“I’m happy to talk to Lily,” Mary said. “We’ve done community work together. She worked as a nurse and goes with me when I deliver food to needy members in the community and talks to them about their health.”
“I’ll go with you,” Rudy said. “I’ve talked with Lily a couple of times at town hall meetings.”
“I can do Tina,” Gertie said. “I really enjoyed the raw food appetizers today and asked her lots of questions. We connected, and I told her she could have some vegetables from my garden.”
“I go with,” Ivan said. “We a pair on this case.”
“That leaves Michael, Andy, Phil, Daniel, and Scott who were working the event.” I paused.
“I volunteer for Phil and Andy and telling them about our suspicions,” the Professor said.
“I’ll talk to Michael, Scott, and Daniel.” I pointed to the suspect list. “There are two more names we can add—the CEO, Mark Benton, and his sister, but I’d put them off to the side. I don’t know their size, which is part of the criteria for our list. I’ll check with Michael.”
Rudy frowned as he wrote their names. “Why would you include them? They didn’t stay at the mansion.”
“No, but he and his sister would’ve had access to it at some point since they were going to buy it. They might’ve met Sylvia,” I said.
“We haven’t figured out how the person got the hatpins,” Gertie said. “Lily or Tina might have found a way since they are on staff and live on site, but how would the others manage it?”
“The key appeared new,” I said, “definitely not the original that came with the cabinet. There could’ve been a number of duplicates made and they found a way to get one. Robert Johnson is a billionaire—he has a billion ways to influence people to give him what he wants.”
Mary piped up. “Maybe the buyers asked for keys to get a closer look at some of the items. They could’ve kept that one ‘accidentally’ or had a copy made.”
“Excellent thought, Mary,” Gertie said.
“We don’t have a motive yet for the murder or the attack on Hensley,” the Professor said. “What’s driving all of this?”
I spoke up. “Robert Johnson really wants the property. You could hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes. If Sylvia made the connection to who he was, the deal would have been dead right then and there.”
“Had he met Sylvia?” the Professor asked.
“He said no, but obviously he’s not above lying,” I said.
Gertie chimed in. “Maybe the CEO thought the money sounded better than doing his own development after all.”
Mary put her fork down. “Maybe Sylvia pushed Tina or Lily too far, and they were concerned about losing their jobs.”
“Those are all possibilities, but how does the attack on Hensley fit in?” Or me. “I don’t have a clue. We’ll have to keep gathering information until something comes to light.”
The Professor said, “Sounds like we have our new direction and our assignments. Maybe tomorrow will take us to the killer.”
Noticing the pitcher was empty, I picked it up. “I’ll get some more water.”
I went to the main room and started to fill the container from the water cooler.
Helen came over and handed me a note. “I forgot to give this to you earlier.”
Henrietta, Henry as she liked to be called, had phoned collect. The message said she had more information but not to call after nine, which was six o’clock here. It had been too late to call by the time I got to the inn. I knew what I’d be doing in the morning.
“Thanks, Helen.”
I gazed around the room. The kids and the dogs were playing, while Stevie and Daniel watched television. Helen’s cookies had filled the room with mouthwatering smells. I’d be so happy when this was the routine instead of talking about tracking down a murderer.
Henry had called. She wouldn’t do that for a social reason. What had she found out? Would it be something that would lead us to the answer we so desperately needed?
Chapter 25
Helen answered a knock on the door and opened it for Detective Rodriguez. We exchanged hellos, decided to meet about seven in the morning, and I said I’d call him when I was ready. Helen gave him his room information, and he excused himself to continue with his paperwork. Daniel and Stevie looked quizzical but went back to watching their show, and I returned to the Sentinels.
Studying our list of our primary suspects, I said, “We have a billionaire, a young woman with a bright future ahead, and a caregiver. It’s as clear as mud which one is a murderer.”
Ivan wrinkled his brow. “Clear mud? Would like to see.”
The Professor smiled. “It’s an idiom, Ivan.”
“An idiotums?” the big man said, and we all laughed.
“Some of them seem idiotic, that’s for sure. The word is idiom,” the Professor explained. “It’s when words put together in a phrase have a different meaning than what you’d find looking each individual word up in the dictionary. For example, if you say something costs an arm and a leg it means it’s very expensive.”
“Now Ivan get. Like fish on land.”
“Sort of. That one’s like a fish out of water,” the Professor said.
“Yah, yah. Now I remember. Fish out of water.”
We worked together to clean dishes and pack up the food. With promises to have an afternoon meeting tomorrow, we said our good nights.
As I was about to leave, I looked at Robert Johnson’s picture again. He was talking to a man, and I wondered if it was the CEO. I decided to call Corrigan.
“Hi, Kelly.” Corrigan sounded tired.
“How’s Margaret?”
“She has a concussion, but it appears she’ll be okay.”
“That’s good news. Is the man in the picture with Robert Johnson the one who wanted to buy the mansion?”
“Yes. When I saw that, I had an idea what Robert was up to.”
“Thanks. That’s helpful. The Sentinels and I have put together our next plan of action.” I didn’t ask him about the last time he saw Hensley or for a description of the buyers—that could wait.
“You’ve all done a great job so far. I’m glad to hear they’re still working on it.”
We ended the call with promises to be in touch with any new developments.
Examining the picture more closely, I saw a gray-haired man, maybe in his sixties. There had been a second man in the picture Sylvia showed me, and it could have been him. Hard to tell his height, but at least now we knew what he looked like.
I packed a few things and went to my new room.
I rolled out of bed at six and was ready by seven to go downstairs with Detective Rodriguez. Helen had thoughtfully brought me a thermos of coffee since I didn’t have a way to make my own. I was anxious to make my call to Henry.
I phoned the detective, and we met on the landing. “Any new information you can share?” I asked.
He shook his head. “There’s nothing new. More of an absence of information—no fingerprints at any of the crime scenes, no weapon so far from yesterday’s attack, and nothing useful we can see in the interviews.”
“Frustrating,” I said.
He nodded in agreement.
“Did Michael Corrigan tell you about the papers I’ve been working on?”
“Just that you found legal documents regarding a lawsuit from about fifty years ago and that it didn’t seem relevant to what was happening now.”
“Right. The woman lost the case. I talked to a relative and learned a little more. I missed a call from her yesterday, so I’m going to the office to phone her back.”
We entered the kitchen and workroom area. Helen was slicing bananas. A dish of yogurt sat nearby.
Helen pointed to two plates on the counter. “Good morning. Breakfast is ready.”
Detective Rodriguez’s eyes lit up when he saw the frying pan brimming with scrambled eggs with red and green peppers mixed in. Country-fried potatoes heaped on a plate sat on the counter next to
a platter of bacon.
“Looks great, Helen. I’m going to return Henry’s call, then I’ll be in.”
I grabbed a cup of coffee as the detective started filling his plate.
Closing the study door behind me, I hesitated a moment, then locked it. I found a notepad and a pen, settled in behind the oak desk, and dialed Henry’s number.
“Evans Residential Care. How may I help you?” a voice asked in well-practiced tones.
“Henrietta Reynolds, please,” I replied.
“Just a moment. I’ll see if she’s available.” The woman put me on hold.
After what seemed an eternity, Henry came on the line.
“Henry here. Who are you?” the high-pitched elderly voice demanded.
“Kelly Jackson. How are you?”
“Waste of time talkin’ about how I am. What do I need to do to get that reward you talked about?”
“Give me new information about Iris and her family.”
“How much is it?”
Right. How much? It didn’t exist.
“It’s a hundred dollars. Any new information about the Brandon family qualifies you.” I rolled my eyes. May this never get out.
“If I’d known it was that much, I would’ve called sooner.”
I willed myself to be patient.
“Do Iris’s kids count?” Her voice creaked.
“Sure.” I perched on the edge of the chair, pen ready. What did the woman know?
“How do I know you’ll send me the money?” Suspicion filled her quavering voice.
“You don’t. But I will. And you have nothing to lose,” I replied.
Henry’s laugh was like the crackling of dry leaves. “Way to go, girl. I like your style, and you’re learnin’ how to get to the point.”
I think I heard the phone squeal as I held it in a stranglehold.
“Ethel called yesterday,” Henry declared triumphantly. Silence. She didn’t continue.
“Who’s Ethel?” I asked.
“My word, girl. Don’t you know anything? I thought you were researching this family. Well, doesn’t matter.” Her breath whistled softly over the phone.
I drew a smiley face on my notepad to have something cheerful to look at.
“She’s a relative. I asked her about Iris’s kids. It seems the youngest boy was ill almost from the get-go. The two older ones took care of him as long as they could. Had to put him in some home early on. Hard to imagine being in a place like that all your life.” Her voice trailed off, ending in a whisper.
What kind of life was Henry living? In my excitement, I hadn’t thought about the woman I was talking to, where she was, and what she might be going through. I felt a surge of guilt.
In softer tones I asked, “Do you know what happened to the other two?”
“The boy got into some kind of trouble. Both of ’em moved west, Ethel said. Thought maybe California. Wasn’t sure.”
“Do you have any idea what the name of the place is where they put their younger brother?”
“Nope. You’re talking over thirty years ago.”
“What were the names of the children?”
“Don’t remember the youngest—didn’t see him much. The boy went by Cash and the girl’s name was Catherine. Do I get my money?” she asked with a shot of spunk in her reedy voice.
“I’ll send it tomorrow. If you find out anything else, give me a call. It’s not a one-time reward.”
I’d pay it myself. A hundred dollars was a lot, but the information might prove useful, and Henry probably needed it more than I did.
“Okay.” Henry’s voice suddenly seemed filled with the weight of her years.
“Take care, Henry,” I said.
“I always take care of myself,” Henry fired back. The line disconnected as she banged the phone down.
I sank back in my chair.
Of the current suspects, Robert Johnson and Lily Wilson could be grandchildren, and Tina could be a great-grandchild. I wasn’t sure about the CEO and his sister, but the picture made me think they’d be in the grandchildren category.
I kept circling back to the fact Iris had lost the lawsuit. Why would it make any difference now? I didn’t think we were going to find the answer in this line of inquiry, but I decided to stay with it. I had nothing to lose, either . . . except my life, if we didn’t get an answer soon.
I went to the conference room and studied the photograph of Johnson and the person who was fronting for him. Their facial structures were quite different from each other. Johnson had a narrow face and the other man had high cheekbones and a wide brow. Then it hit me. Family resemblances sometimes were very strong and passed down through the generations. If one of the suspects was a descendant of Mrs. Brandon, the photographs in the carriage house might give us a clue as to who it was.
I went into the kitchen and sat next to Detective Rodriguez, who was heaping a second helping of potatoes on his plate.
“Learn anything?” he asked.
“A little more about the family. Iris Reynolds, who initiated the lawsuit, had two boys and a girl. One of the boys was in poor health and put in a home. The other two might have moved out here.”
“Doesn’t seem like you got much to go on.”
I put peanut butter on a piece of toast and topped it with raspberry jam. “I know what you mean, but I’d like to go look at the photos of Mrs. Brandon I found in the carriage house. Do you have time to go with me? It won’t take long. I’ll grab a few and take them into the mansion . . . if that’s where I’ll be.” I remembered my day wasn’t my own to plan anymore.
“That works. Nelson and I are working in the interview room. We have all our papers spread out there.” He looked at his watch. “I’m meeting him at eight thirty, so I have time to go up there with you. You can come back to the mansion with me until you get your day figured out.”
We thanked Helen for breakfast, got our things from our rooms, and headed for Redwood Heights. We parked in back next to each other and walked up the path. When we arrived at the carriage house, I took out the key and started to move the yellow crime scene tape.
Detective Rodriguez stepped beside me. “Let me do that.” He took the key, pulled the tape aside, and unlocked the door.
He entered and flipped on the light switch. “You stay behind me.”
The first part of the room remained much the same. However, there was a considerable change at the back. The police had broken down a large section of the wall, in order to remove the skeleton. Now one could easily walk into the once-hidden room. The empty carriage sat in the back, a dusty, outdated means of travel, but no longer a casket.
Detective Rodriguez checked behind boxes and inside the carriage. “Looks like the coast is clear.”
His phone rang. “Detective Rodriguez.” He listened. “What do you mean it’s about my wife? Just a minute.” He turned to me. “I’m going to take this outside. I’ll be at the doorway.”
I’d already headed for the box of photographs. “Okay. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
Some light now found its way into the room from the newly made opening, but I still needed my flashlight to look at the pictures. I pulled it out and opened the steamer trunk. The stack of photos was still there. I wanted to get a good photo of Mrs. Brandon’s face, preferably from different angles, as well as a sense of how tall she was.
One photo had her in a portrait setting, leaning against a fireplace mantel, showing her to be on the tall side. Another gave her facial profile as she petted a horse. Digging deeper, I found one of her facing the camera, dark hair piled high, her eyes challenging and inviting. High cheekbones. Wide eyes. Two people came to mind—the CEO and Lily Wilson.
Violet. Iris. Lily.
Goose bumps erupted on my arms. I’d found the granddaughter. Why had she kept quiet about her family connection? She must be hiding it for a reason.
Had I found the killer?
“Detective Rodriguez,” I shouted. I jumped up and turned ar
ound—only to find Lily blocking my path.
Chapter 26
Lily’s silhouette filled the doorway. She turned and pulled the door closed.
The last time the door had closed, I’d been trapped inside. A prickle of apprehension rippled through me.
Her full skirt reached to the floor, the ebony cloth rustling as she stepped toward me. The high-necked lace bodice and long sleeves extending over the backs of her hands had once protected travelers of the horse and buggy era. A fine black mesh veil from a small-brimmed hat shrouded her features—the apparel of mourning. Lily lifted the delicate fabric with one hand.
“Detective Rodriguez?” I forced his name through my constricted throat.
“He won’t be coming,” Lily said. “He had to go.”
What exactly did she mean by that?
Lily pointed to the items I held in my hands. “I see you have some photographs.”
“Yes. I was trying to see if there was a family resemblance to anyone involved with the mansion. I think Mark Benton, the man who wants to buy the mansion, looks somewhat like her.”
I had no intention of mentioning her likeness.
She smiled. “As well he should. He’s my brother, and we’re Brandon descendants. The woman you found in the coach was our grandmother.”
Shocked at her admission, I asked, “Lily, why didn’t you tell people about your connection to the family?”
Lily sighed. “It was my secret. When I came here, I took a position as a nurse to care for the ailing owners. They were involved in the lawsuit and wouldn’t have hired me if they’d known my mother was the one who sued them. I changed my name from Catherine, my paternal grandmother’s name, to Lily, which is what my mother felt was in keeping with the Brandon tradition. Wilson was a convenient name on our family tree.”
I shifted uneasily.
“I decided if I couldn’t own Redwood Heights, maybe I could at least live in it. Mom often showed us pictures of the place.” Her face took on a dreamy expression. “I knew every detail of what was in those photographs—the inlaid tables, the crystal chandeliers, the marble fireplaces. It was all to be ours . . . and should be ours.”
Murder at the Mansion Page 18