Chadwick sneered in polite contempt without moving from his lounging position, but Thomas the butler stepped forward with a look of alarm. Uncle Kev gripped Thomas’s hand and shook it too. “Thanks for everything, buddy. Really great lunch.” Kev gave him a playful jab in the bicep to top it off.
It was painful to watch, but I couldn’t look away.
I said, “Beautiful meal, lovely home, thank you so much. It was a pleasure doing business with you.” Even as I spoke I realized that in the world of the Kauffmans, I had probably sinned as much as Kev. In Ngaio Marsh’s culture and probably the Kauffmans, “one” didn’t ever comment about the possessions of others. Mentioning business after a meal was probably a gaffe of some magnitude.
I hurried after the others, glad I got to experience Summerlea and almost as glad to get away from Chadwick et al. I suppose I imagined Chadwick’s reptilian gaze on my back. It gave me a chill.
We exited the grand front entrance, Kev making sure Vera didn’t build up too much speed on the wheelchair ramp and me racing to catch up.
I gave one last glance at the silver Aston Martin and the red Mercedes convertible before we left.
From the window of the Caddy, Vera said, “We did well out of that. Can’t wait to get home.” Kev smirked at me through the rearview mirror, making me wonder how much he had liberated from the pile of cash. He gunned the Caddy and rocketed away. I turned back to see Thomas, the butler, staring at us from the front door. I hopped into the Saab and raced to catch up with them. Kev, as usual, cut it a bit fine as he passed a dusty white-and-blue delivery truck moving into the long driveway. I’m sure the driver saw his life pass before his eyes. As Kev made a sharp right turn at the stone pillars at the entrance to the property, a familiar trio of older ladies leapt back to avoid being splattered.
I waved apologetically to them as I drove past. It seemed to be too little too late.
One of them actually shook her fist while the others pointed at us. Surely not a middle finger? But soon we were all out of sight along the winding county road. I leaned back and exhaled.
We were headed home to normal life. I could relax.
I had some delicious memories of a lovely luncheon with some less-than-lovely people in a truly beautiful house. I’d added a great dress to my wardrobe. It was enough.
Even Vera would have to admit it had been a good day.
We had the Marsh collection; nothing had been broken at or stolen from Summerlea; and no one had been killed.
CHAPTER FOUR
I WAS BARELY out of bed the next morning when Lance called. I glanced at the clock. Seven fifteen, early for Lance to be on the phone and for me too.
“So what’s up?” I said, making sure there was plenty of yawn in my voice.
“Did you hear the news?” Lance likes to drag it out a bit.
“In our lifetime, Lance.” Oh God, Vera was rubbing off on me.
“I thought you’d be interested since that’s where you spent yesterday.”
“I am very interested, but also hoping that I won’t spend my morning waiting for you to tell me what it is I’m interested in.”
“Chadwick Kauffman. I set a Google Alert for his name and got a lot of responses today.”
“What about him? Did the Lizard King saunter into the reference department, which is nearly three hours away from opening, by the way.”
“Better for him if he had.”
“Come on, Lance.”
“He’s dead.”
“What?”
“Dead.”
“Chadwick?”
“None other.”
“But he can’t be.”
“Oh, but he can.”
“We saw him yesterday. He was alive and kicking and kind of a pain in the— I didn’t like him much but he can’t be dead.”
“He died from a fall in his summer home.”
A memory of Chadwick’s cold-blooded smile flashed through my brain. My voice quivered a bit. I never really get used to being close to people who end up dead.
Lance said, “The housekeeper discovered his body at the foot of the staircase, apparently, at—”
“Summerlea,” I breathed.
“Yup.”
“Was he alone?” I thought for a minute of Miss Troy and her slightly shaky hands. Had she had a premonition? It seemed like she was fretting about something. Maybe he hadn’t been well. “Was there a woman with him?”
Poor Miss Troy, so worried and sweet. So welcoming.
“He must have been alone. The report said that the housekeeper found him when she arrived to take care of her evening duties yesterday. They said the security system wasn’t on.”
I sat back on my bed and tried to get my head around this. I had taken an almost instant dislike to Chadwick Kauffman, but I didn’t wish that kind of an end on him. I wondered how he could have fallen on those familiar stairs. For some reason I thought of the leather case.
Lance interrupted my thoughts. “What were the chances that he’d die right after you met him?”
I shivered. “I can’t imagine Chadwick Kauffman racing on the stairs or even tripping. He was so . . . deliberate. He would find rushing gauche and beneath him. You know the type? Cold and controlled.”
“I guess you weren’t in love with him.”
“I wouldn’t have asked him to homecoming, but that’s a horrible way to go. I wonder if he had time to realize what was happening.” I shuddered. What if he hadn’t died instantly?
“Sorry to start your day this way, but I thought you’d like to know.”
“Yes. Mmm. The housekeeper found him. So I wonder where the butler was.”
“Ha-ha. Maybe he did it.”
“There are thousands of comedians out of work, Lance. Better keep your day job. Well, I guess I should get dressed and go tell Vera.”
* * *
WHEN I FOUND Vera at breakfast in the conservatory, she merely nodded at the news and went back to her New York Times crossword. Chadwick Kauffman—dead or alive—was of no interest to her now that she had her collection of Marsh mysteries. She expressed no worries for Miss Troy or anyone else.
“Take that as a lesson, Miss Bingham. As you age, you must take extra precautions. You cannot go running up and down staircases like a wild animal. The books are quite pristine. We will have to move a few items on the shelves in the library to give them the appropriate space.”
Well, there you go. Priorities.
Signora Panetone shot out of the kitchen with a tower of fluffy blueberry pancakes for us. Maple syrup scented the air.
Uncle Kev is always first to the table for any meal. Without taking his eye off the approaching pancakes, he said, “Not to be a jerk, Jordie, but that guy was kind of a cold fish.”
I gave him the stink-eye, for all the good it did.
“I guess all that money’s sitting there now. Yeah, thanks, Signora, I’ll have four pancakes, please.”
Maybe the pancakes would take my mind off it too.
“Did the butler do it?” Kev said. Or I think that’s what he said. His mouth was full.
“I guess his housekeeper found him. Lance said it’s on the Internet. He had set an alert for the name and—”
Vera glanced up. “No jabbering about the Internet here at breakfast, Miss Bingham. You know the rules.”
“But Chadwick Kauffman is dead, Vera.”
“Horrible little man. Nothing to do with us,” Vera said. “Stop loading up with those things, Fiammetta. One pancake is more than enough for me.”
Chadwick might have been dead, but things were back to normal at Van Alst House.
* * *
NORMAL DIDN’T LAST all that long. For one thing, Uncle Lucky and his fairly new wife, my friend Karen Smith, arrived without warning and with Walter the Pug. Apparently, they had pressing bus
iness elsewhere and no pet accommodation. Would I take him? That was fine. Walter is actually quite a soothing little guy. It’s hard to remain glum in his presence. I patted his thick velvety fur and he scampered around, turning in circles and attempting to wag his curly nub of a tail.
The truth is, although he’s Karen’s beloved pooch, he was with me a lot and I would have been very happy to offer him a forever home.
I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
With the definite exception of Good Cat and Bad Cat, Walter is popular and welcome at Van Alst House. I’m sure I’ve seen Vera almost smile at the sight of him. The signora was always cooking up endless dishes of chicken livers for him. The fondness was reciprocated.
After breakfast, I headed back to my heavenly little attic rooms to do some research. Walter hotfooted it up the stairs ahead of me and with a snort made himself at home in the middle of the flower-sprigged quilt. A Siamese stalked off in a huff, promising revenge, but leaving a warm spot on the quilt for Walter to press his wrinkled mug into and inhale noisily.
Another Siamese raised a paw from under the bed and barely missed Walter’s muzzle. He scrambled for safety on higher ground and settled on my pillow.
I got my legs out of reach and did a bit of searching, setting up a few new Google Alerts of my own. In a moment of weakness I actually browsed through the images, even though I knew that was morbid.
None of the images that showed up were of Chadwick though. He seemed quite reclusive compared to his famous uncle. It was an hour or so later when one of the pings produced a link to a television story. There wasn’t much new, except that Chadwick’s employees seemed really choked up by the news when interviewers kept sticking mics under their noses. I found that hard to believe and felt guilty for thinking it.
Something odd tickled the edge of my mind, and I rewatched the television interviews of the employees from the Country Club and Spa.
As I played the clip of a reporter hounding Chadwick’s assistant and spokesperson identified as Lisa, I did a double take. I hadn’t caught Lisa’s last name, but this person, a red-eyed, red-nosed, choked-up woman, was definitely not Miss Troy. But I guess if you have bags of money, you might need a fleet of assistants and more than one Lisa.
I searched online for Lisa Troy and found a number of accomplished women but not the skittish creature who had helped host us. But what did that matter? Lisa was a popular name. Lots of people don’t have much of an Internet presence. For instance, my relatives were very careful to avoid it, and the rest of us should be grateful for that.
Back to Chadwick. But there was something strange there too. When I searched for images of the dead heir, Chadwick’s heavy-lidded image never came up. Not even once. I could understand how Lisa and my uncles could avoid the spotlight, but the heir of the famous Magnus Kauffman and the man behind the success of the Country Club and Spa should show up somewhere. He didn’t seek media attention, but he had been running a business and he must have been caught on camera somewhere, at something. Another man, reddish-blond and stocky, appeared over and over, smiling shyly and never quite gazing at the camera. Must have been someone else with the same name. There were sure to be other Chadwick Kauffmans out there somewhere. Right now I had bigger issues to worry about.
I was sorry that Chadwick Kauffman died a horrible death, but we were done with the Kauffman family. If they’d had any more mint-condition mysteries up for grabs, that would be different, but there was only the Marsh collection. The books in the Manhattan residence were lost to Vera’s library.
* * *
FROM THE TIME I was a child, police at the door has been a bad thing and beloved uncles would vanish like fog through cleverly disguised staircases or leap out of windows. I believe this attitude has left me with a furtive look when police show up, and that’s something I am trying to deal with.
As the cars rolled down the long driveway to Van Alst House, Vera and I were sitting in the conservatory, about to eat lunch and having a surprisingly heated discussion over whether the Marsh collection might be displayed outside the library for a while to celebrate its arrival and show it off. It wasn’t my collection of fine first editions. It wasn’t my secure and environmentally appropriate library either.
Vera was winning. But mostly she was arguing with herself. I was doing my best not to get on the wrong side of either argument. I’d managed to move my head in a way that could have been a nod “yes” or a nod “no” after each of Vera’s points.
“And what if there was a fire?” Vera growled. “Or moths?”
Speaking of moths, the signora fluttered in with a large plate of panini stuffed with prosciutto and provolone cheese.
“Who’s this coming?” Vera said.
Kev glanced out the window and stood up, a panini in each hand. I passed him a couple of napkins, and he stepped out in the direction of the back door.
“Police?” As I’ve said many times, we’re not much for the police in our family, if you leave out Officer Tyler “Smiley” Dekker. Of course, I was very much in favor of Smiley, even if the rest of the family was less than enthusiastic. But at Van Alst House, Vera still holds to the belief that the police are the good guys, there to help the solid citizens of Harrison Falls. So the arrival of this long black sedan and a cruiser sent my heart racing. There was no reason for it. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I rarely do anything wrong, and if I do, it’s because there’s no other choice and someone’s life is in danger. I’m just saying there are some gray areas.
“What do the police want?” Vera growled.
It takes a while to get used to Vera’s gravelly voice, but I’d had time. “No idea,” I said, calmly. I was proud of myself. All my recent interactions with the police were paying off. My heart might have been thumping, but my voice was steady and so were my hands, and that was what mattered. “I’ll find out.”
The signora put her plate of panini on the table and made the sign of the cross.
I am tasked with answering doors in Van Alst House. Vera rarely condescends to. The signora gets too worked up, and Kev, well, anything could happen. At any rate, as these were clearly police cars, Kev would probably be about ten miles away by the time I meandered to the end of the corridor.
I always make a point not to rush to the door if the cops are on the other side.
They were.
The cruiser was from Harrison Falls Police Department, and Officer Tyler Dekker had been driving it, but the sedan was unmarked.
I must have blinked in surprise.
Two cars.
Uh-oh. Had Kev pinched something? My mind ran over the contents of the rooms we’d been in at Summerlea. No. He wouldn’t do that to me. Or Vera.
Although sometimes Kev can’t help himself.
Before we got to Summerlea, I’d been worried that he might have been unable to resist the temptation to skim a couple of bills from our transaction. He hadn’t been given much opportunity.
So I doubted that was why the police were there. Anyway, I was pretty sure that Chadwick Kauffman intended our purchase to remain discreet, shall we say. The rich may have tons of money, but they can be pretty darn cheap. Cash transactions equal no tax.
It must have been Chadwick’s death. Why else would they come?
I managed a smile as though they were here collecting for some local police charity. Tyler Dekker shuffled his feet and squinted in an imitation of a smile. Where was his toothy grin, with the little gap that I love so much?
My own smile may have dipped a bit when the woman with him produced her badge. “Jordan Bingham?” She was tall with near-ebony skin, close-cropped hair and a smart, edgy look.
“Yes.”
“Lieutenant Drea Castellano. Harrison Falls Police Department.”
I blinked again. So many surprises. So little time. Lieutenant? Whoa.
The man next to her said nothing
, although he waved a badge languidly in my general direction.
She said with a bit of bite to her tone, “And this is Detective Sergeant Stoddard.”
Stoddard gave the slightest suggestion of a shrug, as if anything more would have been too much effort. They must have had quite a ride over together. I knew a bit about Stoddard from Smiley. The part I knew was “lazy” and “conceited.” I figured Stoddard had expected he’d been a shoo-in for that lieutenant’s job until she showed up, but that was mere speculation.
Smiley had failed to mention that the new lieutenant was a knockout.
I tried not to stare at her. “Yes?”
“And I understand you know Officer Dekker. May we come in?”
I hesitated. Old habits die hard. “Of course, but may I ask what it’s about?”
“We’d like to talk to you and . . .”—she glanced down at a paper in her hand—”. . . a Kevin Kelly and a Vera Van Alst.”
A Vera Van Alst? As if there was more than one! It didn’t bode well for our interview.
Smiley stared at his feet.
“I’ll see if they’re at home.” I led them into the grand foyer, doing my best to look dignified and calm. There are no chairs in the foyer, so they’d have to stand and stew while I pretended to see if Vera and Kev were “at home.”
I hotfooted like Walter down the endless corridor and arrived breathless at the conservatory.
“The police want to speak to you,” I said.
She waved a dismissive hand. “Send them away.”
“Um, it doesn’t work that way, Vera.”
“Well, what do they want? This isn’t the time of day for visits.” She glanced at her New York Times puzzle with resentment.
“I don’t know. But we have to see them. They want to talk to you and me and Kevin.”
The Marsh Madness Page 6