasure after all the darkness. Tina was preparing food. Colorful appetizers filled several trays.

  “These look really good. Are they all made with raw vegetables?”

  She smiled at me. “Absolutely.”

  “I think of raw food as carrot sticks and sliced cucumbers.”

  She laughed. “You’re not alone.”

  I pointed to mushrooms filled with what looked like cheese. “This looks like dairy.”

  “I know. People are really surprised when they learn you can make a cheeselike product from nuts, like almonds and cashews.”

  “You definitely could’ve fooled me. What’s in this recipe?”

  “Portobello mushrooms stuffed with almond ‘cheese’ and walnut pesto. It’ll be garnished with chopped Italian parsley.”

  Tina transferred quarter-size, almost transparent chips into a bowl. “These are made from zucchini. The school let us use their dehydrator.” Tina covered the container with plastic wrap. “So, what’s going on in the washroom?”

  “What I think is good news for you and Stevie. We discovered a hidden servants’ passageway providing access to the rooms where the jewelry was taken. The police have new information to focus their investigation on that doesn’t involve the two of you.”

  “Oh, thank you for telling me. This is great! That’s my second piece of good news today.” Her face flushed, and she began taking dishes to the sink. She chattered on like a bird twittering at a feeder full of fresh seed. “My first was Jerry Gershwin, the celebrity chef, has signed up to attend the raw cooking school with us. He’s going . . .”

  She stopped and stared at me, clasping her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. Kelly, promise me you won’t say anything.”

  “No problem. But why aren’t you supposed to mention it?”

  “His nickname is the Meat King. That’s what he cooks on his television program. Ranchers love him and are his biggest sponsors. He’s afraid he’ll lose them if they know he’s at a raw cooking school.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “And his ratings could go down if viewers found out and it seemed like he was turning away from meat.”

  That all made sense to me.

  “He’d asked Cindy and me about the class we were taking. When I got sick, I knew I was going to miss a session. I checked with the school, and they said it was okay for him to take my place. His cell phone number was in his registration information. I left him a message and when he got back from the tour, he called and said he’d enjoy taking the class. Cindy was at the school getting supplies. I texted her, and she was really excited to know she’d have a chance to meet him.”

  The day she was sick? That was the day Sylvia was killed.

  She put the last tray away and wiped her hands on a green kitchen towel. “I want to go tell Cindy the good news. See you later.” She hurried out to find her friend.

  I walked down the hallway, thinking about what I’d learned. Cindy had said she’d met him the morning of the murder and the time they spent together gave them alibis. He had corroborated what she told the police. According to what Tina texted Cindy, she hadn’t met Jerry yet. Cindy and Jerry had lied. It meant their alibis just went out the window. They could’ve killed Sylvia.

  Chapter 18

  I needed to tell Deputy Sheriff Stanton. I’d promised Tina I wouldn’t say anything, but that was before I realized her information wiped out Jerry Gershwin’s alibi as well as Cindy’s. Maybe he’d give me a few brownie points, and it would help make up for the passageway incident. I hit his contact button on my phone and waited for him to answer.

  “Hello, Ms. Jackson. How can I help you?”

  I explained what I’d learned and what it meant concerning the two alibis.

  “That’s helpful, Ms. Jackson,” Deputy Sheriff Stanton said. “I appreciate the information.”

  “Deputy Stanton, I said I wouldn’t tell anyone. Given what I found out, I knew I had to say something. But . . .”

  “Go on, Ms. Jackson.”

  “I’d hate to see Jerry’s reputation impacted or, worse yet, something happen to his television show, if he isn’t guilty of killing Sylvia.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Please don’t tell anyone about Jerry attending the raw cooking school unless you have to.”

  “Good point. I’ve seen innocent people’s lives take a negative hit during an investigation, through no fault of their own. I’ll keep what you said in mind.”

  I ended the call and put Jerry back on the list of suspects, along with Hensley, Tina, Lily, and Robert James. Cindy was too short for the attack on Gertie, but since she’d lost her alibi along with Jerry, she still had the opportunity to kill Sylvia. I didn’t envy Stanton his job. None of those people seemed to be likely possibilities to me. I went to the manager’s office and knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” Hensley said.

  Corrigan and Scott were seated by the manager’s desk, notepads open.

  My boss stood, grabbed a chair, and put it next to him. “Here you go.” He smiled at me. “Good work on the servants’ passageway.”

  Sitting down, I said, “Thanks. I stopped by to see if you’d heard about the discovery.”

  “Deputy Stanton came by. Wanted to know if we knew anything about it—which we didn’t,” Corrigan said.

  Scott leaned forward. “How did you find the passageway?”

  I explained what Stevie and I had done. “Stevie and his dog team deserve credit for finding the dry rot that led to the discovery.”

  Hensley arched an eyebrow and busied herself arranging papers on her desk.

  It was clear to me she was bound and determined not to acknowledge Stevie in any kind of positive way.

  “What made you think of a servants’ passageway?” Scott asked.

  I hesitated a moment. “My ex-husband was a college history professor. He was passionate about the subject, and we explored a lot of mansions, castles, and museums in Europe. The homes of the lords and ladies often had a setup like the one here.”

  They don’t need to know it was on our honeymoon.

  Corrigan closed his leather-bound notebook. “Well, good work. Hopefully, it’ll give the police some further clues.”

  Hensley spoke up. “It’ll be a pleasure when they’re done with the investigation and are gone.”
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br />   It’ll be a pleasure when they find Sylvia’s murderer . . . and he or she is brought to justice.

  “That’s it for today, folks.” Corrigan stood. “We all have our part to do next.”

  “Do you need me for anything here this afternoon or evening?” I asked.

  “No,” Corrigan said. “As we discussed this morning, I’d like you to work on the legal documents you found.”

  I got up, too. “Shall do.”

  Scott and I walked out together. The brisk ocean air was a pleasure to feel after the closed-in passageway from this morning.

  “I enjoyed last night,” Scott said.

  “Same here. Thanks for the excellent choices for dinner.”

  He stopped by my pickup truck. “You’re welcome.”

  The sun glinted off of his pitch-black hair, which emphasized his light blue eyes.

  Taking my keys out of my pocket, I asked, “What nationality are you?”

  “Irish. Contrary to popular belief, many people have my coloring there. They aren’t all redheads like you. I’m guessing we share a common heritage.”

  “Actually, I’m mostly Norwegian, with a little English thrown in.”

  “So much for assumptions,” he said, and we shared a laugh

  I opened the truck door. “What do you have planned for the afternoon?”

  “Michael asked me to do some work on the sale of Redwood Heights. The investigation doesn’t keep that from happening.”

  “How soon before it’ll be finalized?”

  “It’s supposed to close Sunday. Michael and I were planning to come down Friday.” He paused. “There is some good news. The new owner wants us to keep managing for a while and plans to retain the staff.”

  “I’m sure the employees will be glad to hear that.”

  “By the way, I left my sunglasses at your place. When would be a good time to stop by and get them?”

  “I’m headed back to the B and B now.”

  “I’ll go get some paperwork I need and be over shortly.”

  He left for the house, and I started the truck and drove back to the inn. As I entered the back door, my stomach told me it was lunchtime. I pulled a package of sliced turkey from the refrigerator and put it on the counter, along with condiments. Crunching gravel announced the arrival of a car. A few minutes later Scott entered.

  “Hi. I was just starting to make a sandwich. Would you like one?”

  Scott glanced at his watch. “Sure. I have an hour before my appointment this afternoon. Let me help.”

  I placed tomatoes, lettuce, and bread next to the other items, pulled down some plates, and we worked together to make our lunch. I noticed the fortune cookies from last night.

  I suggested, “Let’s have fortune cookie appetizers and see what the future holds.”

  Scott picked up his sunglasses from the counter and tucked them into an inside jacket pocket. “Sounds good to me.”

  “You pick.”

  “Okay, but you need to read yours first.” He reached for one, and I took the other.

  “Deal.” Pulling it open, I plucked out the strip of paper and read, “Your dream will come true.”

  “What’s your dream?” he asked.

  “To find my place in life, a career.” I put the paper down. “It should be in present tense, because it’s come true.”

  “Nice. I’m happy for you.” He cracked his apart. “Now you can find another dream.”

  “What does yours say?”

  “Be open to new paths.”

  “Maybe you’re meant to work on the project Michael’s been talking to you about.”

  “Possibly. We’re having dinner tonight to discuss it some more.”

  “Well, I wish you the best.” I picked up our plates and put them on the table. “Time for lunch. What would you like to drink? There’s iced tea, or I could make some coffee.”

  “Tea’s fine.”

  I poured drinks and put the glasses on the table. We settled in to enjoy our meal.

  Scott sipped his tea. “You said you were looking for a place to fit in. It sounds like that was a challenge for you. I thought your family’s ranch met that goal for you.”

  “I love the ranch, and Mom and Dad wanted me to stay there and work, like the rest of the family, but I felt driven to find something of my own, a career. After several unsuccessful experiences, I was worried I’d never find the right fit.”

  “What were some of the jobs you tried?” Scott took a bite of his sandwich.

  “I taught middle school while I was married. Liked the kids. Didn’t like a schedule with times like six minutes after nine.”

  “I wouldn’t like that, either.”

  “After my divorce, I went back to the ranch for a while.”

  We ate our lunch, and I told him about some of my failed attempts, finishing with, “It was a long four years before arriving here.”

  “Are you comfortable talking about what happened to end your marriage?”

  I shrugged. “He fell out of love with me and fell in love with one of my friends. She shared his fascination with history. It happens, it hurts, you move on.”

  “Where are you now in terms of how you feel?”

  “Healed. Pretty much. Wanting to concentrate on my job right now. What about you? Have you been married?”

  “No. My work doesn’t support a serious relationship, much less a marriage.” He looked at the clock over the stove. “I’d better get going in a few minutes. Let me help with the dishes.”

  He rinsed, and I put them in the dishwasher.

  “The Sentinels said the chowder competition tonight is a lot of fun. I’m attending, unless I find something in the box of documents that changes my plans. Do you want to go? It starts at five thirty.”

  He smiled. “I could for a little while before I meet Michael.”

  “I’ll call later and touch base with you.”

  “Okay. Chowder contest. Sounds like the quintessential event for your ‘village’ atmosphere.”

  “I expect so.”

  He left, and I went to give the musty legal documents a thorough review. I’d only glanced at them the other day, noting the suit was a little more than fifty years old. When I got to my room, I pulled a notebook from the desk, got a pen, and poured myself a glass of Pellegrino.

  A couple of hours later, I stood and stretched. What had I learned? A woman named Iris Reynolds sued the Brandon estate, claiming to be the heiress of the mansion. She was a resident of New York. I listed as many names, addresses, and dates as I could find, including the attorney she consulted in Manhattan. Time to get on the Internet.

  I started with the attorney. Nothing. Then I began on the list I’d generated. A convoluted, technology-driven trail later, I had the name and number of a relative.

  Electrified by my find, I grabbed my phone and called.

  “Evans Residential Care. May I help you?” a voice inquired.

  “I hope so. I’m looking for Henrietta Reynolds. Can you help me?” I asked.

  “Please hold.” I was put into the telephone netherworld.

  “Hello,” barked a voice with the pitch of a toy poodle.

  “Ms. Reynolds?”

  “Miss.” She strung the word out like steam escaping from a kettle. “I don’t take to any of that modern foolishness.”

  “Miss Reynolds, my name is Kelly Jackson. I work at Redwood Heights in California. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  “No.” Strained breathing in the receiver. “And call me Henry. Everyone does. Easier on my ears and your voice.”

  “I’d like to talk to you about Iris Reynolds.”

  “Why?” snapped the creaky voice.

  “We found some documents with her name on them. I believe you’re a relative of hers. Am I right?”

  “Yep. Can’t deny it.”

  I stopped for a moment, hesitant to bring in the word lawsuit. People often shied away from talking about legal issues. I scrambled to think of a reason for calli
ng.

  “Are you still there?” an annoyed voice asked.

  “We’re compiling a history of the manor and thought your family might be able to help us. Her name has come up, and we can’t figure out how she fits into things. My boss is a stickler for accuracy and wants me to find out.” Corrigan wanted answers. I didn’t think he’d mind what I’d just said.

  “I really can’t tell you much about her. They didn’t live that far away, but it could’ve been hundreds of miles for all we ever saw them.” A sniff traveled over the line. “We only saw each other at family gatherings, the ones you pretty much had to go to. Even though she was kin, I didn’t care for her a whole bunch. Always puttin’ on airs. Acted like she was better than the rest of us.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Oh, she’s done gone,” wheezed Henry.

  “Where to?”

  “What I meant is, she’s dead, girl.” Exasperation filled the voice.

  “I’m sorry to ask so many questions, but it’s important. Can you tell me how she died?”

  “Well, her family said the life just seemed to go out of her when she came home after the California thing. She just wasted away to nothin’ and died.”

  “What was the California thing?”

  A long sigh. “You see, she was convinced she was supposed to inherit some big fortune out in California. Maybe had to do with your place. Used to brag to us how she could prove it, and one day she would. She finally got enough money together, hired a lawyer, and went out west.” A coughing spasm interrupted the conversation.

  I waited for the wavering voice to go on. It didn’t.

  “Henry, then what happened?”

  “She lost the case.”

  “Are any of her family members left besides you?”

  “Nope. Leastways, not the ones she grew up with. That side of the family never was a strong bunch.”

  “Did she have any children?”

  “Yep. Three. Humph. Used to dress those kids of hers up and talk to them about the proper manners to be used at the manor. They lived in a little shack of a place. Ridiculous.”

  “Do you know where the children are now? Is her husband still alive?”

  “Which one do you want me to answer, girl? It’s not like I can say two things at once.”