Some Enchanted Murder

by Linda S. Reilly

  “Well, since we’re never going to agree about Josh,” I said lightly, “why don’t we get these docs signed so you can be on your way to New York.”

  “Sounds like a plan, although I had to postpone my trip to New York until tomorrow.” He gave me a weak smile. “Hey, look, I’m sorry to be so contentious. Lou’s murder threw a major wrench into the works, for all of us. Celeste has been a trouper, but it’s been tough on her, too. She can’t wait to say good-bye to Hazleton and hello to the big city.”

  The grass is always greener, I thought.

  After a cursory read-through of the deed and the seller’s closing affidavits, Blake signed everything. I took his acknowledgment and notarized the documents.

  “I’m kind of sorry I won’t be here to meet the buyers,” Blake said. “But I’ve got a meeting in New York on Thursday with a new client—a vitamin company based in Toronto—that I can’t afford to miss.”

  “Well, rest assured that Aunt Tressa will take good care of them. She’s meeting them in her office Thursday evening to go over some last-minute details. They’ll do the final walkthrough early Friday morning. Assuming they find everything in order, they’ll close here at eleven.”

  “Think you’ll be able to record the deed the same day?”

  “Sure, barring a Nor’easter sweeping in and preventing me from driving to the Registry.” The Rockingham County Registry of Deeds was in Brentwood, about a forty-minute drive from Hazleton. Blake was clearly anxious for the estate to receive the sale proceeds. Once the mansion was sold, Sam could file the final account with the probate court and disburse Blake’s rightful inheritance. “I assume the house is completely empty now?”

  “Yeah, it should be.” He set the ballpoint pen I’d lent him back on my blotter. “Oh, except for the desk.”

  I looked at him. “Your uncle’s antique desk? The one Lou was using when he—?”

  Blake nodded. “The very same. The buyers fell in love with it when they first viewed the mansion. Insisted we make it part of the deal. Have you seen it?”

  “No, I … didn’t go into that room.”

  “It’s a stunning piece of furniture, custom made in the early nineteen forties. Has lots of cubbies on top and two large drawers on the bottom. Originally it belonged to my great-uncle Frederic, but it’s gotten pretty battered over the years. It’ll be gorgeous once it’s refinished.”

  “Frederic was your dad’s uncle, right? I recall from the title search that when Frederic died, his entire estate went to his brother Mason.”

  He pointed a finger at me. “Good memory, App. My grandfather, Mason Dwardene, was Frederic’s only brother. Frederic left everything to him, in spite of the fact that the two despised each other.”

  “Why did they dislike each other?”

  Blake shrugged. “It was before my time, but from what I understand, they had totally clashing personalities. Frederic was a fussy type, an old-school banker who was particular about everything. His wife died from influenza in her late thirties, right after they’d lost their little boy to polio. Supposedly Frederic got a little strange after that. In spite of it all, he was well respected in the community. He was also a talented artist. You might have seen some of his paintings at the mansion.”

  I nodded distractedly. Frederic’s artistic bent had also been evident in the flowery, overblown prose he’d penned in his journal.

  Blake’s mouth twisted. “My charming grandfather, on the other hand, was a hard-drinking, rough-talking oaf. He browbeat everyone around him, including my poor grandmother. She always kowtowed to him in order to keep the peace.”

  Yikes. To say the least, Blake’s grandfather didn’t sound like a nice person. Which brought to mind something I’d been curious about.

  In performing the title search, I’d had to review Mason Dwardene’s probate file. In his will, Mason had bequeathed his entire estate, including the mansion, to his son Edgar. Albert had received a pittance—a token bequest of Mason’s extensive gun collection. It seemed as if Albert has been intentionally snubbed.

  “Blake, forgive me if this sounds like prying, but why do you think your grandfather left everything, except for his guns, to Edgar?”

  Blake’s expression darkened. “Because he was a nasty piece of work, that’s why. Mason always favored Edgar over my dad. Even as an adult, Edgar was the quintessential obedient child. Don’t get me wrong, he was a decent guy, but he was nothing like my dad. My dad was a fun-loving free spirit who always did what he thought was right, in spite of his father’s bullying. Unlike his own father, my dad treated people—all people—with kindness and respect.” Blake’s eyes grew misty. “I couldn’t have asked for a better role model.”

  Inwardly, I gave myself a solid kick. “I’m sorry, Blake. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’m glad you did.” He looked drained. Quietly, he said, “Do you know why my grandfather left Dad his gun collection? It was to taunt him. My dad refused to take up the glorious sport of trophy hunting, and that irked the spit out of my grandfather. But Dad got the last laugh on him. Except for this one gun that reminded him of an old cowboy six-shooter, he turned every last one over to the state police. I could almost hear my grandfather bellowing from his grave.” Blake’s laugh had a sharp edge.

  “Your dad was a special guy. You’ll always have good memories of him.”

  All the talk of the estate had reminded me of something. “Blake, before I forget, when I was at the mansion Saturday I grabbed a set of John Jakes’s books from the library. After, well … everything else happened, I never got the chance to pay for them. I owe you—”

  He was already waving a hand at me. “Are you kidding? Consider them a gift from Celeste and me. It’s the least we owe you for all your hard work.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.” He glanced at his watch and rose. “Hey look, I gotta run. I need to be home for a conference call at 10:30.”

  He didn’t move, though. He stood there staring at me, his expression unreadable. I had to force myself not to squirm under his gaze.

  “Hey, App?” he said at last. “Did you ever think there was a time when”—he fluttered his hand back and forth between us— “you know, that you and I might have gotten together? As a couple?”

  A couple? Blake and me?

  Actually, there had been a time when I’d thought about it. Or maybe fantasized would be more accurate. But that was back in high school, half a lifetime ago. It was worst of clichés—the straight A’s overachiever harboring a crush on the school’s star quarterback. I’d tutored him in history and we became good friends, but that was the extent of it.

  Besides, Blake had other interests then.

  Curvier, sexier interests.

  Then college intervened, and … well, frankly, I grew up.

  “No, because you’ve always been too good a friend,” I said lightly, knowing how utterly lame it sounded. “And you should be grateful because you ended up finding the love of your life.”

  His smiled looked wistful. “Yeah, you’re right. I am a lucky man. Thanks for everything, App.” He leaned over and hugged me, a bit longer than I felt comfortable with. Then he left, and for the first time I realized something. I’d probably never see him again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The rest of the meal went smoothly, though Lillian (oh, how strange it sounds to suddenly be calling her by a different name!) was still very quiet. I daresay her appetite compares to that of a sparrow, though I did coax her into sampling the Inn’s famous pumpkin pie. I almost inquired about her soldier, but didn’t want his name to spoil our lovely meal. I’ve thought about him a lot, wished that any number of terrible fates might befall him …

  With the aid of three cups of French vanilla coffee and a doughnut hole from the pastry box Sam had left beside the coffee maker, I managed to keep my eyes propped open through the morning.

  Not surprisingly, Heidi had called in sick. I only hoped the po
or girl was getting some much-needed rest.

  Vicki and I had been taking turns listening for the phone, but calls had been sparse all morning. Sam had gone to the probate court in Brentwood to file some documents for a new estate he was handling. For the second day running, he’d been acting strange. Abnormally quiet. In fact, with only Vicki and me there, the office felt like an echo chamber.

  At one point, Vicki popped out of her chair, minced into my office and sputtered, “I heard you cough. Three times.” I didn’t recall coughing, not even once, but I also didn’t keep track of things like that. Vicki apparently did. “Take two of these immediately,” she’d ordered, unscrewing her treasured bottle of zinc tablets. She tapped out two of them onto my blotter and twisted the cover back on, ensuring that my germ-infested hands didn’t sully her bottle.

  “Thanks, Vicki,” I said. “I’ll get some water from the kitchen.”

  Which I did, and which I swallowed down in one long gulp. When I was sure Vicki was ensconced back in her office, I scooped the zinc tabs off my blotter, shoved them in an envelope and dropped them into the bottom drawer of my desk.

  With the office having a painfully slow week, I decided to play catch-up on some of my post-closing backlog. I was zipping off follow-up letters to lenders about delinquent mortgage discharges when Aunt Tressa called.

  “Hey, I’ve got a surprise for you. Any way you can get some time off this afternoon?”

  Actually, I’d been contemplating asking Sam if I could take my annual “Christmas shopping afternoon” today—a tradition old Mr. Quinto started ages ago. He’d always believed that since women got stuck with most of the planning and shopping and cooking around the holidays, the least he could do was give each of his employees a paid half-day in December to spend any way she pleased.

  “I think so,” I said. “I may even take off the whole afternoon, but I’ve got to run it by Sam first. Why, what’s the surprise?” I was almost afraid to ask.

  “Well, the Caddy’ll be ready to shake, rattle and roll by two, so we can swing by the dealership to pick it up. But first …” She paused, dragging out the suspense. “I’m going to treat you to a hot plate special at Darla’s Dine-o-Rama!”

  “Darla’s Dine-o-Rama? You know where it is?”

  “Of course! I Googled it. I called first to be sure the place was open, and some woman with a voice like the Wicked Witch of the West rattled off today’s special. Ever hear of Yankee Doodle Noodle Strudel? Anyway, listen to this. The restaurant’s only about three miles past the dealership, on Route One Twenty-One. We can eat at Darla’s, do some nosing around. Who knows, maybe somebody there knows something about Lillian.”

  I suddenly wished I had a recent photo of Lillian. Was there someplace I could get my hands on one?

  “Sam should be back any time,” I told her. “I’ll see what I can do and call you back.”

  I quickly got on to the Internet and Googled the Hazleton Knitting Club.

  Nothing.

  Not that I’d thought Lillian and her band of knitters had a website, but it was worth a shot.

  Next I logged onto the Hazleton Bugle, a weekly paper jammed with local interest stories. The Bugle, fortunately, maintained a sizeable online archive of back issues. In the search box, I entered the words Hazleton and knitting. As I’d hoped, an article popped up. Dated September nineteenth of last year, it was a cheery account of the Club’s annual Knitting Extravaganza, which Lillian had won for the third straight year.

  And there was her photo.

  It wasn’t the best likeness of Lillian I’d ever seen, and it wasn’t in color, but her features were reasonably clear. The photo depicted her standing between the first and second runners-up, each one proudly holding up a knitted afghan. Lillian’s looked familiar. With a sinking sensation, I realized it was the one I’d seen on her bed, all tangled in the top sheet.

  I clicked on the print icon and retrieved the article from my laser printer, just as I heard the front door open. UPS, I figured, since they delivered something nearly every day. Instead, it was Sam. He looked thoroughly wrung out.

  “Hi, Sam. Everything go okay at the probate court?” I was careful to keep my tone neutral.

  He unbuttoned his lined overcoat and roughly tugged off his scarf. “Thing’s choking me,” he grumbled, sweeping past me. Ignoring Vicki’s mumbled greeting as he passed her door, he tramped down the hallway and into his office. I followed.

  “Yeah, everything went fine,” he said. “Judge Harper allowed the will. No surprise there.”

  “So Mrs. Anders is the executrix?”

  Sam tossed his briefcase onto the leather chair opposite his desk and shot me a look. “Of course she’s the executrix. Who’d you think the judge was going to appoint, one of Santa’s elves?”

  Embarrassed, I shrugged. “I’m sorry, Sam. I was making small talk. When you came in you looked … well, stressed. I thought maybe something was wrong.”

  He stared at the floor for a moment, then blew out a sigh. “Close the door and have a seat, will you?”

  Hesitantly, I pushed the door shut. My mental antennae were zipping up and down like automatic car windows gone mad.

  “First I have a question,” he said, lowering himself into his chair. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything new about Lou’s murder?”

  “No, nothing useful. Rumors, mostly.”

  Which wasn’t entirely true.

  Aunt Tressa’s revelation about her breakup with Lou was a fact. As was Blake’s admission that he’d quarreled with Lou not long before Lou was stabbed. But I had no intention of sharing either of those disclosures with Sam. Not yet, anyway.

  I did consider whether or not I should tell him about Lillian’s disappearance. I decided to hear what he had to tell me first.

  Sam walked around his desk and dropped into his chair. His face was as pale as the frozen ridge of snow on the window pane outside. “Apple, Lou called me Saturday, on my cell phone. It was right before—” He pressed his fist to his mouth and shook his head.

  “Right before he was murdered?” I finished.

  Sam nodded. “Mary and I were in the supermarket at the time. I can never hear my phone when I’m in there. When we got in the car, I realized I had a message. It was from Lou. His voice sounded so strange, kind of … like he was trying not to be overheard. In a very urgent voice he said, ‘I gotta talk to you right away. Something’s not right. Sam, I think there’s been a terrible mistake.’ He started to say something else, but the call got cut off.”

  Something tumbled inside my stomach. “What did you do?”

  “First I tried calling him back, but he didn’t answer. So I drove Mary home and ran the groceries inside for her. Then I headed over to the Dwardene place, but by then the snowstorm was getting bad. When I got there …” He looked away and released a heavy sigh. “When I got there, it was too late. I saw the police cars in the driveway, and I knew something bad had happened.”

  So that’s why we saw Sam leaving the mansion that afternoon. “Did you tell Chief Fenton about the call?”

  “I told him right away, that afternoon. I played the message for him. Problem was, I had no idea what Lou was trying to tell me,” Sam said miserably. “What kind of mistake was he talking about, Apple?”

  I shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, Sam. It could be just about anything. He didn’t say that you made a mistake—just that there’d been a terrible mistake.”

  “I know, but I’ve been worried sick over it.” Sam rubbed his hands over his eyes.

  “Of course you have. You’re a worrier by nature.” I didn’t want to say that I’d be worried, too, if I’d gotten that call. Sam was already agonizing over it. No need to make him feel worse.

  “Fenton’s already called me twice to ask if I’ve made any sense of Lou’s message yet. Nothing like a little pressure,” he said sourly. “I came back here last evening and went over the probate file again with a fine-tooth comb. I couldn’t find anything amiss.�
��

  “See? It probably has nothing to do with you. You’re just the one Lou called to confide in. Leave it to the police, Sam. They’ll solve Lou’s murder and everything will be explained.” I wasn’t entirely sure I believed that, but at this point a little good faith was in order.

  Sam expelled a long sigh. “Maybe you’re right. Mary says I blow everything out of proportion.”

  We talked for about another five minutes, during which Sam managed to quiet his frayed nerves. I decided to tell him about Lillian, starting with her disappearance and ending with her middle-of-the-night phone call to me.

  “I hate to say it, but none of that sounds good, Apple. I’ll have a chat with Fenton, see if I can light a fire under him. Seems to me, Lillian Bilodeau might be the missing link to the murderer.”

  “My feeling exactly,” I said. “And thanks, Sam. I really appreciate it. But now I have another favor to ask.” I told him about Aunt Tressa’s idea to check out Darla’s Dine-o-Rama before we picked up her car.

  “Sure, go ahead. Today’s as good a day as any.” He cast a dreary glance at the stack of mail teetering on the corner of his desk. “I’ll corral Vicki into helping me get through some of the correspondence I’ve been neglecting.”

  “And I’m sure Vicki’ll be glad to be rid of me for the afternoon. She told me I coughed this morning, three times, to be precise.”

  He raised his arm and pointed at the door. “Then take thy vile germs and hie thee hence, contaminant!”

  I was grateful to see he’d recovered his sense of humor. My hand was on the doorknob when I thought of something else. “Hey, Sam, did you ever think it was odd that Edgar Dwardene didn’t leave a will?”

  He frowned. “That came out of the blue. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. Wouldn’t it have been the sensible thing to do?”

  Sam shrugged. “I suppose, but look at it this way. Edgar only had the one heir—his nephew Blake. Even if he’d made out a will, who else would he have left his estate to? To my knowledge, he wasn’t particularly interested in any charities. Maybe he figured a will was a waste of time. And money.”