Murders of a Feather, page 12
“I’ll water the plants,” I told Cindy, taking in the spare decorating in what looked like a midcentury modern style. Gramps took me to an exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC that highlighted furniture from that period. Babs’s sofa was a sort of purple-blue velvet and low-slung. An unusual six-foot-long coffee table with a lattice-pattern drawer was placed directly in front of it.
I carefully picked up the plants and moved them to the kitchen sink. “We can touch everything, right?” No way I wanted the police chief mad at me.
Cindy disappeared down the hallway. “Forensics has come and gone,” she called out to me. “I’m checking her office.”
Automatically, I removed the dead leaves from the geranium and carefully watered the purple African violet blooming happily in a small pot. The flowers on the geranium were beginning to fade. It had been lipstick red, a popular color that my own mom kept in a bumped-out garden window behind the sink. One of my chores when I was a kid was taking care of the plants.
I remember after my mom died, I brought her geranium into my room. It didn’t like the change of light, despite my attention to it. After spending the weekend with Gramps, I returned to find our housekeeper had thrown it out.
The bright blooms weren’t the only spots of color in Babs’s house. Vivid orange throw pillows graced the two swivel chairs in front of the sofa. A sleek flat-screen television hung on the wall, while a door opened on to a bluestone courtyard. At the far end of the room, a fireplace loomed, built when fireplaces provided the only source of heat. This gatekeeper’s cottage had been renovated with care, many of the original details kept intact. I found this mix of rough stone and modern furnishing pleasing, very minimalistic. It fit Babs in a way.
Cindy came around the corner as I placed the plants in the sink to drain.
“Do you want these plants?” I asked. “If not, I’ll take them.”
“Go ahead. I’ve got too many houseplants as it is.”
“Find anything interesting?” I asked her. As soon as the plants finished draining, I’d pack them up for the quick trip home.
“I’m not sure,” Cindy said in a distracted tone. She entered a note into her phone. “Babs had one of those blotter-style year calendars on her desk. I noticed she planned to attend a wedding in June.”
“So?”
“José and Alicia’s wedding.”
“The same couple that died up by the lake?” I asked.
“Right. I knew Alicia and Babs had worked together, but I didn’t know they kept in touch. The two of us used to have lunch about twice a month, but most of the afternoons we got together we talked about work. And the stock market.”
That surprised me. “The stock market?”
Cindy headed into the living room, her answer trailing behind. “Her late husband worked as a stock market adviser,” she said. “He passed away in his early seventies from a heart attack. There was about a twenty-year age difference between them. Babs told me he’d made some good investments. Like buying some of the first Apple Computer stock.”
I looked around the modest rented home and figured her husband’s advice didn’t help that much. The gatekeeper’s cottage appeared very up-to-date, but with two bedrooms, it still felt relatively small.
Wait, I thought. This cottage is bigger than where I live.
From the end of the hallway, I heard Cindy slamming kitchen cabinet doors.
The large stainless-steel refrigerator doors stood wide open. A big black garbage bag waited for any trash to be thrown out.
“I guess Babs liked ordering from Amazon,” Cindy noted, pointing to a stack of flattened boxes near the mudroom door. “She must have been recycling the cardboard.”
The modern stainless kitchen appliances glowed, the upper cabinets a sleek glossy white. Underneath the quartz countertop stood pale wooden cabinets. To the left of the gas cooktop protruded a faucet from the wall.
“What’s this for?” I asked Cindy.
“Pot filler faucet,” she quickly answered. “Those city folks did a fantastic job renovating this place.”
“I guess Babs lucked out,” I admitted with a little bit of envy. “There’s also an enclosed porch that way,” I pointed to my right, “and some kind of square greenhouse room past the master bedroom.”
While I spoke, Cindy took canned goods and packaged goods out of the pantry and placed them on the countertop. “I’ve got to call the food bank tomorrow and donate all of this,” she said. As she made a note in her phone, I looked around more closely.
The kitchen table was bright white with a long slender base nestled in the corner of a built-in L-shaped banquette. Brightly patterned upholstery covered the seats. I sat down. Very comfortable, and from where I sat, I could see the approach from the main road.
In a square Lucite box in front of me lay some brochures, junk mail, and a familiar-looking small notebook. Meant to fit comfortably in a jacket pocket, it reminded me of the one Babs carried during office hours or the one the chief used.
Out of curiosity, I opened it. Someone had ripped out the beginning pages. The metal rings held small paper fragments of discarded pages, leaving only the empty white ones behind.
I was about to point it out to Cindy, but she was preoccupied listening to a voicemail. Before I could say anything, she redialed the number. “Sorry. Emergency. Got to call the lawyer back.”
Travel brochures made up about half of Babs’s mail with fanciful full-color pamphlets advertising high-end cruises to almost every part of the world. I could picture Babs having a cup of tea and browsing through them. Periodically, I’d get one in the mail and do the same thing, looking at exotic Easter Island and the Galapagos and making a promise that someday…
“What?” Cindy spoke louder than normal into her phone. “I know you gave me a copy of the paperwork, but I didn’t finish reading it yet.”
A look of bewilderment on our receptionist’s face caught my attention. She raised her hand in a wait gesture when I caught her eye.
“Are you sure about this?” She turned her back to me. “I’m going to need some help. In fact, tell your assistant to book me a video appointment with you ASAP. I want my husband to hear this.”
Face flushed, she ended the call and sat down across from me at the kitchen table.
“Something wrong?” I asked. Maybe Babs owed credit card bills that the estate couldn’t pay.
“Nothing wrong. Just unexpected.” She continued placing foodstuffs into the cardboard box. Outside, traffic on the main road rolled past, headlights briefly illuminating the empty field flanking the house before moving out of sight. “Babs wasn’t renting this place.”
“She had a lease? Did she break her lease by dying?” I remembered when Luke was studying for his law exam there were crazy questions about leases and when they could be enforced. “Cindy, some states enforce a lease even after you pass away. Can you…”
“Babs was loaded, Kate. Rich. She owns this entire property, including the big rental house. She’s worth millions.”
Chapter Eighteen
Millions of dollars presented a strong motive for murder, but Babs’s estate turned out to be very complicated. There were over thirty monetary gifts, as Cindy explained the next day to Mari and me, serving as thirty motives for murder. The family currently living in the large home on her property was gifted their home, with all taxes paid. Her lawyer said Babs wanted to do something nice for this former military family.
“What else did the lawyer say?” Mari asked Cindy during our lunch break.
“The trust was drawn up by a big law firm in Albany that specializes in estate planning,” she explained. “But she also had a local lawyer. To his knowledge, she didn’t share the details of her estate with anyone. The family who rents the main house always paid a management corporation.”
The microwave dinged. “So they didn’t know.”
“Right. They still don’t know. Her estate lawyer is handling those kinds of details.” Cindy carefully removed her soup. “Meanwhile, the chief is checking out the alibis of all the named beneficiaries. The remainder is split between any blood relatives located and several animal charities.”
“You should be okay,” I said to Cindy. “You were in Florida with your family and the police chief’s family when Babs was killed. That’s what I’d call an airtight alibi.”
Mari added, “Kate and I were seeing house call clients. So we’re in the clear, too. Although I’m guessing no beneficiary money for us.”
A completely new motive entered the murky picture of these murders. Relatives who benefited from Babs’s death.
“Millions of dollars certainly changes everything,” Cindy said, “and the chief is getting nowhere.”
I sat there eating my lunch, many questions on my mind. How did Babs make so much money? Why did she anonymously give away chunks of money to so many people? But the thing that kept bothering me was—a June wedding invitation from Alicia and José. Maybe she planned to gift them something—like stock or cash.
Three people dead in a matter of a week.
All participants in a canceled June wedding.
Was there a connection?
The next day all three of us were dragging. Poor Cindy kept having to call or answer texts from both lawyers. After the office closed, in the stillness of an empty hospital, I thought about Babs having plenty of money yet choosing to continue to work.
If I were honest with myself, I’d probably do the same thing.
I also realized I knew next to nothing about Alicia and José except they died under unusual circumstances. Since Cindy was determined to find Babs’s killer, I decided to do groundwork on the engaged couple. I wasn’t sure if Judy knew them, but it couldn’t hurt to ask her some questions. The best time to have a conversation with the owner of Judy’s Café would be right before closing. The added benefit was that even if I learned nothing, I’d come home with some takeout for tomorrow.
Having lived in Oak Falls all her life, it seemed that Judy knew everyone and vice versa. I’d been told she’d enjoyed numerous romantic relationships in her younger days until she met up with a skilled carpenter and settled down. She painted and sculpted, but her art was not for sale. Her creations were given as gifts or donated to libraries or nursing homes. She once told me she didn’t want the hassle or the judgment that came with commercial sales.
I’d have to move it to get there before she closed, so I finished up my emails, answered all the last-minute questions from clients, and reviewed outstanding lab results. Mr. Katt lay in my lap, a furry heating pad. Given his unique personality, I hated to remove him, but I needed to get going.
Although I gently put him on the ground, he looked up at me with such an expression of entitlement that I laughed. He swatted my ankle to show his displeasure. I’d have to corner him, with Mari helping, to trim those feline daggers. He had turned into a kitty tyrant.
On the other hand, Buddy danced and yipped and acted eternally grateful for his evening walk and feed.
I took a little longer than usual with my appearance, smoothing back my hair into a high ponytail then securing it with a velvet scrunchie. Searching through my closet, I rediscovered a fluffy pink sweater that reflected some color into my pale face. A little makeup and rosy lip gloss, and I was out the door.
Lingering in my subliminal mind was the hope I might run into Dr. Mike at Judy’s tonight. The Dr. Mike with no wife.
A quick look at the few customers left in Judy’s confirmed no Dr. Mike tonight. I felt a momentary twinge of regret before I sat at the countertop stool and waited for Judy to appear. At this time of night, most of her staff were heading home. Judy always closed her restaurant herself. She also rang up all the receipts and made the business bank deposits. It keeps people honest, she once joked to me.
My phone pinged with a text message, so I missed Judy’s sudden appearance in front of me.
“Dr. Kate,” she said in a pleased voice. “What can I get for you? We have one order of a truly outstanding chicken pot pie left.”
“I’ll take it to go. What else do you recommend?”
“Clam and shrimp chowder, New England style,” she said quickly. “With a side of green beans, mushrooms, and bacon. Tea?”
“Perfect. I’ve never heard of clam and shrimp chowder,” I said.
Judy laughed. “That’s what happens when you run out of clams. Improvise, baby.” She continued chuckling at her own joke before disappearing into the fragrant kitchen.
Judy always has fresh coffee, but she knew I rarely drank coffee this late at night. Being a regular somewhere means they get to know your likes and dislikes, and I qualified as a regular.
Waiting for my food, I glanced out the large front window that faced Main Street. The deserted sidewalk shone brightly under the streetlamps. Outside, the air temperature continued to drop. A thermometer attached to the restaurant window read thirty-six degrees. No wind, but still darned cold outside.
A foursome in the corner stood up and started putting on their coats amid much chatter. At the end of the counter sat an older man eating a burger. He briefly glanced at the remaining customers before going back to his meal. I noticed thin fingers with a gold wedding ring. His bony wrist stuck out past his shirt cuff. Was he a client? I knew I’d seen that face before.
As the foursome leaving brushed past, their puffy ski jackets bumped into my seat. From their sunburned faces, I deduced they recently had spent some time outdoors, maybe skiing?
I watched them open the door and step out into the cold. One made a fuss and wrapped her coat more tightly around herself, while her companion pulled his ski hat out of his pocket and pulled it low on his head, trying to cover his prominent ears. Their breath created puffs of white, warm air colliding with cold.
Judy walked toward me with a big bowl of soup and a coffee mug.
“Let me know if you like it,” she said, placing it down on the counter.
“Perfect. Thanks, Judy.” Steam rose from the chowder. If you ordered hot food, it always arrived piping hot. That gave me a perfect excuse to savor it slowly while asking the restaurant owner about the first two victims, Alicia and José. All I knew was what Babs and Daffy had told us. The short version was Alicia had an affair with a fellow lawyer, who left his wife for her. They married but it didn’t end well. After Alicia threatened to leave her husband, he committed suicide.
About José, all I knew for certain was his profession: a physician’s assistant. The steamy chowder felt too hot to eat, which made it a perfect time to gossip. I thought I’d start with José.
For once, I didn’t have to randomly bring up murder to a town resident. Judy jumped into it with no prodding at all. “How’s Cindy doing?” she began, sipping a coffee while checking out the remaining customer.
“She’s doing okay,” I managed to say midmouthful of the veggie side order. “Babs’s death has been tough on all of us.”
“They’ve known each other a long time.” She paused to check again on the slim man at the end of the counter. From the empty plates in front of him, I could tell he was almost finished. “I’ll be right back,” Judy said.
Wiping her hands on the towel tucked into her apron, she asked if he wanted anything else. When he answered no, she wrote up his check and waited. He finally figured out she wanted payment, so he dug out a credit card and slapped it on the counter. “Thanks, Greg,” Judy said. She processed his payment and brought back both the card and receipt. “Everyone,” she announced, in a louder voice, “we’re closing in five minutes. If you need a takeaway box, please let me know.”
A well-dressed older couple made their way to the front with their check and cash in the gentleman’s hand. Meanwhile, Greg put on his coat, called out a “good night, Judy,” and started toward the exit. With his hand on the doorknob he hesitated, then glanced back my way, a thoughtful expression on his face.
Once all her customers had left, Judy walked over to the front door, turned her sign from Open to Closed, and locked the doors with a large set of keys.
“Who was that man? There’s something familiar about him.” I got up, ready to leave, figuring I’d talk to her another time.
“That’s Greg Owens. Hey, where are you going?” Judy asked.
“Aren’t you closing?” I asked.
“Yes.” She drew the blinds in the window facing the street and turned some of her lights off. “But I’m pretty sure you didn’t come here tonight only for my chowder. Let’s sit back here.” She pointed to a dimly lit far corner.
“Now first tell me about how Babs died.”
Judy sat quietly while I described what Mari and I saw the day Babs died. Most importantly, I explained that Cindy didn’t think Babs committed suicide.
“I’d have to agree with Cindy,” the restaurant owner said. “Completely out of character, for one thing.”
“What else?”
“She’d booked a high-end tour of Japan this spring when the cherry blossoms are in bloom. Said it was her dream vacation.”
Someone rattled Judy’s doorknob. She ignored it. “There’s always one person who doesn’t believe I’m closed.”
I listened as it rattled again.
“They’ll get tired and go away.”
A low murmuring of voices that quickly faded away proved her correct.
“I’m also pretty sure she didn’t use drugs. A glass of wine or a beer periodically, okay. But not anything like you described. Too…old-fashioned, I suppose.”
I took a sip of rapidly cooling tea. “What do you mean by old-fashioned?”
“Someone with a strict moral code. Applied across the board. It was right or wrong, plain and simple. Not a lot of gray zones.”
“You’re the third person who’s told me that. Sometimes it’s not that simple,” I said.
“Modern life presents plenty of gray zones,” Judy replied. “Sometimes all your choices are dilutions of gray.”
