Mimosas, Mischief, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  “Who was? Let me talk to them.”

  “That person’s shift is over.”

  The woman took a shuddering breath and said very slowly. “Get me your manager.”

  “I’m sure I can help you—”

  “Get. Me. Your. Manager.”

  The kid gulped, nodded, and disappeared into a door behind the desk.

  I stood there with my melting ice cream, debating if I should say anything or not. Reticence had never been one of my strong points. “Excuse me,” I said. “I think I saw the woman who picked up the suitcase.”

  Ellie Avery’s Tips for Preserving Family Treasures

  Other Memorabilia

  Some items don’t lend themselves to photo albums or they are so special that you’d like to have them on display. One option for these items is to group similar objects together and create a shadow box. This works well for military memorabilia—a shadow box is a great way to display military coins, patches, medals, and dog tags. Any item from arrowheads to seashells to buttons will have more impact if displayed together.

  Chapter Twenty

  Pink, puffy eyelids rimmed the woman’s pale blue eyes and her lipstick was gone, except for a trace of pink lip liner that ringed her mouth. A pair of gold-rimmed glasses was shoved up on her head, holding back strands of her brown hair, which was graying at the roots and hung limply against her collar. She looked close to sixty and had dark circles under her eyes and deep grooves of wrinkles running from her nose to her chin. “What? You saw what happened?”

  “Yes. I was in the restaurant this morning,” I said, gesturing to the empty room near us.

  The woman gripped my wrist. “You have to tell me what happened. It’s my brother. He—,” she stopped abruptly, swallowed, then said, “he just died and I want to get his things. I know they’re not much, but I want them. They were his and some stranger shouldn’t have them.”

  “Of course,” I said, and twisted my wrist, hoping she’d let go because her hand was like a vise. She didn’t let go, so I said, “A woman came in. I was waiting and I noticed her because she was . . . well, she was pushy and loud. She said she’d just come from the police and they told her the suitcase was here.”

  She released her grip on my arm and sagged against the counter. “But that’s where I’ve been, the police and the county coroner. I had to identify his body.”

  “Do you need to sit down?” I asked, afraid that she’d faint. Her skin had gone an ashy gray color.

  She didn’t respond, so I took her arm and guided her to a club chair next to a table. What had she said her name was? I spotted her drivers license, still on the counter, and went to pick it up. Rochelle Anderson. “Rochelle,” I said, handing her the license, “do you feel light-headed?”

  She took the license and shook her head. “No. No, I’m all right. So many shocks.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead with one hand. I thought about telling her to put her head between her knees, but then she opened her eyes and seemed to gather herself. Her skin didn’t look so washed out. She gripped the license. “Sorry. Today has been . . . awful.”

  “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through,” I said. How awful it would be to have to identify a body, especially a sibling. I thought of my brother, who’d been such a pain teasing me when we were growing up. But he’d also threatened that horrible Joey Matson when he was making my fifth-grade life miserable. I swallowed hard and I felt a wave of compassion for Rochelle. How would you cope, knowing that someone so close to you was gone? “I think you’re holding up really well, considering. Would you like me to get you a glass of water?”

  “No. I’m better, now that I’m off my feet.” She ran a quivering hand over her forehead, wiping her fringe of bangs to the side. “The morgue. I’m still shaky from that.”

  I nodded. Even if he’d been carrying identification, Stan Anderson had used another name in Smarr, so the authorities would have to positively identify him to make sure he really was who he said he was. “I should tell you that your brother died in my husband’s grandfather’s house, so I know a little about what happened.”

  I thought she was working out the convoluted explanation of kinship, but she dropped her hand away from her forehead and asked, “Why was he at that house?”

  I said, “I just know he was found in the house. Did you know he was here?”

  “No,” she said, sitting up straighter. “I live in Huntsville, which isn’t that far, and I can’t imagine why he’d come this far and not come to see me. That’s why I want to see his luggage. There might be something in it that would show if he was coming to see me. Maybe he was going to call me and come over after he finished . . . whatever he was doing here.”

  “You don’t know why he was here or why he was in Franklin Avery’s house when he died?”

  “I have no idea why he was at that particular house or even why he came here in the first place. He lived in New York. Why Smarr, of all places? Not that it’s not a charming town,” she added, looking anxiously at me to see if she’d hurt my feelings.

  “Oh, I’m not from here, either. We’re in town for a funeral, the grandfather I mentioned earlier. Did the police tell you that it looks like your brother had visited the house before?”

  Rochelle’s forehead wrinkled as she said, “Yes, they asked me about that . . . and that he used a different name, but I’ve never known him to do anything like that. He worked for an insurance company.”

  “Really? What did he do?”

  “He was in their public relations department. He wrote brochures, newsletters, press releases, that sort of thing.”

  “So he didn’t want to open a restaurant here, a pizzeria?”

  Rochelle looked helplessly at me. “No, not that I know of. He never mentioned anything like that at all. He seemed fine, happy with where he was. The only thing I ever heard him talk about was writing a novel someday.”

  “Oh, what about his car? Anything in there? Have the police found it?”

  “Yes, it was parked pretty far up the road from the house where he died. He parked near some bushes that almost covered the car, then walked to the house. It was a rental. Nothing but maps and some fast-food containers.”

  “He came to the viewing before the funeral. I met him.” I tried to think of something nice to say about the man, but all I could remember was that he didn’t have a good grasp of personal space boundaries. “He was pleasant,” I said lamely, and wished I hadn’t said anything. Damning with faint praise and all that. “Was your father a friend of Franklin Avery’s in the war?”

  She stared at me. “The war? No, our father was never in the military. Did he say . . . ?”

  “Yes,” I said, and she winced. “He said your father knew Franklin Avery, that they’d served in the war together and that your father wanted him to pay his respects.”

  She shook her head sharply. “Our father passed ten years ago.” She looked at me, her eyes glassy. “Why would he lie? Why would he come down here and not tell me?” She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and daubed at her eyes. “I just don’t know.” She sniffed, then pushed back her shoulders. Her voice was harder, more businesslike as she asked. “Did they give that woman his suitcase this morning?”

  “I don’t know. An employee went to get the manager.”

  “Seems to be a common occurrence around here,” she said tartly as she stood up. “Tell me again what happened.”

  I repeated what I’d seen and told her what the woman looked like. “Do you know who it was?”

  She shook her head. “No, I can’t think of anyone who looks like that.”

  “Was he married?” I ventured. “The woman looked like she was close to his age.”

  “No. Divorced, a long time ago. But his ex-wife . . . no, never in a million years would anyone describe her as heavy.” She shook her head briskly as if clearing it. “Thank you for talking to me. I don’t know why Stan did all these things. He’s always been a . . . well, rather boring person, I
guess. Not someone who goes around with false names, made-up stories, and breaks into people’s houses. Not like him at all.”

  “Could it have been something to do with his work?” I asked. Corporate espionage seemed pretty far-fetched, but we didn’t have any other explanation at the moment.

  “I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “It was insurance, after all, nothing high-tech. He just wrote their brochures and pamphlets and ad copy.”

  That certainly didn’t sound like anything that would give anyone motivation to steal his things . . . or give him a reason to break into Grandpa Franklin’s house either. Grandpa Franklin had nothing to do with public relations or insurance. “No big ad campaigns?” I asked, grasping at straws. “Something national?” I knew from my own background in public relations that companies invested big money in advertising. Product positioning and marketing strategies were guarded closely.

  “No. Pendleton Life doesn’t advertise nationally,” she said as we turned and walked back to the front desk. “I really must speak to someone here and find out what happened. Where can the manager be?” She looked around the desk for a bell. Even though her words weren’t that different from the woman who’d made such a scene this morning, it was Rochelle’s tone that made all the difference. She wasn’t imperiously demanding service, she was anxious and worried. She pressed the crumpled tissue into her pocket and said, “I still have to get in touch with the funeral home about having Stan’s body sent back home. Since the coroner has released it. I guess I’ll have to do that tomorrow.”

  “You’re not using Grisholm’s, are you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Why?”

  I shook my head. “Never mind. Long story.”

  I heard voices in the room behind the front desk. I hoped it was the manager, with the suitcase. Rochelle propped her elbows on the high counter and was rubbing her forehead again. “I still don’t understand any of this,” she said. “Why would someone want my brother’s suitcase?”

  I didn’t have an answer for her.

  “So did they have the suitcase?” Mitch asked before he took a bite of the ice cream bar.

  We were sitting side by side on the bathroom floor of the hotel room. When I’d returned from the front desk, Mitch had met me at the door. The room was dark, except for a tiny night-light burning on the far side of the room. I always left a night-light in the suitcase because it came in handy when we traveled. “Listen,” Mitch had whispered, and I heard the steady rhythm of deep breathing.

  “They’re asleep?” I asked, amazed. “That fast?”

  “It wasn’t all book browsing tonight with Aunt Nanette. She made them work for their ice cream and had them hauling books and boxes. They were pretty tired and it is late, for them,” Mitch said as he moved to the bathroom. With the door securely shut to block out any light that could wake the kids, we’d layered several dry towels on the floor and settled down to eat our snack. There was no way we were going to risk waking them by turning on lights in the room.

  The candy wrapper crinkled as I tore it open. “No. That’s what took them so long. Apparently, the morning shift gave the suitcase to the rude woman, but they didn’t make a note of it in the computer, so the night manager looked everywhere—all the storage rooms and closets—to make sure the suitcase wasn’t here before they broke the news to Rochelle.”

  Mitch shook his head as he tilted the ice cream bar and caught a piece of chocolate that had broken off and was sluicing down the side.

  I broke off a piece of the Hershey bar. “What?”

  “It’s just that you’re calling her Rochelle, like you’ve known her for years, when you’ve talked to her for what, about ten minutes? You have quite a talent for connecting with people, you know. They trust you.”

  “I couldn’t walk away and leave her there at the counter. She almost fainted.” I shifted and shoved a towel behind my shoulder blades, which were pressed against the bathtub.

  Before I’d come upstairs to the room, the manager had finally reappeared at the front desk, apologizing even before she crossed the threshold. The teenager had followed the manager, switched out my melting ice cream bar for a frozen one, put all the food on our room account, and drifted back through the doorway. By that time, the manager had admitted the suitcase had been given to the woman who’d asked for it that morning.

  I sighed. “I know you think I should leave things alone, but I can’t walk away from someone who needs help. She looked so shell-shocked and forlorn.”

  “Yep, that’s your downfall right there, you care.”

  I twisted so I could see his face. “Is that a criticism?”

  He licked the last of the ice cream and chocolate from the wooden stick. “No, it’s a compliment. You should be in politics. With your caring face and the way people trust you right off the bat, you’d be unbeatable.”

  “Thanks,” I said guardedly. “That’s not usually your position.”

  “No,” Mitch conceded. He tossed the stick and ice cream wrapper in the trash and said, “The only reason I object to your tendency to gather up every stray you run across is that it usually gets you in more trouble, but—”

  I punched him in the shoulder. “You’re the one who brought home Rex,” I said, referring to our dog that we’d adopted by default after one of our neighbors had moved.

  “That’s technically true, but you know you wanted to keep him just as much as I did. And if you’d let me finish my sentence, I was going to say that Stan’s sister probably told you more than she told the police. If there’s ever going to be an answer to why he was in Grandpa Franklin’s house, we need to know everything we can.”

  I stared at Mitch for a moment. “So you’re okay with me trying to figure out what happened?”

  “Yes. I want to know. Like Aunt Nanette said, about time.”

  “Even if it was someone close to you or the family?”

  Mitch nodded. “Even if.”

  That was the last thing I’d expected him to say. His expression was a mixture of serious resolve and resignation. “Okay . . . well, I’m glad you feel that way. It’s too bad that Rochelle didn’t really know anything about why he was here.” I popped another rectangle of chocolate in my mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “And despite the autopsy, we still don’t know for sure if Grandpa Franklin’s death was from natural causes or . . .”

  “Murder,” Mitch finished for me. “It’s okay. You can say it. All this activity does indicate that something isn’t right.”

  I folded the candy wrapper into a tiny square. “You know what I still can’t figure out? Why would someone want to hurt Grandpa Franklin? Did he have any enemies?”

  “Not that I know of,” Mitch said with a shake of his head.

  “What did you mean about secrets?” Mitch frowned at me, and I said, “You know, when we first got here, you said Grandpa Franklin had a lot of secrets.”

  “Oh, that. I didn’t mean he had something to hide. He knew a lot of secrets—other people’s secrets.” Mitch squinted at me and said, “Kind of like you. People confided in him, probably because he could keep things to himself. He always had the inside story on everyone in the family.”

  I’d been folding creases into the candy wrapper, but I stopped and looked up at him. “If he never told, how do you know about the secrets?”

  “I spent a lot of time there with him when I was a kid, playing in the woods and just hanging around. People would come by and visit. A lot of time, they’d sit on the porch swing and talk.” Mitch shrugged. “They’d forget I was there and I heard lots of interesting stuff, like about Uncle Bud sponsoring the Little League team.”

  I concentrated on flattening a fold in the wrapper as I said, “Uncle Bud, now there’s someone who keeps popping up every time something happens.” I gave up on my candy wrapper origami and tossed it down. “But he doesn’t make sense, either. As far as I can tell, he didn’t have any reason to hurry Grandpa Franklin’s dea
th along. Uncle Bud makes plenty of money, so he doesn’t need the inheritance and even though he’s the executor of the will, he doesn’t get a large chunk of the estate. And even if his secret generosity came to light, well, that’s not so terrible that you’d kill to keep it quiet. But why did he get the investigation into Grandpa Franklin’s death shut down?”

  “Maybe it’s exactly what it seems. He didn’t want the Avery family to be the focus of news reports and a criminal investigation.”

  I shifted my position, pulling my legs in and sitting up straight. “There’s got to be something we’re missing.”

  “Let’s shift everything around, take Grandpa Franklin out of the equation.”

  “We can’t take him out. Stan visited his house under a false name and Stan died there,” I protested.

  “I know, but think of it this way. If Grandpa Franklin was the issue, why would Stan go back to his house after he died?”

  I opened my mouth, then stopped. I twisted sideways and ran my arm along the cold porcelain of the tub. “He’d only go back there if . . . there was something there he wanted. But what could it be? There’s nothing valuable there. We’ve looked at everything.” “I think we need to go back to the house tomorrow and make a very careful search,” Mitch said.

  I nodded, but was thinking about something else. “Remember the slit cushions on the recliner? Did Aunt Christine ever ask Felicity about that?”

  “Yes. She denied doing it, but Aunt Christine thought she was lying.”

  “What if she wasn’t?” I asked. “What if someone else is searching Grandpa Franklin’s house? We assumed Felicity slit the cushions because she took the Depression glass, but what if that’s all she took? And why would she damage the furniture if she thought she and Dan were going to inherit everything?”

  “Because she was looking for his fictional stash of money,” Mitch said.

  “But the cushions were slit before the will was read. At that time, she still thought he was wealthy and the money would be distributed through the will. The rumors about the hidden money hadn’t started then. I think someone’s been searching Grandpa Franklin’s house and it’s not Felicity. Maybe Stan was in on it somehow, I’m not sure, but I think that someone’s still looking around the house. The dresser in the bedroom has been moved—I hit my elbow on it today. It wasn’t that close to the closet and, now that I think about it, the clothes in the trunk were messed up. Aunt Christine said Grandpa Franklin was very exact in the way he kept his things. He wouldn’t have left the clothes like that. And the fire and the note—it makes sense. Whoever is doing the searching wants us to leave town. If we’re not at the house packing and cleaning, the person—the searcher—is free to look all they want.”