Buried in Quilts
Page 10
“And last night? After I saw you?”
“Last night?” The girl’s eyes opened even wider. “Is that when it happened? I didn’t hear a thing—nothing like a fight or a shot or anything.” She turned to the other three. “Did you guys?”
“No,” said the shorter boy, who sported a mustache and an earring. “And we weren’t goofing off, either. We took turns making the rounds about every half hour—in pairs, like you said. Checked all the doors.”
“Went in all the upstairs rooms?”
“Yeah. Flashed a light around and everything. We didn’t see anybody.”
“That’s right.” Heads bobbed in earnest unison.
“Nobody? You’re sure?”
“Not after the Elletts went home. They stayed pretty late. We didn’t bother them once we found out who was in there.”
“You never checked that room again?”
The boy with the mustache stroked his upper lip, as if for comfort. The girls stared at the floor.
They were only kids. What could he say?
Ketcham was driving. He hung a left at the high school.
“How you want to break it to ’em?”
“With our eyes open.” Fred leaned his head back against the doorframe and felt his own lids droop. He was getting too old for all-nighters.
Ketcham’s wire-rims reflected the dim green light of the dashboard clock. Past ten—it felt more like two. “You’d think somebody would have missed her by now.”
“Not me.” Fred grinned. “But you’re right. They had all kinds of stuff scheduled at the inn today.”
They made a pit stop on the way to Edna Ellett’s house. In the men’s room, Fred’s pocket beeped. Something too sensitive for the radio monitored by police scanners all over town. He fished for a quarter and headed for the outdoor pay phone.
“I’m putting you through to the captain,” the dispatcher said. “Good luck.”
Just enough warning. Fred tilted the receiver away to protect his hearing.
“Fred, what in blue blazes have you been doing!”
He knew better than to answer. The veins on Warren Altschuler’s neck had to be standing out.
“I give you a simple little security job. And what do you do? You palm it off on children—and let it turn into a homicide!”
Fred held his tongue.
“Now the chief’s raking me over for putting the mayor’s daughter in danger.”
“Deckard’s daughter?” Fred groaned inwardly. He’d never made the connection. Oliver was full of Deckards.
Altschuler’s voice turned sweet. “His only one. The very apple of his eye.” Then he bellowed again. “Dammit, Fred, what am I supposed to tell him?”
“I don’t know.” An imp overtook him. “I suppose you could say I don’t think she did it.”
“You what?”
“Look, Warren, if you need ammunition, try this: Those kids spent all last night in the building. We can’t rule them out, no matter whose kids they are. But the mayor’s got a point. Someone may think they know more than they do. You want to take them into protective custody?”
“You aren’t serious.” Altschuler’s steam was cooling.
“I’m dead serious.” In the back of Fred’s head, his own words were reminding him who else might appear to know too much. “He could at least tell them to keep their mouths shut.”
“Report to me tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
Back in the car, he risked shutting his eyes for a moment. No danger now of falling asleep—his pulse was pounding against his ribs and in his ears. Murder he could handle; it was the politics that tore him up. He fought his shallow breathing. In … out… in … out… in … out… .
He blinked to alertness when Ketcham said, “We’re here.”
Two cars filled the short driveway to Edna Ellett’s big old house, and light shone through the bay window. At least someone was up. It was worse when you had to wake them.
Ketcham eased Fred’s Chevy to the curb and spoke into the radio.
Fred dreaded death notifications. The Elletts would be facing their second death in what—a week? And this one was murder. With energy born of anger, he climbed the limestone steps and touched the bell. Through beveled glass panes beside the door he saw a large figure loom larger.
“Leon,” Ketcham murmured. He straightened his lapels, and then the door opened.
Fred took in the square jaw and bushy brows. Translate Mary Sue into a man, he thought, and you’d have her brother, with a good three inches and fifty pounds on me.
“Hiya, Johnny,” Leon said to Ketcham. He held the door wide. “Come on in. What’s up?”
Johnny, huh? Fred tagged after him into a large front hall.
“Hey, Alice,” Leon boomed back into the recesses of the house. “It’s Johnny Ketcham.” If Leon knew, he was covering well. Beaming welcome, he led them through an arched doorway into a living room full of antiques and Oriental rugs. The place smelled old—floor wax mingled with mildew.
A small-boned woman dwarfed by coils of her own dark hair promptly appeared under a second arch. Even in miniature, Mary Sue’s eyebrows and jaw were unmistakable. Alice’s plain, scrubbed face lit up with what looked like genuine pleasure.
“Johnny!” She came toward them, holding out her hand. “It’s so good to see you again. How’s your mother?”
“Pretty good, Alice, but she doesn’t get out much. I’ll tell her you asked.”
“Maybe I can get over to visit her while I’m home.”
“She’d like that.” He released her hand, took a step backward, and shut his mouth.
Alice and Leon were standing on a plush Chinese floral rug and Fred and Ketcham on a threadbare Bokhara a lot like one Linda Lundquist had spent a bundle on just before she left Fred.
The rugs clashed. The whole room clashed, but it had that lived-in look, with papers overflowing a cherry rolltop, rings marring the marble tables at the end of the sofa, and charred logs in the carved limestone fireplace. The old lady had probably inherited a lot of the stuff herself. Now the next generation was Johnny-on-the-spot to divvy it up again. All but Mary Sue, of course.
“Good of you both to come by,” Leon said. “Mom thought a lot of you, Johnny. What’ll you drink? And your friend? I didn’t get the name.”
Not waiting for it, Alice slid onto a brocade love seat that rocked in a mahogany frame, almost like a garden swing.
“Do sit down,” she said.
Fred stayed on his feet and watched Ketcham straighten the legs that had started lowering him into a high-backed maple rocker. “I’m Lieutenant Fred Lundquist, Oliver Police.”
Alice’s lips tightened, and a clear voice broke in.
“What are you doing here?”
From the hall, a woman was staring at them over the stair railing. Bare toes under a fleecy wraparound. This had to be the cousin.
“It’s all right, Kitty,” Alice called through the archway. “Come meet Johnny Ketcham’s lieutenant. You remember Johnny.”
“I don’t think so,” Kitty said, but she padded into the living room. Alice stood to introduce her.
“This is our cousin, Kitty Graf. She’s been living with Mother.” Ketcham shook hands.
As small and dark as Alice, Kitty didn’t resemble her otherwise. Her chin came to a point, and her brows were thin lines. At first glance, he had put her age at forty, but up close the dark circles under sagging eyes added at least ten years.
Fred reached down to take the small warm hand she offered. Short nails polished a medium shade—she’d probably wear makeup during the day—a strong handshake.
“Fred Lundquist.”
She nodded and turned those eyes on him. Were their shadows caused by grief or nothing more than windy days and spring trees? Southern Indiana supported more than its share of allergists.
“What are you doing here?” she asked again.
This was the part he hated. There wasn’t any good way.
“It’s Mary Sue.” He waited again—sometimes that was enough—but this group didn’t jump in. So he had to say it. “I’m very sorry. A terrible thing has happened, and Mary Sue is dead.”
“Dead!” burst from Leon, and “Mary Sue? Dead?” from Alice.
“Dead,” Kitty said in an empty voice. “Edna’s dead.” She sat down mechanically on the nearest chair. Leon didn’t move.
Alice groped her way back to the love seat. “Mary Sue?” she said again. “I can’t believe it. Are you sure, Johnny? Maybe they mixed up the bodies.” Good old denial.
“No, Alice,” said Ketcham softly. “I’m awful sorry. It’s Mary Sue and no mistake.”
Fred paused again. “We know this must be a shock to you, and we regret having to disturb you with formalities at a time like this. But even though we’re sure, we need to ask a family member to make the formal identification.”
“Don’t worry, little Alice,” said Leon. “I’ll do it.” And then, “My God, Johnny, can’t you even keep the drunks off the road on a weeknight?”
“This was no accident.” Ketcham’s feathers didn’t ruffle easily—one of the things Fred appreciated most about this middle-aged sergeant.
“Not an accident? But Johnny, she wouldn’t kill herself!” Alice’s voice rose. “Not Mary Sue!”
“We don’t think she did.” Ketcham slid his eyes over to Fred and caught his nod. “It looks as if she was murdered.” The word soaked into the rugs.
Alice recovered first.
“Murdered! How? Why? Was it a burglar?”
“We’re not sure yet,” Fred said. “We’re just beginning our investigation.”
“It must have been. Who else would kill Mary Sue?”
“That’s what we’ll be working to find out. I take it no enemies jump to mind.”
“Oh, no!” She shocked easily. He gentled it.
“Maybe someone who resented her.”
“I can’t imagine who.”
Fred searched her face. Either she lacked imagination, or she didn’t know her sister as well as he did. Or she did know—that, and more. Was she fooling herself or trying to fool him? It wasn’t time to push.
“What about that fellow she used to be married to?” Ketcham asked.
“He died a few years after the divorce,” Leon said. “Good riddance.”
“Did she have children?” Fred asked. Johnny Ketcham probably knew.
“No,” Alice said. “She said she didn’t want them, but I think it was that man. When he left her, she was so strong and brave about it. She threw herself into good causes. We’re—we’re all the family she had.” She sniffed a little and poked around in a pocket, but her hands came up as empty as her eyes were dry.
So you’d inherit, Fred thought.
“Do you know if she’d made a will?”
“Not much point,” Leon said. “About all she had was the house. She was living pretty close to the bone.”
Leon had probably tried to touch her for a loan.
“She still work at the college?”
“Yeah, Johnny. And you know how it is. Not much chance for a raise—they can always get people with kids.”
Ketcham bailed Fred out.
“They promise free tuition—here, or to any college in the country, up to Oliver’s tuition. It’s a good deal for big families, but it shoots hell out of the labor market. Pardon me, Alice.”
Fred nodded and sat down in a cherry side chair next to a marble-topped table. Ketcham finally sank into the rocker.
“She’d have her share of Mother’s estate,” Alice said suddenly. “I’m sure Mother left a will.”
“Oh, come on, Alice,” said Leon, resting an elbow on the mantelpiece. “We’ve turned the place upside down, but we haven’t found any will. And we’re not going to—because it doesn’t exist. I asked Mom a dozen times before she died. She couldn’t remember writing any will.”
Kitty nodded sadly. “There was a lot she couldn’t remember.”
“That doesn’t mean she didn’t.” Alice glared at Leon.
“It doesn’t mean she did.” He straightened up and glared back.
Like a couple of kids, Fred thought. He had a sudden image of the two of them, much younger, duking it out in this very room.
“You grow up in this house?”
“No,” said Kitty.
“Yes,” said Leon and Alice simultaneously. That did it; tears came streaming down Alice’s face. She let them fall, only clearing her eyes with a bare finger.
“Oh, Leon,” she wailed. “First Mama, now Mary Sue. We’re the only ones left.”
Leon crossed the room to stand behind her, his big hands covering her shoulders. He stared over her head at Ketcham.
“Johnny, you got to get him! Whatever it takes.”
A good time to take charge. Fred turned his good-cop face toward Leon.
“Thank you, Mr. Ellett. We’ll do our best not to make it any more painful than it has to be.”
Kitty stared at him with those eyes. Alice pulled herself together again.
“When—when did it happen?”
“Right now we’re not even sure of that. Did you see her today?”
“No. She didn’t live with Mother, you know. We’ve been trying to sort things out here, but Mary Sue’s been spending half her life over at the inn.”
As it turned out, all the rest of it, Fred thought.
“And yesterday?” he asked.
“We were all working together over there last night until almost midnight. Even my husband helped—he went to bed early tonight.”
“Working?”
“Hanging Edna’s quilts.” Kitty made it sound like trampling the flag.
“Edna was our mother,” Alice explained. She had herself well in hand now.
“That late?” Fred wondered what the kids had logged, if they’d remembered to log anything. He scribbled “12? log?” in his notebook.
“Oh, sure. Mary Sue’s a real slave driver, and a hellion if you cross her.”
“Leon!”
“Sorry, little Alice. Guess it hasn’t sunk in yet. What happened?”
Fred ducked it for the moment. “She was found tonight during the orchestra’s dress rehearsal. We’ll know more when we get the coroner’s report.”
“The orchestra?” Alice sounded blank. “Why on earth … ?”
“They were over at the inn tonight—they’re going to play for the opening on Sunday.” Maybe. If there even is an opening. “You were working there together last night. I suppose you all left together.” He didn’t mean it as a question.
“No,” said Kitty.
“Yes,” said Alice.
They looked at each other.
“Don’t say another word,” Leon told them. “Not until I call a lawyer.”
“Go ahead, if you think you should,” said Ketcham. “We’ll even get one for you if you’re hard up. You don’t have to talk to us at all, you can always stop talking, and anything you tell us can be used in court. Do what you think you should. But Leon, you said it yourself. We’ve got to get him. There’s a killer out there.”
Or in here, Fred thought.
Boy’s Nonsense
Joan walked into a blessedly quiet house. Propped up against the toaster was a note from Andrew: “Out with R—don’t wait up.”
You bet. I’m not going to justify myself to anyone at this hour.
Relieved, she climbed the stairs, peeled off her clothes, fastened her hair up out of the way, and stepped into the hottest shower she could stand, letting it pound her shoulders and the fingers that still remembered that cold foot. With a rough towel she rubbed the old skin off her own warm feet and ankles, ignoring the beginnings of stubble on her shins and calves. A clean, sun-dried nightgown—the first of the season—smelled sweet going over her head.
I’ll never
fall asleep, she thought drowsily. She crawled into bed and opened Van Loon’s Lives, an old standby in times of stress.
After a while, familiar voices registered somewhere in her brain, but sleep had already glued her eyes shut. She didn’t feel the book slip from her fingers or hear it hit the floor.
* * *
Her reading light was still burning—faintly now in the morning sun that flooded the room. Joan lay in bed, more than usually tempted to pull the covers over her head and shut out the world. But the smell of coffee brewed by someone else was irresistible. Reaching over her head, she turned off the light. Then she rolled over and rescued Van Loon.
Down in the kitchen, they were devouring the headlines with breakfast. They didn’t look up when she came in.
“I’m telling you, Rebecca, you can’t trust her for a minute.” Andrew kept a straight face.
“You don’t think she did it herself!”
“Mom?” He caught a toaster waffle on the fly. “After last fall, I wouldn’t put it past her—oh, hi, Mom.” It was an exaggerated double take.
“Morning, you two.” She poured herself a bowl of granola, a glass of skim milk, and a cup of black coffee.
“Good rehearsal last night?” Andrew asked innocently.
Rebecca dropped the nonsense. “What really happened?”
“What does the paper say?” Joan sat down beside Andrew and sipped the coffee.
“Not much, actually,” said Andrew. “Serves ’em right for going morning. They didn’t have time to get it all in.”
“They say you found a dead woman at the Sagamore Inn—and the police think she was murdered. Nothing about why they think so. Your Captain Altschuler’s not what I’d call talkative.”
“Who?”
“Isn’t that your cop?”
“Rebecca, he’s not my cop. And his name isn’t Altschuler.” Joan reached for the paper. “Good Lord.”
She hadn’t seen the camera, but there she was on page one, staring straight into it. Beside her, Fred was hefting the box of orchestra music folders into her trunk. She supposed it could have been worse—a moment earlier he’d had an arm around her. As it was, the caption writer hadn’t identified his bent back. She got full billing—both as the manager of the Oliver Civic Symphony and as the woman who had found the body of Mary Sue Ellett. No mention of Eddie. Or of last year’s orchestra murders.