Tickled to Death (11 page)

“Unless we encounter a drug addict.”

Luanne nibbled her lip and pretended to recall the moment. “I’m pretty sure it was the back door. Whoever was inside heard me drive up in front, panicked, and left. He’s probably halfway down here by now.”

I ignored the sharp edge of the sink and shook my head resolutely. If I’d had the feather duster, I would have shaken it, too. “I am not going into a house that might have an inmate in a closet. If you heard someone, you should call the police.”

“Maybe I just thought I heard a door close. It was just a tiny sound that could have come from a squirrel on the roof—or even more likely, a bird flying into a window. They do that all the time at the lake. Jillian told me that Becca used to put them in a basket and carry them to tall weeds so they could recover without being attacked. I tried once, but the bird glared at me as if it fully intended to peck me in the eye. I left it for the cats.”

“If you heard a bird, then you don’t need me to
hold your hand,” I said, making the logical leap despite the fact I was cornered by a lovesick—and consequently demented—woman. “You can’t have it both ways, Luanne. I’m not going to Dick’s house to nurse a cross-eyed bird, and I’m not going there to startle a drug addict with an automatic weapon and a bad attitude. Call the police, or call the Humane Society.”

“Okay, I didn’t want to have to say this, because I may be wrong and I don’t want to get an innocent party in trouble. When I was backing over the azaleas in my haste to leave, I thought I saw Anders Hammerqvist drive by. He could have been coming from a side street alongside the house. Can you think of a reason why he would have been in the house?”

“No,” I said, but suddenly it seemed intriguing to see if we could discover one. “I’ll take my car and follow you.”

Dick Cissel’s lake house was large and gracious, but his town house was indeed a mansion. Luanne had implied it was a towering Gothic structure, but it was a pseudo-Tudor tucked among pseudo-Early Americans, pseudo-Victorians, and a disturbing number of pseudo-Italian villas. The foreign cars and limousines were genuine, as were the riding lawn mowers driven by olive-skinned yardmen. Their trucks and vans were the only blemishes in this otherwise impeccable setting. Those and the flattened azaleas beside the driveway, that is.

Luanne had the key in her hand as I joined her on the stoop. “I borrowed Dick’s,” she said as she unlocked the door and stepped back to allow me to walk into the loving embrace of a cocaine-crazed psychopath.

The marble-floored foyer was larger than my entire apartment. Mail was piled in a basket on a mahogany table beneath a mirror. I left Luanne sorting through it and ventured into a living room of overwhelming formality. I dismissed the very concept of guests sitting on the straight-backed chairs or the delicate sofas and love seats.

I continued into the next room and gaped at the dining-room table, which could accommodate two dozen diners. The centerpiece of silk flowers was nearly high enough to brush a chandelier that would wipe out all the diners if it fell at a judicious moment. There were many mirrors; guests of both sexes could pause every few feet to compliment themselves on the success of their packaging.

In the kitchen, also larger than my apartment, I found a coffee cup in the sink and several plates in the dishwasher. This was to be expected, since Dick stayed in town during the week. Having committed myself to a full-blooded prowl, I opened the refrigerator. Among the trendier products I saw a pizza box, confirming that the wealthy also had their moments when junk food appealed more than caviar. The pizza itself, mundane pep
peroni rather than artichoke hearts and smoked salmon, appeared fairly fresh. Jillian must have ordered it Saturday evening, I thought as I roamed through the remaining downstairs rooms and returned to the foyer.

“No killers on this floor,” I said brightly. “The back door and all the French doors are locked.”

Luanne looked up with watery eyes. “These are magazines for Becca. I guess Dick didn’t think to cancel the subscriptions—or couldn’t bring himself to do it.”

“Is there any personal mail addressed to her?”

“No, just
Town & Country
and
Vanity Fair.
Shall we check the upstairs before we go?”

We began at the top of the stairs. Jillian’s bedroom was as prim as a convent cell (although much vaster), and the adjoining bathroom was sterile. The master suite, now occupied by only the master, had begun a gradual transition to a more masculine ambience. The walls were still peach and the drapes lined with sheers, but socks hung out of half-opened drawers, soiled shirts were piled in a corner, and the bed, a king-sized affair with built-in reading lights and dainty bedside tables, was sloppily made, as if done as an afterthought.

“This was Becca’s dressing room,” Luanne said without enthusiasm as she opened a door. Inside was a lavishly equipped bathroom, complete with bidet and color-coordinated hair dryer
and telephone. In an alcove, a marble Jacuzzi glinted in sunshine that streamed through the skylight above it. The numerous plants looked as though they’d at one time thrived, but now some of them needed attention and a few hearty words of encouragement.

The closet was immense and as tightly or ganized as a NASA control room, Rods sagged from the weight of innumerable dresses, skirts, jackets, and blouses, and at one end were three full-length fur coats. Special racks had been constructed to hold every imaginable style and color of shoe, from bright sandals to dainty satin slippers. On shelves were round hatboxes, purses, plastic covers for folded sweaters, and neatly furled umbrellas should the weather dare threaten a silken shoulder or linen cuff. The very concept of one person possessing all of this was staggering; I’d been in department stores with a less extensive inventory.

Luanne nudged me out of my stupor, and as we returned to the hallway, said, “Jillian promised Dick that she’d pack up everything and send it to the Salvation Army thrift shop, but she keeps putting it off.”

“I can’t imagine why,” I said as I followed Luanne into an office with a large desk, bookshelves, and a filing cabinet. It was all very gentlemanly, with heavy brass embellishments, cumbersome leather chairs, and paintings of ships in storm-tossed seas.

I realized Luanne was staring at something hidden by the open door and moved beside her. Centered on the wall was a large oil painting of a blond woman dressed in a shimmery blue gown. Her hair was swept back with diamond barrettes, and around her neck was a diamond-and-sapphire necklace. Her full lips curled enigmatically, and her eyes were dreamy. Her cheeks glowed with a maidenly blush. Her long, slender fingers held a single flower.

“Am I allowed three guesses?” I asked.

“She really was beautiful, wasn’t she?” Luanne murmured as she sat down behind the desk and straightened a few papers. “Not only beautiful, but kind and generous and compassionate. No wonder Dick was so besotted.”

I studied the portrait for a clue to Becca’s true character, but found myself mesmerized by her fragile beauty and precariously close to returning her smile. I turned my back on her. “Why is the portrait in here? I’d have expected to find it in the living room above the fireplace.”

“Dick wanted to hang it there, but Becca insisted that it be in here. She initially refused to pose or even meet the artist, and he had to threaten to have it done from a photograph if she wouldn’t cooperate. Hanging it here was a compromise. According to him, she was actually very shy and insecure, which is why she preferred to listen to other people rather than talk about herself.”

“Give me a break,” I said ungraciously, then went back downstairs and into the living room to envision the portrait above the fireplace. Perhaps Becca had declined to allow it to be hung there because it would clash with the decor, I decided without much interest as I inspected all the windows to see that they were locked. I did the same with the ones in the dining room, then reentered the kitchen and continued my mission.

As I passed by the sink, I glanced at the coffee cup. From this perspective I could see a tiny line of color on the rim. There was only a trace of what appeared to be lipstick, but I was afraid to touch it and inadvertently wipe it away. I replaced the cup and turned my attention to the coffeemaker. The glass pot had been rinsed and left inverted to dry on the counter, but the circular plate on the coffeemaker was warm.

Jillian had returned to the lake the previous afternoon. The coffeemaker should have long since cooled completely. I reexamined the pot and found a few beads of water along the aluminum band.

“Claire, I’m ready to go,” Luanne called from the foyer.

So was I, frankly. “Someone has been in the house,” I told her as I joined her. I explained about the warm coffee maker and other incriminating evidence. “Unless Jillian came back here this morning, it looks as though another woman has been here. Could it have been a housekeeper?”

“I called Jillian earlier and she said she spent the morning at the foundation office. The housekeeper might have taken advantage of an empty house to indulge in a coffee break, but she would have tidied up the bedrooms and put her cup in the dishwasher.” She ran her finger across the surface of the mahogany table. “And dusted. Anyway, she’s away for the summer to visit relatives.”

“There were no signs that someone broke into the house. Does anyone else have a key?”

“I don’t think so,” Luanne said as she sat on the bottom step and let the mail fall to the marble floor. “While I was sitting at Dick’s desk, I thought I smelled cigarette smoke. Neither he nor Jillian smokes, so I assumed I’d imagined it.”

The only person I’d seen smoking at Turnstone Lake was Captain Gannet; if he’d wanted inside the house, he would have gotten a search warrant. One of the women could be a secret smoker, but I could think of no reason why she might feel compelled to hide her habit by somehow sneaking into Dick’s house.

Another thought occurred. “I’m surprised there’s no security system in the house. If I were a burglar, I’d case this neighborhood at least once a week.”

Luanne gave me a startled look. “I forgot all about it. The box is just inside the coat closet. There are motion detectors in every room, and if
the code’s not punched in within thirty seconds, the security company dispatches armed officers.”

“I don’t hear any sirens.”

“They don’t have sirens, but they come roaring up in less than five minutes. Last week Dick and I came home from a dinner that included two bottles of wine and a cognac. Dick kept punching in the wrong sequence, and we were giggling when two husky men pounded on the door. They did not giggle.” She opened the closet door and pointed at a black box that resembled a calculator. “The red light isn’t blinking. Someone turned it off.”

“Maybe Jillian forgot to reset it when she left yesterday,” I said.

“Maybe.” Luanne closed the closet door and picked up the scattered letters. “This place is giving me the creeps. I’m beginning to feel as if your burglar is still in the house, crouched in the attic or hiding under a bed. Are you ready to go?”

We both made sure the front door was locked, then walked to our respective cars. “One more thing,” I said. “Did you pretend to see Anders in order to lure me here?”

“The truck was red, the same shade as his. I caught a very brief glimpse of blond hair as it went past the end of the driveway. It looked like him, but I certainly wouldn’t swear to it.”

“Was he alone?”

“All I saw was the hair. He could have had the entire Supreme Court crammed in the passenger’s
side. I’m probably mistaken, anyway. There’s no reasonable explanation for him to have come into the house.”

My resolve crumbled like a stale cracker, and although I was likely to end up at the state prison, chopping cotton under the blazing sun and writing mournful letters to Peter Rosen from my rat-infested cell, I said, “Well, then, perhaps we’d better ask him.”

I devoted the next morning to business as usual, which meant I had plenty of free time to concoct reasons why Anders had been in Dick’s house. None of them were remotely plausible, I regret to say, especially ones that compelled him to wear lipstick while drinking coffee. Late in the morning Luanne called to report that a hearing to set bail was scheduled for the afternoon; Gannet’s threat to keep Dick until the end of the week had been nothing more than backwoods bluster. Sid had volunteered to attend with his checkbook. She, of course, would be sitting in the middle of the front row in the courtroom.

“Did you ask Jillian about the security system?” I asked after she’d quit chattering about Dick.

“She still sounded extremely overwrought when she called me earlier, and I was afraid to say anything she might construe as an accusation. She takes pride in being efficient and methodical. Dick says Jan was like that, too, although without
Jillian’s abrasiveness.” She hesitated, then said, “It might be better if you ask her, Claire. I’m planning a little party to celebrate Dick’s release. As soon as I get to the lake, I’ll drive down to Anders’s trailer and invite him. It’ll give you a chance to kill two birds with one stone.”

“Don’t let anyone on the Dunling Foundation board hear you say that,” I said as I contemplated the tedious drive to the lake. I’d lost too much business over the weekend to close the Book Depot one minute early, and it was vital to my accountant’s mental as well as spiritual health that I open promptly the next morning and begin snatching customers off the sidewalk. But the case had evolved into the sort that made my nose twitch. Earlier I’d bemoaned the dearth of clues. Now I had so many I was awash in puzzle pieces, none of which fit together thus far.

“I’ll see if I can persuade Caron to manage the store,” I said. “If she agrees, I’ll be there by six or so. I am coming home as soon as the birds have been stoned. If something happens to prevent it, I will carry a grudge far into the next century.”

“As long as you don’t refuse to be my matron of honor,” Luanne said smugly.

“And disappoint the next Mrs. Bluebeard?”

The dial tone buzzed in my ear. I called the apartment, but Caron did not answer. An hour later, however, she trudged in, dressed in even sloppier clothes than the previous day. Her voice was hoarse as she said, “Allison Wade was in
vited to the party. I might as well pitch a tent at Turnstone Lake and dedicate my life to sorting pamphlets and pointing at ducks. As my brain degenerates, I’ll begin to paddle around the creeks and quack at the moon.”

I struggled not to smile and made a motherly noise of sympathy before saying, “I need to leave at five. If you’ll cover for me, you can keep the profits from any books you sell until closing time.”

“Gee, then I can buy a Jaguar just like Agatha Anne’s. If I have any change, I’ll get one for Inez, too.”

“It might mean less time slogging through the swamp.”

She wandered behind the paperback fiction rack to consider the offer. Every now and then I heard a desultory quack, but she finally emerged. “Will you guarantee ten dollars an hour?”

It was a losing proposition, but I nodded and retreated to the office before she realized she could have held out for more.

I arrived at the lake house shortly after six. The parking area was so jammed that I was obliged to park partway up the driveway, and I could hear laughter and music from the deck while I crunched my way to the house. “Hail, hail,” I muttered as I went inside and found Luanne in the kitchen. She was not wearing an apron, but there was a smudge of flour on her chin and a potholder in her hand.

“Good, you made it,” she said.

This seemed self-evident, so I ignored it. “May I assume Dick was released on bail?”

“The county prosecutor argued against it because of the gravity of the crimes. The lawyer kept harping on Dick’s pristine past, his ties to the community, and his need to keep open the practice so that children can face the future with well-aligned little smiles. They finally settled on a hundred thousand. Sid cut a deal with a bail bondsman. The whole thing didn’t last half an hour.” She took an aluminum tray of bubbly little bundles from the oven and managed to set it on the stove without incident. “No, I didn’t make these,” she said in response to my cynical expression. “They were in a bag in the freezer. Jillian made them last week in case we had people by for drinks.”

“Is she doing better?”

Luanne began to rummage through a cabinet stocked with silver and china platters. “I thought she’d be relieved once Dick was free, but she walked right past him, not saying a word, and drove away in her own car. That was at about four o’clock, and she hasn’t been seen since then.”

“That is odd,” I said as I watched her transfer the canapés to a more suitable serving dish. “She was very protective of him the first time I was here. Why would she give him what amounts to a cold shoulder? Are you sure she doesn’t think he’s guilty?”

“When Gannet told her he’d arrested her father, she kept insisting between sobs and hiccups that he couldn’t have killed Becca. I wanted to talk to her about it later, but she refused to unlock her door. Yesterday morning when I called to check on her, she hung up on me when I brought it up. She sat by herself at the hearing.”

“Where was she at the time of Becca’s accident?”

“I don’t remember anybody mentioning where she was. I know Agatha Anne and Georgiana were at Anders’s trailer earlier that afternoon. Dick was in town, as was Sid. I have no idea about anyone else.”

“Do you think Jillian blew up the boat?” Dick asked as he came into the kitchen. He spoke pleasantly, but his eyes were definitely not smiling. “I don’t recall that her college offered any undergraduate classes in explosives.”

It did not seem the right moment to ask about ones in electronics. “No,” I said. “I was just trying to get a clear picture of the day. I’m sure Jillian was doing whatever she ordinarily did.”

“A clear picture of the day?” he said as he picked up a canapé, then let it drop like a tiny bomb. “Then you don’t think it was an accident any more than Gannet does. Am I your leading suspect, too?”

“You’re patently Gannet’s,” I said, sidestepping the question. “He has a substantive case
against you. If I’m going to try to disprove it, I need to know the truth. You’ve been lying to Gannet—and to everyone else, including me.”

Luanne was too aghast to speak. Dick took a half-empty bottle of wine from the refrigerator and two glasses from a cabinet, then gestured at me to follow him. I tried to smile reassuringly at her as we left the room, but she turned her back and began to attack the canapés with ill-disguised fury.

We went out the front door. He set the glasses on the hood of the Jaguar and wiggled out the cork. “I’ve been lying to Gannet,” he said as he handed me a glass. “And to everyone else, including not only you but also perhaps myself. But I had nothing to do with the accident—or whatever it was—that killed Becca.”

I regarded him over the rim of the wineglass. “Then let’s talk about your story. You and Becca had an argument at a party at Dunling Lodge. What was it about?”

“Her spending. Some bills came to the office that day, but by the time I got here, we were already late for the party. It wasn’t the best time to bring it up, but I had one drink too many and lost my temper.”

“That doesn’t play,” I said, managing to sip wine and shake my head at the same time (my talents are boundless). “She applied for her Visa card in the hospital nursery, and she probably didn’t miss a day of shopping the entire time you
were married. What had she bought that made you so angry you had a public row? A yacht? A fur coat? A small country?”

“I don’t remember. Some jewelry, maybe.”

“Are you sure you weren’t angry at her because you’d discovered she was having an affair with Anders?”

“We were happily married. I was in love with her and gave her whatever she wanted. Why would she have an affair with anyone?”

“I have no idea, Dick. I never went in for that kind of behavior when I was married, so I don’t know what motivates so-called happily married spouses to risk everything for an illicit romp.” I waited for a moment in case he had any suggestions, then continued. “Here’s an idea. What if you pretended to be enraged by the bill so that you could make it known loudly that you were driving back to Farberville. That explains why you were parked on the hill above the marina after the party. Gannet thinks you were tampering with the propane tank, but I think you were watching the Dunling Foundation boat. How am I doing?”

He lifted his glass in a mock toast. “You’re doing well.”

“Of course I am. But why would Becca risk meeting someone at the marina?” I thought it over for a minute. “She couldn’t invite Anders to your house because Jillian was there, and perhaps they felt it was risky for her car to be parked at the
trailer that late. She probably thought the boat was safe, as long as they didn’t disturb Bubo.”

“You’re good,” he said with what I presumed was more sincere admiration. “Very good. Actually, I drove past Anders’s trailer, but his truck was gone. Gannet’s mystery witness saw my Rover on the hill, but failed to see Becca’s convertible and Anders’s truck parked farther down the road where it comes to a dead end. But I can’t admit to him that I was there—unless I explain why. As long as I insist that Becca and I  were veritable turtledoves, I have no motive to have killed her. Gannet comes from a neck of the woods where adultery used to be grounds for justifiable homicide; a few generations back, no doubt some branches were pruned off his family tree in that manner.” He sat on the fender and rubbed his temples with his free hand. “I intended to divorce Becca, that’s all. The next afternoon I called her to tell her so, but she wasn’t there.”

“Gannet said he’d found a call on your long-distance bill. If no one was home…?”

“I left a message on the machine, telling her my intentions. When I arrived at the house, the light was still blinking. I was rewinding the tape when the deputy arrived at the front door.”

“Did you tell this to Gannet?”

“A version of it, but he refused to believe I erased an innocuous message about the grocery list. I certainly didn’t tell him that I’d just threat
ened to divorce my wife because she was having yet another affair.”

I hadn’t gotten that far in my theorizing. “Another affair?” I said.

Dick sagged to the point I was afraid he would slide off the fender onto the rocks. He hooked a heel on the bumper at the last second. “I’m going to tell you something that no one else knows—except the guilty party. You’ve heard Georgiana wailing about Barry’s unidentified mistress? I’m almost positive it was Becca. I can’t tell you when or why I began to wonder, but there was something different about her—and some ill-defined sense of intimacy between the two when they were in the same room. When I dropped heavy hints, she tearfully denied it and accused me of irrational jealousy, Barry took off for Key West the next week, so I let the matter rest.” He shoved back his hair and gave me a pained look. “I wondered if I was paranoid, to be honest. Our sex life improved, if anything. She was still the gracious hostess and tireless worker. She made a conscientious effort to be friends with Jillian, who can be difficult at times. She was…”

“Perfect?”

“Yeah, perfect,” he said bitterly.

“What do you know about her background? Did she grow up in Miami? Is her family there? What was her maiden name?”

“Henridge was her maiden name, or at least the one she was using when I first met her. She
grew up in one of the suburban towns in southern Florida, and her parents both died while she was in high school. There were no grandparents or siblings. She said she’d lost touch with her few remaining relatives. She always spoke of them with a hint of contempt in her voice. I don’t think she was too upset about it.”

“What about her personal papers, like a passport or social security card?”

“Becca didn’t even have a driver’s license when I married her. She was carrying everything in her purse when she was mugged; she’d just emptied her safe deposit box at the bank because she was moving out of the state. I suggested she write for a copy of her birth certificate in order to get a passport, but she said she didn’t want to go anyplace farther than here, where the only things she had to watch out for were birds and butterflies. She used to laugh about being mugged, but she was still deeply upset.”

“Listen, Dick,” I said earnestly, “we need to find out about Becca’s past. Call a private investigation agency in Miami and have them dig up as much as they can. They need to find out where she went to school and where she worked afterward. Ask Marilyn Gordon for the precise date she met Becca at the airport, then have the investigators check back issues of the newspapers for details of the mugging. If there’s a mention of the hospital, they can confirm the dates she was there.”

“She’s dead. What difference does any of that make? What matters now is for me to prove my innocence. Does it matter if Becca was a homecoming queen fifteen years ago or how badly she was beaten when she was mugged?”

“It might.”

“Someone from her past killed her?”

Despite his skepticism, he deserved a straight answer. “I truly don’t know, Dick.” I slid off the fender and went inside. Out on the deck, Luanne was passing around the canapés to familiar faces. The Dunlings sat like royalty on the settee, while Georgiana and Agatha Anne were perched on the rail. Sid had cornered Anders and appeared to be demonstrating his golf swing. I eased into the party, exchanging greetings and waiting for the opportunity to have a private chat with Anders.

Livia beckoned to me. “Isn’t it thrilling?”

“It certainly is,” I said, glancing at her husband in hopes he would elaborate on the source of our mutual thrills. In response, he stood up and went to the bar.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Livia, watching him. “He’s so very preoccupied these days. I really must think of a way to rid the yard of that nasty groundhog. Not only do the gunshots alarm me, they positively terrify whatever hikers are within earshot. Just this morning, a group in a van turned around in the parking lot and roared away without so much as taking a single step down the Mallard Trail. We’ll have an enormous crowd this
weekend, naturally, and it will be chaos should Wharton break his promise and bring out his shotgun.”