Death in a Major (9 page)

I followed a curving driveway lined with low hedges and solar lights and approached the large front entrance. Several seconds after I pressed the bell, Jordan opened the door and stepped back to let me in the house. As we exchanged greetings, my gaze swept over the foyer. It was as impressive as the exterior of the house, if not more so. A crystal chandelier hung from the two-­story-­high ceiling and a grand staircase curved its way up to the second floor. Expensive-­looking paintings hung on the white walls and the heels of my boots clicked against the beautiful hardwood floors.

Jordan shut and locked the door, but before he had a chance to do anything else, a phone rang somewhere on the second floor.

“Sorry,” he said as he made a move for the stairway. “That's probably my aunt calling. I should answer it since my mom's not here. You can wait in the living room at the end of the hall. I won't be long.”

As he disappeared up the stairs, I made my way along the hall. I paused at an open door on my right and took a quick peek into the room. It appeared to be Mr. Major's study. A stately wooden desk sat in the middle of the room and thick, leather-­bound tomes lined a large bookcase, probably more for show than for reading, I suspected. The desktop was tidy, as was the entire room. Somehow it didn't surprise me that Mr. Major hadn't been the disorganized type.

Continuing on down the hallway, I found the living room Jordan had mentioned. At one end of the room was a massive stone fireplace, at the other, a wet bar with numerous bottles of alcohol in a cabinet with glass doors. Gorgeous antique furniture was placed here and there throughout the room and every piece of artwork was undoubtedly way out of my financial league.

I crossed the room to a set of French doors that led out to a large stone patio. Curious to know if the backyard was as luxurious as the house, I opened the doors and stepped outside. Beyond the patio, a neatly trimmed lawn stretched toward a rose garden. To the left was a lap pool, and to the right, a tennis court, both illuminated by bright floodlights. I didn't think I'd ever been in a backyard so large and I wondered how much anyone actually used it.

Deciding to head back inside, I turned around and stepped toward the open French doors. I stopped short when I noticed a large potted plant behind a lounge chair.

I recognized it right away. Its elegant, trumpet-­shaped flowers were unmistakable.

Angel's trumpet.

Mrs. Duffy and anyone else living in the house had easier access to the plant than I'd imagined. I swallowed and tightened my grip on my instrument case. Even though the flowers were pretty, the plant seemed sinister to me. Tearing my eyes away from it, I stepped back inside the house.

As I pulled the door shut behind me, there was still no sign of Jordan. I considered taking a seat on an antique chesterfield, but the sound of rustling papers drifted toward me from the hallway leading toward the front of the house.

Wondering if Jordan had already come downstairs or if his mom had arrived home, I set down my violin and followed the sound along the hall.

“Jordan?” I called out. “Mrs. Duffy?”

The rustling stopped, replaced by silence that had a strange, heavy quality to it. I paused for a second but then continued on, the high heels of my black boots clicking against the hardwood floors and sounding unusually loud in the quiet house. I approached the open door to Mr. Major's study.

When I peered into the room, a flicker of movement drew my eyes to one of the floor-­to-­ceiling windows. A man in a dark suit slipped out the open window, dodged around the bushy plants outside, and fled toward the driveway.

“Hey!” I yelled.

The sound of my voice only sent the man running faster. I raced over to the window and stuck my head out into the cool night air, but the man had already disappeared into the darkness.

He'd made a swift escape, but he hadn't been fast enough for me to fail to recognize him. I'd caught a glimpse of his profile and that was enough for me to make a positive identification.

What he'd been doing in Mr. Major's house, I had no idea. But what I did know for certain was that the intruder had been none other than Dr. Daniel Beaufort, vice chair of the Point Grey Philharmonic's executive committee.

 

Chapter Nine

“M
ID
ORI?”
J
ORDAN STOOD
in the study's doorway. His forehead creased as his eyes went from the open window to the large wooden desk, now covered in a mess of papers and file folders. “What's going on?”

Still stunned by Dr. Beaufort's presence in the house and his sudden flight, it took me a second to figure out where to start. “Was there supposed to be anyone else in the house?”

“No. Just us. Marjorie's gone out for the evening and my mom went to visit a friend after . . . after she took care of some things.”

I knew those things involved the police. I wasn't surprised that she'd sought support from a friend after her interview, especially if she didn't want Jordan to see how upset she was.

“Why?” Jordan asked. “Was someone here?”

“Yes. I guess I disturbed him in the middle of . . . whatever he was doing. He took off out the window.” I crossed the room to the large desk. All of its drawers were open and papers were strewn about on the floor as well as on the desk. Definitely different from the last time I'd looked in the room. “Do you know Dr. Daniel Beaufort?”

“No. Never heard of him.” Jordan came over to join me by the desk. “Is that who was in here?”

I nodded. “He's a member of the Point Grey Philharmonic's board of directors. But what the heck would he be doing breaking in here?”

Jordan studied the messy surface of the desk. “He must have been looking for something. This desk was super tidy last time I looked in here. It always was. My grandfather liked everything perfect.” He reached out for the nearest file folder.

I put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Hold on. Best not to touch anything. I'll call the police and tell them what happened. They'll probably want to come and take a look.” I glanced around the office, noting a conspicuous absence. “Did your grandfather have a computer?” I didn't think Dr. Beaufort had been carrying a laptop when he took off, but I couldn't be completely certain.

“No,” Jordan replied. “He refused to touch computers. He always wrote everything by hand. If he needed anything done on a computer, he got his secretary to do it at his office downtown.”

So Beaufort hadn't made off with a computer. I wished I knew if he'd taken anything else.

As I retrieved my cell phone from my purse, my eyes roved over the papers scattered across the desk, hoping to find a clue as to what Dr. Beaufort was after. Without moving the pages I could only see small portions of each, and certainly not enough to glean any helpful information. Although I longed to shuffle through the papers for a better look, I knew I needed to follow my own advice and leave everything untouched until the police arrived.

Beside me, Jordan stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders slumping.

I put an arm around him. “Why don't we go sit in the other room while we wait for the police?”

He allowed me to guide him to the living room at the back of the house. He flopped down onto an antique chesterfield and stared at the unlit fireplace as I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number I'd stored last spring. I paced across the room as I put a call through to Detective Salnikova. Considering the hour, I wasn't sure if she'd pick up, but she did. After I explained to her about the intruder at Mr. Major's house, she instructed me to stay out of the study and wait for her arrival. I hung up and joined Jordan on the chesterfield.

“Detective Salnikova is on her way,” I told him.

He nodded, but his eyes seemed distant.

“I'm sorry about everything you're going through, Jordan. And now with your mom . . .”

His eyes snapped toward me. “You know about that?”

“I saw her at the police station when I went to see the detective.”

“Did you talk to her? Is she okay?” Desperation underscored his questions, and in that moment he seemed younger than his fourteen years. “She phoned me afterward, but she wouldn't say much.”

“I only saw her briefly. She was upset but otherwise all right.” I hoped that was the truth.

“She didn't do it, you know.” Anger and certainty replaced the desperation in his voice. “There's no way she killed my grandfather.”

I wanted to believe him for his sake, but I wasn't sure if I could. Even though I had trouble picturing his mother as a murderer, for all I knew at that point she might well have killed her father. At the same time, Dr. Beaufort's stealthy presence in the home complicated matters.

Instead of agreeing or disagreeing with Jordan, I asked him a question. “What do you think the police wanted to ask her?”

He shrugged and slouched against the back of the chesterfield again. “How should I know? It's not like they tell me anything.”

I thought back to what little I'd overheard at the police station.

Flask.

Fingerprints.

Maybe they'd found Mrs. Duffy's fingerprints on Mr. Major's flask. And if the poison had been in the flask, then that was a link between Mrs. Duffy and the crime. But was it really? Mrs. Duffy was the victim's daughter and currently lived in his house. Was it so strange that she might have handled his flask at some point? I didn't think so, but I didn't know anything for sure.

“Jordan, did your grandfather often carry a flask with him?”

His eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch. “Often? More like always.”

“Was it common for anyone else to handle it?”

“Wait. Was that where the poison was? In his flask?”

“I don't know for certain, but I think so.”

Jordan sat up straighter. “My mom didn't like my grandfather drinking so much. His doctor told him he should stop because of his health, but of course he wouldn't listen. I know there were a ­couple of times when my mom helped him out of his jacket and found the flask in his pocket. She took it out so he wouldn't drink in public, but she always paid for it later.”

“How do you mean?”

Jordan's voice hardened and his hands clenched into fists. “He'd yell at her. He'd swear at her and call her names.”

I tried to distract him from the unpleasant memory. “So there would be a perfectly reasonable explanation for her fingerprints being on the flask.”

He nodded and his hands slowly unclenched. “Not that the police would care about that. They just want to arrest someone so it looks like they're doing their job. What do they care if it's not the right person?”

I wasn't sure if that was an entirely fair assessment of the situation, but I wasn't about to upset him by disagreeing with him.

“Okay,” I said, thinking out loud, “so what about motive?”

“My mom would never kill my grandfather. She wouldn't.”

“I'm not saying she did,” I said quickly, hoping to defuse his growing anger. “I'm just trying to figure out what the police are thinking. Do you have any idea why they might think she would have wanted your grandfather dead?”

He thought for a moment. “Maybe for his money? Things have been really tough for my mom since she left my dad. She tried to get a job but nobody wants to hire her. And my grandfather wouldn't give her any money even though he has piles of it.” Although Jordan's anger had diminished, a note of resentment crept into his voice. “He thought he was doing too much by letting us stay here. And he never let her forget that.”

“But he left her a lot of money in his will?”

“I don't know, actually. Knowing him, he probably didn't leave us anything. But maybe the police think she expected him to even if he didn't?” He shrugged. “I don't know. Whatever they're thinking, it's stupid. My mom's not a murderer.”

The doorbell rang but Jordan made no move to get up. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the fireplace. I understood that he wasn't happy with the police and figured he didn't need anything extra to deal with anyway, so I left him there on the chesterfield and headed for the spacious foyer. Once there, I unlocked and opened the door. Salnikova stood at the top of the wide stone steps, two uniformed officers behind her.

“Thanks for coming,” I said as I stepped back and pulled the door open wider so they could enter the foyer. After shutting the door behind them, I led them down the hall to Major's study.

“This is where you saw the intruder?” Salnikova asked as she stepped into the room with the uniformed officers in her wake.

I remained in the doorway. “I was waiting for Jordan to come downstairs. I heard a noise and thought maybe it was him so I came to look. That's when I saw Dr. Beaufort take off through the open window.”

“You recognized him?”

“Yes. Dr. Daniel Beaufort. He's on the Point Grey Philharmonic's board of directors.”

“You didn't mention on the phone that you recognized him.” Salnikova's voice held a note of rebuke.

Oops. “Sorry.”

“And you're certain that's who the intruder was?”

“Absolutely.”

“All right. Thank you, Ms. Bishop. I'll come talk to you and Jordan in a few minutes.”

She turned her back to me and I sighed at her use of my last name and the obvious dismissal. As much as I wanted to stay outside the door and eavesdrop, Salnikova would probably note the absence of my heels clacking down the hallway. With a silent curse at my beautiful but nonstealthy boots, I returned to the living room where I'd left Jordan.

As I took in the sight of all the expensive furnishings and artwork, it occurred to me that Mr. Major had owned everything material that he could have possibly wanted—­a mansion, impressive display pieces, a private island (if that rumor was true), and a heck of a lot more. But other areas of his life had been lacking, of that I was sure. I doubted the rooms of his house had seen much happiness or laughter over the years. That made me even sadder for Jordan. Had he left one unhappy home—­disrupted by his parents' feuding—­for another?

I forced myself to focus on the present, knowing I couldn't do anything to change my student's past.

“The police are taking a look around,” I told him.

Jordan frowned. “Why are they so interested in a break-­in when they aren't interested in arresting the right person for my grandfather's murder?”

I joined him on the chesterfield again. “I guess there's no real evidence linking your uncle or anyone else to the crime. At least not that they've found so far.”

“Just because they haven't found it that doesn't mean it doesn't exist.”

“I won't disagree with you there,” I said. “And maybe they'll look into Dr. Beaufort now. The fact that he broke in here doesn't make him a killer, but it certainly makes him suspicious. Any idea what he could have been after?”

“None.” Jordan got up and paced across the room to the fireplace. “But I know he's not the killer.”

“Because you believe your uncle killed your grandfather?”

“I
know
he did.”

I stifled a sigh, knowing a fourteen-­year-­old's certainty wasn't enough to get his mother off the detective's radar. “Okay, but do you have any proof? I know you heard him threaten your grandfather, but is there anything else to link him to the crime? And maybe he had motive, but what about the opportunity to poison your grandfather?”

“I don't know.” Jordan resumed pacing. “He knows where my grandfather kept all his alcohol. He helped himself to it often enough. I'm sure he could have put poison in the flask as easily as anyone.”

“Does your uncle live here?”

“Nah. He lives in some crummy apartment building downtown. But he shows up here from time to time. Mostly because he wants money. He doesn't have a key but the back door is often unlocked if there's somebody home. And Marjorie doesn't have the guts to turn him away if he shows up at the front door. Not that she'd be able to turn him away. He'd probably barge right past her.”

My thoughts focused on the frizzy-­haired woman who'd attended the reception. “Who is Marjorie, exactly?”

“My grandfather's slave.” He caught sight of my dubious expression and amended his answer. “I don't know what to call her. I guess she was a housekeeper, cook, and a sort of companion for my grandfather. She looked after him, basically. She didn't seem to care that he bossed her around constantly. But then again, she was getting paid for it, unlike the rest of us.”

But what if she did mind? Maybe deep down she'd hated her boss, her resentment building day by day and week by week until she snapped. “Do you know if she'll benefit from your grandfather's death in any way?”

“I don't see how. She's staying on here for a ­couple of weeks, but my mom already told her she'll have to look for a new job. So unless my grandfather left her a pile of money in his will, I'd say she's worse off now than she was when he was alive.”

Perhaps she was worse off, but I still added her to my mental list of suspects. Maybe Mr. Major had hinted that he would leave her a substantial legacy in his will, whether he actually did or not. Or maybe it was worth it to her to be out of a job to be rid of her tormentor (if she thought of him as her tormentor). Sure, it would have been easier to quit her job to get away from him, but not everyone made their life decisions based on rational thought, particularly murderers.

“Besides, we're getting off track.” Jordan's voice brought me back from my thoughts. “I need to find a way to convince the police to investigate my uncle.”

“Why don't you talk to Detective Salnikova again?” I suggested. “Remind her that your uncle threatened your grandfather and make sure she knows he had access to the flask.”

“Who the hell are you?”

I jerked around in my seat, startled by the new voice as well as its vehemence. A scruffy man in need of a shave and some clean clothes stood inside the French doors, now open. He glared at me with disturbing hatred, his beady eyes almost burning with it.