Manor of Death

by Holly Dey

  PC tucked her hands into her armpits to keep herself from slapping her brother. “Are you selling drugs?”

  “What? Of course not!” Rocky deflated. “A friend. In Colorado. I didn’t buy them. She just sent them to me–she’s trying out some new recipes.”

  “You do realize marijuana is not currently legal in Texas, right? Do. Not. Let people mail you drugs here. If Woody catches wind of this, he’s going to throw both of us under the jail.”

  Rocky bowed his head.

  PC was unmoved. “You stay here with Mama and watch her. Don’t move. Just keep an eye on her and make sure she’s okay. I’m going to check on the other two.”

  The detective trotted across the yard to the Youn’s house. Lin was sitting in the front porch swing with a bag of chips. Her husband stood in the doorway, behind the screen.

  “Hey, Lin, Mr. Youn. I just, uh, found out the brownies my mother served this afternoon, were, uh, spiked.”

  Mr. Youn nodded, his lips pursing.

  “I’m really sorry. Mama didn’t know. Lin should be fine. Just, uh, don’t let her drive.”

  Justice yawned deeply as she opened the door for PC. “Come in, hon.” The older woman sat on the divan.

  PC swallowed. “I just wanted to come by and tell you, when Mama served you those brownies, she didn’t know they were, um, adulterated.”

  Justice yawned again and stretched out. “Mmmm. Okay.”

  “I needed to make sure you were alright, let you know about…”

  Rose’s friend had nodded off. PC covered her with the ripple crochet afghan that was draped across the chair and left.

  What am I going to do with Rocky? I’ll have to worry about that after dinner, when I find out just how many reasons Drew Berlusconi had to want Heather Micah dead.

  Truffles! was a lot fancier than PC had expected. She forced a smile to challenge the disapproving look of the Maitre d’ as his eyes rolled coldly over her polo shirt and slacks. She did own a dress, but it was back at her house in Houston. The last thing she expected when she came to Possumwood was a fine-dining dinner date.

  But here she was, being seated across from Drew, who had come prepared in a blue sport coat and van Gogh Starry Night print tie.

  A silent young woman in a starched white shirt and dark purple tie filled their water glasses and flitted away before PC could say, “Thank you.”

  She wasn’t sure if Drew had assumed he was paying the tab, but she was planning on going Dutch. There were no misunderstandings that way.

  PC picked up the menu and coughed from sticker shock. Rose had told her it was fine dining, but $35+ for a steak seemed steep, given how far they were out in the sticks. She found a more budget-friendly salad for $16. She considered a baked potato on the side but couldn’t bring herself to pay 10 bucks for a spud she could buy in the grocery store for less than a dollar.

  Almost as soon as she closed her menu, a waiter in a dark purple waistcoat and matching tie appeared at their table, as if summoned by magic.

  “Madame?”

  “I’ll have the wild field greens with berries and avocado salad, please.”

  “Excellent choice, madame. And you, sir?”

  “The salmon Pontchartrain, please. Are you sure the salad is enough, PC?”

  “I like a light dinner.”

  The waiter collected the menus. “That will be the wild field greens salad for madame, and the salmon Pontchartrain for monsieur. Very good.” He melted away as quickly as he’d arrived. The same woman who’d brought them water swept by, leaving a plate of rolls with molded herb butter in her wake.

  PC was starving, but she daintily picked up a roll, split and buttered it, then set it on her bread plate. “Mama had said there was fine dining in Possumwood, but I didn’t actually believe her.”

  “Yes.” Drew got his own bread. “It’s very continental. Michele Jorgensen is from Switzerland.”

  “Is she the owner?”

  “She and her husband, Felix.”

  Felix Jorgensen. That name seemed familiar… Yes. She’d known of Felix in high school, but he’d been several grades below her, and they’d had no friends in common.

  “So, tell me more about the Daun you have in your gallery. I looked him up–that seems incredible that you’d have one.”

  The sommelier showed up with the wine list.

  PC held up her hands. “No, thank you.”

  Disappointment flickered across Drew’s face, but he also refused.

  The wine steward inclined his head slightly. “Enjoy your meal.” He moved smoothly to another table.

  Drew took a sip of his water. “Now, where were we?”

  “The Daun.”

  “Now that’s a story. My grandmother used to own an apartment building in New York City. Patrick Daun’s aunt lived there, and when he first immigrated to the US, he stayed with her. When the aunt died, her relatives picked through the apartment for anything they thought was valuable and left the rest for maintenance to dispose of. One of the things they left behind was one of Daun’s very early works. He hadn’t become famous yet. It’s a little bit like if you look at van Gogh–The Potato Eaters differs vastly from Starry Night.” He ran his fingers over his tie, as if he’d brought it specifically for show-and-tell. “Anyway, my grandmother liked the painting and hung it up in her living room. I don’t remember how many years it was there before she died. When I was helping my parents clean out her house, I realized what it was and brought it home with me. And that’s how it came to be in my gallery.”

  “Does Patrick Daun know you have it?”

  “Sure! He and his lawyer came to challenge the authenticity, but when he saw it, he remembered the painting. Since it had been thrown out with the trash, he had no claim to it. He laughed and thanked me for reminding him of his kind auntie. He even autographed the certificate of authenticity.”

  PC leaned forward. “Would you think I’m crass if I asked you how much it was worth?”

  Drew’s eyes sparkled. “Of course not! I’m asking 600, but it may fetch more at auction.”

  “Six hundred dollars sounds like a steal. I might buy it myself.” PC finally took a bite of her bread.

  “Six hundred thousand dollars.”

  She took a drink of water to wash down the roll that had suddenly stuck in her throat. “Maybe not.”

  A lot of people have been killed for a lot less money.

  Drew raised his hand to wave at someone. “Felix!”

  A tall man–PC guesstimated just under six and a half feet–dressed in an apron and puffy chef’s hat came to their table. His dishwater blond beard and mustache were trimmed close against his pink cheeks.

  “Drew. Who is your lovely companion?”

  Drew stood up. PC felt awkward just sitting there, so she got to her feet as well.

  “Felix Jorgensen, this is PC Donovan. PC, Felix. She’s Rose Donovan’s daughter.”

  PC extended her hand and Felix took it in both of his. “I thought you looked familiar. You went to Possumwood High, didn’t you?”

  “Go, Panthers.”

  Felix squeezed her hand harder. “Your brother, he performed a community service.”

  PC bristled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “That Heather Micah,” Felix pursed his lips and shook his head. “I can’t believe she had the gall to come into my restaurant.”

  She forced her arm to relax, and as soon as his grip loosened, PC extracted her hand from Felix’s grasp. “What makes you say that?”

  Over Jorgensen’s shoulder, she could see Drew’s eyes narrow. Poor guy. He surely hadn’t planned on an evening of story time with Felix. Probably regretting waving him over, now.

  Jorgensen scowled and shook his head. “I guess you’d already left town. She accused my brother, Robert, of assaulting her. He got sent to prison.” His hand knotted into a fist and pounded the air. “He was later exonerated, but he lost almost ten years of his life. He was never the same- the smart, happy teenager
that got locked up came out a bitter, hardened man. When she came in here with that smirk on her face, I threw that piece of trash out, told her never to come back. I’m not at all sorry she’s dead. I’m surprised someone hadn’t killed her sooner.”

  Was there anyone, besides Daisy, who didn’t hate Heather?

  “I can understand that. Someone perhaps did a community service, but it wasn’t my brother.”

  “No? I heard they arrested him.”

  “They took him downtown to ask him some questions. But they had no evidence against him. Because he’s innocent. They released him. I picked him up from the police station myself.”

  “If he didn’t do it, I’m glad someone did. It was a long time coming. I have to get back to the kitchen.”

  PC and Drew sat back down.

  She took a sip of water. “I have the vaguest recollection of Mama talking about this. Heather left no earth unscorched.”

  “Seems like quite a piece of work. I hadn’t realized you grew up around here. Should have guessed, though.”

  “I did… grow up here.” PC racked her brain for other topics than her personal ancient history.

  “You must know everybody, then.”

  “Not really. I know a number of people in Possumwood, true. But some have left, and others have moved in since I lived here.” PC shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Hey, do you get into town–Houston–much? Museum of Fine Art is hosting an Impressionists exhibition in a couple of weeks.”

  “I saw that. Are you fond of Impressionists?”

  “Of course, the classic masters are excellent, but there are some contemporary artists I like as well.”

  Drew nodded. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but the waiter arrived with the food. He set a hot plate in front of Drew, then placed a mixing bowl full of greens, avocado, fresh berries, dried cranberries, and candied walnuts before PC.

  That’s a lot of roughage.

  “Cheese, madame?”

  “Just a little.”

  The grater spun and parmesan snowed down on the mountain of vegetation.

  “That’s good. Thanks.

  She poured in a little of the dressing and used both her fork and spoon to mix the salad components together.

  Light glinting off the beveled glass of the front door caught PC’s eye and she glanced up.

  Stepping into Truffles! in their conspicuously expensive designer clothes were none other than the Reverend Joshua Deen and his lovely wife, Victoria.

  Chapter 9

  PC chewed a mouthful of some miscellaneous leafy greens and watched as surreptitiously as she could. She didn’t want Drew to feel neglected and turn his head to see what she was looking at.

  Victoria was still tall, still leggy and thin. Probably spent hours in the gym. Her now bright chestnut hair curled down to her shoulder blades and was held out of her face with a small, bejeweled clasp. Perhaps the soft lighting cast shadows on her face, but she looked peaked.

  “How is Rose doing by the way?”

  PC swallowed the vegetation down. “Fine. She’s still using a cane, but the doctor said she’d be fully healed in a couple of months. Maybe less.”

  A hostess led the Deens to the table behind Drew. PC looked down, hoping not to be noticed. The reverend–her former classmate–would probably remember her, but she doubted Victoria would–she was younger, and, like Felix, they never ran in the same circles.

  Joshua pulled out his chair and started to take his jacket off. But then he winced, put his hand over his heart, and left the coat on. They both sat down, and PC was thrilled that they were sitting so that she could see each of them in profile, but neither was looking directly at her.

  “I’m glad to hear she’s doing well.” Drew took a sip of his water. “Have you given any more thought to coming to the Saturday workshop? One of our local artists is teaching about Chinese brush painting.”

  PC speared an avocado slice and a couple of blueberries. “What’s the difference, really, between Chinese brush painting and regular watercolor? Not that I’m an expert, by any stretch.”

  Behind them, a chair scraped across wood.

  “But Vicki—” Joshua Deen’s words were cut short.

  “I’m going to the ladies’ room.” Victoria snatched her small handbag from the back of the chair and strode across the dining area, heels clicking on the hardwood floor with an angry tsk, tsk, tsk.

  Drew cleared his throat. “The Chinese watercolors use quite different pigments than Western style ones. They’re designed to be applied to rice paper, whereas the other type really should be on watercolor paper.”

  He carried on with a dissertation about the virtues of various pigments, while PC watched the reverend. His left hand remained stabilized on the table while he awkwardly dug his cell phone out of his pocket. He set it next to his plate and began pecking at the keyboard with the fingers of his right hand.

  Drew had moved on to the history of rice paper. Ordinarily, PC might have been interested–she had taken that art history continuing ed class at Rice University, after all–but right now, her focus was on the reverend’s peculiar behavior.

  “Really? I can’t even go wash my hands without you texting some floozy?” Vicki stood by her chair, glaring at her husband. A few other people had turned to look, but she didn’t seem to care.

  “Of course not, darling! Please sit down. I was just checking my index funds.” Friendly words, but fake smile and hard eyes.

  “… the nineteenth-century Europeans called it rice paper, but it wasn’t really made from rice. Are you familiar with Egyptian papyrus?”

  “Mmhm.”

  Vicki sat, but her eyes burned with fury.

  “… and they boiled the branches until the bark slipped off…”

  “I don’t know why you’re mad at me. I was looking for you–if you’d just replied to my texts, none of this would have happened.” Vicki glugged red wine.

  “… and once it’s processed, some of it is dyed to make paper flowers. But the rest…”

  “Darling. Calm down. I was only wondering where you were when everybody else was at the nursing home getting ready for the show.”

  She slammed the goblet down, sloshing half of it out. Merlot spread like a bloodstain on the white tablecloth. “What are you trying to say?”

  He gestured for her to keep her voice down. “I was busy with the setup and didn’t hear the phone. That’s all.”

  “And you expect me to believe that? I know she was texting you.”

  Conversations lulled as other diners rubbernecked at the reverend’s train wreck of a dinner.

  “… and mulberry paper was also common for calligraphy. The silkworms don’t like mature mulberry leaves, so they had to…”

  “Victoria! You’re attracting attention,” Joshua hissed through clenched teeth.

  “Isn’t that what you want from your women? You dated Heather so you could have the head cheerleader dangling off your arm like some-some-designer handbag!”

  PC could see Joshua shift into damage control mode. He allowed his shoulders to slump and pasted on an aggrieved half-smile on his thin lips. Loudly, in his preacher’s voice, he said, “Darling, I can see how upset you are. It was very shocking to lose your best friend so suddenly.”

  “Heather Micah was nobody’s friend.” Vicki snatched her purse from the chair and stormed out.

  Joshua sighed loudly and stood slowly. “Poor dear.” He shook his head. “I fear this has all been too much for her.”

  He dropped his napkin on the table and followed his wife out the front door.

  “… and that is how the silk industry fed the art world–fast-growing trees and picky caterpillars.”

  PC collected some walnuts on her fork. “Huh. I never knew any of that.” She glanced at the Deen’s now-empty table. I suspected most of that.

  “There’s a quiz later.” Drew dabbed at his mouth with the napkin.

  “What?”

  “Kidding. You wer
en’t really paying attention, anyway.”

  The detective set down her fork. “I’m sorry. Woody–Chief Wilson–is determined to pin this murder on my brother. Rocky’s a lot of things, but he isn’t a killer.

  He picked up his glass. “I thought you were retired. Are you investigating Heather’s murder?”

  “No! Of course not.”

  Drew raised an eyebrow.

  “Okay. Not officially. But I’m not going to let them send my brother to jail for something he didn’t do. I’m just trying to catch any evidence PPD might overlook, that’s all. They don’t have a lot of experience in homicide investigations.”

  He chuckled. “I guess you can take the girl out of the police department, but you can’t take the police department out of the girl.”

  “Maybe not.” She stabbed some more leaves and a crouton.

  Their purple-vested waiter appeared at the table. “How does everything taste? Is there anything I can get for you?”

  “Could we get the check, please? Separate tickets.”

  “Very good, madame.” And he was gone. Hope Drew didn’t need more tea.

  She turned to her companion. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go check on Mama. This dinner has been a bit dramatic, and I feel bad that we didn’t get to talk all that much. How about after the workshop on Saturday, we go have a coffee?”

  His face lit up. “That’s an excellent idea. I’m looking forward to it. You know, I would have been happy to buy you a salad.”

  “I appreciate that. But I’d rather pay my own way. Cuts down on misunderstandings.”

  PC was thinking about the Deens’ public fight, analyzing angry words for clues, when she noticed red and blue lights flashing in her rearview mirror. A glance at the speedometer showed she was actually two mph under the limit.

  “Great.”

  She pulled into the Justice Avenue Baptist Church’s parking lot and stopped under one of the tall, dim lights.

  There was a tap on her passenger side window, and she saw it was Hiro Tran. She hit the button, and the glass slid down. He leaned inside.

  “Evening, Detective.”