A Veiled Antiquity (Torie O'Shea Mysteries) (13 page)

“When did you talk to Andrew?” he asked.

“Sunday at the Octoberfest. That’s another weird part. He walked right up to me. I didn’t go looking for him,” I said.

“Well, we know that Andrew was inside Marie’s house sometime before she was killed,” he said. “Any luck with the documents?” he asked.

“I haven’t even started on the coded one. The letter from the countess is only confusing me even more. I don’t know if the content of the papers is what these people are actually after. Because all I have so far is that there once was this duke who was an archbishop and he died,” I said. “You tell me that’s worth murdering somebody for.”

“It must relate to something,” he said.

“I’m at a loss,” I confessed. “Can I visit Camille yet?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact you can,” he said.

“If she’s still speaking to me, maybe she can help me figure out what all of this means.”

“She doesn’t blame you, Torie. You didn’t know what you had when you took it to her.”

“No. But if I hadn’t been so sneaky in the first place … well, let’s chalk that one up to experience.”

The sheriff and my mother were back to looking at each other again, so I grabbed Fritz and went in the house. I was hungry. What else is new? Chili sounded good. I got my biggest pot out of the cabinet and prepared to make one heck of a mess.

I was pulling out the cans of kidney beans when the phone rang. “Hello,” I said.

“Hey, baby,” Rudy said. “I’ll be home kind of late tonight.”

“Why?”

“Gotta put up this stupid water heater display,” he said. “I wish Tom would stick to faucets and such. They aren’t as heavy.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m just making chili. That’s easy to warm up.”

“Good. Well, the other reason I was calling was Amy wanted to know if you would go through your history books and see what you can find for her on the Drudis?” he asked.

“You mean Druids?”

“I suppose. She’s doing some paper on heathens or something.”

Amy was my husband’s youngest sister and she was currently attending Washington University. She often called and made use of my extensive library.

“Sure, I’ll pull some books for her. You can take them by tomorrow on your way to the office or I can take them to her.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you later. Love you.”

“I love you,” I said and we hung up.

I pulled out an onion and began chopping it. My eyes burned and huge tears fell and landed on the cutting board. Aah. Good strong onions. If they don’t make me cry, I don’t want them in my food.

Washington University.
Wasn’t that where the conference that Lanny Lockheart had said he was attending was supposedly being held? I had forgotten until Rudy mentioned Amy, which made me think of Washington University.

I picked up the phone, thumbed through the yellow pages until I found the university. I called the general information number and a woman answered the phone.

“Yes,” I said. “I was wondering if you could give me some information on the conference that you are hosting there this week?”

“A conference?” she asked.

“Or a convention. It should have something to do with history or theology or … something,” I said. Boy did I sound brilliant.

“Hold on a minute,” she said.

The smell of onions was strong on my hand that held the phone. I waited for maybe a minute and a half.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We are not hosting a convention this week on any of our grounds.”

“You’re sure? What about last week?”

“No, ma’am. There is nothing scheduled in the way of a conference or a convention for the entire first quarter.”

“Well, okay,” I said.

Hmm. Lanny had lied about Andrew being with him the night of Marie’s death, I was almost certain. Now he was lying about the convention. Or maybe there
was
a conference, just not at Wash U. Why wouldn’t he want me to know where the convention was?

Probably because I would try and go, I decided.

Sixteen

The weekends of the Octoberfest are when we hold all of our contests. During the week the town still has the bluegrass festival and the rides and plenty of food. But a lot of our town has to go back to school and back to regular jobs during the week so we don’t have as many fun events.

It was Thursday. I was standing across from Pierre’s Bakery, looking at Marie’s house. The police tape was wrapped around it in some macabre imitation of a big yellow bow. “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” was the song that came to my mind.

I had promised Sheriff Brooke that I would not step foot on Marie’s property and I wouldn’t. I was just standing there, trying to get an idea of who had a good view of her house. Obviously, Pierre’s and the firehouse were the places in view.

I could smell Pierre’s before I ever walked in the door. Once inside, the sweet smell of a dozen different breads and pastries and the glorious aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and tea were heavier than on the street. And nearly more than mortal man could take, I might add. The place was full of tourists, and Joe had a smile that went from ear to ear. He managed to look up at me and wave. I waved back and waited in line.

Pierre’s is owned by the man behind the counter, Joseph Frioux. Coziness is Pierre’s selling point. Small tables are fit snugly in the dining area, each one with a pink tablecloth and its own china tea set. There’s a teapot, coffeepot, sugar, creamer, and matching cups and saucers for each table. The tea and coffee are complimentary. Joe prices the breads and pastries high enough to cover it.

But like any good business owner in a tourist town, there is also a carryout line.

“Hey, Joe,” I said when it was my turn.

“Torie, how ya doin’?”

“Fair to partly cloudy,” I answered.

“What can I getcha?”

“I’ll order in a minute. I was wondering if we could talk?”

“Sure,” he said. “Dooley, come take over the counter,” he yelled.

Joe is a few years older than me. He has a long face with a very long nose. The fact that he is bald only adds to the length of his face. He has kind blue eyes and a dark, thick mustache that is almost a Fu Manchu, but not quite.

The man who came to take over the counter was older, probably about seventy-five, and I was instantly struck by the fact that I did not know who he was. I’d never seen him before. Except at Marie’s funeral.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Dooley? Well, his name is Ransford Dooley, but I’ll be damned if I’ll call him Ransford. Can you just imagine it? ‘Hey, Ransford, come and help the customers.’ Nah, it sounds like he should be a butler or something. Dooley sounds better.”

We sat down at a table, and Joe poured me a cup of tea with a generous teaspoon of sugar. Exactly like I take it. Joe is good at his job.

“Thank you,” I said. I watched him pour himself a half a cup of coffee and fill the rest of his cup with cream.

“It’s what I call half and half,” he said. “Hey, is Rudy going to be able to make it bowling next week? I noticed that he missed this past week.”

“Yeah, he was at a plumbing convention. Thrills, thrills,” I said. “Look, the reason I’m here is…” I pointed across the street as I spoke. “I noticed that you’ve got a real good view of Marie Dijon’s house. Did you notice anything unusual going on over at her house or did you see anything the night she died?”

“Well, let me see, Mr. Holmes,” Joe said with a fake English accent. “I believe it was half past four on the evening of…” He broke into laughter, and I kicked him under the table. “Ouch, I’m just joking,” he said.

“Well, I’m serious.”

“No, I didn’t see anything the night she died. I will say that there was an awful lot of traffic going on over there a few days prior to that Tuesday,” he said. “Cars in and out. There was a lot going on.”

“Did you see any of the people?” I asked. “Males? Females?”

“Didn’t pay any attention,” he said. “Dooley might have, though.”

“Who is he?” I asked. “The only time I can recall seeing him was at Marie’s funeral. Does he live around here?”

“He moved here about a year ago. He and Marie were sweet on each other,” he said.

The tea scalded the back of my throat when he said that because I gulped it instead of sipped it. “Really?”

“Yeah. She’d come over here and sit for hours and they’d flirt. It was good for Dooley. That was part of the reason that she was found when she was.”

“Why?”

“Because Dooley hadn’t seen her in a few days and that was totally unlike her. I mean if nothing else, I make a really good rye bread that she just couldn’t live without. But Dooley kinda got worried, ’cause he said that once he got to thinking about it, he hadn’t seen her check her mail or anything else. So he went over to see about her and sure enough, she was at the foot of her stairs,” he said.

“Oh.”

Ransford Dooley looked over at our table as if he knew that we were speaking about him. What a twist this was. Marie and this man sweet on each other. Suddenly I wanted to know more about Mr. Dooley.

“Thanks for the tea, Joe. I’ve got to go. If you think of anything specific about that week that Marie died, give me a call,” I said as I stood up.

“Sure will. Tell Rudy I’ll give him a call later this week.”

“Okay, and oh—have two loaves of that rye bread sliced and I’ll come by and get it in about an hour.”

“Certainly.”

As I stepped outside I noticed two people stood across the street having a very intense conversation. I recognized one of those people. It was Eleanore Murdoch. I also knew the back of the person she was speaking to but couldn’t place it. Then she turned her face slightly and looked over at me. It was Yvonne Mezalaine.

Oh, God. The last thing I or anybody in this town needed was for Eleanore to get involved with Yvonne Mezalaine. I didn’t trust Yvonne. I didn’t believe that she was Marie’s half sister. Somebody recording their family tree didn’t usually leave off siblings because of a family feud. You may not speak to a person ever again, but you still put their name on the records. It was interesting the way she slipped up at Wilbert’s office and said that Marie’s pedigree was impressive, when it would have been hers as well. Why hadn’t she said
my
family tree?

I crossed the street and decided to save them from one another. I wasn’t sure who could do more damage to whom.

“Eleanore,” I said, “how nice to see you.”

“Torie, hello,” she said. She looked me up and down and finally settled on my face. She had a habit of doing that. There wasn’t much to look at where I was concerned. The majority of my wardrobe consisted of jeans and shirts. I owned a few dresses and maybe two nice pants outfits and some shorts. But jeans usually cut it. Maybe that was her polite way of telling me that I dressed like a slob.

“Ms. Mezalaine,” I said in acknowledgment. “How are you ladies today?”

“Just fine,” Eleanore said.

“I was just leaving,” Yvonne said. “Good day, Mrs. Murdoch. Remember what I said earlier.” She turned to me then. “Mrs. O’Shea.” She then walked away, shoulders thrown back and looking like a million bucks.

I must have stared after her for a good solid minute. Was it something I said?

“Thanks a lot, Torie,” Eleanore said. Her earrings were big pieces of plastic fruit that clanged together. I don’t know how she could hear herself talk.

“What were you two talking about?” I asked.

“If you must know, I’m conducting my own investigation of the Marie Dijon murder.”

“What?!”

Eleanore physically leaped when I yelled. The reason that I didn’t ask her anything more intelligent than that was because I was too angry to formulate a coherent question.

“Yes. Did you know that Yvonne is Marie’s sister? And that Dooley, over at Pierre’s, was having an affair with her?”

“They were sweet on each other. Why does everything have to be so illicit with you?”

“I am not illiterate,” she announced.

“Ugh,” I moaned.

“Do you want to know what I think?” she asked.

“No. I don’t.”

“I think you are jealous. I think you are worried that I will solve the mystery before you,” she said.

“What … wait … this is…” I couldn’t talk.

“I have exterminated every piece of evidence thoroughly,” she said.

“Examined. You’ve examined the evidence.”

“Yes. I’m not being careless, you know. You just don’t like me horning in on your territory. Well, let me tell you, Victory O’Shea, what’s good for the chicken is better for the rooster.”

“Oh, Eleanore. If you’re going to be profound, at least try to be correct about it.” But I knew what she was getting at. If I could be nosy and conduct an investigation, so could she. And to say that she couldn’t would be rather conceited. And selfish.

“What’s more, I followed Mr. Wheaton and Mr. Lockheart into St. Louis the other day,” she went on as I began to get sick to my stomach.

“What … you
what?
”

“Yes. They went to Cervantes. The convention center.”

“They did?”

“Yes. And I’m not telling you anything more, or you’ll try and take credit for it.”

“Wait. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about what you printed about Sylvia,” I said, proud of myself for getting out a complete sentence.

“What about it? Great interrogative reporting, was it not?” she said. It was clear that she was pleased.

“You have set Sylvia off her course,” I said. “She’s very upset. I don’t know where you got your information, but you shouldn’t have printed something like that. You should never have speculated.”

“Yvonne is the one that told me about Sophie Gaheimer,” she said.

Yvonne?
Hold everything. This was too weird. Eleanore had run that article just after Marie’s body was found. Nobody except me had speculated that Marie had been murdered. It was safe to say that Eleanore wouldn’t have been investigating Marie’s murder at that stage of the game. So what reason would she have to speak to Yvonne on the subject of Sophie Gaheimer? On
any
subject, for that matter. Did Yvonne come to her with the information? But why?

Maybe Eleanore was just yanking my chain and she really got the information somewhere else.