by P. N. Elrod
“And what does that make you, dear Abigail?”
This brought about a furious response from Abigail. No one noticed as Clarice and I passed on to the parlor.
“They really shouldn’t bait Abby so,” she commented. “It’s just too easy.”
A corpse puts a damper on any party. As crowded as it was, no one was in the parlor when we entered. Clarice’s fingers tightened very slightly on my arm as she reacted to the presence of death, and then let go.
Emily looked like Banks, dead. She wore some kind of white gown and held a white rose to her breast. They’d done a good job on her makeup; if she’d sustained any facial injuries or scrapes, they were well hidden. I looked long and hard, because her face did appear younger than I remembered, but she was lying down, and that would make a difference in the lay of the skin against the bones beneath.
The fine lines were still there under the powder, though. The mortician’s artistry was simply undisturbed by movement or expression and gave only the illusion of youth. I touched her hand and said her name, but nothing happened.
She was cool, not cold; she’d been dead only a few hours. Her hand was still flexible. Rigor hadn’t yet set in, but that wasn’t unusual. It could occur anytime within ten hours of death starting in the jaw and neck, but I had absolutely no desire to test those areas.
“You liked her, didn’t you?” asked Clarice.
I’d forgotten she’d been standing behind me and withdrew my hand from the casket. “I barely knew her, but I guess I did.”
“A lot of us can say the same thing. Maybe if we hadn’t been so blue nosed about that man she had . . .” She shrugged self-consciously.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know, maybe she wouldn’t have been so alone in other ways.”
“Did anyone in the family really dislike her?”
She was mildly surprised. “Not that I know of. There’s jealousy, of course, but only because of the money. I think if she’d had a lot less of it, no one would have taken any notice of her at all.”
“What about Laura?”
“What about her?”
“What’s she like?”
She shook her head. “I saw her once as a kid at her parents’ funeral. I really don’t remember her. You sure you’re not a reporter?”
Not anymore. “I’m sure. Thanks for taking me around.”
“Leaving so soon?”
“I gotta look for a friend.”
She smiled once more, her slight disbelief lending an interesting curl to the corner of her mouth. “Watch out for Abigail, cousin.”
I craned a neck through the press outside for Escott or Barrett, and listened to bits of conversation as I made a way to the stairs again.
“. . . call it a holiday? I tell you she had a complete breakdown and never got over it.” “. . . wonder how much money she wasted on these trashy paintings?” “. . . the two of them carrying on with the girl right here in the same house.” “. . . years younger than her, the poor thing, and it’s not as though she didn’t have a chance to find someone her own age.” “. . . vicious old hag. Getting burned alive was only what she deserved. That’s what they used to do with witches, you know.”
A lowering of the general hubbub spread out from the center of the hall and heads swiveled toward a young woman descending the stairs. I didn’t know her at first, but then the last time I’d seen her she’d been naked. Now she wore a severe black dress, and her lush blond hair was parted in the middle and drawn back into a demure bun at the base of her neck. She wore no makeup; her tanned face was drained and her eyes red.
“Laura, you poor dear!” exclaimed Abigail, and the thin woman rushed up to be the first to take her hand. Laura looked at her blankly, forcing her would-be and now-embarrassed comforter to introduce herself. “But of course you must be exhausted,” she concluded, to excuse the lapse of memory.
Mrs. Mayfair appeared and without seeming to, managed to disengage Abigail, and led the girl down to the main hall. As soon as there was space, whether by accident or design, several people closed ranks behind her, cutting Abigail off from further contact.
Laura didn’t notice and was busy collecting comforting hugs and murmurs of sympathy from her more recognizable relatives. Once the “hello dears” and “we’re sorrys” were out of the way, one of them voiced it for all.
“What are you going to do now, Laura?”
Laura shook her head and shrugged. “I have a lot to think about, but Mr. Handley is taking care of all the legal matters for now.”
“We hate to bring this up so soon, but one has to be practical about such things. What arrangements did Emily make?”
“I-I don’t understand,” the girl faltered, looking very young and vulnerable.
“Cousin Robert is talking about Emily’s will, dear.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought about it. Mr. Handley—”
“Is a stranger. We’re your family. You need someone you can trust. . . .”
They weren’t making it easy on her. Mrs. Mayfair stepped into the breach. “Miss Laura is still very much shocked by the accident. She really should be upstairs resting.”
Laura drew herself straight, remembering why she’d come down. “II just wanted to thank you all for coming. It is a great comfort, but I don’t feel well tonight. Mr. Handley is here and he will answer your questions on . . . on things.”
It had the sound of a memorized speech and generated some muted tones of disgruntlement. The girl was no fool and did indeed know where to place her trust. At this official statement, Handley came downstairs; a stocky man in a vested suit with a stubborn mouth and Teutonic jaw. He had the fixed smile of a hard professional and slicked his pale blond hair back with Vaseline.
“Lawyers,” hissed a woman, and made it sound like a curse.
“I know, darling,” agreed another woman. “You can guess who’s getting the lion’s share out of this.”
“Then there’s no need for you to stay, is there?”
Handley said, “There are many arrangements to be made yet. Nothing can possibly be settled tonight, or at least until the poor lady has been laid to rest.”
“He means we have to stick around till after the funeral to find out anything,” a woman confided to her husband. She wrinkled her upper lip as though smelling a bad odor.
“When’s that? Tonight?”
“Shh, Robert.”
“This whole business is fishy—dead this afternoon and in her box by evening.”
“Did you expect them to just leave her on the floor?”
“Miss Laura sincerely thanks all of you for coming and respectfully requests that you all return home until the funeral.”
Objections rippled through the crowd. It was perfectly obvious to some that Laura’s respectful request certainly did not apply to them. My sympathy went out to the hired help, who would have their hands full trying to evict them all.
Laura started upstairs for some peace, but Abigail had bided her time and darted in fast.
“My dear child, you really shouldn’t be alone in this big house and you know that I—”
“Excuse me,” I broke in, loud enough to distract even Abigail. “Miss Laura?”
“Yes?” Laura had a very kissable mouth and light blue eyes. Her pupils were dilated; Dr. Evans may have given her something to bolster her up for the mob.
“My name’s Jack Flynn, I’m—”
“He’s not family,” Abigail put in suddenly. “He said so and he told Clarice he was a friend of that—of poor Emily’s secretary.”
The information woke Laura out of her daze, or seemed to. Much of it might have been assumed as a protection against the emotional clawing and tugging from all the people around her. She studied me with guarded interest and not the least sign of recognition, but then whoever had slugged me on the road had done it from behind. “You’re a friend of Mr. Barrett’s?”
“A business acquaintance,” I clarified. “I came to offer my condole
nces and see him, if I may.”
“What business?” Her tone was dull, but now I was certain it was faked because of her question. She was interested and not content to fob this off onto her lawyer.
“Nothing to bother you about, you’re quite busy enough.” I was acutely conscious of all the curious eyes and cocked ears around us. “Is he around?”
Her answer was slow, as if she interrupted her inner flow of thought to remember my question. “No. Actually, I haven’t seen him all day. Sometimes his duties require him to leave on short notice.”
The hackles went up on my neck at her easy tone. “When did he leave?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Does he even know about the accident?”
She blinked a few times, as though confused. “Why, of course he does.”
“Has anyone tried to find him?”
Her blank, frozen look was back. “Mr. Handley has. Perhaps you should talk to him. Would you please excuse me?”
Mrs. Mayfair got between us and took the girl upstairs.
Handley came forward, his smile still fixed in place, but not at all neutral. “What business do you have with Mr. Barrett?” he asked.
Again I was conscious of the audience all around us. “It’s personal. Any idea where he is?”
“None at all, I’m afraid. It’s very inconvenient for him to go off like this just when he’s needed the most.”
“And even Laura has no idea where he’s gone?”
“None. He left no message, but Miss Laura has told me that it’s not unusual for him to do so.”
“I need to find him. Would the servants know?”
“You may ask them. Excuse me.”
A dozen steps up, I caught him again. We were still very much in full view, but no one was in immediate earshot. “Don’t you think it’s odd, him being away like this?”
“A little.”
“A little? The woman’s private secretary takes off the same day she makes a permanent dive down the stairs, I think it’s pretty damned odd.”
“Are you suggesting some sort of connection?”
“Possibly. Did you know that they were lovers?”
He was quite property shocked. “Mr. Flynn, I find your question to be extremely tasteless. To defame the character of my late client—”
“It can’t be defamation if it’s the truth. I want to talk to you about this.”
His hard face got harder and the fixed smile twisted to express his distaste. “This way,” he said in an acid tone, and continued up. I followed him to Barrett’s office.
The rolltop desk was open now and littered with papers and ledger books. The French windows were also open to let in a faint breeze. Mindful of the veranda’s connection to Laura’s room farther down, I went out for a quick look. I was on edge not knowing where the hell Barrett had lost himself, and this was just routine paranoia—I really didn’t expect to see the figure hiding in the deep shadows cast by the roof overhang.
10
HE was a perfect statue, standing exactly in line with a tall, potted plant. His subdued clothing blended with the darkness and made him as invisible to human eyes as anyone can get and still be solid.
The sight gave me a bad start and I had to choke back the surprise; then I wanted to belt him one for the scare. Escott read it all off my face easily enough and shrugged as though to say it wasn’t his fault that I was so jumpy. He was there to hide from the lawyer, not to frighten poor nerved-up vampires.
“What is it?” demanded Handley, annoyed at the delay.
“Nothing, just checking the weather. We’ve been having an awful lot of it lately.” I left the veranda to Escott and went inside to take a seat on the sofa. In order to face me, Handley had to turn his back on the open windows. He commandeered the banker’s chair as I’d hoped he would.
“Now, what is this about?” From his attitude he must have thought I was warming up to try a little blackmail against the memory of his late client.
“Barrett and Emily Francher,” I said.
“So I’ve assumed, since you suggested they had an intimate relationship.”
“I stated they were lovers.”
“Gossip is common, Mr. Flynn, very common.”
“I know it for a fact.”
“And have you evidence?”
“We’re not in court, Mr. Handley, so just for laughs, let’s pretend it’s true. Can you think of any kind of errand that would keep Barrett away from here at this time?”
“He simply might not have heard the news yet.”
“Laura just said that he had.”
“Granted, but I can hardly supply you with the specific reason you seem to be looking for. Anything to do with the relationship of two people is bound to be complex, especially when such a disparate age difference is involved.”
“More than you think,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. Even with this talk of complexities, you think he’d run out at a time like this?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
“I’ll put emotions aside, then. Let’s say that his only attachment was to her money. There’s a lot of it floating around here. I assume Miss Emily left a will?”
“You may assume correctly.”
“Don’t you think Barrett would want to stick around to hear it?”
“You presume that he is gone for good, young man. We don’t know if he has. You also imply that Mr. Barrett is some type of fortune hunter, but I can tell you that Miss Emily was no fool in that regard.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. Miss Emily was well aware of the kind of men who might prefer her money over herself, and allowed for it.”
“I want to know what you mean.”
“That is my business and none of yours, sir. Why are you so concerned?”
“Because I think it’s damned funny that she should get herself killed at this time.”
“What is so particularly special about this time?”
Watch it, I told myself.
“Are you suggesting there was something irregular about her death?”
“Convince me it wasn’t. Convince me that someone didn’t push her down the stairs.”
He knew I was being utterly ridiculous. “Do you fully realize the serious nature of such a suggestion?”
“No one better. For instance, why did the doctor call in the police?”
“Miss Emily was a person of substantial standing in this community—”
“Bosh, she hardly left the house.”
“She was certainly an important taxpayer, then. Dr. Evans called in Chief Curtis because he is a very careful, conscientious man. The nature of the accident was such that he wanted an informed professional to look at the scene in order to specifically allay the very rumors which you seem bound to spread.”
“So he smelled something fishy, too?”
“That is not what I—”
“What’d the doctor have to say? And Chief Curtis?”
“You may ask them yourself, but I warn you now that if you are looking for some sort of cheap sensationalism in this tragic occurrence you are certain to be disappointed.”
“Are you protecting Laura?”
“What do you mean by that?”
I was getting nowhere fast and lost my patience along with my scruples. “Handley, listen to me. Listen very carefully.”
It was harder with some than others. He was on guard and didn’t want to hear what I had to say, so I stepped up the pressure.
“This is very important. You must listen to everything I say. . . .”
He blinked once, twice.
“Listen to my voice. . . .”
His eyes softened, the stubborn expression gradually went slack, and his world closed and centered on my words and will. I told him to shut his eyes because I hate that dull look, like what the animals get when I’m feeding.
Escott was peering around the edge of one window. I
motioned him in, cautioning him to silence. He nodded and came close enough to watch.
I kept my voice even and conversational. “Handley, do you know where Barrett is?”
“No.”
“What did Emily leave him in her will?”
“Nothing.”
That surprised us. Escott impatiently gestured for me to continue. “Nothing at all?”
“No.”
“What about for Laura?”
“Yes.”
Playing twenty questions would take us all night at this rate. “Have you a copy of Emily’s will with you?”
“Yes.”
That was a relief. “Where is it?”
“My briefcase.”
Escott spotted the black leather case and made short work of finding, drawing out, and unfolding the document in question. I left him to read it and kept Handley busy.
“What did the doctor say about Emily? How did she die?”
“She fractured her skull in a fall.”
“Why’d he call the cops?”
“The man likes to dramatize, thinks he sees more than what’s really there.” Handley apparently didn’t like Dr. Evans, either. I wondered if he liked anyone at all.
“Did they find anything odd or suspicious?”
“No.”
“What time did it happen?”
“About two o’clock today.”
“Where was Laura Francher at two o’clock?”
“Outside. Horseback riding.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Anyone witness this?”
“Haskell, the groom.”
“Where were the other servants?”
The maid and cook were in the kitchen, repairing linens and baking bread respectively. Mrs. Mayfair was there as well, working with the cook on the week’s new menu. The gardener was on the other side of the estate picking up storm debris. At 2:10 the maid finished her sewing and left the kitchen to take the linens upstairs. Instead of using the servants’ passage, she went through the front hall to see if Mayfair had restocked the wood for the parlor fireplace. She found Emily at the foot of the stairs and raised the alarm. At some point in the proceedings, Mrs. Mayfair sent someone after Barrett. His door was locked and no one could find the key. They assumed he was out.