“Do you think Mr. Lodge was murdered?” I asked as we stood in the foyer surrounded by my collection of Australian aborigine masks.
“I don't know,” he said. “That's what I've been hired to find out. Good evening, Ms. Marlowe.” He gave me a two-finger salute, glanced around at the masks, back at me, then walked away down the hall to the elevator. He was taller than I and held himself erect, not the slouchy type, but the slope of his shoulders had some tired to them.
I looked at the piece of paper. Jake Manyhorses. What kind of a name was that?
* * * * *
I sat at my breakfast table window with a cup of organic fair trade coffee, enjoying the view looking across the Potomac River into Washington D.C. To the east the sun was trying to muscle its way through heavy gray clouds. This town had its faults, politics came to mind, but the view from Virginia of the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial with the Capitol building in the background was spectacular.
I hadn't slept a wink. Visions of Albert Lodge's face schmushed on the gold Persian carpet kept playing in my mind. Maybe he’d had a heart attack or stroke. Someone must have been pretty clever to conceal a cause of death the coroner thought natural. Who would want to do away with a nice, old gent like Albert Lodge?
I was now unemployed. Too bad. I’d some great ideas for a new, contemporary look to the library. Being the practical woman I was, I fished in my purse for my cell phone to call a client who was waiting for me to faux paint her dining room. After dumping the entire contents of my Coach purse, which seconded as a briefcase, I discovered the phone was not in residence. I must have left it in Mr. Lodge's library when I tried to call 911 and couldn’t get a signal. That meant a trip back to his house. I still had the key, so there'd be no problem getting in. I should have given the key to the policeman or Jake Many Horses, but it slipped my mind. That happened to me.
I decided, as I pulled on a pair of black slacks and olive turtleneck sweater after a steamy shower, I should tell Jake about Mr. Lodge having the library redone to erase the memory of his wife. I had asked him why he wanted to re-decorate the library. He said his wife had decorated it. Now that she was gone, it reminded him of her and he wanted a change. He didn't mention whether the memory of the wife was a good thing or a bad thing.
Zipping along the George Washington Parkway on my way to McLean where the rich and powerful lived and misbehaved, it struck me like a hopper of molten steel that I was involved in a murder investigation. Goose flesh prickled on my arms, maybe even my heart. Talk about a chilling feeling.
I didn't know much about Albert Lodge. He had photos sitting about the library, but he hadn't talked about any of the people in the photos. Maybe I should do some looking around on my own when I got there. What if someone had murdered him? Maybe I should forget about getting the cell phone. But my perverse nature made me blunder on.
As I entered the open gate to the Lodge estate, I noticed a car parked on the side of the road in a ditch under a tree shedding golden leaves. That car wasn't there the day before. Or was it? It was a rust bucket that looked like something an illegal alien would drive, way out of place in this neighborhood. I stopped, whipped out my daily planner and made a note under today's date of the license plate number, color and model. We detectives had to keep track of clues. I'd tell Jake about it.
I swung up the circular drive in my racy Acura Legend and parked in front. The place looked English country estate with lots of red brick and two stories of multi-pane windows. The carved entrance door was recessed into an arched portico with wide entrance steps. The sky was still overcast with leaden clouds lumbering by on a serious northwest wind. At least the rain had stopped. I pulled the collar of my suede jacket up around my neck, boldly strode to the door like I lived there, and commenced to wrestle with the lock.
I was starting to feel maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I kept looking around like I was expecting someone to come up to me and say “Hey, what do you think you're doing?” Finally, the door clicked open after I had jiggled the key at least a million different directions.
The foyer had an odd pungent smell. Maybe it was the pipe tobacco Albert Lodge favored. He had stroked and stoked his pipe in an orgasmic ritual Saturday morning when I had come to talk over what he wanted done and quote him a price. He had not flinched at the ball park number I tossed out. Good omen for us interior designers. Too bad the guy had to up and die.
My high heel boots clicked on the marble floors, echoing in the stillness. The drawing room was to the left, the library to the right. I headed for the library and stopped at the entrance a little apprehensive about what I might find. I peered around but detected no dead body or other undesirables. All was still, which gave me the willies. I hurried to look for the cell phone. A huge couch stood where Mr. Lodge had fallen. I went around the space like stepping on the spot would be sacrilegious. I ran my hand along the couch seams and cushions, thinking the phone might have dropped there.
“May I help you?” said a proper English voice.
I jumped and emitted an unladylike screech, gripping my chest to forestall a heart attack. I searched for the voice and saw the source standing at the entrance. “Good heavens. You gave me a fright. Who are you?” I managed to croak.
“My name is Hudson. I'm Mr. Lodge's butler. And you?”
He was an Anthony Hopkins look alike reminiscent of the butler in the movie, Remains of the Day, displaying a countenance more curious than stern. I detected a bit of a twinkle in his eye.
“Fiona Marlowe. Mr. Lodge engaged me to redesign the library. I'm the one who found him yesterday.”
“Quite. I've been away. My sister has been ill so I took leave to visit her. I returned when I heard of Mr. Lodge's accident.”
He walked to the window by the desk and opened the heavy velvet green drapes. They were the first things I planned to get rid of. The windows needed something lighter, airier.
“You came Saturday whilst I was gone, I believe,” he said.
“Yes. Mr. Lodge gave me a key so I could work when he wasn't here during the day.”
“He mentioned he had engaged you. I sometimes work in the far reaches of the house and didn't hear you come in since you didn't ring the bell. Are you here to continue working?” He cocked his head to one side like that was a suspect idea.
I smiled without humor. “No, I realize under the circumstances, my work won’t be needed. I misplaced my cell phone. The last time I used it was here, so I came back to look for it. Sorry to impose.”
He walked to the desk and picked up my cell phone.
“Is this it? I found it on the couch when I was tidying up this morning.”
“Thanks so much. I better run. Sorry.” I took the phone, plopped it in my purse and turned to go.
“You don't have to leave. Would you care for tea? We could talk about your plans for the remodel.”
I looked at him like he had just told me I’d won the lottery. “I thought the job would be over since Mr. Lodge . . .” My voice failed me, and I looked down at the place on the floor.
“The house will be put up for sale, no doubt, and anything you could do to spruce up the place would only add to the value. Maybe you could look at some of the other rooms.”
“Maybe we should have that cup of tea,” I said.
Hudson led the way to a dining area looking out on the spacious grounds to the back of the house. Spacious was an understatement. A virtual park unfolded across the horizon. In the immediate foreground was an Olympic size pool prime for swimming. A hint of steam rose from the water. Deck chairs were arranged as if a party might break out at any minute. A breakfast nook off the kitchen had a sparkling glass oval table with place for six. Hudson held my chair at the end to afford me the best view of the park.
“I just made a pot of tea. It won’t take me a minute to assemble the tray.”
He stepped smartly around a central island big enough for ten of my kitchen. On a crystal plate he arranged cinnamon rolls
that by the smell would have just come from the oven. I wondered who else was coming. Maybe he had a sweet tooth.
He placed silver teapot, cups and saucers on a silver tray and brought the whole shebang to the table. Did I mention he was done up in black suit, crisp white shirt, black tie? Shiny shoes, too.
“Here we are,” he said, placing the intricately carved silver tray between us. Brilliantly polished, might I add. He seated himself across from me and served. Lovely china, probably Waterford. I restrained myself from turning over the saucer to check the imprint.
“Thank you,” I said, accepting a cup and plate with cinnamon bun, heavy on the glaze. My favorite. It had been a while since breakfast.
I took a sip while Hudson served himself. He had crow's feet around disconcertingly pale blue eyes and the makings of jowls. His jacket was of impeccable fit. He sipped his tea with a genteel slurp. He looked up and an engaging smile lit his face.
I gathered my courage and waded in. “Not to rush the subject but who's running the show now?”
“I am,” he said with the engaging smile. His teeth were not perfectly straight which I appreciated after years of looking at the orthodontically correct generation. Crooked teeth were a mark of character in my book.
My raised eyebrow triggered more information.
“Mr. Lodge had every confidence in me. I manage the entire operation of the house, including finances. That's what the modern butler does. The library redesign will be small in terms of my signature authority. Mr. Lodge had already approved it.”
That answered my big question of who had the authority to pay me, if I undertook the rest of the project.
“I see. I don't mean to be nosy but aren't there children or relatives or an executor? I mean this is quite an estate.”
“Mr. Lodge has a older sister who is executor of the estate. She's quite sharp given her age. Mr. and Mrs. Lodge had no children. Mrs. Lodge’s sister and brother live abroad.”
Now we were getting into the good stuff.
“Won't the sister or whoever inherits have a say in how money is spent?”
He patted his lips with linen napkin and frowned. “Ms. Marlowe, I know what I'm doing. You shall be paid for your work. Now shall we discuss your plans for the library?”
On the drive back to my condo, I mulled over what to do. I wasn't convinced that Hudson had the authority to go ahead with the job. What about the sister executor? She could refuse to pay. I didn't like working for nothing, and I didn't want to argue about it. If I were smart, I’d try to get hold of the sister. I bet Jake knew who she was.
I tried my cell phone at a red light. Darn thing didn't work. I had to get to that stack of unopened bills. I needed someone like Hudson badly. Maybe I should hire a butler. Maybe younger, more handsome. Infinite possibilities there.
When I got back to the condo, the answering machine was chirping and the message light was on. I listened to a message from PI Jake. He wanted to meet me for coffee in the morning. I called back on the number he left which he didn't pick up, so I left a message on his answering service that I'd be available after ten in the morning.
He called back. “How about eight?”
I chewed my lip. I rarely got out of bed before nine, but I didn't want this guy to think I was a deadbeat freeloader. “Nine,” I said in a bargaining mood.
I heard him sigh through the phone waves. “All right. Nine.” He hung up. Maybe the autopsy report the family had ordered was back on Albert Lodge.
* * * * *
I showed up at Cafe Francois, a little dive I recommended, around 9:15. I like to be fashionably late. Jake was already there, sitting at a window booth, gripping a cup of coffee. I’d thrown on a pair of pressed designer jeans, black turtleneck, and tan corduroy jacket. The weather was forty degrees and raining which I detest. I love corduroy though. Cafe Francois was like home to me. I walked to the booth and slid in. Jake managed a grunt in greeting.
“Bad night?” I asked.
“Not much sleep.”
“I get those, too.”
Kathy, the waitress, came over. “Coffee, Fiona?” she asked.
“And a cinnamon bun,” I added since I hadn’t bothered with breakfast.
“Haven't seen you in a while,” she said, turning up the coffee cup and pouring. “You been out a town on one of the cushy jobs you pull in?”
I shook my head. “No, I've been working locally. Several weeks ago I went to Honduras to do some work for Mrs. Velasquez, you know, the one I did a lot of work for last year.”
“I remember.” She shook her head. “Some people know how to live. Anything else for you, sir?”
“Just coffee, thanks.”
“Sure, big boy,” she said with a grin. As she sashayed away in the tightest black waitress dress you'd ever want to see, I noticed Jake’s eyes following her retreat. He recovered and stirred an armload of sugar into his coffee.
“You know the help,” he said.
“I come here a lot. Where are you from?”
“Out west. Grew up in Oklahoma.”
“You've come up in the world.”
He gave a half laugh that lifted his mouth on one side. “I'm not sure. Not many people speak English around here.”
“A sad commentary on our world.”
Kathy sauntered over and slid a big, warm cinnamon bun in front of me. She plunked down two plates and a knife. “Thought you might like to share,” she said. I knew she was thinking this was the start of another romance.
“Thanks,” I said, not able to hold back a smile. “You devil.”
She winked at me and left to devil another customer.
When I offered Jake a slice of my bun, he held up his hand. “I never indulge. I get all the sugar I need in my coffee.”
I shrugged and sipped my coffee, waiting for Jake to tell me why he wanted to see me.
“The coroner’s report is in. Albert Lodge died of an overdose of Propranolol.”
I'm sure my face registered a dumb look. “Am I supposed to know what that is? I can't even pronounce it.”
“Propranolol is prescription medication used to treat high blood pressure, rapid heart rate, tremors, stuff like that. It can be lethal in high doses. Albert took a small daily dose.”
“Wow, you think he might have committed suicide?”
“Maybe.”
“Of course, someone could have given him an overdose.”
“Maybe someone could have.” He nodded his head up and down slowly, all the while holding my gaze.
Something niggled at my brain and then exploded full screen into my mind's amphitheater. “I'm a suspect.”
He smiled. It was a nice smile, but not under these circumstances. “You might say.”
“Wow,” I said again. My vocabulary seemed to be failing me. “I bet you want to know more about me. Did you do a background check?”
“Yes, m'am, to both.”
“You already know about me then. What's to tell?”
“Current history. How long have you known the deceased?”
I frowned. This conversation was not going in the right direction.
“I met him for the first time last Saturday. He’s a little too old for me, so dispense with that idea. But I have some information that might interest you.”
He sat back and played with his empty coffee cup, twirling it around. “Shoot,” he said.
“When I met with Mr. Lodge to determine the scope of work for the library redesign, he mentioned he wanted the work done because his wife had died. He didn't mention whether he had fond memories. But I got the feeling that he didn't particularly care for her. The redesign might have been his way of scrubbing away an unpleasant memory.”
“Okay,” said Jake. “But the wife is dead so she’s not a suspect.”
“Right. But maybe she had unpleasant feelings for him, which she shared with other family members. Maybe they did him in. I'm just throwing out possibilities here.”
“Grasping at straws?�
��
“Very funny. I'm trying to help your investigation. I have no feeling invested in this. I met Mr. Lodge Saturday. I was there Monday and Tuesday of this week while he was at work. Wednesday I find him on the floor. Friday I'm a suspect. I don't think I've had enough emotional investment in the affair to murder him.”
“You could be working for someone else.”
“Look at me. Do I look like a murderer?”
“Hon, I've seen sweet little old ladies do worse.”
“I'm sure you have.”
“Can you account for your whereabouts Tuesday night?”
I blew out a breath. “Home alone in bed. No witnesses. What was the time of death?”
“Sometime during the night.”
“Someone could have slipped him something with dinner.”
“The contents of his stomach indicated Chinese food.”
“There you have it.”
“I'm trying to eliminate you as a suspect.”
I threw up my hands. “It was Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick.”
“Hey, that's good. You used to play Clue?” Jake perked up at the mention of Clue. This was the most animated I'd seen him.
“Hours on end when I was a kid.”
“Yeah, me, too. We got white people’s discarded board games on the reservation. We gave all the characters Cherokee names.”
I frowned. “You grew up on a reservation?”
“Yeah, didn't everyone?”
Did I detect bitterness behind that comment? I studied his face but he had withdrawn behind a smirk.
“All right,” I said. “We best keep to the matter at hand. How did you get hired for this job?”
He did a one-shoulder lift. “I owe a family member a favor. How did you get the job?”
“Referral. I've done other estates in McLean. Good work is its own advertisement.” I put on a smile with an edge. “Did you interview the butler?”
“Yes. Did you?”
“I talked to him in the kitchen. I'm being retained to finish the library.”
High Desert Detective, A Fiona Marlowe Mystery (Fiona Marlowe Mysteries) Page 31