“Except for a couple of copper funerals, you haven’t worn a uniform in ten years,” she said, pointing out the obvious.
“See? Nothing to worry about.”
Once they had passed through the arch, Savannah looked around and decided that, perhaps, they had entered a living room of some sort. Like the ballroom, it was large with a ceiling that was breathtaking, adorned with intricate plasterwork. But instead of a chandelier, this room had been lit with a series of Moroccan style lanterns, like the ones that lined the walls of the house and lit the exterior gardens.
The giant marble fireplace sat at the opposite end of the room. For a moment Savannah tried to imagine all of the junk gone, the place decorated for Christmas, and one hundred or more guests milling about in the vintage attire of yesteryear. Women in silk beaded gowns and men in black tuxedos with tails, crisp white shirts, and top hats.
What a sight they must have been to behold.
But at that moment a rustling sound over in the area of the fireplace caught her attention and gave her a shiver. She could still feel that fur brushing her hand. She suspected she would feel it, at least in her vivid memory, for years to come.
“What’s that?” Dirk asked. “Did you hear it?”
She lowered her voice to a whisper and said, “I heard it. I think it’s over by the fireplace.”
“I hope it’s Mary,” he said.
“I hope it’s human.”
“Huh?”
“Whatever. We still have to find out.”
There was a turn in the path ahead, and since the pile on either side was head high, they couldn’t see who or what was there.
They headed that direction, walking softly, trying not to make any sound as they went.
She wasn’t exactly sure why they were trying to sneak up on whatever it was. If it was human, it was probably Mary, and they were looking for her anyway. If it was vermin, the last thing she wanted was a friendly meet-and-greet with a rat. Especially one that was large enough to be mistaken for a fur stole.
By the time they finally reached the crook in the path, the noise around the corner was much louder. It sounded like someone or something was rummaging around in a careless, maybe frantic, manner, looking for something and not finding it.
They turned the corner and saw Mary Mahoney, on her hands and knees, tearing through a stack of junk that looked mostly like papers and old photographs.
She hadn’t seen Savannah and Dirk yet, and the look on her face was one that Savannah could only classify as desperation.
“Damn,” they heard her whisper as she looked over a paper, then tossed it onto the floor with a bunch of other discarded sheets.
Silently, with more than a little curiosity, they watched the frantic search. Mary seemed genuinely upset as well as frustrated as she picked up each page, looked it over, and dropped it onto the already sizable pile.
Savannah also took the opportunity to study the space itself where Mary was conducting her search. It appeared they had come upon Lucinda’s “bedroom,” after all.
Although it had been a living room—or a “parlor” in its earlier days—that particular nook had obviously been used for sleeping. There was the pile of bedclothes that Savannah had noticed missing in the ballroom.
Next to the makeshift bed were several boxes that contained neatly folded clothing. These particular garments appeared clean and in better condition than the ones in the hoard itself. They looked as though they had actually been worn and laundered recently, and the styles were more contemporary and fashionable than those discarded in the piles.
Savannah also noticed a dozen or so books near the bedding that were neatly stacked rather than thrown into heaps like the others she had seen.
As an avid reader who possessed a beloved To Be Read stash of her own, Savannah recognized the careful arrangement.
Assuming the assortment was Lucinda’s, Savannah felt a bit closer to the victim than she had before. Book lovers considered themselves part of a massive, worldwide club, kindred spirits who understood the necessity of escaping regularly into other worlds through the pages of a book. The mark of a true book lover was a substantial, well-organized stash.
At that moment, Mary Mahoney noticed them . . . and that they were watching her. She jumped and squealed in a tone that sounded both frightened and angry.
“Oh!” she said, dropping the papers from her hand. “What on earth? I didn’t know you were . . . What are you doing?”
“We were looking for you,” Dirk told her.
“We were also looking for Lucinda’s bedroom,” Savannah said. “Looks like we found both at the same time. This is where she slept, right?”
Savannah scrutinized Mary’s face, her eyes, and could tell that the woman was considering what her answer should be. More importantly, Savannah could tell that Mary was deciding whether to tell them the truth or a lie.
All day long, as a police officer, Savannah had seen suspects weigh the pros of lying versus the cons of telling the truth. In the end, when they made their decisions, they had usually lied.
But the look of resignation that crossed Mary’s face told Savannah she had decided to take her chances and tell the truth.
“Yes,” she said. “This is where Lucinda wound up sleeping in the end. After she couldn’t get into her bedroom anymore.”
Savannah winced. “How sad.”
“Oh, please. There are a thousand sad things about how Miss Lucinda lived. Eventually, she had to start using my bathroom. Her own toilets, tubs, and showers were, well . . .” She shrugged. “Let’s just say they were unavailable to her.”
Dirk grimaced. “As the housekeeper, you couldn’t keep even one of hers clean enough to—”
“Stop! Don’t you dare judge me!” Mary shot up off the floor with far more energy and nimbleness than Savannah had seen her exhibit before on the front porch with Ethan. Apparently, rage could override the disability of arthritis. At least for a moment, in Mary Mahoney’s body.
Dirk held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, Ms. Mahoney. I didn’t mean to get on your bad side. It just seems like—”
“You know absolutely nothing about my life, Miss Lucinda, or this house, Detective,” Mary told him. “I’m not interested in hearing how you think things seem.”
“Okay. Heard and noted,” he said.
But that wasn’t enough for Mary Mahoney. Her otherwise pale complexion turned red, then purple as she continued to rant. “Unless you’re the one who’s put up with a miserable, cranky, nasty woman, who also happens to be one of the world’s worst slobs, you have no idea what I went through with Miss Lucinda. I tried! God knows, I tried! And this”—she waved her hand, indicating the garbage-packed room—“this is the result. This is the reward for all my efforts.”
Savannah stepped forward, and in a voice that was as calm as the other woman’s was irate, she said, “That must have been almost unbearable for you. I’m sure you’re a very clean, organized person yourself. To be responsible for keeping a beautiful mansion tidy and presentable to anyone at any time, that would have been an enormous responsibility.”
“It was, but I didn’t mind. I loved this house! Loved it like it was my own. I worked day and night for years trying to keep on top of what she was doing to it. But she’d go out to garage sales and flea markets like most people go to the grocery store. I’d walk into the house to find the room I’d just cleaned filled up with dirty, half-rotten junk she’d found by the road or in a dumpster somewhere.”
“That must have been terribly upsetting.”
“Of course it was. She wouldn’t listen to reason when I tried to tell her the junk she was collecting was nothing but garbage. She wouldn’t let me throw any of it away either. I tried, and she would have a fit! I was afraid she’d suffer a heart attack someday during one of those horrible tantrums of hers. Then I’d get blamed because I tried to throw out a moldy old pizza box that she said she was going to turn into a work of art.”
Savannah gave Dirk a sideways glance to see if he was seeing what she was—an enraged, bitter woman who obviously harbored some very strong resentment toward her employer, the victim.
He returned Savannah’s look with a quirk of his eyebrow. Yes, they were of the same opinion.
“I can’t even imagine what you went through with her,” Savannah said in her best big sister voice meant to console even the most distraught child. Or adult, if necessary. “Doing your best, working so hard, and yet, having people think it was your fault, since you were officially the housekeeper.”
Mary burst into tears. From her extreme reaction, Savannah figured it might have been the first time anyone had said such a thing to her, and she was desperate to hear it, to receive some sort of understanding, even if it was from someone who hardly knew her.
“It was awful,” Mary said through her sobs. “Nobody will ever know how bad.”
“Plus, you had to live in this mess,” Savannah said. “You, a professional housekeeper, who values cleanliness above all else, and—”
“Yes! You’re right! That was miserable, too! Although I made her keep her junk out of my rooms, in the servants’ quarters in the back. Anytime she brought anything in there, I’d toss it out one minute later. I didn’t even care if she threw one of her temper tantrums. That was my home! Mine! The only time I’d even let her come in was when she needed to use the bathroom—to bathe or shower or, you know, do her business.”
“I believe that was very generous of you, under the circumstances,” Savannah told her.
“You do? Really?” Mary seemed afraid to believe her good fortune in finding this boundless source of sympathy.
“Absolutely!”
“I’m so glad you understand.”
Savannah knew the empathy she was offering the woman was self-serving, and she felt a bit like a hypocrite for slathering it on so thickly. But she wasn’t lying to her. She did understand the housekeeper’s frustration and anger with all she had endured at her employer’s hands.
But Savannah had also interviewed enough people in her day to know that a little compassion could pay handsome dividends in the long run. People felt comfortable with those who showed an interest in their tribulations, and they were more likely to share information with them than with someone like Dirk, who relied on intimidation.
Sometimes she felt Dirk’s method, while less popular, was more honest. But when trying to expose a cold-blooded killer, she decided the end justified her means.
So, she continued to soft-soap Mary Mahoney, but figured it was time to add a few interrogation-type questions to all that consolation.
“I can’t blame you a bit,” she said, “for feeling the way you do about Ms. Faraday, may she rest in peace. But I’ll bet you, if she was half as difficult as you say, and I’m sure she was, there were other people who weren’t particularly fond of her.”
“Oh, of course. Like I told you before, when you first came over and Mr. Malloy was here, she chased everyone away by being mean and insulting them. Plus, as you can imagine, people don’t enjoy spending time in a place like this. The smell alone can make you sick.”
“It sure can,” Dirk replied. “Speaking of that, would you mind if we continued our talk in your nice, clean apartment instead of in here?”
Savannah watched Mary closely as the housekeeper’s eyes scanned the area around them. Whatever she had been looking for earlier, she still wanted to find.
What could be that important? Savannah wondered.
Whatever it was, it had to be paper, or she wouldn’t have been scanning and discarding one after the other.
“I believe you were looking for something before,” Savannah said softly, knowing she was pushing her luck. “If you like, we could stay in here long enough to help you look for it one more time. We can help you, too.”
“No, that’s okay,” was the abrupt reply.
“We don’t mind,” Dirk chimed in. “I think I caught a case of the Creeping Crud-itis from being in here already.”
“No!” Mary turned and started down a path that they hadn’t noticed; it appeared to lead even deeper into the house. “Let’s go,” she said. “I’ll make us some tea. Miss Lucinda always liked her afternoon tea.”
When Mary looked back over her shoulder, probably to make sure they were following her, Savannah was sure she’d seen some tears in her eyes.
Savannah decided to take a chance and see if Mary Mahoney had any mixed feelings at all about her mistress’s passing.
“Did you have tea with her, Mary?” she asked. “Was that something that the two of you shared together every day?”
Just for a second, Savannah saw the agony of loss cross the housekeeper’s face. She nodded ever so slightly. “Yes. Every day. We did enjoy that.”
Then, as though catching herself being sentimental when she didn’t want to be, Mary sniffed and lifted her chin a couple of notches. “We had to have it in my apartment kitchen though,” she said as they headed down the new path. “She hadn’t been able to set foot in hers for years.”
Chapter 15
Savannah and Dirk expected Mary to lead them on through the mansion toward the rear of the residence to her quarters. But instead, she took them back out the front way, and the three of them walked around the house, and through neglected gardens that flower-loving Savannah could tell had once been beautiful.
“The back of the house is worse than the front half,” Mary explained, shamefaced.
“Do you mean to tell me the hoard is more dense in the rest of the place than what we’ve seen already?” Savannah asked, unable to believe it.
Mary nodded. “She started upstairs, worked her way down, filled up the back of the first floor, and then finished with the front part, where you were.”
“Where on earth do you even get that much stuff?” Dirk asked. “I can’t believe that one little woman was able to fill up that huge house like that!”
Mary gave a dry chuckle and shook her head. “You didn’t know Lucinda. She was a real fireball in her day, had more energy than anybody I ever knew. She lived ninety years—nearly a century. When you’re determined, you can get a lot done in that much time.”
“I guess so,” Savannah agreed. “My own granny’s been alive almost that long, and she’s moved mountains in her day.”
She decided not to point out the obvious—that Granny had raised children and grandchildren and made an enormous, positive difference in many people’s lives.
As they continued to walk around the huge mansion, it occurred to Savannah that the ninety-year-old Lucinda had made this trip every time she wanted to use a bathroom.
“It must be terrible, having a hoarding disorder,” she said. “It impacts a person’s life so negatively in so many ways. Surely, Lucinda would have stopped if she could have.”
“I don’t know about that,” Mary said. “I can understand how you’d think that. But I spent a large part of my life trying to help her get out of this trap she was in. I can’t even tell you how tightly she clung to her lifestyle. She refused to do anything at all to change, even tiny steps.”
“Eh, people are weird,” Dirk said. “Who knows why anybody does anything?”
* * *
Ten minutes later, Savannah and Dirk were sitting in Mary’s cozy kitchen, sipping tea from delicate antique china cups.
“Lucinda gave them to me for my sixtieth birthday,” Mary had told them as she’d set the cups on the table and filled them with a fragrant jasmine tea. “She gave me the silver set last Christmas. We’d been using it for years, and she told me she wanted me to have it. I think she might have sensed that she wasn’t going to be around much longer.”
“Any particular reason?” Dirk asked, unimpressed with teacups or silver teapots.
Mary shrugged. “Not really. Just that she was getting up there and realized she wouldn’t live forever.”
Savannah studied the silver service set, admiring it. All three pieces—the teapot, the sugar b
owl, and the cream jug—were heavy gauge silver, embellished with elegant rococo designs. Their interiors were gilt. “It’s the most beautiful silver set I’ve ever seen,” Savannah told her, resisting the urge to mention it must have been worth a fortune.
“It meant a lot to Lucinda,” Mary said, running her fingertips along the top of the sugar bowl. “It was given to her when she was very young by a Russian ambassador. They were . . . friends. Very good friends,” she added with a grin. “In her prime, Lucinda was quite friendly. With a lot of powerful, rich men.”
“I’m sure she had a lot of stories to tell,” Savannah said.
Mary nodded excitedly. “I told her that! I encouraged her to start a book years ago, all about her adventures, but she never got around to finishing it. I told her she should. Boy, she had some juicy stories. There were scandals back in the ‘good ol’ days’ that would make today’s gossip magazines look like church bulletins.”
“I’ve heard Hollywood was pretty wild back then,” Savannah said.
“Whatever you’ve heard, it was way worse. Lucinda told me things that would curl your ears.”
“Do you have any idea where that book is now, the one she started?”
“I saw it a few days ago, there under her pillow where she was sleeping. But when I looked today, it wasn’t there.”
“Okay, enough about old stories. No recent juicy stuff?” Dirk said, getting back to business. “We need to find out what she’d been doing lately, what might have gotten her killed, not what happened sixty or seventy years ago.”
“Nothing salacious lately, I’m afraid,” Mary replied. “I guess she was a bit past all of that at her age. Even a woman like Lucinda Faraday has to slow down sooner or later.”
Savannah decided to take Dirk’s lead and move the conversation back to the investigation. Surely, they had established a significant amount of rapport with her and could take a chance.
Jumping right in, Savannah leaned across the table in the housekeeper’s direction and said, “Mary, if you don’t mind me asking . . . What were you looking for so frantically there in Lucinda’s sleeping area? Whatever it was, you seemed quite eager to find it. Some sort of paper?”
And the Killer Is . . . Page 13