Killed by Clutter

by Leslie Caine

  “It wasn’t me. Peter must have been moving Lois’s things down into the basement the night he was killed. He probably felt he could search the room better that way.”

  My eye fell on an end table that had been cleared of debris. “What’s this?” I asked. The tabletop featured a lovely decoupage.

  “The table?”

  “Yes, it’s really unusual. Did you create the decoupage?”

  “No, Lois did. She started working on that just George died and we combined our households. I’m quite certain that Stephanie will want to take possession of it immediately. I’ll ask her, when she’s sober.”

  I stared at the tabletop. “It has what looks like an old handwritten letter to your late brother-in-law.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s a ‘Dear George’ letter.”

  “Is that your sister’s handwriting?” I asked, pointing at the lettering. The angular print bore little resemblance to that in the letters I’d found at Stephanie’s house. Most of the words were covered by a photograph.

  “No,” Helen said after studying the writing. “I don’t recognize it.”

  “This is a major long shot, but I wonder if it’s worth removing the varnish and the photograph to read the letter and its signature.”

  “So you want to remove the individual pieces from the decoupage? I don’t know how comfortable I am with your doing that. What if you destroy the table?”

  “I won’t destroy the table. Although I’ll have to try my best not to ruin any of the papers in the decoupage. I’ll make up a new one for you, if that happens.”

  Helen hesitated. “Oh, dear, Erin, I don’t know. Technically, because the table was her mother’s, it belongs to Stephanie now. We should probably ask her permission first.”

  “I’d really rather not mention this to her. Just in case this letter proves to contain something significant.”

  “Why shouldn’t I tell Stephanie? Do you think she’s behind the murders?”

  “I’m suspicious of everyone. Except you.”

  “That’s nice, dear. Thank you.” She paused. “I suppose it’s a sign that your life truly isn’t going well when you start thanking people for not suspecting that you’re a murderer.” She stared at the table, her brow furrowed. “All right. Go ahead and remove the decoupage. I suppose I should be trusting of your abilities. Just do the best you can putting the whole thing back together again afterwards.”

  “I will. I’ve done this sort of thing before. Do you know where Lois kept her decoupage supplies?”

  “She used to keep them in our bathroom, under the sink.”

  Helen left, and I went to work. Fortunately, Lois had used a “removable” varnish, which only required mineral spirits—also stashed under the bathroom sink—and lots of elbow grease to remove. After several minutes of careful archeologist-like varnish removal, I was able to get my fingernails underneath the edges of the photograph of Stephanie and Peter that had been covering most of the letter. I carefully peeled off the picture and found myself staring at a love letter.

  Chapter 27

  Dear George,

  I’m so blown away by the gift! An actual Faberge Egg! It’s all I’ve ever wanted in my life! You really DO love me! I know that one day soon we’ll be together. We’ll get out of our loveless marriages and be together for the rest of our lives. (And, my darling, your “bad ticker” is going to be just fine! It’s just the stress! Once you’re away from that shrew of a wife, your heart will mend!) Won’t that be wonderful? We’ll both finally be free!

  I hope you’ll think seriously about what I said last night. I know you’re too kind-hearted for your own good, but you’ll only be hastening the inevitable. If God had wanted her to live long, he wouldn’t have given her such lethal allergies. It pains me to think that she hid this Work of Art from you and the world for all these years. But, as you said yourself, that’s because you were destined to discover her safety-deposit box only after we’d met, so you could give it to the One who was Meant to cherish it—ME!

  Your One and Only,

  Rachel

  I reread the letter three times, trying to decide if I believed it was authentic. Or had someone had faked the whole thing and planted it here? Why hadn’t Lois taken this straight to the police?

  I silently answered my own questions, remembering Helen’s take on her sister, how protective Lois had been about her husband’s reputation for her children’s sake. She had probably discovered the letter after his fatal heart attack. Lois would have realized that Rachel wanted her dead, and yet she’d obviously managed to get the egg away from Rachel’s clutches. Then Lois had hidden it under her bed. How odd to think that such an obvious hiding place had eluded discovery.

  Helen had said Lois decorated this table shortly after she’d moved in. By working the letter into a decoupage, she was probably keeping the letter hidden from her children’s and Helen’s sight, and yet preserved so that she could produce it if she needed it as evidence to protect herself from Rachel, who’d urge George in the letter to hasten “the inevitable,” regarding Lois’s life-threatening allergies.

  I needed to take the letter to the police. Its wording certainly implicated Rachel Schwartz in Lois’s murder. Which was not to say that the police would agree that she had, indeed, been murdered. It certainly convinced me. I could easily envision Rachel discovering “her” egg was missing, realizing the “thief” was Lois, and seeking revenge after George’s weak heart gave out.

  Too anxious to take the care that I should, I worked the letter free, and picked up the phone to call the police. No dial tone. I checked the connection, which was fine. Lois must have had a private phone line, which Helen canceled after her sister’s death.

  I went into Helen’s bedroom, but she had no phone there; the phone jack behind the nightstand was unused. I trotted down the stairs to use my cell phone, bringing the letter with me.

  Just as I reached the bottom step, Rachel let herself into the house through the front door.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, hiding the letter behind my back.

  The alarm that registered on her features spoke volumes: She’d gotten a glimpse of the letter and no doubt immediately recognized her own handwriting and stationery. “Oh, hi, Erin. Goodness! You startled me! I thought you’d left with Helen and Kay.”

  “No, and you really need to leave.”

  “I apologize for overreacting earlier. And, also, I wanted to take a quick look at her porcelain dancers. I feel so guilty about taking them from her that I thought I’d see if I could surprise her by giving her one of mine, that Jack bought me. I just need to be sure it wasn’t a duplicate.”

  She was obviously lying. “I think it’d be best for you to leave,” I said firmly.

  She stepped toward me, wearing an odd little smile. “What’s that you’re hiding behind your back, Erin? It looks so much like my own handwriting.”

  “It’s just something from Lois. I was going to show it to Helen and see if she wanted to keep it in her scrapbook.”

  The color drained from her face. “Oh, my God. You found the letter I wrote to George. Lois told me she’d found it among his things after he passed away. I’ve been trying to find it ever since.” She took another step toward me, looking panic stricken. “You have to give that to me, Erin.”

  I took a step back.

  Dots of perspiration formed on her brow. “It’s not what you think, you know. It doesn’t prove anything, in any case. That letter doesn’t prove a single thing, Erin.”

  We were both unarmed, but I was nearly thirty years younger than she was and had utter confidence that I was stronger with faster reflexes. I said with confidence, “It proves that you took the Faberge egg from George. The one that he stole from the museum.”

  She shook her head. “He gave it to me. And Lois stole it out of my house.”

  “You were possessing stolen property.”

  “So was Lois! And I had it for a lot less time than she did! She kept it for
something like forty years!”

  “Is that why you killed her?”

  “Of course not! She had an accidental allergic reaction. She died of natural causes.” She was a lousy liar, unable to even meet my gaze.

  “You used your key to sneak into the house when Helen was gone, and you put green peppers into Lois’s meal and removed the epinephrine needles from the drawer. Then you came back over here and covered up your crime.”

  “That’s not true, Erin! I did no such thing! Not even the police think Lois was killed. She was an old lady with lethal allergies. She wasn’t going to live long! That was three full months ago! You’re going to wreck my life if you tell the police that! Haven’t I suffered enough? I’m a recent widow!”

  “After you killed her, though, you couldn’t find the egg. So you manipulated Peter into searching for it. And somehow you wound up feeling that you had to kill both him and your own husband. Why? Were you scared that they’d put it all together and turn you into the police?”

  “No! Stop it, Erin! I’m not going to let you give that letter to the police! They’ll put me in jail! And you can’t prove any of that!”

  She pivoted and raced over to the end table between the front door and the sofa, yanked the plug out of the socket for the table lamp, and picked up the lamp, baseball-bat style, just below its large shade. It was too awkward to make an imposing weapon. I’d have to be standing right next to her before she could hurt me with it. She unscrewed the cap holding the lampshade in place.

  “Rachel, put the lamp—”

  Just then, Teddy barged through the door. To my horror, he had his gun drawn. “Aha!” he cried. “I knew I’d catch the burglar in the act!”

  In a split second, Rachel whirled around and clocked Teddy in the forehead with the base of the lamp. The gun went off as he fell backwards. I instinctively threw my arm over my head and dived to the floor.

  When I raised my head, my ears were ringing, and the air reeked with the odor of gun smoke. Teddy had dropped the gun. I scrambled to my feet just as Rachel picked up the gun. She pointed it at me.

  “Stay right there, Erin,” Rachel cried. “Or I’ll shoot.”

  Chapter 28

  “You,” Rachel yelled at Teddy, gesturing wildly with the gun, while keeping an eye on me. “Move away from the doorway.”

  “Ow,” he moaned. He scooted over a few feet, and she kicked the door shut behind him.

  Teddy’s face was as pale as the white wall behind him. A small trickle of blood was beginning to run down his cheek from where one of the corners of the lamp base had dug into his flesh.

  He touched his wound with his fingertips and stared at the blood in horror. “I’m bleeding!”

  In an instant, Rachel Schwartz had transformed into a frightening and imposing adversary. She now looked every inch the tall, fit, athletic woman that she was. I could no longer assume that I could take her in a physical confrontation; I was younger, but she was ruthless and desperate. “Go stand next to Erin,” she commanded. “Now!”

  “I...can’t,” he protested, but he wobbled to his feet and staggered toward me nevertheless. In direct contrast to Rachel’s new-found strength and power, Teddy was a clear liability.

  “You can’t win, Rachel.” I spoke with more confidence than I felt. “There’s no way for you to get away with holding us hostage. The neighbors will have heard the gunshot. Somebody’s sure to have called the police already.”

  “You’re right,” she said coldly. “So I’m going to have to kill you both.”

  Teddy started to wail, “No, please, no!”

  I desperately searched my peripheral vision for a weapon of any kind. Nothing! Just old clothing and pillows! Fifty tons of junk in this house at one point, and the only semi-hard objects within reach were my shoes! “Shooting us will only give the police more deaths to charge you with. They’ll lock you away forever.”

  Teddy let out a little moan, then collapsed beside me.

  Rachel sneered as she looked at his motionless body. “I’ll frame him. Murder suicide. I already set that up by poisoning the chocolates.”

  My heart was in my throat. My brain screamed at me to run. But turning my back would surely only make it easier for her to pull the trigger.

  Her hands were trembling as she aimed at me. My forehead felt as damp as hers looked. Her eyes were wild.

  “No, Rachel,” I pleaded. “Don’t put two more murders on your conscience.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “This is all Helen’s fault! I still can’t find my precious egg, thanks to her! And Lois couldn’t tell me where she’d hidden it, kept calling Helen’s name as she died. All she had to do was tell me where it was, and I’d have given her the emergency injection and saved her!”

  My own eyes misted at how horrid a death Lois had endured. Though I held my tongue, I was sure Rachel would have let her die, rather than go to prison for attempted murder and surrender the egg in the process. Lois had probably realized as much.

  Tears ran unabated down her cheeks. “Helen made me kill my own poor husband! He wanted to leave me for her. It was only a matter of time. I couldn’t kill her till I got my egg back, so I tried to frame her for Jack’s murder. And that worthless Peter! He tried to cut me out! Thanks to you, he’d started to suspect that I killed his pathetic mother. And he wouldn’t ever have given me the egg once he knew. Not that he could find it. That idiot couldn’t find his own nose, let alone a priceless Faberge egg!”

  We both flinched as we heard Helen and Kay’s voices on the walkway. I cursed in silence. Momentarily they would get ensnared in this, too.

  “Time’s run out,” Rachel said. “Tell me right now, Erin! Where’s my egg?”

  I had to stall, give her some reason to keep us alive. “Helen hid it in her car.”

  Helen opened the door. Standing right next to the door, Rachel pivoted toward the entrance, gun in hand. I yelled, “Run, Helen! Get the police!” I dived at Rachel’s knees, knocking her flat.

  She lost her grip on the gun, which skittered across the square of oak parquet flooring in front of the door. I tried to scramble over top of her to reach the gun.

  She elbowed me in the face. The blow connected solidly with my cheekbone. I saw stars, but grabbed her wrist, wrenching it back toward me. She shrieked in pain. We both lunged at the gun, but it was right by the doorway, and Helen grabbed it first.

  Kay edged her way inside behind Helen, looking terrified, but she made her way to Helen’s side, saying, “What in the world....”

  With a steady, two-fisted grip, Helen pointed the gun at Rachel, where she remained sprawled on the floor, panting and sobbing as I got my knees under me. I grabbed both of Rachel’s wrists and held them handcuff style behind her back. “Someone get me a rope! Kay, Helen, I need something to bind her wrists.”

  “No,” Rachel desperately moaned. “It was Teddy. And...and Erin’s been helping him.”

  “Oh, baloney,” Teddy said from behind me. He’d gotten to his feet. “I’ll take the gun now,” he said to Helen, full of false bravado to the last. “I’ve been pretending to have passed out. Just until I could make my move and rescue you. It’s an advanced hand-to-hand combat technique.”

  “Kay,” I wheezed, feeling as though the whole left side of my face had been kicked in by Rachel’s blow, “call nine-one-one.”

  I realized just then that sirens in the distance were growing louder. “Never mind. They’re on the way.” Somebody in the neighborhood who’d heard the gunshot must have called.

  Kay was staring at Teddy as if transfixed. “Oh, you poor thing,” she said. “What happened to your head?

  “Rachel clobbered me.”

  “You’re bleeding pretty bad. We need a bandage to close the wound.”

  “Yeah, I, uh….” He touched his fingers to the blood. Then he fainted just as the police pulled up to the curb.

  Chapter 29

  Over the course of the next several days, the shiner that I’d gotten during my
struggle with Rachel had faded into a yellowish green, which could be hidden beneath makeup. I’d heard from Linda that Rachel had given a full confession and was in jail, although Linda suspected that she and her lawyer were mounting some sort of “diminished capacity” defense strategy.

  A day or two after the arrest, I’d been fine, feeling proud of my active role in getting Helen’s tormentor put behind bars and relieved that the whole ordeal was finished. I’d even brandished my facial bruises as though they were a badge of honor. Then I’d lost my sparkle. This morning, I’d unexpectedly grown fearful as I entered a prospective client’s house. The floor plan had been similar to Helen’s, and I’d gotten too jumpy to think straight when I came down the stairs and caught sight of their front door. In my mind’s eye, I saw Rachel standing there with a handgun. I’d been forced to claim that I was feeling ill and bolted from the house.

  Now all I wanted to do was to stay curled up on the sage velvet sofa, clinging to Hildi on my lap. My cat had apparently taken such great pity on me that she didn’t mind be held a little too close for her usual comfort level.

  Audrey was in the wingback chair, knitting with limited success. In the corner of my vision, I could see her looking at me as if pained by the sight. “I’ll be all right eventually, you know,” I told her. “I just need to get my feet back under me. That’ll happen sooner or later.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m vexed about these booties, not you. I figure if I can’t knit booties, I can at least knit my brow.”

  She set her needles down, studied my features, and exclaimed with exasperation, “Doesn’t that pun at least warrant a smile?”

  I mustered a half smile. “Sorry. It was very clever.”

  She sighed. “You were right about this yarn, I’m afraid. I should have gotten the kind you recommended...that was half pink and half blue.” She’d insisted that making pink booties for a girl was “too predictable” and that she’d wanted her grandchild to “celebrate her masculine and feminine qualities equally.” Or some such ilk. In any case, she was creating half pink and half blue booties.