by Maggie King
I noticed a slight limp as Patty walked away and I asked if she’d hurt herself.
“A touch of arthritis in my knee. It comes and goes. Paul has it, too.”
“I have some on-again-off-again stiffness myself. Especially in the humid weather.”
The apartment was small and crammed full of overstuffed furniture in a charcoal gray that suggested hulking, prehistoric creatures. I doubted that the décor accorded with feng shui principles; not that I knew much about the Chinese philosophy of harmonizing with the surrounding environment, but surely these eyesores wouldn’t harmonize with anything. But Paul and Patty planned to buy a house once they found one in an area of Richmond they liked. Patty had grown up in the city, so it seemed like she’d know the areas. And they’d been here a few years. What was the delay?
I perused the books in an overflowing bookcase. Volumes that couldn’t fit on the shelves were stacked on the floor, flanking the bookcase. Patty once explained that she had acquired our cousin Marcie’s collection of classics following her death from pancreatic cancer.
“I was so delighted when Brad arrived on our doorstep with these cartons,” she had said. “Such a surprise.” Since Marcie had died close to two years before, I guessed the stacking arrangement had become part of the décor—no doubt another feng shui no-no.
Marcie and Patty had both been high school English teachers. While Patty taught until her retirement, Marcie surprised family and friends by switching careers at age thirty to become a stockbroker, and a successful one to boot.
Who had inherited Marcie’s money? She had no children or spouse. Obviously not Patty—I’d expect her to upgrade her living space, or at least her furnishings, if she’d received a windfall. But people didn’t tend to leave their estates to cousins. As Brad was also Marcie’s cousin, that idea also ruled out him as the beneficiary. But if Marcie left everything to Rox in gratitude for tending to her in her last days, that meant that Brad now had Marcie’s estate in his bank account; it also gave him a powerful motive to kill his wife.
Had Marcie even left a will? Patty once told me that Marcie was diligent with financial matters for her clients, but fell short when it came to her own. “By her own admission, Marcie wasn’t at all organized,” Patty had said, her tone suggesting that her cousin’s foibles were delightful. The disorganized part left room for doubt about Marcie leaving a will.
“There was that check.” Patty had chuckled as she told me about finding an uncashed check for a thousand dollars made out to Marcie. “I found it in one of the classics. It was dated sometime in 2005.”
When I asked Patty if Marcie had left a will, she shrugged, laughed, and said, “Who knows? If she did I guess she left everything to Rox. Rox was so good to her.”
A small photo on the bookcase showed Patty and Paul with Marcie, Nina, and a man Patty had once told me was our cousin and Brad’s son, Andy Jones. Andy sported longish dark hair, a vibrant mustache, and glasses with lenses shaped like mini TV screens. Marcie sat propped up in bed with a turban over her likely bald head, courtesy of her chemo treatments. Patty once told me the photo was taken a couple of weeks before Marcie died. The group was smiling. Life converging with death.
The shelved books were organized by type: fiction, nonfiction, art books, and classics. The plays of Tennessee Williams, William Inge and other preeminent playwrights of the past century made me think of Nina and her class. From time to time I toyed with the idea of acting in a play, fantasizing about transforming myself into Blanche DuBois in Tennessee Williams’s Streetcar Named Desire. But maybe I should start out small—I could ask Nina to cast me in her play.
Patty emerged from the bedroom dressed in jeans and a linen blouse. Patty was a statuesque woman with a sleek cap of nut-brown hair. People always said we looked alike. She stepped into the kitchen and checked the progress of our lunch. “The quiche should be done in a few minutes. Iced tea?”
“Yes, thanks.”
Carrying our drinks, we took seats in the tiny living room, sinking into the depths of the dinosaurs, my private nicknames for their unfortunate choice of furniture.
“How’s Paul’s mother doing?” I asked. She had broken her hip a few weeks before.
“She’s in rehab and doing well. Paul and his brother are trying to get her to go to assisted living but she won’t even consider it. She insists on returning to her house. We may have to go back up there and live with her.”
“Up there” meant Pittsburgh. Patty and Paul had retired a few years earlier and relocated to Virginia from the Steel City, as Pittsburgh was dubbed. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what Paul did for a living. I didn’t want to let on that I didn’t remember, especially after so many months had passed. It never came up anyway.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, just when we were getting to know each other. I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t find a permanent place.”
“Yes. Well, we’ll keep in touch,” Patty assured me with a smile. “Come and visit. Ever been to Fallingwater? It’s not too far from Pittsburgh.”
“I haven’t.” Fallingwater was a Frank Lloyd Wright-designed house, part of which was built over a waterfall. I’d toured a number of the architect’s creations and admired them, but I found that he valued design over comfort so I never coveted one of his homes, even if one became available. Someday I hoped to make it to Fallingwater.
“So, what will you do with your furniture? Put it in your storage unit?” I knew they had a storage unit that supplemented their inadequate living space.
“Oh no, all the furniture in the apartment is rented.” So these monstrosities were destined for someone else’s living space! Despite the ugliness, they appeared to be indestructible, and so would saddle transient families for years to come.
“Well, that saves you from having to move it all back to Pittsburgh.” I sipped my tea and broached the subject of Rox. “I hope you don’t mind me bringing this up, but I met Nina Brown the other day.”
Patty looked surprised. “Nina? How did you meet her?”
“She was at Panera with my friend Trudy. They’re neighbors.” I omitted any mention of the Joe’s Inn breakfast.
“Paul ran into Nina one day in Walgreen’s. She told him she went to Florida for a while after Rox Howard’s funeral.”
“Yes, she said that. She told me and Trudy about Rox, and said she wants to hire a PI to find out who killed her.”
“Really? I would have thought the police were handling things.”
“She doesn’t think they’re doing a good job. Or not doing it fast enough. And she thinks they’re focused on Brad.”
“That’s probably true. I just hate it that he’s a suspect.” Patty shook her head, looking rueful. “I’d love to see Nina again. I liked her. She was so kind to us when Marcie was ill. And then when Rox was killed . . . well, I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like to lose a sister, especially like that. “
Patty went on. “But we never expected Nina to break up with Brad. We thought they’d get married. Instead, Brad married Rox.”
“Really? Brad and Nina were a couple at one time?” I kept to myself the belief that they were probably reunited.
“Oh, yes. In fact I think they were a couple a few times around,” Patty chuckled. “Obviously an attraction there.”
“What did you think of Rox?” I asked. “Did you like her?”
“We barely knew the woman.” I could tell Patty chose her words with care. “We didn’t have much interaction with her at the hospital. We usually visited Marcie in the morning when Rox was working.”
Obviously Patty’s mother had taught her that if she couldn’t say something nice about someone don’t say anything. Or keep things neutral. Good advice, but not useful in a murder inquiry. I needed people who would dish. Patty seemed restrained about Rox, so I intuited that she hadn’t found Rox quite so nice. Nevertheless I pressed on, hoping to get more tidbits that I could decode from the niceness.
“Were Rox and
Nina estranged because of their tangled relationship with Brad?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Patty got up and started bustling around in the kitchen. “Take a seat, we’re just about ready to eat.” I sat at a round laminated table and Patty appeared with two plates of broccoli quiche and side salads. We spent a few minutes enjoying the delicious food. Patty was a good cook with a kitchen stocked with everything a cook would need. I thought of her possible move back to Pittsburgh. The rest of the apartment suggested transiency but it would take Patty a while to pack up her kitchen contents.
“So you say Nina wants to hire a PI?” Patty shook her head in wonderment. “Is she going to do it?”
“I don’t know. I got the feeling she was just considering it.” I said. “Oh, and she’s taking a playwriting class.”
“Really?” Patty said. “Well, good for her. That should get her mind off her troubles.”
“Maybe,” I allowed. “By the way, Patty, this quiche is delicious.”
She beamed her pleasure before asking, “Hazel, what’s new with your book group? What are you reading now?”
I told Patty about our current “tour” through the ancient world. “Feel free to join us whenever you want. I’ll be happy to pick you up.”
“Are there any of those, what do you call them—cozies—set in the ancient world?”
“Oh, sure. I can get you some titles.” Patty was skittish about reading mysteries, saying she didn’t want to read anything violent or gory. I had told her about the “cozy” style, mysteries where the murder takes place “off page,” with little or no sex or profanity. “I’ll bring them along the next time I see you. Or I can mail them.”
“You can bring them. There’s no rush.”
With most people, I would send the list by e-mail. But Patty and Paul were self-proclaimed technophobes who didn’t use cell phones or computers. Patty didn’t own a car, but did drive until she started developing signs of traffic phobia and was afraid to get behind a steering wheel. She claimed that she liked being “contained.” Considering their close living space, contained must be tantamount to confinement in a straitjacket.
Andy came up next on my mental agenda. “Nina mentioned our mutual cousin, Andy. Said she hadn’t seen him in a while. Have you? Has he been around?”
“No, we haven’t seen him. Not since Rox’s funeral. I don’t think.” Patty seemed to be scanning her memory for an Andy sighting.
“Did he and Rox get along?”
Predictably, she said, “Oh, I think so. I don’t recall hearing anything different.” Apparently Patty not only spoke no evil, but heard and saw no evil as well.
We chatted for a while longer but I gained no more useful information about Rox, Nina, Andy, or anyone else. It would help if I was more adept at interviewing techniques.
As I was leaving, I turned to Patty. “Do you have any family medical history? I’d like to share it with my sisters. After all, we share a grandfather.”
Patty thought. “Well, Brad’s mother had Alzheimer’s—but she’s not your blood relative. My dad had cardiac problems. I’ll have to think about it.”
“By the way, how’s Paul doing—other than the situation with his mother?”
“He’s doing fine. Thanks for asking. He’s out with the boys.”
While Patty and I lunched together most Thursdays, Patty’s husband did the same with a group of men—male bonding. I tended to think that entailed talking about cars. I thanked Patty for her tasty lunch and we made plans to get together the following Thursday.
•••
Vince and I needed a few items for our visit to the Moonshine Inn, so on the way home from Patty’s I went on a shopping spree. It only took three thrift stores and a stop at CVS and we were all set for our undercover operation.
Then I drove over to the Moonshine Inn for a preliminary check of the parking lot. I hoped the bar denizens would contribute some juicy tidbits of information. But I had to be prepared for them closing ranks.
The Moonshine Inn operated out of a weatherbeaten, white-shingled, main building with random add-ons, like a child’s game of building blocks. A restaurant and another bar shared the parking lot.
I had no trouble locating the chain link fence and dumpster where Nina and Brad had found Rox’s body. I got out of the car and examined the ground around the massive waste container. What did I expect to see after three months—blood spatters? The asphalt looked much like any other asphalt: dusty, muddy, oil-stained. Still, I might intuit something useful from visiting the scene of the crime.
But my intuition came up empty.
NINE
ON FRIDAY MORNING cotton-candy clouds paraded across the sky. A day that started out so lovely had to be a good one. The forecast called for eighty degrees with low humidity—a rarity in Virginia after Memorial Day.
I drove two streets over to Eileen’s house, a white bungalow style with blue trim. She emerged carrying a tote bag screenprinted with an image of George Eliot.
“Here are the boots.” She pulled a pair of tan hand-tooled cowgirl boots from the tote. “I tried to polish them up a bit, so they don’t look too bad now.”
“Thanks. They look fine. And these pointy toes could double as weapons.” I laughed as I tossed the boots behind my seat. “I hope I won’t need to resort to such measures.”
I drove down Forest Hill Avenue through Westover Hills and crossed the James River via the Robert E. Lee Bridge. To my right, the office buildings of downtown Richmond offered a view of the skyline often seen on postcards. To my left, the Hollywood Cemetery perched on a bluff overlooking the river. Hollywood Cemetery held a place of honor as one of the most historic and beautiful cemeteries in the country. It served as the final resting place for a number of notable Americans, including two presidents and thousands of Confederate generals and soldiers.
I turned onto Franklin Street and passed the historic Jefferson Hotel, the Kent-Valentine House, and the main branch of the Richmond Public Library. After navigating a series of one-way streets I arrived at my destination, a narrow two-story building dwarfed by the taller buildings surrounding it. I drove into a shoebox-sized parking lot, turning my wheel completely several times before I crammed myself into a space. I recognized Nina’s Mitsubishi three cars from mine.
I grumbled to Eileen, “If we have to come downtown again, let’s take the bus and not have to worry about parking.”
When Nina had called confirming the meeting for Friday morning at nine, she had given me the address, along with instructions for parking and getting in the building. So far, nothing daunted me—accessing the building involved pressing a button by the door and waiting for someone to respond. Nina greeted me with a modicum of enthusiasm, more than she had the other two times we’d met. She displayed no enthusiasm for Eileen, just murmuring “Hi, Eileen.”
“Eileen’s my research assistant,” I said brightly.
Nina raised her brows. “Oh. Okay.” She tried to smile, but her effort fell short. Trudy had suggested that Nina didn’t care for Eileen—apparently she was right.
Nina led us into the office proper. “Dilbert”-style gray partitions divided the office space into sections. Along with the cubicles allotted to the worker bees, a section accommodated a refrigerator, brewing station, microwave, and toaster oven. A conference table and chairs were wedged into another space. The welcoming aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. The closed doors I spotted at the end of a hallway suggested private offices for management.
Nina pulled me aside. “Look, I have to ‘fess up about something: Brad saw your name and number on a note by my phone. He blew up, got really mad. He didn’t believe me when I said you were coming here to do research for your book. He’s sure you’re investigating and that you’re after money. He said, ‘She’ll find a way to get money. She won’t get any out of me, that’s for sure. She tried once before.’ I told him that I did ask you to investigate and that you had refused. He still didn’t believe me.”
Nina shrugged as she picked up the coffee carafe.
“And you said Brad was just a friend. So was he visiting as a friend? Or something more?”
“Okay, okay, we’re together. Sort of. It’s no big deal.”
“If you want me to help you, be straight with me.”
“It’s really none of your business,” she hissed before pasting a bright smile on her face. “Who wants coffee?” she asked. I noticed the stack of foam cups beside the coffeemaker. I tried to avoid foam cups and toyed with the idea of fetching my travel mug from the car but decided it was too much trouble.
As she poured coffee into the cups, Nina introduced me and Eileen to the abbreviated office staff. As June was a slow time for the Hamlin Group, it was a popular time for staff to schedule vacations.
“Eileen is my research assistant,” I explained. “She’s a librarian and one of my biggest fans. I just couldn’t manage without her.” I knew I was laying it on a bit thick but I felt pretentious about having an assistant.
Sandy Steelman served as the Hamlin Group’s office manager. Her thick blonde hair was cut in feathery layers that we called a shag back in the seventies. Farrah Fawcett made the look famous when she starred on Charlie’s Angels. Sandy’s black slacks and blouse worn as jacket minimized her apple shape, the kind health professionals cautioned as posing a risk for any number of health problems. But nothing could minimize her impressive height of at least six feet, maybe more. Her brown eyes sparkled as she took my hand. I noticed the contrast between her nails, polished with a creamsicle orange shade, and my own bare ones. Oh well, later I’d dress them up with the sparkly red paint for my bar adventure.
“Hazel!” Sandy gushed. “I can’t wait to read your books. I don’t read a lot of romances but everyone just raves about your stories. You see, I’m in this book club and we read some really long books and I don’t have time to read anything else. I’m thinking of taking a break from the group just to get caught up on my TBR list. And when I heard you were coming here I looked at your website and now you’re at the top of my list.”