Designer Detective (A Fiona Marlowe Mystery) Page 3
“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.”
“I'll have the steak and Lebanese salad. Just coffee.”
“No wine this evening?” I asked Jake.
“I'm on the wagon.”
“I should be, too, but I so love the taste of alcohol.” I smiled happily when the waiter set a goblet of wine before me.
“I did, too, until it got away from me. But that's another story. What did you think of Opal?”
“I loved her immediately. What a smile that woman has.”
“She's something, isn't she?”
“Yes, I was impressed. We worked all the details out for the library redo. I'll arrange for the work crew this weekend. By the way, she said it wasn't me that did Albert in.”
Jake laughed. “She is something else.”
“Here's a clue for you. Did you know that Albert had a lady friend?”
“Yes. I'm working that one.”
I was a little disappointed that wasn't breaking news. “Okay, how about this. The hedge around the fountain off the solarium is clipped in the shapes of hearts, clubs, diamonds, and spades.”
Jake tucked his face into his neck in disbelief. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Don't you think that’s unusual? I mean, how many houses have a hedge of card suits?”
He shrugged like he didn't care. “I don't see a fit.”
“It might be a clue. Did Albert’s wife play cards?”
“Don't know.”
I thought this was an important clue, but Jake apparently didn't. I changed tactics. “Did you notice there's no security on the front door?”
“Yes, there is.”
“No. Someone turned it off because every time I've let myself in the front door, I didn’t have to push any buttons to disarm the security. Albert mentioned nothing to me about it when I met with him.”
Jake rubbed his chin. “I never go in that way.”
“Which way do you enter?”
“Through the back entrance.”
“I wonder why I was given the front door key.”
He shrugged. “I'll take a look. Thanks for the tip.”
“See, I’m helpful.”
He laughed.
“Who do you think did it?”
He shrugged. “I don't know. Opal's convinced someone gave him the overdose, that it wasn't self-administered.”
I told him what Opal said about Albert being very precise about his medication.
He nodded. “Right. Someone very precise wouldn't accidentally overdose in normal circumstances.”
“The key words are normal circumstances.”
“Right.”
“Did Opal say who she suspects?”
He shook his head. “No one specific, but she's convinced it’s family. Problem is there's so many of them, and they are all over the globe.”
“What do you mean there are so many of them? I thought there were no children. And there's only Opal, the sister.”
&nbs
p; “Opal and Albert had eight brothers and sisters, and she is the only one left. But there are lots of nieces and nephews. Mrs. Lodge's brother in South Africa is still alive and has three children, plus the grandchildren. There's a sister in England who has a child. I'm doing background on all the nieces and nephews.”
“But, wait, couldn't you narrow it down to the ones who live around here? After all, they'd have to know Albert pretty well to know about his blood pressure medication and what would kill him and when to do it.”
“Here's the thing. They always had relatives visiting. Mrs. Lodge loved to have people around. She was a lot younger than Albert and had the money to entertain.”
“And Opal made her money in ranching?”
“She married a wealthy rancher. No children. There's money at stake and not all of the family is wealthy. There'll be the usual money scramble now that Albert and Olivia are both dead. The question is who gets the money.”
“What does the will say?”
“I don't know. Opal’s meeting with the lawyer on Tuesday.”
“Opal doesn't look like a rancher's wife somehow.”
“She is. Has a real pretty spread in Harney Valley, Oregon. God's country out there. That's where I met her.”
Jake and Opal had God’s country in common. There was an interesting twist.
The food arrived and I savored the tabbouleh. I considered another glass of wine and decided not to get too wild and crazy this early in the evening.
“Are there any relatives in McLean?” I asked.
“There is a married niece living in Arlington. She has one daughter. She was a frequent visitor after Mrs. Lodge died. She looked in on Albert to make sure he was okay though Hudson took very good care of Albert.”
“So the niece is suspect. Is Hudson a suspect?”
“Everyone is until I determine who had the motive.”
“I'm still on the list.”
“Pretty far down. Motive is weak.”
“That’s comforting.”
At that point, my cell phone vibrated. I looked at the caller ID. My romance writer friend, Olympia. I remembered we had made plans to go to a movie this evening. I checked my watch. We had decided on the late show of the latest Viggo Mortensen movie. My favorite fantasy man.
I finished my wine, arranged my knife and fork on my plate, and smiled over at Jake. “I've got to be going. I've got a date tonight.” Of course, I wasn't going to tell him it was with a woman friend.
“Okay,” he said. He didn’t seem at all disappointed.
“But let me ask again. Who do you think did it?”
Jake puckered up his lips and thought. “I suspect Albert took an overdose.”
“What?”
“I don't think he was as happy as Opal seems to think. But I got to follow all the angles first.”
“But why?”
“Albert was still working, granted in a Washington think tank. Don't you think a man of his wealth would've retired by now?”
“What's that got to do with anything? Maybe he worked because he liked to work and didn't have any hobbies. And some people get off on power.”
“I think he was in financial difficulty.”
Chapter 3
I had to update Olympia on the case. She’s one of my oldest friends, and I could tell her anything. Like Kathy the waitress, she immediately had me romantically linked to Jake Manyhorses. Olympia was a bestselling writer of romances. Need I say more?
The coming attractions exploded across the movie screen. We talked in whispers, which disturbed the solitary man in front of us with the bent up baby Huey cap. He turned around and said, “Hey, if you broads don't shut up, I'm going to beat the snot out of you.”
Olympia leaned forward and stuck her face in his. “Just who do you think you are, mister? It's a free country and the movie isn't on yet. We have important business to discuss.”
“Hey, take your business somewheres else, lady. This is a movie house.”
He had a point.
“I never,” said Olympia and sat back. In a whisper close to my ear she said, “If Viggo Mortensen weren't in this movie, I'd leave now.”
I admired Olympia’s courage and thought to say something equally daring, but the guy was mean looking. “We'll be quiet,” I said to the back of his head. “We don't want to miss Viggo Mortensen.”
“Ha,” he said without turning around. “What a fairy.”
Olympia and I exchanged glances and watched the movie without a peep.
It was raining when we left the theater. At the movie's end the tough guy had hustled out of the theater before the credits were over, lucky for us. We decided to visit the coffee house next door to the theater. It was crowded with late night theatergoers.
“Great movie wasn't it?” said Olympia. She was dreamy-eyed. Viggo had once again lived up to expectation.
“Too violent for my taste, but his nude fight scene in the steam room was superb. There isn't enough male nudity in films these days. I don't know why Viggo does such violent films. I wish Hollywood would stop making them.”
“Mmm,” said Olympia, ignoring my riff on violence. “What buns. But tell me more about Jake. Think he'll ask you out, I mean, on a real date?”
Interesting that Viggo's buns led to Jake. Olympia could get romance out of a turnip, complete with sexy hero, fainting heroine, riveting plot and happy ending. Turnips, and I'm not kidding.
I lifted a shoulder. “He bought me dinner this evening and didn't ask me to be dessert.”
Olympia guffawed. She has this deep, ridiculous laugh that I loved and that usually got me going. I snorted along with her.
“What's he look like?”
“A mix between Morgan Freeman, George Clooney, and Graham Greene.”
“What kind of a mix is that?”
“Just that. He looks like a big mix of something, emphasis on the big. He's a husky guy. He wouldn’t look good in a suit. They wouldn’t fit him right. He looks like he should be out riding the range.”
I frowned.
“What?” said Olympia, anticipating the next plot point, I’m sure.
“I bet he worked for her on the ranch. He should be on a horse, not driving around the suburbs.”
Olympia arched her exquisitely penciled eyebrows. “Oooo, the plot thickens.”
* * * * *
Saturday morning I slept late. About noon I started making phone calls to get the library job going. I called a superb carpenter and painter and left a message to call. I called Hudson about moving the furniture out of the library, taking down the drapes, and rolling up the Persian carpets and left a message to call me back. He probably was polishing silver and didn't hear the phone. I called Colony Furniture Gallery on Lee Highway to make an appointment for tomorrow afternoon. Yes, interior designers work on Sunday. Last, I called my favorite drapery store on North Harrison. The proprietress, my good friend Judith Brooks, employed the most divine seamstress, a Vietnamese woman who was a genius when it came to drape design. All I had to do was give her the faintest sketch of what I wanted and presto she'd whip up something perfect.
Judith answered. She was a working woman after all. “Fiona? What’s up?”
“I need some drapes.”
“Come over. Kahn is coming this afternoon, and we'll have you fixed up in no time.” Judith was a woman of action from New York City, replete with long frizzy hair, dyed red.
Happily, the sun was shining when I finally hit the road. I love Arlington, but a friend who lives in Northwest D.C. won't come here. She says she gets lost if she ventures over Key Bridge. For the same reason she won't come, I delight in living here. Small community neighborhoods abound like Roslyn where I live -- Westover, Ballston, Shillington, Clarendon -- each with little strip shopping centers with diverse restaurants and shops from every corner of the world. And I’m not kidding.
Judith's store was in one of those cute strip malls off Lee Highway. She saw me pull in, waved and met me at the door.
“No, I'm working this redo on a library over in McLean except I found the guy dead in the library.”
Her hand flew to her wide open mouth. “Oh, my gosh. I read about that in the Washington Post. You mean that was your job? They didn't say who found him.”
“I did, believe it or not.”
Judith led me to the big design table she had in the back room away from the yards of fabric in the sales room. “Sit. Talk. I want to know all about it. I can't believe you found a dead man on the job. You don't think this is a new trend in interior design, do you?”
I filled her in and she, a woman of some expertise, immediately said, “The butler did it. They always do in the mysteries I read.” She’s quite a connoisseur of the genre.
“No, it has to be one of the nephews.”
“Why not a niece?”
“Or a niece.” I shrugged. “Jake the PI is running all that down.”
“Is he married?” she said.
Driving back to my condo, I thought about Hudson. Maybe he did do it. I mean, fifty million mysteries can't be wrong, can they? Maybe he was broke. Maybe he was ready to retire and needed the money. He'd know Albert's medications. Surely, Albert would have provided for the loyal butler in the will.
I pulled into my parking space in the underground garage. I loved having a sheltered space for the Legend. Then I didn't have to try to find a parking place in a neighborhood that never had any. As the elevator whirred up to the top floor, I envisioned a quiet evening finishing the oil painting I had started of the marina basin near Alexandria in the spring. Popcorn and a beer sounded good for dinner.
The message machine blinked and chirped at me, so I pressed the play and listened as I emptied the grocery sack. Six pack of the latest microbrew, jar of popcorn, two cans of canned chopped clams, celery, and carrots, two bottles of Tabasco, and a dozen eggs.
The great carpenter said to call him back this evening, he'd be home. Shirley at Colonial Furniture Gallery said to come tomorrow around two P.M., she could help me. Dear Shirley, she was a hustler and liked to push what made her the best commission. I'd have to watch her, but she knew her stuff. Last message was from Jake. “Call me” was the message. He was talkative this evening. No message from Hudson.