by Joan Hess
“I don’t think it’s the same Jennifer,” I said, then paused to consider the call. “But I may be mistaken. In any case, I was on the telephone. Did the bell above the door jangle when you came in?”
“You were yelling really loud,” he said apologetically. He replaced the book, stood up, and ambled out the door. This time the jangle was audible.
Caron arrived at noon. Her hair was uncombed and her face devoid of makeup. She wore torn shorts, a T-shirt from years past, and rubber flip-flops. Clearly she was dressed for a particular role, but I couldn’t predict what it would prove to be. Anything was possible.
“I called the high school to make sure I’m signed up for second-semester driver’s ed,” she announced in the sepulchral tone of an elderly tragedienne in a faded crinoline gown, standing in the doorway of a dusty ballroom. “Coach Scoter’s not going to teach it because his wife had surgery or something. They’re trying to find someone else. With my luck, it’ll be some bufflehead who believes in separation of the sexes. Louis and I won’t be allowed in the car at the same time, much less the backseat.”
“Bufflehead?” I repeated carefully and very blankly. “Is this some sort of reference to a bison?”
“A bufflehead is a duck, Mother. It’s found in salt bays and estuaries. The male, known for its squeaky whistle, has a greenish-purple head. The book did not explain why this color combination is referred to as ‘buffle,’ but I was not intrigued enough to ask Agatha Anne.”
“It does have a nice ring to it, dear. Do you happen to know anyone who builds model airplanes or cars that are operated by some sort of remote control device?”
“Why would I know anyone that totally nerdy?” Having deftly dealt with my question, Caron slumped to the floor and leaned against the self-help rack. Her breathing grew raspy, but it would have to halt altogether before I would feel any alarm. “Inez called to say that she talked to Louis’s sister last night, and she said that Louis is going to a swimming party at Rhonda’s house on Saturday night. Everyone’s going to be there, except the total nerds and maybe Allison Wade, who made some catty remark about Rhonda’s Monumental Buttocks. If you ask me, they ought to be a national park.” She slithered further down so she could gaze up piteously at me, and the wheezing became more pronounced as she resumed her earlier role. “The total nerds, Allison—and Inez and me. We’ll be stuck at the lake all weekend, eating bran and listening to twaddle about eaglets. Unless, of course, someone could drive us here after the last tour of the day and take us back to the lake after the party.”
“I’ll ask around for volunteers, but I wouldn’t count on it if I were you.” I opened the directory to the yellow pages and hunted for the heading “Nerds, electronic.”
“Or we could hitchhike,” said a despondent voice.
“And find yourselves grounded in perpetuity. You’ve already blackmailed me once this week. Part of our bargain was that you would accept your responsibilities as an employee of the Dunling Foundation and carry through on them.”
Caron opted to change the subject rather than explore the components of our agreement. “The first tour starts at seven on Saturday morning and the same on Sunday. While everybody else is sleeping until noon because they went to a fabulous party, I’ll be slogging through the swamp.”
“And earning ten dollars an hour,” I reminded her before I was treated to a replay of the scenario. “You’re always referring to Rhonda’s little brother as nerdy. Does he know anything about electronics?”
“He collects gum wrappers and swizzle sticks.” She slunk away to collapse on the sidewalk and die before the horrified pedestrians, or to call a child-abuse agency and turn me in. I resorted to the hum and drum of bookselling for the remainder of the afternoon. I was checking to make sure the back door was locked when Luanne burst into the office.
“Claire! You must come with me!”
“Don’t be a bufflehead,” I countered. “The only thing I must do is close the store and go home. I may decide to pick up Chinese food later, but that does not fall in the category of essential.”
“I went by Dick’s house. As soon as I opened the front door, I heard another door close somewhere in the house. Fools may rush in, but I sure as hell didn’t. Please come back with me, Claire.”
“Call the police,” I said promptly. Despite my superior judgment and a lifelong habit of reading fiction, I’d been known to prowl inside what I’d supposed were empty houses. Invariably, the results had been unpleasant, and I’d sworn off such behavior (thus precluding a career in real estate and/or cat burglary).
“I can’t call the police,” Luanne said with more despair than Caron had ever manufactured for my entertainment. “Dick would never forgive me if I invited them to search his house, especially now.”
“Because they might find additional proof of his guilt?”
“There is no proof of his guilt! You’ve had several encounters with Gannet. He’d do anything to hang Dick, including plant evidence or invent faceless witnesses who just happened to have been at the right place at the right time.” She came forward as if to clutch my arm, forcing me to retreat into the tiny bathroom made tinier by the inclusion of boxes of books, piles of outdated catalogs, and cleaning equipment. “Dick values his privacy. He couldn’t bear the idea of people pawing through his things. Please come with me. We’ll just make sure all the doors and windows are locked, grab the books and the mail, and be out in three minutes.”
“Unless we encounter a drug addict.”
Luanne nibbled her lip and pretended to recall the moment. “I’m pretty sure it was the back door. Whoever was inside heard me drive up in front, panicked, and left. He’s probably halfway down here by now.”
I ignored the sharp edge of the sink and shook my head resolutely. If I’d had the feather duster, I would have shaken it, too. “I am not going into a house that might have an inmate in a closet. If you heard someone, you should call the police.”
“Maybe I just thought I heard a door close. It was just a tiny sound that could have come from a squirrel on the roof—or even more likely, a bird flying into a window. They do that all the time at the lake. Jillian told me that Becca used to put them in a basket and carry them to tall weeds so they could recover without being attacked. I tried once, but the bird glared at me as if it fully intended to peck me in the eye. I left it for the cats.”
“If you heard a bird, then you don’t need me to hold your hand,” I said, making the logical leap despite the fact I was cornered by a lovesick—and consequently demented—woman. “You can’t have it both ways, Luanne. I’m not going to Dick’s house to nurse a cross-eyed bird, and I’m not going there to startle a drug addict with an automatic weapon and a bad attitude. Call the police, or call the Humane Society.”
“Okay, I didn’t want to have to say this, because I may be wrong and I don’t want to get an innocent party in trouble. When I was backing over the azaleas in my haste to leave, I thought I saw Anders Hammerqvist drive by. He could have been coming from a side street alongside the house. Can you think of a reason why he would have been in the house?”
“No,” I said, but suddenly it seemed intriguing to see if we could discover one. “I’ll take my car and follow you.”
Dick Cissel’s lake house was large and gracious, but his town house was indeed a mansion. Luanne had implied it was a towering Gothic structure, but it was a pseudo-Tudor tucked among pseudo-Early Americans, pseudo-Victorians, and a disturbing number of pseudo-Italian villas. The foreign cars and limousines were genuine, as were the riding lawn mowers driven by olive-skinned yardmen. Their trucks and vans were the only blemishes in this otherwise impeccable setting. Those and the flattened azaleas beside the driveway, that is.
Luanne had the key in her hand as I joined her on the stoop. “I borrowed Dick’s,” she said as she unlocked the door and stepped back to allow me to walk into the loving embrace of a cocaine-crazed psychopath.
The marble-floored foyer was larger t
han my entire apartment. Mail was piled in a basket on a mahogany table beneath a mirror. I left Luanne sorting through it and ventured into a living room of overwhelming formality. I dismissed the very concept of guests sitting on the straight-backed chairs or the delicate sofas and love seats.
I continued into the next room and gaped at the dining-room table, which could accommodate two dozen diners. The centerpiece of silk flowers was nearly high enough to brush a chandelier that would wipe out all the diners if it fell at a judicious moment. There were many mirrors; guests of both sexes could pause every few feet to compliment themselves on the success of their packaging.
In the kitchen, also larger than my apartment, I found a coffee cup in the sink and several plates in the dishwasher. This was to be expected, since Dick stayed in town during the week. Having committed myself to a full-blooded prowl, I opened the refrigerator. Among the trendier products I saw a pizza box, confirming that the wealthy also had their moments when junk food appealed more than caviar. The pizza itself, mundane pepperoni rather than artichoke hearts and smoked salmon, appeared fairly fresh. Jillian must have ordered it Saturday evening, I thought as I roamed through the remaining downstairs rooms and returned to the foyer.
“No killers on this floor,” I said brightly. “The back door and all the French doors are locked.”
Luanne looked up with watery eyes. “These are magazines for Becca. I guess Dick didn’t think to cancel the subscriptions—or couldn’t bring himself to do it.”
“Is there any personal mail addressed to her?”
“No, just Town & Country and Vanity Fair. Shall we check the upstairs before we go?”
We began at the top of the stairs. Jillian’s bedroom was as prim as a convent cell (although much vaster), and the adjoining bathroom was sterile. The master suite, now occupied by only the master, had begun a gradual transition to a more masculine ambience. The walls were still peach and the drapes lined with sheers, but socks hung out of half-opened drawers, soiled shirts were piled in a corner, and the bed, a king-sized affair with built-in reading lights and dainty bedside tables, was sloppily made, as if done as an afterthought.
“This was Becca’s dressing room,” Luanne said without enthusiasm as she opened a door. Inside was a lavishly equipped bathroom, complete with bidet and color-coordinated hair dryer and telephone. In an alcove, a marble Jacuzzi glinted in sunshine that streamed through the skylight above it. The numerous plants looked as though they’d at one time thrived, but now some of them needed attention and a few hearty words of encouragement.
The closet was immense and as tightly or ganized as a NASA control room, Rods sagged from the weight of innumerable dresses, skirts, jackets, and blouses, and at one end were three full-length fur coats. Special racks had been constructed to hold every imaginable style and color of shoe, from bright sandals to dainty satin slippers. On shelves were round hatboxes, purses, plastic covers for folded sweaters, and neatly furled umbrellas should the weather dare threaten a silken shoulder or linen cuff. The very concept of one person possessing all of this was staggering; I’d been in department stores with a less extensive inventory.
Luanne nudged me out of my stupor, and as we returned to the hallway, said, “Jillian promised Dick that she’d pack up everything and send it to the Salvation Army thrift shop, but she keeps putting it off.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I said as I followed Luanne into an office with a large desk, bookshelves, and a filing cabinet. It was all very gentlemanly, with heavy brass embellishments, cumbersome leather chairs, and paintings of ships in storm-tossed seas.
I realized Luanne was staring at something hidden by the open door and moved beside her. Centered on the wall was a large oil painting of a blond woman dressed in a shimmery blue gown. Her hair was swept back with diamond barrettes, and around her neck was a diamond-and-sapphire necklace. Her full lips curled enigmatically, and her eyes were dreamy. Her cheeks glowed with a maidenly blush. Her long, slender fingers held a single flower.
“Am I allowed three guesses?” I asked.
“She really was beautiful, wasn’t she?” Luanne murmured as she sat down behind the desk and straightened a few papers. “Not only beautiful, but kind and generous and compassionate. No wonder Dick was so besotted.”
I studied the portrait for a clue to Becca’s true character, but found myself mesmerized by her fragile beauty and precariously close to returning her smile. I turned my back on her. “Why is the portrait in here? I’d have expected to find it in the living room above the fireplace.”
“Dick wanted to hang it there, but Becca insisted that it be in here. She initially refused to pose or even meet the artist, and he had to threaten to have it done from a photograph if she wouldn’t cooperate. Hanging it here was a compromise. According to him, she was actually very shy and insecure, which is why she preferred to listen to other people rather than talk about herself.”
“Give me a break,” I said ungraciously, then went back downstairs and into the living room to envision the portrait above the fireplace. Perhaps Becca had declined to allow it to be hung there because it would clash with the decor, I decided without much interest as I inspected all the windows to see that they were locked. I did the same with the ones in the dining room, then reentered the kitchen and continued my mission.
As I passed by the sink, I glanced at the coffee cup. From this perspective I could see a tiny line of color on the rim. There was only a trace of what appeared to be lipstick, but I was afraid to touch it and inadvertently wipe it away. I replaced the cup and turned my attention to the coffeemaker. The glass pot had been rinsed and left inverted to dry on the counter, but the circular plate on the coffeemaker was warm.
Jillian had returned to the lake the previous afternoon. The coffeemaker should have long since cooled completely. I reexamined the pot and found a few beads of water along the aluminum band.
“Claire, I’m ready to go,” Luanne called from the foyer.
So was I, frankly. “Someone has been in the house,” I told her as I joined her. I explained about the warm coffee maker and other incriminating evidence. “Unless Jillian came back here this morning, it looks as though another woman has been here. Could it have been a housekeeper?”
“I called Jillian earlier and she said she spent the morning at the foundation office. The housekeeper might have taken advantage of an empty house to indulge in a coffee break, but she would have tidied up the bedrooms and put her cup in the dishwasher.” She ran her finger across the surface of the mahogany table. “And dusted. Anyway, she’s away for the summer to visit relatives.”
“There were no signs that someone broke into the house. Does anyone else have a key?”
“I don’t think so,” Luanne said as she sat on the bottom step and let the mail fall to the marble floor. “While I was sitting at Dick’s desk, I thought I smelled cigarette smoke. Neither he nor Jillian smokes, so I assumed I’d imagined it.”
The only person I’d seen smoking at Turnstone Lake was Captain Gannet; if he’d wanted inside the house, he would have gotten a search warrant. One of the women could be a secret smoker, but I could think of no reason why she might feel compelled to hide her habit by somehow sneaking into Dick’s house.
Another thought occurred. “I’m surprised there’s no security system in the house. If I were a burglar, I’d case this neighborhood at least once a week.”
Luanne gave me a startled look. “I forgot all about it. The box is just inside the coat closet. There are motion detectors in every room, and if the code’s not punched in within thirty seconds, the security company dispatches armed officers.”
“I don’t hear any sirens.”
“They don’t have sirens, but they come roaring up in less than five minutes. Last week Dick and I came home from a dinner that included two bottles of wine and a cognac. Dick kept punching in the wrong sequence, and we were giggling when two husky men pounded on the door. They did not giggle.” She opened the close
t door and pointed at a black box that resembled a calculator. “The red light isn’t blinking. Someone turned it off.”
“Maybe Jillian forgot to reset it when she left yesterday,” I said.
“Maybe.” Luanne closed the closet door and picked up the scattered letters. “This place is giving me the creeps. I’m beginning to feel as if your burglar is still in the house, crouched in the attic or hiding under a bed. Are you ready to go?”
We both made sure the front door was locked, then walked to our respective cars. “One more thing,” I said. “Did you pretend to see Anders in order to lure me here?”
“The truck was red, the same shade as his. I caught a very brief glimpse of blond hair as it went past the end of the driveway. It looked like him, but I certainly wouldn’t swear to it.”
“Was he alone?”
“All I saw was the hair. He could have had the entire Supreme Court crammed in the passenger’s side. I’m probably mistaken, anyway. There’s no reasonable explanation for him to have come into the house.”
My resolve crumbled like a stale cracker, and although I was likely to end up at the state prison, chopping cotton under the blazing sun and writing mournful letters to Peter Rosen from my rat-infested cell, I said, “Well, then, perhaps we’d better ask him.”
11
I devoted the next morning to business as usual, which meant I had plenty of free time to concoct reasons why Anders had been in Dick’s house. None of them were remotely plausible, I regret to say, especially ones that compelled him to wear lipstick while drinking coffee. Late in the morning Luanne called to report that a hearing to set bail was scheduled for the afternoon; Gannet’s threat to keep Dick until the end of the week had been nothing more than backwoods bluster. Sid had volunteered to attend with his checkbook. She, of course, would be sitting in the middle of the front row in the courtroom.