Strangulation & Strawberry Cake

by Nancy McGovern

  "Master Tyler went for a jog the morning of Mrs. Mallory's birthday,” Zizka said. "Mr. Jordan was out in the garden, doing some landscaping work."

  "Ok?"

  "Around 10am, Tyler put his earphones on a table in the foyer. I remember noting it, but being too busy to pick them up right then. Around 11am, I went to clear them. They weren't there."

  "Weren't there!" Rachel exclaimed. "So, then—“

  "I didn't think much of this but, later that day, when Mr. Jordan came in from the garden, I saw him with the earphones! He put them in his jacket and hung the jacket up in the closet near the entrance. He must have borrowed them,” Zizka said. "So you see..."

  "Tyler's telling the truth about not having the earphones." Now Rachel was more confused than ever. "So Uncle Jordan had them all along?"

  Zizka nodded. Her face was still fearful. "I don't want to accuse anybody of anything. But..."

  "But it's strange that Uncle Jordan never mentioned that he'd borrowed the earphones." Rachel nodded. "Very strange indeed."

  She wanted to ask more, but was interrupted by a buzzing sound. The doorbell. Surely Scott couldn't be back this soon? Rachel and Zizka both headed outside to see what was going on.

  The main door swung open and Rafael entered the house almost triumphantly. Aunt Paris flung her arms around his neck as soon as she saw him and gave out a high-pitched squeal.

  "What's the meaning of this?" Grandma Mallory demanded. She was at the end of the foyer, looking thoroughly put out.

  "The police let me go,” Rafael said. "They didn't have enough evidence to hold me. I came right back here. To my Paris. I'm not leaving this town without her."

  "So I can see.” Grandma Mallory sniffed. "Who allowed you in? This is not your house. You have five minutes to get out!"

  "If he goes, Mama, so will I,” Paris said. “And, this time, I won't come back."

  Grandma Mallory quivered with rage. "You wouldn't do that. You are a Mutton! You belong to this family!"

  "She belongs to herself." Uncle Sidney stepped forward. "Mother, it's partly our fault for indulging you so long and not becoming fully-fledged adults ourselves. But it's time for us all to finally cut the apron strings. I'm glad Paris is making her own decisions."

  "Shut up, Sidney. You're such a pretentious dummy,” Jordan growled. "Look, Paris. Think about this. Stay a while and talk to us."

  "Not without Rafael,” Paris said, her chin raised.

  The family squared off, seemingly coming to loggerheads. Rachel could see the steam rising from their heads.

  "Just a second,” Rachel interjected. They all turned around, a little shocked that she'd spoken up.

  "If I could borrow Rafael for a second? Thanks." And before anybody could say a thing, Rachel had grabbed Rafael by the sleeve and dragged him through the parlor and into Aunt Paris' room.

  Just before she closed the door, Rachel popped her head out. The family had trailed after her, mouths open.

  "Wait in the family room, will you? All of you. Zizka, you, too. In fifteen minutes, I think the real killer will want to confess."

  She shut the door behind her and Rafael stared at her, confused.

  "What are you doing?" he asked. "Why did you drag me into Paris' room like this? How are you so sure the killer's going to confess?"

  "We're going to force him to,” Rachel said. "There's just one thing I need from you. The truth."

  "What do you want to know?" Rafael asked, his face set in a scowl. "The police spent hours interrogating me and I told them the same thing I told you and Scott before. I have an alibi. I was with Paris in this very room."

  "I understand,” Rachel said. "Now show me the elevator shaft- and show me how you used it to get up to the attic."

  Rafael gave her a confused look, but obliged. He opened up a small closet and squeezed his body onto a little wooden platform inside it. With considerable pushing and shoving, Rachel managed to get in with him and then shut the door.

  "Right,” Rafael said. "Hopefully, this thing gets us to the top without breaking." He began winding a big metal handle at the side. Slowly, Rachel felt the platform begin to move upwards.

  "Why do you want to go to the attic anyway?" Rafael asked.

  "You're going to show me something,” Rachel said. "When we were in there last night, something caught your eye. And I think I know what it was.”

  "Oh. That. Right." Rafael sighed.

  "Well, I don't think you care much about The Beatles or dirty, old teddy bears,” Rachel said. "But you are an artist. So, tell me, Rafael. Why was that painting of the giraffe so interesting to you?"

  Rafael rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, getting out of the elevator shaft and into the attic. "You've got a sharp eye. I didn't think you noticed me staring."

  "How could I not? Your eyes were practically popping out of your head,“ Rachel said. "It was another one of the many loose ends of this case that just wouldn't leave my mind. Now tell me. Why is that painting important?"

  "Well... it's just... I'm not sure,” Rafael said.

  "Yes, you are,” Rachel replied. "You're a well known artist in these parts. What about that painting surprised you?"

  "Burning Giraffes. They're a theme Salvador Dali used very often,” Rafael said. "You've heard of him, right? He created surreal paintings which are considered masterpieces and sell for millions today. You must have seen some of his work. Like the one with the melting clocks. The Persistence of Memory."

  Rachel nodded. "So you think this Burning Giraffe is a genuine Salvador Dali painting?"

  "I think it could be,“ Rafael said. "He's used the same icons in some of his other works and he's got a very distinctive style. If I'm right — if I'm right — Mrs. Mallory has a million dollar painting just sitting in her attic."

  They rummaged through the pile and found the painting. Rachel admired it with one eye shut, and then the other. "He really was something,” she said.

  "He had a sublime craziness and a brilliant sense of humor,” Rafael said. "Someone once asked him what the burning giraffe meant in his work and he said it referenced a post-apocalyptic vision of masculinity. ‘Or,’ he’d said, ‘perhaps I just like drawing very long horses.’”

  Just like that, the final piece of the puzzle clicked together for Rachel. With a whoop, she gave Rafael a tight hug. He yelped and pulled himself away.

  "Careful! You don't want to accidentally destroy a masterpiece!" he exclaimed, holding the painting in front of him.

  "No, I don’t,” Rachel agreed. "Come on, Rafael. We’d better take that down to the family room. The killer is waiting for us."

  *****

  Chapter 19

  Long Horses

  Rachel and Rafael pushed open the doors of the family room to find all eyes upon them. Once again, Rachel was reminded of that first night. So much had changed since then.

  Her eyes wandered around the room. Grandma Mallory sat on a chair in the center with Uncle Jordan standing behind her. Tyler was leaning against a wall and typing on his phone. Uncle Sidney was nervously tinkering with the piano keys. Aunt Bethany and Aunt Paris were both on the sofa with their hands clasped together. Finally, there was Zizka, nervously dusting the mantelpiece. Scott had arrived back from the police station and he gave Rachel a thumbs up from one corner of the room.

  "Well?" Grandma Mallory's voice sliced through the tension in the air. "You've kept us in suspense long enough. Tell us everything."

  "I will,” Rachel said. "Rafael, you'd better sit down, too."

  Obediently, Rafael went and sat next to Aunt Paris, earning a scowl from Grandma Mallory.

  Rachel took a deep breath and began.

  "Earlier today, I found something in your room, Tyler. A green hoodie."

  Tyler's face paled and his legs nearly went out from under him.

  "What? No! I…how did you get into my room?"

  "Never mind how,” Rachel said. "We've had the hoodie examined, and guess what was on it?
Frosting. Strawberry cake frosting, to be exact.”

  "It's not true." The entire room was focussed on him and Tyler had begun to sweat. "I can explain. All of it."

  "Yes, you can. And you had better,” Rachel said. "Start talking. It's best if you confess."

  "Tyler, no!" Uncle Sidney's face was a mask of agony.

  "It's no use, Dad. They know I'm lying. They've caught me in it."

  "So, it was you after all." Uncle Jordan had a triumphant smile on his face. "We should have known!"

  "I didn't kill Johnny!" Tyler exclaimed. "I admit I lied about being in the room with Dad all the time the lights were out. But I swear I didn't kill Johnny."

  "One thing at a time,” Rachel said. "So you lied about your alibi. You weren't with your father in the room."

  "No. I was in the attic when the lights went out,” Tyler explained. "I'd gone up there for a..." He hesitated, then crumbled, "I'd gone up there for a quick smoke. When the lights went out, I panicked and rushed back downstairs. I was scared of ghosts, you see."

  Rafael gave a little chuckle. "My fault, I suppose."

  “Smoke?” Grandma Mallory asked, angry. “You’re smoking now, you silly boy? Haven’t you learned anything—“

  “Not cigarettes…” Tyler mumbled. “Anyway, I came downstairs and I think I bumped against Aunt Paris first—“

  "So you were the one!" Aunt Paris exclaimed.

  "And, then, as I ran down the hallway toward my room, I bumped into Zizka and made her drop the cake,” Tyler said. "But that's it. That's all I did. I promise. I ran into my room and Dad was there already. We started hearing the screams and Dad was scared that something had happened. I noticed the mess on my hoodie so I took it off, tossed it in the closet and we made our way back out to see what was up. Afterwards, when we found out about the murder, Dad made me promise to stick to our alibi. He was very sure that the police would think I did it. I wanted to tell the truth when Captain Walter came over, but we'd already told the story too many times by then, and we didn’t think they’d believe me.”

  “Nor should they,“ Uncle Jordan said. "The boy's lying through his teeth! An addict like him can't be trusted! We all know he’s been stoned all week!”

  "You're right,” Rachel said. "Addicts can't be trusted. And gambling is an addiction, too, Uncle Jordan."

  Uncle Jordan paled. "What do you mean?"

  Scott stood up. “She means the police know exactly what you've been up to,” Scott said. "They'll be turning your company’s books over to your shareholders very soon. You were stealing money from the landscaping company in order to pay your gambling debts. What's worse, Grandma Mallory and Johnny Hayes knew all along! They were helping you!"

  "That's a lie!" Grandma Mallory cried out.

  Simultaneously, Aunt Bethany screamed and lunged at Uncle Jordan. "My company! My father's company! How could you?" she shouted. "You and this…evil woman? She let you steal from my company even though she had millions?! Why? Why?"

  "Simple,” Rachel said. "Control. Uncle Jordan and Grandma Mallory both wanted you under their control. And, if the company was doing well, you were hardly under control, were you? They sabotaged the one thing you held dear because that's the kind of people they are. Rotten through and through."

  Aunt Bethany put her head in her hands. "After all these years. I've wasted my life with you, Jordan! I'll never forgive this betrayal. Never!"

  "But…wait…” Aunt Paris looked confused. "Does that mean Jordan killed Johnny Hayes? And did Mama know about it?" She looked horrified. "Mama? Did you?"

  "Of course not,” Grandma Mallory snapped. "They're all lying. It's a…a conspiracy."

  "Strangely enough, it's true,” Rachel said. "Jordan and Grandma Mallory might be rotten thieves, but they aren't murderers. At least, they didn't murder Johnny Hayes."

  "Then who did?"

  "Uncle Sidney did,” Rachel said softly. "Isn't that right?"

  There was a crash of notes as Uncle Sidney's hands fell heavily upon the piano keys. He stood up, knocking back his stool. "Don't go around making false allegations about me now!” he exclaimed. "You have no proof! I had no motive whatsoever to kill Johnny Hayes."

  "Oh, but you did,” Rachel said. "You had every motive to kill Johnny Hayes."

  "You think you know everything, but you don’t,” Uncle Sidney sneered. "I'm innocent. Tyler, my son, don't believe this witch."

  But Tyler was staring at his father, his mouth open and moving slightly, as though he were finally beginning to piece some things together.

  "Exactly,” Rachel said, putting a hand on Tyler’s shoulder. "All this time you thought that your father insisted upon you maintaining an alibi because he wanted to protect you. The truth is, it was himself he was protecting. Without you claiming to be in the room with him, people might start looking hard at his motives. He didn't want that."

  "It's true,” Tyler said, horror dawning upon his face. "It is true, isn't it? How could you, Dad?"

  "Don't listen to her!" Uncle Sid cried.

  "Wait!" Zizka exclaimed. "If Mr. Sidney killed Johnny Hayes, then what about what I saw? I saw Mr. Jordan putting the earphones in his pocket that day."

  Uncle Jordan trembled a little. "I didn't want to admit it but, yes, I took Tyler's earphones. I thought I'd listen to some music while gardening. But then my phone's battery suddenly ran out of charge and I couldn't. I put the earphones back in my jacket pocket and forgot all about them."

  "That's right,” Rachel said. "And in a weird twist of fate, you had your gardening gloves on when you picked up the earphones, didn't you? So none of your DNA was on them.”

  "Huh,” Uncle Jordan blinked. "That's true. I didn't think of that."

  "Neither did Uncle Sidney,” Rachel said.

  "Wait. Wait. This is confusing me,” Rafael said. "Can you start from the beginning? Who killed Johnny Hayes and why and how? In that order."

  Rachel nodded. "That would be best, I think."

  "Yes,” Grandma Mallory said. "It would." She directed her piercing gaze at Uncle Sidney, who was trembling.

  "The night Johnny Hayes died, he went to an art gallery with his girlfriend,” Rachel said. "I'm willing to bet that, while he was there, he saw a Salvador Dali painting and realized that a similar painting he'd seen in Grandma Mallory's house was worth millions. He rushed over to tell her. Long Horses. That's what he kept mumbling. Meaning giraffe. Meaning Salvador Dali's burning giraffe painting. A painting potentially worth millions."

  Gasps shot out around the room and all eyes were suddenly fixed on the painting that Rafael held lovingly in his lap. He cuddled it tighter to himself in response.

  "But, before that, we come back to Uncle Sidney. Poor Uncle Sidney. All your life, your mother has controlled your finances. But you never minded. It didn't bother you because you're a modest man who never needed the security net of family money. But then, as Tyler grew up, you realized that your son would be infinitely better off with some money. It's family money, after all, and he had as much right to it as anyone else. But Grandma Mallory demanded total obedience. She set about trying to control Tyler the way she'd controlled you all your life. I think you couldn't bear it anymore. When Grandma Mallory recently threatened to cut Tyler out of her will and, instead, give all the money to her other two grandchildren — children she hadn't seen in nearly thirty years — you finally had enough."

  Rachel took a breath.

  "You hatched a plan. You, and you alone, were smart enough to know that some of the paintings in the mansion were worth millions. After all, you're a professor. You've studied art and you have a keen eye. But to your disappointment, Grandma Mallory had decided to redecorate the whole house a few months ago. You couldn't find the painting. That's why you kept sneaking up to the attic…to look for it."

  "I would have found it, too." Uncle Sid said suddenly. "I'd already made it through ninety percent of that junk when Johnny Hayes burst in talking about long horses. That stupid, stupid man.
Why couldn't he have stayed out of my business? Why did he have to come tell Mama right then? I had to get rid of him. I knew I had very little time."

  Gasps went up around the room and Rachel nodded. "So you knew you had to kill Johnny. But you also wanted an alibi. You decided to frame your brother, Jordan,” she said. "So you snuck to the hallway closet and searched Jordan's jacket for something of his you could leave behind as a clue. And what did you find? A cigarette, some string, a lighter and earphones. I must say, I applaud your genius. Not too many men could come up with as brilliant a plan as you did right on the spot."

  For the first time, his perpetual nervousness seemed to vanish. Uncle Sidney's shoulders were thrown back and a wily smile spread across his face. "So, you figured that out, too?"

  "Oh, yes I did,” Rachel said. "You were overconfident, though, Uncle Sidney. When I talked to you, you boasted that you used to set up booby traps to attack Uncle Jordan as a child. Remember?"

  Uncle Sidney laughed. “Very clever of you to notice.”

  “Thank you,” Rachel said. "So, here's what you did — you went down to the cellar and shut off the lights. Then, you tied one end of the string to the switch and the other end to the lighter and then gently slid the switch back toward the ‘ON’ position just enough to keep power from flowing through it with the weight of the lighter holding it in place. You lit the cigarette and set it right in the middle with the burning cherry just beyond the string. In ten minutes or so, the lit cigarette would burn down and the spark would reach the string, which would burn, break in half, and then eventually burn into a pile of soot. When the string broke, the cigarette lighter would fall to the ground, where it would remain as ‘evidence’ and, with the weight of the lighter gone, the fuse switch would jump up into the ‘ON’ position again, thus turning on the lights in the mansion. Brilliant.”

  Uncle Sidney only smiled wider. “Indeed.”

  "So, you timed it. You had ten minutes — enough time to strangle Johnny Hayes with the earphones and drop the evidence near his body. Enough time to then run back to your room. Luck even aided you by providing you an alibi.”