Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures)

by Davis, Nageeba

  “Why are you planting your flowers like that?” she asked, shaking her head.

  “Like what?” I replied simply, although I really wanted to ask what business it was of hers. But I was brought up to be polite, a fairly useless trait I’m quickly learning to slough off.

  “All in a row like little soldiers. Is that the way you see wildflowers growing when you walk through the woods?”

  She must have seen the confusion on my face because she added, “I see you walking on the trail, the one that starts at the back of your property and winds across mine by the stream. My bedroom window overlooks parts of the trail.”

  I nodded mutely and went back to planting.

  She sighed quietly. “I’ve been told that I can be overbearing at times.”

  No kidding.

  Without waiting for a reply, she continued. “Apparently I have offended you with my comments about your gardening, although I certainly did not intend to do so. If that’s the case, however, I hope you will accept my apology.”

  I sat back on my heels and examined my handiwork. “You’re probably right, though,” I admitted. “It is a little rigid. I think they look a little like a marching band with its straight lines and crisp corners,” I said, grinning.

  She smiled. “Why don’t we start over, Maggie? We are neighbors and it is so much more pleasant to live amongst friends than enemies. Don’t you agree?”

  The memory faded and I opened my eyes. The clay sculpture came into focus and I studied it for several minutes without moving. As I sat there, the missing pieces of the puzzle fell softly into place.

  Thanks, Elizabeth.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Hello, Cassie.”

  I’d startled her, coming into the room without knocking. Cassie spun around, her eyes widened in surprise. She was a lovely girl, all blond hair and cornflower-blue eyes. She stood facing me in a black knit dress, her back to the French doors. The sun strode boldly behind, tracing her body in charcoal shadows, silhouetting a proud, feminine form. Staring at her curves was enough to convince me to invest in a little breast enhancement lingerie or at least to start stuffing tissues in my bra.

  “Wasn’t our little chat this morning enough for you?” she snapped, a swift shadow of anger sweeping across her face as she recognized me.

  “It was more than enough until I started working this afternoon. And then, suddenly, everything began to make sense,” I said, closing the door behind me. As I walked toward her, I couldn’t help admiring the room, with its saffron-colored walls, plump damask sofa, and hardwood floors. A long bar with its deep cherry top polished to a deep gloss ran the length of one wall. Behind it, crystal wine glasses hung upside down and amber-colored bottles were placed neatly against a mirrored wall. Burnished beams lined the ceiling and the windows overlooked a vast carpet of green grass and tall emerald trees. How ironic that such a warm, light-filled room should hold such evil.

  “Look, I don’t have time for this. Benton should never have let you in without consulting me. I have a dinner to attend.”

  “Do you mind if I sit down?” I didn’t wait for an answer and took a seat on the couch.

  “Apparently not,” she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. Cassie sat down in the chair across from me and lifted a slim gold case from the coffee table. Lighting a cigarette, she inhaled deeply. She leaned back into the armchair and crossed her long slender legs, her black high-heeled sandal grazing the carpet. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  “You killed Elizabeth, Cassie.”

  She didn’t skip a beat. “Did I really?” she asked almost gaily, as though she had just won the church raffle.

  Her face was a mask of disinterest. I looked closely for eye tics, narrowing pupils, chewed-off lipstick, even clenched fists but there was nothing. Her features were composed, her expression completely unfazed. All I saw was the same spoiled, haughty face I had always known. For a second I wondered if, after all, I was wrong.

  “Exactly how did you come to this conclusion, Maggie? Spending too much time alone fiddling with your Play-Doh?”

  Her little snooty act didn’t sit well with me. “It almost slipped by me, Cassie. If I hadn’t been thinking about Elizabeth this afternoon, I might not have remembered. I guess I was just lucky.”

  She leaned forward and tapped her cigarette against the crystal ashtray. “Please don’t keep me in suspense any longer. If I’m going to be a famous murderess, I need to know right away so I can work out my alibi. Maybe I’ll have a new dress made just for the occasion. Something deep red, you know, like blood.”

  I wanted to slap the girl. She was ripping my confidence to shreds as easily as peeling a banana, while I sat puddled in sweat. But it didn’t matter how I felt. This was for Elizabeth. “

  “It was the scarf, Cassie. The scarf wrapped around her head.”

  “Grandmother always wore scarves.”

  “True. But when she wound them around her head, the bow was always placed on the right side, simply because she was right-handed. When she was killed, however, the bow was tied on her left side.” I watched Cassie place another cigarette between her lips with her left hand. “I would never have known if I hadn’t seen you drinking coffee at my house this morning.”

  “You think I killed Grandmother because I’m left-handed?” she asked, mocking me. “You might as well lock me up and throw away the key.”

  I refused to let her condescension rattle me. “You knew exactly how Elizabeth wound a scarf around her head, Cassie, but you knotted it on the left side. But that wasn’t all. It was the footprints.”

  “What footprints?”

  “Exactly. Detective Villari said they never found any footprints other than Elizabeth’s, and mine, and, of course, the serviceman who found your grandmother. I didn’t think much about it at the time, not until you sat down in my living room and crossed your ankles.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Your shoes were exactly like the ones Elizabeth always wore. You wear such outrageous-looking shoes most of the time,” I said, indicating the black ones she was now wearing as an example, “that your low-heeled pumps made an impression on me. The only person who could tie her scarf exactly the way she did, but on the left side, and also have access to Elizabeth’s shoes to wear while carrying her dead body across my yard, is you.” I continued on. “The motive was the easy part. Greed and money. I haven’t figured out exactly what happened, but I’m positive you overheard something or saw something you thought would jeopardize your mighty inheritance. We both know you have quite a talent for eavesdropping.”

  After I finished, the accusation dangled in the air, reverberating like a tuning fork against the paneled walls and beamed ceilings. I sat there silently, my hands clasped in my lap. I don’t usually sit so quietly, or demurely, but I wanted Cassie to know that I had no doubt about her guilt, and I suspected that silence would un-nerve her more than a screaming match.

  It came rather quickly. The crack. It wasn’t very dramatic, just a small fissure. Her lips tightened imperceptibly and her right hand shook just a little as she brought the cigarette to her lips. Nothing jumped out and screamed, but it was there, and with one glance, she knew I had seen it.

  She blew out a small cloud of smoke and viciously ground her cigarette in the ashtray before standing and towering over me, a female Goliath dressed to the nines. “Look, you little bitch,” she spit out. “I’ve run out of patience with you and your female Sherlock Holmes act. If you think you can prove a word of what you’ve said, then do it. Go tell your little detective everything you think you know. But don’t forget to include everything. Preston told me all about the two of you cozying up the last few days. I wonder how the captain would feel about his detective messing around with a suspect?”

  I stood and faced her, feeling more like the Cowardly Lion than a modern-day David, but I refused to back down, no matter what. “Bottom line, Cassie, you murdered Elizabeth. Nothing changes th
at fact.” I turned and walked away from her, anxious to put some distance between the two of us. A few feet from the door leading into the hallway, I stopped and wheeled around. “As a matter of fact, I will be talking to Detective Villari, and he can do what he wants with it, I don’t really care. It doesn’t much matter anymore.”

  Her cold blues eyes met mine.

  “Because as fiduciary,” I taunted, exaggerating the word as I drew it out slowly and succinctly, “I’m the only person who needs to be convinced. As you are very well aware, I’m in control of a huge chunk of change.” And then I smiled. “And darlin’,” I said, borrowing Villari’s hillbilly drawl, “it’ll be colder than a well digger’s ass before you see a dime of it.” I turned on my heel and strode purposefully toward the door, mentally patting myself on the back, anxious to tell Villari how I’d wrapped up the case.

  Then I heard a sharp metal click.

  “I wonder what Grandmother was thinking,” she said, her contemptuous voice drifting from behind, “when she included you in the will. You’re too stupid to handle a roomful of ten-year-olds much less a large estate. Turn around, Maggie.”

  I hesitated a second too long. “Turn around,” she repeated, her voice low and menacing, “because if you don’t, I’ll have no choice but to shoot you in the back. It doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference to me, although I think it would be rather nice to watch the light die in your eyes. Just think of this as a little favor I’m offering you. How many people get to choose how they die?”

  “You’re all heart, Cassie,” I said, turning to face her. She was standing between the couch and the chair, her legs braced about a foot and a half apart, elbows locked, both hands clamped around a shiny silver pistol pointed directly at my chest.

  “I’d keep that smart mouth of yours in check, Maggie,” she threatened. “I admire your spirit in the face of overwhelming odds, but stupid is stupid. Speaking of which, what did you think I would do when you came marching over here with your accusations? Roll over, pack my suitcases, and let you chauffeur me quietly to jail? If you were so sure I killed Grandmother, what would keep me from doing the exact same thing to you?”

  Okay, she had a point. I had been so full of anger and self-righteousness that I didn’t take the time to map out an exit plan. In hindsight, I couldn’t have been more stupid, but this was no time for Monday-morning quarterbacking, especially since the chance of actually seeing another Monday was looking rather bleak. I didn’t know any more about cops and robbers and catching the bad guys than what I saw on television. And right now, with no cavalry galloping to the rescue, the only tactic available to me was to keep her talking.

  “Why did you kill her, Cassie?”

  “Just drop the innocent act, Maggie. You know all about Lindsay Burns; Preston told me about your little meeting with her out at the park. What I want to know is how you discovered her.”

  “Mark Gossert, from the Outlook Gallery, called me,” I lied. “He said that Elizabeth had given him my name. He asked me to bring in some of my pieces, and while we were talking he mentioned Lindsay’s name.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “For the same reason that Elizabeth gave him my name. For the art.”

  “Yes, she loved grand gestures, didn’t she? She couldn’t wait to spend her money on other people, anyone besides her family,” she fumed, her grip tightening on the gun.

  “I went to see Lindsay,” I continued, ignoring her outburst and the fear that was tying my stomach in knots, “because she was Elizabeth’s friend. I guess I just wanted to talk to someone who knew Elizabeth the way I did, someone who had been helped along artistically,” I finished lamely. The more I talked, the more frightened I became. How could I keep Cassie talking when everything about Elizabeth was bound to anger her?

  “So we met at the park,” I hurried on, “and talked about Elizabeth for a while and then we moved on to other things—just girl talk. Then I saw Preston out in the parking lot and he admitted to following me. You know all the rest.”

  Cassie studied me, her eyes narrowed and furious, a slow flush crawling up her neck. “You must think I’m a real idiot if you think I’m going to fall for that line of crap. You expect me to believe that you and Lindsay were out at the park playing tea party and catching up on local gossip with a little tear or two for our sad, dearly departed, very dead grandmother?”

  “Cassie,” I said, taking a slow step forward. I had some vague notion of rushing toward her and grabbing the gun from her hand. It was a long shot, but it was all I had right now. “We talked about a lot of things. I can’t remember anything specific right now, not with that barrel staring at me, but it was mostly about art. Lindsay paints. She paints landscapes and we met at the park so she could show me the scene she was trying to capture on canvas.” I felt myself rearranging everything about that afternoon, throwing in some talk about art for credibility and to keep Cassie talking. For once, my tendency to ramble seemed to be a good thing. The longer I kept Cassie talking, the longer I stayed alive.

  “Back off, Maggie. Take another step forward and you’ll run into a bullet.”

  I didn’t need to be told twice. I stepped back immediately and started talking again while my mind searched frantically for another plan, some sliver of hope before I was blown to pieces.

  “Preston told me about Elizabeth’s illness.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” She giggled, her laugh high-pitched and edged with hysteria. “All that trouble to kill her, and Granny was going to die anyway.”

  “Cassie, put the gun away,” I said gently. “We can work this out. Don’t do something you might regret, something that will destroy the rest of your life.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong. No piece of white trash is going to stop me from getting my money. I deserve that money, every last dirty dime of it. I earned it, and I’m not going to let you, Grandmother, or anyone else get in my way.”

  Who else was there? Earned how? “What are you talking about, Cassie?”

  She eased her arms down until the gun hung loosely in one hand. When she saw me studying the distance between the two of us, she shook her head. “Give it up, Maggie. I’ve taken lessons. I can shoot you dead before you move two feet toward the door or me. Either way, you’ll end up in a coffin.”

  I believed her. I stood perfectly still, waiting for her to answer my question.

  She edged backward until the arms of the chair touched the back of her thighs and she sat down slowly, watching me carefully, but looking drained and emotionally wrung out at the same time. The high color in her cheeks had faded and she suddenly seemed exhausted.

  “Nobody knew, of course,” she began. “It started so innocently at first, I didn’t really mind. In a way, I actually enjoyed the attention. He was very gentle in the beginning. He would sit and talk to me about school, who my friends were, that kind of thing. And the first time he touched me, I hardly even noticed it; he just patted my arm, like a parent almost. For the longest time he didn’t do anything more than cuddle and hold me and stroke my shoulders.”

  Please, God, I thought, don’t let this be what I think it is. I was torn between wanting her to keep talking and wanting to cover my ears and block out her voice.

  “I was starved for attention after my parents were killed, and Grandmother, to be fair, was too far gone in her own grieving to notice that I was completely alone. When Preston and I first came to live with them, Grandfather was so cold and distant, so austere”—she spoke slowly, her voice settling into a slow monotone—“that I didn’t know where to turn or what to do. I went to bed hugging my pillow every night, and by morning it was soaked with tears. The first time he knocked on my door and walked in, I was very afraid. He’d hardly even glanced at me before. I wasn’t sure he even knew my name.”

  Cassie must have seen the horror reflected on my face, but she shook her head before continuing.

  “Grandmother never knew. Grandfather was very careful.”

&n
bsp; “Why didn’t you say something?”

  She lifted her shoulders in resignation. “Because I was too ashamed, too embarrassed.”

  “But you were just a young girl. A victim. No one would have blamed you.”

  A ghost of a grin flitted across her face. Her eyes glazed over. “Maybe. Maybe not. At any rate, by the time I realized that what we were doing was wrong, even perverse, I didn’t know how to stop. He was very clever, you know, moving along at such a snail’s pace. He seemed so concerned about me and my life that I wasn’t really aware of the exact moment when he crossed the line. It seemed like I woke up out of a fog one night and he was on top of me... hurting me,” she choked, “doing unspeakable things, grunting and moaning, and he was so heavy I couldn’t breathe. I started crying and I tried to push him off, but he wouldn’t stop. Not for a long time. After he was done, he rolled off me, cleaned himself with a small towel he’d brought with him. He was always prepared, you know. Then he walked into my bathroom, rinsed the same towel with warm water, and washed off the blood between my thighs. I just lay there, dazed and confused, barely listening as he talked about ‘our little secret.’ He demanded that I keep quiet, insisting that people wouldn’t understand how much he loved me and how he wanted only the best for me.” Cassie leveled her gaze at me. “I was betrayed. Again. Just like the day my parents died and left me alone. I knew then that nothing is ever what it seems.” She shrugged dismissively. “But what could I do? He’d been coming in for weeks, who would believe me when I said I never meant for anything to happen? That I didn’t even know what could happen?”

  “But,” I interrupted in frustration, “the man raped you. He would have been thrown in jail for that crime alone, not to mention pedophilia and incest. Cranford Boyer wouldn’t have seen the light of day for years.”