A Dickens of a Crime

by Phyllis H Moore

  Meg went about the task of getting ready for bed and discovered her yellow legal pad stuffed down in the panty liner box under her bathroom sink. Well that was genius. Too bad I can’t remember what a genius I am.

  The cat just stared at Meg as she exited the bathroom. “It’s not funny, LaRue,” she said, grimacing.

  Finally she sat down in her easy chair to make notes about the conversation she heard between Tom and Hal. They had mentioned Brian.

  Satisfied she had recorded all she could remember, Meg turned the living room lights off and headed to the kitchen to prepare the coffee-pot. First, she settled in front of the phone to listen to two messages, both from Jean. She wanted to meet the following morning at the library and she had a donation for Blue Santa.

  Meg wanted to tell Detective Crawford what she’d overheard at Darrow, what they’d discovered in the county clerk’s office, and about their visit with Brian. None of those events held much evidence, but there were impressions that could lead to other facts.

  She thought about Giselle as she turned her bed down and crawled in. The things Dorie had mentioned about rumors of Giselle’s behavior and her appearance at the funeral concerned Meg. The note and Giselle’s behavior screamed for attention. With many more questions than answers after a day of investigating, she hoped the next day would provide some insight. But what about the value of my locket? How would Hal know anything about the value? Meg didn’t even know what the locket was worth.

  The following morning, Jean and Meg sat at the conference table in front of tall windows in the center of the rare books room, Jean sharing notes she had taken during a phone conversation with Giselle the previous day. “She sounded drugged, pitiful really. She was slurring her words and didn’t say one coherent sentence.”

  “Did she say she was safe, okay?”

  “Giselle always was a little flaky, but I’ve never heard her as disconnected as she was on the telephone last night. She admitted being sad, and I could tell she was crying. She avoided talking about the note.” Jean rubbed her forehead.

  Meg shook her head, taking off her reading glasses. “So much for the urgency of that.”

  “The gist of the conversation was that she didn’t feel she had a father anymore, that Lena’s death was the end of their relationship. It was so disturbing. Even though she has a twin, she feels alone.”

  “Do you think she knows? I mean about the fact that Brian isn’t her father. Is that why she said that. What does she want? Why is she reaching out to us?”

  “I really couldn’t get a handle on it. I suppose it’s because we’re mothers, we visited before the funeral, and she identifies us with her hometown.” Jean rubbed her hands as she spoke. “She’s written Brian off as a contact here. That’s clear.”

  “You think she just wants someone to listen to her?”

  “Yeah, that was my take on it. I just wanted to let you know she made contact and she’s not really okay, maybe taking drugs.”

  “So what was the note all about?”

  “I mentioned it,” Jean said in a loud whisper. “At first, Giselle talked around it, not admitting she slipped it into my purse. Then she said she might’ve written something to me but she couldn’t remember.”

  “Was she that confused?” Meg said, shaking her head with her eyes closed. She blinked, looking at Jean. “Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  “Everything I’ve heard since that first visit to the house has been odd. This whole ordeal is odd. Though I’ve never looked into a murder before, so I’m not quite sure what normal would be in these cases.” Jean gave an exaggerated shrug.

  “Well me either. I also have some news.” Meg proceeded to tell Jean about the previous evening and her time in the closet at Darrow House.

  Jean sat forward, her hands clasped on the table. “I can just picture this. I would have had a heart attack when I saw the lights in the alley.”

  Jean quizzed Meg about the position of the body sharing, something Giselle mentioned about Lena being discovered nude at Darrow House. “She mentioned it several times, jumbled in other talk about her being so much younger than Brian and so focused on her car, clothing, and plastic surgery. She kept coming back to the same things, lamenting her father’s involvement with a younger woman.”

  The image of Lena sprawled on the Oriental rug, naked, was a sight Meg couldn’t forget. The blonde hair flung forward, covering her face and neck, one of Lena’s legs hidden under the bed. “I’m sure the police took photos of the room. I’d like to see those. Maybe it could spark a memory for me.”

  Meg looked back to Jean. “You know, later it occurred to me that it might not have been a natural position for the body to fall. I’m sure the police know all about these things, but I’d imagine an investigation is more difficult if there was an attempt to pose a body.”

  “What in the world made you think of that?” Jean squinted, looking through her readers at Meg.

  “I don’t even know,” Meg admitted. “You know how you get the big picture, but all the parts don’t seem to fit. That’s the feeling I had.

  “I’m not sure I mentioned this to you before, but the talk about the locket last night—that was my locket. For some reason Tom had it on his desk for a while, according to Jill Ann. What I can’t figure out is how it got to the back hall in Darrow House.”

  “Did you tell Detective Crawford about the locket?”

  “I can’t remember. I’ll mention it to her today when we go by. I’m going to ask if I can look at those photos. All Crawford can do is say no.”

  Meg pushed herself back from the table and threw her head back. She stared at the pressed tin ceiling, then ran her hands over her neck. “I wonder if Lena was strangled with bare hands or they wore gloves?”

  “Wait,” Jean said, paging through doodles and underlined words she called notes. “Here it is. I wrote ‘scarf’ and circled the word. Giselle mentioned Lena was strangled with her own scarf.”

  “Are you sure?” Meg sat up and leaned forward, tilting her good ear toward Meg.

  “Yep,” she said nodding. “Those exact words.

  “I never knew that. I just assumed someone held their hands around her throat.” Meg scratched her head. “I’m sure Crawford mentioned strangulation, but she didn’t say anything about a scarf.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  DETECTIVE CRAWFORD WAS as critical as Dorie about Meg’s eavesdropping from the closet, though Meg assured her that was not the intent of her visit to Darrow House. “I wanted to look at the room again. Something was just not right about how it appeared that day. Could I possibly look at photos?”

  Crawford agreed, setting the photos on her desk so Meg could look through them while the detective helped Jean unload the Blue Santa donations. “We’ve already surpassed last year’s donations,” Crawford said. “Mrs. White wants me to make sure you two can be involved in next year’s project.”

  “I can’t speak for Meg, but I’m in,” Jean replied.

  Meg had set the photos aside and was making notes when Jean returned with Detective Crawford. She had a hard time looking at many of them, especially the close-ups of the body. “The rumples on the bed cover, what do you make of that?” Meg asked Crawford.

  “Someone must’ve sat on the bed.” Crawford moved toward the desk and glanced down at the photos.

  “Or knelt, maybe?” Meg suggested. “It looks to me like someone straddled a second body.” She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips.

  “That’s been discussed,” Crawford agreed.

  “Was there any DNA?” Meg asked, leaning toward Detective Crawford.

  “There was no semen, if that’s what you’re asking. Several pieces of evidence were bagged, but we have no information about the results yet.”

  “That would be interesting to know.” Meg turned to Jean. “Can you think of anything else about your conversation with Giselle you want to add?”

  “No, I think we’ve said everything.”

  Me
g looked to Detective Crawford again. “I’m puzzled about this girl. When I talked to her before the funeral, she couldn’t wait to get it behind her and get on with her life. She talked about Lena like she was an insignificant inconvenience. Now, after the fact, she’s weepy and inconsolable, asking for attention. It just doesn’t make sense to me.”

  Detective Crawford leaned over her desk and wrote herself a note. When she glanced back up at Meg, her demeanor was different, pensive.

  “I’m no investigator,” Meg began, “but I have a funny feeling about those girls. Then again, I have a funny feeling about everything. Nothing rings true with these people.

  “It’s the reason I went by the county clerk’s office and looked up some records.” Meg took her phone from her purse and found the photos she took the previous day. She passed the phone to Crawford. “You see the date of birth on their birth certificates? That date occurs before the date on Mildred and Brian’s marriage certificate. Now look at the name of the father on the birth certificates.”

  “Oh my god,” Crawford swallowed. “This is much more complicated than we first thought and eerily premeditated. Do you think the twins know?”

  Meg leaned forward while Crawford continued to stare at the phone screen. “From comments Giselle has made, I’m inclined to think she does know the truth and that it’s somehow been used to manipulate those girls.”

  “I agree,” Jean said.

  “I’m trying to figure out how this would show motive, or if it clearly shows no motive,” Crawford said. “We’ll get copies of the actual certificates for our files.”

  “We figured you’d want to know this. If either of the girls makes contact, we’ll be sure to let you know.” Meg said.

  “I would appreciate that, Mrs. Miller. I just made a note to interview the girls. We had no reason to before, but as you say, they may have some information to share. We were told neither of them was in town prior to the funeral.”

  “I can’t remember if I mentioned this to you before, but Tom had a locket that belonged to me. I found it on the floor at Darrow House, the night I found Lena’s body. I picked it up and took it because it belonged to me and had been missing.”

  “That’s curious,” Detective Crawford said. “Can you think of any reason he’d have your locket?”

  “Not one. There’s a picture of my father in it. I can’t imagine why he would have it. I just wanted to mention that.”

  There was something else niggling at Meg, but she couldn’t remember what it was.

  Meg and Jean left for lunch, promising to share any updates with Detective Crawford. Jean called back over her shoulder that they could expect more Blue Santa deliveries.

  They took the most remote table at Meg’s favorite Italian restaurant; it had a quiet atmosphere, even during the lunch hour, perfect for their conversation.

  “Someone was having or preparing to have sex on that bed at Darrow House,” Meg whispered. “There was no mistaking the impressions on that bed cover. Crawford says there was no semen, so maybe they didn’t complete the deal, if you know what I mean, but they were certainly poised for it.”

  “Who do you think it was?” Jean sat on the opposite side of the table, looking at Meg with wide eyes.

  “If I had to guess, I’d suspect Hal or Tom were on the bottom and Lena might have been above. The kneecap impressions were about the size of hers.”

  Jean planted her face in her hand. “Oh, Meg. You never cease to surprise me. Did you take a measurement from the photographs?”

  “No, I just eyeballed and compared the impressions. I’m sure they can find some forensic expert to validate what I’ve observed.”

  “What else did you see in the photos?”

  “I hesitate to mention this.” Meg lowered her voice. “I sat there with my hand on the photo of the bed, trying to imagine the room as it was, and a puff of air hit my face. I blinked and saw a flutter of a scarf. I felt like it was Lena trying to tell me something. That’s never happened to me before.”

  “You’re thinking too hard about this, Meg. You obviously imagined it.”

  “I’m surprised at that response. You’re usually the one who believes we receive signs from the dead. However, I don’t take it literally. It was a whisper of a clue, something we should pay attention to.”

  Meg’s hand flew to her face. “We forgot to mention what Giselle told you about the scarf. Jeez, I can’t remember anything.” She knew there was something she was forgetting when they left Crawford’s office.

  “They have to know about the scarf if they know she was strangled, Meg.”

  Meg decided not to argue with Jean. She knew she’d had the vision, though she was confused as to why. She saw the colors of the scarf, the texture, felt the air on her face. It meant something, but she didn’t know what.

  Early that afternoon, while Meg was home taking a nap in her chair, the phone rang. The answering machine was going before she was able to pick up the receiver, but eventually Meg got it sorted out.

  “Mrs. Miller, this is Giselle. I met you at Dad’s house a few days ago, before Lena’s funeral.”

  “Why yes, sweetie. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. I just wanted to call and tell you thank you for coming by to check on my family. It was nice of you and Miss. Jean to visit. We all appreciated it.”

  “I hope you’ll be able to get back to your normal lives and be at peace with Lena’s passing, Giselle.”

  “Well, our normal hasn’t ever been all that great, but I’m adjusting. I just wanted to let you know your kindness was noticed.”

  Meg felt a little guilty about Giselle’s words, knowing her own motivation for the visit hadn’t been kindness.

  “I saw your dad recently. He’s doing okay. I know grief isn’t easy to get through, but all there is to do is go through it. How’s your sister?”

  “We haven’t talked much. I guess that’s why I’m feeling the need to reach out to the old hometown. Geneva’s a little distant. I do just fine during the day, but as evening approaches … well, it just gets more isolating.”

  “You feel free to call whenever you need someone to listen, sweetie. We’re here for you.”

  “I appreciate that, Mrs. Miller. Geneva’s always been the strong one. I’m more of a worrier and whiner, or at least that’s what she always called me. I thank you for the visit. I hope to talk to you again soon.”

  When they hung up, Meg conceded that while it hadn’t been as odd as the call Jean had received, it was still odd nonetheless. She couldn’t reconcile Giselle’s comments with what she’d told Meg earlier about her feelings toward Lena. The young woman gave no reaction to the mention of Brian and continued to call him Dad.

  Meg picked up her locket from the kitchen desk and opened it, staring at the old photo of her father. He was handsome in his youth. Meg’s only brother looked like him; they had been the same height in their adulthood and aged with similar traits. Theodore Monroe and Theodore Monroe, Jr. Dorie had been named for them.

  Meg stared into her father’s eyes, believing he was trying to tell her something. Where Paul might have told her to be careful and not get involved, she knew her father would urge her on. Maybe the locket wasn’t the mystery she conjured in her mind, but simply a sign she was doing the right thing.

  Meg took the locket in her bedroom, placing it beside the garnet earrings on a china plate atop the bureau. When she looked up, she glanced at her own eyes in the mirror above the dresser. She could see her father’s eyes there also.

  In that moment, Meg knew her visions and hunches were not her imagination, but part of who she was. She would pay attention. The image of the scarf was important.

  TWENTY-THREE

  THERE WAS A commotion outside in the early morning hours before it was light. Dogs barked and there had been a crashing and thud. Did I dream it or was there actually a noise? Meg turned to the clock on her bedside table: four thirty. What in the world? The dogs convinced Meg to get up and investi
gate.

  She stood by the bed for a minute to get her bearings before slipping her arms into the sleeves of her robe and wedging her feet into her lined slippers. There was enough glow from the streetlight for her to make out someone rifling through the garbage can she’d rolled to the curb the night before. In the early morning fog she could see a silhouette.

  Meg shined a flashlight out to the street and shouted, “Hey there.” The glow of the light offered no details, only distortion in the mist.

  A young adult male looked up and took off running down the street. Meg walked partway down the driveway, continuing to shine the light after the runner. They wore a hoodie pulled up over a baseball cap.

  For heaven’s sake. She stared at the plastic trash bag that had been torn open and left beside the can. Whoever it was had been seeking something in her garbage. She glanced down the street at the other cans lined up like erect soldiers, untouched.

  Why mine? Her hands rising up in the air.

  She stooped to pick up the trash and put it back in the bag, tying the torn plastic as best she could before righting the heavy container, throwing the plastic bag inside, and closing the lid. She shot the flashlight beam down the street again to deter any further visit from the scavenger.

  LaRue was waiting for Meg in the kitchen when she returned. It was almost five. There was no hope of falling back to sleep. She made coffee and checked her email. Hopefully seeing lights on in the house would keep the garbage thief from returning.

  Meg had a social media account, but she never posted anything, and she rarely looked at what others posted. She had opened the account when her brother suggested she could view photographs of his grandchildren.

  She logged on, first checking her nephew’s and Theo’s pages. Then it occurred to her that Giselle and Geneva might have accounts.

  As she typed Giselle’s name into the search bar, Meg felt a pang of guilt. Was she snooping into something that was private? She reasoned she wasn’t—people who decided to put themselves on social media knew they would be in the public eye for others to view—but there was still something that didn’t seem right about it.