Manor of Death

by Holly Dey

  PC parked and cut the engine. She took a moment to take a few deep breaths and collect herself. The last thing that would help is for angry big sis to go storming in, threatening to kick butt and take names. Her furor had overtaken her dread of hospitals. Still, she needed a pretext, a reason to be there asking questions about Durelle Fennec.

  The folder. The one with all the forms that Fennec had given her when she’d toured the place. She could say she lost it, and she needed another one. That would get her into the office and talking to whoever was in charge now.

  She eased inside and walked down the hall. At Fennec’s office, she knocked on the frame of the open door.

  “Excuse me? Ma’am?”

  A thin woman, blonde hair pulled severely into a bun, looked up. “Is there something I can help you with?” The beady eyes on either side of her long, pinched nose broadcast suspicion.

  “Yes, ma’am. I sure hope so. Can you tell me when Ms. Fennec’ll be back?”

  “No. I can’t.”

  Can’t, or won’t? “Well, you see, ma’am, I was here last week for a tour. Ms. Fennec–nice lady–she gave me a folder with some forms in it, but I seem to have misplaced it.”

  Her lips pursed. “And you want another one?”

  PC looked at the floor. “Yes, ma’am. It’s weird. I spoke with Ms. Fennec just this morning.”

  The woman’s eyebrow arched.

  “On the phone. I called about the forms.”

  She opened a drawer and pulled a manila envelope off a stack of identical envelopes. “She’s not here now.”

  So much for building a rapport. She won’t even tell me her name.

  “Would you mind showing me the available rooms? I’d like to see them again before I decide.”

  The Woman With No Name stood up, then took a clipboard that was hanging on the wall. “This way.” She paused for a moment to look at the map in her hand. “Is your relative ambulatory? There’s no more space for dementia patients. Ms. Fennec should have told you that.”

  “She did, ma’am. Yes. And yes, my mother can walk.”

  No Name led PC down the hall. At the one sealed with crime scene tape, she paused. “Is that where…?”

  “There was a murder there. I don’t know much about it. At least the room was empty at the time. One patient was in the hospital, and the other, God rest her soul, had just passed that morning before. Her family hadn’t had time to get her things boxed up, and now, all those stuffed animals are just sitting there. I think they’d wanted some for the funeral. Sad.”

  A female voice came from down the hall. “Mrs. Brazwell. That’s not your room, sweetie.”

  PC clenched her jaw to suppress a grin. “Yes, ma’am.” She was pretty sure she knew how Rocky’s phone got into the bed. “Thank you for the tour, ma’am. And the forms. I gotta go check in on my mama now.”

  Without waiting for No Name to utter banal pleasantries, PC pivoted and walked down the hall as fast as she dared.

  As she was buckling her seat belt, her phone chimed. She glanced at the text. Rose. Rocky would have to spend at least the weekend in the city lockup. He couldn’t be arraigned before Monday. No arraignment, no bail. Uncle Raymond was taking her home. That soured PC’s mood. She thought she’d stop by to see her brother.

  If Woody would let her.

  Chapter 12

  PC stood in front of the holding cell. “You doing okay, Rocky?”

  “They’re promising three squares a day.” He tried to smile. “Take out from any of the joints in walking distance. Had Chinese for lunch.”

  “I’m glad you’re being well fed. Looks like you got the place to yourself.”

  The other three cells were empty.

  “Yeah. Kinda quiet.”

  PC leaned in and whispered to her brother. “I’ve been told that your phone was found next to Heather Micah’s body.”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “I believe you, Rocky. That room where they found the body was empty. You were sleeping in there, weren’t you?”

  Rocky looked down. “Yeah.”

  “Your phone must have fallen out of your pocket while you were in the bed.”

  “Could have happened that way. I never have it turned on while I’m working. I don’t suppose I’d know if it wasn’t there.”

  “Exactly. Now, did Ms. Fennec say anything, or do anything that seemed odd to you?”

  Rocky sucked his teeth for a minute. “Well, after you dropped me off, I came back into her office to ask you what time you were picking me up. You’d already left, but she did seem real upset. She was in her office, crying.”

  “Was she, now?” Guilt for killing Heather?

  “I tried to cheer her up, but she just seemed…” He sighed. “Deflated, maybe. Like an old kickball that doesn’t have enough air.”

  “Did you see her this morning?”

  “No. She only works weekends if somebody calls in sick or something goes wrong. Least, that’s what she told me, anyway.”

  What was she upset about Friday? Was she already planning her escape? “Thanks, Rocky. You’ve been a big help. I’ll come back and check on you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  At least Woody had the decency to stay in his office and not come bother us. She could see him sitting in there, pecking at a keyboard. PC almost stuck her head in the door but didn’t think that would do anybody any good. What would help was a nice walk. Take a little stroll around the square–there was plenty of time before she had to head back to Mama’s to feed the critters.

  PC headed south from jail, past the Brisk Rib and the Lucky Wok. She stood at the intersection of Municipal Parkway and Main street. To her left, the giant craft brewery, the Biersal Brewpub, lay on Main Street. She was tempted to stop in and sample the wares, but shook it off. Another time.

  She turned right on Main. A park, about an acre wide and two long, separated the city government offices from the county government ones. There were all the things one would expect to find in a rural hometown America city park–playground equipment, soccer field, a gazebo/bandstand, picnic area, and a fountain, with urns of trailing ivy and seasonal plants. Right now, red berry-covered hollies graced each concrete planter, and red velvet bows were getting bedraggled from the winter rain and winds. Probably well past time to bring in the holiday decorations.

  She sat on a bench for a few minutes and watched some teenagers playing a pickup game of soccer, not really paying attention to them while she let a casserole of facts and ideas simmer into a theory on her mind’s back burner. Then she got up and wandered back to the road. She noticed that across the street from the park was a hedge of roses. Even though it was January, they hadn’t bothered going dormant, and a few pale pink and white blossoms peeked out of the leaves.

  PC hadn’t remembered there being a hedge when she was growing up, just a crumbling old Victorian house. It had been the fanciest house in three counties when it was built in the late 1800s, or so her grandmother had told her. The detective’s eyes fell on a large white sign, held up by a pink brick plinth. The graceful curves of the wooden sign made PC think of a headboard for an antique bed.

  Happily Ever Afters

  Wedding Venue

  Bed and Breakfast

  Rose had said someone restored the old house. Good for them. She’d have to ask her mother for more details about it later. There were several done-up historical houses in Possumwood. She remembered going on field trips to the land grant empresario’s mansion when she was in elementary school. And of course, the Historical Society had the Azalea Trail every spring that was a walking tour of houses from the nineteenth-century settlers.

  PC kept walking. Zeno’s Pizza. Vintage Glory Antiques. Truffles!. None of these places had been here back in the day. She felt like an old timer, where the world had moved on without her. How soon before she was shouting at kids to “Get off my lawn!”? She sighed.

  Truffles! was on the north side of Main Street, and Dre
w’s gallery was across from it on the south. PC was tempted to go in. Was it because she found the exhibit fascinating–or the proprietor? An icy gust of wind ruffled her hair, and a few fat drops of chilly rain splattered on the sidewalk. She slipped inside.

  “PC!” Drew looked at his watch. “You’re early. But I’m glad you could make it. Let me show you to our teaching room, and you can choose your materials. Naomi’s only just arrived.”

  She gaped at him. The workshop! I’d forgotten all about that. Now that I’m here, I can’t just leave, but do I have time for this? “Yeah. I, um… I—”

  “Don’t be nervous. It’ll be fine.” His warm hand on the small of her back was insistent.

  PC stared at a small white glass owl on the counter as she weighed her options. She could insist on leaving. Or she could stay. Sometimes, when all the puzzle pieces flat out refuse to fit together, the best thing to do is something else. She was at a dead end, anyway. She had no authority to pull phone records to try to find where Fennec’s phone was pinging. If No Name were unwilling (or unable) to tell her, there wasn’t a lot she could do about it. Hiro might be able to help, but she had to wait for him to approach her. Stay. Why not? It’s only an hour.

  PC let Drew lead her back to the teaching room. There was no door. The space wasn’t large, perhaps the size of a big living room. A paint-splattered double sink dominated the end closest to her, and a supply cabinet leaned against the opposite wall. Two plastic-covered eight-foot folding tables with three chairs each took up most of the free space in the room. The instructor was getting her materials ready and looked up when the two of them came in.

  “Naomi, this is PC. She’s one of your students today.”

  Naomi extended her hand. “Very nice to meet you.”

  PC couldn’t think of anything that screamed “Artist!” more than Naomi. She had mermaid hair, a gradient of dark blue fading to sea foam green, a nose ring with a blue crystal in the center, and iridescent ear gauges.

  Naomi helped PC set up her ink cake and brushes. The other five students, three women and two men, filed in and the instructor flitted away to help them with their supplies.

  Once everyone was situated, she picked up one of her brushes. “Now. You hold the brush like this.”

  The class was almost over when PC heard the front door open and the clunk of something large dropping to the floor.

  Then Drew’s voice. “Mrs. Deen! Let me help you with that.”

  There were noises of people moving a heavy object around in the lobby.

  Drew, again. “And how may I help you today?”

  A woman’s voice, Victoria Deen, surely, replied, “I’d like an appraisal for this.”

  “You only had to call–I would have come to your house. But you only just bought this piece…”

  “I want to sell it–we’ve got too many paintings now–and I thought it would be easier this way.”

  “Of course.”

  Silence.

  Victoria’s voice. “I am so glad they made an arrest in Heather’s murder. I feel so much safer now.”

  PC’s ears pricked up, and she paused on her way to wash her brushes.

  Victoria continued. “Well… I understand you haven’t grown up here, but I, for one, am not at all surprised that Rocky Donovan killed her.”

  PC clenched her jaw.

  “Really? Why is that?”

  “Their father got killed when we were all in high school. Rocky never was right after that. You know, I saw him prowling around Azalea Manor on Thursday afternoon.”

  No, you didn’t. Mama was the one who pointed out you weren’t there. PC hastily rinsed her brushes so she could continue eavesdropping. The other students were already drifting out of the classroom.

  Naomi beamed at her. “You did an excellent job, Ms. Donovan. Have you used watercolors before?”

  “No. I mostly do acrylics. I really wish I could stay and talk some more, but I have to go feed my mother’s animals. It was a fun workshop.”

  PC fumed as she left the teaching room. What right did Victoria Deen have to try to pin Heather’s murder on Rocky and then act like he was some scary monster? I’ve seen scary monsters, little girl, and you don’t know the half of it.

  But getting angry wasn’t going to solve anything, so she took a few deep breaths to compose herself.

  She was calm as an icy lake by the time she got back to the lobby. Victoria Deen had left, but a large modern abstract oil painting leaned against the counter.

  PC thought it was particularly ugly, but feigned interest, hoping to coax some information out of Drew. “Where did that come from? That’s certainly a unique piece.”

  Drew chuckled. “A unique piece? That’s typically what people say when they think a painting is ugly, but don’t want to be rude.”

  “You got me there.”

  “A client brought it in for resale. Which is weird because they only bought it three months ago. Conceivably, one spouse liked it, and the other thought it was… unique.”

  PC smiled. “I enjoyed the workshop. Glad I came.”

  “If you’re interested in grabbing a bite later…”

  “I’m going to have to give you a raincheck. I really wish I could go. But with Rocky’s situation, and all…”

  “I understand. Next time.”

  “Next time.”

  PC half-jogged to her car. It was cold and drizzly now, and much darker than it should have been. Inside, she started the car and was glad she had sprung for the heated seats when she bought the SUV.

  As she drove, her mind twisted and turned the new information she’d gleaned to try to make it fit with what she had already pieced together. Why would Victoria lie about seeing Rocky at the nursing home? He was an employee, so he was certainly there. But she wasn’t. Or was she? What if she had gotten there early, encountered Heather, and confronted her about hitting on Reverend Deen? She could have killed her… and maybe Durelle Fennec saw it. Did she offer the director a wad of cash to skip town? Dead presidents can be very influential. That might explain why Victoria Deen had a sudden need for cash. Then again, perhaps she just hates the painting her husband bought, and Durelle Fennec is in a shallow grave somewhere. Or not. If so, Victoria was smart to never trust a blackmailer–they always get greedy, sooner or later.

  PC pulled into Rose’s driveway and groaned in exasperation. What she needed was to talk to Hiro Tran. She’d have to convince him to track down Director Fennec, because whether she was relaxing on a tropical island beach or decomposing in a forest, she held the key to getting Rocky released from the slammer.

  Chapter 13

  “How’d you sleep?” PC gave her brother a once-over. He was disheveled and puffy-eyed.

  “Like a baby. If a baby was sleeping in a freezing room on a half-inch thick mattress that smells like vomit.”

  PC sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m doing the best I can to get you out of here. You’ve got your arraignment tomorrow morning-”

  “They don’t grant bail for murderers.”

  “Sometimes they do.” For a million dollars. “Besides, your lawyer may argue it with the DA down to manslaughter, and you can bond out for that.”

  Rocky scowled. “I didn’t do anything. I am not gonna plead guilty to a crime I didn’t commit. I didn’t even know Heather was in town, much less at Azalea Manor.”

  “Speaking of which… have you remembered anything at all about Durelle Fennec’s behavior Thursday or Friday?”

  “No. Like I said, she seemed upset on Friday morning, but she didn’t tell me what it was about.”

  PC chewed her lip.

  A whiney voice drifted in from the front of the cop shop. “I need to make a statement. About the murder.” Is that… Victoria Deen?

  “Yes, ma’am. Take a seat over there. Someone will be right with you.”

  PC raised a finger to her lips to shush Rocky, then tapped her ear. He nodded.

  A male voice said, “Victoria? You said you needed to mak
e a statement?” Woody.

  “Yes! I saw him. At the nursing home on Thursday!”

  “Okay. Calm down. Let’s go into my office.”

  A door closed.

  PC crossed her arms and exhaled hard. “What is she up to? You were working on Thursday, so it’s no surprise if someone saw you there. The thing is, she wasn’t there, at least not later, anyway, after the DB turned up.”

  “The what?”

  “DB? Dead body. She seems to be going to a lot of trouble to pin this on you. You don’t have any history with her, do you, that would make her try to hurt you?”

  Rocky looked at the floor and rubbed his chin. “Not that I can think of… wait a minute. About ten years ago, I was here helping Mama with some stuff. I’d rode my bike down to the Silver Dollar for some liquid refreshment. I was on my way home, just turned onto Travis Street, when a Mercedes ran a stop sign and nearly hit me. They swerved at the last second and hit a fire hydrant. That was a big ole mess. Didn’t do the car no good, neither. Anyway, the door opened and who steps out but Vicki Simon? I guess she was Deen by that point. Anyway, she was screamin’ and hollerin’ about how I got in her way and caused the accident. I did point out that she was the one who ran the stop sign, but she didn’t wanna hear about that. I’d forgotten about it, though. But I guess I wasn’t goin’ to have to explain why I wrecked my new Mercedes in my ex-boyfriend’s neighborhood.”

  “What? Who’s her ex?”

  “Well, you know the Parkers that live around the corner from Mama?”