High Desert Detective, A Fiona Marlowe Mystery (Fiona Marlowe Mysteries) (40 page)

“What's your theory on
whodunit?” I asked.

He stopped fiddling with
the napkin and gazed out the window. Small drops of rain splashed the
windowpane. The traffic on Wilson Boulevard moved sluggishly, seduced by the
rain.

“To tell you the truth,” he
said, turning to look at me, “I don't know why she wants me to investigate. She
seems to think I have superior investigative abilities since I figured out who
was rustling her cattle a while back. She called awful
quick
after you found Albert on the floor. It was almost like she knew it was coming
and had already decided to conduct an investigation of her own. Like maybe she
suspected somebody.”

Now we were getting
somewhere. “Does she have a name?”

“Opal Crawford.”

“Married?”

“Husband died a long time
ago.”

“Does she live here?”

“Nope, lives on a ranch in
southeastern Oregon.”

“We should get more
background on her. After all, if she inherits, she’s a suspect.”

He looked at me sideways.
“We?”

“Hey, I'm not looking for a
cut. I just want to get paid for the work I do. I'm fussy that way. Help me get
my money. I'll help you get yours.”

He parked his chin on his
fist and ran his tongue around his teeth with a focus on my eyes that sized me
up in one quick take.

“Okay. But you're not off
the hook as a suspect until you have someone can verify your whereabouts
Tuesday night.”

“Gosh, I wish I could say
George Clooney or Viggo Mortensen spent the night. But they were busy Tuesday.
It was just little me in bed with my chicken pillows.”

“Chicken
pillows?”

“I'll show you my
collection sometime.”

Two

I left Cafe Francois and
headed for the Lodge estate. I wanted to do some work and talk to Hudson about
Opal Crawford. As I drove through the gate of the estate, my sharp eyes
detected that the beat up car in the ditch was gone. Maybe the owner had it
towed. Maybe a neighbor had complained to the police, and they removed it.
Maybe it had nothing to do with Albert Lodge’s demise. But I wondered.

I knocked on the door and
rang the bell, hoping that Hudson would be in. He did not appear. I waited and
rang the bell intermittently for a few minutes but nothing. I whipped out the
key and let myself in, after the usual wrestle with the lock.

 
Throwing my jacket on the couch, I
commandeered Mr. Lodge's large mahogany desk for my work area. I was about to
sit down and input the layout of the new library while it was still fresh in my
head when it occurred to me that now might be the perfect time to sleuth around
the house looking for clues. I'd only take a few minutes.

First, I had to find out if
Hudson was about. Maybe he hadn't heard the bell, although I'm sure it rang in
the kitchen. Calling his name, I headed for the kitchen. I searched but found
no evidence of Hudson’s recent occupancy, which was odd. No enticing smells
from the oven. No silver service standing ready for tea.

I stood at the French doors that overlooked the swimming pool.
Raindrops flipped coins on the water. I reflected on the money needed to
maintain an estate of this magnitude. It boggled the mind. But where were the
people? No laughter rang through the myriad of rooms. The house sat empty with
exquisitely coiffed gardens and rooms, anti-theft systems, and multi-car
garage, waiting. I wasn’t sure for what.

A disturbing thought
surfaced in my ever-alert mind. There was no burglar alarm on the front door. I
didn't have to punch in any code or switch off the alarm before it sounded. Mr.
Lodge must have been a trusting soul. I wondered if Jake had noticed the lack
of security. He hadn’t said anything, but that was an important clue right
there in my detective book. No security on a valuable house bore further
investigation.

I decided to tour the back
rooms for clues and found pantry after pantry of imported dry goods,
silverware, sets of ornate dishes, plush towels, silk sheets, and other
extravagances needed to run the wealthy household. A hallway connected the
pantries, and I caught a fragrance of damp soil and greenery. I followed my
nose to a charming conservatory tucked away in the west wing.

The exterior wall of windows fanned out in a half hexagon shape.
Outside, boxwoods surrounded a wide brick patio. The shrubs were clipped in
shapes of a suit of cards -- clubs, diamonds, hearts,
spades
.
The whimsy of it brought to mind
Alice in
Wonderland
. Then again someone might have a gambling habit. A low brick
wall trimmed in yellow mums surrounded a single spray fountain in the center of
the patio.

A wicker chair with rose
cushions faced the patio. On a stand a book lay with a pair of reading glasses
on top. I put the glasses carefully aside and picked up the book --
Remembrance of Times Past
by Marcel
Proust. Someone with the fortitude to read Proust might be interesting to talk
to. My bet it was Albert’s sister, and I wondered where she was.

Feeling guilty about
snooping, I hustled back through the pantries and collided with the door from
the garage, which opened right in front of me. Hudson stuck his head around the
door to see what he had hit.

“Miss Marlowe. How good to
see you. We saw your car in the front drive. Might I be of assistance?”

“No, actually, I was giving
myself a little tour. You know, to get an idea of how other parts of the house
were furnished.”

“What is it, Hudson?” a
quiet, disembodied voice said. “Is someone there?”

Hudson turned back and
said, “Yes, ma’am. It is Miss Marlowe, here to attend to the redesign of the
library.”

“I see. Let's have tea. I
feel chilled to the bone.”

He stepped into the hall,
and Opal Crawford followed him in. She looked at me and smiled. Her eyes
danced. I liked her at once.

“Tea?” she said to me.

“I'd be delighted.”

While Hudson was assembling
tea, Opal led me to the music room complete with piano and harp. Red Persian
carpets adorned the natural wood floors in a conversation grouping including
two facing loveseats in gold stripe. She sat on one and patted the seat beside
her.

“This room is too formal,
don't you think, dear?” Opal said to open the conversation. “I never liked
Olivia's taste in decorating. She was English, you know. Rather stiff and
conservative. I do like a music room though.”

The smile she turned on me,
I’ve seen on cherubs. I succumbed to her charm. She didn’t seem disturbed in
the least that they found me wandering around the house. And she didn’t look
like she lived on a ranch out West. I was expecting leather, fringes, denim and
boots. She wore a polyester knit suit in navy blue.

“The library is the same
way,” I said, “though I don't have trouble with English formal. That’s the way
they are.”

Opal sighed. “Yes, they
are. I think Albert was happy with her, or he always pretended he was. Albert
excelled at pretense, but he had a good heart.”

“When did you arrive?” I
said.

“Yesterday.
When Hudson called me, I booked the next plane to Washington, D.C.”

“And
before you left you called Jake Manyhorses.”

Again, no
surprise.
“Yes,” she said. “Then you've met him.”

“He came to see me the
night of Mr. Lodge's death. I'm a suspect, you know.”

She smiled. “Jake's very
good. He'll get to the bottom of this.” She peered into my eyes. “You didn't do
anything wrong, dear. Jake's just doing his job.”

“Then you think there is
something amiss?”

“Absolutely.
Albert was given an overdose. He would never have done that himself. He had one
of those little pillboxes with the days of the week, and he carefully put his
medications in each day. He was very precise about things. He would never have
taken an overdose. There was no point. He wasn't unhappy.” She stared off into
the distance for a while, her hands resting quietly in her lap.

“Olivia died about a year ago.
Stroke.
She went just like that.” Opal snapped her fingers for effect. “They weren't
close but they were fond of each other. They often went their separate ways,
what with her family in England and South Africa. No, Albert was a
well-adjusted person and took things in stride. He even mentioned a lady friend
in our last conversation. I was happy for him.”

“Lady
friend
?
Did he mention her name?”

“No, he didn't. Now I wish
I had asked. I'm sure Jake will find out who she is.”

“How old was Albert?”

“Eighty-two.
Our family is long lived. Our father died when he was one hundred. He was fit
as a fiddle and had a keen mind until a heart attack took him.”

Hudson entered with tea on
the fancy silver tray, and Opal poured. “One lump or two?” she asked.

“Just cream for me, thank
you,” I said. She handed me a cup and saucer and offered a small crystal plate
with cookies. I took one. Ginger snaps.
Homemade.
I
could live like this.

Opal sat back into the
loveseat and sipped her tea. “Well, Miss Marlowe . . .”

“Please call me Fiona.”

She smiled and said,
“Fiona.
Lovely name.
Is that Irish, dear?”

“It is. I have a strong
strain of Irish on my mother’s side of the family.”

“I have a bit myself.” Her
soft blue eyes twinkled like she might belong to the Irish little people. She
wore a light dose of blusher and lipstick that went well with the snowy white
hair. This was anyone's favorite aunt. I adopted her forthwith.

“My dear, we must talk
about the library.”

I held my breath. She was
going to fire me.

“You might show me what
you've done and what you have in mind and how long you think it will take. I
suppose we should spruce up the place a bit and get rid of some of these heavy
drapes. The house will have to go on the market.”

“You mean
,
you want me to continue with the library?”

“Of course.
Albert wanted it, and it is something I could do for him. I'm executor of the
estate.”

“Jake mentioned that.”

“More tea?” she asked.

“Yes, please. I could show
you the new floor plan with furniture. I thought we might forego drapes and use
simple tiebacks and valances. After all there isn't anyone around to peek in.
The natural light would cheer up the room.”

“I like that. What else?”

“Why don't we go to the
library, and I'll show you my ideas?”

* * * * *

I called Jake when I got
home, that is, after I called my cell phone provider and got my cell phone
reinstated. That took the better part of an hour. No one speaks English anymore
on help desks. This support person was in Belize of all places.

The hour in the library
with Opal was time well spent. She had good ideas. We decided to replace the
green paint with tan and use off white for the bookshelves, window and door
trim. The huge mahogany desk would remain until the house sold. Opal would
remove the personal photos and memorabilia from Albert's travels. She didn't
tear up once. I admired her fortitude. I could tell from the way she handled
Albert’s personal items like the photos that she was fond of him, but she
didn't give way to weepy hysterics.

One photo was of a young
couple in cowboy attire. “This is Henry and me,” she said, looking as close to
wistful as I had seen her. “We were so young.”

I took the photo in hand
and studied it. “What a handsome couple.”

She smiled. “Henry was a
good man. He didn't live long enough.”

“When did he die?”

“Two
years after we married.
A horse threw him on an isolated section of the
ranch.
Broke his neck.
By the time we found him, he
was gone.”

 
“Did you ever think to remarry?”

Her eyes turned
mischievous. “I had offers a plenty. But I wanted to make a success of the
ranch because Henry had wanted it so badly. That took all my energy. I built it
into a prime cattle operation. I have good hands working for me. I'm proud I
made it into the ranch Henry wanted.”

“Do you still live there?”

“I'll never leave. I'll be
buried beside Henry in the family graveyard. Henry was third generation
rancher. The rest of the family is there with him.”

“That's quite a story.
Devotion like that you don't see these days.”

“No, you don't,” she said.
“Well, I like what we propose for the new library. When you come back next
time, we'll talk about some of the other rooms. Now, I must rest.”

She paused at the library
door. “The memorial service for Albert is on Monday afternoon, and we'll have a
reception here afterward. I hope you’ll come.”

When I finally got Jake on
the line, I said, “I met Opal Crawford today.”

“You went to the estate?”

“Of
course.
I was on the job and looking for clues.”

“You had dinner yet?”

“No.

“Want to meet somewhere and
talk?

“How
about the Taverna restaurant on Washington Boulevard in Westover Village?
What time?”

“In half
an hour.”

Jake was sitting at a
window in the restaurant. October dusk had set in. Perpetual little white
lights strung around the top of the walls and wound around the fichus trees
made the Taverna twinkle like a fairyland. Everyone looks better in soft
lighting.

“I'll have the tabbouleh,”
I said.
“And a glass of red wine.”