MURDER at CRAWFORD HOUSE (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 3)

by Leslie Leigh

  "Plain sight doesn’t work as well as you think it does. Police look for plain sight hiding spots. It's actually the first place they look."

  "Ok, then..." Del thought for a moment. "What about in a favorite keepsake spot? Or what about the garbage?"

  "The garbage would be a good choice because it would just get carted away and that would be the end of it. But we have a sudden blizzard on our hands. So the garbage is out. A favorite keepsake box will do fine until someone starts to suspect something. Again, the blizzard, all of us locked in here together. Not good enough."

  "Then I give up."

  "You do, huh? Well, my dear Watson, the blizzard is the key to everything."

  "Here we go."

  "Here we go what?"

  "You're going to explain your logic to me and be condescending about it."

  "I apologize, Delaney."

  "Apology accepted. Now, the blizzard."

  "The blizzard is the key. The killer can't hide his poison arrow anywhere because of the blizzard...so..."

  Del cocked her head to one side and waited.

  Allie couldn't hold it any longer. "Bury it."

  "Bury it? You just said the snow—"

  "I said nothing about the snow. I said bury it...in the garden."

  Del's eyes widened and a smile appeared on her face. "The garden."

  "The greenhouse, to be exact. In one of the hundred or so flower pots. I bet Brother Al was looking for it."

  "So do you think...?"

  "That he was murdered to prevent him from finding it? Yes. Now, if the killer was someone unfamiliar with the greenhouse, the package would have to be hidden in some place where it could be easily retrieved. Perhaps in a pot closest to the entrance to the greenhouse. If it was someone familiar with the garden, it would have to be hidden in a place that the killer would know how to find again when it comes time."

  "Time for what?"

  "To get rid of the evidence. It can’t live there forever. Sooner or later it will have to be dug up and disposed of."

  "So where is it?"

  "Well, that's the million dollar question, isn’t it? If it is someone familiar with the garden, that person would have to know her flowers well."

  "Her?"

  "Yes. Molly Townsend is the only one who knows that greenhouse backward and forward. I say we just have to look at the pots closest to the entrance. Look for a pot slightly out of place, and look for dirt that looks freshly dug, or spilled and hastily swept away."

  "And if there are no pots near the greenhouse entrance that fit any of those criteria?"

  "Then we know that Molly Townsend is a..." Allie swallowed heavily. "...a significant candidate for a murderer."

  4.

  "I want to have another look at Bertie's body."

  "Ok," said Del. "Allison Griffin, you need to ask yourself a question, and that question is, 'Do I really want to do this?'"

  "Of course I don’t. Believe me, I can’t even believe I'm saying this, but I have to check one more time. We need a convergence of evidence."

  "Smarty-pants, how are you going to get in? The door's locked."

  "I know where the key is. I saw Larry..."

  Del looked at her friend. "You saw Larry what?"

  Allie smiled. "I saw him take it out of the drawer!"

  "You're awfully excited about that."

  "Of course I am, and don’t you want to know why?" she said, poking Del in the shoulder.

  "Ouch! Don’t do that. Yes, I do want to know why. But don’t do that."

  "Sweetheart, my darling! Larry didn’t even know where the linens were. And yet in a moment of supposed panic and stress he went straight to the place where they keep the key to the bathroom. How did he know to do that when he's clueless about every aspect of the functionality of this house?"

  "Maybe he just knows. Maybe he used it rece—" Her face grew into a smile to match Allie's. "Maybe he used it recently."

  "I think we need to work on motive here."

  "He likes Bertie. He invited him here supposedly against Molly's will."

  "Against her will, yes. He invited him here to murder him."

  "Aren't you going off on a dangerous tangent here?"

  "I'll keep it in check. Let's talk motive."

  Both women were silent for a moment. Until Allie remembered the one phrase that she had relied on in the past, the thing that her friend, her crush, her sometimes boyfriend Sgt. Frank Beauchenne had taught her: Follow the money.

  "Delaney, we have to figure out how he could have benefitted from Bertie's death."

  "Jealousy? He said Bertie liked Molly."

  "No. Murders committed in a jealous rage are sudden, quick, and sloppy. This was methodical. Planned out over the course of a couple of weeks at least." A sudden thrill ran up her spine. "And then there's the wine. I can’t believe I forgot about that."

  "What about the wine?"

  "When he told me this story about Bertie confessing to them about his fencing operation, he said Bertie did it while drunk."

  "So?"

  "So Bertie couldn’t drink. He was on beta-blockers. You can’t drink when on beta-blockers. Did you see him with a drink?"

  "No," said Del, a light in her eye.

  "No one did. Jürgen even commented on it, remember?"

  "So the fencing confession story was a lie."

  "Is a lie. A big, fat one."

  "Larry could be covering up for his wife."

  "Then why would he imply that she was guilty? Why put the bug in my head?"

  "Diversion?"

  "Exactly, Watson. And I'll tell you what else, I think he was telling the truth when he said he told Brother Al about Molly. I think he didn’t count on this blizzard and being stuck here with nosey folks like Brother Al and me. I think Brother Al asked one too many questions, causing Larry to act in haste by concocting a story that pinned the murder on his wife. Then, once he realized that it was a mistake in doing so, and saw that Brother Al was searching along the right lines, he killed him too."

  "This is messed up."

  "It is. But we still have yet to find a motive. The fencing operation is the only real money we're dealing with here. Maybe Larry was benefitting from that in some way."

  "How do we find that out? Besides, why would he need Bertie's money? His business is doing well. He just opened an international headquarters in Panama."

  "He did?"

  "Yeah," said Del. "You didn’t get that email?"

  "What email?"

  "The one that said he had to have the thing this week because he was going to fly to Panama to visit the new headquarters?"

  Allie's thoughts raced. "If you don’t mind, I need to go and snoop around Larry's office. Cover for me."

  "Wait, hold on there, tiger. What do you mean cover for you?"

  Allie put a knuckle in her mouth. "I'll need another diversion."

  "Terrific," said Del.

  "However," said Allie, a spark of mischief igniting inside her, "I have an idea for a slightly different spin on it."

  5.

  The sun was beginning to set that evening. It cast an eerie pink glow on the snow outside, causing a surreal ether to arise in Crawford House.

  Later on, Del Collins was able to convey to Allie exactly how it all went down.

  It was 5:30 p.m. when Del entered the drawing room. Rachel and Jürgen were sitting next to each other on the long leather couch, sharing a coffee table book on exotic beaches of the world. They were laughing together, and for a moment all the distress of the weekend was absent. It was a peaceful moment. Larry and Molly sat across from them, tossing out lighthearted comments and in general enjoying this much-needed respite from horror.

  It began like this: Del came in and said, "Now isn’t this cozy?" She was referring to Jürgen and Rachel.

  "It is very cozy," said Jürgen.

  "Hold on, Jürgen," said Rachel. "What are you saying, Delaney?"

  Jürgen put a hand on her arm. "She m
eant nothing by it."

  "No, she did mean something by it, didn’t you, Del?"

  "Ladies, please," said Larry, "can't we just be civil to one another?"

  "Apparently not," said Rachel, "when we have this amateur diva in our midst."

  "Uh, excuse me?" said Del.

  "You heard me."

  "Listen honey, all I said was, 'Isn’t this cozy?' You inferred I was being a diva from that? Meanwhile, you fly off the handle over nothing. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you— The Diva."

  "Really, ladies," said Molly Townsend.

  Del put a hand on her hip. "Oh, now you're starting in? I think we've heard enough from you, sweetheart, to last us ten of these weekends."

  Molly stood up and approached Del, getting right in the girl's face. "Excuse me, missy, how you got off your leash is anyone's guess. But this is my house and you'll hold your tongue and comport yourself."

  With that, Molly turned and sat down again.

  Del stared with mouth agape. "Oh my God."

  Molly smirked. "Oh, speechless, ay? The planets must be aligned."

  "Alright—" Larry started to say.

  "Had enough of my voice," Molly said with acid in her tone. "Really? It's a wonder you can look yourself in the mirror after saying something like that. I think we're all equally sick of your voice."

  "Please, please," Jürgen said to Molly. Then he turned to Del. "She didn’t mean it. I don’t think you talk too much."

  Rachel shot Jürgen a look. "Stop defending her, you little Dutch worm."

  "Hold on here, lady. I'm a worm?"

  "Yes, you are. You've been creeping me out the entire weekend. You've been creeping everybody out, including the ghosts in the attic. I don’t know, Jürgen, maybe, oh, let's see, have you ever even once considered perhaps reining in the flirting for, like, five minutes?"

  Jürgen shoved the book over onto Rachel's lap and stood up. "Well, I don’t have to take any of this," he said with a wave of his hand.

  "Great," said Molly. "Don’t take it, then."

  "Shut up, you!" screamed Jürgen at the top of his trumpet voice. "I have had it up to here with this weekend!"

  Molly stood up and tossed both her arms in the air. "And here we go listening to that air horn you call a mouth. You’re another one, Jürgen. My ears have been assaulted by you ever since you stepped foot into my home."

  "You, Molly Townsend, are a complete and total..."

  He went there. He said the word. He could have said witch, but that wouldn’t have made the impact he wanted to make, which was Molly lunging at him with her nails out, headed straight for the Dutchman's eyes.

  "I'll send you back to Holland in a box!" she screamed with spine-chilling coldness.

  Rachel and Del rushed to either side of the hysterical woman, restraining her.

  "Good," said Jürgen. "Good, good, she's a crazy woman. She should be in a home."

  "Get your hands off me," shrieked Molly. "I'll kill him!"

  "Like you killed Bertie? Hmm?"

  The room went as silent as the snow.

  And then the sound came from Molly.

  It was a sound like something out of a horror movie, only it cut through the eardrums and went straight to the soul from there. It was a terrifying yowl, a red-faced, curse-laden torrent that would have frozen the tropics had it been sounded there.

  "That's right," said Jürgen. "You heard me! You all heard me! Everybody thinks so and now I think so and I say it! You killed him."

  Larry stood up now. "Jürgen, please sit down. You don’t mean this. We're all stressed and tired and, yes, a little scared. So now I think it would be best if we all could just—"

  Jürgen got right in Larry's face, looking in the manner that a person can look that makes spectators thankful he doesn’t have access to a chainsaw. "You shut up too, Larry! I have had enough and I don’t want to hear anymore from you!"

  "Listen," said Larry, panting. "We're all getting crazy. Molly, you sit down. Have a drink. You too, Jürgen. We're all tired and scared and every one of us has had it. But there's no sense in blaming anyone for it! None of us had any control over these circumstances!"

  "Oh, I wouldn’t say that," said Allie Griffin.

  The entire group stopped and turned toward her. She stood at the arched entrance to the drawing room, a stack of three books in her arms.

  "At around 7:30, Friday night," she said, "Bertie Sommersville walked down the upstairs hallway to freshen up. He went via the route that took him past Jürgen's room. He didn’t use the bathroom per se, but instead he combed his hair, brushed his teeth, so on. He then returned to his room the other way around, taking him past Rachel's room and mine and Del's. He had been in the bathroom only for a couple of minutes, as long as it took for a quick cleanup. Now, our salad dressing that evening—prepared by the fabulous and oh-so-mild-mannered Monsieur Michaud— was so heavily laced with garlic as to keep a thousand vampires away, that a mere brushing of the teeth, even for the thorough and obsessively clean Bertie Sommersville, was just not enough. So, Bertie took a breath strip. You know the kind. Very convenient. A little gelatinized piece of film laced with cinnamon or mint or wintergreen – anyone know what wintergreen actually is? I mean, it's not an herb or a plant or anything. But I digress. In Bertie's case, the breath strip was cinnamon-flavored."

  "Allie," said Larry Gordon, "I'm sorry, but the four of us were having—"

  "I know, I heard. A row. A petty boiling over of the froth of this fabulous weekend getaway. Yes, I'm sure you’d like to get back to it. But I want you to hear me out. Where was I?"

  "Bertie's breath strip was cinnamon-flavored," said Del.

  "Yes, thank you, my beautiful friend. So Bertie took a cinnamon breath strip and a couple of minutes later he was off to the bathroom again, this time to grab an aspirin. Why? Because he'd begun having heart palpitations. Severe heart palpitations. Plus trouble breathing. Now, here's the funny part. Bertie wasn't having a heart attack. He was having a reaction to a lethal dose of poison. Not just any kind of poison. The poison he was reacting to was a tincture of the flower known as oleander. Don’t look for it in the Gordon greenhouse, because you won’t find into, not that it isn’t there. It's there, but it's mislabeled ingeniously. Here."

  She placed her books down on the marble-topped couch stand and picked one up from the pile. It was a reference book on flowers.

  "Where are we? Ah, here we go. Oleander. Look at these petals."

  She held the book up for everyone to see the full-color photo.

  "See that? The flowers grow in clusters. Each flower has five petals. They’re usually this lovely pinkish white color. Gorgeous. And deadly. Now, take a look at another flower known as the winter Daphne." She thumbed through the book and held it up for everyone to see. "These also grow in clusters. Look at the petals on these. Four to a flower. Pinkish white in color. Now, look what I found in the Gordon greenhouse." She reached into the pocket of her blazer and pulled out a single flower. "This I found in a pot labeled, 'winter Daphne'. But take a look at it. Not four petals, but five. This is no winter Daphne. This is oleander, mislabeled on purpose. Oh, and there's something else, and this is the crazy part. I just happened to stick my hand into the soil of one of these pots. Wouldn’t you know it? I found this in the first pot I stuck my hand into. Call it a lucky shot. Look here."

  Out of her blazer pocket she produced a small package of red breath strips, stained with soil.

  "These are cinnamon-flavored. Same as Bertie had. In fact, these are the very ones Bertie had. You can go upstairs in look in the man's luggage. There are no cinnamon breath strips in there, yet we know he had taken one because there was the smell of cinnamon on his mouth at the time of death. Plus, take a look here at the package. I'll be happy to pass it around. The upper right corner of the plastic sticker label has been picked at with a fingernail. It's a minor detail, but a telling one. Bertie's shaving kit is full of marks like this. It's on his travel shaving cream, his aft
ershave, his soap. Many people pick at the labels of things. What's interesting though is that Bertie was left-handed. A right-handed person would have held the item in the left hand and peeled with the right, thus picking away at the left corner. Picking at right corner would feel awkward. You try it. But our Bertie, southpaw that he was, picked at the upper right corner. I believe he was the only left-handed one among us. If there are any other lefties in the audience, please raise the appropriate hand."

  "This isn’t proving anything," said Larry.

  "I agree," said Allie. "Not proving anything on its own. That's why I have these books here. There's a book here from the Travel for the Businessman series. It's about Panama. Would you like to know what I found out?"

  "You got that from my office," said Larry, a sting in his voice.

  "I did."

  "You’re not allowed in there."

  "You never said I wasn't. But your wife said I could."

  Larry looked at his wife. Molly bit her cheek and turned away from her husband.

  "So," Allie continued, "if we turn to page, let's see, 67, we have some interesting facts on Panama's imports and exports. It says here, under computer exports– point eight two percent. That's not very much, is it? Well, I guess there's nothing wrong with opening an international headquarters there. Panamanians need software for their tiny computer exports. Why not open up a local headquarters to bring some work to the country? Also, it does give one ample reason to visit Panama."

  "I'm calling the police," said Larry.

  "On what charge?" said Allie.

  Larry was silent.

  "Shall I continue then? When Molly had given me permission to look in your office, she also gave me permission to open your safe."

  "What?" said Larry, wide-eyed.

  "I said she gave me permiss—"

  "I heard you the first time. This has gone far enough. You're putting me on trial or something? You think I murdered Bertie Sommersville?"

  "Have a drink, Larry," said Molly. "I'd like to hear the rest of this."

  "Thank you, Molly dearest. You're not on trial, Larry. Don’t worry; Molly didn’t know your combination."

  The slightest look of relief came over the man's face, barely noticeable under all the suppressed anger.