While Mort took inventory in the kitchen, I sat down on the loveseat. There was no desk in the room, but on the coffee table in front of me was a large green lacquered box. I lifted the lid and was surprised to find several stacks of envelopes arranged by date and secured with rubber bands. Matilda Swift didn’t get much mail, I thought, if she was able to keep it in a decorative box. I flipped through the envelopes and contemplated opening some. I suffered a natural reluctance to read someone else’s mail. I certainly wouldn’t want strangers going through my papers and personal items. But, I reminded myself, this is an unusual circumstance. A killer was at large. Were Matilda Swift able to speak for herself, I was sure she’d tell us she wanted her killer found and brought to justice.
I examined the mail. The pieces were mostly bank statements and invoices that she’d marked “paid” in a bold hand. They included her rent and utility bills, telephone, life insurance and cable television. In the “to be paid” pile, there was a bill from Charles Department Store for gardening supplies, and another from a local market for groceries, but nothing from credit card companies. The mail was evidence of a modest life, and I wondered if she’d always lived that way. I pulled out one envelope and put it in my pocket. Drawing papers from one of the statements, I scanned the column of figures. The accompanying cashed checks corresponded to the bills I’d already seen. I replaced the statement in the pile and pulled out the next one. I continued reading until Mort emerged from the kitchen.
“Find anything?” he asked, leaning over the back of the loveseat to see what was in my hand.
“I may have,” I replied, lifting up a statement I’d put aside. “See this bank charge?”
“Ayuh.”
“It’s for a safe-deposit box. Did you find any keys in the kitchen?”
“Didn’t see any. You think they’d be there?”
“There’s no table in the hall, so my guess is she’d keep her keys in the kitchen.”
We trooped into the kitchen and went to a four-drawer cabinet.
“Already checked these,” he said. “Guess it won’t hurt to look again.”
The top drawer held flatware and a few small utensils. The one beneath it was filled with basic kitchen paraphernalia—knives, spatulas, wooden spoons and the like. Drawers three and four were occupied respectively by potholders and dish towels, boxes of plastic garbage and storage bags, aluminum foil, plastic wrap and wax paper. We examined the contents of each drawer carefully—no keys.
“Everyone I know has a junk drawer in the kitchen,” I said, “or some other box or container for all the little things you want to keep but don’t know where to put.”
“Maureen keeps coupons and thumbtacks and extra keys, stuff like that, in a big cookie jar.”
We both eyed a white china canister on the counter. Mort flipped the latch that held it closed and peered inside. Smiling, he reached into it and withdrew a large chocolate chip cookie. “Want one?” he asked. “Maureen’s got me on a diet.”
“I’ll pass,” I said, methodically opening and closing the kitchen cabinets, not sure what I was looking for. In a tall, narrow pantry were several more canisters matching the cookie jar. I picked one up, shook it, and looked inside. Tea bags. The next one rattled when I pulled it off the shelf. I grabbed a dish towel from the third drawer, laid it on the countertop and tipped the canister contents onto it.
“Why’d you need a dish towel?” Mort asked, standing next to me at the counter.
“So nothing will roll away,” I responded, looking over my cache. There were a few keys, empty key rings, magnets advertising local shopkeepers, a child’s yo-yo, an old screwdriver, six pennies, some folded brown paper and a leaky pen. Trying unsuccessfully to avoid getting ink on my fingers, I picked out three keys from the collection. Two were of the old-fashioned skeleton key variety; the third looked like it might fit the front door lock. No safe-deposit box key. I picked up the brown paper and carefully unfolded it. It was half of a tiny envelope. The letters “ANK” were stamped in black ink.
“I think we’ve found where the key may have been, but it’s not here now,” I said, handing the torn envelope to him and refilling the canister.
Mort stared at the envelope. “She had a couple of keys in her pocket the night she was killed. I bagged them and put them in the evidence file.”
“If one of them is a safe-deposit box key, will you have trouble convincing the bank to open the box for you?”
“Don’t know for sure. I’ll have to get a judge to agree.”
“That could take some time,” I said.
“No. Judge Kaplan’ll issue the order pretty quick, it being a murder investigation.”
“If it’s the key,” I reminded him.
“I’ll give Marie a call at the station and have her look in the evidence closet.”
Marie Poutre was one of Mort’s deputies, and pretty much ran headquarters for him. Not only was she highly organized, she was the best-read cop I’d ever met, including every text book available on police procedure and investigations. She consumed dozens of murder mysteries every month, including mine, and I’d developed such respect for her knowledge and insight that I’d established a routine of giving her a copy of my manuscripts for her evaluation of how I’d handled police procedural matters.
While Mort made his call, I pulled a small garbage pail from beneath the sink and peered into it. It was virtually empty, just a few pieces of wadded-up paper towel, no scraps of food. I pushed the paper towel aside, saw something else, reached in and extracted a cigar stub that had been extinguished with water, probably held beneath a faucet. Cuban? Impossible for a nonsmoker to tell without the cigar band.
“Mort,” I called, straining to hear if he was off the phone, “come look at this.”
“Yup. Coming,” he said, stepping into the room.
“Do you think Matilda smoked cigars?”
He laughed. “Not likely.”
“I found this in the trash.”
As he placed the stub in a small plastic evidence bag, I washed my hands and went into Matilda’s bedroom. The same air of country elegance that made the living room so inviting was also evident there. Pastel stripes and solids with the occasional plaid created a restful feeling. A cherry four-poster dominated the room, with matching cabinets flanking the bed, serving as both nightstands and dressers. In one corner a chaise with an afghan thrown across the back was positioned next to a window. In the other corner was a standing oval mirror tilted slightly on its axis.
A residue of white fingerprint powder clung to the front of the cabinet drawers, contrasting with the silky deep red wood. I was still drying my hands and used the dish towel to open the drawers. I leaned against the side of the bed and studied the jumble that had been Matilda’s clothing. Mort joined me.
“When the officers dusted for fingerprints, did they conduct a search of the premises as well?” I asked him.
“Nope. That’s what we’re here for.”
“Look at these drawers,” I said. “We just came from an immaculate kitchen and tidy living room. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that someone who would be so neat in one part of her house would treat her clothing like this?” Every drawer was partially open. “Would your men have left them open?”
“Absolutely not,” he said. “Aside from the state cops dusting for prints, this cottage was off-limits until I got here this morning. Nothing was searched last night, including those drawers or the closet. I was just getting set to take a look at them.”
“Well, Mort, if I were a gambler, I’d wager that Matilda Swift’s drawers have been searched, either between the time of the murder and now, or before she died—maybe just before she died.”
I eyed her closet door. “Let’s take a look in there,” I said, moving across the room and using the dish towel to turn the knob. The clothes hanging on the rod had been roughly pushed to one side, and several hangers had tumbled to the floor along with the skirts and jackets they held, some covered by pl
astic film from a dry cleaning establishment.
“Either someone has been here before us,” I speculated, “or Matilda caught someone searching this room.”
“The killer?”
“Possibly. She might have run outside for help.”
I shivered, remembering how much I looked like Matilda Swift in my Legend costume. Was she fighting for her life while I, her double, was eating and drinking at a party? I preferred not to think about it.
“Oh, did you reach your dispatcher?”
“I did. She checked the evidence envelopes, says there’s a small key looks to her like it would fit a bank safe-deposit box.”
“That’s good news,” I said. “When are you going to take it to the bank?”
“This afternoon, after I talk to Paul Marshall. I suppose you’d like to come along.”
“As a matter fact, I would. Okay with you?”
“Always is. I already checked the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and the closet in the front hall, so looks like we’ve given this place a pretty good going-over.”
“I want to take a look around outside,” I said.
“You go ahead, Mrs. F. I’ll go through those drawers again. You’ve got me thinking.”
“Oh, Mort, I almost forgot,” I said, pulling out the envelope I’d tucked in my pocket earlier. I handed it to him. “This is a bill from her life insurance company. You probably should find out who her beneficiary is.”
“Good idea, Mrs. F.”
I stood in front of the Rose Cottage and looked up at the sky. It had a winter look to it, slate gray and cold, unforgiving. I wished I’d dressed more warmly, added another layer. My arms wrapped about myself, I scanned the five-foot-high brick wall against which award-winning roses burst forth in spring and summer. The mulch Artie Sack had laid down was perfectly edged and mounded, which didn’t surprise me. Each time he did work at my house, I was always impressed with how meticulous he was. Nothing was ever out of place, every flower bed edged with a sharp, precise line, my few climbing rose bushes tied neatly to their trellises, the twist ties all secured with the same number of turns and tucked out of sight.
The spray-paint outline of Matilda Swift’s body was still vivid on the ground, and I gave it a wide berth as I walked along the wall and took a look behind the cottage. There was nothing back there except her long black car parked beneath the graceful boughs of a tall elm tree. I peered inside the car and saw it was locked. I also observed that there wasn’t anything in the vehicle that shouldn’t be there, no empty drinking cup or loose change or stray piece of clothing. Neat, like the cottage, except for the drawers and closet in her bedroom.
I came back around to the front of the cottage and looked across the expanse of lawn to a small barn three hundred feet or so from where I stood. I headed for it, walking slowly, looking left and right in search of . . . in search of nothing specific. To my right and up a rolling hill were the small cemetery and Paul Marshall’s baronial mansion standing staunch and impenetrable in the gray morning light, the scene of such gaiety the previous night, now a somber symbol of murder that had occurred within shouting distance of the party-goers.
As I came closer to the barn, I saw that Artie Sack was in front of it. He was busy with a task, although I couldn’t determine what it was from my vantage point. When I was only a few yards from him, he realized I was there and looked up from the scythe he was sharpening with a whetstone. He jumped and looked around as though he wanted to bolt.
“Hello, Artie,” I said pleasantly.
“Hello Mrs. Fletcher, Hello Mrs. Fletcher.” He averted his eyes and went back to sharpening the long, curved scythe.
“Terrible what happened to Matilda Swift last night. Did you know her well?”
“I work for Mr. Paul. Mr. Paul is good to me, good,” he mumbled.
“I’m sure Paul Marshall appreciates what a fine gardener you are. Did Matilda Swift also appreciate your rose garden?”
Artie shuffled his feet, still holding the huge scythe upright. “She was a nice lady, nice lady. She liked to garden, too.” He looked across the lawn toward the roses, then ducked his head and began drawing the stone across the blade again.
“Sheriff Metzger and I have been looking around the Rose Cottage,” I said. “Have you found anything unusual around here this morning?”
“Unusual? No ma’am, no ma’am.”
I took a few steps toward the door of the barn, but Artie dropped the scythe and grinding stone to the ground and stepped in front of me.
I looked at him quizzically.
“Nothing in there, Mrs. Fletcher. You’ll get yourself all dirty, all dirty.”
“I am used to getting dirty, Artie. A little dirt on the hands is honest. What do you keep in here?”
“Just tools, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Well, thanks for worrying about me, but I’ll be fine.” When he realized I intended to enter the barn, he lowered his head and trudged back to his scythe.
Strange, I thought. He really didn’t want me to go in. I opened the door and allowed my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Slim rays of light came through gaps in the barn’s siding, painting jagged patterns over the walls and dirt floor.
I stepped inside. To the rear of the barn was a tractor, two commercial-sized power mowers and a few carts used to move gardening supplies around the estate. An old milk crate on the floor just to my right held a pile of rags; they were obviously dirty but folded neatly all the same. Behind the crate, stacked to the ceiling against the wall, was firewood, as neatly arranged as the tools hanging on the opposite wall. I went to the tools and looked closely at a few of them. There were shovels of various shapes and sizes, rakes, edging tools, hedge clippers, gardening trowels and other implements you’d expect to find. Pairs of garden gloves, arranged by size, nestled in a basket hanging from a hook.
I couldn’t help but shake my head and smile at the meticulous care Artie took with everything. The tools were wiped clean and oiled, not a shred of grass or dirt on any of them. I was about to turn and leave when one of the shovels, a long-handled model with a pointed blade, caught my eye. It was even cleaner than the others, its blade gleaming as though it had just been polished. Keeping tools clean was one thing, but polishing a shovel? That seemed to carry things a little too far, even for someone as orderly as Artie Sack.
I pulled a pair of gloves from the basket, put them on, and took the shovel from the wall. The business end was without blemish. But when I looked more closely at the juncture where the wooden handle joined the metal blade, there was a trace of something there. It’s probably rust, I told myself. I’m no forensic scientist, but still, I wondered, could that rust be blood?
Now where did I see those rags? I replaced the shovel on the wall and went to where the milk crate was placed near the open door. Still wearing the gloves, I reached down and picked up what had once been a white cloth and sniffed it—distinctly oil and gasoline. I perused others until I reached a rag whose rust-colored stains had not originated with oil or gas. Again, blood came to mind.
I replaced the gloves where I’d found them and left the barn. Artie was nowhere about, but the sharpened scythe was leaning against the side of the barn. Mort was just finishing up at the Rose Cottage when I walked in. “Mort,” I said, “I’d like you to come with me.”
“What’s up, Mrs. F.?”
“I’d like you to see something I found.”
The scythe was hanging in its proper place when we walked back into the barn. I showed Mort the shovel and the rag.
“I see what you mean,” he said. “I’ve got some luminol in the car. Be right back.”
He returned wearing latex gloves and carrying a small canister of a chemical used by police to determine whether a stain, no matter how old or carefully cleaned, is blood. I’d seen it demonstrated before.
I closed the barn door, and Mort took the shovel and rag to the darkest corner. We waited a minute until our eyes had adjusted before Mort sprayed a tiny am
ount of the fluid on the shovel’s handle and the rag. Almost immediately, the stains gave off a faint blue luminescence.
“It’s blood, Mrs. F.,” he said. “Of course, this is just a presumptive test. The forensic lab boys can be more specific. But looks like you came up with what might be the murder weapon. Judging from the wound on Ms. Swift’s head, it could have been a shovel like this one that killed her.”
When we stepped outside, with Mort carrying the shovel and rag, I looked up at the main house, where Artie Sack stood in the driveway, his eyes trained on us. The moment he realized I’d seen him, he disappeared.
“If the blood on these things matches up with Matilda Swift’s, I think I’m going to have to have a little talk with Artie Sack. These are the tools he uses, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they are, but I can’t conceive of Artie harming anyone.” I didn’t mention that he’d not wanted me to go into the barn.
“But you never know about people, do you, Mrs. F.?”
“No, I suppose you don’t.”
“Give you a ride back to town?” he asked, placing the shovel’s blade and the rag in separate brown paper evidence bags, then putting them in the trunk of his marked car.
“I have my bike,” I said.
“Put it in the backseat,” he said, stripping off his gloves.
“No, I’d better get on my way. Some errands to run and—no, on second thought, I think I will come with you.”
Mort looked at me and grinned. “Can’t resist, huh?”
“You might say that. Since I was the one who found the shovel and rag and discovered the bank statement for a safe-deposit box, I’d like to follow up with you.”
“No need to justify it to me, Mrs. F. Always a pleasure to have you on the case.”
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