Home For the Homicide (A Do-It-Yourself Mystery) (20 page)

Darren came back to the church after the graveside service, to shake hands and receive condolences, but Henry and Ruth didn’t. He must have taken her back to the nursing home, I figured, while Darren did the family duty at the reception.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t at least wait until tomorrow?” Derek asked.

“If it was me,” I answered, “I’d want company today. As you said, she just buried her sister and brother and cousin. She must feel pretty alone. She might want to talk.”

“So that’s your grand plan.” He didn’t sound surprised, or even accusatory. More resigned really. “You’re hoping the grief will loosen her tongue.”

“More like, now that everyone else who could possibly be involved is dead, maybe there’s a chance she’ll want to talk about what happened.” And—not to be too callous about it—now that she was the only one left, that she might want to unburden herself before it was too late.

“It’s not your job to figure out what happened, Avery.” He pulled the truck to a stop at the curb outside Aunt Inga’s house. We’d driven it to the funeral instead of the Beetle because of the color: The Beetle is a bright spring green, while Derek’s F-150 is somber black. It seemed more appropriate somehow. “Leave it to the cops.”

“The cops aren’t interested,” I said, and waited for him to come around the car to help me down to the curb before I continued. “You heard what Wayne said. Or maybe you didn’t.”

“I heard.” He closed the car door behind me and took my arm on the walk up to the porch. The path was slippery with ice and snow, and I was wearing heels, in honor of the occasion. “He said the case is closed.”

“I’d like to know what happened,” I said. “Even if whoever did it—whatever it was—is dead, I’d still like to know. That baby didn’t get into the attic on its own. Someone put it there, and I want to know who and why. Even if it’s too late to charge anyone with a crime.”

Derek watched me fumble in my bag for the key to the front door. “Don’t you think Ruth has had a bad enough day without bringing up that old tragedy? Asking her whether she thinks her mother or her father was a murderer, and who her mother was cheating with . . .”

“I wasn’t going to ask her flat out,” I said, offended, dropping the key back into my purse before pushing the door open. “I just thought she might want to talk rather than sit alone and grieve.”

“Sure.” Derek waited for me to walk into the house first. Mischa had pretty much stopped attacking him on sight, but this way, I was the one who had to stop and stand still while the kitten—who wasn’t so much of a kitten anymore—spent a few minutes winding around my legs and complaining loudly about having been left alone. While I did that, Derek walked past me into the house and toward the stairs. “I’ll see you upstairs.”

I watched him disappear onto the second floor, and then I gave Mischa another minute or so of time, before peeling off the high-heeled boots and coat and leaving them in the foyer. Then I followed Derek up the stairs.

He had already changed into a pair of jeans and a snug T-shirt, and it was just as well, because we didn’t really have time to indulge in any whoopie.

I gave my husband a regretful glance—one he didn’t notice, because he had his back to me—and went to the bureau. A minute later I was dressed, too. “Ready.”

“Let’s go,” Derek said. “We can still get a few hours’ work done this afternoon.”

I nodded and followed him down the stairs.

Over at the house, he went back to work on the downstairs bathroom. The ribbon tile on the floor looked great by now, but the bathroom had been built before the days of indoor showers, so there was no tile surround for the tub. And since someone at some point had added a showerhead to the tub, and finished the job off by gluing up a couple sheets of adhesive plastic wall, there was some work to be done. We had torn off the shower walls last week, while we were ripping out everything else that had to go, and all that was left was snaking stripes of dried glue on the walls. Derek had also unhooked the ugly showerhead, preparatory to replacing it with a new, much bigger and fancier one. Now it was time to start adding white subway tile to shoulder height, capped by a black border all the way around.

I left him to it and went into the dining room to hang my lampshade over the missing table. Derek had actually been pretty impressed with it, and assured me it didn’t look anywhere near as amateurish as I thought. He had talked me into hanging it, just to see how it looked, and after struggling with the ladder and wires for thirty minutes, I finally got it up there and could step back and take a look. After turning the power to the dining room back on in the electrical panel, I flipped the switch and tilted my head.

“Derek?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Can you come here a sec?”

A few moments passed, and then he came wandering into the dining room, wiping his hands. “What’s going on?”

I gestured to the lamp, all lit up and hanging.

“Oh.” He tilted his head and contemplated it. “I like it,” he said after a pause.

I glanced at him. “Really?”

“Sure.” He glanced back. “What’s not to like? It’s a good size for the room. And while it isn’t overly fancy, it looks very Craftsman-like. Tiffany did a lot of curved and colorful shades, but the Craftsman style is like this: square and simple. Like the furniture.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “I promise. Leave it. It looks good.”

He wandered back to the bathroom, leaving me happy and glowing. The lamp did look good. Or at least it didn’t look bad. Now that I’d gotten it away from Dab’s workshop, where I couldn’t see it clearly next to the works of art she created, I was able to see it on its own merits and not just in comparison to hers. And Derek was right: The lamp I had made fit the room. It was a good size. And it looked better than I had thought it did.

I put the ladder away and walked into the living room to contemplate the fireplace. The other day, I’d seen a Craftsman-style sconce at the Silvas’ house. Henrietta had told me it was original to the house; and remembering Henrietta made me feel bad, so I focused on the memory of the sconce instead. I had thought at the time that something like it might look good above the fireplace.

The fireplace was stone, pale gray, with a big slab of the same material making up the mantel. Unlike in my aunt Inga’s house—or Kate’s house, or Cora’s house—there was no mirror above the mantel. The Victorians had fireplaces built of polished wood, often with tile surrounds and hearths, but during the Craftsman era, the fireplaces became bigger and more rustic, and they stopped with the mantel. There was nothing above but unbroken plaster wall, about five feet wide and almost as tall. On either side of the fireplace was an inglenook with a little casement window.

Two sconces would look wonderful on the wall above the fireplace. That would mean drilling into the brick of the chimney, though: both difficult and not too smart. Electrical wires and fires aren’t a good combination.

I made my way over to the bathroom and stopped in the doorway. “Is it possible to use solar-powered lights indoors?”

Derek glanced over his shoulder at me. He was sitting on the edge of the tub with his feet inside. “Sure. As long as they soak up enough sunlight to work.”

“How would you feel about mounting two solar lights above the fireplace? We can’t very well drill into the chimney and string wires.”

“No,” Derek said, “that wouldn’t be a good idea at all.”

“That’s why I thought solar lights might work. I’ve seen some that look like little lanterns. Very Arts and Crafts.”

Derek wrinkled his nose, and I added, “Or not. Maybe lanterns wouldn’t look good inside. I could take the mounts and make my own shades. Maybe out of Mason jars.”

“Mason jars?”

“Canning jars. The kind you put jam in. You know what they look like.”

Derek nodded. “I just can’t imagine them as lampshades.”

“I saw it in a DIY magazine once. It’s just a matter of cutting and filing and painting and hanging. Now that I’ve learned how to cut glass, I’m sure I can manage.”

“Sure,” Derek said. “What do you need?”

“Mason jars. Glass cutter. File. Paint. And some sort of light to attach the jars to once they’re done. And a way to mount them.”

“We cleared a bunch of Mason jars out of the basement, I think,” Derek said. “We have files in the toolbox. You should be able to get a glass cutter and paint at the hardware store. Maybe solar lights, too. We can stop by on our way home.”

“I can go now.”

Derek arched his brows. “Looking for an excuse to go see Ruth Green?”

I shook my head. I wasn’t actually. It was too soon after the funeral. I had figured on going over there around dinnertime. “I’ll just go to the hardware store and back.”

“Fine,” Derek said. “Drive carefully.”

I promised I would, and headed out into the afternoon sunlight. The hardware store on Main Street was a half-dozen blocks away, and in easy walking distance, but I took the truck anyway, to save time. If I stayed gone too long, he’d accuse me of sneaking off to interrogate Ruth, and I didn’t need that.

It was a matter of four minutes to drive to Main Street and park in the lot behind the store, and another five before I was back out again, with my glass cutter, my can of frosted finish, and two wall-mount solar-powered lanterns with boring shades. Oh, and a bottle of cutting oil I was told I needed for the filing. I was on my way back to the truck with my bags when I heard my name and stopped.

And immediately wished I hadn’t. But by then I had no choice but to wait while Melissa James crossed the street, on knee-high suede boots just a few shades darker than her trademark off-white, and with a sapphire blue coat flapping around her calves.

Derek’s ex-wife is gorgeous. Taller than me, with moonlight blond hair in a sleek cap around her face—while mine is the color of Mello Yello and frizzy—and with eyes so blue they’re almost violet (while mine are a washed-out chlorinated aqua).

“Melissa.”

I made no attempt to hide my lack of enthusiasm, and I’m sure she noticed, although she didn’t let on. “Avery. Good to see you.”

Sure. “You, too,” I said.

“How’s Derek?”

I chewed on my tongue for a moment while I debated the urge to say, “Married.” But at the last minute, kindness got the better of me. I’d gotten a glimpse of what I wanted to believe was the real Melissa at my wedding two months ago, and the real Melissa had looked at my husband like she had just lost him all over again. Which she had, of course. While he’d been dating me, at least there’d been the chance that we’d get sick of each other and break up. Now that possibility was off the table. Forever, I hoped. So I bit back the word and resigned myself to being nice instead. “Fine. Working.”

She brightened. “Are the two of you renovating something new?”

Did I happen to mention that Melissa is a real estate agent? I had actively resisted using her to sell our renovations during the first year I lived in Waterfield, but when our usual Realtor, Irina Rozhdestvensky, got married and moved to Florida, Melissa had talked Derek into letting her list the center-chimney Colonial on Rowanberry Island. We’d been stuck with her ever since.

“The Green sisters’ house on North Street,” I said.

“The big Craftsman bungalow?” She looked delighted.

“I’m sure you won’t want to list it,” I said, “now that you’re living in Portland.”

She looked down at me. “Portland’s only forty-five minutes away, Avery.”

Right. “So what are you doing in Waterfield? Slumming?”

She smiled. “Hardly. Just settling some business with Waterfield Realty. I was on my way there when I saw you.”

“Don’t let me keep you.”

“I have a little time.”

Of course she did. I was just about to say that I didn’t when she added, “How did the Christmas Home Tour go?”

“Very well,” I said, “although we missed you.” Not personally, of course, but I couldn’t resist a little jab at how she’d left us high and dry with too little time to prepare.

But either she didn’t notice or she chose to ignore me, because she just smiled. “I knew Kate could handle it.”

“She did. Very well. The only damper on the day was Henrietta Parker.”

Melissa’s perfect blond brows drew together. “What happened to Henrietta Parker?”

“Didn’t you hear? The stress was too much for her. She had a heart attack and died. We buried her this morning, along with her cousin Mamie, who died last week.”

“Oh, dear,” Melissa said.

“Did you know Henrietta?”

She shook her head. “Not well, no. But I know her nephew.”

“Darren.”

She nodded. I wanted to ask whether they’d dated—he was the type she liked, or the type she seemed to have preferred after things didn’t work out with Derek. Tall, dark, handsome, and rich, not to mention arrogant. Like Tony Micelli and my cousin Ray Stenham.

But then I didn’t have to, because she volunteered the information. “We went out a couple of times after Ray . . . you know.”

I did know. “Didn’t you like him? Darren?”

“It wasn’t that I didn’t like him,” Melissa said. “What’s not to like? He’s handsome, successful, well off . . .”