Rubout (31 page)

I hoped this would be a useful visit. I wanted to find out more about Hudson’s missing fifteen minutes and her grandson’s drug buy. I wanted her to tell me how Hudson wound up with a trunk full of oil. I wanted to know what Hudson Senior and Junior were doing last night, and if it included trashing my car.

The Vander Venter mansion was still impressive. So was Elizabeth. But she seemed different. She
caught me off guard when she answered the door herself. The woman had definitely defrosted. In fact, she was almost human. “Come in, come in,” she said. “I admire your column so much. When I had an opportunity to invite you again, I just had to take it.”

She did? What caused the big change?

“When I told my friends that Francesca Vierling was in my home, they were so impressed.” Ah. That explained it. She wanted to impress her friends by hobnobbing with a local celebrity.

“And they heard how you solved those other murders. Fascinating.”

“I didn’t solve anything,” I said. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“You South Siders are so modest,” she said, taking my coat and steering me out of the hall. “I want to ask you all about your detecting methods. But first, let me get the tea. It’s Cordelia’s day off, so you’re stuck with me.”

“Can I help?” I said, then realized the proper thing to say was “May I help?”

“No, no, you make yourself comfortable in the living room,” she said. “Too many cooks, you know. I’ll be right out.” I heard a teakettle whistle, and then a few minutes later, she returned. She brought out a huge silver tray loaded with a silver teapot, a plate of crustless cress sandwiches, cream and sugar, and fragile porcelain cups. She carried it all into the living room without spilling a drop. The grossly ornamented silver was covered with flowers, fruit, and scrolls.

“That’s an amazing silver service,” I said. It was, too. It looked like it had a disease.

“Early nineteenth century,” she said. “From my husbands family. Philadelphia silver in the French style.”

She had wrists an Uncle Bob’s waitress would envy. For an older woman, Elizabeth was certainly strong. Once again I thought how we underestimate older women. Some of the ones in that exercise class could lift twice the weight I could. Queen Elizabeth poured the smoky-tasting Lapsang souchong tea and chatted about her garden. She was considering a shade garden near the pool. She was fond of caladiums, but they were so difficult to find. I tried to steer the talk to the night of Sydney’s murder, but it was hard to lead the conversation back to her bludgeoned daughter-in-law when Elizabeth was rattling on about herbaceous borders.

“I’m thinking of putting in an orchid greenhouse and I want my son to help me with the plans, but he’s so busy these days,” she said.

Ah hah! Here was the opening. Maybe I could find out what his alibi was for last night, when Ralph was being pounded into rubble. “He does seem to have many important dinners and events,” I said. “I know he was at the big cigar smokers’ dinner. My friends say it was a huge success.” Of course, his wife’s murder might have put a damper on his evening, or maybe not. Elizabeth said nothing.

“Our paths seem to cross a lot,” I said. Unless I jumped out of the way.

“Wasn’t your son at some other major event just last night? I can’t remember the name.” Because I don’t know it. I was just fishing. But I’d finally hooked the old trout.
She said, “Oh, yes. He was at the Bar Association dinner last night.”

Must have gone with his lawyer love, Brenda, I thought.

“Where was that?” I said.

“At Windows on Washington in downtown St. Louis,” she said. “They’ve renovated the old International Shoe Company building on Washington Avenue, and they now hold dinners and other events there. Hudson told me the views from the upper windows are magnificent, but I don’t approve of him going downtown. It’s so dangerous. He assured me that the area is secure. He must have had a super time because he stayed until two o’clock in the morning, and Hudson is not a late-night person.”

“You were with him last night?” I said, wondering how she knew when he left the event.

“Certainly not,” Elizabeth said a trifle sharply. “I haven’t been in the city since the Women’s Exchange moved out of the Central West End. If the city isn’t safe for them, it’s no place for me. My son called me to talk about the evening. He often calls in the morning.” I could hear the maternal pride in that last sentence. If she kept it up, I might actually come to like Queen Elizabeth. I’d like her even better if she gave me another important piece of information. Windows on Washington was not far from my place. If her son left there at two o’clock, he was less than twenty minutes away from my apartment. He could have easily been bashing Ralph’s windshield by the time Mrs. Indelicato woke up and heard glass breaking at two-thirty. Maybe he had Brenda with him, and they made wrecking Ralph their shared delight.
Maybe they went there in her car, and that’s why no one in my neighborhood saw Hudson’s large and luxurious vehicle. Now I knew the senior Hudson Vander Venter was definitely a possibility. I wanted to find out about the junior one.

“Windows on Washington is just as safe as my neighborhood, near Tower Grove Park,” I said. “I think I’ve seen your grandson in the coffeehouses on South Grand.”

“Recently?” she said sharply. “Did you see him there this week?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m sure it was some weeks before that.” I hadn’t seen the kid there ever. I’d been trying to find out if he hung around in my neighborhood, because the cops caught him buying drugs nearby. Lots of twenty-somethings went to the South Grand area, for the restaurants, offbeat shops, and coffeehouses. There was even a body-piercing parlor.

Elizabeth relaxed a bit and smiled. “I don’t want my grandson in that area. I know it’s bohemian and you enjoy it, Francesca, but it’s not a proper environment for my grandson. He needs to be with his own kind. South Grand is not safe. There are young people there who use drugs. I don’t want him with drug users.”

It would be hard to keep the kid away from himself, I thought. He was one of the drug users blighting my neighborhood. I wished the kids with too much money would stay in the burbs, where they belonged.

“Can I tell you something in confidence?” she asked, patting my hand. “I’m paying him an allowanee
to stay away from that neighborhood. I hope you won’t tell his father. I thought the money was a bargain if it would keep him away out of an unsuitable area.”

I wondered if the crafty kid took her money and went there, anyway, but I didn’t think about that for long. Elizabeth had given me the opening I needed.

“Speaking of bargains,” I said. “I hear you are the ultimate bargain hunter. One of my friends spotted you at the Discount Barn, of all places. She said you scored quite a bit of motor oil.”

“Your friend is mistaken,” she said tartly.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “You’re a very striking person.”

“I said she is mistaken,” she said, giving me a glare like I hadn’t seen since Sister Fulgencia Joseph nailed me for talking in class. Then she rearranged her face into something that resembled a smile. “Not that it makes any difference if she did. But it’s easy to be mistaken. One old woman looks like another.”

Bingo. I’d definitely hit a nerve. Maybe I should probe a little more and find out why. “No, no, she was sure it was you. She recognized your car, too.”

I smiled. She smiled. Or rather, she tried to turn her lips up. The rest of her face was frozen. She said through clenched teeth, “I . . . would . . . never . . . shop . . . there.”

“Oh, I can understand why you’d deny being there. I mean, it’s not exactly Neiman Marcus, but really, bargain hunting is an art. I admire someone who is successful at it and doesn’t confine herself to those boring luxury shops. What a bargain hunter you are. And generous, too. You must have shared some of
your bargain bounty with your son. I saw he had a good half-dozen quarts of oil in his car. Did you give them to him?”

She smiled primly. “Surely you have more important things to worry about than where I shop?” She reached out and grabbed the teapot. Her hand trembled slightly. She squeezed the silver handle so hard I thought she was going to bend it into a new shape.

“Will you have more tea?” she said. Every time there was a pause in the conversation, the Queen pushed more tea on me. You’d have thought her quarterly dividends depended on how much tea I drank. I’d downed four cups now, and I definitely needed a bathroom. The interrogation would have to hold. I couldn’t. Damn. Just when I was getting somewhere. Columbo didn’t have these problems. You’d think if you’d designed someone as big as me, you’d put in larger kidneys. At least make them as big as my feet. The doorbell rang as Elizabeth was in the middle of telling me “It’s upstairs and to the right. I have to answer the door. Cordelia isn’t here.”

“It’s Dudley, here to pick up your clothing donations for St. Peter’s Episcopal Church bazaar,” I heard. This Dudley had a strangely feminine voice. I tiptoed down the upstairs hall and peeked out the window, which looked down on the front of the house. Dudley was a woman. I could see the top of her blond head. I couldn’t see her face, which was too bad. She sounded interesting.

“I have these sweaters for you. They’re cashmere,” Elizabeth said, sounding as if she was giving away her firstborn. She handed out a stack.

“They’re so . . . vintage,” Dudley said tactfully.

If Elizabeth was donating items that met her usual lousy standard, those sweaters were so worn I wouldn’t use them for dust rags.

Then I heard a different tone. Dudley sounded pleasantly surprised.

“Oooh, these shoes hardly look worn,” she told Elizabeth. “They’re a sensible style. They should sell. And so will this big, black purse. It looks new.”

“It’s not my taste. But it’s been used only once,” said Elizabeth.

Suddenly I knew exactly when the purse and shoes had been used—the one night Elizabeth murdered her daughter-in-law, Sydney. She carried the drive chain in the big black purse.
She
was the old lady seen in the alley, wearing a dark coat.

I remembered what Cutup Katie had said: “A small strong person could have killed her if very angry,” and Elizabeth was strong and extremely angry. And now I knew why. Parts of my conversation with Sydney’s Chicago friend Jane floated into my mind and rearranged themselves so I saw a pattern. Jane had talked with Sydney the day she died. Sydney seemed happy. She was on the paper trail to uncover her husband’s hidden assets. She was sure she would get the money due her in the divorce. Sydney said she had a breakthrough thanks to her boyfriend, Jack. He found some papers that would change everything in the divorce. She wouldn’t tell Jane how she got them. “Don’t ask,” Sydney told her friend. After Sydney’s death, Jack had papers that he wanted to sell me. Papers with the murderer’s name, he said. Papers that he stole for Sydney. She didn’t need them now and Jack needed the money to save his Harley.
But he had a little honor. Before he used them to blackmail Sydney’s murderer, he tried to sell them to me. When I wouldn’t buy them, he sold them back to the killer. Who was that—Hudson? He was my first choice. But Jane said Hudson didn’t have “the guts to murder anyone.” Hudson would have given Sydney everything she wanted to prevent her lawyer from serving those papers on his business partners. He couldn’t take the embarrassment. Hudson wasn’t strong enough.

But Elizabeth was strong. Mentally and physically. I saw her carry in that heavy tray. Sydney was after the family money, and that hit Elizabeth where she lived—literally. The subpoenas were going to be served the next day, and Hudson would have caved in to save face with his partners. Elizabeth knew her son Hudson wouldn’t kill his wife. But Elizabeth could. Elizabeth didn’t approve of her daughter-in-law living in the city, but she used it to her advantage. She killed Sydney and made it look like a biker murder. Elizabeth’s expensive clothes would be out of place in South St. Louis. So she stole Cordelia’s coat—Cordelia told me herself that her coat was missing. It would stay missing, too. The coat was probably drenched in blood. Elizabeth was smart enough to toss it somewhere far from the scene. So why didn’t she throw out the purse and shoes, too? The answer floated up from the front door.

“I’d like a tax letter for one thousand dollars,” Elizabeth crisply told Dudley.

That was it. Greed. Elizabeth’s motive for the murder. The strong killer’s weakness. Elizabeth was so tight she squeaked. She wanted that charity deduction.
If the purse and shoes had any blood on them, Elizabeth wiped it off. I knew she was cold. Could she calmly clean off her daughter-in-law’s blood to get a tax deduction? Of course she could.

“We’d have to have them appraised,” said Dudley, who was shrewd enough to know Elizabeth’s donation wasn’t worth that much.

I didn’t listen to any more of the conversation. I felt sick. I headed for the bathroom, flipped on the light, and saw myself, pale and shaken, and greener than the old-fashioned bathroom tile. I wanted out of this house of horrors. I would grab my briefcase and leave. I’d tell Mark Mayhew everything I’d found out—if he was still speaking to me—and let him handle Elizabeth. She was too much for me. I don’t know how long I was in the bathroom, but I was still shaky when I started down the stairs.

That’s why I was clutching the stair rail tightly, and that’s what saved my life. When my foot caught on the clear plastic fishing line stretched across the third step from the top, I plunged forward but managed to hold on to the rail.

“My dear, you almost had a very nasty fall,” said Elizabeth, standing at the bottom of the steps. She guided me toward my seat by the tea tray, and I was too shaky to resist. “You could have been killed.”

“I thought you usually used bike chains,” I said.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” she said. But her eyes were colder than the winter sky.

“You killed your daughter-in-law. You killed her biker boyfriend when he tried to blackmail you. You tried to kill me because I figured it out.”

“You are distraught, Francesca. Would you like more tea?”