The Marsh Madness (7 page)

Stoddard gave the slightest suggestion of a shrug, as if
anything more would have been too much effort. They must have had quite a ride over together. I knew a bit about Stoddard from Smiley. The part I knew was “lazy” and “conceited.” I figured Stoddard had expected he’d been a shoo-in for that lieutenant’s job until she showed up, but that was mere speculation.

Smiley had failed to mention that the new lieutenant was a knockout.

I tried not to stare at her. “Yes?”

“And I understand you know Officer Dekker. May we come in?”

I hesitated. Old habits die hard. “Of course, but may I ask what it’s about?”

“We’d like to talk to you and . . .”—she glanced down at a paper in her hand—”. . . a Kevin Kelly and a Vera Van Alst.”

A
Vera Van Alst? As if there was more than one! It didn’t bode well for our interview.

Smiley stared at his feet.

“I’ll see if they’re at home.” I led them into the grand foyer, doing my best to look dignified and calm. There are no chairs in the foyer, so they’d have to stand and stew while I pretended to see if Vera and Kev were “at home.”

I hotfooted like Walter down the endless corridor and arrived breathless at the conservatory.

“The police want to speak to you,” I said.

She waved a dismissive hand. “Send them away.”

“Um, it doesn’t work that way, Vera.”

“Well, what do they want? This isn’t the time of day for visits.” She glanced at her
New York Times
puzzle with resentment.

“I don’t know. But we have to see them. They want to talk to you and me and Kevin.”

Kev was probably tunneling under the St. Lawrence River to Canada by this point.

“Mr. Kelly had an errand,” she said. “Not sure when he’ll be back.”

I sighed. “We’ll have to do, then. Here?”

“Certainly not. This is private space. Take them to the study if you can’t get rid of them.”

*   *   *

MINUTES LATER, I escorted them into Vera’s study. The dyspeptic Van Alst ancestors had glared at them during the longish walk. Vera was seated in her wheelchair behind the beautiful Edwardian desk.

She nodded gravely as they introduced themselves.

The woman officer glanced around at the ten-foot ceilings and the long, faded silk draperies on the Georgian-style windows. It was a room to remember. I love the study. It was here that I first convinced Vera to hire me as her researcher. She hadn’t thought much of me or the idea, but that was then. She’s gradually coming around.

I gestured to the pair of chairs in front of Vera’s desk. I perched at the edge of the velvet fainting coach, faded to pale amethyst after all these years. I patted the seat beside me so that Tyler Dekker would also sit. For some reason he was sweating.

“Well,” Vera growled. “What can I do for you?”

Lieutenant Castellano—apparently unaccustomed to being growled at by women in wheelchairs—flashed her a look. A dangerous little flash, that.

“We’d like to know your whereabouts yesterday.”

Vera looked bored. “We had luncheon at a colleague’s home.”

Colleague? I loved that.

The detective nodded. “I’d like to discuss that with you.”

“Discuss?” Vera said.

“Alone.”

Vera raised an eyebrow. “Alone?”

“That’s right.”

“You mean without Miss Bingham?”

“Correct again.”

“Miss Bingham, will you wait in the conservatory, please?”

The detective nodded. “I’ll speak to you later, Miss Bingham, if you don’t mind waiting.” I didn’t think she meant the “if you don’t mind” bit.

I got shakily to my feet. It was all very polite and civilized, no doubt a result of Vera Van Alst’s place in Harrison Falls society. But I didn’t like the direction it was taking. Detective Castellano wanted to talk to Vera alone. Later she would talk to me alone. There was a reason for that. She wanted to make sure our stories matched. I headed for the door. Smiley got to his feet to follow me, but a minuscule shake of Detective Castellano’s head caused him to sit down again. He was alone now on the fainting coach. Still sweating. I wondered if he was coming down with a fever.

The signora chose that moment to stick her head through the door and arrive with coffee, almond cookies and a plate of cheese. The aroma of Italian roast filled the room.

“Not now, Fiammetta,” Vera snapped. “I don’t believe this is a social call.”

“Yes, yes, cookies. Eat, Vera. Eat, Jordan.”

Cookies sounded good to me, and so did coffee, but I was being expelled.

The detective inclined her head toward her partner and he rose and said, “I’ll wait with you. Wouldn’t mind seeing this conservatory.” I noticed he cast a backward glance at the coffee and cookies.

Great. Just what I needed. A cop sitting with me so I couldn’t get any advice from my nearest and dearest about what to do in this situation. I smiled weakly and led the way past the disapproving ancestors to the conservatory. The leather soles of his shoes squeaked to fill the awkward silence. It was a long walk and Stoddard sauntered the whole way. I was relieved that at least Kev hadn’t chosen to sneak back in thinking the coast was clear.

The detective was not inclined to talk. I think they take training in how to keep you off balance, even in your own
home. I knew Tyler Dekker’s ambitions. He had plans to become a detective. I hated the idea of his naturally pleasant and helpful personality being twisted by police training in tricking suspects.

We were certainly being treated like suspects. No question about it. I felt like consulting a lawyer, but I had absolutely no idea about what. Nothing looks guiltier than the rush to get a legal opinion, and yet, I also knew that even innocent people say and do unwise things without good advice. My last encounter with a lawyer had been Sammy Vincovic, a pricey, but effective, barracuda from Syracuse. It had resulted in some very useful information: Don’t say anything you don’t have to. If you have to say something, make it, “No comment.”

I took my usual seat in the conservatory. Three sets of lunch plates and a platter of rapidly cooling paninis sat on the table.

“Someone else with you?” the detective said, pointing around.

“It’s only the three of us,” I said. “Vera, me and the signora.”

The signora had pursued us along the corridor and into the conservatory. Her black eyes widened as I said this. “Guess we’ll all have to make up for missing lunch later on, Signora. Sorry.”

“Coffee! Cookies!” she said, skittering through the door to the kitchen. I knew there were probably a dozen
caffettieras
there and a bottomless source of cookies, so we wouldn’t miss out on that.

“I’ll give her a hand to clear up,” I said. “She gets alarmed if our routine is altered.” I gathered up the dishes. The detective picked up the ones on his side and said, “Let me help with the plates.”

How sneaky was that? What was he after? Fingerprints? Evidence? Signs of Kev? Panini? I had no idea, and I didn’t care for this turn of events.

“Signora Panetone hates anyone in her kitchen,” I sputtered.
But it was too late. He had already followed me through the door to the signora’s sanctum sanctorum. Luckily Kev wasn’t hiding out here either.

“Go, go!” the signora said, shooing us back to the conservatory, where we sat facing each other warily until coffee arrived. Honestly, it seemed like hours, if not days.

He relaxed and filled up his cup with the fragrant brew. He also accepted a plate of almond cookies. The signora piled up a few extra for him. I sat there feeling grimly resentful, but not so much that I couldn’t have a coffee and cookies. We have to keep our strength up when the police are on the scene. My uncles taught me that. They also taught me that you don’t ever inadvertently give them a sample of your DNA or a chance to get your prints. I didn’t see how that could happen here, with the signora ready to wash up at a moment’s notice. A CSI’s worst nightmare.

As the time ticked by slowly, I took stock of my company and noted that Detective Stoddard wore pale chinos, a burgundy button-down shirt and leather loafers. His brown hair had been cut by a good stylist, and he wore rimless glasses. He was young to be a detective and had probably been born full of himself. In line with that, he was in no hurry to grill me.

Finally, I cracked. “Exactly what brings you here today, Detective?” I said. I’m not that used to hanging around innocent people, but I did believe that most folks would be curious by this point.

I half expected him to say, “Wouldn’t you like to know,” but he only smiled and pointed at his mouth, indicating that it was full and he couldn’t be expected to answer. There was a lot of that full-mouth thing happening.

I had nothing better to do than wait.

When he had finished three cookies and not answered my question, I said, “What brings you here?”

“You’d better ask
Lieutenant
Castellano when she interviews you.” I heard the undertone of resentment when he said, “Lieutenant.”

“Interviews me? But why do I need to be interviewed?”

Of course, he had another mouthful of cookies by then. He was almost as good as Kev.

As a technique, it was very useful. Make the suspects nervous, edgy, and they’ll spill their guts. I hated feeling nervous and edgy when we hadn’t done anything wrong, except for paying cash for the Marsh collection. I’d done nothing and therefore wouldn’t be spilling my guts. If there was an issue about the money, that would have been Chadwick’s tax-dodging transgression, not ours. Of course that was silly.

There was an obvious reason why they were there.

Chadwick was dead, and we had been among the last people to see him. Naturally, a senior investigator wanted to talk to us one by one.

I
DIDN’T GET a chance to compare notes with Vera or Tyler before I found myself being interviewed by the impressive Detective Castellano. Detective Castellano had sent Tyler Dekker to get me in the conservatory, where I was on my third cup of the signora’s coffee. I’d lost count of the almond cookies. They had no tranquilizer benefits, as it turned out, so I was relying on the spine I inherited from the Kelly side of the family.

With Tyler following, I was escorted back to the study by Stoddard. I noticed he avoided looking at Vera’s ancestors on the way.

A long, awkward walk was had by all.

Castellano was waiting for me. She was installed behind Vera’s desk, fitting right in with her natural air of authority. Vera was nowhere in sight. She would have gone up in flames if she’d seen the detective installed in the seat of power, acting like she owned the joint (to quote my uncles’ favorite phrase). Smiley seemed to have vanished too. Maybe his job was to lead them to me. Weasel.

I used every trick in the Kelly book to keep myself cool. But alarming questions kept firing in my brain. What if they searched my room?

Be calm
, I answered myself.
There is nothing in your room.
That was true. My beloved Sweet Sixteen lock picks were hidden behind the baseboard in my old room at Uncle Mick’s place. No worries there.

My possessions in my attic rooms at Van Alst House were limited and vintage. I might have cherished them, but they were not the kind of thing that anyone in their right mind would steal. So even though my conscience was clear, why I was more nervous than Bad Cat?

Senior detectives do not show up at your home without good reason. I was weirded out by Tyler Dekker’s presence and aloof behavior. I had a feeling there were more backups in the driveway.

Obviously, they knew we’d been at Summerlea the same day that Chadwick died. But he’d been alive when we left. The butler was still there. Lisa Troy was still there. He must have been alive when they left or they would have called for help when he fell.

Could this visit be about something other than his death? Had something of great value been stolen from Summerlea? I was praying that Uncle Kev hadn’t actually managed to liberate some tiny incredibly valuable artifact while my back was turned. Instead of letting anxiety take over my brain, I concentrated on the unnervingly attractive and slouchy Stoddard.

Castellano had actually smiled at me when I entered the study. I wasn’t fooled for a minute by her inquiring face, or the soft caramel two-piece suit or the paisley wool scarf she had looped fashionably around her neck. She’d have to be very smart and very tough to get where she was. She looked totally at home in the job. And if Kev had done something to get us in trouble, she was the enemy.

She fingered her scarf. “Cold in here.”

“It always is. You’ll be glad you’re wearing those boots.” She’d left her cognac-colored, knee-high boots on too.

She smiled at me and said, “Everyone seems quite tense.”

As if to reinforce her point, the signora skittered through the door as though pursued by wasps. She deposited some slices of ciabatta bread and cheese and fled. Bad Cat reached out again.

“Nothing to worry about, Miss Bingham,” she said. I noticed her smile didn’t reach her dark eyes.

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said, smiling back. “But it is unusual to be interviewed by the police without any explanation. Isn’t it?”

“I get that,” she said.

“I’m sure you do. And as we all have things to do today, can we get to the point? What is it you want to ask us about?”

“Chadwick Kauffman.”

“Okay. What about him?”

“You’ve heard the news?”

“About Mr. Kauffman’s accident?”

“His death, yes.”

Was she implying it wasn’t an accident?

“Yes, his death. That was a shock.”

“I’m sure it was.” She was one of those people who could say one thing and you knew that she meant the opposite. “How did you learn about it?”

My uncles always say, answer the question you want to. “Yes, it was a surprise and very sad. But I still don’t know why you’re here.” It suddenly occurred to me that the “alerts” would definitely look fishy. They’d find my new alerts in a minute if they checked my phone, of course. Mental note: Clear history. Even if we’d had good reasons to check out Chadwick.

“Very sad?” Castellano said, smiling slightly.

I winced. “Well, not devastating. I only met him once. We had a meal with him in his home yesterday and he seemed like a—well, you don’t expect something like that, do you?”

She shrugged as if she wouldn’t be surprised if people dropped dead after meeting with me.

“Hmm, yes, especially immediately after you met with him.”

It was hard to miss the insinuation in her voice.

“Wait. Immediately? How is that possible?”

“In fact, it was right after you were out of sight of Summerlea. Would you like to tell me about your return trip here?”

I blinked.

“But it couldn’t have been right after.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wasn’t alone in the house. The others were still there when we left.”

“What others?”

“Miss Troy and the butler, Thomas.”

“Ah yes. Miss Van Alst tells the same story.”

“It’s not a story. It’s what happened.”

“You left with Miss Van Alst and Mr. Kelly?”

“No. I was behind the Cadillac with Vera and Unc, um, Mr. Kelly. When they drove away, I looked back. Both cars were still there. Thomas, the butler, saw us leave. He’ll be able to confirm that we were on our way and Mr. Kauffman was still inside. Alive, it goes without saying. We would hardly have left if something had happened to him.”

“Ah yes, the butler,” she said with a tight little smile.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Uh-huh. And you say this butler was there?”

“I don’t ‘say’ it. He was. He served luncheon and generally did things you might expect a butler to do. And more, I think. Not that I’m familiar with butlers outside of television.”

“You mentioned the cars.”

“Yes.”

“Miss Van Alst didn’t mention cars.”

“She wouldn’t. She couldn’t care less about cars. She only cares about books, really.”

“So I understand. What cars were there?”

“A silver Aston Martin. Totally glamorous, in an early James Bond kind of way. I assumed it was Mr. Kauffman’s. You don’t see them every day. And there was also an older Mercedes-Benz, red, that I figured belonged to his assistant, Miss Troy.”

“You did, did you?”

She asked her questions with a knowing half smile, as though she’d caught you in a lie and you knew she’d caught you and now she was enjoying watching you squirm.

I didn’t plan to squirm, because I hadn’t been caught in a lie.

“I didn’t think the car was the butler’s, but that was only an assumption.”

Again with the half smile. “So, you and Miss Van Alst and, um, let’s see, Kevin Kelly, met with Chadwick yesterday?”

“That’s right.”

“And do you mind telling me how that came about?”

I blinked. “Chadwick Kauffman asked us, well, he invited Miss Van Alst, to join him for lunch at Summerlea.”

“Did he?”

I wasn’t sure what she meant by that tone. “Yes. He did. Okay, to be precise, his assistant asked.”

“Did she?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to keep irritation out of my voice. The questioning of everything could drive a person to shout. And that would be very bad. “Miss Lisa Troy called and made the arrangements to meet with Miss Van Alst. Miss Van Alst hates driving, so she insisted that Mr. Kelly drive her. And she asked that I come along too. So the luncheon invitation was expanded to include us.”

Close enough.

She raised an eyebrow.

I added, “You’ve met Vera Van Alst. She gets what she
wants by sheer force of will.” As the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to claw them back in. Had Vera mentioned the transaction with the Ngaio Marsh books? This is why they question people separately. The old divide-and-conquer strategy.

She said, “And then what happened when you arrived after this ‘invitation’?”

I left out talk of money and books. “We were met at the door by the butler, Thomas, and brought in. Miss Troy came to greet us, and then Chadwick arrived.”

“I see. And where was Chadwick arriving from?”

“He came down that grand staircase. And may I say, he didn’t look like he might fall either. He was very much in control of his movements.”

“Huh.”

Really? Should a detective say “huh” so dismissively?

“After introductions, we had mimosas in the sitting room, I suppose it’s a reception room, near the dining room, and then we had a beautiful luncheon.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. We did,” I said, exasperated. “Surely Vera must have told you the same thing.”

“She didn’t mention lunch.”

“What? Oh, well, that’s no big surprise. She doesn’t care about food. But I love food and it was excellent.” Uncle Kev does too, but the less said the better.

“And Mr. Kelly?”

I managed a chuckle. “Oh, he likes food. You can ask the signora. He’s her favorite.”

“But he’s not here to back up your story, is he?”

“I don’t understand what needs backing up.”

“How about your reason to be in an exclusive neighborhood where a body is found?”

I paused and calmed myself. “But I’m telling you. The butler saw us leave. Miss Troy said good-bye. They know we left.”

She leaned forward and flicked an invisible mote of dust
from her cognac boots. Behind her Bad Cat watched and planned.

“Would it surprise you, Miss Bingham, to learn that there is no butler at Summerlea?”

She got me there.

“What?”

She shook her head, amused at the game. “No butler.”

“But there was a butler. We all saw him.”

“We have only your word for that.”

“Well, you have Vera’s.”

“She didn’t mention a butler.”

Of course she hadn’t. It was Vera. All she cared about was the books. “There was one. His name was Thomas. Miss Van Alst, as you may have observed, is not really a people person. She probably didn’t notice him. He’d be part of the background to her. But she must have mentioned Miss Troy.”

The dark eyes gleamed. “Miss Troy also didn’t rate a mention.”

“Vera probably didn’t mention the laws of gravity, but I’m pretty sure those still exist.”

“Good one,” she said with a throaty chuckle. “But obviously not good enough.”

“Vera must have told you about Chadwick Kauffman.”

“She did.”

“At least. That’s good.”

“Is it? It puts you and Miss Van Alst and the mysteriously absent Mr. Kelly in the presence of the victim without a single witness. Do you really think that’s good?”

“What do you mean ‘victim’? Wasn’t it an accident?”

“It appears not.”

“Well, there were witnesses. Two of them. Maybe Thomas didn’t bill himself as a butler. Maybe he was a valet or . . . some kind of personal assistant, but he was definitely there. Please get in touch with Miss Troy. She’ll confirm what I’m saying.”

She watched me with pleasant anticipation, her beautifully groomed eyebrows raised just a touch.

I sputtered, “All you need to do is ask her.”

“Well, I would, of course, but there’s only one problem with that.”

I slumped in my seat. Why was this so unsettling? “What problem?”

“There is no Miss Troy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course there is. We saw her. We spoke to her. We shook her hand. She was nice, kind. Well organized.” I heard my voice trail off.

“The housekeeper and the staff of Mr. Kauffman’s business all confirm: no butler, no one named Thomas. No Miss Troy.”

I stared at her.

“They
were
there,” I said in a small voice. “She was very pretty.”

“Instead,” she went on, as if I’d said nothing, “you three were seen fleeing the property where Mr. Chadwick Kauffman was, apparently alone, right before his death.”

“Fleeing from what? We were not fleeing. That’s just the way, um, Mr. Kelly drives.”

“How about this: You were fleeing because Mr. Kauffman did not die from a fall. It appears he was killed by a blow to the head before he went down the stairs.”

“A blow to the head? Did he hit his head on something and then—?”

“Not much chance of that, is there?”

“I don’t know. But otherwise it means . . .”

“That’s right, Miss Bingham.”

I hadn’t finished. I couldn’t quite bring myself to say he’d been murdered.

She added, “And that means someone killed him.”

I shivered. “There must be a mistake.”

“No mistake.”

“Maybe he hit his head on a post and—”

“He didn’t.”

“But—”

“We have the weapon, and it wasn’t the staircase.”

I held up my hand. My stomach lurched. Murder? Murder and the people we believed were entertaining us turned out to be not real. Except they had been real. They’d been flesh and blood. They’d talked; they’d shaken hands. They had definitely been there.

“Murder?”

“Yes. Someone hit him hard enough to crack his skull.”