Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) (4 page)

Personally, I didn’t think her last statement seemed so farfetched. “Look, Cassie, I’m not going to talk to any reporters for the simple reason that I don’t have anything to say beyond the fact that I found her. Well, technically, the serviceman did. But that’s all I know. If people make up stories, I don’t know how we can stop them, and truthfully, I’m not sure I want to. How do I know that you and Preston
didn’t
hire someone?”

“My God, Maggie, I was simply giving you hypotheticals about why we should present a united front to the media. How could you possibly accuse us of a such a thing?”

I propped my hands on my hips and stared at her in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? You don’t see anything odd about two siblings whose only concern on the day their grandmother is found murdered is to antagonize the police, circle the wagons, and hide from the media? What are you afraid of—that your country club membership will be withdrawn or that the maˆıtre'd at the Broadmoor will forget the name of your favorite wine?” I swallowed my disgust. “Reality is harsh, Cassie. I found Elizabeth floating in a pool of raw sewage and I don’t have the patience to stand here and listen to you whine about how this affects your standing in the community.” I leaned forward. “Catch a clue here.  Us common   folk   couldn’t   care   less   about   your current public relations crisis.”

She didn’t even flinch. “You’re simply being unreasonable and I don’t have time to fight with you right now. There is too much to be done. I must find Preston.  If you can’t join with us during our time of need, perhaps I can ask that we not associate with each other any more than necessary.”

It was the best news I’d had all day.

Chapter Three

Beneath a green canopy of slightly wet elm trees, a small somber crowd gathered to pay their last respects to Elizabeth Boyer. The earthy smell of damp soil soaked the air as the sun finally cracked the sleet-gray clouds and wiggled through the branches, dappling the ground like the back of an Appaloosa. The mahogany coffin, meticulously waxed to a glossy sheen, was gently lowered into the ground, into a black cavern where the spit and polish would make no difference.

Standing there, I imagined Elizabeth rising up out of her grave. I watched her lean against the rough bark of the ancient elm that draped its branches over the rectangular patch of newly turned sod. Drawing her knees to her chest, she hugged her legs and stared out across the sloping hills as quiet breezes ruffled the leaves overhead. Small bunches of wildflowers, tucked under the white crosses and smooth arches, splashed color against the seamless green grass. I saw Elizabeth smile then, high up on her private knoll, content with the vastness, the openness, the unlimited rolling land.

Draw it, Maggie. Put it on paper. Don’t skimp on the details. You have a tendency to do that, you know, to take the lazy way out. Well, don’t. Not this time. Not on my grave. Do it right.

Even in death, she was bossy. I almost laughed out loud. Here I was, standing at a burial service, the eulogy droning in the background, and I was talking to a ghost. Or rather, the ghost was talking to me, telling me what to do, insisting on it no less. It was typical Elizabeth.

“Are you okay?”

His deep voice startled me out of my one-sided conversation with the dead. One-sided because Elizabeth was doing all the talking.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said, turning around, surprised to see that the service had ended. “Is it normal for a detective to show up at the funeral of the deceased?”

Villari shrugged. “Sometimes. Not always.”

“Are you always this forthcoming with information?” I asked as we walked away from the burial site.

He smiled. “Sometimes. Not always.”

It was a wonderful smile. His lips were slightly crooked, which made the smile even more male, more endearing. His eyes crinkled at the corners and he had beautiful white teeth, his full lips edged with one tiny little dimple, a small comma etched in his left cheek.

“So why did you decide to come today?”

“To check out the guest list. Sometimes a burial is like a quick synopsis. It gives you a glimpse of the over-all picture and the players involved.”

“You think the murderer is here?” I scanned the area eagerly, looking for someone milling through the crowd, carrying a sign with the words MURDERER HERE, EAGER TO BE ARRESTED scrawled across it.

“It’s happened before.”

“So now what? We can’t just walk up and start asking people if they killed Elizabeth Boyer.”

“First off, we don’t do anything. This is nothing to fool around with and I’ve got enough to do without worrying about an amateur sleuth getting in my way and possibly destroying evidence.”

“But if I can help find her killer, why wouldn’t you use me? I know these people,” I insisted. “They were Elizabeth’s friends and neighbors.  And mine.  It’s a close-knit community and they don’t trust easily. They’ll be more willing to talk to me than a detective who, quite frankly, could use a little work on his people skills.”

He ignored my comment. “The medical examiner has determined that the time of death was between twelve and twenty-four hours before she was found. Anyone who had anything to do with Mrs. Boyer will need to be questioned.” His black eyes bored into mine. “That includes everyone from the milkman to you.”

“Are you saying I’m a suspect?”

“It is a bit coincidental that you experienced septic problems right around the time of her death.”

“My toilet backs up and I’m a suspect?”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t help your case any. A septic tank is not a common place to dump a dead body. Ms. Boyer was bludgeoned in the back of the head with a heavy object and then thrown into the tank.”

For once in my life I kept quiet. I had a pretty good idea where this was going.

“Normally, murderers try to dispose of their victims quickly and quietly. The bottom of a river is a popular choice. All it takes is a couple of stones anchored to the body, a quick toss off the bridge before driving off, and the whole drop is neat and clean, completed in less than a couple of minutes.”

Digging through his blazer, Villari pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He snagged one, offered the pack to me, and when I declined, shoved the crumpled package back into his pocket. He stuck the cigarette between his lips, struck a match, and lit it. Inhaling deeply, he shook the match and dropped it on the ground.

“Now, a septic tank takes a little more work,” he continued, blowing out smoke, “because first, you’ve got to know where it’s located. Then there’s the digging and lifting the lid, which involves significant time and makes a lot of noise when you drag it across the casing, since it weighs more than a bag of groceries. Not to mention the smell. All in all, it’s a messy conclusion to a murder and it provides ample opportunities for eyewitnesses.”

“So that let’s me off the hook, right?”

“Nope. That puts you squarely
on
the hook. You know where the tank is. The digging was already done for you the day before you supposedly found the body, and the lid had been loosened. That side of your house is secluded from any neighbors except for the deceased, and even there, small trees and scrub-oak bushes block full vision. So the risk of being seen is minimal. And noise isn’t a problem with the houses set so far apart. For you, it’s the perfect drop-off.”

I couldn’t believe this. Villari was drawing a straight line from plumbing trouble to prime murder suspect.

“There are other things,” he added, as though he could read my mind. “There are no signs of a struggle and no unfamiliar footprints. The only prints we uncovered were those of yours and Elizabeth’s... and the service guy who fixed your tank.”

“So why aren’t you handcuffing me?”

“Details. The concrete lid. The fact that you cared about the lady. The lack of motive.”

“It seems like you’re right back where you started, Detective Villari.”

“Maybe.”

My temper was beginning to simmer. “I’m leaving now. This discussion is pointless. You have nothing but speculation, and because you have nothing you’re taking the easy way out and pointing a finger at me. I don’t appreciate all the spoken and unspoken innuendos and raised eyebrows. I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s no wonder people don’t want to get involved anymore, not if this is what happens.” I turned to go, paused, then swung around to face Villari again. “Think about this. If my tank was such a great ‘drop-off’ as you called it, why didn’t I just leave her there? She’d be chalked up as a missing old lady and simply become another statistic.”

Villari took his time answering. Taking a long pull from his cigarette, he tilted his head back and blew the smoke toward the sky. He nodded. “Good point. However, that scenario has a flip side. What if you were simply trying to minimize your risk? If the police started looking for Mrs. Boyer and the trail led to your house, which it would since she spent so much time there, it wouldn’t be long before the police discovered the freshly turned earth and became suspicious.”

He shook his head. “No, it would make much more sense to ‘discover’ the body and play the innocent neighbor.”

“You’re confusing me, Villari. Either arrest me or let me go. I don’t want to play cat and mouse with you.”

He grinned. “You do come out swinging when you feel cornered.”

“If that means you expected me to curl up in a fetal position and whimper, you’re right. I’ll fight back tooth and nail.”

I didn't finish because I spotted Preston stalking across the grass with Cassie following several feet behind, her ridiculously high heels sinking into the soft ground like mini aerators.  Reaching us, Preston cut between the two of us and turned to face me, his back to the detective. “The meeting has been scheduled for two-thirty this afternoon,” he snapped out like a drill sergeant.

“What meeting?”

“Mr. Hawthorne didn’t call you?”

Completely baffled, I turned to Cassie, who was scowling at her ruined stilettos as she reached our cozy little group. “Would you please explain what’s going on?”

“Preston called Mr. Hawthorne last night to set up a meeting to discuss Grandmother’s estate.” “Nothing like a little greed to get things moving,” I murmured.

“Mr. Hawthorne was more than happy to meet with us,” Cassie huffed self-righteously. “But he told Preston that you should be there, too.”

“Why?”

“That’s exactly what we want to know,” Preston said, taking over. “I tried to get him to explain further, but he refused to do so. In any event, the will is going to be read this afternoon at the house, in Grandmother’s office. We expect you there.”

I took a deep breath. These people had a way of getting under my skin, and not pleasantly so.  Villari stepped from behind Preston and stood next to him, waiting for my answer. His expression was unreadable, but I felt sure this latest development fed his suspicions even further.

“First of all, I have no idea why I need to be there. Second of all, I don’t enjoy being summoned like some kind of servant, but because your grandmother is being represented, I’ll be there, in spite of your lousy manners.” A glint of humor sparked in Villari’s eyes, but I didn’t stick around long enough to find out what was so funny. I glared at Preston and Cassie and stomped away, fervently wishing I had a door to slam.

The next two hours loomed ahead like an eternity. Reaching my Jeep, I slipped off my pumps and tossed them in the backseat, hiked my straight black skirt up to my thighs, and climbed in. I turned the key and listened to the motor spit and sputter before the engine caught. Angry at the world, I distractedly shifted gears and jerked out into the road, narrowly missing an on-coming car. The red-faced driver laid heavily on the horn, threw finger messages, and startled me back to reality, which was actually a good thing because I’m not the best of drivers even under perfect conditions. My brother nicknamed me “Space Queen” when I was first learning to drive because of my tendency to drift off into daydreams in the middle of heavy traffic, scaring the pants off of him. Things hadn’t changed too much.

I headed toward the mountains. Colorado was heaven on earth after a summer rain. The smell of sodden earth permeated the air and I breathed deeply through the open window. Water droplets hung like rainbow prisms from the ends of pine needles. Lush green foliage blanketed the mountains and salmon-colored rock formations jutted toward the sky. The road threaded its way up the mountain, winding slowly through the pass, dropping down into shallow valleys where grassy plains freckled with purple, orange, and yellow blossoms shivered in the light breeze. The sun reached through the clouds, drawing varying patterns of light and shadow. Peace filtered the air.

Gravel spewed beneath the tires as I parked on the shoulder of the road.  I shuffled through the dewy grass until I found a boulder to sit on. Ignoring the dampness that seeped through my skirt, I gazed across the land that always soothed me like a lover’s caress. But now, confusion clouded the landscape. Elizabeth Boyer, a woman who had snuck in and haphazardly broke through my defenses and filled emptiness within me, had been killed. She had surreptitiously slipped in and become my caretaker, watching over me and refusing to let my stiff pride scare her off. In a very real sense, she had become a mother to me. When my biological mother died, I grew very independent, a lone wolf, in a sense, insisting that I did not need anyone. It was the only way I knew to protect myself, to keep from ever hurting that way again.  But my propped-up defenses crumbled the day I met my deceivingly petite and fragile neighbor. Long before I realized it, I came to depend on her.  I needed her in my life.

And now, I needed her worse than ever. Instead, I was saddled with her two spoiled grandkids.  I’d always avoided those two in the past, but now our lives were intertwined in a Gordian knot I didn’t have a clue how to untie. There was no doubt that Elizabeth came to my house to get away from those two. After spending just a few minutes with them, I was amazed that she didn’t knock on my door every day at the crack of dawn.

Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised me that Elizabeth put me in the will in some small way, but it had never crossed my mind.  I knew she was very wealthy; it wasn’t something you could ignore. Not that she flaunted her wealth. She never had to. It was in the way she carried herself, the way she stood tall, straight and very proud.  She wore understated, but very elegant, very expensive clothes. She and I were a study in contrasts. While I wore black leggings and a long sweatshirt with the Denver Broncos logo emblazoned across the front, she wore neutral-colored cashmere slacks and an array of silk blouses topped with a solid gold necklace. I used to panic when she walked into my studio, worried she would sit on a ball of clay or rub her sleeve against a charcoal sketch and ruin her clothes. But whenever I suggested she wear something more casual, she looked at me like I was crazy. Clothes were to be worn, she said, not hidden under plastic bags hanging uselessly in the closet. I finally gave up worrying once I realized that even stains would look exactly right on her.