Coming Unclued

by Judith Jackson

  “Hard to believe you weren’t close.”

  “Meals on Wheels!” I said. “On weekends she delivered Meals on Wheels.”

  The doorbell rang, interrupting my reverie about Annette.

  “The doorbell,” I squealed. “Where do I hide?”

  “You’re not hiding,” said Julie firmly. “No more of this. If it’s the police you’re surrendering. Got it?”

  The doorbell rang again, followed by a thumping on the door.

  “I’m coming,” yelled Julie, rushing out of the room.

  I followed her down the hall, staying well back so I couldn’t be seen from the front door. Why were the police so convinced I’d be hiding out at Julie’s house? I slumped against the wall as I heard Julie open the front door.

  “Rose, hello,” she said.

  Rose? What was she doing here?

  “I’m coming to help out,” said Rose. “I haven’t heard from Val since the funeral. She’s not answering her cell phone. Figured you could use my expertise.”

  “What makes you think she’s here?” asked Julie.

  “Of course she’s here. Where else would she be?” asked Rose.

  Where indeed?

  “Hi Rose,” I said, coming into the living room.

  “Stay away from the windows,” Rose said. “There might be snipers out there. You were supposed to call me.”

  “Snipers?”

  “There’s no snipers,” said Julie. “Honestly. You only killed one man. That doesn’t warrant a SWAT team.”

  “Allegedly killed.”

  “So what’s happening?” asked Rose, settling herself down on the couch. “Where do we stand? Any progress? What are you doing lounging around in your housecoat?” she demanded, fixing me with a cold stare. “Think you’re at a spa or something?”

  “I was just going to get dressed,” I told her. “Julie and I were discussing strategy.”

  “Well hop to it,” said Rose. “We’re burning daylight here.”

  Ten minutes later I was dressed in black elastic-waist pants and a black crewneck sweater and sitting in the living room with Rose and Julie.

  “Here’s what I think,” said Rose, after hearing about Annette. “Julie and I go to see her and you hang back. We’ll get the goods on her. What are we thinking? Crime of passion?”

  It was impossible for me to think about passion when contemplating either Mr. Potter or Annette so I ignored Rose’s comment. “I need to be there somehow. I’ll know what to ask her.”

  “No,” said Julie. “Too dangerous. I’ll go see her.”

  “That’s right,” said Rose. “Too dangerous. We’ll go see her.”

  “How will you get in?” I asked. “Annette’s no fool.”

  We all sat in silence for a moment, contemplating this.

  “Do we even know where she lives?” asked Julie.

  “Midtown somewhere,” I said. “So she could be close to work. And I know her phone number. I had to call her at home if I was sick or going to be late.”

  “So no wonder you have it committed to memory,” said Julie.

  “Here’s what we’re doing,” said Rose. “You don’t have a little something sweet do you Julie? Nothing special. Maybe a chocolate covered digestive?”

  “I have some nice sugar cookies.”

  “Perfect. I’ll talk loud so you can hear me while you’re getting them. Okay, she likes the Brits and she delivers Meals on Wheels. Nice of her, don’t you think, doing that in her free time? Anyways — you — Julie can you hear me? Julie, you’re going to call her. You’re going to say she’s getting an award of merit or something from Meals on Wheels and we need to see her to discuss the ceremony. What do you think?”

  Julie put the tin of cookies down on the coffee table.

  “Sure. I could do that.”

  “Okay. Call her. Let’s get this train a rollin’.” Rose leaned over and selected a snowman. “Nice,” she said, holding it up. “Very true to life.” She bit off the head and chewed for a moment. “Lord. You made these? The bottom of my boot has more taste to it.” She took another bite. “No offense.”

  Julie ignored Rose and turned to me. “What’s her number? Let’s get moving. For all we know the police are circling the house.”

  “Do you know what you’re going to say?”

  “I’ll tell her about the award. See if I can interview her today. I’ll wing it. I’m good at improv.”

  I picked up the phone, punched in Annette’s number and handed it over to Julie. “Remember, accentuate the British. That’ll lure her in.”

  Julie waited a moment, listening and then, “Good morning,” she said, in an accent that made Queen Elizabeth’s seem folksy. “Would this be Annette Maxwell? Oh, splendid. Just splendid. I’m Margaret Spenser from the Meals on Wheels magazine. (pause) Yes we actually do. A darling little periodical we’ve just started up. (pause) Oh we’re very small. The reason I’m ringing you is we’d like to do a wee article on you. Each issue we’re doing a segment on one of our valued volunteers. (pause) Oh, well, we’ve heard such good things about you. You were a unanimous choice. Would it be possible to pop by today? We don’t want to miss our publication deadline. (pause) That would be perfect. (pause) A spot of tea would be lovely. Splendid. And you are still at — oh, I’m sorry — this office is a tip. I seem to have misplaced your address. (pause) Perfect. Thanks so much. We’ll be there in time for elevensies. Cheers.” Julie hung up the phone. “I may have overdone it. But I got her address.”

  “Does anyone besides Paddington Bear say elevensies?” I asked.

  Julie shrugged. “She seemed to buy it. We’re in.” She looked at Rose. “She’s making us a spot of tea and a biscuit.”

  Rose put down what was left of her snowman. “Good. You forgot something from these. The flavor for sure.”

  “I’ll going to go warm up the car,” said Julie, “and when you’re sure no one is looking you can both hustle out. Val, you’ll have to scrunch down in the back.” She looked me over with a critical eye. “What are you wearing for a coat? Not that fermenting fur.” Without waiting for an answer she handed me a black overcoat of Andrew’s. “Warm and boring. It’ll help you to blend. Maybe some glasses —you still look too much like yourself. She walked briskly into the kitchen. “I’ll get you an old pair of Andrew’s glasses.”

  “I don’t know what she means by hustle,” protested Rose. “My hustling days are long gone.”

  “Here,” said Julie, handing me the glasses. “They’re reading glasses. Shouldn’t throw you off too much. Put them on.”

  I put on the glasses and took a look at myself in Julie’s hall mirror. “Jesus, all this black and the short hair and the glasses. I look like a red-headed Harry Potter. The one in the book, not the deceased.”

  “If Harry Potter from the book had a mustache,” said Rose.

  “What?” I screeched, peering at myself in the mirror. “Julie, do I have a mustache?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Nothing you’d notice from a trotting horse,” said Julie, glancing at me as she headed out the door.

  “My God,” I said, running my finger over my upper lip. “I haven’t had any time for routine maintenance. Easy for Julie to say don’t worry,” I grumbled. “Andrew would happily braid her facial hair and then tell her how nice she was looking.”

  “Oh well,” said Rose. “Time enough for a clean up once they take your poster down from the post office.”

  “I have a mustache!”

  “Only faint,” said Rose. “You haven’t reached the billy goat stage. When the paper says Bearded woman wanted for murder then you should worry. Right now it’s the least of your problems.”

  I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. She was right. Needing a pruning was the least of my many problems.

  “Lord only knows what your legs look like though,” said Rose. “Maybe you’ve got a hormone imbalance.”

  CHAPTER 27

  I scrunched down in the back seat of th
e car while Julie maneuvered through the heavy, even for Toronto, Christmas traffic. Getting information out of Annette wasn’t going to be easy. She might be humorless and uptight but she was definitely smart. If she knew anything about Mr. Potter’s murder or had actually done the deed herself she was hardly going to slip up and spill the beans to Julie and Rose.

  “Annette is highly intelligent,” I hollered from my awkward position, scrunched up on the floor. “She’s not going to be easy to break.”

  “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve,” said Rose.

  The only thing Rose had up her sleeve were old Kleenexes.

  “If she’s got anything to hide we’ll get it out of her. Don’t you worry. How you doing back there?” called Rose.

  “Fine,” I answered, trying to be as stoic as possible under the circumstances. When this was all over I wanted people to remember me as someone who had exhibited grace under pressure. Grace under pressure, that is, until Julie slammed on the brakes and I smashed into the back of the driver’s seat.

  “Sorry,” yelled Julie. “Almost hit a bike courier.”

  “Well I almost peed myself! Take it easy.”

  “My friend Beatrice — did you ever meet her?” asked Rose. “She had the worst problem with peeing herself. Got so she couldn’t even laugh without having a tinkle. She’s in diapers full time now. Take it from me — practice your Kinkels.”

  “Kiegals,” said Julie.

  “I’ve had a lot of liquid,” I said. “What about Annette? How exactly are we going to find out what she knows?”

  “We’re going to break her through the careful escalation of penetrating interrogation,” said Julie. “I can taste that Chicken Chow Mein already.”

  My back was getting so cramped that I decided to get off the floor and curl up on the back seat.

  “Stay down,” hissed Julie. “What we are doing here is incredibly stressful. The sweat is literally trickling down my back I’m so nervous.”

  “Take a deep breath,” said Rose. “Do you want me to drive?”

  “Thank you, no,” said Julie.

  “I didn’t know you drove,” I commented to Rose.

  “Haven’t driven a car in a long time, but I could do it in a pinch,” she responded. “Must have been forty years ago, I was up in Creemore visiting my sister and smacked into a pig on one of those dirt roads. I was pretty shaken up. Seeing that sweet little curly tail lying there on the ground did me in. Haven’t been behind the wheel since. Put me off pork for a while too.”

  “We’re almost there,” said Julie. “I’ll be fine.”

  A few minutes later we pulled to a stop. I peaked out the window to see we were on a wide leafy street full of large brick homes. Why did everyone I worked with live so much better than me?

  “A spot right in front of the house,” said Julie with satisfaction.

  “So what’s happening?” I asked. “Am I just going to lie here while you go in? How will you know what to ask her?” I lay on the seat, staring out the back window at the blue sky, considering all the options.

  “Here’s the plan,” I said. “Julie you call me and leave your cell on in your pocket so the line is open and I can hear what’s going on. I will whistle into my phone if I have something important to tell you and you can go into the bathroom or something to talk to me. How does that sound to you?”

  “You don’t think this highly intelligent woman is going to wonder why there is a whistling sound coming from my pocket?”

  “Tell her it’s the ring tone to your phone. Whatever. You’re British. She’s expecting eccentric. Hoping for it probably.”

  Julie leaned back against the headrest with a dramatic sigh. “Okay,” she said. “I am now calling you.”

  My phone rang and I reached into Andrew’s coat pocket.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” said Julie. “I’m up here in the front seat.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said into the phone.

  “Rose and I are going in now.”

  “Thanks for keeping me updated.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Julie. “Rose you ready?”

  “Rarin’ to go,” said Rose in a cheery voice. “I always wanted to try acting.”

  “This is my life!” I snapped. “My life is on the line. Try to remember that.”

  “Honestly Val,” said Rose. “Watch your temper. I’m missing aquafit for this excursion. Show a little gratitude.”

  The doors slammed and I was alone in the car, staring at the ceiling and holding the cell phone like a lifeline. A blanket would have been nice. Julie was recklessly unprepared for a Canadian winter.

  “Roger One can you hear me?” asked Julie.

  “I can hear you,” I yelled into the phone. “Remember to be very British and very nosy. This might be our last chance.”

  “Roger that,” said Julie. “Over and out.”

  At this point she was clearly humoring me, putting in time until I finally gave up and surrendered to the police. And who could blame her? I could hear the sound of one of them rapping on Annette’s door. “C’mon,” Rose said. “I’m freezing my butt off out here.” Not a good start. Frozen butt talk wasn’t going to loosen Annette up. I could hear the faint sound of the door being opened.

  “Hello,” said Julie. “Miss Aylward ? Such a pleasure. I hope we’re not late. The traffic was simply ghastly. I’m Margaret Spenser and this is my colleague, Helen (pause) Keeler.”

  Helen Keeler. Honestly.

  “Won’t you come in?” I heard Annette say. The car was getting cold. It would soon be colder inside the car than it was outside. “I have tea set out for us,” said Annette.

  “You shouldn’t have,” protested Julie.

  “It was nothing. Just a few cucumber sandwiches and a sponge.”

  “A sponge?” said Rose. “I hope that tastes better than it sounds.”

  “So good of you,” said Julie. “I’m just knackered. All this Christmas rushing about. A spot of tea and a slice of sponge would be simply splendid right now.”

  A spot of tea did sound splendid right now. Something to warm me up.

  “Oh my, what a lovely room.” I heard Julie say. “And look at all those spoons. Gracious. What an impressive collection.”

  “I’ve been collecting them for thirty-five years,” said Annette. “They’re my passion.”

  Collectible spoons were her passion?

  “Delightful,” said Julie.

  “Simply divine,” said Rose. “I collect knives myself. Do you have any interest in those?”

  “No — just the spoons. Won’t you sit down?” asked Annette. “Sally, move over. I’m so sorry, the cats think they own the place.”

  “No bother,” said Julie. “I adore cats. How many do you have?”

  Julie does not adore cats.

  “Just the four,” said Annette. “Sally here, and Beatrix — you won’t meet her, she’s terribly shy. And Angus and Ivy.”

  A cat hoarder. I knew it!

  “Tea?” said Annette. “And a slice of sponge?”

  There were murmurs of assent and the sound of cups and spoons tinkling.

  “I don’t see any pictures of a husband,” said Rose. “Single are you?”

  “Yes, I’m a spinster,” said Annette with a little laugh that said, ‘Of course I’m not really what you would call a spinster.’

  “Ahh,” said Rose. “An old maid. Good for you.”

  Good for you. What did that mean?

  “We’re so happy,” said Julie, “to have the opportunity to talk with you. We so much want to celebrate our wonderful volunteers who give so much of themselves. Oh my, this sponge is gorgeous.”

  Was Annette really falling for this? Gorgeous?

  “You’re so kind,” said Annette.

  She was falling for it.

  “Perhaps we should get down to this,” said Julie. “We don’t want to take up too much of your time. I’m sure you’re very busy.”

  “Take as mu
ch time as you need,” said Annette. “I’ve recently retired so I’m a free woman. Nothing but time from now on.”

  “Retired you say? Was that a sudden thing?” said Rose. “And just let me say this sponge really is gorgeous. Not at all what I expected. Delightful. You must give me the recipe.”

  “Retired?” asked Julie, clearly trying to take control of the conversation. “Retired from what may I ask? Our volunteers come from all walks of life as you can imagine.”

  “I was an executive assistant,” replied Annette. “To a wonderful man. Harold Potter? You may have seen him in the paper. Murdered. Horrible.”

  Excellent. What an opening. Keep digging.

  “I could do with another piece of that sponge,” said Rose.

  Sponge? That’s what she was thinking about?

  “I did hear about that,” said Julie, in a firm voice. “Terrible. I hear they’ve accused one of the secretaries.”

  “Secretary!” said Annette in a voice imbued with contempt. “Hardly. She did a bit of data entry, some photocopying, nothing of any importance and nothing very well. A complete incompetent. Sally here could have done the job better than she did.”

  “I know the type,” said Rose. “A real slacker. Every office has one. So you figure she did kill him?”

  “Of course she did. I’m not a bit surprised. Everyone knew there was something not right about her. The only surprise was that Harry was at her apartment in the first place. I can’t imagine what he was thinking.”

  “You know men,” said Rose. “Always drawn to the trashy ones. Marry the Madonna and cheat with the whore.”

  “Were they having some kind of relationship?” asked Julie. “I was under the impression he was a married man.”

  “Married!” said Annette in a scornful voice. “If you can call it that. He did have a wife, that’s true.”

  “Well that’s what they usually mean by married,” said Rose. “What exactly was your relationship with the deceased? Anything special going on there?”

  My God she was terrible at this. Had she learnt nothing from all those mysteries she read?