Hearse and Gardens (22 page)

I woke up in the living room of the bungalow in Uncle Harry's wheelchair. Brandy stood in front of me. “What are you doing?”

“Don't talk. Things will go easier if you don't talk.”

“What kind of things?” My tongue felt coated with peanut butter.

I tried to stand. No good. I touched the back of my head and felt a huge gash. My hand came away slicked with blood and I had a hard time moving my arms and legs.

“Time to top you off.” Brandy reached in her coat pocket and took out a syringe and glass vial. She stuck the needle into the top of the vial and pulled the stopper. The syringe filled with clear liquid. She tapped the syringe until a few drops beaded on the needle's point.

“I don't understand. What's that for?” Unfortunately, a similar experience taught me to keep the killer talking.
Maybe when I survived this one I'd do a seminar: things to say when you're confronted with a murderer.

“Stop talking.”

Or in my case, things not to say. “I think you misunderstood.”

“Ha. I misunderstood? I misunderstood you rifling through my private things? Her things? Did you see his ring?”

“No. What ring? I, uh, I wanted to return something that belonged to you.”

“What are you saying?” She came closer. And so did the needle.

“The rattle.”

“What rattle?”

“The one Pierce bought for your baby.”

“How do you know?”

“I found it inside a trunk that had been stored upstairs in the attic.” I tried to point above me to the attic, but my arm felt so numb, I could barely raise a finger.

Her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away with the sleeve of her sweater. “Show it to me.”

“I don't have it. Must've dropped it back at Sandringham.”

“There's no rattle. Pierce didn't care about the baby. Not even when Harrison told him she died. And he certainly didn't care about me. Sixteen, scared, and alone. He used me. At school he was with Celia. At home he was with me. After the baby died and I came back to Montauk he barely talked to me. Then when he married Sonya, I almost forgave him. I wasn't even mad that Pierce had married Sonya when she was pregnant with Liv. Harrison forced him to
do the right thing. Sonya was real. She wasn't one of the stuck-ups. She was my friend. I even told her about the baby. But I was mad when I found him cheating on Sonya with Helen Morrison.”

She moved closer.

I tried to stand but only managed to fall back into the wheelchair. “Then I must have been wrong. The rattle must have been for Liv.”

“Oh no, you don't. A rattle doesn't explain why you broke open the case. Plus, you saw Pierce's wedding ring. I am sorry, but you won't feel a thing. You'll fall asleep before the smoke enters your lungs.” She jabbed the needle in my arm.

I twisted away but she had the advantage. Every last milliliter entered my right arm. “They know,” I said. “Liv knows you killed Helen and her father.”

She tucked the syringe in her pocket. “You're bluffing.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I caught Helen and Pierce here. In the recording studio. Their little love nest. This used to be our place. But that didn't matter. When I found out they were meeting here, I had to do something. Not only for myself, but for Sonya and Liv. Pierce was married, and had a three-year-old. Cheating snake. So I bolted and locked the door to the recording studio on the outside and pushed the bookcase against the door, then filled it with heavy books. I packed some of Pierce's clothing, wallet, passport, and toiletries, snuck into the gatehouse, and did the same with Helen's things.

She took a box of matches from her other pocket.

“So you let Pierce and Helen die and let Sonya think Pierce ran off with Helen?”

“It was all for the best. And don't forget the Warhol. Pierce had moved it to his suite. I took it and hid it in the speakeasy room in the cellar so it would look like Pierce and Helen had stolen it before they left Montauk. Everyone believed Pierce took off with the painting, especially after he was blacklisted in the art world for the Pollock scandal. We were all better off without Pierce in our lives. Even Harrison. Poor Harrison. I started doubling and tripling his meds so he'd become confused and out of it. Then right before the competency hearing, I weaned him off so he'd be lucid. I knew Celia would be blamed. He doesn't need that bitch in his life. I'll always take care of him. I made it look like Celia was a gold digger, which she is. Where do you think Celia got the names of Harrison's shrinks? From me.”

Whatever Brandy had injected, kicked in.

She continued her diatribe. “No one knew about the recording studio but me. I was privy to most of Pierce's secret places that he sketched in his journals. We played in some of them as children.” She looked over at the door to the recording studio. “Twenty-seven years ago, when I told Pierce I was pregnant, he told me to get an abortion. My father sent me away to ‘boarding school' to have the baby. After my drunk of a mother, Father couldn't stand any more scandals in our family. Harrison told my father he'd take care of the baby if Pierce wouldn't. But my father insisted I give her up. It really didn't matter anyway. She only lived an hour.”

“So killing them was an act of kindness?” I slurred.

“I never thought of it that way. But yes, I suppose it was. If you knew Pierce, you'd understand. When I found out
Harrison planned to move the bungalows, I needed to relocate Pierce and Helen—or what was left of them—to the hidden speakeasy room in Sandringham's wine cellar, the same place I'd hidden the Warhol. I didn't know Harrison told you and Elle to clean out the bungalow, so I'd only had a chance to move Helen, before the two of you showed up.”

“Where is the Warhol now?” It hadn't been in the cellar with Helen.

“I have no idea.”

My jaw felt heavy and I couldn't keep my eyes open.

“So you planted Helen's purse and Pierce's wallet before you came to Kate's party to frame Nathan. What about him? He's innocent.”

“I suppose. But I don't have a choice.”

She went out of the bungalow's front door and came back with an armful of wood from the porch. She put the wood against the back wall of the living room. “It'll take time to reach you. It won't be painful. The smoke and carbon monoxide will kill you first. I'm sorry to do this, but Harrison needs me. He's been like a father to me, and I can't desert him.”

At this point I could barely move my lips. Whatever she'd given me felt good. It was like I'd taken a dozen muscle relaxers, then chased them down with a bottle of vodka.

Brandy gave me a wistful look before she scratched the match against the box. She lit the logs and then the bottom of the curtains at each window. Elle had wanted to take them. I should have let her.

The sun had gone down and the room turned orange. Heat reached my back.

Even if Brandy did get away with killing me, how did she plan to explain Uncle Harry's wheelchair?

I got my answer when she tipped the wheelchair forward and I slid to the floor. No need for duct tape or rope. I couldn't move a muscle—not even my tongue.

She took one last glance at the bungalow and rolled the wheelchair out the front door.

The room got brighter and brighter. I was drenched in sweat.

Then, through the smoke, I saw him.

The man in the neon orange cap.

My stalker.

“Kurt Pinkus saved your life,” Elle said.

“Who?” The name sounded familiar but I couldn't place it.

I was in a bed in a private room at Southampton Hospital.

Elle handed me a glass of water. I tried to get up on my elbows to take it but fell back against the pillow. She held the glass with a straw to my mouth. I drank and immediately started coughing.

“You're lucky. Nurse Freeman said you suffered very little smoke inhalation.”

My shoulders relaxed. Nurse Freeman was looking out for me. We'd met last March after the Seacliff incident. “Brandy?”

“In jail.”

“How?”

“Kurt Pinkus cracked her hard in the jaw. Knocked her flat on the sand.”

The room was spinning. I closed my eyes. I knew the name sounded familiar. “Who is Kurt Pinkus?”

I could barely hear her through my left hearing aid. How long had it been since Brandy bashed me on the head in her sitting room?

“You should rest. Your father took a plane and should be here any minute. Are you sure you're up to talking?”

I opened my eyes and gave Elle a dirty look. Did she know me at all?

“Okay. Okay. Kurt Pinkus was your stalker.”

That's why the name sounded familiar. Kurt Pinkus was one of the part-time deckhands on
Wrestling with the Wind
. The boat with the orange bucket. One of the names Morgana had left on my voice mail.

Elle said, “Doc's waiting in the hall. Can I tell him to come in?”

“Of course.”

It was good to see Doc's face.

I held out my hand and he took it. “I leave you on your own and look what happens.”

“Tell me about Kurt Pinkus.”

He said, “You should rest. You have a nasty bump on your head.”

My throat felt scratchy and I coughed again.

Elle handed me the glass of water. “Doc, you know she won't do anything until we tell her what we know.”

“Okay. Okay. Your father learned Pinkus had a relationship with Sergeant Gordon Miles. He served with him in the Middle East. It was a case of misguided loyalty. He
wanted to scare you away from fighting for the ownership of the cottage in order to help his hero, Sergeant Miles, win the case. Apparently, Sergeant Miles saved Kurt's life when they were on tour. Pinkus thought he was doing Sergeant Miles a favor, but Sergeant Miles had no hand in his pranks. Today, Kurt Pinkus followed you to Sandringham. He planned to fill the back of your Jeep with another bucketful of fish guts, but on his way to your car, he saw Brandy carting you out of Sandringham unconscious in a wheelchair. So he followed you and Brandy to the bungalow.”

“Wow. Who would have thought having a stalker would be a good thing?”

“Which reminds me,” he said. “Why didn't you tell me about these stalking incidents?”

“I told Dad. I thought they were just pranks.” Not completely true, but he had known about the bucket of fish guts.

Elle glanced up from her cell phone. “Detective Shoner's downstairs. He wants to know what happened with Brandy. Are you up to talking about it?”

“Yes. And you can call him Arthur.”

She blushed.

A few minutes later, I explained to everyone how Brandy was sent away to have Pierce's baby when she was only sixteen. After the baby died, Pierce wouldn't have anything to do with her. Seven years later when Brandy found out Pierce was cheating on Sonya with Helen, she lost it. She entombed Pierce and Helen in the bungalow's recording studio. Then she moved Helen to the cellar where she'd hidden the Warhol. She was just about to move Pierce when Elle and I showed up. Brandy planted Helen's purse
and Pierce's wallet in the trunk at the gatehouse before Kate's party, because she knew that Helen could no longer be blamed for Pierce's murder.

Detective Shoner said, “Quite the game of musical bones. However, if Brandy put the Warhol in the speakeasy, where the heck is it?”

I said, “Brandy didn't know. When she had moved Helen to the secret cellar room, the Warhol had been there. Brandy never cared about the Warhol, she just wanted retribution.”

I thought I understood why Pierce stopped drawing living beings in his journals. After his and Brandy's baby died, he'd found his own way to grieve.

Elle said, “Pinkus also overheard Brandy's confession and promises to testify in court.”

My stalker was my savior.

Applause broke out when Elle and I walked into the kitchen at Sandringham. Everyone was there. Except Brandy.

Ingrid came over and gave me a huge hug. “We're so happy you're okay.”

It had been two weeks since my near-death experience in the bungalow. I'd only stayed in the hospital two nights and that was because Nurse Freeman had been overprotective.

When my father arrived in New York, he not only filled me in on what he'd found out about Kurt Pinkus but also what he learned about someone else.

He'd stayed a week, and the kicker was, he got along famously with Jo. She even stood on his lap at the banquette while she ate her supper. I tried the same routine after he'd left, but Jo pooh-poohed my advances. What else was new? Although it might have had more to do with her
being spoiled by the cooked-to-order grilled seafood plate my father prepared each night in lieu of her Purrfectly Organic canned food.

Last week I'd sent Elle on some recon work, and today I was going to solve the mystery of the missing Warhol. It was my Hercule Poirot/Jane Marple moment.

When everyone was seated at the farm table—Elle, Ingrid, Nathan, Kate, Liv, Celia, Richard, and Uncle Harry—I began. “Brandy had no idea what happened to the Warhol. She told me the last time she saw it, the painting was in the secret cellar room with Helen's skeleton.”

Ingrid took Nathan's hand.

“Kate, when you were
supposedly
locked in the wine cellar with Liv, why did you take photos of Pierce's journal with the cell phone you supposedly didn't have, then send them to Richard?”

Celia jumped up. “What is this? What are you talking about?”

Kate said, “Sit down, Celia. Let Meg talk.”

“Richard, why did you keep it a secret that you are the son of Tansy and the artist Frederic Challis? And Pierce's half brother?”

“What?” Celia seemed totally surprised, and here I'd thought she'd known Richard was Tansy's son the whole time.

My father had found Richard's birth records in Milwaukee. The two huge paintings in Richard's apartment signed F. C. were done by Richard's father, the artist Frederic Challis. The same man Tansy had followed from the South of France to Milwaukee. Richard's father must have taught
him the double-double French air-kiss, and his Wisconsin childhood explained his midwestern accent.

Elle had taken Tansy's hairbrush from the glove compartment of her Shelby convertible. Detective Shoner compared Richard's DNA with the DNA from Tansy's hair. Voila! Mother and son.

I nodded to Elle. “Go ahead.”

She typed a word on her cell phone.

Seconds later the kitchen door opened. Detective Shoner and another officer carried in the Andy Warhol painting of Aqua Net hairspray.

Richard jumped up. “It's mine. Warhol made it for my mother!”

Celia said, “Richard, you idiot. What have you done?”

Richard ignored her and tried to grab the huge canvas, but Kate stopped him. “For once, Celia is right. I'm ready to confess everything.” Kate turned to Liv. “I'm so sorry, Livvy. I never meant to hurt you. I just put one sleeping pill in your wine and I brought your extra inhaler in case you had an asthma attack. When I told Richard about the journal and the drawing of the wine cellar, he came to the cellar that night and we found the speakeasy room. Richard took out his precious painting. I didn't go inside.”

I said, “But why would you help Richard?”

Kate sighed. “We had a deal. If I helped him find the Warhol, he would help me find more treasures from clues found in Liv's father's journals. These people are multimillionaires. I only meant to sock away a few goodies for when Stepdaddy kicked us out and divorced Mommie Dearest.”

Tears slid down both Liv's and Ingrid's faces. They'd both trusted Kate and felt betrayed.

I walked over to Liv and handed her the box with the diamond heart I'd found under Kate's bed. Liv looked at Kate, and Kate ran out of the room in tears. Celia followed. On the way out the door, she kicked Richard in the shin. I could have thought of a better place, but that was me.

It was obvious Richard wanted what his half brother had: the Warhol and Celia. He wasn't a murderer, but he hadn't disclosed he'd found Helen's skeleton in the speakeasy for fear someone might suspect he'd taken the painting. When I learned Richard was Tansy's son, I looked back at the photos I'd taken of Pierce's first journal—the same journal Kate had taken pictures of when she was in the cellar while Liv was passed out. She had sent them to Richard, which explained the photo I'd seen on his computer. Another photo in Pierce's drawings was of the apartment over the old stable/garage. An upside-down horse's head had been sketched in the mahogany paneling behind Richard's desk. It was the perfect spot to hide the Warhol, as Richard also figured out.

Detective Shoner went over to Uncle Harry. “Do you want to press charges?”

“Not at the moment.” Then Uncle Harry clapped his hands. “Well done, Meg Barrett. Well done.”