High Desert Detective, A Fiona Marlowe Mystery (Fiona Marlowe Mysteries) (38 page)

The
Forty Column Castle:
An eccentric aunt drags her unsuspecting niece, Claudie Lowell, into the murky
world of antiquities smuggling on the island of Cyprus. Claudie tries to clear
her aunt’s good name only to uncover layer upon layer of dangerous intrigue
masterminded by Zach Lamont, the most dangerous man of all.

The Hieroglyphic Staircase:
Elena
Palomares’s
summer archaeological project in Copan,
Honduras turns into a nightmare when she discovers someone has been stealing
stones from the Hieroglyphic Staircase, she finds a stranger dead at her work
site, and she’s a suspect. An ex-priest offers to help clear her good name. In
the course of their investigation, they discover there is a price to pay for
disturbing the ghosts of the ancient Mayans, and Elena must decide if she is
willing to pay it.

Designer
Detective:
Fiona
Marlowe, interior designer to the rich and powerful in Washington D.C.,
discovers her wealthy old client dead in his library and helps his Wild West
relatives from southeast Oregon solve the mystery of his demise.

The Hoodoo Canyon
: A top secret
conference of the world’s best physicists convenes at a remote backpack site in
Bryce Canyon National Park. But the scientist who organizes the conference
never shows up and among the attendees is an alien.

The Deovolante Space Opera
series:
 
stay tuned

An excerpt from Designer Detective, first book in the Fiona
Marlowe mystery series:

One

The private investigator
introduced himself as Jake.

“I understand you’re an
interior decorator,” he said.

“Designer.
I don’t just decorate I design living space,” I said.

He cast his eyes around the
room like maybe he didn't understand me right, like I'm glad you're not my
interior designer.

“Okay, I know the place is
a mess. I'm busy. I lead an active life. I travel a lot. But that’s not why
you’re here.”

We sat on my beige leather
couch. His knees didn't quite fit between the couch and the black lacquer
coffee table, overloaded with books and empty coffee cups that hadn't made it
to the dishwasher. He spread his legs wide in the way only a man can do. His
thighs were big, and his Levis fit tight. I like the curve of a man's thigh so
I sneaked a discreet glance when he wasn't looking. I didn't think he noticed.

“I understand you found the
deceased when you went to his house this morning.”

“Yes. I have a key. I let
myself in because he leaves for work before I arrive.”

“What time was that?”

“After
eleven.”

“Then you arrived late in
the morning.”

“Yes.” I smiled like it was
normal to report to work after eleven in the morning. I am not an early riser.

“Did you notice anything
out of the ordinary?”

I thought that one over and
felt a need to explain. “I was in a rush this morning and got held up in
traffic. When I arrived at the Lodge estate, parked in the drive, ran through
the downpour, struggled with the key in a Byzantine lock, banged open the door
and shook off, I was in a foul mood. Finding Albert Lodge on the floor of the
library was the final nail in the coffin, you might say. I wasn't at my most
observant.”

“I see,” he said, writing
in a little spiral notebook. “Describe finding the body.”

I thought back over the
scene. “When I walked into the library, he was stretched out on the floor. I
thought he was sleeping. Maybe he’d had a wild night. I sniffed the air for
booze. Didn't smell like the inside of a
bar.
I shook
him a little, called his name.” I did a mental pause. “Are you investigating a
murder?”
 

His eyes came up from where
he was writing in the little spiral notebook. Creases framed his eyes, and he
looked as tired as I felt.

“The coroner ruled he died
of natural causes.”

“Why are you here?”

He addressed me like I was
a bothersome child. “I’ve been hired by the family to find out if the death
was, in fact, natural.”

“I see. Sorry. It's been a
long day.”

“Right,” he said and
checked his watch. “I was up at four this morning.” He plodded on.
Tenacious guy.
“You didn't notice anything about the
deceased's house that would make you suspicious? Like a window open, glass on
the floor, muddy foot prints?”

“No,
nothing.”
I was trying hard to remain patient. He was being too
methodical for me. I wanted to jump to conclusions.

“After you tried to rouse
him, what did you do?”

“I yelled for help,
anybody, help.
Loud.
Several times.
No one came.”

“And then?”

“Like I told the officer
this morning, I picked up the phone and dialed 911, because I sensed we had a
medical emergency on our hands.”

I must have put too cynical
a twist on that last part because he looked up from his notebook. “Miss,” he
glanced at his notes, “uh, Marlowe, I believe it is. I'm sorry if it's late, if
you're tired, if I'm tired, if I'm asking a lot of questions. I'm sorry but a
man is dead, and I am to determine if foul play was involved. If you'd like, if
I'm inconveniencing you, I could come back in the morning.”

We stared at each other
until I got uncomfortable and looked away. “I'll make coffee,” I said. “It
sounds like we might be here all night.”

“No, thanks,” he said,
holding up his hand to stop me from rising from the couch. “I'd like to get
this done and get out of here. I got another stop before I crash tonight.”

I was impressed with his
work ethic. I stepped out of my wiseass suit and answered the man's questions.
He left in fifteen minutes, after scribbling his name and cell phone number on
a piece of notebook paper. He must have been out of business cards.

“Call me,” he said, “if you
think of anything that might help.
Any little detail, no
matter how insignificant.”

“Do you think Mr. Lodge was
murdered?” I asked as we stood in the foyer surrounded by my collection of
Australian aborigine masks.

“I don't know,” he said.
“That's what I've been hired to find out. Good evening, Ms. Marlowe.” He gave
me a two-finger salute, glanced around at the masks, back at me, then walked
away down the hall to the elevator. He was taller than I and held himself
erect, not the slouchy type, but the slope of his shoulders had some tired to
them.

I looked at the piece of
paper. Jake Manyhorses. What kind of a name was that?

* * * * *

I sat at my breakfast table
window with a cup of organic fair trade coffee, enjoying the view looking
across the Potomac River into Washington D.C. To the east the sun was trying to
muscle its way through heavy gray clouds. This town had its faults, politics
came to mind, but the view from Virginia of the Washington Monument and the
Lincoln Memorial with the Capitol building in the background was spectacular.

I hadn't slept a wink.
Visions of Albert Lodge's face
schmushed
on the gold
Persian carpet kept playing in my mind. Maybe he’d had a heart attack or
stroke. Someone must have been pretty clever to conceal a cause of death the
coroner thought natural. Who would want to do away with a nice, old gent like
Albert Lodge?

I was now unemployed.
Too bad.
I’d some great ideas for a new, contemporary look
to the library. Being the practical woman I was, I fished in my purse for my
cell phone to call a client who was waiting for me to faux paint her dining
room. After dumping the entire contents of my Coach purse, which seconded as a
briefcase, I discovered the phone was not in residence. I must have left it in
Mr. Lodge's library when I tried to call 911 and couldn’t get a signal. That
meant a trip back to his house. I still had the key, so there'd be no problem
getting in. I should have given the key to the policeman or Jake Many Horses,
but it slipped my mind. That happened to me.

I decided, as I pulled on a
pair of black slacks and olive turtleneck sweater after a steamy shower, I
should tell Jake about Mr. Lodge having the library redone to erase the memory
of his wife. I had asked him why he wanted to re-decorate the library. He said
his wife had decorated it. Now that she was gone, it reminded him of her and he
wanted a change. He didn't mention whether the memory of the wife was a good
thing or a bad thing.

Zipping along the George Washington Parkway on my way to McLean
where the rich and powerful lived and misbehaved, it struck me like a hopper of
molten steel that I was involved in a murder investigation. Goose flesh
prickled on my arms, maybe even my heart. Talk about a chilling feeling.

I didn't know much about
Albert Lodge. He had photos sitting about the library, but he hadn't talked
about any of the people in the photos. Maybe I should do some looking around on
my own when I got there. What if someone had murdered him? Maybe I should
forget about getting the cell phone. But my perverse nature made me blunder on.

As I entered the open gate
to the Lodge estate, I noticed a car parked on the side of the road in a ditch
under a tree shedding golden leaves. That car wasn't there the day before. Or
was it? It was a rust bucket that looked like something an illegal alien would
drive, way out of place in this neighborhood. I stopped, whipped out my daily
planner and made a note under today's date of the license plate number, color
and model. We detectives had to keep track of clues. I'd tell Jake about it.

I swung up the circular
drive in my racy Acura Legend and parked in front. The place looked English
country estate with lots of red brick and two stories of multi-pane windows.
The carved entrance door was recessed into an arched portico with wide entrance
steps. The sky was still overcast with leaden clouds lumbering by on a serious
northwest wind. At least the rain had stopped. I pulled the collar of my suede
jacket up around my neck, boldly strode to the door like I lived there, and
commenced to wrestle with the lock.

I was starting to feel
maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I kept looking around like I was expecting
someone to come up to me and say “Hey, what do you think you're doing?”
Finally, the door clicked open after I had jiggled the key at least a million
different directions.

The foyer had an odd
pungent smell. Maybe it was the pipe tobacco Albert Lodge favored. He had
stroked and stoked his pipe in an orgasmic ritual Saturday morning when I had come
to talk over what he wanted done and quote him a price. He had not flinched at
the ball park number I tossed out. Good omen for us interior designers. Too bad
the guy had to up and die.

My high heel boots clicked
on the marble floors, echoing in the stillness. The drawing room was to the
left, the library to the right. I headed for the library and stopped at the
entrance a little apprehensive about what I might find. I peered around but
detected no dead body or other undesirables. All was still, which gave me the
willies. I hurried to look for the cell phone. A huge couch stood where Mr.
Lodge had fallen. I went around the space like stepping on the spot would be
sacrilegious. I ran my hand along the couch seams and cushions, thinking the
phone might have dropped there.

“May I help you?” said a
proper English voice.

I jumped and emitted an
unladylike screech, gripping my chest to forestall a heart attack. I searched
for the voice and saw the source standing at the entrance. “Good heavens. You
gave me a fright. Who are you?” I managed to croak.

“My name is Hudson. I'm Mr.
Lodge's butler. And you?”

He was an Anthony Hopkins
look alike reminiscent of the butler in the movie,
Remains of the Day,
displaying a countenance more curious than
stern. I detected a bit of a twinkle in his eye.

“Fiona Marlowe. Mr. Lodge
engaged me to redesign the library. I'm the one who found him yesterday.”

“Quite. I've been away. My
sister has been ill so I took leave to visit her. I returned when I heard of
Mr. Lodge's accident.”

He walked to the window by
the desk and opened the heavy velvet green drapes. They were the first things I
planned to get rid of. The windows needed something lighter, airier.

“You came Saturday whilst I
was gone, I believe,” he said.

“Yes. Mr. Lodge gave me a
key so I could work when he wasn't here during the day.”

“He mentioned he had
engaged you. I sometimes work in the far reaches of the house and didn't hear
you come in since you didn't ring the bell. Are you here to continue working?”
He cocked his head to one side like that was a suspect idea.

I smiled without humor.
“No, I realize under the circumstances, my work won’t be needed. I misplaced my
cell phone. The last time I used it was here, so I came back to look for it.
Sorry to impose.”

He walked to the desk and
picked up my cell phone.

“Is this it? I found it on
the couch when I was tidying up this morning.”

“Thanks so much. I better
run. Sorry.” I took the phone, plopped it in my purse and turned to go.

“You don't have to leave.
Would you care for tea?
 
We could talk
about your plans for the remodel.”

I looked at him like he had
just told me I’d won the lottery. “I thought the job would be over since Mr.
Lodge . . .” My voice failed me, and I looked down at the place on the floor.

“The house will be put up
for sale, no doubt, and anything you could do to spruce up the place would only
add to the value. Maybe you could look at some of the other rooms.”