Mother Shadow

by Melodie Johnson Howe

  “You’re kidding.”

  “As you know, a sense of humor is the only quality I lack.”

  I removed my hand from the mouthpiece. “Claire Conrad wants me to remind you that she has never wanted your four million bucks and she doesn’t have a sense of humor.” Silence. “Hello?…Hello?” Silence.

  “It’s Sutton, Maggie.” His smooth, easy voice broke the stillness. “We’ll be right there.” He hung up the phone.

  “Sutton and Judith are on their way,” I told Claire.

  Picking up the jewelry box, she said, “Put this back in your purse and bring it with you to the living room. Take it out only when I ask. Hold out your hands.” Grimacing, she opened the box and poured my rosary beads into my hands. She hurriedly snapped the lid shut.

  “I know a woman who restrings beautifully.”

  “Rosaries?”

  “Pearls.”

  Once a WASP, always a WASP.

  She picked up the codicil and I followed her into the living room.

  Erwin looked uncomfortable sitting on the sofa—maybe because Boulton was standing behind him. When Erwin saw me, he blinked nervously and took a swipe at his chin, as if he were brushing off something annoying.

  Claire perched on her throne, and I took the sofa opposite Erwin.

  “Would you like to tell us what Ellen Renicke was doing at your house with a gun in one hand and Ellis Kenilworth’s codicil in the other?” Claire asked.

  “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

  Boulton rested his hands on Erwin’s shoulders near his neck.

  “You have no right to keep me here. I haven’t done anything.”

  “Let’s try another question. Why does Brian Waingrove have a key to your house?”

  He took another swipe at his chin. “I gave it to him so he could get in.”

  “You’re lying,” I said. “Waingrove expected you to be there.”

  Claire extended her legs in front of her. She stared at the tips of her shoes. “Why does Waingrove have a key to your house?”

  “I told you. I gave it to him.”

  She tapped the tip of her foot with her walking stick. “What hospital are your wards from?”

  Erwin moved uneasily on the sofa. “The poor souls don’t have anything to do with this. I swear to God. They’re the one good thing in my life—my good deed, you know?”

  “What is the name of the hospital?”

  He fell silent.

  “It will take me a day to find out by checking public records. I would prefer not to waste my energy and time.”

  “I told you they have nothing—”

  “Boulton!” she commanded.

  He jerked Erwin’s head back, took out his gun, and pushed the barrel into Erwin’s Adam’s apple.

  “Rose…wood,” Erwin gagged.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” Claire said politely.

  “Rosewood State Hospital!”

  “Release him.” She turned to me. “Call Rosewood and tell them we are concerned about the living standards at 1345 Beech Street. We would like to know who owns the home and we would like an investigation.”

  I got up and crossed to the big table, dialed Information, and got the telephone number. I dialed Rosewood. Erwin squirmed around on the sofa and watched me. The stubble on his chin glistened like hot sand.

  “Rosewood Hospital,” a woman’s voice answered.

  “They’re not going to give any information on the phone,” Erwin said.

  “I would like to find out who owns the home at 1345 Beech Street, Pasadena. It houses three of your patients,” I told her.

  “We’re not allowed to give information over the phone. We will accept a query in letter form. Thank you.” She hung up. Wonderful.

  I decided to take a chance. “Yes, Beech Street.” I spelled it out—I thought that was a nice touch. “I’ll hold,” I said to the buzzing sound.

  “Wait a minute,” Erwin said. “I run a good home.”

  “Yes?” I said into the phone. “Thank you for the information. And who do I talk to to make a complaint about this—”

  “Hang up!” Erwin yelled. “Hang the phone up! I’ve never harmed one of those people. I do all the managing. He pays me. He owns a lot of houses. What does it matter to anybody if Waingrove owns the house?”

  “I’m not certain that it does, Mr. Erwin.” Claire walked over and stared down into his face. “I repeat the question. What was Ellen Renicke doing at your house?”

  “Waingrove wanted to meet her. I just loaned him the use of the house, that’s all. It was a favor. I don’t even know who she is.”

  “She’s the secretary of a man named Roger Valcovich. It was her house you drove to the night Valcovich was murdered.”

  “Murdered? I don’t know anything about a murder.”

  “Boulton followed you to her house.”

  “Waingrove never said anything about a murder. He never said…”

  Claire sat down next to him. “What were you supposed to do at her house?”

  “Just talk to her. See if she had the codicil.”

  “Are you sure you weren’t supposed to kill her, as you had killed Valcovich?”

  “No! I didn’t kill anybody! I swear! I was just supposed to see if she’d sell it, that’s all.”

  “Why you?”

  He looked confused by the question. “Why me?”

  “Why did Waingrove pick you to do his errands for him?”

  “I’m not saying anything more.”

  “I’m sure the police would be interested to know what you were doing driving by Ellen Renicke’s house. I’m sure they would want to know where you were at the time of the murder.”

  “Talk to Waingrove. I haven’t done anything. I swear to God.”

  She took out the photograph. “Tell me about this.”

  “No, no. I can’t. I could be killed.”

  “By whom?”

  “Any of ’em could do it.”

  “Miss Hill, show us what else you discovered at the house.”

  I took out the jewelry box and opened it. Erwin’s mouth went slack as he stared at the pink box. I closed the lid.

  The eyes grew suspicious, and he shifted uneasily among the wine-colored pillows.

  “You appear to be worried, Mr. Erwin. Why?” Claire asked. “It’s just a pretty little jewelry box.”

  “It’s Ginna’s—the woman who helps me care for the lost souls. It belongs to her.”

  “Then why did Miss Hill find it hidden in the parka of your female ward?”

  “Poor soul steals. I gotta watch her all the time.”

  “That’s a very good lie, but it’s still a lie.”

  “Yeah. Well, I wanna live.”

  Claire pulled a tasseled cord by the fireplace. “We’ll just have to wait, then.”

  She sat sideways in the chair, draping one long leg over the arm. Erwin said nothing. I watched sweat form on his upper lip. Gerta appeared.

  “Yes, Miss Conrad?”

  “Tea, please. Would you like some tea, Mr. Erwin?”

  This question seemed to confuse him more than the others. “You gotta be kidding,” he finally answered.

  “Claire Conrad has no sense of humor,” I told him.

  “You’d better make it for six, Gerta,” Claire said.

  Gerta went off to the kitchen. Erwin silently moved his lips. He was looking at us and counting up to four.

  “Who you expecting?” he asked, a little too casually.

  “Put the jewelry box away, Miss Hill.”

  We waited in strained silence till the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” I said, heading toward the hall.

  “Be sure to see who it is first,” Claire warned.

  I did. Judith and Sutton peered at the door. Their faces had all the warmth of two death masks.

  “Good to see you, Maggie,” Sutton said as I let them in. Our eyes didn’t flirt.

  They followed me into the
living room. I don’t know what I expected to happen when the Kenilworths saw Erwin, but nothing did, except Sutton said the obvious. “Erwin? We didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Please sit down,” Claire said.

  Brother and sister sat on the sofa. Sutton did it with ease and elegance. Judith checked out the cushion first, as if it were a dirty park bench and she didn’t want to get any pigeon shit on her.

  Sutton smiled disarmingly at Claire. “I would prefer not to discuss anything with Erwin here. This is personal, family business.”

  Ignoring his remarks, Claire looked at me. “Show them the codicil.”

  I took it out of my purse and held it up for them to see. Judith stood and grabbed for it. I moved it quickly out of her reach.

  “Sit down, Judith,” Sutton commanded, sounding just like his mother.

  Gerta came in with a tea tray and placed it on a table next to Claire, then left.

  “Who would like tea? Judith?” Claire asked.

  “Please.”

  “Milk?”

  “No, thank you.” Judith had all her manners back.

  Claire poured the tea as expertly as she had checked out the guns in my room. She handed the cup to Judith.

  “I assume the Renicke woman contacted you,” Claire said, looking at Sutton.

  “Yes.”

  “Tea?” she asked him.

  “Please.”

  “And you arranged a meeting with her?”

  “Actually, Waingrove did.”

  “How much were you going to pay her?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  “A woman with small dreams. Milk?”

  “Please.”

  Erwin suddenly stood up and announced, “I don’t want any fucking tea. I’m leaving. You can’t keep me here.”

  Boulton pushed him back down. He slumped into silence.

  “I really see no need to discuss this in front of Erwin,” Sutton said. “It has nothing to do with him.”

  “One lump or two?” Claire asked him.

  “Two.”

  “Waingrove arranged to have the meeting in Erwin’s house.” She handed Sutton his cup. “By the way, Erwin does not own his house. Brian Waingrove does. Tea, Maggie?”

  “Two lumps.”

  Judith shot up from the sofa. Eyes wide with hurt, she stared at Claire, who was regally pouring my tea. “You’re lying! You’re lying!” she whined.

  Sutton tugged at her hand.

  “Ask Mr. Erwin.” Claire handed me my tea and looked at Boulton. “Tea?”

  “Please,” he said, watching Judith intently.

  “It’s not true. You want us to think it’s Brian. But it’s not.” Tears formed in her strict eyes. She looked at Erwin. “Is it true?”

  “He owns a lot of houses. Mine is just one of them.”

  She sat back down. Her body was rigid as she tried to fight the hurt, the secret betrayal.

  Claire handed Boulton his tea. Sutton sipped his thoughtfully. “So Brian owns Erwin’s house. I don’t see what that has to do with the amendment to my brother’s will. We were willing to pay Renicke, so we will pay you for—”

  Claire held up her hand. “Please. Aren’t you the least bit intrigued by the fact that Waingrove never told you? And that he and Erwin pretended not to know one another the day of Ellis’s funeral? Judith appears to be very disturbed by his deviousness.”

  “He’s not being devious. He loves me. That’s why he didn’t tell me—he couldn’t. He loves me. He does!” she rambled.

  “I think we’d better go,” Sutton said. “Our lawyer will be contacting you.”

  “You might be interested to know that Boulton, holding a teacup in one hand, can draw his gun and kill you without spilling a drop. He’s English, you know.” Claire sat down.

  Sutton peered over the delicate china cup at Boulton. “Gun? We’re not being held here…are we?”

  Claire sipped her tea.

  “You didn’t answer me,” Sutton said to her.

  She studied him for a moment, then leaned back and closed her eyes.

  It was Sutton’s turn to stand. “Let’s go, Judith.”

  Claire was right. Boulton had the gun in his hand and the teacup didn’t even rattle. Sutton’s face flushed. He quickly sat down. “This is ridiculous,” he mumbled.

  “Why don’t I tell you what I think has happened here.” Claire took the photograph from her pocket and tossed it on the coffee table. “I think Jerry accidentally took this picture. Maybe Ellis gave him a camera as a gift.” She turned to Erwin. “Or did you give it to him?” He didn’t answer. “In any event, Erwin had the film developed and saw the picture of Ellis and a major TV star making love. A surprising photograph—but is it material for blackmail? Erwin is unsure. So he shows it to Waingrove.”

  “No…no.” Judith twisted a handkerchief into knots.

  “Waingrove talks to Victoria. Or maybe he gets Patricia drunk and through her finds out that there is reason for blackmail. Incest.”

  Judith took in a sharp breath, and her tight little mouth pressed white.

  “But Victoria said this picture was taken on a beach,” Sutton said carefully.

  “I never lie on wet grass if I can help it. When you found me flat on my back in your garden, I was looking up at the privets. With the garden lights on them, they look like shadowy, abstract clouds against an evening sky—just like the clouds in this photograph.”

  “But why would Victoria lie?”

  “I think she wanted to put some distance between this photograph and your garden. And Jerry. I think you all do. What I can’t figure out is why. Even now, when you discover that Waingrove is your blackmailer, you do nothing. There’s no outrage. There’s no demand for calling the police. Why?”

  “Maybe we don’t believe you,” Sutton said. “I don’t think his owning that house is proof of anything.”

  “Then why did he keep it a secret?”

  “He knew how Mother detested having them in the neighborhood.” Judith thrust her chin toward Erwin in a mean little gesture. Nervous fingers kneaded the handkerchief. “She wouldn’t let me see him if she found out he owned that house. He wanted to protect me…be with me.”

  “He wanted to protect himself. And you know that now, don’t you?”

  “No. I don’t!”

  Claire turned to Sutton. “Why didn’t you tell Victoria and her mother that you destroyed the photograph Ellis left?”

  “As you know, I wasn’t supposed to be there. And I did let my brother kill himself. I didn’t want Mother to know. Of course I had to tell her eventually, but at the time I thought if they knew it would somehow get back to Mother. She would find out.”

  “Through Bobby Alt?”

  His face flushed again, and he fell silent. When he spoke, he sounded like a jealous child. “That was Mother’s idea. I know she did it for me…for us…the family. She didn’t feel she could trust Patricia and Victoria—especially Patricia. Mother was afraid they might do something rash, even more embarrassing to Ellis and the family.”

  Claire turned to me. “Would you show them what you found, please?”

  I took out the pretty pink box and lifted the lid. “Greensleeves” tinkled and the ballerina twirled. Brother and sister watched without a twitch of recognition.

  “Does this have any meaning to you?”

  “No,” they both said.

  “It was found in Erwin’s house. One of his wards had it hidden. Ellis gave a jewelry box just like this to Rebecca.”

  Judith looked quickly at Erwin, then back at her hands. Sutton sat silently.

  “You may all leave,” Claire said.

  “But the codicil…what do you want for it?” Sutton asked.

  She jabbed at the photograph with her walking stick. “I want you to tell me who the woman in this photograph really is.”

  “But…you already know,” Sutton said. “Listen, you asked me what Ellis’s last words were. I couldn’t tell you in front
of Mother, but I’ll tell you now. He wrote: ‘I loved her. I cannot forgive myself.’ The woman in that photograph is Victoria Moor.”

  Claire waved her hand in the air. “Leave.”

  Judith stood with her head down, her handkerchief a tiny white ball in her hand.

  Erwin stood and reached for the jewelry box. Claire slammed her walking stick across his hands. “That remains here.”

  “You stole that from my house. That’s my property. And how am I supposed to get home?”

  “I’m sure the Kenilworths will give you a lift. They seem quite willing to help you. Show them out, Miss Hill.”

  “No! I don’t wanna go with them,” Erwin balked.

  “For God’s sake, man! Come on.” Sutton looked embarrassed.

  I walked brother and sister to the hallway. Erwin reluctantly followed. I opened the door for them. Sutton and Erwin walked up the steps as if they were strangers. Judith turned to me. Her eyes were red and teary, her fists clenched against the world.

  “You’ve caused all this. Why couldn’t you just leave well enough alone?”

  She ran halfway up the stairs, stopped, whirled around, and faced me.

  “Fuck you, Maggie Hill!”

  19

  IT HADN’T BEEN A PARTICULARLY good day for sisterhood.

  I shut the door and went back to the living room. Boulton placed the last of the teacups on the tray and carried it to the kitchen. Claire was still enthroned. I stared out the French doors. The setting sun spread a party-pink glow across the pitted, crumbling, façade of the hotel. It looked like a bloated old lady wearing too much rouge.

  “Loved,” Claire whispered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sutton said that Ellis wrote, ‘I loved her and I cannot forgive myself.’ Not ‘I love her’—‘loved.’ Past tense.”

  “‘Love’ always becomes ‘loved.’”

  “A romantically jaded observation, Miss Hill, but not very helpful.”

  “If Waingrove is the blackmailer, do you think he killed Valcovich?”

  “If what The Smoker says is true, the person who murdered Valcovich had to know about the private entrance to his office. Judith knew about it. She certainly could have told Waingrove about the private entrance. She also could have told Sutton.”

  “He did watch his brother commit suicide. You think he’s capable of murder?”