Killed by Clutter

by Leslie Caine

  “Yes,” Stephanie replied irritably on her brother’s behalf. “It’s her legal right to have a lawyer present. Peter needs to be escorted to her side. Right now!”

  “I’ll have to verify that with Ms. Walker first.” Linda took a step toward the door and said, “Excuse me for a moment.”

  “For ‘a moment’? In other words, several minutes?” Stephanie taunted. “I don’t want to sit out here in the meantime. Surely there’s a more comfortable waiting room for members of families in a crisis. God knows we pay you people enough taxes.”

  “I can take you to one of the interrogation rooms, if you’d like,” Linda offered, admirably controlling her temper, although Stephanie’s bad manners had set my teeth on edge.

  “No, thank you,” Stephanie answered, plopping down beside me. She added under her breath, “At least this beats waiting in a garage.” She glanced at the dispatcher, a pleasant-looking Hispanic woman, then muttered, “Sort of.” Meanwhile, Peter began to pace, his hands buried deeply in his pockets, his head bent.

  Could Stephanie have played a role in the murder? Or Peter? They would inherit Helen’s property, when Helen passed away. “Has your aunt voiced suspicions to either of you about your parents’ deaths?” I asked Stephanie quietly.

  “She told you about that?” Peter asked, staring at me in surprise.

  I said nothing.

  He frowned. “You watch. This man’s death is going to turn out to be the third time she’s insisted an accidental death is something more sinister. Anytime anybody she knows dies, Aunt Helen cries ‘murder’.”

  “She’s right this time, Peter,” Stephanie asserted. “There’s no way that basement could have flooded on its own. I saw it just last night, and it was bone dry.”

  “What were you doing in the basement?” he asked.

  “Assessing the clutter problem. Why?”

  He glowered at his sister, then said to me, “Even if Helen’s right this time, there was no foul play in our parents’ deaths.” He resumed his pacing, then grumbled, “I need a cigarette.” Waving off his sister’s protests, he lit one.

  The dispatcher leaned forward. “Sir? This is a public place. There’s a no-smoking ordinance.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” He took a deep drag, then snuffed out the cigarette and shoved it back into its pack.

  Strange that a lawyer wasn’t familiar with the smoking policy in his local police station. “Are you a criminal defense attorney?”

  “No, I do family law...divorces, mostly. But I’m competent enough in criminal law to handle this nonsense.” He sighed and dropped into a chair across from the fiberglass box of a table. “Seriously, Erin. Aunt Helen’s way off base. Our father had a weak heart. Our mother hated my aunt’s cooking. She must have chucked some of Helen’s casserole down the garbage disposal to avoid hurting Aunt Helen’s feelings, and then ordered Chinese takeout, not realizing the main dish contained bell peppers.”

  Sullivan’s earlier comment about his Chinese takeout containing three of the food types that Lois was deathly allergic to came back to me. Surely Chinese cuisine was the very last thing someone with those particular allergies would order. “Don’t you know for certain?” I asked. “Were there takeout cartons in the house? If so, the police would have traced the order back to the restaurant. They’d verify what dish she’d eaten that contained bell peppers.”

  Peter didn’t reply. Instead, he slouched further into his chair, like a turtle, drawing back into his protective shell.

  I said, “Whether Helen’s right or wrong to be suspicious about your parents’ deaths, clearly, your aunt is so rattled right now that she thought she’d be safer in jail.”

  Stephanie shushed me. “Here comes some man in a cheap suit,” she whispered. “Must be a detective.”

  I watched O’Reilly push open the glass door and approach us. Linda’s partner followed him at a deferential distance. “Peter Miller?” the detective asked, but not before giving me a withering glare.

  “Yes,” he said rising.

  O’Reilly held the door and led Peter away, presumably to his aunt’s side. Officer Mansfield, however, remained standing in the doorway. He said to Stephanie, “We need to ask you some questions, too, Ms. Walker.”

  She rose and said sharply, “The name is Miller. Stephanie Miller.”

  He held the door open and said, “Can you come with me, Ms. Miller?”

  She sighed. “You might as well go home, Erin,” she said, giving me a curiously hostile look. “It’s going to be a long night. Peter and I will take over from here.”

  Despite Stephanie’s parting words, I waited another thirty minutes before I finally gave up and drove home. I spent an anxious hour alone at home, pacing in Audrey’s elegant, showcase kitchen—one of the very few rooms in the house that Audrey kept pristine—until she finally arrived. Too traumatized to keep quiet even long enough for Audrey to get her customary glass of wine, I started to fill her in on the events of the day, and she took a seat at the black granite counter. She gasped when I mentioned Helen’s full name.

  “Is this woman petite like me, and in her seventies?” she asked. “Used to be a language arts teacher?”

  “Yes. She lives in the—”

  Audrey rose, grabbed her purse, and declared, “Come on, Erin. We’ve got to bust her out of jail. If it weren’t for her, David could very well have wound up there himself.”

  “Was Helen Walker your son’s teacher?”

  “In ninth grade.”

  We got into my van. Audrey’s BMW was much more luxurious than my wheels, but she preferred not to drive at night whenever possible. She was silent as I once again made my way to the stationhouse. Eventually, too curious not to ask, I said, “David’s an electrical engineer, right?”

  “Yes. He’s not all that avid a reader, then or now. Which is part of why Helen’s steadfast refusal to let him slip through the cracks was so remarkable. It wasn’t like he wrote great essays in her class or anything. Fortunately, she saw something in David even so. She took him under her wing and mentored him. His father had died the summer before David started ninth grade. He was acting out...making horrendous choices.... It was the one time in my life when, I have to admit, I found myself utterly overwhelmed. Simply put, I’m eternally indebted to Helen Walker. This is my chance to repay her for saving my son’s life.”

  “Wow,” I murmured, all the more determined now to help Helen out of her current predicament.

  Minutes later, I pulled into the same parking space in front of the station that I’d used before. I glanced to either side as I shut off the engine. “Stephanie’s car is gone.”

  “She’s the bossy niece you were telling me about?”

  “Yes. I hope that’s good news...maybe she and her brother have already gotten Helen out.”

  Audrey flung open the passenger door, saying, “Either that, or poor Helen’s trapped in there all alone.” I hurried after Audrey, who was already halfway down the walkway to the station. I didn’t bother to lock up; surely my vehicle was safe at a police station.

  The same dispatcher was seated at the oak-veneered desk. I half expected her to greet me by name and tell me we had to stop meeting like this. Audrey strode up to the formidable-looking desk and announced, “My name is Audrey Munroe, and I’m here—”

  The woman’s eyes lit up. “I thought I recognized you! You’re on the TV show on Channel Seven! ‘Domestic Bliss.’ I love that show!”

  Audrey brightened. “Thank you so much. I really need to speak to whoever is in charge of the murder investigation at Helen Walker’s house.”

  I interjected, “It’s probably not an actual murder investigation, Audrey. Just a suspicious death.”

  She gave me a look that clearly signaled my elucidations were not appreciated.

  The dispatcher pushed a couple of buttons on her phone and spoke into her headset. Then she gushed to Audrey, “Someone will be right out, Ms. Munroe.”

  Several minutes later, Detective O�
��Reilly emerged and muttered, “She’s back,” at the sight of me. He regarded Audrey for a long moment, then said, “Ah, Ms. Munroe. I’m Detective O’Reilly. We met a few months ago. Don’t tell me that you, too, have a personal involvement in this matter.”

  “Yes. I’m a long-lost friend of Helen Walker’s, and I need to know if I can post bail for her...whatever I can do that’s necessary to allow her to leave here with me tonight.”

  He rocked on his heels. “There’s no need for bail. She’s recanted her story completely. It was obviously a fabrication. Implausible and full of contradictions.”

  “Then she can leave with us?” I asked.

  “No. We’ve got her house cordoned off. It’s a crime scene. Her niece is going to come get her.”

  “Is Stephanie on her way now?” I asked.

  “No, but she’s awaiting our phone call to come pick up her aunt.”

  “There’s no need,” Audrey said. “Helen can stay at my house for however long is necessary.”

  “Suit yourself,” O’Reilly said, the self-satisfied smirk back on his thin lips. “Once we make a determination on whether or not this was murder, we’ll know for sure if we need to press charges.”

  O’Reilly ushered Audrey into the bowels of the building, no doubt to the detectives’ quarters; I’d become all-too familiar with this place in the past couple of years. Audrey was gone for an interminable length of time.

  I was now too keyed up to pass the time with fictitious room designs. I merely sat in my chair, trying to identify the exact point at which my life had gotten so off-kilter. My calling is to harmonize people’s living spaces. For me, improving the environment in which a person lives is the most precious gift I can give. I’m honored to be able to create a place in which my clients can wake up every morning and just glow with happiness to be there.

  But something had gone dreadfully awry in order for me to repeatedly find myself in this godforsaken building. Somehow, as I’ve tried to distance myself from the ugly and the banal in our surroundings, I’ve managed to uncover extremely unlovely aspects of human behavior. I let myself become involved in my clients’ lives too quickly. And yet, if I distanced myself and took a less passionate role in the evolution of their homes, I wouldn’t be as good at my job. Did I really want to be the type of person who would refuse to come to Helen Walker’s aid tonight?

  Eventually, an officer I didn’t know returned my landlady to the lobby, and Audrey told me that they’d be bringing Helen out in a minute. Linda led Helen toward us before Audrey even sat down. Although Helen looked drawn and exhausted, she straightened her shoulders, strode up to us and said, “How are you, Ms. Munroe? And how’s David?”

  “He’s wonderful, thank you. He and his wife live in Kansas City now. They’re expecting my first grandchild. Any day now, in fact. We’re all so excited.”

  “Of course you are! Their first baby? I’m so delighted to hear that! Please tell him I said hello and congratulations.” She paused and wrung her parchment-like hands, her gaze darting between Audrey and me. “But...what are you doing here?”

  “Erin Gilbert is my tenant and a dear friend, and she told me about the death of your neighbor. I’m terribly sorry.”

  Helen pursed her lips, but did not reply. A shadow of something I couldn’t identify—fear? regret?—moved in her eyes.

  “Would you be so kind as to stay with us in my guest room? Just temporarily, of course?” Audrey asked her. “Or we could give you a ride to your niece’s house, if you’d prefer.”

  “That’s a very kind offer, Ms. Munroe, but—” Helen turned and searched Linda’s eyes. “Is that really necessary? Can’t I please go home?”

  “We can’t let you stay at your house yet, Ms. Walker,” Linda replied. “I’m afraid we’re still investigating, and it could take us a while.”

  Helen forced a smile, then turned back toward Audrey. “In that case, I’d be delighted to come stay with you. Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine. And please, call me Audrey.” She took Helen’s arm, and the two women left side by side, as if they were the best of friends. Linda glanced at me. I knew her well enough to know she had something to say to me, something she wanted said in private, so I lingered as Audrey and Helen left the building.

  “Don’t repeat this, Erin, but the crime scene investigators got the electricity turned back on. Things aren’t adding up. You can easily hear when someone opens the garage door. From anyplace in the house. Including the basement.”

  “So you’re wondering why Jack didn’t come back up the stairs to let Helen know he was there, checking out the house after spotting a prowler? Maybe that’s because the killer prevented him from doing so...by sneaking down the stairs after him and pushing him.”

  Linda shook her head. “The time sequence is too far off kilter. Once Helen recanted her bogus confession, she insisted that, just after she entered the kitchen from the garage, she heard a crash and the lights went out. Why didn’t Mr. Schwartz immediately turn around at the sound of the garage door when she drove in?”

  “Maybe he did, but the killer was standing on a stair above him, blocking his path. From the garage, Helen wouldn’t have overheard them arguing or struggling, what with that noisy garage door closing behind her car.”

  “Then why was the victim found lying face down, like he’d been shoved in the back?”

  That gave me a momentary pause. “I don’t know. Maybe he got twisted around a little. What are you suggesting? That Helen dragged Jack to the basement stairs and pushed him herself? O’Reilly just said that her confession was contradictory and full of holes!”

  “It was. But if she’d given us a plausible story...that she’d set a trap for him tonight, suggested he lead the way down the basement stairs, then gave him a quick shove, she’d be locked up by now.”

  Stunned into silence, I merely stared at Linda, my stomach knotting.

  She narrowed her eyes as she watched Audrey help Helen into the van. “Helen Walker might not be quite the innocent little old lady she appears to be.”

  Chapter 10

  Linda Delgardio’s warning about Helen kept running through my brain long after we’d returned home and helped Helen settle into the guest room. Despite the snuggly luxuries I’d selected for my bed—the soft and cradling foam topper for the mattress, the yummy Egyptian cotton sheets that were the softest fabric imaginable, and the silk-filled comforter with its magical lightness and warmth—sleep defied me.

  Even the remotest possibility that a killer was occupying the room just on the other side of the wall was unsettling. I was grateful for my cat’s company as she curled onto the pillow next to mine. There was a reasonable chance that she’d awaken me with a tail whap as she leapt from the bed if Helen were to sneak toward my bed to attack me. Not exactly as good as being guarded by a Doberman, but it was something.

  The overriding point, I struggled to remind myself, was that I knew in my heart Helen Walker was innocent. It could have happened precisely the way I’d suggested to Linda—that Jack fell sideways and twisted himself around to break his fall. If so, Helen could be correct when she said that he’d died in a trap that had been set for her. She would have stepped unthinkingly into the electrified water to rescue her cat, but a retired electrician would never have been so rash.

  Could it have been a simple accident? I believed Helen when she said that she “wasn’t an idiot” and wouldn’t have left something like a loose dowel on a step. Nor would Jack have gone down a steep staircase without making sure he had a clear path. Also, he wouldn’t have been heading downstairs if he’d heard Helen come home; he’d have immediately turned around, not lingered on the stairs only to trip just as Helen happened to enter the kitchen.

  By my thinking, that added up to murder.

  What if Jack had been the intended victim all along? It seemed to be common knowledge that his wife played neighborhood watchdog. Simple enough, then, for the killer to wait until Rac
hel was looking out a window, dash out Helen’s front door, re-enter through the back door, then wait for nosy Rachel to send Jack to investigate. Or was Rachel lying about Jack’s having “charged” across the street of his own volition? Maybe she had set things up in the basement, then dragged Jack over to Helen’s house to investigate a nonexistent burglar, and shoved him into the water.

  I looked at the red-glowing numbers on my digital clock. Yikes! Three-thirty-four! I tried my best to distract my overwrought brain with a boring, pseudo mantra—words that rhyme with “hum”—and worked my way through the alphabet both backwards and forwards. Bum, come, dumb....

  It felt as though I’d slept mere minutes when the morning alarm resounded like an air-raid siren. Determined to squeeze in some more sleep-time, I smacked the off button so hard my hand tingled. I lay back in bed, till my eyes popped open at the realization that I needed to call Steve Sullivan; he had to be told about the death at Helen’s house or he’d arrive there this morning, unaware. Also, we were scheduled to begin work at Stephanie’s house today, and she was so nasty to her aunt that she was a key suspect—on my list, at any rate, if not the police’s.

  Disturbingly, the notion of talking to Sullivan had given me a surge of eager anticipation. Was I so hooked on transforming clients’ homes that I was now unconsciously expecting to perform a similar makeover on Steve Sullivan? Was I incapable of learning that the man was never going to magically transform into my Mr. Right?

  Someone knocked so lightly that I wasn’t sure the sound was actually coming from the other side of my door. I slipped out of bed and opened the door, Hildi’s soft fur brushing against my bare shins as she trotted past me.

  Helen gave me an apologetic smile. “Oh, good morning, Erin. I heard your alarm go off. I was just trying to see if you were awake and would mind if I took a shower.”

  I glanced at the clock. There was the possibility of even this spacious house feeling very small very fast if Helen stayed here for long. “No, go right ahead.” My first assignment of the day was supposed to be her house. “I have plenty of time this morning.”