Beads of Doubt (9 page)

“It was a short vent.”

“That was lucky.” I sighed. “I actually came to relieve you. Why don’t you go eat something?”

“Because I’m not hungry. Not at all.”

“That’s ridiculous. You have to eat or you’ll get sick.”

Beth pulled out the wrapper of a low-carb protein bar. “I ate part of this. And I’ve had two bottles of water. I’m fine. Go shop. You’ll feel better.”

“I’m okay.”

“That’s why you keep sighing.”

“Short vents, long sighs. It’s my new way of life.” I glanced around. “Have you visited the ovarian cancer booth?”

“Not yet. I plan to do that tomorrow, or maybe this afternoon. One of the women from the Bead Society is going to sit in for me.”

“That’s good. Anything else happening?” I asked.

She thought about it for a moment. “Oh, Shannan called this morning. She’s all packed, and she told her dad he’d have to take her shopping in San Francisco. She sounded really excited about it.” I expected Beth to say something about Mo-Ron, or rather Ron, her almost, soon-to-be, I hoped, ex-husband, or how she was missing the two of them, but she went on blithely as if his trip with their daughter were no more interesting than the weather. “Something else. Keep your cell phone with you this afternoon.” She unhooked it from the display. “Sergeant Granger is going to call you.”

“Me? Why me?”

She looked around and lowered her voice. “Because there was a murder behind your house last night, and you had one hundred and fifty people here. He’d like to talk to you about them. He wants to set up an appointment.”

So she still didn’t know who was dead, and how he’d died.

“Okay. But he’ll have to get in line—I’m a little busy.”

She smiled. “I don’t think he stands in line for much of anything. I already spoke with him this morning.”

I took the phone and waved a distracted good-bye. The problems in my life were multiplying exponentially. My cousin was trying to take away my house, my cousin’s assistant or partner or whatever had been found dead in a Dumpster behind my house with one of my candlesticks. Could it get any worse?

The short and simple answer was yes. At almost exactly three o’clock my cell phone rang. It was Aunt Miranda, and she was hysterical.

“Yes, Aunt Miranda. It’s me.” Our cell phone connection was a little difficult on her elderly ears, and it wasn’t helping that I was in the conservatory, where lots of other conversations flowed around me. “Wait just one second, and let me go into the living room.”

I actually ended up in a closet under the back staircase. It was the only place where I could find sufficient quiet and privacy on short notice. I pulled the chain to turn on the bare overhead bulb and tripped over a Christmas wreath that had fallen off its wall hook. “Aunt Miranda? I’m sorry for the delay. Are you all right? Is something wrong?”

“Yes, something is very wrong. Houston is at the jail. They think he killed that young man who worked with him. Andrew.”

“Wait a minute—Houston is in jail?”

“Not in jail, at the jail. Be precise with your language, dear. It’s especially important for you, as you remain in the public eye.”

I love my aunt Miranda probably as much as Houston does. She is kind, private, and sometimes overzealous when it comes to language. She was an English teacher for several years and the language is her joy.

“I’ll be more careful,” I said. “I’m sorry that Houston is having to speak with the police, but I’m sure it’s routine. The police want to know more about Andrew, and Houston can tell them that.”

“Don’t sugarcoat things, Kitzi. I hate that kind of bullshit and you know it. I have this awful premonition that Houston’s conversation with the police is merely a prelude to his arrest. A homicide charge.”

“Oh, Aunt Miranda, I’m sure that’s not going—”

“If you don’t want to help, then just say so.”

“That’s not it at all. I don’t know how to help. I don’t have any political pull, and if they haven’t charged Houston, there’s nothing I can do. What about Rebecca?”

“Rebecca certainly can’t help. She’s not well, you know. She has cancer and she’s taking chemotherapy treatments.”

I hadn’t wanted Rebecca to go sit at the police station; I just wanted to know how she was doing with all this. I didn’t bother to explain, though. “I’ll see what I can do,” I promised. “I’ll call you this evening, if not sooner.”

She hung up almost before I finished talking. That’s never a good sign with Aunt Miranda.

I was on my way back to the conservatory when my cell phone rang again. “Ms. Camden?” a male voice asked.

“Yes?” I sounded suspicious. “And who is this?”

“Senior Sergeant Granger. We spoke this morning.”

I knew who he was; I just wasn’t in the mood to talk. “Yes, we did. What can I do for you?”

“I received the guest list from Ms. O’Bannon, but I have some additional questions I’d like to ask you. Would it be convenient for you to come by the police station and talk with me?”

“Sure,” I said. “I can make it about three Monday afternoon. Shall I ask for you at the desk?”

“Did you say Monday? I’ll need to speak with you sooner than that.”

I turned around and headed back toward my closet, veering around guests and servers. Once inside I said, “I am a little busy today, as you might imagine. If you could hold off until this evening, I’d be very appreciative. Say about eight o’clock?”

“I could come by the Manse if that would help.”

“I’ll see that you get a cup of tea and if I can find some, a few scones.”

“That will probably be my dinner.”

“Well, in that case I’ll throw in a bowl of strawberries.”

He almost laughed but cut it off in midsound. “I’ll see you at eight this evening. And, Ms. Camden, please don’t speak to anyone about last night’s party, the guests, or the murder until we’ve had an opportunity to talk.”

“Guess I’ll be nice and quiet for a while. However, it would help me to know who died. And was it murder? I suspect so, since you’re homicide.”

He sounded a bit more respectful as he said, “How did you find that out?”

“Senior sergeants are only in homicide. Now, can you tell me who was killed?” Like I didn’t know, but I wanted to make it official.

He told me it was Andrew Lynch, and I said, “Can you tell me how he died?”

My plan was to tell him about the candlestick now, but he didn’t give me the opportunity. “I’m sorry, we’re still not releasing all the details.”

So much for my chance of becoming an honest woman. “Oh, and one more thing,” I said. “My aunt is quite concerned because she believes you are holding my cousin, Houston Webber, hostage at the police station. If you could let him go I’d be much more popular with Aunt Miranda.”

This time I swore I heard a half laugh. “Your cousin is here, but he came voluntarily.”

“The government said the Native Americans went on the Trail of Tears voluntarily, too, but not everyone believed them.”

“Except Mr. Webber did come here of his own volition. He’s helping us.”

I caught myself sighing. “Will he be voluntarily leaving any time soon?”

“He’s with my partner, Sergeant Hagen, so I can’t answer that.”

“Well, thanks for everything.”

We hung up, and I leaned against the wall. It had been my intention to visit Tess in the hospital, but it didn’t look like I’d be able to stay long. Not unless I got a move on now.

I turned off the light and opened the door in time to see my mother leaving the conservatory. Her eyebrows went up as she spotted me coming out of the closet.

“What in the world were you doing in there?” she asked, looking around to make sure that none of the guests observed my social transgression.

I held up my cell phone, the beads dangling and catching the light. “I needed someplace quiet.”

“I see.” She looked around at the bustle of people in the house and said, “We’d better go upstairs. We have to talk.”

I followed her up the front staircase and watched as she moved the velvet rope away from my door and went in ahead of me. Whatever was troubling her was big, and I hoped it wasn’t about Houston trying to take possession of the Manse. The other possibility was the murder. I should have told her about it myself, but I couldn’t remember what I was legitimately supposed to know and what I wasn’t.

“You seem upset,” I said as she seated herself in my favorite reading chair. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, but your aunt Miranda is beside herself. The police have arrested Houston for the murder of someone who worked for him. Miranda says you refused to help.”

I would have groaned or rolled my eyes, but I knew it would only annoy my mother. She and Aunt Miranda are very close. “Mother, that’s not quite the way it is.”

“Oh, really?” The icy tone was one that could put anyone from a reporter to the queen in her proper place.

“I talked with the sergeant in charge of the case,” I said. “And Houston is certainly not under arrest. He is helping the police with their investigation.”

“Oh?”

“Absolutely. The young man who was murdered worked with Houston. I’m sure Houston’s giving them Andrew’s address and the names of his relatives. His friends and clients. You know, all those things the police need to figure out who killed Andrew.” My mother thought about that for a few seconds. She would never watch any of the more realistic police shows on television these days, but she has an entire collection of Agatha Christie’s books and she used to love watching
Columbo
. I added, “I haven’t had a chance to call Aunt Miranda back. Actually, it might be better if you did that, since she’s unhappy with me.”

Her lovely, ladylike face remained bland, but I knew she was thinking. Finally she said, “So you did talk to the police and Houston is not under arrest. He is helping them. Is that correct?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“That is so typical of Houston. He’s a fine man.” She looked at me. “You could be helping, too, you know. I understand the young man was at our party last night.”

“A detective is coming here this evening.”

“Before she passed away your grandmother told me that when Austin was much smaller, several murders took place in this area.” She rose as gracefully as a swan despite her years. “I’m sorry that one more happened. Now Kitzi, you have to do everything you can to get this murder solved. And do it quickly, please, because we don’t want it to hurt the Bead Tea. This cause is far too important. We also don’t want to upset your aunt any further.”

I followed her to the door in my own less-than-elegant style. “You know I’ll do my best.”

“And if that’s not sufficient, do more.”

 

 

I was on my way to the hospital, wondering if Houston
would actually be arrested at some point, and if that would be a good thing or bad. Personally, for my family, it looked like a good thing. Then his attorney, Mr. Edward Harrington, could learn a new specialty and spend his time trying to get Houston out of the clink. I had a momentary, but very satisfying, visual of Houston, his silver hair gleaming, wearing bold black-and-white stripes, his hands pitifully clutching jail bars. The fact that inmates now wear orange jumpsuits didn’t get in the way of my fantasy.

If it weren’t for Rebecca I might have bribed the sergeant to put Houston in jail. It would be mean-spirited for another reason, too: I didn’t really think Houston had anything to do with Andrew’s murder. I could believe Houston was a sleaze, and I could carry his lack of scruples all the way to con man or crook, but I just couldn’t give it the final
oomph
to murderer. More’s the pity.

My cell phone rang, and it was my mother. “Is everything all right?” I asked.

“Yes, but your aunt and I had an idea. Why don’t you go by Houston’s office and see what his secretary can tell you?”

“Lauren? She’s serving tea at the Manse.”

“No, she was serving tea, but someone called and told her about Andrew. She was in the tent at the time and everyone must have heard the scream. I’m told she left immediately.”

Which didn’t mean that she went back to the office, but it was only five minutes out of my way. “Consider it done,” I said.

It was nearing five o’clock and the parking lot of Houston’s building was empty except for a white convertible BMW. It wasn’t the newest model, but it still wasn’t a cheap car.

I pulled in, grabbed my purse, and made one of those executive decisions to turn my phone off before I went up the steps. It was a precautionary measure in case my mother or my aunt got another wild hair. I didn’t mind my cousin in jail, but I didn’t want it to be me.

Once up the stairs I opened the door and stepped inside. Lauren was sitting at her desk. At the sounds of the door opening, her head came up, and when she saw me her mouth opened as if she were going to scream.

“It’s just me,” I said to reassure her. “Are you doing okay?”

“I’m fine. Fine. Houston’s not here.”

“So I heard. I thought maybe you could give me a little information.”

Her eyes were so wide she looked like an old Keene painting. “Now’s not a good time. I’m pretty busy. My life is busy. I’m on my way to the police station—they’re expecting me right now.” She had backed her chair up almost to the screen behind her.

“Is that true?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“Okay, then answer this: why are you afraid of me?”

“Who says I’m afraid?”

“Your face. Is it because I said I’d like to pinch his head off and throw him in a Dumpster?” She stiffened, eyes still wide. I said, “I was talking about Houston because he’s trying to take away the Manse. I didn’t have a thing against Andrew except that he was annoying. People don’t get killed for being annoying.” I spotted a chair against the wall and sat in it. It gave her a clear path to the door in case she thought she needed one. “Houston is at the jail talking to a Sergeant Hagen, and his mother is very worried. Houston’s mother, not Sergeant Hagen’s. She understands, in theory, that he went to the police voluntarily, but emotionally she’s concerned that he’ll be arrested for Andrew’s murder.”