Read Designer Detective (A Fiona Marlowe Mystery) Online
Authors: Marjorie Thelen
Designer Detective (A Fiona Marlowe Mystery)
Designer
Detective
First Novel
in the Fiona Marlowe Mystery Series
Marjorie Thelen
What readers are
saying about Marjorie
Thelen’s
books
:
“In
Designer Detective
the reader is taken along on a fun and
fast-paced journey filled with unexpected villains and heroes and is treated to
a surprising ending. I literally couldn’t put the book down and anxiously
await Fiona’s next adventure.”
Karen
Nitz
, archivist of the Western Room, Harney County Library
and author of
Harney County
.
“
The Forty Column Castle
is a
perfect blend of filial concern, romance, international intrigue, fashion, and
surprising plot twists that create a lighthearted escape from the burdens of
daily life. You'll have fun reading it.”
BJ
Appelgren, author of
The Transparent Feather
and
Sunny Side Up
.
“
For The Hieroglyphic Staircase
: “
Of
all the noted authors I have read, Larry
McMurtry
,
Craig Johnson, Tony
Hillerman
and many others, who
have that ability, Marjorie Thelen did a magnificent job of portraying every
character and all the places where I could just imagine, or close my eyes and
picture myself being in the story. It was really enjoyable. I have read some
books where the author does not have that ability to transcend the reader from
the comfort of their favorite chair to being present as the story unfolds. She
does an excellent job. I enjoyed every chapter of the book and was sad when I
got to the last page.
” Ron
Copeland,
re-tired Seattle Law Enforcement Officer.
Also by Marjorie Thelen
The Forty Column Castle
The Hieroglyphic Staircase
High Desert Detective
To
my writer and reader friends everywhere, thank you. To the original Aussie
girl,
Bronwen
Porter, who inspired me to write the
book, a special thanks; to the Harney Basin Writers for the wind beneath my wings;
and for John, always
This is a work of fiction. All
characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the
author.
Copyright 2012 by Marjorie Thelen.
All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, save for
inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without the written permission of
the author.
2
nd
Edition
ASIN
Table of Contents
The private investigator introduced himself as
Jake.
“I understand you’re an interior decorator,” he
said.
“Designer.
I don’t
just decorate I design living space,” I said.
He cast his eyes around the room like maybe he
didn't understand me right, like I'm glad you're not my interior designer.
“Okay, I know the place is a mess. I'm busy. I
lead an active life. I travel a lot. But that’s not why you’re here.”
We sat on my beige leather couch. His knees
didn't quite fit between the couch and the black lacquer coffee table, overloaded
with books and empty coffee cups that hadn't made it to the dishwasher. He
spread his legs wide in the way only a man can do. His thighs were big, and his
Levis fit tight. I like the curve of a man's thigh so I sneaked a discreet
glance when he wasn't looking. I didn't think he noticed.
“I understand you found the deceased when you
went to his house this morning.”
“Yes. I have a key. I let myself in because he
leaves for work before I arrive.”
“What time was that?”
“After eleven.”
“Then you arrived late in the morning.”
“Yes.” I smiled like it was normal to report to
work after eleven in the morning. I am not an early riser.
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”
I thought that one over and felt a need to
explain. “I was in a rush this morning and got held up in traffic. When I arrived
at the Lodge estate, parked in the drive, ran through the downpour, struggled
with the key in a Byzantine lock, banged open the door and shook off, I was in
a foul mood. Finding Albert Lodge on the floor of the library was the final
nail in the coffin, you might say. I wasn't at my most observant.”
“I see,” he said, writing in a little spiral
notebook. “Describe finding the body.”
I thought back over the scene. “When I walked
into the library, he was stretched out on the floor. I thought he was sleeping.
Maybe he’d had a wild night. I sniffed the air for booze. Didn't smell like the
inside of a
bar.
I shook him a little, called his
name.” I did a mental pause. “Are you investigating a murder?”
His eyes came up from where he was writing in
the little spiral notebook. Creases framed his eyes, and he looked as tired as
I felt.
“The coroner ruled he died of natural causes.”
“Why are you here?”
He addressed me like I was a bothersome child. “I’ve
been hired by the family to find out if the death was, in fact, natural.”
“I see. Sorry. It's been a long day.”
“Right,” he said and checked his watch. “I was
up at four this morning.” He plodded on.
Tenacious guy.
“You didn't notice anything about the deceased's house that would make you
suspicious? Like a window open, glass on the floor, muddy foot prints?”
“No, nothing.”
I was
trying hard to remain patient. He was being too methodical for me. I wanted to
jump to conclusions.
“After you tried to rouse him, what did you
do?”
“I yelled for help, anybody, help.
Loud.
Several times.
No one came.”
“And then?”
“Like I told the officer this morning, I picked
up the phone and dialed 911, because I sensed we had a medical emergency on our
hands.”
I must have put too cynical a twist on that
last part because he looked up from his notebook. “Miss,” he glanced at his
notes, “uh, Marlowe, I believe it is. I'm sorry if it's late, if you're tired,
if I'm tired, if I'm asking a lot of questions. I'm sorry but a man is dead,
and I am to determine if foul play was involved. If you'd like, if I'm
inconveniencing you, I could come back in the morning.”
We stared at each other until I got
uncomfortable and looked away. “I'll make coffee,” I said. “It sounds like we
might be here all night.”
“No, thanks,” he said, holding up his hand to
stop me from rising from the couch. “I'd like to get this done and get out of
here. I got another stop before I crash tonight.”
I was impressed with his work ethic. I stepped
out of my wiseass suit and answered the man's questions. He left in fifteen
minutes, after scribbling his name and cell phone number on a piece of notebook
paper. He must have been out of business cards.
“Call me,” he said, “if you think of anything
that might help.
Any little detail, no matter how
insignificant.”
“Do you think Mr. Lodge was murdered?” I asked
as we stood in the foyer surrounded by my collection of Australian aborigine
masks.
“I don't know,” he said. “That's what I've been
hired to find out. Good evening, Ms. Marlowe.” He gave me a two-finger salute,
glanced around at the masks, back at me, then walked away down the hall to the
elevator. He was taller than I and held himself erect, not the slouchy type,
but the slope of his shoulders had some tired to them.
I looked at the piece of paper. Jake
Manyhorses. What kind of a name was that?
* * * * *
I sat at my breakfast table window with a cup
of organic fair trade coffee, enjoying the view looking across the Potomac River
into Washington D.C. To the east the sun was trying to muscle its way through
heavy gray clouds. This town had its faults, politics came to mind, but the
view from Virginia of the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial with the
Capitol building in the background was spectacular.
I hadn't slept a wink. Visions of Albert Lodge's
face
schmushed
on the gold Persian carpet kept
playing in my mind. Maybe he’d had a heart attack or stroke. Someone must have
been pretty clever to conceal a cause of death the coroner thought natural. Who
would want to do away with a nice, old gent like Albert Lodge?
I was now unemployed.
Too
bad.
I’d some great ideas for a new, contemporary look to the library.
Being the practical woman I was, I fished in my purse for my cell phone to call
a client who was waiting for me to faux paint her dining room. After dumping
the entire contents of my Coach purse, which seconded as a briefcase, I
discovered the phone was not in residence. I must have left it in Mr. Lodge's
library when I tried to call 911 and couldn’t get a signal. That meant a trip
back to his house. I still had the key, so there'd be no problem getting in. I
should have given the key to the policeman or Jake Many Horses, but it slipped
my mind. That happened to me.
I decided, as I pulled on a pair of black
slacks and olive turtleneck sweater after a steamy shower, I should tell Jake
about Mr. Lodge having the library redone to erase the memory of his wife. I
had asked him why he wanted to re-decorate the library. He said his wife had decorated
it. Now that she was gone, it reminded him of her and he wanted a change. He
didn't mention whether the memory of the wife was a good thing or a bad thing.
Zipping
along the George Washington Parkway on my way to McLean where the rich and powerful
lived and misbehaved, it struck me like a hopper of molten steel that I was
involved in a murder investigation. Goose flesh prickled on my arms, maybe even
my heart. Talk about a chilling feeling.
I didn't know much about Albert Lodge. He had
photos sitting about the library, but he hadn't talked about any of the people
in the photos. Maybe I should do some looking around on my own when I got
there. What if someone had murdered him? Maybe I should forget about getting
the cell phone. But my perverse nature made me blunder on.
As I entered the open gate to the Lodge estate,
I noticed a car parked on the side of the road in a ditch under a tree shedding
golden leaves. That car wasn't there the day before. Or was it? It was a rust
bucket that looked like something an illegal alien would drive, way out of
place in this neighborhood. I stopped, whipped out my daily planner and made a note
under today's date of the license plate number, color and model. We detectives
had to keep track of clues. I'd tell Jake about it.
I swung up the circular drive in my racy Acura
Legend and parked in front. The place looked English country estate with lots
of red brick and two stories of multi-pane windows. The carved entrance door
was recessed into an arched portico with wide entrance steps. The sky was still
overcast with leaden clouds lumbering by on a serious northwest wind. At least
the rain had stopped. I pulled the collar of my suede jacket up around my neck,
boldly strode to the door like I lived there, and commenced to wrestle with the
lock.
I was starting to feel maybe this wasn't such a
good idea. I kept looking around like I was expecting someone to come up to me
and say “Hey, what do you think you're doing?” Finally, the door clicked open
after I had jiggled the key at least a million different directions.
The foyer had an odd pungent smell. Maybe it
was the pipe tobacco Albert Lodge favored. He had stroked and stoked his pipe
in an orgasmic ritual Saturday morning when I had come to talk over what he
wanted done and quote him a price. He had not flinched at the ball park number
I tossed out. Good omen for us interior designers. Too bad the guy had to up
and die.
My high heel boots clicked on the marble
floors, echoing in the stillness. The drawing room was to the left, the library
to the right. I headed for the library and stopped at the entrance a little
apprehensive about what I might find. I peered around but detected no dead body
or other undesirables. All was still, which gave me the willies. I hurried to
look for the cell phone. A huge couch stood where Mr. Lodge had fallen. I went
around the space like stepping on the spot would be sacrilegious. I ran my hand
along the couch seams and cushions, thinking the phone might have dropped
there.
