by Lois Winston
I curled up on Vera Mae’s sofa, my favorite place to hide during down time at the station. She had a little down time too, and we pulled out our notebooks and went over our suspect list.
“It seems like we’re missing a whole bunch of information,” Vera Mae said, chewing on the end of her ballpoint pen.
“I know, it feels like we’re just scratching the surface. Part of the problem is that the party was crowded and everyone could be considered a potential suspect.”
“Has Rafe told you what exactly they found in the storeroom? I saw a bunch of shelves, but that’s all. It was too darn dark to see another thing. Except Greg Towner,” she said, giving a little shudder.
“Rafe said the shelves were filled with wine bottles. He doesn’t know how valuable they are and I’m not sure how many people even knew about the storeroom,” I said, thinking of the maps of Mayfair House.
“Greg Towner must have known. He probably went over every inch of that place when he was doing his architectural designs.”
“That’s true. I wonder where the original designs are? Do you think he had to file them somewhere? Someone must have a copy of them.”
“We should look into that. If Mayfair House is listed on the Historic Register, any changes in the footprint would have to be approved.” She scribbled a note. “I know someone on the city planning commission, I can check that out. Anything else?”
I told Vera Mae about Molly’s problem with Roger Nelson and that he’d been harassing her about his daughter’s involvement with Greg Towner.
“Why, that’s the silliest thing I ever heard of,” Vera Mae said. “Do you suppose she’s trying to point the finger at Roger for Greg’s murder?”
“It seems a little far-fetched.” But I knew that strong emotion can lead to terrible crimes. Could mild-mannered Roger have lured Greg down into the basement, confronted him, lost his temper and stabbed him with the corkscrew? That still didn’t explain how Greg’s body ended up in the secret storeroom. There was no reason to suspect that Roger even knew about the storeroom and I still had trouble picturing the mild-mannered hardware store owner as a crazed killer.
“Rafe always says to follow the money in these murder cases,” Vera Mae said, checking her messages. “But I don’t see how anyone benefitted from Greg’s death. Do you suppose he changed his will so that Shari was the beneficiary?”
“No idea, but that’s something we could look into. But they seemed madly in love, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Why would she kill him?” It suddenly occurred to me that we didn’t investigate whether or not Shari could have a jealous ex-boyfriend or ex-husband in the picture.
“Let’s get Nick to check on who inherits,” she suggested. I knew from past experience that Nick’s connections would give him access to the will before it went to probate. “Nick called up earlier to give me an update on Gavin Benson. He said he’s crooked.”
I nodded. “Edgar told Mom the same thing, definitely a dodgy character.”
I was about to head to my office when I had an idea. It was morning, and hours before I had to get ready for my talk show. It wasn’t a particularly inspiring topic, “Allergies, asthma and hay fever—a triple threat.” The guest was a local allergy specialist who was known for his long-winded commentary and the phone lines always dried up when Dr. Polifax was featured. He was the station manager’s fishing buddy, so I have to tolerate him every couple of months.
“Vera Mae.” I said suddenly. “Do you have time to take a ride with me? I just thought of someone we should visit.”
“Who’s that?” She was already reaching for her sun glasses and I knew she was eager to escape the station.
“Well, I don’t know her name, but I know where she lives.”
“Is this a riddle?” She trotted behind me as I zipped down the hall to the lobby.
“No riddle,” I told her. “I saw an old lady peeking out from behind the curtains the night of the murder. She lives in a big Victorian right next to the mansion and I have the feeling she might be worth interviewing.”
Vera Mae shook her head. “Whatever you say, hon,” she said, her voice doubtful. “The cops have probably already chatted with her, you know.”
“That’s true, but maybe they didn’t ask the right questions.”
~*~
“Why, it’s so nice to have visitors.” The petite woman who opened the door introduced herself as Ms. Maybelle Church. She was hardly more than five feet tall, neatly dressed in a cheerful blue-and-white print shirtwaist dress. With her string of pearls and neatly permed hair, she could have been auditioning for a remake of the Ozzie and Harriet Show. “Call me Maybelle,” she urged.
“I hope we’re not disturbing you,” I said politely. I showed her my WYME photo ID. “We work for the local radio station and we’re doing a story on Mayfair House,” I said, nodding toward the imposing mansion next door. “We’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if that’s okay.”
“Why of course, it is, sugar,” she said, beaming. “I’ve just made a pitcher of sweet tea and I’ve got some nice shortbread cookies my niece sent over. It’s all set out on a table on the back porch. Let’s sit there; it’s too sunny out here in the front.”
I thought about living in Manhattan and how no one in their right mind would open their door to a complete stranger, much less invite them into the house. Luckily for us, things are different here in Cypress Grove.
Maybelle got us settled at a wicker settee on a back porch and then left for the kitchen. I noticed she moved slowly and used a cane. If she had trouble walking, she probably spent a lot of time viewing the back lawn of Mayfair House. A low privet hedge separated the two properties and I could see the walkways and gardens of the mansion. A television sat on an end table. It was tuned to the local news and the sound was turned down.
“Did the police talk to you about the murder next door?” I asked when she returned with a couple of glasses.
“Oh my, yes. Such a terrible thing. I told them I had nothing to offer. I didn’t go to the party that night. The ladies from the Preservation Committee invited me but my arthritis was kicking up and I decided to stay home.” She gestured to the pitcher of icy sweet tea. “Help yourself, ladies.”
I nodded and poured a glass for Vera Mae and myself.
Silence for a moment while I tried to think of the best approach. “How well did you know Mr. Morgan?” I asked, finally.
“We go back years and years. Such a sad thing when he passed away. And now the mansion will be an arts center, I hear.” She tsk-tsked, sipping her tea. “Everything changes, doesn’t it? It’s sad for the people who worked for him all those years.”
“Do you know Larry Ackerman?” I asked, suddenly remembering that Rafe was going to check him out.
Maybelle paused and I had the feeling she was measuring her words carefully. “Larry Ackerman.” Her mouth twisted a little. “Not as well as I knew Consuela,” she said, pressing her lips together. “Such a shame that Mr. Morgan let her go. I always think of that as the beginning of the end of Mayfair House. And I think Larry Ackerman might have been behind it. There was always bad blood between Larry and Consuela.”
“Who’s Consuela?” Vera Mae asked. I knew she’d been eying those shortbread cookies and she finally relented and snared one.
“Consuela Ortez was Mr. Morgan’s housekeeper for decades. She practically ran the place. Until Mr. Morgan brought Larry Ackerman on board not long ago. With a bigger title and a bigger paycheck, I’d wager.” Her face telegraphed her disapproval. “Mr. Morgan thought the job was getting to be too much for Consuela.” She paused, looking at her hands. “We’re all getting older, you see. And I suppose Larry Ackerman seemed young and energetic to Mr. Morgan. It’s such a shame. Consuela used to come over and have tea with me and we’d chat.”
“Where is she now?” I had the feeling it might be worthwhile to pay a visit to Consuela. What was the “bad blood” between them? Did she have something on Acke
rman? It might have been professional jealousy if Consuela felt she was being replaced but maybe it was something more sinister.
“She’s working at a little café out on the highway west of town,” she said promptly. “Just a few afternoons a week. The Blue Plate Special, it’s called.” She wiped her eyes with the corner of a napkin. “I miss seeing her, I don’t get many visitors.”
I noticed Vera Mae punching in the name of the café on her cell phone.
“It’s just ten minutes away,” she said, holding up her phone. With any luck, we might have time to drive out there and chat with her before heading back to the station.
On a hunch, I flipped open my own phone. “I know you probably see a lot of people coming and going from Mayfair House,” I began.
“I don’t snoop,” Maybelle said, stiffening.
“No, of course not, I said hurriedly. “I just meant that it’s so pleasant out here, you probably spend a lot of time appreciating the beautiful scenery. If I lived here, I’d never want to go inside.” I gestured to the immaculately kept gardens of Mayfair House, the green lawn and flower beds that seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance.
“Well, I do enjoy this porch,” she admitted. “It’s a lot of trouble trying to get around with a cane,” she added. “Sometimes it’s easier to just sit right here and enjoy my window on the world.”
“Exactly!” Vera Mae said enthusiastically. She was on her third cookie and I suspected she was feeling a little sugar buzz.
I quickly scrolled down to a photo of Gavin Benson. Not the old one, taken in Havana, but a recent picture from a Bacchus flyer. I passed the phone to Maybelle. It was a longshot but worth a try. “Have you ever seen this man at Mayfair House?” I asked.
Maybelle peered at the screen. “No, never,” she said firmly. “I’d never forget a man with a ginger beard. My dear Marvin used to have a beard just like that. He passed away six years ago. He was in his prime, barely eighty-seven.” She gave a heavy sigh and looked like she was going to say more.
Before she could take a trip down memory lane, I scrolled to a shot Mom had taken of the guests at the Mayfair event and pointed to the Morgan sisters sitting near the piano. “The two daughters. Did they visit here often?”
Maybelle shook her head. “They were hardly ever in town. Both Claudia and Celine don’t have any roots here and they were never close to their father. Such a shame. Are these the people at the party?” she asked. “My, it’s quite a large group.”
“Yes, you probably would have seen them coming in. It was still light out when the party started.”
Maybelle shook her head, her gray curls bouncing. “Oh, no I wouldn’t have seen them,” she said, shaking her head. “The guests usually come up the front walk, and I can only see the back pathway from here.”
“Now there’s someone I saw that night,” she said, gesturing to the TV screen. The local news was covering the Mayfair murder and had a photo of Greg Towner in happier times, with his arm around his wife, Lily.
“Well, yes, that’s Greg Towner,” I said. “The murder victim.”
“Not him,” Maybelle responded. “That young woman with him. She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
“The brunette? Are you saying you saw her at the mansion the night of the murder?” I nearly fell off my chair.
“Yes, I did. She came up the back walk, you see. She must have decided not to go in the front door like the others. I don’t think she stayed long, because I saw her coming out again, a few minutes later and she was in a bit of a hurry.” She looked at Vera Mae. “Who is she?”
Vera Mae swallowed hard. “That’s Lily Towner. Greg Towner’s widow.” Vera Mae and I exchanged a look, probably thinking the same thing. Lily Towner wasn’t on the guest list. And if she slipped into the mansion unobserved that night, that changed everything. Maybelle said she’d only stayed a few minutes. Just long enough to stick a corkscrew in Greg Towner’s chest?
I glanced at my watch. It was time for us to get back on the road if we wanted to meet with Consuela, but I had one last question for Maybelle. “Are you familiar with the layout of the mansion?”
“Not really.” She took a delicate bite of a cookie. “I’ve been there a few times when Mr. Morgan was alive, but not recently. He was something of a recluse, you know, and didn’t really have visitors.”
I pointed to the gray slate path running along the side of the house and curling into the back gardens. I couldn’t see past the hedge to the back entrance to the mansion. “If someone came along that path, how would they get into the house?”
“Oh, that’s easy. It’s hard to see from here, but that pathway leads to the back door of the kitchen.”
“So Lily Towner could have gotten into the house by way of the kitchen,” Vera Mae said thoughtfully. The servers might have ignored her and she could have slipped downstairs to the speakeasy.
“Yes, of course,” Maybelle said promptly. “It seems like an odd thing to do, though,” she added. “She should have come in the front door like the other guests. There was no need to come sneaking around the back door.” She gave a little self-deprecating laugh. “Maybe I’m old school.”
“Old school is good, hon,” Vera Mae said.
Minutes later, I was zipping along the highway with Vera Mae, my mind scrambling from the news we’d just heard. Lily Towner had never been considered a suspect in Greg’s murder and I still found it hard to believe. But how did we miss this? Surely someone must have seen her at the mansion, even if she’d only stayed for a few minutes.
“Remember what Molly Sanders said at the party,” Vera Mae offered.
I nodded. She’d read my mind. Sometimes I think Vera Mae and I have been working together too long. “She said, ‘I can’t believe you showed up tonight.’”
“Right! She could have been talking to Lily Towner.” Vera Mae leaned forward, watching strip malls fly by on the right. The Blue Plate Special was a tiny place, sandwiched between a dry cleaners and a pizza joint and we didn’t want to miss it.
“But why would she make up that story about a kitchen worker who wasn’t supposed to work that night?”
“I have no idea. Maybe she was trying to throw us off the track, or maybe she was trying to protect Lily Towner.” I mulled it over a little. “Although why would she go out on a limb for Lily? Maybe they were good friends?”
“It could be she wanted to finger Roger Nelson for the murder,” I said. “If the police started looking into Lily as a suspect that would just be a distraction.” I pumped the brakes and neatly slid into the gravel parkway of the café. “Here we are,” I said, grabbing my phone and jumping out of the car. “This case is getting more and more interesting.”
“We could be in the home stretch,” Vera Mae said, scampering to keep up with me.
NINE
We caught Consuela just as she was going off duty. She looked wary and didn’t seem inclined to talk to us, but in the end, we persuaded her to join us at a back booth in the café.
“I promise this won’t take long,” I told her. “We work for WYME Radio and we’re helping the police investigate Greg Towner’s murder.”
“Ah, Mr. Towner,” she said, lowering her eyes. “So sad. He was always nice to me.”
“Did you work at Mayfield House for a long time?” Vera Mae asked.
She shook her head. “For years and years.” Her mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “I left Mayfair House soon after Mr. Morgan hired Mr. Towner as an architect.” She stopped talking as a young woman wearing an apron stopped by and put three iced teas in front of us.
“For you and your friends, Consuela,” the server said with a smile. Consuela was obviously well-liked and it made her departure from the mansion all the more puzzling.
“I’ve been curious about why you left Mayfair House?”
“Why are you interested in that?” she said in a flat tone. She definitely had her guard up and I knew I’d have to move slowly.
“It’s just a loose e
nd, maybe a missing piece of the puzzle,” I said in my most reassuring voice. “We visited Maybelle Church and she had wonderful things to say about you. And you worked for Mr. Morgan for quite a while, so it’s just hard to understand why you would leave.”
“I didn’t want to leave,” she said tightly, “I was forced out. By Larry Ackerman.”
Vera Mae raised her eyebrows. “The new household manager? Why wouldn’t he want you to stay on?”
Consuela hesitated. “I don’t know how much I should say.”
“Please, Consuela, tell us whatever you can,” I rested my hand lightly on hers for a moment and a resolute look crossed her face.
“Something was going on at Mayfair House,” she said lowering her voice. “I could never persuade Mr. Morgan of that, he only believed what he wanted to believe. But I know what I saw and what I suspected. There was a man with a beard…”
“Maggie,” Vera Mae said pointedly. “Your phone.”
I grabbed my phone out of my purse and scrolled down to the photo of Gavin Benson, the wine dealer. “Is this the man?”
“That’s him!” she said excitedly. “Larry never introduced me, so I didn’t even know his name. All his visits were in the evening, and I was usually heading home for the day. But one time I forgot my house key at the mansion and I had to go back. I saw Larry and the man with the beard loading some boxes into an SUV parked in the rear of the house, by the garden. They didn’t see me, and I went into the house as quickly as I could and got out of there.”
“Do you think they were stealing from the mansion?” I asked.
Consuela nodded. “That’s what I thought at first. But the next day, I couldn’t find anything missing. At least not in the public rooms on the first floor or the bedrooms upstairs. I know every inch of that house. Nothing had been touched.”