The Antique House Murders

by Leslie Nagel

  The other person she wanted to talk to was Sean. She checked her phone for the dozenth time. Why hadn’t he responded to her message? Poor guy was probably closeted with the other members of the Planning Commission, all of them hiding from angry townspeople and bracing themselves for what promised to be a five-alarm throwdown.

  “Right,” she said firmly, reaching a decision. “Benjy’s on the run, and that means the safest place for you is in police custody.” When Corey’s face fell, she laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s going to be okay,” she assured him. “Most of this happened while you were a juvenile, and with Benjy’s threats, it’s pretty clear you were coerced.” She stood. “Dmitri, I need you to escort Corey and that gun across the street to the desk sergeant. Afiya, would you call John Bright and tell him he’s got a new client?” Afiya nodded and stepped out to make the call. “John’s a good man,” Charley told Corey as Dmitri took his arm. “He’ll make sure you get a fair shake.” She began rolling up the sheaf of plans.

  Corey clutched her sleeve. “Do I have to go with this dude? Can’t I stay with you?”

  “I’ve got something to do first.” Charley gave him a reassuring smile. “It’ll be okay,” she said again. “Detective Trenault is a good man, too.”

  Chapter 21

  Marc’s cellphone rang. “Counselor, what’ve you got for me?”

  “Jameson Mulbridge, Jr., was on the commuter special from Miami to Dayton on Wednesday,” Trent Logan announced. “His flight landed at ten forty-two p.m.”

  “Ten forty-two?” Marc wondered how late the DCC stayed open on a weeknight. If Mulbridge had to travel from the airport, somehow acquire the golf club from Wycoff, then hide it in the display case? They were talking midnight at the earliest. “Thanks, Logan, I owe you one.”

  “Hold your horses, Detective. I’ve got more. Officer Cooper’s email got me intrigued, so, as I was already on the Mulbridge family trail, I did a little digging of my own.”

  “What email?” Marc scowled. “Mitch Cooper is on suspension.”

  “Maybe somebody should tell him,” Trent said mildly. “As I was saying, I called a friend in the Miami city prosecutor’s office. Turns out our boy has a gambling problem. Likes to play the ponies at Hialeah. Sadly, he’s terrible at it. Jamie Mulbridge is rumored to be into some extremely shady Miami mob types for gambling losses into the mid–six figures. These are the sort who break fingers first and ask questions later.”

  Marc recalled Charley’s words about Jamie’s involvement in a shady land deal, and how it might be a motive for Calvin’s murder. He wondered uneasily if he’d been too quick to dismiss her theory. She’d accused him of allowing jealousy to cloud his judgment. Was she right?

  He clicked off as Paul hung up his own desk extension. “I don’t think Mulbridge hit town in time to hide that golf club,” Marc said to him. “That means we’ve got a third accomplice, someone else with access to the DCC. Like Holland.” Which is exactly what Charley was trying to tell you. He stopped. “What’s wrong?”

  Paul’s heavy features were tight with anger. “Sheriff’s deputies responded to an anonymous nine-one-one at a fleabag motel out by the airport. Double homicide, or maybe a murder-suicide. They’re still processing the scene.”

  “Why are they calling us?” Marc wondered aloud. Then it hit him like a slap. “Oh, shit. It’s Jameson Mulbridge, isn’t it?”

  “Not unless he’s the killer,” Paul said in a hard voice. “The victims are Benjamin Wycoff and Millie Peache.”

  Chapter 22

  As Charley locked Old Hat’s back door, she heard her name called yet again. Now what? She turned, startled to see Pamela Tate, a large manila envelope clasped to her thin chest. She looked tense and frightened as she stepped between Charley and her VW. Remembering her earlier suspicions, Charley took a cautionary step back.

  “Pamela,” she began, “Whatever you’ve—”

  “Charley, please.” Pamela held out a hand. “Please let me apologize. I said terrible things, things I didn’t mean. I know you would never take advantage of Calvin—you loved him as much as I did. My nervous condition—well, that’s no excuse. You would never swindle anyone, I know that.”

  “Feel free to feed that into the rumor mill, Treasure Girl.”

  Pamela blanched. “My post…it was inexcusable.”

  Charley snorted. “We can agree on that, at least. Where have you been hiding? The police have tried to contact you. Disappearing in the middle of a homicide investigation isn’t too smart.”

  “I know.” Pamela hung her head. “After I posted that terrible story, and it went viral almost overnight, I…was afraid. I couldn’t eat or sleep, worrying about what you or the mayor might do to me when you found out I was the author. I had a panic attack while I was driving to work and almost crashed my car, so I checked myself into a private hospital for a couple of days.” She gazed up at Charley with desperate entreaty. “I am so sorry, Charley. If there’s anything I can do to—”

  “Answer me one question.” Charley watched her face carefully. “How long have you been involved with Benjy Wycoff?”

  Pamela’s face was a perfect blank. “Who?”

  “Big hairy guy, beer gut? You know,” Charley pressed, “Millie Peache’s nephew?”

  “I didn’t know Millie had a nephew,” Pamela said in confusion. “Does he say he knows me?”

  This was no act. Charley hadn’t really believed Pamela would betray Calvin, but she’d had to snip that thread. She waved a hand. “Forget it, I must have misunderstood.”

  Pamela gave a small smile, still looking puzzled. “Fine. Anyway, I wonder if you’d accept a sort of peace offering.” She proffered the manila envelope. “Calvin and I photograph every room in a home before we begin dismantling and removing the contents. They’re used for insurance purposes mostly, but sometimes the family likes them as mementos.” Her mouth pursed. “Holland hung up on me when I called to offer them to her.”

  “What a shock.” Charley slid out a stack of eight-by-ten glossy photographs. Aware of the time but always curious, she began shuffling through them.

  “I started to file them away,” Pamela chattered on nervously. “Then I thought, since you’re in the business, you might enjoy seeing them. The Music Room in particular: the various reeds and strings, many of them collector’s items, of course it’s all much better appreciated when you see them displayed in—”

  “What did you say?” Charley stared at the top photograph, Pamela’s words going unheard as she viewed this image plucking at an elusive thought. In the center of an elegant room stood a grand piano covered with silver-framed photographs. Various chairs and side tables occupied the rest of the space. The walls and tables held an assortment of objects, including several musical instruments. “What is this, exactly?” She tapped a wall grouping of three items.

  Pamela leaned in closer. The central item in question was a beat-up clarinet hung at a forty-five-degree angle. On either side had been mounted a matching pair of carved figures. Each reared up on its hindquarters, front legs pawing the air around the clarinet. With a thrill of discovery, Charley realized what they were.

  “That work of art is a clarinet, hand-carved in Germany from solid ebony in 1781, with genuine ivory keys.” Pamela recited the description as if reading from an auction catalog.

  “A clarinet,” Charley repeated. “A reed instrument, correct?”

  Pamela’s brows rose. “That’s right. Why?”

  Charley said urgently, “This is very important. I have to leave right this minute, but I need to examine that clarinet. Do you know what happened to it?”

  “I handled the sale myself. He got quite a bargain, consid—”

  Charley held up a hand. “Who bought it, Pamela?”

  “I assumed you knew.” Pamela pointed to the building next door. “It’s now the property of your friend Dmitri St. James.”

  —

  Charley scooted down the alley and shifted gears for the turn
onto Park Avenue. She glanced toward the Safety Building, where she imagined a sizeable crowd was waiting impatiently for the big vote. If she was going to contribute to the festivities, she needed to get moving. A quick call to the Marriott had confirmed her quarry was still in her suite, her chauffeured car ordered for three-thirty.

  She stepped on the gas.

  As she drove, she contemplated the power of a single photograph to reveal hidden truths. She conjured the photo in Millie’s kitchen, that row of little boys, their sun-drenched smiles forever captured in a moment of innocent fun. Had it not been for that photo, she’d never have known about the connection between Jamie and Benjy.

  Charley couldn’t imagine how two such different men had remained in contact, and yet they must have. Poor Jamie, no doubt the perfect patsy for a manipulator like Benjy, even all these years later. But was Benjamin Wycoff also not what he appeared? Was he more than a drug dealer and a murderer? Was he someone capable of conceiving this land deal?

  No, she decided, recalling his fingers digging into her arm, his calculated shift from rage to cold threats, her terror as he stalked her through the shadows of the abandoned mansion. Benjy was no idiot, but his was an animal cunning, his power the knowledge of jungle law that allowed him to manipulate the weak through intimidation and fear.

  Who, then?

  There was really only one other possibility.

  As Charley lifted her hand to knock, the door of the Presidential Suite opened. Holland appeared, a slender briefcase in one hand, not a shiny blond hair out of place. She seemed calm and in control, but Charley saw the pallor, the shadowed eyes, the tightness around her mouth that bespoke stress and lack of sleep. When Holland caught sight of her she froze. Charley exploited her opening and slipped into the suite.

  “Ms. Carpenter,” Holland said tightly. “While I admire persistence in business, right now I do not have time for—”

  “What’s Jamie’s diagnosis, Holland?” she interrupted. “Is he on the autism spectrum; does he have an intellectual disability disorder; is he schizophrenic?” Holland’s mouth opened, but no words emerged. “How about his violent tendencies?” Charley pressed. “Does he take medication for—”

  Holland gasped. “How dare you!”

  “How dare I?” Charley shot back. “A man is dead. It’s time for you to start coming clean.”

  “Why would I kill anyone?” Holland demanded, but her voice lacked its customary ring of authority.

  “Oh, I think we both know you’ve got plenty of motive,” Charley replied. “Forty-four motives, to be precise.”

  Holland’s eyes narrowed. “You!” she hissed. “You’re the one who stole those plans today!”

  “ ‘Stole’ is a strong word, but let’s not get distracted. I want the truth about Jamie.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.” Holland crossed to the desk. “I’m calling hotel security.”

  “Fine,” Charley said. “Then I’m calling a press conference. I thought your brother was just a rich, lazy screw-up, but it’s more than that, isn’t it? Something’s wrong with Jamie.” Holland slowly hung up the phone. “His family has been sheltering him all his life. Somehow you managed to get him a diploma from his prep school with two extra years of classes, but no way could he hack it at Dartmouth. He basically does nothing at Mulbridge Shipping except go to ribbon-cuttings. He hasn’t done anything with his life, not because he won’t, but because he can’t.”

  Holland stared in defiance for several moments, then her shoulders slumped. She dropped into a chair. Charley remained standing.

  “In the fourth grade, my brother was diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome.” She stared at her hands, fingers twisting in her lap. “The term is outdated, but Jamie’s condition is a life sentence. When he entered puberty, his condition worsened—or at least, Mother couldn’t hide it anymore. That’s when she sent him away. Father never had time for either of us. And Mother simply couldn’t be bothered. She could be very cruel.”

  “Go on,” Charley said, arms folded.

  “Things were fine, at least at first. St. John’s was a more controlled environment, and I was there. It’s not that Jamie’s stupid—quite the opposite. He’s brilliant with numbers, colors, textures—you should see his oil paintings.” Holland smiled briefly. “But when it comes to people, he just…doesn’t have a clue. Social situations confound him. And that makes him vulnerable. I looked out for him as much as I could, but when Father died so suddenly, I had to take over the company. I had to leave him. I had no choice!” Holland’s eyes filled with tears.

  Suddenly Charley glimpsed a vision of this woman’s life: money, privilege, the best schools, a brother she loved and protected fiercely. But no loving parents, and, too young, shouldered with the heavy, isolating responsibility of running a massive shipping empire. No time for a husband or children. Holland Mulbridge, Charley understood now, was a desperately lonely woman, trapped in a life she hadn’t chosen, a woman who would do anything to protect her beloved, fragile brother.

  After a moment, Holland sniffed and continued. “He’s monitored closely. Cecil Frye—that’s his personal assistant. He supervises Jamie’s medications, his daily schedule, his friends, any minor duties he might need to perform. As long as Jamie isn’t overstimulated, he’s highly functional and quite creative.”

  “What ‘overstimulates’ him?”

  Holland sighed. “Alcohol, mostly. And crowds. He loves parties, but he tends to become…Things rarely end well.”

  “Violently?” Charley asked quickly.

  “No!” Holland’s eyes flashed. “Jamie isn’t violent!”

  “So you say.” Charley allowed her skepticism to show. “He slipped his leash that time he got into the bar fight and hurt someone, am I right? You told this Cecil Frye to pay the guy off?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “And when Cecil let it slip that the family homestead was being torn down—did your brother get overstimulated then? Did Jamie ditch Cecil and hop a plane to come see the house one more time?” Charley tsked as Holland remained silent. “I overheard you on your cell the day you fought with Millie Peache. Cecil had blabbed, and you were furious. What were you thinking, Holland? Did you plan to keep the eradication of his childhood home a secret from Jamie forever?”

  Holland gestured helplessly. “I don’t know. Now that Mother’s passed, there’s no reason for either of us to come back here. No reason for him to know the house is gone.”

  “Well, he knows now,” Charley replied shortly. She felt sorry for Holland, but now was the time for answers, not hand-wringing. She pressed on. “So, you claim Jamie didn’t know about the demolition and Oak Bridge Estates, and yet two years ago, someone set up Sunspear LLC to purchase the Gallagher land. Someone got Jamie to grant the easement for utilities, allowing the development of that land into Phase Two. Someone modified your development petition to include the Gallagher land’s parcel ID number.” At this, Holland gasped. “Oh, yes. It’s all been very neatly done. Do you actually expect me to believe you had nothing to do with any of it?”

  At this, Charley saw the same look of fear Holland had first displayed at Mulbridge House, and then again during her visit to this suite. The response answered at least one of her questions.

  “You have no idea what Jamie’s been up to lately, do you? But you’ve got your suspicions.” Holland went even paler, and Charley knew she was right. “That’s why you’ve been so afraid, avoiding Detective Trenault and trying to cover up the Sunspear project. From the moment you heard about Calvin’s murder, you suspected your brother was involved. The police know Benjy Wycoff is the killer, but that doesn’t mean Jamie hasn’t gotten mixed up in all this somehow. Vulnerable, you said. Jamie and Benjy were in Cub Scouts together. Are they still friends? Did Benjy convince Jamie to get rid of the murder weapon? Would hiding it in a display case at the DCC be the sort of ‘creative’ thing he’d do?”

  “His plane didn’t land until nearly eleven W
ednesday evening,” Holland protested, desperation edging her voice.

  “Well, someone put it there,” Charley said pointedly. “Was it you? You had dinner there that evening. Did you hide that golf club in plain sight to sever the connection between Jamie and his unsavory childhood buddy?”

  Holland reared back. “I would never!”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because it’s the truth! I never saw any golf club, and I only found out about Sunspear myself after I came to town. At my dinner with Duncan Drake, when he mentioned Phase Two I pretended to know what he was talking about. I asked him to have the latest plans sent to my hotel suite the next morning. I tried to find out if he knew who else was involved in Sunspear. Whoever it was, that person had been manipulating my brother. According to Drake, everything was done by corporate email and courier; he never had contact with any individual. I swear, I don’t who it is, either. Please,” Holland begged. “Please don’t call the police. It would terrify him. He…he won’t understand.”

  With that, another of Charley’s suspicions was confirmed. “Jamie’s here, isn’t he?” she asked. “Or you know where he is.”

  Holland hesitated, then stood and crossed the suite. She opened one of the double doors and gestured for Charley to join her. A small dressing room contained an armoire and a tiny gilt vanity table with mirror and padded bench. The floor space was almost completely taken up by an unmade rollaway bed. Holland stepped around it and opened a second door, this one revealing a spacious master bedroom with adjoining bath.

  “Hey, Bug,” she said softly. “Would you like to meet someone?”

  Sitting at the foot of the bed, barefoot and unshaven, wearing baggy boxers and a Captain America T-shirt, Jameson Mulbridge, Jr., stared intently at a flat-screen TV. He held a game controller in both hands and worked the buttons with his thumbs as if his life depended on the outcome. Charley heard the sound of muted explosions and tiny bells and dings as Jamie freed a virtual galaxy from an alien threat. She recalled Holland’s edginess during her last visit and realized Jamie had been here then as well, probably sound asleep.