High Desert Detective, A Fiona Marlowe Mystery (Fiona Marlowe Mysteries) (39 page)

“Maybe we should have that
cup of tea,” I said.

Hudson led the way to a
dining area looking out on the spacious grounds to the back of the house.
Spacious was an understatement. A virtual park unfolded across the horizon. In
the immediate foreground was an Olympic size pool prime for swimming. A hint of
steam rose from the water. Deck chairs were arranged as if a party might break
out at any minute. A breakfast nook off the kitchen had a sparkling glass oval
table with place for six. Hudson held my chair at the end to afford me the best
view of the park.

“I just made a pot of tea.
It won’t take me a minute to assemble the tray.”

He stepped smartly around a
central island big enough for ten of my kitchen. On a crystal plate he arranged
cinnamon rolls that by the smell would have just come from the oven. I wondered
who else was coming. Maybe he had a sweet tooth.

He placed silver teapot,
cups and saucers on a silver tray and brought the whole shebang to the table.
Did I mention he was done up in black suit, crisp white shirt, black tie? Shiny
shoes, too.

“Here we are,” he said,
placing the intricately carved silver tray between us. Brilliantly polished,
might I add. He seated himself across from me and served.
Lovely
china, probably Waterford.
I restrained myself from turning over the
saucer to check the imprint.

“Thank you,” I said,
accepting a cup and plate with cinnamon bun, heavy on the glaze.
My favorite.
It had been a while since breakfast.

 
I took a sip while Hudson served himself. He
had crow's feet around disconcertingly pale blue eyes and the makings of jowls.
His jacket was of impeccable fit. He sipped his tea with a genteel slurp. He
looked up and an engaging smile lit his face.

I gathered my courage and
waded in. “Not to rush the subject but who's running the show now?”

“I am,” he said with the
engaging smile. His teeth were not perfectly straight which I appreciated after
years of looking at the
orthodontically
correct
generation. Crooked teeth were a mark of character in my book.

My raised eyebrow triggered
more information.

“Mr. Lodge had every
confidence in me. I manage the entire operation of the house, including
finances. That's what the modern butler does. The library redesign will be
small in terms of my signature authority. Mr. Lodge had already approved it.”

That answered my big
question of who had the authority to pay me, if I undertook the rest of the
project.

“I see. I don't mean to be
nosy but aren't there children or relatives or an executor? I mean this is
quite an estate.”

“Mr. Lodge has
a
older sister who is executor of the estate. She's quite
sharp given her age. Mr. and Mrs. Lodge had no children. Mrs. Lodge’s sister
and brother live abroad.”

Now we were getting into
the good stuff.

“Won't the sister or
whoever inherits have a say in how money is spent?”

He patted his lips with
linen napkin and frowned. “Ms. Marlowe, I know what I'm doing. You shall be
paid for your work. Now shall we discuss your plans for the library?”

On the drive back to my
condo, I mulled over what to do. I wasn't convinced that Hudson had the
authority to go ahead with the job. What about the sister executor? She could
refuse to pay. I didn't like working for nothing, and I didn't want to argue
about it. If I were smart, I’d try to get hold of the sister. I bet Jake knew
who she was.

I tried my cell phone at a
red light. Darn thing didn't work. I had to get to that stack of unopened
bills. I needed someone like Hudson badly. Maybe I should hire a butler.
Maybe younger, more handsome.
Infinite
possibilities there.

When I got back to the condo,
the answering machine was chirping and the message light was on. I listened to
a message from PI Jake. He wanted to meet me for coffee in the morning. I
called back on the number he left which he didn't pick up, so I left a message
on his answering service that I'd be available after ten in the morning.

He called back.
“How about eight?”

I chewed my lip. I rarely
got out of bed before nine, but I didn't want this guy to think I was a
deadbeat freeloader. “Nine,” I said in a bargaining mood.

I heard him sigh through
the phone waves.
“All right.
Nine.” He hung up. Maybe
the autopsy report the family had ordered was back on Albert Lodge.

* * * * *

 
I showed up at Cafe Francois, a little dive I
recommended, around 9:15. I like to be fashionably late. Jake was already
there, sitting at a window booth, gripping a cup of coffee. I’d thrown on a
pair of pressed designer jeans, black turtleneck, and tan corduroy jacket. The
weather was forty degrees and raining which I detest. I love corduroy though.
Cafe Francois was like home to me. I walked to the booth and slid in. Jake
managed a grunt in greeting.

“Bad
night?”
I asked.

“Not much sleep.”

“I get those, too.”

Kathy, the waitress, came
over. “Coffee, Fiona?” she asked.

“And a cinnamon bun,” I
added since I hadn’t bothered with breakfast.

“Haven't seen you in a
while,” she said, turning up the coffee cup and pouring. “You been out a town
on one of the cushy jobs you pull in?”

I shook my head. “No, I've
been working locally. Several weeks ago I went to Honduras to do some work for
Mrs. Velasquez, you know, the one I did a lot of work for last year.”

“I remember.” She shook her
head. “Some people know how to live.
Anything else for you,
sir?”

“Just coffee, thanks.”

“Sure, big boy,” she said
with a grin. As she sashayed away in the tightest black waitress dress you'd
ever want to see, I noticed Jake’s eyes following her retreat. He recovered and
stirred an armload of sugar into his coffee.

“You know the help,” he
said.

“I come here a lot. Where
are you from?”

“Out west.
Grew up in Oklahoma.”

“You've come up in the
world.”

He gave a half laugh that
lifted his mouth on one side. “I'm not sure. Not many people speak English
around here.”

“A sad
commentary on our world.”

Kathy sauntered over and slid
a big, warm cinnamon bun in front of me. She plunked down two plates and a
knife. “Thought you might like to share,” she said. I knew she was thinking
this was the start of another romance.

“Thanks,” I said, not able
to hold back a smile. “You devil.”

She winked at me and left
to devil another customer.

When I offered Jake a slice
of my bun, he held up his hand. “I never indulge. I get all the sugar I need in
my coffee.”

I shrugged and sipped my
coffee, waiting for Jake to tell me why he wanted to see me.

“The coroner’s report is
in. Albert Lodge died of an overdose of Propranolol.”

I'm sure my face registered
a dumb look. “Am I supposed to know what that is? I can't even pronounce it.”

“Propranolol is
prescription medication used to treat high blood pressure, rapid heart rate,
tremors,
stuff
like that. It can be lethal in high
doses. Albert took a small daily dose.”

“Wow, you think he might
have committed suicide?”

“Maybe.”

“Of course, someone could
have given him an overdose.”

“Maybe someone could have.”
He nodded his head up and down slowly, all the while holding my gaze.

Something niggled at my
brain and then exploded full screen into my mind's amphitheater. “I'm a
suspect.”

He smiled. It was a nice
smile, but not under these circumstances. “You might say.”

“Wow,” I said again. My
vocabulary seemed to be failing me. “I bet you want to know more about me. Did
you do a background check?”

“Yes,
m'am
, to both.”

“You already know about me
then. What's to tell?”

“Current
history.
How long have you known the deceased?”

I frowned. This
conversation was not going in the right direction.

“I met him for the first
time last Saturday. He’s a little too old for me, so dispense with that idea.
But I have some information that might interest you.”

He sat back and played with
his empty coffee cup, twirling it around. “Shoot,” he said.

“When I met with Mr. Lodge
to determine the scope of work for the library redesign, he mentioned he wanted
the work done because his wife had died. He didn't mention whether he had fond
memories. But I got the feeling that he didn't particularly care for her. The
redesign might have been his way of scrubbing away an unpleasant memory.”

“Okay,” said Jake. “But the
wife is dead so she’s not a suspect.”

“Right.
But maybe she had unpleasant feelings for him, which she shared with other
family members. Maybe they did him in. I'm just throwing out possibilities
here.”

“Grasping at straws?”

“Very
funny.
I'm trying to help your investigation. I have no feeling invested
in this. I met Mr. Lodge Saturday. I was there Monday and Tuesday of this week
while he was at work. Wednesday I find him on the floor. Friday I'm a suspect.
I don't think I've had enough emotional investment in the affair to murder
him.”

“You could be working for
someone else.”

“Look at me. Do I look like
a murderer?”

“Hon, I've seen sweet
little old ladies do worse.”

“I'm sure you have.”

“Can you account for your whereabouts Tuesday night?”

I blew out a breath. “Home
alone in bed. No witnesses. What was the time of death?”

“Sometime
during the night.”

“Someone could have slipped
him something with dinner.”

“The contents of his
stomach indicated Chinese food.”

“There you have it.”

“I'm trying to eliminate
you as a suspect.”

I threw up my hands. “It
was Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick.”

“Hey, that's good. You used
to play Clue?” Jake perked up at the mention of Clue. This was the most
animated I'd seen him.

“Hours on end when I was a
kid.”

“Yeah,
me, too.
We got white people’s discarded board games on the reservation.
We gave all the characters Cherokee names.”

I frowned. “You grew up on
a reservation?”

“Yeah, didn't everyone?”

Did I detect bitterness
behind that comment? I studied his face but he had withdrawn behind a smirk.

“All right,” I said. “We best keep to the matter at hand. How did
you get hired for this job?”

He did a one-shoulder lift.
“I owe a family member a favor. How did you get the job?”

“Referral.
I've done other estates in McLean. Good work is its own advertisement.” I put
on a smile with an edge. “Did you interview the butler?”

“Yes. Did you?”

“I talked to him in the
kitchen. I'm being retained to finish the library.”

“Interesting.
So you went back there yesterday.”

I could feel heat creep
into my face. “I left my cell phone by accident and went back to retrieve it.
Here’s an interesting detail for you. There was an old beat up Toyota in the
ditch outside the entrance to the estate when I went yesterday.” I opened my
trusty daily planner, copied down the pertinent details on an old envelope and
slid it toward him. “There, I got the license and model and color. You said any
little detail.”

He looked at the envelope.
I could see he was impressed by the nod of his head. “Thanks. I didn't see the
car. I'll follow up.”

“See, I'm trying to be
helpful.”

“I appreciate it. Are you
going to tell me what the butler told you?”

“He must have told you the
same thing.”

“Let's compare notes.
You first.”

“The most interesting
tidbit was the sister who is the executor. Is she the one who hired you?”

“Matter of fact she is.”

“You owe her a favor?”

“Yeah.”

“What was the favor?” I was
being a bit nosy.

He squirmed a little. “She
helped me out once.
Long time ago.
Let's leave it at
that.”

I filed that for later
reflection.

“Tell me,” I said. “Do you
think she'll pay me if I finish the job?”

He shrugged. “I don't see
why not. Between Albert and his wife they had enough money to run California.”

“That
wealthy, eh?”

“I'm exaggerating but yeah,
they have money.”

“How do you know?”

“Wait a minute. I'm the
private investigator here. I ask the questions.”

“I think you need help.”
That was out of my mouth before I had time to censor it. What was I saying?

“I work alone.”

I shrugged. “If I'm in
there every day, there's no reason to think I wouldn't pick up valuable
information.”

His brown eyes closed to
slits. “What's in this for you?”

 
I guess he thought I wanted a take. Not a bad
idea. I cocked my head to the side, a habit that helps me think and scheme
better. “I’m curious, intrigued, fascinated. And I’m really good at crossword
puzzles and Sudoku. You need someone with a sharp mind like mine to help you.
It’s obvious that a family member did it. Money is the motive.”

“Might be
family.
Might be money.”

“Include the executor.”

“I don't think so. She's over
eighty
years
old and got money.” But he didn't look so
sure. He was folding a paper napkin in tiny squares.