Trouble in Rooster Paradise

by T. W. Emory

  I felt outclassed and outsmarted. Gunnar the Rube. It now appeared that Britt had set me up with Guy de Carter, and then gave him the lowdown on who I’d interviewed and when.

  I remembered now her talking on the phone when I was in her bed, or so it had sounded. Talking with de Carter, no doubt. Probably warning him of my plans to squeeze Meredith for more information. Meredith had gone from asset to liability in a hurry. It made sense that she’d had de Carter go take care of Meredith while she’d waylaid me till morning.

  I figured Britt had finagled me into going over to de Carter’s houseboat and then called someone to bushwhack me. Either that or maybe she’d tailed me and sapped me herself. She’d killed de Carter and taken the photos from my coat. Then she’d tried to frame me. There was a disturbing kind of logic to it all.

  And there was no point in asking why.

  I had a sudden sense of knowing Britt less now than when we’d first met. It was like we’d become different people to each other—or at least she was different to me. A familiar stranger. A lethal one.

  I don’t remember if there was a lull in the conversation or whether I was rudely interrupting when I suddenly asked, “What was the name of Alexis’ fiancé?”

  “Pardon me?” said Mrs. Arnot.

  “The man who broke up with Britt’s aunt—what was his name?”

  “Why, Mr. Nilson, she was engaged to Addison Darcy. Addison Darcy Junior, that is.”

  “Son of the same Addison Darcy in the store with you the other day?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “That’s correct,” she said, giving us a sad smile. “Alexis was devastated when her Addie—her Addison—broke off their engagement. But I think it was when she learned he’d been killed in the war that she was completely overcome with despair. Why do you ask, Mr. Nilson?”

  “Why did he break off their engagement? Did Alexis ever say?” But again, I already knew.

  Mrs. Arnot nodded.

  Her mouth formed a sardonic smile. “His father pressured him into it. He didn’t want his son to marry beneath him. He threatened to disinherit young Addison.”

  “Britt knew all this, of course?” I said.

  “Why yes. Most definitely.”

  “It must have aggravated Britt to see the elder Darcy frequent the store.”

  “You mean did she blame him for Alexis’ ruin?”

  I nodded.

  “Yes, I suppose she did. No, that’s not correct. I know she did.”

  “Care to explain?”

  Mrs. Arnot told us that as she watched Alexis begin to decline she also watched Britt nurture a hatred for both the Darcy men.

  “I used to tell Britt that it was a foolish waste of emotion and energy. But you can imagine how that went over.” Mrs. Arnot shook her head sadly, her lips puckering. “She became consumed by her feelings. At one point, I actually feared that she might do something rash.”

  I asked what she meant.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve seen people try and take justice into their own hands before. I’m sure both of you have seen the same. Britt commented more than a few times how she’d like to see both the Darcy men dead. Her words disturbed me. Shook me up, really. I suppose I feared that she’d turn her words into action. It was foolish of me, though, the way matters have turned out. Why, had it been in operation a mere five years ago, Britt would never even have considered working at Fasciné Expressions—what with its affiliation with Darlund Apparels. Some young people can be so deliciously resilient. I’d say she’s made a lot of progress. I suppose it was when word came of young Addison’s death that things reached a turning point for Britt.”

  “A turning point?”

  “Yes, I believe that correctly describes it. I’m sure that it was then when Britt finally let go of her anger. Seeing Alexis grow worse at the news of his death, she must have realized that her aunt had still been very much in love with Addison. As to Addison senior, I believe Britt saw his losing his son as punishment enough.”

  Not hardly, I thought, but kept it to myself.

  “Oh, I don’t like this at all,” Kirsti said. She’d put her hand to her throat and was giving me a worried look. “This is taking an ugly turn, Gunnar.”

  “I know just what you mean, Blue Eyes. We might all see life through our own funhouse mirror, but what I thought I was seeing wasn’t one bit amusing.”

  “I’m a happy ending kind of person, Gunnar.”

  “You’re a romantic. A near-hopeless case, I’m afraid. It’s part of your charm. Promise me you won’t let life knock it out of you.”

  She looked at me like I was from the planet Mongo.

  “I promise. Go ahead and go on with it.”

  I put my hands up with palms forward as if in surrender. “I’m afraid I’m all talked out for the day, young lady,” I said matter-of-factly. “I’ll have to finish this up another time.”

  Kirsti looked as deflated as a punctured and faded beach ball on the seashore in the pouring rain. She said something that sounded like “argh,” and maybe it was “argh.” “Oh, come on, Gunnar, you’re leaving me hanging here,” she protested shrilly. “At least give me a hint as to how things go from here.”

  I shook my head and said in a kind but determined tone, “You’ll just have to wait. I know it’s still light out, but it’s almost eight thirty, which means we’ve been going at this for hours. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m an old man, Blue Eyes. I’ve hit the wall. There’s a night’s sleep with my name on it waiting for me back in my room. We’ll meet again when it’s convenient for you, and I’ll tell you the rest of it. I’ll be fresh then and will be able to tell it far better than I would if I pushed on with it right now. Believe me.”

  “You’re totally killing me here, Gunnar,” she said in a high, twangy voice. “You’ve got to know that.” But her frown soon became a lopsided grin of resignation.

  I just smiled.

  Chapter 16

  Finecare Retirement Home, Everett, Washington, late afternoon Monday, June 23, 2003

  Kirsti and I had agreed to meet up again the next afternoon when her shift ended at 2:30. She’d told me emphatically that she simply could not wait till the following Sunday to hear the rest of my story.

  So by 2:40 I was in my wheelchair and Kirsti, still in her green scrubs, was once again giving me another bumpy ride over the gravel and flagstone walk leading to the outside courtyard.

  “Tired out from talking or not, that was a dirty trick you played on me, ending your story where you did yesterday,” Kirsti groused, but with her usual goodwill behind it. “I’ve been distracted all day wondering how it’s all going to end.”

  Once Kirsti got me parked, she swung her tote bag from off her shoulder and retrieved her cassette recorder from it. As she took a seat on the wood bench across from me, she placed the recorder on her lap and put the bag right next to her. Then she pulled out a small, clear-plastic container that looked like it held gelatinous chunks, silvery-gray in color.

  She waved the container at me and said, “This is pickled herring for later. You’ve said you miss it. Why exactly, I’ll never know. It’s really gross to look at. Also, the other day I had my mom pick up some of that Siljans hardtack you talk about so much.”

  “Knäckebröd,” I said thoughtfully. “My grandmother used to simply call it kaken.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said evenly. “Anyway, I’ve got some pieces already buttered for you to eat with your herring.”

  “I’m speechless.”

  And I was. It had been some time since anyone had done something so kind and special for me. I mean the pastrami on rye sandwiches that she’d brought me the day before were great, but with hardtack and herring she’d taken her thoughtfulness to a new level.

  “Kirsti, I really don’t know how to thank you—”

  “Finishing your story will be thanks enough.”

  I didn’t say anything. I just looked at her a moment. Finally, I said impishly, “Oh yes, my story. Now
where was I?”

  Kirsti’s bangs rose a bit as her eyebrows narrowed in a pretend scowl. “Uh-uh,” she said in a smug tone. “I made sure I’d be ready in case you tried to pull something like this, Gunnar.” She pulled out a slip of paper from a side pocket of her tote bag and glanced down at what from my angle looked to be shorthand scrawl, which she then proceeded to interpret:

  “You met Christine Johanson on a Tuesday night. She was murdered Wednesday night. You were hired to look into it on Thursday and were almost killed that evening by a hit-and-run driver. Several interviews later on Friday, your office was riddled with bullets, but luckily you were in the office next door when it happened. That night things got more than a bit steamy between you and Britt Anderson. The next morning, Saturday, you and your friend Walter Pangborn found Meredith Lane murdered in her apartment along with evidence that she and Christine had been part of a blackmail racket with Guy de Carter. A little later you shared this information with Britt and she steered you to de Carter’s houseboat, where you found him murdered. A waitress named Verna happened to mention her diary, which gave you the idea to visit the house where Christine had lived with her aunt, where you located her diary. Christine’s coded entries about the blackmail racket implicated de Carter but also pointed to someone else known simply by the initial B. Two people in Christine’s life with names that started with B were Blanche Arnot and Britt Anderson.”

  “I’m impressed, Blue Eyes. Truly impressed,” I said earnestly. “Don’t tell me you listened to the tapes you made yesterday?”

  She shook her head. “I made these brief notes from memory before I went to bed last night. Like I said, I wanted to be ready for you.”

  “Why, you were born to be a newspaper reporter.”

  “I’ve toyed some with becoming a journalist,” she said in her usual sweet voice. “But anyway, you ended yesterday with telling me that when you and your friend Walter talked with Blanche Arnot, she went on about Britt Anderson’s hatred for Addison Darcy and his son because of what had happened to her aunt.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, as I took a clove from my old Sucrets tin and put it in my mouth.

  Kirsti suddenly clicked on her recorder like she was resetting a tripped circuit breaker. “Okay, Gunnar, I’m all set. Please continue.”

  Saturday, June 10, 1950

  I was violently chewing on a clove when Walter and I pulled out of Blanche Arnot’s part of Laurelhurst. We drove in silence for a while.

  Walter started packing his pipe and said at last, “A very handsome woman. It’s easy to get absorbed in her storytelling. She has a very engaging manner.”

  I agreed.

  “So, where are we headed, old top?” he asked.

  “Fasciné Expressions is closed by now, so we’re off to Vista Court Apartments, to see one Miss Britt Anderson.”

  “Hmm.”

  I told Walter it seemed obvious to me that suspicions had now shifted from Blanche Arnot to Britt Anderson. I said nothing of my intimate relationship with Britt. When I’d finished, I glanced at my friend and said, “A penny for Walter Pangborn’s thoughts.”

  Walter puffed away on his pipe, smoke escaping out the window he’d partly rolled down. I could see him going into one of his cogitating reveries, so I patiently waited. Well, maybe I wasn’t exactly patient, but I held my tongue.

  Finally Walter sighed and said, “On the face of it, it certainly seems that Aunt Alexis isn’t the only actress in the family.”

  “Walter, Britt Anderson has got to be one of the best liars I’ve ever met. The absolute best.”

  “Either that, old socks, or her charms colored your view of the actual performance.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “An attractive female can be a bane to the thinking male.”

  “I get the idea.”

  “A lovely lass can make one an ass.”

  “Shut up, Walter.”

  “It’s your penny, old thing.”

  The Pangborn governess had not raised an idiot.

  “What did you make of Mrs. Arnot?” I asked.

  “A few things strike me as peculiar.”

  “I told you she was a bit otherworldly.”

  “Yes, that’s part of it, I’m sure. She said her husband passed away almost two years ago. Did you notice that there wasn’t one photo of him in the room? Not one I could see, anyway.”

  “People grieve differently, Walter. Maybe his photos are painful reminders to her.”

  “Possibly, but I doubt it, old top. I suspect that her husband was a very important figure to her. In fact, judging by Blanche Arnot’s appearance and demeanor, I think males have played a prominent, if not a key role in her life.”

  “What are you driving at?”

  “It’s as if her husband no longer signifies to her in some way. It’s as if she’s … ignoring him. Purposely so.”

  “You base that simply on the absence of pictures? You’re reaching, don’t you think, Walter?”

  “Perhaps, old socks, but consider how Mrs. Arnot carries herself. She’s very much as you described her. She was clearly a beautiful woman when young, and is still quite attractive. She’s extremely cognizant of herself as a female. Like most distinguished beauties, she grooms and carries herself in a formalistic way—but a way that is loaded with nuances and subtleties.”

  “Enlighten this aesthetic dullard, Walter.”

  “Why, old thing, Mrs. Arnot gives her looks a ceremonial attention that practically smacks of religious fervor. Notice the precise part in her hair. The artistic application of lip rouge. Her lustrous manicure. Even her shoes are carefully shined. She’s more than just mindful of her appearance, old top. All of this care really speaks to the self-regard she has in being a female, and in her need to make a calculated impact as a woman.”

  “So?”

  “So, old socks, she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. I take that as significant. It has to have been a deliberate decision not to wear it—given how calculating she is about her appearance. Her husband is dead and gone, and she’s closed the chapter on him for some reason. Why, I have no idea. But it’s as though he had been a commodity that’s fulfilled its use. Or, perhaps seeing his face and the wedding ring would be a troubling reminder of something she chooses to ignore.”

  “Walter, this is too much.”

  But it reminded me that Britt had said Blanche seemed cut from her moorings when her husband died. I told this to Walter.

  “Hmm. That is interesting. Perhaps she doesn’t want to be reminded of those moorings. Maybe she prefers being adrift. I wonder why.”

  For a few moments the only noise we heard was the Chevy’s motor. Finally Walter continued, “Even the way she spoke with us is telling, Gunnar. Like I said, she’s very engaging. However, I must say that while a little flicker in her eyes bespoke a subtle mind geared for intrigue, I sensed instability. And I had the distinct feeling several times that I was being carefully handled. As if she was talking to an inferior. I don’t think she has a very high opinion of men.”

  “I don’t know. I think she liked me well enough. I think she liked both of us, Walter.”

  “You can like a chimpanzee, Gunnar. You might even train one to mix drinks. It’s been done, you know. However, you wouldn’t seek its advice if you were making an investment. Mrs. Arnot may like men, but I don’t think she respects them too much. Why, she actually seemed quite surprised when a couple of times I grasped her unspoken meaning.”

  “Give me an example.”

  “She told me the same woeful tale she’d told you the other night. The story of poor Sally Miller and her tragic death in prison.”

  “What of it, Walter?”

  “When Mrs. Arnot finished telling me the story, I made one of my comments that you dislike so much. I said, ‘Diamonds and pearls have been the bane of many working girls.’ ”

  “Say it ain’t so, Walter.”

  “But I did, old thing. Unthinkingly, I’m afraid. I followed i
t up with another one that is equally inane. You know how they just come to me. I said, ‘A man’s power and lechery lead often to treachery.’ ”

  I groaned.

  “But it was amazing, old top. Instead of a polite smile and eyebrow roll as you might expect, it’s as if I’d validated her by the remark. I noticed in Mrs. Arnot’s interior eyes a small, crazed flash of respect and reappraisal. As if to say that before she’d considered me a mere cypher. It was very strange, old socks. And I must say a little unnerving.”

  I felt that my first talk with Mrs. Arnot had been fairly straightforward. So I was a little annoyed that Walter could have picked up on something I might have missed. I glanced over at him to make sure he was earnest in what he said.

  He went on, “I also find it a bit odd that Mrs. Arnot would retell that Sally Miller story again so soon. Generally people only do that when a matter is particularly close to their heart.”

  “Well, Walter, maybe it is. She told me she and the girl were very close.”

  “No doubt. But, what happened to her friend Sally took place some thirty years ago. By the furnishings of her home and her modern attire, she doesn’t strike me as someone who cares to live in the past. And Mrs. Arnot is far from her dotage and the reminiscences that accompany it.”

  “So what are you trying to say, Walter?”

  “I guess I don’t know, old thing. But I’ve just got a hunch that Mrs. Arnot may be every bit the actress that your Miss Anderson seems to be.”

  “You think she’s lying to us about something?”

  “Something’s definitely amiss. You told me that Mrs. Arnot had made Christine Johanson out to be a girl of poor judgment. But from your own encounter with the girl, she seemed to be quite shrewd. Wasn’t that your conclusion?”

  I agreed.

  “It suggests that Mrs. Arnot was trying to color your perception of the murder victim. Recall, she described Mr. de Carter as a harmless drugstore cowboy. Later, another source made him out to be a ruffian. And a ruffian he was, indeed.” Walter added, “And, you must admit, Mrs. Arnot did appear more than willing to put Miss Anderson in a bad light.”