Barbara Levenson - Mary Magruder Katz 03 - Outrageous October

by Barbara Levenson

  Back in town, we stopped at a cute bakery and sandwich shop. Sherry went in to order for us while Sam and I held onto a table on the patio. In a few minutes, she returned with grilled cheese sandwiches and mugs of hot chocolate and a cup of water for Sam. We were both quiet while we devoured the gooey Vermont cheddar sandwiches.

  “Okay, Sherry, don’t keep me in suspense any longer. What’s up? What can’t I tell Lillian?” I asked.

  Sherry’s cheeks were crimson. I wasn’t sure whether that was from the cold or from her excitement as she leaned forward across the table.

  “I think I’m in love or at least in heavy lust. I just need to talk to someone about it,” Sherry said.

  “That’s great, I guess, but why can’t you talk to your roommate or your friends?”

  “He and I agreed to keep this to ourselves for a while. See he’s not from Dartmouth.”

  “Where is he from? Is he older or, Sherry, tell me he’s not married.” I was getting a bad picture.

  “Carson, that’s his name, isn’t married. Don’t worry. After what happened to my family I’m smarter than that. He is a little older. He lives in this area. He’s a dairy farmer and he makes cheese. I think he doesn’t have much money.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “Some of my friends and I drove over to Hartland to Skunk Hollow one weekend.”

  “Where’s that, and what in the world is Skunk Hollow?”

  “It’s a bar with local beer and a band. It’s fun. That’s where I met Carson. We had some drinks and I ended up giving him my cell phone number and we started texting and talking. He’s so cute.” Sherry looked like she was going to burst with excitement.

  “I still don’t get it. Why can’t you tell anyone about him?”

  “We just thought that, you know, because we’re from different backgrounds that maybe it’d be best to just see where this was going before we upset anyone.”

  “Why would anyone be upset?”

  “Well, Mother married Dad who was pretty poor and brought him into the family business and things turned out so bad for her. You know what I mean. We all found out that he cheated on her for years. She was devoted to him. If I told her about Carson, I know she’d try to protect me or even forbid me from seeing Carson. I just knew she’d be upset. And Carson feels like he’d be uncomfortable hanging out with my college friends. He never got to go to college, just technical school for a few months.”

  “Maybe we should run a background check on him. What’s his last name You know, Sherry, you’ll be coming into a lot of money in a few years. Maybe your mother isn’t wrong to try to protect you.”

  “Sherry glared at me and started to get up from the table. “ I thought you’d understand. I’m sorry I told you about him. I didn’t ask you as my lawyer. Just as a friend, but you sound like you’re my lawyer.”

  I pulled Sherry’s arm and she sat down again. “I am your friend. I just don’t want you to get hurt. I understand how physical attractions can sometimes get in the way of reality. Please don’t think I’m judging you, but how far has this relationship gone?”

  “If you mean are we having sex, the answer is yes. I’m not a little kid. I’m almost twenty.”

  “Have you been to his home, met his family?”

  “His parents are dead. They left him the farm. I’m planning on going down there over the weekend, so I’ll give you a report when I get back. Please, promise me you’ll keep all this confidential.”

  “Okay, Sherry, but please, call me when you get back. I’ll be here for at least a week, so we can get together again and you can tell me all about the farm.”

  We left the little shop. Sherry waved as she headed back to campus. Sam and I decided to do a bit of shopping, something I never have time for. I had a mental picture of Sherry in her sports car and expensive wardrobe helping to milk the cows or muck out the barn. Maybe the best thing to end this unlikely affair was a visit to Carson’s farm.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  It was after three o’clock when we returned to Lucy’s house. I had acquired two mystery novels from the Dartmouth Bookstore where I found more books than I’d ever seen under one roof. I had also purchased an expensive pair of Ugg boots and a warm leather jacket. The credit card slips in the bags made me aware that I had just spent more money on myself than my usual twice a year sale shopping. This is a vacation so a little extravagance won’t kill me, I rationalized.

  As Sam and I entered the kitchen, I realized that the dirty dishes in the sink were gone. They had been placed back in the cupboard.

  “Maybe Lucy’s caretaker doubles as a maid,” I said to Sam “Lucy never mentioned anything about someone coming in to clean the house. I certainly wasn’t expecting maid service. I guess Lucy remembered about our sloppy habits.” Sam looked disinterested and I realized that I was doing more conversing with my dog lately, sort of like an old maid cat lady.

  I went to the hall phone to try to call Lucy, but it still had no dial tone. My cell phone showed no service as well.

  Now I can’t communicate with Lucy or anyone else until I go back down to the village tomorrow, I thought. I glanced down on the hall table and saw a stack of mail next to the phone. There were several letters and bills. The top one was addressed to Carolyn Brousseau. The next one was addressed to The Brousseau Family. My heart jumped. Why wasn’t the mail addressed to the Sterns? Wasn’t Brousseau the name of the woman who was murdered? What was mail addressed to a murder victim doing in Lucy Stern’s house? My heart raced into panic mode.

  Sam and I heard a loud thump, like a door slamming. Sam’s ears shot up and he bolted up the front stairway, barking loudly. He stopped in front of the locked door, his hair on end. Then he went into full bark and growl attack, pawing at the door. He looked exactly like he does when the Florida Power and Light guy comes to read the meter.

  I grabbed Sam’s collar and dragged him away from the door before he left his scratch marks imbedded in the old wood. I tripped as we tussled down the front stairway. Back in the front hall, I remembered the stack of mail and picked it up. There was an electric bill, a statement from a brokerage house, and two ads. I stood there trying to figure out how that mail got into this house. Then I heard footsteps on the back stairs.

  I grabbed the stack of mail and grabbed Sam by his collar. Sam pulled me through the front door. The mail, Sam, and I tumbled into the SUV. Lucy had told me that all the village mail was picked up at the post office. There is no delivery on the mountain roads. Margaret, the post office person, needed to explain where this mail came from and I had to escape from the house of strange noises.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  I left Sam in the car, grabbed the mail and entered the post office. One side contained all the mail boxes for the village. The other side had a high counter and the usual post office signs and stamp pictures.

  Margaret was busy dispensing stamps and chit-chat to an older couple. She looked over at me.

  “Hi, Mary, is everything okay? You’re as white as a newly fallen snow.”

  “I’m not sure. I have a question for you, but I’ll wait ‘til you’re free.”

  “No problem the woman said. Go ahead and help her, Margaret.”

  “Mary, meet John and Emma Collins. They live up the hill from the Sterns’ house.”

  “Oh, you must be the visitor Jack was opening the house for. You’re from Miami where Lucy lives, right?”

  I couldn’t get used to everyone knowing who I was and where I was staying,

  “I don’t mean to intrude on you but I found this mail in Lucy’s front hall and when I saw the Brousseau name, well, isn’t that the woman who was murdered last year? Why would this be in the Sterns’ house?”

  The Collins and Margaret looked at the letters and looked at each other.

  “What would the Sterns be doing with the Brousseau mail? “ Margaret looked over her glasses at me as if I were a suspect in a mail theft.

&nbs
p; “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here asking you,” I said.

  “Just a minute. Tell me what house you’re staying in,” Emma Collins said.

  “Lucy Stern’s house,” I answered.

  “No, I mean describe the house. How did you get to it?”

  “I went up the River Road. I counted the driveways after I left the village. When I got to the third one I turned right and followed it up the hill ‘til I came to the house. It’s a white farm house with a big porch around three sides, and there’s a red barn on the side.”

  Margaret and the Collins looked at each other. John Collins shook his head. Margaret was trying to stifle a laugh.

  Emma finally turned to me. “Honey, you’re in the wrong house. You’ve been staying in the old Brousseau place. Lucy’s house is up the next dirt road from where you turned. Lucy’s house is a two story federal style house with an attached garage.”

  The two women stared at me. I guessed they thought I was some flakey airhead like they see on TV shows about South Beach.

  There was a long silence. Then John Collins spoke up. “Don’t feel bad. It’s easy to miss Sugar Hill. That’s the road to Lucy’s house. Those sharp turns on River Road can throw you. But no harm done. No one stays in Carolyn’s house since the murder.”

  “This just isn’t possible. Lucy told me the house would be all ready for me, and when I got there, there was a fire in the fireplace and wine on the table.”

  “Well, Tom Brousseau owns that house now. That’s Carolyn’s son, but he left here right after the funeral and no one’s seen him around here since. He’s got some caretaker, but it isn’t one of us. He hired some fancy agency, I hear. Serves him right if his caretaker is using his house,” John said.

  “Oh my God, are you telling me I’ve been staying in the house where Carolyn Brousseau was murdered?” I’m not squeamish about the details of a murder. I hear plenty of that, courtesy of my clients. But when it comes to paying overnight visits to murder scenes, my stomach lurches.

  “Is there some other family around here that uses the house? I’ve been hearing a lot of strange noises.”

  “Nope, no other family exists. Carolyn’s husband died a few years before her. They only had the one son, Thomas. He lives somewhere around Boston, I hear,” John said.

  “Well, he was at the funeral,” Margaret interrupted.

  “Yeah, well he hasn’t been seen since. Folks say he’s just disappeared. He and Carolyn had a falling out right after he quit Dartmouth. I heard he was going to some art institute down in Boston. He never came up to see his ma before the murder. Of course, some folks think he’s the one that did it.”

  “John, you are a terrible gossip. And they talk about women.” Emma scowled at him. “You shouldn’t be spreading rumors to this poor girl. She looks upset enough.”

  Emma took John’s arm and started moving him toward the door.

  “Maybe the place is haunted. Carolyn’s ghost roaming around her house,” John said, as Emma shoved him through the post office door.

  I felt a chill run through my body. Maybe all those house noises hadn’t been mice in the attic.

  “Maybe someone rents the house. How would the son take care of everything from down in Boston?” I said trying to use my practical lawyer’s mind.

  “If anyone knows about the house it’d be the lawyer who handled Carolyn’s affairs,” Margaret said.

  “Who is that?” I asked

  “Only two lawyers in the village, Dash Mellman and Leroy Poston. Has to be one or the other. Dash’s office is right down the road in the yellow house with the rocking chairs on the front porch.”

  “I’ve got to get my stuff out of that Brousseau house right away, but maybe I can catch the lawyer down the road as long as I’m here.”

  “Sure. Maybe he knows what’s going on in the Brousseau house and it’ll set your mind at ease. Let me know what you find out. What about that mail? Shouldn’t you give it to me?”

  “I will later, but if this Mellman guy is the lawyer for the Brousseau family, maybe he needs to see it.”

  I gathered an impatient Sam out of the car and we walked down the road to the yellow house.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  The sign on the porch of the yellow house said “Daniel ‘Dash’ Mellman, Attorney at Law.”

  I opened the front door and stepped into what once must have been the entry hall of a Victorian house. Now it was a reception area. A woman with grey hair done in what used to be called a beehive hairdo was on the phone.

  I waited as patiently as I could, tapping my foot and eyeing the woman who had no intention of pausing in her conversation. “I told her no one makes blueberry jam like Edith. She grows those berries on her own property, some special plants she originated and she said—”

  Sam decided not to wait for a further introduction. He put his front paws on the phone blabber’s desk. That got her to notice us at once. She stood up. Sam transferred his paws to her shoulders. She wasn’t a very tall woman. She let out a small scream.

  “Can I help you? You don’t have an appointment, do you? she asked accusingly trying to regain her composure.

  I hauled hard on Sam’s leash and he released the woman.

  “I was just hoping to catch Mr. Mellman. I’m an attorney from Miami, Florida, and I’m in need of some information.” I smiled at Mrs. Beehive, hoping to repair Sam’s intrusive introduction.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so? Welcome to Vermont. I’m Daisy Mellman, Dash’s mother. We’re always happy to help a colleague.” She turned toward a door at the end of the hall and shouted, “Dash, come out here. We’ve got a guest.”

  The door opened and a man of about forty strode out. He was dressed in khakis, a golf shirt and some kind of boots. He was tall, muscular, and suntanned; the outdoorsy type, but not bad looking.

  He held out a big hand and shook mine. I introduced myself and pulled out a card from my backpack.

  “What brings you all the way up here?” he asked.

  “It’s a long story, but mainly I’m on vacation. I’m trying to find out about Carolyn Brousseau and her house. Did you handle the estate?”

  “The house isn’t for sale, if that’s what you want to know. I did handle the estate.”

  “Believe me, I don’t want to buy that house. I have some other questions.”

  “Let’s step into my office,” Dash said. He pointed to a door at the end of the hall. I followed him and Daisy followed me, but Dash shut the door firmly.

  “My mother is my receptionist, secretary and all around good helper but she has a lot of curiosity. She never has understood attorney-client confidentiality.” Dash pointed to the chair next to his desk and I sat down. Sam settled on the hooked rug that covered part of the pegged wooden floor.

  “I understand. I have a mother, too. I’m afraid Sam scared your mother. I apologize for bringing him along, but he gets tired of being left in the car.”

  “He’s no problem. Everyone has dogs around here. Now how can I help you? Are you investigating Carolyn’s murder?”

  “Oh, no, I’m not a private investigator. I’m a criminal defense attorney.”

  “Have you been retained by someone who claims to be an heir to the Brousseau estate? I carefully researched for any missing heirs before I closed the estate.”

  “I’m not here in any professional capacity. I really came up here to forget about clients or crimes for a while. I just stumbled into this whole thing. I’m a good friend of Lucy Stern. Her grandmother, Mrs. Morgan, left her the Morgan house and Lucy offered it to me for a place to relax for a while. I guess I jumbled up her directions. Anyway, I’ve been staying in the Brousseau house for the last two days. It was my mistake. I took a wrong turn and ended up at a murder scene. I guess this will seem hilarious someday, but right now I feel like an idiot.”

  Dash smiled and then laughed. He had a nice smile; not a heartbreaker smile like Carlos. It showed the crinkles around his eyes a
nd it kind of made you relax. I sat back in my chair and smiled back.

  “The way I discovered my huge mistake was when I found this stack of mail in the front hall.” I pulled the mail out of my backpack and handed it across the desk.

  Dash looked through the letters and frowned. “This is strange. Some of these letters were sent to a post office box in Rutland. The owner of the house is. Mrs. Brousseau’s son and only heir, Tom Brousseau, but I forward any papers to him at a post office box on Cape Cod, outside of Boston.”

  “The house is in excellent condition. I think someone has been living there. Maybe a caretaker is taking advantage of a nice empty house and getting paid at the same time.”

  “Maybe in Miami, but not in High Pines.” Dash looked indignant.

  “Well, do you know who the caretaker is for the house?”

  “Tom told me he hired some real estate agency. He e-mailed me the information in case I needed to contact someone. I’ll have to search my file.”

  “I’ve taken up enough of your time. I need to get back to the Brousseau place and get packed up and out of there before I get arrested for trespassing, and I want to find my real vacation house before it gets dark again. If you find out anything about who has been hanging out in that house, give me a call. I’m really curious.”

  “Sorry I haven’t been more help. Why don’t I follow you back to the Brousseau place and take a look around. I can help you get your stuff moved over to Lucy’s house and make sure you don’t get lost again.”

  “I couldn’t impose on you and drag you out of your office. You probably have more appointments or paper work.”

  “Nothing that can’t wait ‘til tomorrow.”

  “Okay, I’d like some company while I get packed up. Fred Collins suggested the place may be haunted, not that I believe in ghosts. But there have been a lot of strange noises there.”

  “I don’t know. There are a lot of stories about ghosts in these old houses. Where’s your car?” Dash ushered me past Daisy who was immersed in another phone conversation.