Decorated to Death (6 page)

It was close to ten p.m. when I left Charlie in the capable hands of hospital personnel and called it a day. And what a day it had been. As I drove the short distance from the hospital to Kettle Cottage, I began to prioritize the things I needed to do to get my investigation of Dona’s murder off the ground. Topping the list was verifying the time and cause of death. Obviously, a visit with Dr. Loo was in order.

I also needed to have a talk with Abner Wilson. If the old man who rented the cottage’s barn and shed from Dona had been in the vicinity around the time of the murder, he might have seen or heard something of importance. And I wanted to interview the members of Dona’s entourage, starting with Rufus Halsted. If the Deville/Halsted divorce was as acrimonious as Dona’s personal assistant, Marsha Gooding, implied, then why was the ex a member of this select group? There must have been a pretty good reason. That the gossipy Goody had purposely misled me crossed my mind.

I hadn’t a clue as to which one of the many bed-and-breakfast establishments in the Seville area counted the entourage among its guests. The thought of methodically checking out so many people, places, and things drained what was left of my energy. Maybe, I reasoned, what I really needed was some comfort food, a hot shower, and a good night’s sleep.

Turning the van onto Blueberry Lane, I was surprised to find the normally dark road bathed in streams of light coming from the Birdwell house.

Separated from Kettle Cottage by a tall, thick hedge, the 1950s, five-bedroom, two-bath, brick Georgian was usually closed up for the night once the sun set. Its owner, Sally Birdwell, a perky forty-five-year-old widow, almost religiously adheres to the old adage of early to bed and early to rise. Knowing this, and that Billy Birdwell, Sally’s twenty-two-year-old son, who was the assistant chef at the country club, generally didn’t arrive home before midnight, I worried that Sally might have had some sort of mishap and was in need of help.

Before checking on my neighbor’s well-being, I unlocked the back door of Kettle Cottage and checked on Pesty’s. The little Kees had spent most of the day cooped up in the van, so when Mary had offered to dog-sit, I had happily given my consent.

As promised, Denny and Mary had dropped Pesty off after their dinner date with JR and the twins. Reeking of garlic bread, Italian meatballs, and tomato sauce, the little fuzz ball barely acknowledged my presence before resuming her late-night nap under the kitchen’s round oak table.

“Don’t bother getting up,” I remarked as I deposited my purse and car keys on the countertop. “I know you’re not really interested, but I need to run over to the Birdwells’. If I’m not back in an hour, you’ll find a supply of dog treats in the pantry cabinet.” When the sleepy pooch failed to respond to the word “treats,” I made a mental note to speak to JR about overfeeding a certain four-legged family member who, unlike my daughter, was not eating for two.

Picking my way carefully through the prickly shrubbery and onto the small porch, I could see that almost all the lights in the Birdwell house had been extinguished. I was about to chalk the entire matter up to an overreaction on my part when the front door flew open and I found myself face to face with a sinister looking man. Somewhat portly, he was clad in a dark silk monogrammed robe and pajamas.

“Listen, sister,” he growled, “like I told that other broad, I ain’t got nothin’ to say about Dona gettin’ bumped off and neither does my kid, Ellie. Ya better vamoose before I call the cops.”

“Mr. Halsted, would you please lower your voice. I’m afraid you’ll wake up the others,” scolded Sally Birdwell, pushing herself past the man and into the doorway. “I…oh my. Jean dear, is something wrong?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” I replied, hiding my surprise upon learning that my verbal attacker was none other than Dona Deville’s former husband, Rufus Halsted. “I saw all the lights on in your house and thought that perhaps you had a problem. I didn’t know that you were entertaining overnight company.”

“Hey, we ain’t company,” said Dona’s ex, thrusting his swarthy face over Sally’s shoulder, “we’re payin’ guests. Miz Birdwell promised Maxine that nobody would bother us at this here inn, ’specially nosy reporters.”

“Mr. Halsted, this lady is not a member of the press. If you must know,” Sally said, “Jean is both a friend and neighbor who was concerned enough about my welfare to come over here and check on me. I suggest that you apologize to her before returning to your room. Sunday breakfast will be at nine a.m. sharp.”

Rufus Halsted mumbled something that might have been an apology of sorts before disappearing into the house.

“Honestly, that man is impossible. I’ve repeatedly asked him not to answer the door or the phone, but…” Sally’s voice trailed off as she brushed away an angry tear with the back of her freckled hand. “I never dreamed that running a bed-and-breakfast could be so difficult. It’s like sharing your home with exiled royalty. No matter how nice you make things for them,” she said, tucking a stray lock of her fiery, ginger-colored hair behind her right ear, “they never fail to remind you that they’re used to better. This whole B-and-B business may be a one-time thing, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s one time too many. This is all Hilly Murrow’s fault.”

“And why is that,” I said, “if you don’t mind my asking.” Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, coupled with the events of the day, but for the life of me I couldn’t connect the dots.

“Because the whole thing was her idea,” replied Sally, looking more pooped than perky. “Not only is she my closest and best friend, she’s also my first cousin. When she asked me to help her out of a bind, naturally I said yes. It’s times like this that I really miss my late husband. Fred always said Hilly took advantage of me, but I never believed it until now.”

Fearing more tears, I fished a fresh tissue from the pocket of my blue jeans and passed it to Sally. “You were saying,” I prompted.

“Oh dear, now where was I?” she asked before answering her own question. “Tuesday. It started that afternoon when Hilly phoned me in a dither,” said Sally with a snort. “I should have suspected she was up to something ’cause she sounded so sweet. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but sometimes Hilly can be a bit abrasive.”

Eager to hear more, I bit my tongue and shrugged my shoulders, hoping Sally would continue with her explanation, which she did.

“Hilly said that she owed someone a huge favor and that the person was pressing her for repayment. She made it seem as though it was a matter of life or death, so of course I told her I would help her out. I thought she needed money but it turned out that she needed my house! By the time I learned the truth, it was too late to back out.”

“Wait a minute, Sally, let me get this straight. Hilly owed somebody a tremendous favor and she repaid the favor by turning your house into an instant bed-and-breakfast? That doesn’t make a heck of a lot of sense. Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me the whole story.”

“I guess I might as well,” Sally said, pressing her lips into a tight line, “seeing that Hilly is too busy reporting on the murder to even answer my phone calls. But you must promise me you won’t repeat what I tell you to anyone. Even though she pulled a fast one on me, Hilly’s still family.”

I gave Sally my word that I wouldn’t tell a living soul and then listened while Sally told the tale of an ill-conceived friendship that had gone from bad to worse.

It all began years ago when Hilly was attending Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois. She shared a small apartment with a fellow student, Maxine Roberts. Both were majoring in journalism, guys, and drugs. The apartment was known around the campus as party central. Eventually, someone tipped off the police. When the place was raided, Hilly wasn’t there but Maxine was, along with some cocaine. Maxine took the fall while Hilly went on to graduate with honors. Unlike Hilly, who quickly landed the job as Seville’s radio and print reporter for the
Seville Sentinel
, our town’s daily newspaper, Maxine Roberts spent years rebuilding her personal reputation while trying to get her professional career off the ground.

Five years ago, as a struggling press agent with a flair for creating good publicity for her clients, some of whom were not exactly model citizens, Maxine came to the attention of Dona Deville. She was hired as the health spa diva’s public relations person. In spite of finally hitting it big, Maxine never forgave or forgot her former friend, Hilly Murrow.

“The way Maxine sees it,” said Sally, “Hilly owed her then and still does. Maxine called her on Tuesday, demanding that Hilly find a nice, private place for Dona and her people to stay. Hilly promised me that they’d be be here for only two nights—last night and tonight. She said they’d be long gone by early Sunday morning. Of course, Dona’s murder changed everything. I’m afraid that I’m stuck playing innkeeper for the six of them for God only knows how long.”

I did some fast math in my head. With Dona out of the picture, the number of guests should have dropped to five. Had Sally made a simple error?

“Did you say six?” I asked, giving Sally the chance to correct her mistake.

“That’s what I said, six,” she replied with a sigh. “Shortly after what I thought was the entire group arrived last night, Mr. Salerno showed up on my doorstep claiming to be Ellie Halsted’s bodyguard. After checking with Dona and finding that it was the case, I added him to the guest list. I figured what the heck—the more the merrier, Boy, was I wrong.” Sally’s usual upbeat disposition had all but disappeared. “If only Billy were here, then maybe I wouldn’t feel so outnumbered, but he’s staying at his girlfriend Tammie’s place until these people clear out. I don’t know when that’s going to happen, but it can’t be soon enough for me. What do you think I should do?”

“Well,” I said, “I’m guessing that your guests are as anxious to leave as you are to see them go. Just be patient. Once Chief Stevens gives the okay, I imagine they won’t waste any time getting out of town.” I didn’t add that I hoped to interview them while they were still within easy reach.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t a clue as to how I was going to accomplish this without being obvious. After my run-in with Rufus Halsted, I could hardly pass myself off as Sally’s parlor maid or long-lost sister. “Just be patient,” I repeated, “it’ll all work out somehow.” My advice covered Sally’s situation as well as my own.

“I know you’re right, Jean, but I can’t help dreading breakfast time. These people make me feel as though I’m an interloper at my own table. Wait a minute,” Sally exclaimed with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, “I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t you join us? Then I’d have someone on my side, if you know what I mean. It’s a serve-yourself buffet and I’ve got more than enough food. Please say you will. It would really mean a lot to me.”

I could hardly believe my ears. Or my luck. With a hug and promise that I would join her and the guests for breakfast, I bid Sally a good night and made my way back to Kettle Cottage.

“And some people say that there’s no such thing as the luck of the Irish,” I remarked to Pesty as we shared a late-night snack of soda bread, cream cheese, and blueberry jam.

Later, climbing into bed, I recalled the words of the ultimate survivor, Margaret Mitchell’s Scarlett O’Hara, who, when confronted with the final adversity in
Gone with the Wind
, proclaimed that tomorrow was another day.

While visions of a hot-blooded, puffy-shirted Charlie toting me up an immense staircase passed before my tired eyes, I fell into a deep sleep. I’d had a day that even Scarlett would have found exhausting.

Sunday morning arrived on the scene with blue skies and sunshine to spare. As expected, the weather forecast included record-high humidity, which meant it would be another hot and sticky summer day. With this in mind, I decided that my embroidered peasant blouse and skirt would be a wise choice. I pulled the gauzy, turquoise outfit from the laundry chute and tossed it into the recently repaired washing machine. Setting the timer on the quick, gentle cycle and the water on warm, I added a healthy squirt of detergent to the small load. Leaving the washer to do its thing, I headed for the kitchen and some coffee.

With a firm grip on a mug of instant, microwaved coffee, I used my free hand to unlatch the top half of the Dutch door and pushed it open. Leaning on the sill, I took a deep breath of fresh morning air. Resisting the urge to break into my own off-key version of “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning,” I became aware of snippets of conversation coming from the direction of the Birdwells’ backyard.

Still dressed in my nightshirt, I slipped out of the house and made my way over to the tall, thick, property-dividing hedge. Feeling more like a nosy neighbor than a fact-gathering sleuth, I waited for the conversation to continue. Judging from the pauses and hearing only one voice, I guessed correctly that I was eavesdropping on someone’s cell phone call.

“Murdered. Yeah, like I told you before, it pays to be thorough. Let’s just say, everything’s turning out the way we expected. No, don’t call me, I’ll call you. It’s safer that way. Ciao!”

The surreptitious conversation had come to an end. I’d certainly gotten an earful, but of what? The only thing I knew for sure was that the speaker was a man. The way things were going, it looked as though I would have more on my plate that morning than Sally Birdwell’s breakfast fare.

Returning to Kettle Cottage, I decided to give Charlie a call while my clothes were in the dryer. I was pleasantly surprised when he picked up the phone on the first ring.

“Hi, sweetheart, I figured you’d be calling me about now. How’s my girl?” he asked, his voice thick with concern.

“Let’s just say that she’s doing a lot better today than yesterday, that’s for sure.” I didn’t elaborate, which was just as well since it turned out my husband’s inquiry pertained to Pesty and not yours truly. When I realized this, along with the fact that Charlie was unaware of what had taken place the previous morning out on Old Railway Road, I prudently ignored the faux pas.

“Hang on a minute, sweetheart. My breakfast tray just arrived,” Charlie informed me. Judging from his less-than-stellar assessment of its contents, I knew then that my husband was on the road to recovery. As my Irish mother, Annie Kelly, would say, if you have the strength to complain, then you have the strength to endure. If nothing else, Charlie’s tray tirade marked him as a complainer who would live to fight another day. The deal I’d made with Martha Stevens was looking better by the minute.