by V. M. Burns
I took a deep breath to stave off claustrophobia and followed the detective inside the closet and sat in the one guest chair. The space was so cramped I had to turn my legs sideways so he could close the door.
Once the door closed, Detective Pitt sat in his chair and leaned back. Unfortunately, the room wasn’t large enough, and he hit his head on the back wall. He muttered an oath and then leaned forward. “I knew as soon as I heard Harold Robertson was planning to marry your mother it wouldn’t be long before you’d be poking your nose into my case.”
“Harold Robertson didn’t kill Lydia Lighthouse, and, as a conscientious, law-abiding citizen, I would be remiss in my civic responsibility if I didn’t try to help.”
He made a sound as though he were sucking his teeth. “Yeah, right.”
Detective Pitt considered me a nosy busybody, and I knew he resented my involvement. However, there was something in Detective Pitt’s demeanor that told me he wasn’t as loathe to see me as usual. He looked around and fidgeted.
I waited silently.
Detective Pitt shook his head. “I know I’m going to regret this, but . . .” He slid a file he had on his desk across to me.
I picked up the file and stared at the detective. I’d helped the detective a few other times in the past, but there was always more of a fight. He resented a civilian, nay an amateur, meddling in police business. In the past, I’d begged, pleaded, and cajoled to see the official police files. Sure, he’d eventually complied, but it was never this quick and never without great protest. Instead of opening the file, I merely stared.
My expression must have spoke the question my lips hadn’t because he rolled his eyes. “All right, you’ve been right a couple of times and the last time you saved my bacon with the chief.” He bowed his head and muttered, “Although he’s still on me.” He took a deep breath. “The truth of the matter is, I’m still in hot water with the chief and there are some around here that would love to see me fall on my . . . face. Plus, the Robertson family is big in this community. They’re wealthy and influential. In fact, the chief ’s already heard from the mayor and a local congressman. They want a quick resolution and no mistakes. The chief wasn’t even going to give me the case, but we’re short staffed for the holidays. Detective Harrison broke his foot and has to have surgery.” He dropped his head. “I figure you’re going to find a way to prove Harold Robertson didn’t kill that woman anyway, so I might as well get you working on my side right from the beginning.”
I smiled. “Good. I’ll be happy to help, but I’m going to need your help with something too.”
His initial expression was shock, which was quickly followed by resignation. “Fine. What do you want, my kidney?” He reached in his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of antacid and popped one in his mouth.
“All I want is some information.” I quickly told the detective about Lexi and Angelo.
He turned his chair toward his computer and pecked for several moments. “No reports of missing children, but you’ll need to call Child and Family Services to be certain.”
“I was hoping you could call them for me and let them know the children are safe.” I gave the detective my friendliest, most sincere smile.
He grunted and got up from his chair. I turned my knees sideways so he could open the door, and he left.
I read through the file on Lydia Lighthouse. There wasn’t much there yet. The coroner hadn’t completed the autopsy but suspected the cause of death was asphyxiation from the scarf tied around her neck. The only other noteworthy item was learning Lydia Lighthouse’s real name was Lydia Jones.
By the time Detective Pitt returned, I had completed my review of the file.
“I called Child and Family Services. No foster children are missing. Are you sure the children don’t have parents?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure of anything. All I can tell you is what they said.”
“Well, Mrs. Masterson said she can have someone pick them up tomorrow.”
I bit my lip. “There’s no hurry.”
He looked at me. “You can tell her that when she comes to your bookstore.” He looked at the file on his desk. “Got what you need?”
I nodded.
“Well, I’d like to wrap this up by Christmas, so don’t drag your feet.”
* * *
Back at the bookstore, Christopher and Zaq had everything under control. Upstairs, Lexi was still reading and Angelo was licking a large wooden spoon. Based on the batter around his mouth, I’d guess it was chocolate frosting.
I transferred the wet clothes to the dryer and put another load in, then went to my room. I sat at my laptop and tried to create a spreadsheet with a list of suspects, along with possible motives. My list was fairly empty. In fact, at the moment, Harold was the only suspect I had. However, I was certain that would change later today when everyone got busy investigating.
I tried to think about Lydia and imagine who had a strong enough motive to want her dead. She certainly was able to generate a lot of strong emotions. I searched the Internet for her and found the site Nana Jo read from with reviews. She had angered a great many people, but, as far as I could tell, none of them were in North Harbor, Michigan. Yet, I did notice there was definitely a consistent theme in the complaints against her. She had bossed the bride and overruled her requests. Most of the couples claimed they were overcharged. However, I wondered if these charges were valid. Weddings were expensive. I could easily see a bride and groom getting in over their heads and their bank accounts.
I searched weddings and found tons of sites dedicated to elegant weddings, beautiful weddings, and unique weddings. I found everything from butterflies and doves to hot-air-balloon limousines for shuttling guests. Before I knew it, I’d fallen down a rabbit hole and had been looking at wedding rings and dresses for over an hour.
“I need to clear my mind,” I said to myself and opened my manuscript. I took a few minutes to remind myself what was happening when I stopped. “Oh, yeah, Lady Elizabeth was asking Thompkins if his son-in-law could help them.”
“I was just wondering if perhaps your daughter, Mary, or your son-in-law might be able to help us, to understand some of the cultural and religious customs. I’d hate to do or say anything that might offend our guests. If they could recommend a book, I’d be happy to read up on Jewish culture, but I think if they wouldn’t mind coming by, perhaps they could help all of us gain a better understanding more quickly.”
Thompkins nodded. “I’m certain Joseph, my son-in-law, would be more than willing to help.” He paused a split second. “They both will.”
Lady Elizabeth smiled. “Thank you, Thompkins.”
When Thompkins opened the door to the library later and announced a guest, Lady Elizabeth hoped it was his son-in-law. She tried hard to hide her disappointment when the butler announced another name.
“Philippe Claiborne.” The butler turned and left.
Philippe Claiborne was a bright peacock of a man with dark hair and a pencil moustache. From his posture to the tilt of his head, his manner announced Philippe Claiborne was the center of the universe. The earth and all of the planets revolved around him. He walked with long, confident strides and made broad sweeping gestures with his arms, one of which held a long-stemmed cigarette holder, from which a cigarette dangled. He dropped ash with each sweeping gesture. His clothes were loud and trendy. He looked as though he’d just stepped off the silver screen.
“Lady Elizabeth.” He bent low and kissed the hand she extended to him. “I am Philippe.” He bowed again. “At your service.”
Lady Elizabeth was caught by surprise and hesitated for a few seconds before she acknowledged the introduction. “Mr. Claiborne, it’s my—”
Philippe Claiborne wagged his finger and tsked. “No. Excuse me, your ladyship, but Mr. Claiborne is my father. Please”—he stood very straight and cocked his head backward—“I am Philippe.” He flourished his hand.
“Yes, forgive me. Mr. . . . ah
. . . Philippe.”
He grinned and strutted in a circle in front of the fireplace as he surveyed the room. He ran fingers across the mantle and examined a crystal ashtray.
“May I introduce my niece, Lady Daphne Marsh.” Lady Elizabeth extended an arm toward her niece.
Daphne stepped forward and extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Philippe.”
“Ah, but of course, you are the beautiful bride.” He brought Daphne’s hand to his lips and kissed it. When he stood, he looked at James. “And, this must be His Grace, James FitzAndrew Browning, the groom.” He bowed to James.
James stepped forward. “Yes. Thank you for coming.”
“Ah, but of course. Philippe is at your service, Your Grace.”
James rubbed the back of his neck and stared. “Yes, well, please call me James. I don’t go in for all that formal rot.”
Philippe wagged his finger at James. “Yes, but the formal ‘rot’ as you call it, it must be observed. We must have order and protocol. It is what makes England great, is it not?”
Lady Elizabeth glanced at James. His ears were getting red and his brow furrowed. “Well, I’m sure we can sort that out later. Now, Mr. . . . excuse me, Philippe, I’m sure you have a lot of questions for the bride and groom and I’ll—”
Philippe stood in the middle of the room with a broad smile and shook his head. “Excuse me, your ladyship, but Philippe has no questions.”
“But I’m sure you’d like to discuss things like flowers and seating and . . .”
Philippe shook his head.
“I don’t think I understand?” Lady Elizabeth stared.
“I beg your pardon, your ladyship, but Philippe has no need to discuss such things. Philippe never discusses such things.” He walked around the room as an appraiser would look at a valuable painting. “That is not how Philippe works.”
“It’s not?” Lady Elizabeth stared.
“No. Philippe is a man of passion, of feelings. He must feel what belongs. He sees the house and he meets the bride.” He bowed to Lady Daphne. “He meets the groom.” He bowed to James. “And he knows what is the right flower.” He walked up to Lady Daphne and extended a hand to her chin. He lifted her head slightly, as though examining a vase. “Exquisite. Delicate.” He smiled. “Lilies.”
Daphne gasped. “How did you know I like lilies?”
Philippe laughed. “It is obvious. No other flower would suit one with such delicate coloring.” He grinned. “Yes, lilies but, given the timing of the wedding, I think perhaps we should include something more to show the contrast between the delicate beauty of the lily. Perhaps the red poinsettia?”
Lady Elizabeth glanced at her niece. Philippe Claiborne could not know that Lady Daphne abhorred poinsettias and had only that morning declared the fact to her aunt.
“Well, I’ve never been fond of poinsettias,” Daphne said.
“Philippe understands completely, but your ladyship has perhaps not thought about how unlucky the lily is and the need to counteract that with something to bring luck, like the poinsettia.” He looked at Daphne as if to say, you poor child. “Philippe would never permit such a beautiful woman to bring bad luck into her marriage by including more than just a small few lilies, the flower of death, often given at funerals.”
Daphne’s face grew pale. “I hadn’t thought of that.” Her gaze went from Philippe to Lady Elizabeth and landed on James.
James grunted. “Lot of rot. I don’t believe in all that superstitious claptrap.”
“Rightly so.” Philippe preened his moustache. “That is why you have Philippe to think of these things and to insure your wedding, nay your future, is not marred by”—he waved his cigarette in the air and dropped ashes on the floor—“superstitious claptrap.”
“Look here, I think we may have been a little hasty when we asked you to come out here. After all, we’re not having a grand wedding. It’s just going to be a small wedding with a few friends and family. I hardly think we’ll need a wedding planner to help us. I think—”
“I think what His Grace is trying to say is we hope you won’t feel insulted by being called to assist with a small family wedding.” Lady Daphne glanced over her shoulder at James and gave him a look that caused him to sigh.
“Of course not. Philippe is happy to assist where he can. All of the great families of England, they reach out to Philippe. Large or small.” He waved his hand and picked up a silver lighter from a side table. “It is all the same. Elegance and culture are what matters. That is what Philippe will do.” He stood very tall and clicked his heels. “You leave everything to Philippe.” He bowed.
“Thank you, Philippe.” Daphne smiled.
Thompkins entered the room quietly and rolled a tea cart to Lady Elizabeth.
“Thank you, Thompkins,” Lady Elizabeth said.
James rolled his eyes and muttered, “Thank God.”
The smell of food wafted from the kitchen to my office and my stomach grumbled. I heard Frank’s voice and knew lunch had arrived. I hoped he’d brought enough for me too as I pressed “save.”
I followed my nose to the kitchen. Lexi and Angelo were perched on stools at the bar with bowls of soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Lexi slurped soup while hidden behind her book. Angelo kicked his feet against the bar while he bounced and told Frank about his new coloring book.
“That smells delicious.” I sniffed. “Is that corn chowder?”
Frank smiled. “Chicken corn chowder and I brought plenty.”
“Thank God.” I grinned as I recalled I’d just written that same line.
Frank looked puzzled.
“Sorry. I was writing.”
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure.” I glanced at the soup on the counter but hurried back into my bedroom. The quicker we talked, the quicker I’d get to eat.
Frank followed me to the bedroom and closed the door after himself. “I lifted the fingerprints from the glasses and sent them to a friend.”
He didn’t mention the friend’s name or where he worked and I didn’t ask.
I’d known Frank Patterson long enough to know there were a number of things in his past that he couldn’t and wouldn’t discuss. “Did they find out anything?”
“It was a long shot, but I had a feeling this wasn’t the first time Lexi had gotten into trouble.”
“Agreed, but she is a minor. Aren’t her records sealed?”
Frank stared at me in a way that indicated things like rules for juvenile records wouldn’t be a problem.
“Never mind.”
“Alexis Gelano, age twelve. Daughter of Maria and Luis Gelano, deceased. One sibling, Angelo Gelano, age four.”
“What was she picked up for?”
“Stealing.”
I sighed.
“She stole bread and peanut butter from a neighborhood grocery store.”
“Aww . . . she was hungry.”
“Most likely.”
“So, where are they supposed to be staying? I talked to Stinky Pitt today and he checked with Child Protective Services and no children were reported missing.”
“Probably because the last known address was in Chicago.”
“Chicago? You have got to be kidding. How on earth did those two children make their way over ninety miles in the middle of winter from Chicago to Michigan?”
He shrugged. “Hitchhiked? Or they could have taken the South Shore Train for less than ten dollars.”
I shuddered. “Did your friend have a name and address for the foster family?”
He reached inside his pocket and handed me a piece of paper, where he had written down the name.
I stared at the paper, but my vision was blurry and I couldn’t read what was written.
Frank reached out and pulled me into his embrace. “They need to go back.”
“I know, but they were starving last night and their clothes were horrible. Plus, they might be beating them.”
“You don’t know tha
t. You don’t know where they got the bruises. They might have gotten them on their way from Chicago.”
“Stop it. I don’t want to be logical.”
Frank chuckled. Eventually, I pushed away and took a deep breath.
“Do you want me to call?”
I shook my head. “No. I’ll do it, later.”
Frank looked skeptical.
“Chicago is on central time, so they’re an hour behind us. I’ll wait until after the meeting tonight.”
He nodded. “Okay, but I’m here if you need me.”
We rejoined the others in the kitchen. Nana Jo, Dawson, Jillian, and Emma were all joking and laughing and eating chicken corn chowder. I turned and looked at Frank, who leaned close and whispered, “There’s another quart in the freezer.” He kissed me and waved goodbye as he hurried back to the restaurant.
Thankfully, the soup in the freezer hadn’t had time to get hard. Ninety seconds in the microwave and I was a happy camper.
Once I was full, my brain started working again. “Aren’t you two supposed to be planning a wedding?” I asked Jillian and Emma.
“We are.” Jillian pulled a stack of bridal magazines from her backpack. “We’re meeting your mom here to get her approval for some of the details.”
Emma pulled out her phone and swiped until she found what she was looking for and then held up the phone for me to see. There was a lovely dress of deep burgundy. It was a body-hugging velvet dress with a retro style. The neckline and the dress were straight and it went to mid-calf. It was beautiful and very modest.
“Nice,” I said.
Emma smiled and then swiped her phone to reveal the back. The dress, which was extremely modest from the front, had a white scarf that started at the shoulders on the back and followed a deep V that ended in a bow right at the top of the model’s butt.