Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) (10 page)

I went back to the beginning, back to January, and leafed through the pages one by one. There were no surprises, nothing that screamed
clue leading up to the murder
, but I refused to hurry and jump ahead. There was no rhyme or reason to my methodology; I’d never taken Intro to Criminology and didn’t have the slightest idea how to go about detecting. But I figured I had nothing to lose by starting at the beginning and proceeding straight to the end.

Some of the names I read matched the ones I had seen on Elizabeth’s files in her office. Some of the charity events listed were well-known gala balls and fundraisers Elizabeth chaired herself. Because so many of the names were vaguely familiar in one way or another, most of the entries were easy to skim through, despite the fact that Elizabeth led a very busy life and that her calendar was stuffed with activities and appointments. By the time I reached June, the last month of her life, I was frustrated, much like I imagined a cop feels after chasing a suspect for two miles on foot only to find himself staring at a six-foot wall rimmed in barbed wire...alone and empty-handed.  After scanning June’s entries, I started to close the book when I noticed a small notation lightly penciled in at the bottom of a page marked with several small asterisks. The date was Tuesday, exactly one week before I found Elizabeth.

**1:00—Lindsay Burns, Woodlake Meadows

1653 Blue Spruce

Corner of Jasmine and Ponderosa

The address surprised me. Woodlake Meadows was a highly marketed development in suburb located on the eastern edge of Colorado Springs. The land was flat and dry, blanketed in tall grass reminiscent of the fields in Kansas and Nebraska.  At one time, The Meadows was hyped to be the next affordable, but luxurious, community development for young families. Man-made lakes and artificial waterfalls were all part of the package. An intricate irrigation system would produce rolling green hills and sustain numerous aspen trees lining the streets, an otherwise impossible task in an arid climate with extreme weather changes. Four different models of homes were advertised for immediate occupancy. The whole concept of an oasis in the middle of a high plains desert appealed to people, a little like trying to outsmart Mother Nature.

Unfortunately, things had gone wrong from the beginning. The water table of the proposed site was deeper than originally thought and the irrigation system was faulty. Investors quickly dropped out and the development died a quiet little death, leaving just two blocks of completed homes, only a few of which were actually occupied. The land was parched and the houses were tired little constructions thrown up haphazardly before the whole development went belly up. I couldn’t imagine Elizabeth even visiting this neighborhood.

I put the book on the nightstand, turned off the lamp, and pulled the covers up to my chin. Snapshots of Villari’s dark eyes and heavily stubbled chin intermingled with drifting memories of Elizabeth working in my studio. Preston’s pale, clammy face wafted across my brain, dragging Cassie’s pouty expression right behind. I blinked my eyes against them all and turned over on my side. Tomorrow I would visit Woodlake.  I couldn’t do anything to change Elizabeth’s death, but I could keep searching until her killer was found.

The day dawned pale and pink, the sky swatches of diluted colors. Wearing thick cotton socks and a large sweatshirt pulled over my flannel shirt, I drank my coffee sitting on one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter. Colorado mornings and evening are always cool, even in the dead of summer, but the chill is a welcome respite from the heat of the day. It’s a study of contrasts. The weather shifts from hot to cold, from sunshine to rain, and from clear skies to fog and snow in a matter of minutes. I was drawn to its volatility when I graduated from college in California, where weather travels on cruise control.

Elizabeth’s smiling face stared up at me from the newspaper. I had the paper open to the obituaries, something I did every morning...part of my daily routine. I’d scan the page, tally the ages of the deceased, and pray that the column labeled
Over Eighty
was longer than the column marked
Under Forty
. I knew it was a morbid habit, but I couldn’t shake the slight sense of relief I felt when the older folks took the lead.

It was disconcerting to see Elizabeth’s picture in the obits, even though I had found her body, been to her funeral, dealt with her recalcitrant grandchildren, and stolen her appointment book. I should have expected the write-up, but still, it was one more occurrence that marked her final passing. The column enumerated all Elizabeth’s community work and concluded with the usual family information. The funeral was described as a private memorial service for the family, and although the cause of death was not specified, the family requested that donations be sent to one of several charities she’d championed in lieu of flowers. Of course, what the reporter failed to mention was that the funeral was private because Preston and Cassie couldn’t wait to bury the old lady and claim their inheritance. They didn’t give anyone a chance to arrange a regular funeral, insisting that Elizabeth would have hated it. But I knew that was a crock. She would have loved all the pomp and circumstance and everyone paying homage, as long as she, in some spirit form or another, could sit back and enjoy the show.

I glanced at the clock and decided against calling Lindsay Burns before going to meet her. I wasn’t sure how to introduce myself over the phone and I didn’t want to give her the option of hanging up or refusing to see me.  I also realized that there was a good possibility that I was off on a wild-goose chase. For all I knew, this lady could be Elizabeth’s manicurist or an old friend who had fallen on hard times. But maybe, just maybe, Lindsay Burns knew something. If she did, I wanted to be there in person.

I was out of my house in under a half hour. It never takes me long to get ready, one of the advantages of my baggy-clothes ensembles that Villari had questioned.  I didn’t spend time in front of the mirror wondering if something made me look fat or thin... everything made me look shapeless, and as far as I was concerned, this expedited the incredibly boring routine of getting dressed.

My Jeep sputtered to life after several enthusiastic pedal pumps. Out on the Interstate, I flipped on the radio to listen to the seven o’clock top-of-the-hour news as I drove south toward the Woodmen exit. I was a little apprehensive about showing up uninvited at someone’s house this early in the morning, but I was afraid Lindsay Burns might have a job and be out of the house before eight. Knowing my luck, we’d pass each other going in different directions, she on her way to work, me on my way to her empty house.

I turned east on Woodmen, traveling away from the mountains. Amazingly, I flew through several green lights, so that I was out of the city and driving through farm country in no time at all. I pulled out my I-phone and Google mapped the surrounding area.  I took Woodmen out to Powers and turned right at the light, driving south for a few miles until I saw an imposing brick structure on the left side of the road marking the entrance to a now barren community. I drove slowly past a vacant gatehouse. Blue Spruce was the first street on the right.  #1653 sat on the intersection of Blue Spruce and an unmarked street that I assumed was either Jasmine or Ponderosa, as Elizabeth had noted in her book.

I pulled a U-turn and parked at the curb. I rubbed my damp palms against my jeans as I walked past the driveway and up the front steps. Standing at the door, I took a deep breath, straightened my sweater, and rang the doorbell.  Not knowing what to expect, I nervously shifted from one foot to the other.

Suddenly the door opened just a crack. One green eye peeked out.

“Yes?”

“Hi! You must be Lindsay Burns,” I chirped, sounding like a vapid cheerleader.  I started over. “My name is Maggie Kean. I’m a friend of Elizabeth Boyer.”

No answer. The emerald eye never even blinked. “Mrs. Boyer died recently... perhaps you read about it in the newspaper?” I was fishing for a way to explain my presence here, but her stare was truly disquieting.  She reminded me of my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Blake. She caught me stealing Brian Simpson’s crayon box and simply stared at me with her “I know what you did and we’ll sit here until you decide to admit the truth” look. It worked, too. In no time at all, I broke down and confessed to the damn crime. 

“Mrs. Boyer’s demise was rather sudden—” 

“What does that have to do with me?”

The lady really could use a refresher course in social skills. “I am, or was, Mrs. Boyer’s part-time secretary. I ran her office, took care of her bills, her social calendar, things like that. Since her death, I’ve been trying to get her affairs in order and I found your name.” I was back-pedaling a mile a minute and spinning lies like crazy, but I had no other choice. I couldn’t very well present myself as Elizabeth’s neighbor, the one who found her body, stole her calendar, and found Lindsay Burns’ name penciled in at the bottom of a page. “I was hoping to talk with you about your business with Mrs. Boyer, in case it’s something I need to follow up on or complete for her.”

“We didn’t have any business together,” she said firmly.

“Ms. Burns, would you mind if I came in? It’s a little chilly out here and holding a conversation through a small opening is a little difficult.” I held up my hand, palm out, like I was taking the Boy Scout oath. “I promise to leave as soon as we’re finished talking and—”

“We’re finished talking now,” she said, closing the door.

Without thinking, I jammed the toe of my foot into the small gap before she had a chance to shut it completely. To my relief, I didn’t hear any bones crunch, but I was convinced that there was something going on here and I couldn’t leave without knowing what it was.

“What do you think you’re doing?  Get out of the way or I’ll call the cops.”

She tried to shut the door, but my foot was now wedged in tightly and I wasn’t going to turn back now. “Ms. Burns, I’m not here to start any trouble. I just want to find out where you fit in Elizabeth Boyer’s life so I can finish what needs to be finished and close her office. You seem to be afraid of something.  Maybe I can help you.”

 Lindsay Burns stared at me for a few long, silent moments, apparently making up her mind.  To my relief, I heard her sigh and step back, pulling the door open.

Lindsay Burns wasn’t much older than I was—in fact, she may have been younger—but her skin was pale and translucent like someone over eighty who lived alone in a dark house with the shades drawn.  Her hair hung limply to her shoulders, a faded blonde with a wide swatch of dark roots running down her center part.  One eye sported a fading but suspicious-looking bruise and her lips were chapped and cracked, especially the bottom one, which she was gnawing on at the moment. Her dress was right off an old ladies’ rack, one of those square sacks my mother used to call a housedress. I wasn’t sure what this girl’s problem was, but something bad went on in this house.

Behind her, the living room was neat and tidy. Two well-worn beige couches faced each other with a small oval rug between them. There was the usual coffee table, two end tables, a lamp, and a vase filled with dried flowers, all blending together to create a space as plain and dreary as a bowl of blanched vegetables. Everything was the color of oatmeal, grits, unburied dog bones, dingy curtains, peeled potatoes, or day-old snow. And Lindsay Burns, with her yellowed dress and lousy dye job, faded naturally into this nondescript background. All pale and washed-out, except for the emerald eyes. Except for the watercolors hanging on the wall. Except for the yellow and orange and red and blue plastic toys strewn around the floor.

“Look, I’ll tell you the same thing I told that woman who came knocking at my door last week. Take my advice and get out of here and throw my name in the fire before somebody gets hurt. Don’t ever come back here again or I’ll skip the cops and turn my dog on you for trespassing.” Lindsay Burns took a step backward and slammed the door.

Thank God I moved my foot.