Killed by Clutter

by Leslie Caine

  “Dangerous? They’re fifty-year-old photos and clippings.”

  “As well as a private letter, between my mother and Aunt Helen.” Stephanie said. “I took the pages out of Helen’s book, before Peter could stumble over them while you were clearing out her place. It would have broken his heart to learn the truth about our father...about his being a common thief.”

  “Whereas you already knew the truth about your father?”

  “I found and read our mother’s diary many years ago, and I destroyed it after she died. I didn’t feel I had the right to destroy my mother’s letter to Aunt Helen, though.”

  Sullivan appeared behind Stephanie. “What’s the matter?” he asked, giving me the evil eye.

  “Nothing. Your partner apparently fancies herself as amateur detective.” She snatched the letter from my grasp, returned it to a place between the pages, and shoved the album back onto the shelf.

  “We need to give that letter to the police,” I said firmly.

  She combed her dark brown hair back from her face. “They’ve got nothing whatsoever to do with my brother’s murder.”

  “Even so. It’s evidence that should be given to the police.”

  “No way,” she snapped.

  “Your brother’s gone now, so your suppressing the truth won’t protect him.”

  “And airing my family’s dirty linen won’t help anybody. Like I said, it has nothing to do with his murder.”

  It might, if the letter shows that you or Peter knew about the Faberge egg that your father stole.

  “That should be up to the police to determine, Stephanie.”

  “Fine, Erin, you’ve made your point, more or less. I’ll give the letters to the authorities, on the ridiculously remote possibility that they actually give those dimwitted policemen helpful information.”

  My cell phone rang. It was a client, but I lied and said to Stephanie, “I’m sorry. This call is urgent. I’ll step outside and be right back.”

  I quickly handled my non-urgent scheduling change, then called Linda Delgardio. I told her about the letter and the missing pages from Helen’s album. She was letting me have my say, so I launched into my theory that the killings could be tied to George Miller’s theft of the Faberge egg. She cut me off and said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I ducked back inside. Sullivan promptly informed me, “We’re going with the apricot downstairs and are debating fabrics for the sectional.” His gaze was more intense than strictly necessary, letting me know that the subject of the letter was closed.

  The doorbell rang just as Stephanie, Sullivan, and I were wrapping up our meeting. Stephanie answered the door. It was Linda and Mansfield.

  Stephanie plastered on a smile. “Good afternoon, officers. Can I help you?”

  Linda said, “We’re following up on a report about your having possible evidence related to your brother’s death, Ms. Miller.”

  “Oh, are you?” Stephanie’s voice was calm. “Please come in.”

  “Miss Gilbert,” her partner said with a nod. Linda was taking in the room.

  “Erin,” she said with saccharine sweetness, “I was going to bring the letter to the police myself.”

  “That really isn’t something that can be done at your convenience,” Linda told her. “I would think you’d want to help with our investigation of your brother’s murder.”

  “Oh, I do. It’s just that I’m afraid you’ll misinterpret what’s written. You see, Erin, they don’t merely implicate my father, but Helen as well.”

  “I’m...stunned,” I muttered. And incredulous.

  “I’ll give show them to you, officers. Come with me.” She paused and turned toward Sullivan and me. “And, by the way,” she said gently, “Erin and Steve, you’re fired for good this time.”

  Chapter 24

  Home alone in the wake of our curt dismissal from Stephanie’s, I was desperate for distraction. Sullivan had cut off my explanations with a clipped: “I’ve got a client appointment to get to. Give me ninety minutes, then call me.” That was one phone call I was in no hurry to place. In retrospect, I felt guilty. I’d jumped the gun by notifying the police, and I shouldn’t have been reading Helen and Lois’s private correspondence.

  I paced in circles in Audrey’s sparkling kitchen as Hildi watched me from the colorful braided rug by the back door. I just didn’t feel up to calling a friend and going out. What I wanted to do was hear all about Audrey’s new granddaughter for a while and not have to think about my own problems. Nor about how furious Sullivan was with me. Audrey hadn’t called me, however, and I had no idea what time her flight was scheduled to arrive.

  What would be best for me now was to do something for someone else, so that I could remind myself that I was a good person. One who screwed up from time to time. It suddenly hit me that, last month, before she’d allowed herself to get waylaid with teaching herself how to knit, Audrey had been busily creating a “keepsakes storage box” for her soon-to-arrive grandchild. I’d loved that idea—much more so than her twenty-foot-long green scarf—and hadn’t wanted her to drop the project. Maybe I could help her pick up wherever she’d left off.

  I trotted up the stairs and entered her bedroom, where I’d last seen her spiriting away the box and its materials. It felt intrusive to be in her bedroom alone, not that she’d mind, just that it wasn’t something I normally did. I indulged myself with a deep breath of the warm air, redolent with Audrey-like aromas—her signature perfume mixed with her favorite potpourri. Her room boasted an eclectic blend of items from the many places she’d visited—a hand-woven basket from Australia, painted gourds from Kenya, a miniature gondolier in hand-blown glass from Venice, a Shoji screen from China. The room was a bit busy to the eye, but every item held a sentimental memory for her, and just knowing that fact made me smile. Her color palette, like her possessions, was all over the map, but the furniture was consistent and elegant—mission-style oak antiques.

  I quickly found the box—a sturdy, acid-free cardboard designed expressly for keepsakes—under her bed. It contained only the materials that Audrey was using to turn it into such a keepsake in its own right. As I’d remembered, she’d already completed two of the sides; I merely needed to duplicate the designs on their opposing sides.

  I brought the project downstairs to the kitchen and began to work. Though it pained me to do so, I cut up yet more gorgeous patterns out of fabulous sections of Belgian lace and Scalamandre wallpaper, used the same types and sizes of dried pressed flowers, and copied the tiny hearts and other adorable designs that she’d embossed into origami paper. The task was mind-numbingly intricate, exactly what I needed. Working with tweezers, I placed each item on the sticky side of translucent sheets of paper, always mindful of the fact that the top surface would become the backside when I pressed the paper against the cardboard.

  An hour or two later, I admired our joint handiwork and especially how, to my initial exasperation, Audrey had so carefully duplicated the exact pattern onto the one-inch sides of the lid, as well as on the hidden top inch of the box. Now that the work was complete, the extra effort felt worthwhile. The only unadorned surface was the top of the lid, but I wouldn’t dare to do that without her expressed consent and directives.

  Minutes later, while I was pouring myself a cup of Stress-Buster herbal tea, I heard the crunch of gravel as a car pulled into the separate garage. I rushed outside to help Audrey with her luggage.

  After we’d exchanged hellos, hugged each other, and I’d asked and she’d answered the mandatory question about how her flights were, I struggled with her enormous suitcase—unlike Helen, she had no problem whatsoever with my carrying it for her, and it was jam-packed and boasted an airline tag warning that read: Heavy. Bend your knees. I puffed, “So tell me all about your grandchild!”

  “Little Natalie Audrey Munroe? She’s absolutely magnificent! Oh, Erin! Having a grandchild is even better than having children! It’s so much less exhausting when you’re not the on
e giving birth.” She opened and held the door for me.

  “And another important distinction is...” Her voice drifted off as she spotted the box on the counter. “What’s all this?” she asked in happy awe. Beaming, she turned the box in a slow three-sixty, examining every fabulous inch.

  “I completed the sides for you. But I didn’t know what you wanted to do with the top, so I had to leave that blank for now.”

  “Thank you, Erin! It’s like you’re my personal team of elves, making all the shoes for me during the night!”

  “Well, not really. You still have the exact same number of shoes in your closet. And I haven’t given a moment’s thought to starting dinner.” Which reminded me: Sullivan should have been done with his meeting two hours ago, and I should have called him back.

  But I had Audrey’s tales of her grandchild’s birth to hear. Surely that took precedence. I could easily stall for another hour. Maybe two, if I could trick Audrey into repeating herself.

  “I’m putting a photograph of Natalie Audrey in the center of the box, and working out to the edges.” She turned on a heel and started to head outside again.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have absolutely got to go get my photographs printed. I’ll be back soon. If you don’t mind being an elf for one more minute, could you please take my suitcase up to my room? Thank you so much, dear!”

  With that, she was gone, leaving me to hunt for a new diversion on my own.

  Chapter 25

  I sat glumly at the black granite Caledonia counter, still trying to psych myself up for calling Sullivan. And still failing. The phone rang as I was staring at it, which made me jump a little. The moment I picked up, Sullivan said, “Is there a good reason why you couldn’t wait till tomorrow or so to turn Stephanie into the cops?”

  “She’d probably been hiding crucial evidence!” I cried, leaping to the defensive in spite of myself.

  “Or maybe it was private and personal correspondence that had nothing to do with the murders!”

  “Then why would she steal it from Helen’s house?” I fired back.

  “I don’t know, but if it was ‘crucial evidence’ that incriminated her, why wouldn’t she destroy it? Or turn it into the cops, if it identified her brother’s killer?”

  “Maybe because she was more concerned with protecting her father’s reputation than with actually finding her brother’s killer!”

  “Or maybe because she’s telling the truth! Because it wasn’t evidence to begin with! In any case, she said she was going to give the damned letter to the police, so why couldn’t you have waited and given her the chance to follow through? Why did you have to alienate an important client?”

  I had no response.

  “I’m waiting.”

  “For what? I happened to spot her scrapbook and saw that she’d stolen information from the murder scene. So I took the action of a responsible citizen: I notified the police. If, in the process, I lost a lucrative assignment for the two of us, I’m really sorry, Sullivan. But I did what felt like the right thing to do.” I rolled my eyes, disgusting myself with my own sanctimonious tone of voice. “And even if it was a mistake, it’s over and done with, and I can’t turn back the clock now.”

  The doorbell rang.

  Saved by the bell. “I have to go. Somebody’s at the door.” I hung up and rushed into the foyer and swung open the door. It was Sullivan. His face was practically glowing red with anger.

  “I hate cell phones,” I muttered. “Come on in. Unless you’d rather I join you on the porch so all my neighbors can listen in while you yell at me.”

  He stepped inside and closed the door. “I can handle the fact that you lost the account, Gilbert. What ticks me off is that you just do whatever you want without the slightest regard for the consequences.”

  “That is so not true!”

  “We were partners on this job. We were supposed to be watching each other’s backs, helping each other. You stumbled across this scrapbook evidence with me right there, but you don’t say one word about it. You simply barged ahead and called the police.”

  “Yes, I know. All of that happened just a couple of hours ago. I don’t need a recap. And I did it because, in the heat of the moment, I was afraid our client would destroy the evidence if I didn’t take action right away.”

  “Well, I haven’t heard any breaking news about an arrest, made thanks to your earth-shattering evidence. Have you? Oh, and Stephanie also fired us from working at Helen’s house, so we’re now out of two jobs.”

  I winced, but said quietly, “I think Helen will just assume our fees.”

  “There’s a relief,” he muttered sarcastically.

  “Helen loved the workroom. She might hire us to do that. And maybe Rachel will hire us to put one on her house.”

  “Great. Till you turn her in for...what was it again? Oh, yeah. Stealing porcelain figurines. And, by the way, I only learned about that because I happened to be there when Stephanie asked you about her brother’s getting caught red-handed.”

  “If I’m such a terrible—”

  Someone opened the back door, and I realized that Audrey had returned. “I’m back with my photos of the world’s most beautiful baby!” she announced, waltzing into the room. She beamed at Sullivan. “Oh, hello, Steve. This is a pleasant surprise. Did Erin tell you that I’m now officially become an utterly grand mother? I have photos to prove it!”

  Turning on the charm, Sullivan beamed at Audrey. “No, she didn’t. Congratulations! Let’s see these photos of yours right away.”

  The three of us shared the sofa in the parlor, Sullivan and me flanking Audrey as she showed us scores of snapshots of her new granddaughter, Natalie Audrey Munroe. Many of the photographs looked identical to me, but clearly they were unique in the eyes of a proud grandparent.

  Within the category of something new learned every day, it occurred to me that it was absolutely impossible to begrudge a man anything when he’s cooing over baby pictures. Steve’s entire visit might have ended happily, if only Audrey hadn’t said, while rising to put away her photos, “I’m going to get started on my own scrapbook for little Natalie Audrey. Which reminds me. How are things going with Helen? Are you two almost finished with her house?”

  Sullivan and I exchanged glances. His mood instantly darkened. “Not even close,” he answered. “With her nephew’s murder taking—”

  “Stop!” Audrey said. She slowly turned to face me. “Erin, please tell me I misheard just now. Helen’s nephew wasn’t murdered while I was in Kansas City, was he?”

  “I’m afraid so. In fact, Helen’s niece must have wanted to get the memorial service over with immediately, so it was held at noon today.”

  “This murder took place in Helen’s basement too,” Sullivan added.

  “And where is she now?” Audrey asked me solemnly.

  “She’s back in her house. She insisted.”

  “That’s insane! Two people, including her nephew, were murdered there! Why is she still living there? Why isn’t she in our guest room? At the very least, can’t you suggest that her niece pay for some nice hotel for her aunt to live in for a few weeks until this monster is behind bars?”

  “We’re not exactly on Stephanie’s good side, right now,” I replied quietly.

  “All Erin’s doing,” Sullivan grumbled.

  “What about Helen’s friend? Hasn’t Kay offered Helen a place to stay?”

  “They had a minor falling out.”

  “All Erin’s doing.” Sullivan was enjoying this.

  “Steve!” I cried. “Quit with the putdowns! I already apologized for the mess-up with Stephanie! Furthermore, Kay and Helen’s troubles aren’t really my fault.”

  “Except that they might not have argued if you hadn’t brought up the subject of Kay’s thefts in the first place. But on that note, I’d better leave.” Sullivan rose and turned on his full-wattage smile as he faced Audrey. “Congratulations again on the birth of your beautiful
and adorable granddaughter, Audrey.”

  “Thank you, Steve.”

  He gave her a peck on the cheek, fired a parting glare my way, and left.

  The instant the door closed on him, Audrey demanded, “Fill me in, Erin, starting from the night I left and ending at how things currently are with Helen.”

  A little more than an hour later, Audrey sought me out from my bedroom hideaway and announced, “Good news. I’ve figured out how to help undo whatever part of the squabble you caused by meddling in Kay and Helen’s friendship.”

  “I didn’t ‘meddle,’ Audrey.”

  “I’ve invited them both over for dinner tonight.”

  “And they accepted?”

  “Yes. They’ll both arrive in an hour, so we’ve got to get cooking. Oh, and by the way, Helen doesn’t know who else is coming yet. She sounded truly down in the dumps, so I didn’t want to mention Kay’s name. Once the two women get to talking on neutral grounds, they’ll patch up their differences.”

  “So you’re meddling in order to repair the rift that you think my meddling created?”

  “If that’s the way you choose to look at it. Frankly, though, to use an interior-design analogy, that’s a bit like using a wide brush to paint with all gloomy colors.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “Okay, Audrey. We’ll give this a try. And we’ll hope that Kay’s compulsive kleptomania doesn’t extend to when she’s at the homes of people she’s only just met.”

  “She was more than delighted to accept my invitation. That’s one of the benefits of being a local celebrity. Even people who barely know me think they do, having invited me into their homes every week via their television sets.”

  “That’s nice, Audrey.” I couldn’t resist adding, “Although in Kay’s case, the invitation has been accepted by a known shoplifter and possible murder suspect.”

  She grimaced a little. “True.” She rose to head toward the kitchen. “Well,” she said cheerfully, “as they say, nobody’s perfect.”