Better Homes and Corpses (19 page)

TWENTY-NINE

I woke the next morning with the faintest memory of a bizarre dream, something to do with Cole, Adam, Van, and me dressed as monkeys.

I stepped onto the bedroom terrace minutes before sunrise. The small balcony had the same dimensions as a schooner’s crow’s nest. My warm breath merged with frosty air and the sun crowned like a tiara over the calm blue ocean.

I was on the road at seven, headed toward the Kittinger cottage. I had an appointment with Elle to put the final touches on the cottage.

The Kittinger property lay a few miles east of my rental, high upon a cliff with a breathtaking seascape. The house was a roomy three-bedroom cape with a worn cedar-shake exterior. Molding around the windows and under the eaves had its original sea-green paint; the shutters had cutouts in the shape of anchors. The seaward side of the house was designed with four dormers and a lawn that stretched toward the ocean. The perfect spot for a leisurely game of
croquet, if you didn’t mind losing a ball to the Atlantic below.

Elle was waiting in her pickup, the engine running, the windows fogged with condensation. I opened the truck’s door and she emerged like Mary Poppins with a large tapestry bag filled with bric-a-brac I’d set aside at her workroom.

“This is sooo charming.” Elle skipped to the front door. “Did you do anything to the outside?”

It seemed Elle hadn’t heard about Cole’s arrest. “Just touched up a little of the paint on the shutters. Finding an exact match was near impossible.” I unlocked the door and ushered her in.

“Yeah, but wasn’t it worth it?”

“Of course.” I grinned.

“You did great, Meg. If you ever want to branch out to Sag Harbor, I’ll give you some clients from my shop.” Today she wore only one brooch, but it was so large I was surprised she could walk upright.

“Wow, quite a piece. Aunt Mabel’s?”

Aunt Mabel, who, from Elle’s colorful description, sounded like someone I would have loved to have met, was a former apprentice to the famous Hollywood costume designer Edith Head. Some of Elle’s jewelry came from actual movie-set costumes, including a pin worn by Audrey in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
.

“Yes, Auntie’s. Don’t you just love it! Oh, and
I
love that sampler. Where’d you get it?”

“Greenport.” The sampler, hanging over a pine dry sink, was stitched with crude printing:

Work as if you were to live a hundred years.

Pray as if you were to die tomorrow.

Elizabeth aged 9 in the year of the Lord 1835.

“Did you remember everything I taught you about buying antique piecework?”

“Yes. I only paid a hundred. If it incorporated decorative motifs, like a house, flowers, trees, or an eagle, the value would jump to a thousand; add an original frame and the price would soar even higher.”

“Good girl. Great touch, adding that yardstick notched in pen with ‘Alice’ and ‘Henry’ written on it.”

“I found the yardstick in a closet. It’s a good reminder, along with the sampler, of the Kittingers’ offspring: grown, but forever young.”

“Wow, that’s deep.”

“My clients should feel like they’re coming home, not moving to a new one.” Not a stickler to the rules of feng shui, I did, however, believe in the importance of the relationship between harmony and nature. In the Japanese vein, I liked to showcase decorative objects one at a time so their singular beauty could be appreciated.

While Elle scattered flowering potted plants around the cottage, I reached into the tapestry bag and removed a frosted aquamarine bottle, a gift from the sea, and placed it in the alcove of a built-in corner cupboard. In the cupboards below, I stored six other items that could be brought out one at a time, depending on the owner’s mood. Each piece stood on its own. I knew inanimate objects didn’t give off positive energy, only a person’s reaction to them, which made me wonder about what reaction Caroline’s killer had to the lance used to kill her. Why would he or she use something so barbaric?

Elle walked around the cottage with her hands on her hips. “Where’d you get that Mission table?” When I didn’t answer, she said, “Okay, spill. What’s wrong?”

“Saturday night they arrested Cole Spenser for his mother’s murder.”

“You poor thing! What am I talking about?
We
both could have been killed!”

“He didn’t do it.”

“I want to believe you. Anything you want to tell me? Like, the fact you two have a love thingie goin’ on?”

“Maybe. But a small thingie.”

“Seriously, I know it’s been a while, but I don’t think getting involved with a murder suspect is wise, especially considering your recent past.”

“I’m officially over Michael. I barely think of him at all.”

“Yeah, right.” Elle reached over me, grabbed a couple of antique seafaring novels from the bag, and placed them on the kitchen table.

I changed the subject, something I seemed to be doing a lot of lately. “Can you help bring down a chest from upstairs?”

In the small guest room at the top of the stairs, I pointed to a wooden chest I’d placed at the foot of a twin bed.

“Coffee table?” Elle asked.

“You got it.”

“You smart girl. Love that bucket you filled with linen papers, brushes, and watercolors. And that beat-up guitar leaning against the wall is genius.”

“A ‘Welcome Friends’ tip from an old issue of
American Home and Garden
. Something to keep the Kittingers’ guests busy on rainy days.”

After we moved the trunk into the hallway, Elle propped the guitar against the bedpost and announced, “Perfecto!”

We lugged the flat-topped chest down the stairs and put it in front of the sofa. On top of the chest I placed a McCoy
flower pot in the same color as the cottage’s trim and two nineteenth-century cloth books titled in gold:
Letters from the Far East
and
On Sea and Shore
.

“I smell coffee.” Elle sniffed the air.

“That’s one trick I taught
you
, Old Wise One.”

“Hey, we’re the same age!” On Sundays in Manhattan, I rummaged through boxes of old books in used bookstores in the East Village. A bookseller taught me a trick to use when I came across smelly books: Place a layer of freshly ground coffee on the bottom of a cardboard box and add a clean paper towel, followed by the malodorous book. Seal the box and in a couple of weeks, no more stench and, as an added
perk
, the lingering scent of coffee.

Elle set out for the Spenser estate and I stayed behind to lock up. I pinched a shriveled bloom from a raspberry-scented geranium and glanced out the kitchen window. I spritzed some ocean-scented air freshener and took photographs of each room. Then I stepped out of the cottage and walked toward the staircase that led down to the beach. I hopped over loose boards and sidewinded rotting planks. The last five steps were missing, so I jumped and landed on a bed of rocks. The beach was more secluded than mine, closer to the lighthouse. Large boulders littered the shore with shallow caves cut into clay and rock. Pummeled earth slowly being eaten away by inexhaustible waves. I cleared a spot and used a pointed piece of driftwood to write a line of Joseph Conrad’s:

We live as we dream—alone.

THIRTY

I drove west to Paddy’s. When I walked in, Doc waved to me from the counter.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey, yourself. Did you get any more info?”

“The analysis on the box of coins hasn’t come in yet, but they’ve determined it contains two separate samples of DNA. They just don’t know whose.”

“Let me guess. Caroline and Jillian Spenser’s?”

Paddy’s looked like any small-town diner. The patrons wore denim and flannel. Every male had some kind of baseball cap on their head, and most of the females came sans makeup. Come to the restaurant in July and the crowd would be entirely different: a trickling of the Hamptons elite mixed with vacationing families from Manhattan and Long Island.

Seated back by the kitchen was a pair of familiar faces: Toby’s daughter Debbie and Toby’s mechanic Stu, the owner of the Son of Satan truck. Did Stu know Debbie was a surfer chaser—more specifically, a Van chaser?

“Look, Doc, remember those two?”

“From Toby’s, right? Don’t like the looks of that Stu kid.”

I looked over. Stu and Debbie were playing kissy-face over a stack of blueberry pancakes. Stu and I made eye contact. He quickly darted his eyes to Debbie, and I read his lips. He said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

I left for East Hampton after finishing an order of eggs Benedict and a huge slice of cherry pie. Mrs. Arnold had called to say I wouldn’t be needed to watch over Jillian now that Cole had been arrested. If Cole was innocent, then Jillian was still in danger. I prayed Cole was innocent.

Sun broke through a cloud and shone its splendor on the Spenser mansion. The pond in front featured frolicking ducks and waxy tulip sprouts. Things were warming, but I shivered just the same. I hadn’t taken the top off the Jeep because I had little faith in Mother Nature, or much of anything else at this point.

The door opened before I could press the intercom. “What are you doing here?” Mrs. Arnold wasn’t a happy camper.

I wasn’t in the mood for her shenanigans. “I came to work. Is Ms. Warner here?”

“Let me check.” She slammed the door in my face.

It was apparent Mrs. Arnold had no intention of returning. I put my hand on the door, but before I could turn it, it flew open and I toppled forward. Luckily, Van saved me from hitting the marble floor.

“I saw what Mrs. Arnold did. I’m sure Jillian won’t mind that you’re here. She’s reading in the grand salon.”

“How is she?”

“A little high strung. Dr. Greene just left.”

“Is anyone else here?”

“I saw Adam pulling out when I was walking over. You
missed Cole and a police officer. They were here to pick up some of his things.”

“Why was he with a cop if he made bail?”

“He made bail, but Jillian told me there’s a restraining order against him to stay away from her and Seacliff.”

“Van, do you really think Cole killed his mother?”

“Not the Cole I knew as a kid, but then again, someone did. Are you okay? You look kind of flushed.”

“I need to talk to Jillian.”

“Take it easy. She’s had a rough time.”

“I know. I promise.”

Van walked out the door and headed in the direction of the guesthouse.

Jillian was in the grand salon sitting upright in a club chair—not her usual invalid lounging position. She gave me a weak smile and went back to her book.

I left my briefcase under the arch and knelt next to her. “I’m glad to see you’re up and about.”

“Did you go to the parade? Did you finish my manuscript?”

Wow. Reality check, Jillian.
“No, I missed the parade.” I looked behind me to make sure no one was watching us. “Are you sure it was Cole?”

Her face contorted. “Yes, I’m sure. Do you think I would blame my own brother, my flesh and blood, if he were innocent?” A globule of her spit landed on my nose.

“Remember, you did get hit on the head.” I took out a tissue from my back pocket. “Maybe somebody was dressed to look like Cole?”

“It was Cole . . . I remember falling . . . and looking up at his face . . . He was holding a shiny thing . . . Must have blocked out the rest.”

“Can I ask one last question?”

Jillian removed a library due-date card from the back of the book—
A Room of One’s Own
, by Virginia Woolf—and used it as a bookmark.

“Do you have any idea why your mother called Cole to come to New York?”

Jillian repositioned herself like she were sitting on shards of glass. “How’d you know?”

“I talked to Cole.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“This isn’t easy for me. I had temporary amnesia, not dementia. You should know I would never accuse my brother of murder if I didn’t remember everything. For God’s sake! What kind of monster do you think I am?”

“Jillian, you’re twisting my words.”

Mrs. Arnold appeared from nowhere and grabbed my wrist. “What are you doing? Leave the poor thing alone!”

“Ouch, take it easy.”

Mrs. Arnold shrieked, “Go. Now!”

“I’m here to work. You’re not my employer. First Fidelity Mutual is.” I looked at Jillian and mouthed,
Help
.

Jillian grinned. “Frieda, it’s okay. Let Meg go. She promises to behave, don’t you, Meg?”

Mrs. Arnold released me but stood so close I smelled onions and garlic in her hair. I stepped back. “Where might I find Ms. Warner? Oh, I remember, she’s working on the
servants’
floor.” Then I turned to Jillian. “Do you know what happened to the furniture that was in your bedroom—before you remodeled?”

“It was put in the attic with the rest of Mother’s junk.”

She had gotten rid of her bedroom furniture, just as Van had said. “One more thing. What’s the deal with that stuffed pig creature up in the attic?”

“That awful thing?” Jillian snorted. “Adam put it up there. It belonged to his father. It was supposedly shot by a relative who was with Teddy Roosevelt on safari. When Adam couldn’t get its provenance verified, it lost its value and he sent it up to the attic.”

Theodore Roosevelt’s stately home, Sagamore Hill, was located on Long Island. Following the Spanish-American War, Teddy and his Rough Riders camped out in Hither Hills State Park in Montauk to recover from yellow fever. So it was possible Adam’s story was true.

“It’s hideous, isn’t it?” Jillian asked.

“Yes, it is.”

I went up the back staircase, which was near Cole’s suite. Yellow tape crisscrossed the door. Things were scattered on the floor. The book on sailing peeked out from under the bed.

I met up with Elle in Jillian’s room. She’d completed the main floor and the attic but still had the second and third floors to inventory. It seemed a moot point now that Cole had been arrested. However, a person was innocent until proven guilty, and there still was the missing furniture.

“Can you believe this room?” Elle shook her head. “There’s nothing of insurance value except for Jillian’s creepy doll collection. Why don’t you bring them down from the top of the closet and I’ll video them?”

I reached for the first doll in line but changed my mind when her protruding glass eyeballs followed me like the portrait that used to hang over my grandma’s Steinway. I grabbed doll number two instead, an amiable blond with perfect ringlets and blue flirty eyes.

“Hey, Missy,” a voice said.

I vaulted off the stool, lost my grip on doll number two, and she performed a triple gainer before crash-landing to
the floor. The doll’s wig landed on a pair of loafers and Mr. Arnold looked at me in astonishment.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare ya. The missus wants to know if you want lunch,” he said in his squeaky voice.

I walked out of the closet toward him. “I’m fine. How about you, Elle?” I knew Mrs. Arnold would never offer food without a reason. I gestured behind Mr. Arnold’s head for Elle to say no.

“No thanks,” she said.

Mr. Arnold stood looking at us with a goofy expression. I put my hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle push toward the hallway. “Sorry. We have lots of work to do.”

Looking befuddled, he finally shuffled away.

Elle slapped the wig back on the doll. “I wouldn’t put it past Mrs. Arnold to add a dash of arsenic to the chutney.”

“Did I ruin it?”

“No biggie. It can be glued on. It’s made from human hair.”

I reached over to pet it. “Kind of eerie. Like the hair the Victorians saved from their deceased loved ones and stored in lockets.”

“I don’t know. Maybe someday we’ll be able to clone our ancestors from hair samples.”

“Guess what I found in the attic the night Jillian accused Cole of murder?”

“I’m not even going to ask what you were doing in the attic.”

“The clock I saw at Champagne and Caviar Antiques. It’s upstairs under a sheet, next to the disappearing/reappearing bookcase. I almost forgot about it with all the commotion.”

“Someone’s playing a game of musical furniture. I’ll check it out later. Do you think the missing furniture has
anything to do with the murder? You told me Cole hasn’t been here in seventeen years. How would he have access to the furniture?”

“I have my suspicions, and they don’t include Cole.”

I pawed through Jillian’s closet, searched inside shoe boxes and pockets, but couldn’t find anything that might help me prove Cole’s innocence. There was a bottle on Jillian’s nightstand. I picked it up and looked inside; only two pills remained from a prescription of thirty. I jotted down the name on the label: Brintellix.

*   *   *

Elle saved the best room on the second floor for last: Caroline Spenser’s. The Queen of England couldn’t have done better.

“American Empire,” Elle said.

Caroline Spenser’s suite consisted of a sitting room, bedroom, dressing room, and large bathroom. The bedroom and sitting room had back-to-back fireplaces with creamy marble mantels that displayed miniature portraits.

Elle walked over to the sitting room mantel and took a deep sniff of white freesia in a Wedgwood footed vase. “Who takes the time to put fresh flowers in a dead woman’s room?”

“Good question.” If I had a guess, it would be Mr. Arnold.

I entered Caroline’s bedroom. Like the sitting room, the walls were hung with period pale blue wallpaper with sprinklings of gold. Interspersed around the room were life-sized ancestral portraits. A painting of a woman in an empire-waist gown and white pompadour wig was centered over the bedroom mantel. One of Caroline Spenser’s English forebears? Once again I checked under, over, and inside the furniture. The only thing I came away with were dust bunnies, which stuck to the front of my sweater like
they were nursing, and a small diary. Every page had been ripped out.

Elle said she would turn it in to Detective Shoner, allowing me one degree of separation.

We completed the second floor and did a quick scan of each room on the third floor, but didn’t find the missing furniture.

Adam’s room was Spartan at best, almost as if he didn’t want anyone to learn anything about him.

Elle said, “I’m surprised he has a room on the third floor, not the second. I thought he’d have antiques and art everywhere. Maybe he keeps all his treasures in his Manhattan apartment?”

“I don’t know, but something stinks, and it’s not Cole.”
In fact, he smells quite good
.

“I trust your instincts, but I wouldn’t be a friend if I didn’t tell you to be careful.”

The rest of the day was spent alternating between inventorying and snooping. Whatever you called it, we couldn’t find anything to explain why Jillian had blamed Cole for their mother’s murder.

Elle and I parted at the stairway leading to the attic. She planned on photographing the hide-and-seek Dominy clock and bookcase. I hoped they’d be there. I was starting to sound like a loon, even to myself.

I used the exit at the bottom of the back staircase and snuck outside. I was almost to my car when a wail sounded.

Tripod. His chain was tied to the drain of the empty koi pond, and Mr. Arnold was lobbing pieces of raw meat onto his freckled snout.

“What the hell are you doing?” I stomped toward him.

“I’m feeding the beast. The missus said to give him this till we get a delivery from the market.”

With a soulful expression, Tripod jumped up and licked my face. He missed his owner. He wasn’t the only one. “Why didn’t Cole take him when he was here?”

“They don’t accept dogs at the fancy hotel he’s stayin’ at.”

“Would anyone mind if I took Tripod home with me?”

“Mind? I’d pay ya myself.”

“What about Jillian? Isn’t she close to the dog?”

“Not that I’ve seen. She don’t like animals. Never has. I’ll go get his things.”

Mr. Arnold was back in two minutes with a plaid doggie bed and assorted chew toys.

I left Tripod in the car when I stopped at the IGA for dog food. Not knowing which brand to choose, I decided to buy him an assortment.

We walked in the cottage and I put Tripod’s bed next to the fireplace then filled two vintage Weller mixing bowls with food and water. I left him happily chomping away and made a beeline for the fax machine. My father had sent copies of bank account statements from North Carolina Savings and Loan. Cole had two million dollars in his business account. Why would he kill his mother for a measly hundred thousand? Whoever had transferred the money into the new account didn’t know Cole was a self-made millionaire. All of a sudden the fax machine hummed. Tripod’s ears came to a point, as did mine, especially after I read what Elle had sent.