Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures)

by Davis, Nageeba

  “Not crazy at all, Ms. Kean. A little off the beaten path maybe, but never crazy. She wanted you in this position very badly.”

  “Weren’t you supposed to advise her or something? Surely you can see that this will never work.”

  “Truth be told, I did advise against it, quite vehemently at first. But, as usual, she didn’t listen to me. And now I believe she may have been right.”

  “But I don’t want to do this!” I stated emphatically, precariously close to yelling.

  “That is certainly your decision to make. No one can force you to assume this responsibility. However, I would like to ask you to reserve judgment until after you have read Elizabeth’s letter.” With that, Hawthorne retrieved a white envelope from his folder and handed it to me. He stood, placed the file back in his briefcase, and snapped the locks shut.

  “Give yourself a couple of days, Ms. Kean,” he said quietly. “I’m sure Elizabeth would appreciate that. Call my office when you’ve made a decision.”

  Hawthorne strode from the room, his bearing proud and regal, as quiet and understated as old money. I looked down and ran my fingers along the edges of the thick, heavy envelope that now lay in my lap.

  Chapter Four

  Dear Maggie,

  If you are reading this letter, then I am most assuredly no longer part of this world. Isn’t that the way most letters from the deceased begin? I imagine my will has you thrashing about in confusion and you are ready to toss this letter out the window, along with both Boyer grandchildren. No doubt Preston and Cassandra have been horribly unpleasant, and I shudder to think of how they reacted to the changes in my will, and to you. If there is any truth to these words, please accept my apologies for them. Unfortunately, it is impossible to deny that my grandchildren are terribly spoiled and I have only myself to blame.

  After my beloved son, my only child, and his wife were killed, I took their children into my home, intending to raise them as my own. My husband, however, was very unhappy with the situation. Cranford could not bear to be around either child, for they were a constant reminder of the son he had lost. He was eager to ship them off to boarding school as soon as possible. I could not let this happen. How could I send two lonely children off to a strange place just days after being orphaned? For the first time in our marriage, I stood up to my husband and refused to follow his wishes. He was furious. I won’t describe the scene that followed; suffice it to say that the little respect we still had for each other died that day. Any love that might have grown between us ceased to exist.

  It was a loveless marriage, Maggie, arranged by my father to secure a higher social position and enough money so that I would never want for anything. But I did want. I ached with want. My son was my only joy. And when he died, I lost the one person I could love freely, as only a mother can love. But the day our grandchildren came to live with us, my husband turned away and hardly spoke to them, or me, until the day he died, almost ten years later. To make up for their grandfather’s coldness, and to assuage my own grief, I gave my grandchildren everything they asked for; anything they wanted was theirs. I gave them everything but my heart. I never played with them, tucked them into bed at night, or even disciplined them. Lost in my own mourning, I failed to see that they were lost, too. Then one day I woke up and saw two spoiled children who had no real friends and no real family. I tried to make up for my neglect, but by then it was too late. By that time they were stubborn, angry, rebellious teenagers, and quite honestly, I was too old to handle the problems of adolescents. I couldn’t just kiss and soothe them away.

  Things were better when Cranford died. I realize how awful that sounds, but the truth is not always pretty. Some of the coldness left the house and the two children and I developed a somewhat uneasy relationship that still continues today. But I am still very worried about them.

  Preston is a failure in business. He was a mediocre student and never applied himself to any job, even the ones I secured for him. I believe that was one of my biggest mistakes. I gave him the job. He never had to go out in the world and struggle to make a name for himself, to find his own place.

  And his sister, politely stated, is too willing, eager even, to give herself to any man that finds her attractive. Sadly, much of Cassandra’s attraction depends on my money and I don’t want to see it fall into some man’s greedy hands. Money makes a cold bedfellow.

  So I come to you, Maggie, the light of my life. You are the daughter I never had. None of this should be a surprise to you, not if you look deep inside yourself. I remember coming to visit and watching you through your window. You were in your studio, hunched over a square chunk of clay, wearing a long shapeless blouse, your hair pulled back into a ponytail. My heart lurched a little. You reminded me so much of the dream I gave up when I married Cranford.

  Knowing you brought art back into my life. I started painting again. The picture behind my desk is for you. No doubt it is very flawed, but it is my thanks to you for bringing back a world I had abandoned years ago.

  Keep sculpting, Maggie. You are very talented. Use the trustee fee to buy your supplies, take lessons if you feel you need to. When you’re ready for a show, call Mark Gossert at the Outlook. He’s waiting for your call. Don’t let anyone keep you from developing your gift.

  Finally, I am asking you to watch over a large portion of my money, Maggie. It is my last chance to help Preston and Cassandra. They need to sweat, to work hard for something they love. Actually, they both need a good swift kick in the behind. It won’t be easy, I know. They’ll fight you every step of the way. That’s why I put you in the will. I need someone strong, someone who is not afraid, and someone who refuses to give up.

  Elizabeth

  Tears splashed on the linen pages and smeared the writing. I folded the letter, rested my head against the back of the chair and closed my eyes. She was right. I had known how she felt about me, but I was too afraid to acknowledge those feelings. After my mother died, that part of my heart shut down. At least, that’s what I told myself. Elizabeth Boyer instinctively understood this, letting me accept what I could without pushing. She just meandered her way into my life, slipping past my defenses without setting off any alarms. All she did was complain, boss me around, make a nuisance of herself, and drive me crazy. She wore on my nerves and slid into my heart at the same time.

  I tucked the letter back into its envelope and grabbed my purse off the floor. The room was quiet and hushed as I stood and approached her desk, wanting to touch something of hers, to bring back what had taken me too long to discover. I ran my fingers over the smooth wood as I moved towards the plush burgundy chair edged in brass buttons. Pausing, I nudged the chair tentatively, then with more force, until it swiveled around and around in circles.

  Something inside propelled me to sit down. The deep rich leather embraced me like a favorite flannel shirt. Suddenly I could feel her. I could smell the light floral scent she always wore. Elizabeth was here. In this room. With me. People would think I was crazy, but I didn’t care. If I reached out, I could touch her. She was next to me and behind me and in front of me. Just like she was in real life. I sank into the chair and let her spirit engulf me.

  The sun spilled through the front windows and splashed over the walls. I smiled at Elizabeth’s neat and orderly desk, the mahogany polished to a rich auburn. Except for the small brass lamp, a gold pen-and-pencil, and a leather-bound appointment book resting on top of the blotter, her desk was bare. A place for everything and everything in its place. I could hear her voice whispering the old adage, just as she had a million times while standing in my studio, shaking her head at the piles of clutter threatening to overwhelm her.

  I sat up and pushed the chair away from the desk, glancing once more around the room. Elizabeth was everywhere. Tears threatened again and I had to leave, to get away from here, from this place that had once housed a grand lady who had not been in my life long enough.

  The moment the heavy front door clicked behind me, I flew d
own the driveway, thankful for my oldest tennis shoes. Once outside, I turned my face to the sun and breathed in great gulps of fresh, pine-scented air. I had somehow managed to avoid running into Preston and Cassie on my way out, probably because they were huddled in some smoky backroom plotting an intricate strategy to mow me down. At this point, I didn’t much care. All I wanted was to get away.

  I hopped into the Jeep and drove it to the street, completed a tight U-turn, and pulled into my own driveway. My keys were already in my hand when I reached the front door and heard the phone ringing inside. Shoving the key into the lock, I pushed the door open and ran for the phone. I managed to grab the receiver on the fourth ring, a second before the voicemail turned on and repeated my rambling commentary on how I might or might not be home and it really wasn’t any of your business whether I was or not, and if, by the sound of the beep you hadn’t thrown down the phone in disgust, would you please leave a message?

  “Hello? Maggie, is that you?” Lisa asked, concern lacing her voice. “You sound asthmatic with all that wheezing.”

  “That’s how I breathe after running.”

  “Running? I thought you were going to a funeral.”

  “I was. I did. It’s over and I had to get out.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “You don’t know the half of it, Lisa.”

  “So tell me. You know I hate to be left in the dark.”

  “I couldn’t do it justice over the phone.

  “Hang tight. I’ll be right there.”

  Twenty minutes later I was sitting in the small dining room right off the kitchen, savoring my favorite French vanilla flavored blend and filling in all the blank spaces for Lisa. I leaned back and sipped the hot coffee while my best friend stared at me openmouthed.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. The grandkids’ fortune is in my hands, and they’re so angry that being infected with the flesh-eating bacteria would seem like a blessing in comparison. I just wish Elizabeth was here to enjoy it.”

  Lisa reached across the kitchen table and covered my hand with hers. “I’m very sorry about your neighbor, Maggie. I wish there were something I could say that would help. But there isn’t. The murder was shocking and there’s no other way to look at it.”

  I rubbed my eyes to keep from crying. At least I had one person on my side. One tall and glamorous person. With five inches on me, and none of the gangly awkwardness, Lisa could easily have been a model, with her rich auburn hair and large hazel eyes. In fact, I was pretty sure agents had approached her at different times in her life. But Lisa wasn’t interested. She had brains, a goal, and a well-mapped-out plan. And although I never understood the harm in earning some major dollars on the side, Lisa refused to be distracted. The woman believed in straight lines and clearly defined goals—in direct contrast to my own crooked life plan leading to a hazy end-result.

  Lisa and I were college roommates. We were best friends from the minute I walked into our dorm room and saw her sitting cross-legged in the middle of one twin bed, chewing gum and charting her strategy for the next four years of college. In between chomps, Lisa pointed out that the booklet I had tucked underneath my arm was actually last year’s, out-of-date course catalog. If she hadn’t taken me under her wing, I would still be in college, with a different major every year, or racing around the campus looking for classes that no longer existed. Nurturing came naturally for her, so it was no surprise that she was drawn to nursing. She received her degree four years later and was now a head OB-GYN nurse teaching childbirth classes at night.

  “So what does he look like?” Lisa always knew when, and how, to change the subject.

  “What?”

  “Detective Villari. He sounds gorgeous.”

  “How in the world did you come up with that?”

  She shrugged. “Instinct. Something about the way you two are already butting heads—“

  “The guy practically accuses me of killing Elizabeth Boyer and you want to know whether he’s handsome or not?”

  “Maggie, all he has to do is read Elizabeth’s letter and he’ll know you had nothing to do with the murder,” she said patiently. “Now, what does this guy look like?”

  I sighed. Lisa had a wide stubborn streak. She wasn’t about to let go until someone put a gun to her head.

  “Fine. Have it your way. When I’m shuffling off to the electric chair, you’ll feel better knowing that the cop who brought me down was nice looking.”

  She frowned. “Only nice looking? I was hoping for something a little more hot-blooded, you know, a Ryan Gosling look-alike. ‘Nice looking’ describes my father or my accountant on a good day.”

  “Shouldn’t you be making dinner for your husband and daughter instead of drooling over a detective who would like nothing better than to throw your best friend in jail?”

  Lisa shrugged. “It’s a known fact that a little tension between a man and a woman can really enhance the sex. Besides, Joel’s babysitting Mandy and stirring the chili I started. I’ve got at least another five minutes before Armageddon.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, Lisa, but the man is nothing but a walking pain in the butt. Everywhere I go, he shows up and stares at me with a smoldering look that says, ‘You’re guilty. I know it. You know it.’ Call me silly, but romance- behind-bars is not my style.”

  “Okay, so he’s not the man of your dreams,” she said begrudgingly. “Things could change.”

  “What is this, The Bachelorette? I don’t want things to change. I like my life the way it is—or at least the way it was. Why can’t Villari just do his job and find the guy who killed Elizabeth? I don’t want to be involved with him, her two grandkids, or any of this.”

  “Sounds like you already are,” Lisa said quietly. She got up and stuck her coffee in the microwave. “Look, Maggie, like it or not, Mrs. Boyer was found in your septic tank. Right there you’re involved. Then she puts you in her will as fiduciary controlling a whole lot of money, money that two vindictive little pond scrapings are pitching a fit over. And last but not least, you’ve got a detective breathing down your neck and scaring you to death.”

  “I thought you just said Elizabeth’s letter would take me off the hook, that Villari would believe my story.”

  “What is your story?” Lisa asked, blowing on the heated coffee as she carried it back to the table.

  I sighed. “That’s the problem. I have no story. I found Elizabeth by sheer accident. If my toilet hadn’t backed up, or rather, if her body hadn’t clogged up the pipes, there’s no telling how long she’d have been in there. And as far as the will goes, I was more surprised than either Preston or Cassie. You would have laughed if you’d been there.” Suddenly, I sat up. “Oh, crap.”

  Startled, Lisa jostled the cup. “What?”

  “The picture. I just remembered the picture Elizabeth willed me is still hanging in her office.” I groaned. “Now I’ve got to face Preston and Cassie again and listen to them accuse me of manipulating this whole mess. I’m not sure I have the strength to deal with this. Any of it.”

  “I don’t envy you there, but I still think Elizabeth’s letter is a good thing. It may not prove your innocence,” Lisa conceded, “but it does explain a lot. Why don’t you pick some neutral ground, meet with Detective Villari, and show him the letter. I’m sure he can take it from there.”

  I lifted my eyebrows, a little suspicious of any suggestion coming from Little Miss Matchmaker. “Neutral ground?”

  “Yeah. Someplace away from the murder scene and the Boyer grandkids,” Lisa said, pretending to think. “Maybe over dinner at—I don’t know—Antoine’s or someplace like that?”

  “What a stellar idea,” I responded dryly. “Maybe I should wear my satin bra and thong panties, too, just in case he wants to reread the letter in another neutral area like my bed.”

  “I would have suggested that myself if you owned something other than cotton underwear that sags in the butt,” she mu
ttered, glancing at her watch. “Look, at some point you’re going to have to show the letter to the detective. What’s the harm in looking nice while you hand it over?”

  “I promise to give it some thought, Lisa.” I waved my hand at her. “Go on home and see to your chili. Don’t worry. I’ll call you the moment Villari sweeps me off my feet, carries me off into the sunset and makes mad passionate love to me all night long.”

  Lisa rolled her eyes, got up, rinsed her cup out in the sink and placed it upside down on the dish rack. She was drying her hands on the towel and staring out the kitchen window when I saw her smiling.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  She turned and looked at me. “I think the man who’s going to sweep you up in his arms just drove into the driveway. Do me a favor and get your eyes checked because what you described as nice looking is mouth-watering handsome.”

  “Villari is here?” I propped my elbows on the table and covered my face with my hands. “The man won’t give me a moment’s rest.”

  “There’s a world of women just waiting to change places with you, Maggie,” Lisa said, patting my back as she went to open the front door. “In fact, if it wasn’t for Joel, I’d be leading the pack.”

  I raised my head. “This isn’t a Hallmark movie, you know,” I said wearily. “This is a murder we’re talking about.”

  “It never hurts to be prepared.” She tilted her head. “Isn’t that what Elizabeth was always telling you?”

  Moments later I could hear Lisa and Villari talking; their voices were muffled behind the open door, but I knew Lisa would play the perfect hostess and invite him in. I felt less than hospitable and didn’t want to do anything but glare at him until he was uncomfortable enough to hit the road. But what good would it do? For all I knew, Villari was planning to stay the night, not for romance, but to further interrogate me. I imagined myself tied to a cold metal chair in some cavernous warehouse shivering beneath a naked light bulb as a steady drip of water plopped on my head. The man was determined to find me guilty of murder or force me to go stark raving mad.