The Marsh Madness (13 page)

“
Disgraziati!
” she muttered to finish off.

After nearly two years around the signora, I’d learned that she meant the two detectives were scoundrels or good-for-nothings. I was fine with that, but I needed her help.

“For sure, Signora, but the detectives have left. The officer in the car is here to help us, I think. To make sure we’re safe.” I widened my eyes.

She shook her head.

“Okay, well, I need him to be distracted for a few minutes.
He is not very smart. If you give him a snack, I can do what I have to. Will you help me?”

She mumbled something that I thought was “
pan di Spagna
” and bustled about the kitchen, slicing sponge cake and arranging it on a plate. There was enough for five dozy officers, but I said nothing. “You take,” she said.

“Will you do it, please? And maybe the officer needs a glass of milk. I need to walk Walter before he has an accident.”

The signora is not a fan of dog accidents, so Walter and I slipped out the door along with her. She approached the car with the cake. From over her black-clad shoulder I said to the officer, “The dog needs a walk.” His eyes, after a disbelieving glance at the signora, were on that pile of cake slices. He took the cake plate with one hand and the glass of milk with the other.

Walter and I sashayed down the driveway, our steps crunching on the pea gravel, but I held my breath after we stepped onto the grass and until we got to the edge of the property. After making a big production of stopping at every second bush, we scurried toward the clearing behind the cluster of trees where Kev had set up shop.

As soon as we arrived at the spot, I could see Cherie had done what she’d promised. There wasn’t even a twig of evidence from the still. The only way I knew she’d been here were the stiletto-heeled boot marks peppered around the forest floor, and the slightest hint of Mariah Carey perfume in the air. Thank goodness I could still count on someone to do what they said they would.

Walter sniffed at the familiar scents, making the sweetest agreeable snorts.

“Were Kev and Cherie here, Walter?” Something about that little dog always makes me smile. No matter how bad things get, a snub-nosed pooch can make you feel a bit better.

Mmm-hmmm
, he answered as his wild whiskers flicked at the ground.

“Well, they’re gone now.” I only hoped it was far away and nowhere that the police would think of looking. We needed a lawyer for Kev first.

The longer Cherie could keep Uncle Kev out of sight, the better.

Walter and I sauntered back toward the house, waved to the munching policeman and headed inside. The little pug skipped and skidded through the door. He felt very at home in Van Alst House.

The signora sprang out from the kitchen to greet us.

“Any chance of cake for me and not only the cops?” I said.

Walter spun in a giddy circle. He likes cake too. A paw protruded from the kitchen door and aimed for his hindquarters. But Walter was onto Bad Cat’s little tricks, and he danced out of the way.

“Cake!” the signora intoned, drawing Walter’s attention. “You want soup? Bread? Coffee?”

I resisted the urge to say yes to all of that. “Anything. I’m starving.”

“
Sì, sì. La casa degli zii.
” She nodded meaningfully. My Italian was getting better, and I knew that meant “the uncles’ house.” She also implied that there would be nothing there but Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, canned beans and maybe some presliced baloney. This was true enough.

Still, I didn’t want to denigrate Uncle Mick’s kitchen. I said, “Too busy to eat today, Signora. That’s all.”

I gave her a big smile. I did know what was good for me, but I needed to go hide that memory stick.

In spite of that urgency, I found myself seated in the conservatory with a steaming bowl of
ravioli in brodo
, some fresh rustic bread and a small plate with a puddle of extra virgin olive oil, with a few herbs and a swirl of balsamic vinegar in the puddle.

The coffee would arrive when I was finished, but I could hear the
caffettiera
thumping from the kitchen.

No doubt there would be dessert too. I fell upon the food
like a starving wolf. I was lost in a world of taste and silky texture, paying no attention to my surroundings, when I heard someone clear their throat.

Vera.

“Miss Bingham.”

I kept eating. It didn’t seem to require a response. What would I have said?
Yes, I am Miss Bingham? No, I’ve decided it’s too dangerous to be Miss Bingham?
I could hardly deny it. I did raise an eyebrow to indicate that I was willing to engage in whatever it was she wanted to engage in.

“You have been out.”

Two more spoonfuls of the
brodo
. I managed to nod and eat.

She said, “The police have been nosing around.”

I swallowed and said, “I know.”

“What do they want
now
?”

“Right this minute, there’s an officer watching the house to make sure I don’t disappear. I assume that Detectives Castellano and Stoddard want to find proof that you or I or Uncle Kev killed Chadwick Kauffman. They’ll be off doing their best to figure out if we did it alone or as a conspiracy.”

“The fools.”

“No argument here. But ‘the fools,’ as you call them, have it in for us, and they’ll need to close this case. It’s high profile, because of Chadwick’s prominent status and your own. It’s been making the news, and they’ll be under pressure.”

“And where have you been?”

Uh-oh. The less Vera knew about my activities, the better. “I needed to get away from things. I went to my uncles’ place to try and think straight.”

“Are you thinking straight now?”

“I believe I am.”

“But you seem to be stuffing your face, Miss Bingham.”

“Stuffing my face has always helped me to think straight. And it keeps up my strength.”

The signora beamed approval. “Eat, Jordan!”

“Humph. And where is Mr. Kelly? Keeping up his strength somewhere else?”

“So he’s not here, then?”

“No, he’s not where I pay him to be.”

“He’ll find pressing business elsewhere until the police come to their senses.”

“If they do.”

“Let hope that happens, because if not, one of us will be tried for murder and the others will be tried as accomplices.”

The signora crossed herself.

Vera said, “Not you, Fiammetta, but the rest of us.”

It seemed only right that the next sound after “
O dio!
” was ringing at the front door. This was followed by loud knocking and raised voices. That would be the police with all the right warrants.

“Gosh. Listen to them. Do you mind answering the door, Signora? I want to fix my makeup first.” Okay, that was very lame, but no one seemed to notice.

“No, police, no, no, no!”

“Signora, please get the door!” I called out as I took the stairs to the attic two at a time. I knew I should have taken the time to hide that memory stick and my burner phone earlier, instead of letting my taste buds rule my brain.

I could hear Vera yelling, “Stop fussing, Fiammetta. The police won’t kill you. Somebody get the door. Miss Bingham!”

As I reached the third floor, the muffled strains of her rant wafted up the narrow wooden staircase. I resisted the urge to go downstairs and protect Vera and the signora. But I had the memory stick with the scan of the stolen photo, and I didn’t want them to find any evidence that I’d had an exceptional interest in Chadwick. Warrants or no warrants, seasoned house searchers or not, these police would never have encountered a rabbit warren like the upper levels and servants’ quarters of Van Alst House. As spectacular as the hiding places were in my uncles’ home, they were nothing compared to the hollows in walls, loose boards, hidden
rooms and miscellaneous rafters in this old place. In short order I had slipped a pair of socks over my shoes, ducked into the rear entrance into the box room, clambered over some old boards and trunks and deposited the stick out of sight. I made sure the burner phone was off—and not on vibrate—and shoved it in too. Not convenient, but effective. I gave them both a push so that I’d have a challenge to retrieve them. I retreated to my room. I slipped off the socks and opened the window. I looked out and saw no one. I gave the socks a shake and dropped them in the hamper.

I changed into a pair of dark-wash skinny jeans and a casual gray knit V-neck sweater, my latest bargain find at the end of the winter season. I twisted my hair into a ponytail and took a swipe with my lipstick. It would have to do. I was putting on my little red lace-ups when there was a knock on the door.

“One min—” I said. The door opened, and Castellano and a pair of uniformed officers stalked in. Well, Castellano stalked. I took pleasure out of the fact she was a bit breathless. The male uniformed officer was red in the face, either from the stairs or from barging into someone’s bedroom. The extremely young female officer was cool and collected. She looked at me as though I was something she’d remembered seeing under the microscope in biology class. When she grew up she’d probably be like Castellano. Heaven help us.

I stared at the three of them, my jaw dropping enough to reinforce the surprise, but not so slack as to look ugly and stupid.

“We have a warrant,” Castellano said.

I bit back the retort,
Well, aren’t we special?
I didn’t want to find myself at the police station if I could avoid it.

Instead, I shrugged. “Knock yourselves out. Not sure what you’ll find, but I lost my library card. Let me know if it turns up.”

“Very funny.” Castellano stared around. I hated the fact that she was there contaminating my oasis of tranquility.

I finished the double knot on the laces and stood up. “What should I do? Stay here?”

“Stay here. We may have questions.” She nodded to the officers, who snapped on gloves. “Get at it.”

She glanced at the stack of Ngaio Marsh books by the side of the iron bedstead, bent and read the spines. “Were these the ones you got from Kauffman?”

I blinked. “What?”

“Are these the books you obtained from Chadwick Kauffman?”

“Oh. No. These are just paperbacks. They’re not valuable.”

“Really?”

Despite myself, I found my enthusiasm for the project rebounding. “The ones Vera bought are first editions. They’re quite rare. That’s why we went to Summerlea. It was such a great offer. Almost too good to be . . .”

Of course, it had been too good to be true.

“Or so you’d like us to believe.”

“That’s what happened. We were thrilled, and maybe we should have realized that something was up.”

“Something other than you robbing and killing your host, you mean?”

“That’s not what happened, and I’m pretty sure you know that. We had nothing to do with it, except for being set up, of course. Vera Van Alst would never be involved in anything criminal or violent. She’s a respectable member of this community.”

“Oh, well then, that settles it. I can’t imagine a respectable member of any community doing anything wrong. Please accept my apologies.”

I laughed out loud despite myself. “Put like that, I suppose that leaves out a lot of embezzlers and—”

“And violent abusers and worse, in case you’ve never run into people like that among the elite.”

“Point taken. I know that people aren’t always what they
seem. But I think there are usually indications of . . . criminality. With Vera, you’d find nothing. She doesn’t care about anything but books. She acquires them honestly, and if she needs to, she sells off some antique treasure that her great-grandfather owned or bit of family jewelry to get the funds.”

“Money’s a problem, then?” she said with a touch of a sneer. That sneer was almost as unflattering as duckface. It didn’t do her beautiful features any favors.

“It’s not a problem. There’s tons of stuff here that Vera can sell if she wants or needs to. Her collection isn’t secret. It’s all above board, and you can—if you haven’t already—go see it in the library. She’s proud of it. You can turn this house upside down searching. There will be nothing that implicates Vera in any kind of dishonest or illegal behavior. I’d bet my life on it.”

She flashed a grin at her co-workers. The female officer stopped tossing my bras and panties out of my underwear drawer. The male paused in flipping the mattress to study her carefully. Both of them were scared to death of the good detective.

“You hear that? She’d bet her life on it.” She chuckled—a warm, rich sound that gave me goose bumps. “Miss Jordan Bingham was raised by common criminals. Did you know that?”

T
HE TWO COPS gawked at me.

“Not true,” I said, drawing myself up in outrage. “My uncles are not criminals.”

“Oh really?” she said. “Mick Kelly and Lucky Kelly—not criminals? That’s a laugh.”

“They have no criminal records. They’ve never even been charged with a crime. Does your definition of criminal extend to every citizen in our community whether they’ve ever been charged with an offense or not? That’s a big net you’ve got there, Detective.”

Her eyes glittered. She was a dangerous adversary, and I was challenging her in front of two subordinates. Of course, the subordinates were trashing my home on her orders, so you can figure out what got my back up.

“They are known to the police.”

“Who isn’t? You are known to the police, being a serving officer, but that doesn’t make you a criminal. Or, at least, I assume that.”

I was pushing my luck. But I am half Kelly, and
sometimes we are luck pushers. I said, “I am not a criminal nor have I ever been.”

“You’ve certainly been under suspicion.”

“Being under suspicion doesn’t mean a thing. You know that. And this was a violent attack.” I heard my voice catch. My uncles would tell me to man up at this point. Of course they weren’t here, were they?

“And Kevin Kelly? You’re telling me he’s innocent too?”

Kev had been on the wrong side of the law, meaning he’d served a bit of time because of youthful indiscretions and less-than-brilliant legal help. I said, “He was a kid. He’s a changed man now.”

“Right. And if you have a bit of Florida swampland for sale, I’d like to take it off your hands. Can I give you my credit card number?”

I ignored her sarcastic tone. “He has a good job here at Van Alst House. He makes a contribution. He’s valued and appreciated and helpful. He’ll do anything for anybody, and he didn’t kill Chadwick Kauffman.” My voice went up in a girlish way. I told myself to get that under control, because if the cops know you really care about something, they try to use that against you.

I was spared any further slurs against my family when Tyler Dekker stumbled up the stairs and into my room. Another young officer was right behind him. “Something you should see, ma’am.”

“What?” Castellano and I said in unison.

“It’s outside, Detective Castellano,” he said with emphasis. I noticed he couldn’t make eye contact with me. He did look around the room. I was positive he spotted the randomly tossed bras and panties on my flower-sprigged comforter. I took some pleasure in the fact that his blush had already started. It was very bright. Tomato-like, even.

Of course, I was also blushing. What a pair. Too bad we were barely speaking.

Castellano turned to the other two and said, “Don’t miss anything.”

I said, “Yes, make yourselves at home. I think I’ll head downstairs for a snack if I’m not needed.” I was pretty sure they’d never turn up the burner phone or the memory stick, but even with that confidence I was glad that my lock picks were safely stowed far from Van Alst House.

“Evidence of something in the trees by the edge of the property, ma’am,” the second officer said with barely concealed excitement. He’d have to learn to keep his thoughts to himself if he wanted to rise in the force. Castellano kept her own thoughts hidden, although she did nod. Tyler Dekker’s blush was beginning to subside. Of course his career trajectory meant nothing to me, but if all it took was an underwear drawer to get that flush, he’d be a patrol officer for the rest of his life.

Castellano nodded and everyone trooped downstairs and the police delegation trooped outside. The signora was spinning with distress. Vera had rolled off in a temper.

I picked up my iPhone and called Sammy. At the same time I asked the signora for a snack. I did everything to keep my thoughts off the search and not to imagine what they might find. Maybe a snack would reduce stress. Of course, the possibility of forgotten evidence of illegal liquor production was at the front of my mind. I’d been clear that Cherie and Kev needed to clear up the still, but I’d never asked Uncle Kev if he had any more stills around the property. In retrospect, that was an oversight.

I was distracted by the signora. She stopped the panicky little dance and headed for the kitchen to create some magic with food. Yes, it had only been about half an hour since I had last eaten, and dinner would be at eight, but coffee and cookies seemed like a good idea. If we weren’t off the hook soon, I’d need a whole wardrobe in a new size. Still, I planned to enjoy my snack and read a bit to take my mind off what I couldn’t fix.

Stoddard came to get me soon enough. He slouched through the door, and I followed him outside to an area off
the pea gravel drive. It had been cordoned off with police tape. Stoddard lifted the fluttering yellow-and-black tape.

“Festive,” I said.

Police with gloves were milling around. Stoddard stood back, looking bored, his hands in his pockets. Smiley hung around the fringe, not smiling even a bit. I was getting used to him not making eye contact with me. It would become a way of life. A police photographer had recorded the scene. I figured even Kev wouldn’t have set up a still so close to the driveway, so what were they looking so smug about?

Castellano looked down her nose at me. I noticed she had a bit of mud on the beautiful cognac-colored knee-high boots, so that wasn’t helping her disposition any. Of course, I hadn’t asked her to tromp over the soggy post-winter lawn.

“Recognize anything?” she said, pointing to some objects on the ground, behind a decorative dwarf pine.

“Should I?”

“You tell me.”

I leaned forward and squinted. What was this? Monogrammed silverware?

I glanced at her. “It looks like someone’s sterling silver.”

“That’s right. Guess who has silverware exactly like this?”

“They had it at Summerlea.”

“And this stuff has prints all over it.” She pointed to a tech heading away from the site. “We’ll wait for results, but I imagine we’ll find yours and Kevin Kelly’s.”

“You can’t seriously believe that we would steal traceable items from Summerlea and then leave them lying around in plain sight for two days.”

“And yet, here they are.”

“That doesn’t strike you as strange? Or stupid?”

“If the shoe fits.” She smirked.

“That shoe doesn’t fit. If we wanted to hide stolen merchandise, we could have done a lot better than that, especially as you made such a big deal about returning with a warrant.”

“Have you ever heard of the Darwin Awards?”

I glared at her. “Of course I have. We are not criminals and we are not fools.” Kev, mind you, was remarkably foolish and a prime candidate for a Darwin, but never mind. “None of us stole these items, and if we had, you wouldn’t have found them here. You know that and so do I.” I didn’t mention that the sterling would have been already melted down if anyone in my family had a hand in it.

“Mr. Kelly has disappeared,” she said.

“I’m sure he’ll be back. You’ll notice he didn’t disappear with any of this.” I pointed to the so-called evidence. “Lieutenant Castellano, you should be asking yourself who wants to frame us.”

“Give it a rest,” she said. “You haven’t been framed. Don’t think for one minute any of us here will fall for that. One of you slipped up, and we’re going to keep on this until we’ve made sure there’s nothing else. But I’m betting there will be.”

I managed to look unfazed.

But I did realize somewhat late in the game that I’d forgotten all about “no comment” as a means of communication with the police.

What would Sammy say?

But Sammy wasn’t there and Castellano was.

She must have had royalty somewhere in her DNA. How else could she stand there with such unassailable dignity and power looking down at me, the Irish peasant accused of poaching? Of course, the heels on those boots added to her visual impact, even if they had a bit of mud on them now, but the woman was born to power, I swear. Maybe being a detective was the route to world domination or something.

“
Cui bono?
” I said, tossing in a bit of college Latin in an attempt to balance things.

She raised a beautifully sculpted eyebrow.

I added, “It means—”

“To whose benefit? I know what it means. But what do you mean by it?”

“Well, I mean to ask who benefits from this whole situation.” I was babbling. I reminded myself to chant one of the many Kelly mantras:
You’re as good as anyone, Jordan, probably better.
My uncles had sent me off to school with those words in my ear, and they’d helped.

But Castellano wasn’t a school yard bully out to make the new kid miserable. She was a detective who could practically taste victory. Wild-goose chases would not be her thing.

She said, “Get to the point.”

“Well, none of us would benefit from Chadwick Kauffman’s death. Not at all. Vera wanted the collection for sure, but Vera buys things. She doesn’t steal them. And she still has enough money to do that. You can dig around until you retire, but you won’t find anything to indicate she has ever stolen an object or even done something dishonest. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Detective.”

“Not a dog. Not barking. You’re out of time. We’ve found the evidence we need.”

“Wait.” I tried not to squeak. “This whole Summerlea thing has brought us nothing but trouble. We certainly don’t benefit. My point is that Kauffman was an incredibly wealthy man. So follow the money. I say where there’s a will, there may have been a way.”

She rolled her eyes. “Is it National Bad Pun Day already? Even if it is, we’ve found the equivalent to the money. Right here.”

“We’d have to be fools to leave that there. From the look of it, this stash had everything but a treasure map with an X to mark the spot. Do you not see that we’re being framed? Who benefits from that? Relatives! Heirs! Surely they are suspects too. Isn’t that a more logical approach—?”

“Don’t question my logic. It is impeccable, and as for your ‘where there’s a will there’s a way’ idea, that was one of the first possibilities we checked out.”

I inhaled.

She stared at me.

“And?” I said finally. “Close relatives?”

“No. There were second cousins, but he didn’t have much to do with them.”

“Friends?”

“No.”

“Lovers?”

“No. Chadwick Kauffman did not have any relatives closer than second cousins. He didn’t leave anything to them, except for some family jewelry, a coin collection and a stamp collection, more sentimental than valuable.”

“But—”

She raised an elegant, long-fingered, scarlet-nailed hand to silence me. It worked.

“He didn’t seem to have friends outside of work. And no romantic partners turned up.”

“They could have been discreet. What about Lisa Hatton? She was crazy about him.”

“Whatever. They were discreetly left out of the will, then. Chadwick left everything to several charities.”

“What charities?”

“United Way, Second Chance Foundation for Homeless Families, the Sierra Club, UNICEF and the endowment fund at his alma mater, Yale. He left Summerlea to the Historical Society of Harrison Falls.”

“No individuals?”

“No, and none of the employees of these charities are likely to have hit him over the head and pushed him down the stairs. Unless you think the president of Yale did it.”

I gulped. “Everything?”

“Small stipends, here and there, hardly enough to kill him. He left a few trinkets to staff at the Country Club and Spa, such as Lisa Hatton. He also funded her retirement fund outside the will. Quite generous, but hardly enough motive to kill him as she’d get that anyway.”

One phrase really got to me. “What do you mean, hardly enough motive to kill him? You’ve been suggesting we did it for a few bits of antique silver and—”

She continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “He’d set up a college fund for the children of the housekeeper and the groundskeeper-gardener, and there were generous retirement funds for them and other long-term staff at his residences, but those arrangements were established as savings funds in their names. The arrangements were made outside the will and wouldn’t be affected one way or the other by his death. Except their jobs would probably end, so they’d most likely prefer to keep him alive. His social life seemed to have involved other very wealthy people. If he had a love interest, she or he never worked their way into the will.”

“But maybe his second cousins will contest the will.”

She shrugged. “Move on.”

“Maybe they didn’t know and thought—”

“Everyone named in the will was formally notified through the lawyer well in advance. It seemed to be ironclad, and according to his lawyers, if they wanted to squander their own resources going after more, good luck to them. Waste of time. As is this.”

I felt disappointment seeping into my spirit. I’d been counting on those faceless cousins to be the villains with some connection to Lisa Troy.

“There must have been other people who wanted him dead.”

“Apparently, everyone loved him.” From the look on Castellano’s face, she doubted this.

“Everyone has some enemies.”