Murder Actually (13 page)

“Hello, Elspeth?” The voice was deep and hesitant, and Blue glanced up from washing his butt, a suspicious expression on his face. “It's Edgar Archer. We met at Archer Antiques. I hope you don't mind my calling like this, but I met a friend of yours at the shop, Julia Berry, and she was kind enough to give me your number. I was wondering if you were free for dinner some night. I'd love to see you again.”

I wrote down the number he left and sang the theme song to
The Greatest American Hero
. Blue walked by and I grabbed him and gave him a congratulatory hug. He yowled and arched away and I wondered how he'd deal with his new sister, Ingrid.

The phone rang and I picked it up expectantly. “Hello,” I used my Marilyn Monroe sex kitten voice.

“What's wrong with you? Are you sick?” Julia's voice cut through my romantic musings.

“No, I'm not sick. I was hoping you were someone else.”

“Oh, thanks a lot.”

“Edgar Archer. You gave him my number.”

“You're welcome.”

“How did my phone number come up in your conversation?”

“I asked him if he wanted it.”

“Subtle.”

“You don't have time for subtle! You aren't getting any younger.”

“You sound like my mom.”

“You really lucked out finding Edgar Archer. If things weren't going so well between me and Sergeant Jack I might be jealous. We're about to enter third date territory.”

“I always thought you were a fourth date kind of girl.”

She sighed. “I moved it up a date when I turned thirty-five.”

“How progressive. What happens when you turn seventy?”

“If I'm still dating when I'm seventy please kill me. Anyway, I just wanted to touch base to figure out what we should do next.”

I thought for a few seconds. “I want to talk to Nora's housekeeper.”

“Mrs. Jennings?”

“Yes. She had access to Nora's house and Jasper's studio. If anyone saw anything it would be her.”

Julia gave me directions to Mrs. Jennings's trailer and ended the call with a warning. “Whatever you do, don't mention Mr. Jennings.”

I felt an icy shill down my spine. “Why? What happened to Mr. Jennings?”

“That's exactly what you shouldn't ask.”

“Julia!”

The phone went dead and I slowly hung up the receiver.

I was a bit nervous about meeting Truly Jennings.

 

 

 

The Jennings clan lived in a dusty village north of All Hallows called Tappan, just past Williamsburg Road. It was rumored there were between fifty to a hundred Jenningses residing on the properties, set up in various shacks, sheds and lean-tos. I drove through streets cluttered with dust heaps, garbage pails and dog crap, and passed by a church sign exhorting passersby to ‘Wait Patiently for God'. I thought the message rather ominous in the context of the dilapidated storefronts and boarded windows.

Mrs. Truly Jennings lived in a beat-up silver trailer about a mile down Penny Pot Lane. I didn't have any experience dealing with goats, chickens, or pigs, all of which Truly Jennings had in abundance, and I picked my way carefully through the animals, discarded beer cans, and old copies of
Trout and Stream
before knocking on the front door.

Mrs. Jennings herself answered.

I'd never seen anyone quite like her.

She was as curvy as a mastodon, with about two hundred pounds of rippling flesh tightly encased in gray jersey. Black hair was twisted around curlers, and a cigarette dangled negligently from one corner of her mouth. She was holding an infant dressed in a dirty Superman costume, and she shifted him slowly from one hip to the other as we stood and stared at each other.

“Mrs. Jennings?”

She nodded her head in the affirmative and eyed me narrowly.

“Hi, my name is Elspeth Gray. My friend, Julia Berry, and I have been hired by Nora Ware to investigate the deaths of Violet Ambler and Jasper Ware. Did Julia tell you I was coming?”

The massive head shook itself forward again, and suddenly she removed her cigarette and smiled: a wide, blinding smile that showed an odd miscellany of teeth and gaps.

“I know who you are. I seen you at the funeral. I got all your books.”

She stepped into the trailer and deposited the squalling baby onto a blanket. He wailed until she pulled a pacifier from somewhere in her dress and shoved it in his mouth.

“Kid loves his plug.”

The infant scowled up at me, wanting to protest, but desperate to keep the tiny bit of rubber in his mouth. A bloodhound approximately the size of the trailer came ambling in from the hallway and the baby quickly replaced his pacifier with a giant, wet jowl.

“He'll suck on Otis for hours,” she said happily. “They're best friends.”

I tried not to shudder and looked for a relatively clean spot on the ancient plaid couch. For once I was glad of the thick, pungent aroma of cigarette smoke, as I detected various other odors I didn't want to be disseminated.

Mrs. Jennings lowered herself into a ratty recliner and pulled the lever for the footrest. “I'm disabled,” she announced. “When I get my attacks of the lumbago all I can do is lie here on my recliner. I'm a slave to pain.”

I expressed my sympathy but she waved me aside.

“Don't matter. We're pretty well-fixed with my part-time work at the Wares, and I sometimes clean the office at St. Anne's.”

“That must be difficult for you with your health problems.”

“I got my niece, she lives down the road. She comes and helps me sometimes.”

Mrs. Jennings motioned towards a cardboard box on the scarred coffee table, and I saw a messy collection of paperbacks in various stages of abuse and neglect. My poor books!

“Will you sign my books?”

“Of course,” I said smoothly. Paula was always on me to do more book signings. “But do you mind if I ask you a few questions first?”

Mrs. Jennings nodded her tight curls in the affirmative and I took out my notebook.

“How long have you worked for the Wares?”

Mrs. Jennings's porcine features arranged themselves into a look of pensive thought. “I guess it's been about four years now. I go three days a week and help out around the house and clean the studio. I got a room in case I have to work late, but that don't happen too much,” she chuckled. “Ms. Nora's none too particular about the house.”

“What about Mr. Ware? Was he a neat person?”

She snorted in disgust. “Him. Yeah, not much work to do for him. He just liked the blinds kept dusted and his bookshelves in order.”

“Did you ever see anything he was working on in his studio?”

She shook her head. “Every time I come in he was on the phone, talking about how great he was.”

“Did you know Violet Ambler?”

Mrs. Jennings's features shifted to an expression of rabid dislike. “She was a sneaky little thing! Always creeping around the studio, looking over my shoulder, tattling on me if I missed something.
You might work for me one day, Mrs. Jennings
. That's what she said the last time I saw her.”

“What did she mean by that?”

“She had a thing for Mr. Ware. She was always giving him looks and poking around, asking questions. I even caught her in the house a few times, going through Ms. Nora's things.”

“Did you tell Mrs. Ware?”

Mrs. Jennings's chortled in delight. “Did I ever! But Ms. Nora's so nice she didn't say nothing about it. And there was Ms. Ambler, looking all proud of herself like a dog with two tails. I never thought Mr. Ware would be interested in someone like her, she wasn't much to look at, but you know what men, are, Ms. Gray…” she leaned forward and motioned for me to do the same.

“…animals.”

I thought of Crispin Wickford with his
Poet's Corner
, and Edgar Archer with his antiques. I wasn't sure the term applied to the men I knew but thought it was probably appropriate for the shadowy Mr. Jennings.

She observed me warily. “So, you're working for Ms. Nora, too?”

“That's right. She's asked me and my associate to try to solve these murders.”

Truly Jennings suddenly leaned forward in her chair. Even the baby on the rug looked up suspiciously from his jowl. “Did Ms. Nora say anything about me?” she demanded.

“She told me you were her housekeeper.”

Mrs. Jennings nodded her head vigorously and lit a new cigarette from the butt of the old one. “That's right. I know Ms. Nora better than I know almost anybody, including my own kids!”

She guffawed loudly and the baby glared.

The interview wasn't going as I'd envisioned. Mrs. Jennings was a force of nature.

“I bet you're wondering why Ms. Nora keeps me around,” she said.

I had been wondering that very thing, but didn't think confession would be politic, so I shook my head.

Mrs. Jennings gave a loud bark of laughter. “Same reason as Mr. Ware had me clean his studio. It's because I keep my eyes open and my mouth shut. I know more about what goes on than Ms. Nora does, especially where Mr. Ware was concerned.” She leaned in and fixed me with a glare. “He was screwing around on her, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, the day he died I got to the studio early and heard him on the phone. He was talking to someone and kept calling her ‘sweetie' and ‘darling'. If there's one thing I can't stand it's cheaters. They make me want to spit.”

Mrs. Jennings appeared fully capable of carrying out this action in her own living room, so I forestalled her with my next question. “Do you have any idea who he was talking to?”

“Dunno. But he was telling her that he'd see her at the book reading.”

“Maybe it was Ms. Ambler?”

Mrs. Jennings gave another blast of laughter. “Not her! You should've heard the way he talked to her! There wasn't any ‘sweetie' or ‘darling' about that, it was more like, ‘do this' and ‘do that'.”

“Were you at the Ware house the night Mr. Ware was killed?”

Mrs. Jennings expression shifted from open to crafty. “Supposing I was?” she demanded. “What would be in it for me?”

“You'd be helping Ms. Nora.”

Her features softened. “That'd be worth it, then. She's been real good to me. Yeah, I was around. Mr. Jasper always wanted his place dusted after he was done for the day. He was very particular about dust since he had them allergies so bad, so I'd go over there after he and Ms. Violet was done. The night he was killed I went over as usual, around nine o'clock.”

“Did you see anyone?”

Mrs. Jennings's massive head shook slowly in the negative. “Nope, not a soul. Just me and my dust rag. I wasn't there long, just gave it a quick once-over.”

“Did you notice any papers lying around or any work in Mr. Ware's typewriter?”

She shook her head. “Not a scrap. Like I said, I never really saw him work, and if there was any papers lying around Ms. Violet usually took them with her when she left.”

“Did you see her there that night?”

“Well,” she said slowly. “I can't really say I seen anybody, but I seen something.”

“What?”

“After I'd finished and gone back inside the house, I looked out the window and seen Mr. Alex's car parked outside the studio.”

“What time was this?”

“It was late. Around nine I'd say.”

I did some rapid calculations. If Violet had left Inkwell around eight, that would've given her murderer plenty of time to kill Jasper and then go back to Black Birches and finish off Violet. And be in bed by nine-thirty.

“How long was the car there?”

Mrs. Jennings shook her head. “Dunno. Like I said, I got me a spare room at the Wares I use when I'm cleaning, and I went to bed right after that.”

“Did you tell the police?”

Mrs. Jennings expression turned mulish. “They didn't ask me.”

“Did Alex Ware have a key to the studio?”

“Dunno. Might have.”

“Did you see him at the studio?”

“No, I told you, I didn't see nobody.”

“Did Alex often visit Mrs. Ware?”

Truly's expression shifted again and she looked defensive. “So what if he did? She needed some comfort, poor thing; the way Mr. Ware treated her was terrible.”

“Did you see anything else that night?”

“Nope. I went to bed. Ms. Nora and I had stayed up late watching some old reruns of
Matlock
.”

It was a sad insight into Nora Ware's life, and I sat back on the shabby couch and thought about her and Jasper.

“You didn't hear Mrs. Ware get up again?”

“No, I didn't hear nothing. I sleep like the dead.” Mrs. Jennings reached for the cardboard box on the coffee table and pushed it towards me.

“Are you ready to sign some books?”

My hand was cramped as I left the Jennings trailer, and the baby in the Superman costume shot me one last malevolent glare on my way out.

I shooed the chickens away from my car and thought about what Truly had told me.

Alex Ware had gone to Jasper's studio that night. He had lied to the police. He had lied to me.

As I turned the ignition I had a sudden vision of Truly Jennings standing in the upper window at Black Birches, looking down at Alex's car, and my last thought on leaving the driveway was one of concern.
If Truly Jennings had seen the car, had someone seen her?

 

 

 

As most of my readers know, not all chapters are created equal.

If the weather's foul and laziness reigns, I crowd the pages with prologues, epigrams, lyrics from Jon Bon Jovi… let's face it, most of the time I just mail it in. Fortunately, my work is of such quality that most of these lapses go undetected.

That was my frame of mind when the rain set in on Monday. It was dreary; desultory is the word. I knew how it felt. I woke up with a sore throat and the mournful tip-tap on the roof sent me scurrying back to bed. I was convinced I had a cold or something far more serious; cholera, maybe, or chilblains, and I leaned back against the pillows and sipped my Earl Gray tea. I was glad it was raining, I liked rainy days. Rainy days had no urgency, no sense of expectation, no sense in which you were somehow wasting a day.

My bedside lamp cast a warm glow over the tattered golden chrysanthemums and stack of books on my bedside table:
A Pictorial Guide to Truffles and Sponge Cakes
,
Eating Your Way to Thin,
and
Cupcakes are Easy; I'm Not
. At one point,
To the Lighthouse
had been part of the collection, acquired after a stringent suggestion from Miss Thrimper that I try something to expand my mind. Fortunately for me, a particularly violent sneeze had sent it crashing to the floor, where it was expertly batted under the bed by Blue. I was in no condition to either retrieve it or read Virginia Woolf, so I contented myself by turning on the television and watching a program on woodworking. I was soon absorbed in building a roll top desk and reluctantly answered the summons of the telephone.

“Hello?”

The voice at the other end was loud and exuberant. “Hello, Elspeth? You sound awful!”

I sneezed. “Hello, Julia. I'm ill.”

“You poor little thing,” she said cheerfully. “Lucky for you I'm on my way over.”

I coughed. It was obvious Julia didn't appreciate the gravity of the situation. “I'm too

sick to leave my bed,” I explained in dark tones. “I might develop whooping cough or scarlet fever or something.”

“Nonsense,” Julia said heartily. “This isn't some Victorian novel. Besides, you only think you're sick because it's raining. If it were sunny you'd feel fine. Now, out of bed and get dressed. I'll be there in five minutes. I have a surprise for you.”

I hung up the phone and arranged my features into a Victorian death pose before padding over to my closet. After my divorce, my wardrobe had undergone a slow and steady descent into various forms of loungerie, or as some people uncharitably called them, pajamas. I pulled on my favorite sweatshirt and a ratty pair of yoga pants and headed down to the kitchen.

My place was a mess. I'd forgotten to put away the dishes from the night before and the floor was sticky with something Blue had tracked in. I noticed the kitchen table cluttered with a messy collection of recipe books and notes and thought it would be nice to have a crackling fire and pot of tea.

Little did I know my environment was about to go from bad to worse.

The kitchen door was thrown open with such force that it struck the opposing wall and ricocheted back, almost hitting Julia as she struggled inside with several large plastic bags.

“What is that?” I looked in dismay at the stinky, dripping sacks.

“It's garbage,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“I see that; but why are you bringing garbage into my home?”

She looked at me in exasperation. “Betts, if you want to be a real detective sometimes you have to get a little dirty.”

“In that case I don't want to be a real detective.”

I walked over the start the coffeepot as she deposited the bags on the kitchen table.

“Of course you do! Think how it will increase your dating stock, especially with Edgar Archer. I've heard he's a sucker for mysteries.”

Julia lifted up the first bag and I cringed as a motley collection of egg shells, wrappers, envelopes and shopping flyers spilled out.

“Not on the table!” I yelled. “Put them on the floor. I'll lay down some tarp.”

As we struggled to navigate a large piece of tarp to the middle of the kitchen floor, I gently kicked one of the soggy bags.

“Where did you get all this?”

“I went to Violet's condo. Lucky for us, the garbage doesn't go out until this afternoon, so we can look for some clues in her trash.”

I took a tentative poke and shuddered. “Is this what real detectives do? I thought they just followed people and took pictures at seedy motels.”

“Get to it, Betts. We have two more bags after this.”

“Fine, but if I see a dirty Q-tip I'm done.”

We sifted through the mounds of garbage, and I noticed a stack of papers covered in neat handwriting. I pulled out a few of the sheets and read through them.

“Look at this, Julia.”

She glanced at it. “Yeah, it looks like papers or something.”

“Don't you see?” I said in rising excitement. “This is the same writing that was on the manuscript from Jasper's safety deposit box.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, look!” I pulled out a few more pages and handed them to Julia. “This is part of an Inspector Grimaldi novel, and it's in Violet's handwriting!”

I sat back on my heels. My mind was racing. “You know what this means, don't you?”

Julia shook her head.

“It means the blackmail note that was sent to Jasper was referring to his books. He wasn't writing the books, Violet was!”

Julia looked up with dawning understanding. “So that's the mystery Jasper was trying to solve! Jasper must've agreed to marry Violet to keep her mouth shut, and then someone found out their secret,” she slowly lowered the papers and looked at me. “Now what do we do? We still don't know who was trying to blackmail Jasper.”

I shook my head. “I have an idea, but it's just a hunch.”

“That's all we need, Betts! I'm telling you; you're a natural at this stuff. All we have to do is lay a trap for the blackmailer and get them to confess! That's what Ms. Weebles does when she's about to uncover a killer. It's like a game of cat and mouse.”

“Do you still call it that when it's a cat? Wouldn't a cat say it was a game of me and mouse?”

Julia rolled her eyes. “It's just an expression, Betts. You tell me what you're thinking and I'll tell you what we should do.”

I explained my theory and her eyes lit up. “We're in luck. There's a faculty party at Essex tonight and Crispin Wickford will be there.” She headed for the kitchen door and then stopped to observe me. “Wear something nice.”

“What do you mean? I always look nice.”

She sighed and shook her head, and I glanced down at my ratty sweatshirt.

My wardrobe was classic.