Darned if You Do (12 page)

“And no one filed an official complaint?” Halloran's scorn was clear.

“Aw, Excelsior was used to him and his ways, no one had cared to press charges. Oh, now and again some one of us would haul him in, tell him he was banned from someplace, and have the chief give him a lecture, but he never appeared in court charged with a crime. He was mostly harmless.”

“Yeah, a harmless jerk who made a threat of violence against someone he thought was taking serious advantage of him. And now he's dead.”

Yes
, thought Malloy,
someone came into his hospital room and leaned on his face with a spare pillow taken from the room's closet. And now we're going to talk with someone who just might be the someone we're looking for
.

They parked in front of Valentina Shipp's motel room, beside the shabby old car that belonged to her, and went to rap on the door. She answered it promptly, but said nothing, eyeing them with suspicion, a tall, thin woman somewhere in her early fifties, with dark, intense eyes and dark graying hair pulled back and fastened with a rubber band. She was wearing faded jeans, green sneakers that had a hole in one toe, and a tan sweater a size too big that looked hand-knit.

She was younger than Tom, less strange-eyed, but obviously cut from the same genetic cloth. Like him she was bony and narrow, with that same beaky nose, wide mouth, and lots of oddly dark freckles. But the thing that sent Malloy's cop-alarm ringing was how sharply defensive she turned as soon as he showed her his ID and asked if she would speak with them.

“Why? What about?” she asked, eyes widening, and one arm lifting as if to close the door on them—a gesture she quickly halted half made.

“About Thomas Riordan. He's your cousin, right?”

“Yes?” She made it a request for more information.

Halloran spoke up. “And you have an emergency conservatorship over him, is that correct?”

“Well, I did, but now he's dead, it's ended, according to my attorney, Mr. James Penberthy.” There was noticeable emphasis on the phrase “my attorney.”

Mike knew Jim Penberthy, knew he wasn't a criminal defense attorney and therefore only a little better than useless in the predicament Ms. Shipp was about to find herself in.

“So the work on sorting out the material in the Riordan house is ended?”

“Yes, for now. The conservatorship ended when Tommy died. But I'm going to be appointed a—” She hesitated, looking for the right legal term. “Ah, yes, personal representative. My attorney says it takes about five days or a week. Then I get to go back to work.” She frowned and took several deep breaths through that prominent nose before bursting out, “This delay is
outrageous
! No one really cared about Tommy while he was alive! I cared, I drove hundreds of miles to help and people like you think I came here on purpose to kill him!”

Halloran said, “We're not here to blame you, we're here to find out what happened to him.”

“So why aren't you doing that, instead of picking on me?”

“We have to go where the case leads me. You profit by his death, so here we are to ask you about that. Would you be willing to come with me downtown?”

“No . . .” She wasn't sure she was entitled to refuse.

Malloy said, “Or you can meet us at the Excelsior police building.”

“Am I under arrest?” She was becoming belligerent.

Halloran said in a surprisingly conciliatory tone, “No, of course not. But we're conducting an investigation, and you may be able to help us go forward with that. You do want whoever murdered your cousin found, right?”

Sudden tears in Shipp's eyes were quickly blinked away. “Of course I do! But you can ask me anything you like right here.”

Halloran gave a big, exasperated sigh. There was no way they could tell her they wanted her in a law enforcement environment, where her growing impudence would be cowed and therefore she'd be more likely to cooperate, less likely to shout and throw things. Drawing from experience with other citizens, Malloy was sure Shipp was a shouter.

Still . . . she was right, she was not under arrest. They did not have the evidence—yet—to arrest her.

As lead investigator, it was Halloran's decision. “Fine, let's sit down and talk right here.”

Shipp stared at Halloran for several seconds, her face a careful blank, then she stepped back and let them come inside.

The room was small but clean. The carpet was thin and worn, a sad shade of brown. The blackout curtains on the window were also brown. The cushion on the only chair in the room was a dusty maroon, pulled up to a table with a scarred veneer surface. She gestured at Halloran to take the chair, and Malloy went to stand against the wall next to the door. She sat on the bottom edge of the bed, which had a red and brown paisley coverlet slightly disordered, as if she'd been lying on it.

A radio in the next unit could be heard broadcasting a news program, the words unintelligible but the urgent voice of the reporter and the bumper music that marked a segment were unmistakable.

Mike got out his fat notebook and wrote down the date, time, location, and Valentina's name.

“Have you been able to make final arrangements for the burial of your cousin?” he asked.

He made the query in a quiet voice, but the words made her flinch. “Not yet. I don't know . . .” She hesitated. “I'm not sure what I'm going to do about Tommy. The medical examiner is supposed to call me, and then . . . I don't know.”

“There's an excellent funeral home in Excelsior, Huber's is the name. They can help with arrangements, even if it's to send his body somewhere else for burial.”

She was surprised at this offer of assistance. She asked, half serious, “It's not owned by your brother-in-law, is it?”

He smiled. “No, they're no relation. I understand you've hooked up with the owner of Crewel World, Betsy Devonshire. You can ask her about them, they buried her sister.”

“Thanks, I'll do that.”

The tension in the room had eased.

Halloran took over. “Now I want to talk to you about your cousin. How well did you know him? Did you grow up together?”

“Not well at all. For one thing, I'm ten years younger than he is, and for another, I grew up in Indiana and he grew up here. That house he lived in was bought by his grandparents and left to his parents, who left it to him, along with some kind of legal setup, a trust I think, because he can't earn his own living. I saw him maybe three or four times when he was growing up; once when we came up there for a week and twice when he came to stay with us for a summer.”

“Are there any other cousins?”

“No.”

“So he was an only child and you are an only child.”

“Yes. Well, that is, we didn't start out to be that way. Tommy had a younger brother, or maybe it was a sister, who died right after she was born. My mother had two stillbirths.”

Definitely something awry in the genes of these people, thought Malloy, taking notes as Halloran asked the questions.

“How did you two stay in touch? Phone calls, e-mail, Christmas letters?”

“We mostly didn't. He didn't have a computer and neither of us likes writing letters. I used to send him birthday cards, when I remembered to, and I almost always sent him a Christmas card. He sent me a Christmas card sometimes, and twice he sent me a postcard with a picture of a flying pig on it—same postcard, three or four years apart. No message, just his name. I don't know what that was about, maybe he thought it was funny and forgot the second time he already sent it to me the first time. The only reason they contacted me was I'm about his only next of kin.”

Malloy spoke up. “So you are the sole heir?”

She stared at him for several seconds while a puzzled frown formed. “Heir? You mean like in a will? I didn't know he wrote a will.”

“As far as I know, he never wrote a will.”

“Then what's this heir stuff?”

“I mean, who gets his house and anything else he owned?”

“How should I know?” She was sounding belligerent again, and a little frightened.

Halloran gave Malloy a quelling look and said to Valentina, “Well, let's take another approach. You said you're his only next of kin?”

“Oh, that. Yes, I am. Is that what he means? Next of kin gets his stuff?” Her eyes shifted to a corner of the room and she said, “I hadn't thought of that.”

Malloy nearly smiled at this lie and said, “Really?”

She looked uncomfortable, then her chin came up. She looked him in the eye but said nothing.

He said, “So, if there are no other relatives still alive, that would make you his sole heir.”

She still said nothing, though she was breathing so hard the air whistled in her nose. “So what?” she finally asked.

Halloran said, almost gently, “That means that because he's dead, you get all his property: the house and its contents.”

“I already got a house, and his house is full of crap.”

Malloy said impatiently, “According to the Leipolds, there is more than twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of not-crap in the house.”

“They said that? They haven't said that to me!” said Valentina.

“They will, they're making up a report for you right now. And there's no law that says you can't sell the property and take the money home with you.”

She drew a breath to argue with him, then let it out. “So what?” she asked again, this time without the fangs.

“So who else had a motive as strong as that to kill Mr. Riordan?”

She blinked away sudden tears of fright almost before he noticed them, but said bravely, “It's not my job to find that out. It's yours.”

*   *   *

“W
ELL
,
what do you think?” asked Halloran as the two rode in Malloy's car back to Excelsior.

“Apart from the fact that she's about as hinky as she could be? I think she's almost as scared as she's angry. I think she came up here thinking she could tuck poor Cousin Tom into some kind of locked ward, sell his house the following weekend, and go home on Monday with a purse full of money.”

“I don't know,” said Halloran slowly. “I think she's behaving—for her—normally.”

“Normally? Seriously?”

“I don't think she told us a single lie.”

I
T
was a little past noon the next day when Valentina came into Crewel World. She found Betsy and Godwin sitting at the library table in the middle of the room having lunch, each with a cup of soup and half a sandwich, a complex scatter of papers and catalogs between them.

The merry notes of a sort-of-familiar tune on the toy organ announced her arrival. Was it a different tune than last time? She wasn't sure.

Godwin and Betsy looked up as she came in. “How may we help you?” asked Betsy, starting to get up.

“No, stay there,” said Valentina. “I want to talk to you.”

“All right. Won't you sit down?”

“Thank you.” Valentina came to the table and sat down in a chair one space away from the two of them. But then her nerves failed her. She clasped her hands on the table and looked at the pegs holding needlepoint yarn in thin skeins on the far wall.

After a bit, Godwin asked, “How's the work going on Tom's house?”

“I've stopped it for now. The conservatorship died with Tommy, so I'm not in charge anymore.”

“Who is?”

“I don't know. I think a judge has to decide.”

“Did the Leipolds finish their inspection?” asked Betsy.

“Yes, I'm supposed to go pick it up this afternoon.” She was still not looking at them, and so didn't see Godwin and Betsy exchange puzzled glances.

Another silence fell, then Valentina took a deep breath. “Two police detectives came to talk to me yesterday. They think I murdered Tommy.”

“Strewth!” exclaimed Godwin.

“Police detectives from where?” asked Betsy.

“One from Minneapolis and the other from here in Excelsior.”

“Mike Malloy is
such
a jerk!” said Godwin. “It was Mike, wasn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Did he threaten to arrest you?” asked Betsy.

“No. But he said he doesn't know anyone else with a motive as strong as mine.”

Then she looked at the two of them. “I don't know what to do. Godwin, you said . . . you said Betsy helps people . . . with this kind of trouble.”

“Yes, I did,” said Godwin, looking significantly at Betsy.

“What is Mike doing investigating this in the first place?” asked Betsy, sounding defensive. “The murder happened in Minneapolis, and you're living right now in Shorewood.”

“Betsy,” Godwin began.

“Plus, I'm very busy right now. We're shorthanded and we're at the start of our busy season.” She gestured at the papers on the table.

“Well, then, I'm sorry I bothered you,” said Valentina stiffly. “I'll just go, okay?”

“No, you won't!” said Godwin fiercely. “Sit still! Betsy, she came hundreds of miles to help her last living relative, and now she's going to be charged with his murder if we don't do something!”

“‘We'?”

“You know perfectly well my workload about doubles when you get started on these things. I'm willing to do my part, so you should be, too. Anyway, now we've got Connor to help out.”

“Connor has nothing to do with the shop.”

Godwin stared at her. “Oh, my dear, dear boss. Of course he does. He's
essential
. He can work here when I can't, and he can help you in your investigations.”

“I
said
—” Betsy halted.

Valentina listened to them argue and stood up. “Please, never mind,” she said. “I've taken care of myself most of my life, and I'll get through this. Forget I was even here.”

Godwin got to his feet, too. “Oh, Valentina, this is bigger trouble than you think. You can't do this alone, you have to have help—you have to
demand
that someone help you.”

Betsy stood and held out her hand to Valentina. “Godwin's right, you are in very serious trouble. I'm sorry I was reluctant to say right away I'd help you. All this—” She gestured at the table. “This can wait. Now, sit down and let's talk.”

One thing they talked about was Tom Riordan's remains.

“The medical examiner still has Tom's body,” said Valentina. “I don't know when he's going to release it. I also don't know what to do about Tom when he does.”

“Call Huber's right here in Excelsior,” said Betsy at once. “They were wonderful to me when my sister, Margot, died.”

“And talk to Jim Penberthy,” added Godwin. “Surely Tom's estate can pay for his funeral.”

*   *   *

B
ETSY
went with Valentina to the Leipolds' store on Water Street to pick up their report on Riordan's house.

Darel was behind the desk today. He was a stocky man with heavy features. He had sharp dark eyes behind glasses and a cheerful smile. He handed Valentina a plain white envelope, and Valentina handed him a long blue check.

Darel said, “I'm glad you asked us. I've wondered what was in that house for a long time—Tom was very defensive about the place, so I suppose we should have guessed he was a junker. It was an interesting job; more difficult than the usual, but I think you'll like the results.”

Valentina ripped open the envelope eagerly and found two sheets of paper numbering, describing, and valuing nearly thirty items. The dollar values ranged from eighty to—shockingly—five thousand dollars. That last was for an autographed first edition of Zane Grey's first novel,
Betty Zane
. Valentina had heard of Zane Grey—he was her father's favorite author—but thought the books were cheap potboiler westerns. “Oh, no,” said Darel, “he was a millionaire writer, back when a million dollars was serious money.”

There was not a total at the bottom, and Valentina was too innumerate, and too anxious, to estimate what that might be.

Darel said, “We only listed items worth eighty dollars or more. You should be aware that we went into the Dumpster and found some items of value. We left them in the living room.”

“What were they?” asked Valentina, looking at the list.

“I think we pulled six out in total and listed four of them on that report. I put a red check by them. One is a Victorian wicker birdcage—it's worth ninety-five dollars. More if you clean it up and get the missing door replaced. Another is a brown pottery vase. It's a North Dakota School of Mines piece, signed. If it didn't have that chip on the lip it would be worth several thousand; even with the chip, it's worth five hundred. The third is a Walt Disney Donald Duck comic book that has ‘Christmas on Bear Mountain' in it—the first appearance of Uncle Scrooge. It's worth about two hundred dollars, maybe more.”

“Wow, really?” said Valentina. “I thought the only comic books worth anything were
Superman
or
Batman
.”

“No, sometimes the lighter comics are worth money, too. If that Disney one were in mint condition, it would be worth over three thousand dollars.”

“Wow,” said Valentina.

“The fourth is a pair of cowboy boots,” said Darel. “They're probably from the fifties, and handmade out of croc belly by a company called Lucchese. They need to be cleaned by a professional—it looks and smells as if the previous owner walked in something nasty while wearing them and tossed them. And Tom probably found them in the trash. But they're worth about seven hundred dollars restored.”

“Oh my God,
I
threw those boots away!” said Valentina. “I found them at the bottom of a box. They stank so much I didn't even look at them. I took them right out to the Dumpster, I couldn't wait to get them out of the house!” She laughed, embarrassed at herself. “But—
seven hundred dollars
? Really? For that old pair of boots? Wasn't the heel coming off one of them?”

“That's right,” said Darel, with a smile. “Don't lose that heel, it can be put back on. I put them in a Ziploc bag so they won't stink up the room. Bad as they are, you could sell them right now for a couple hundred. It's going to cost you something to get them restored, but you'll be glad you did. If you do and then put them up for auction, you might get as much as a thousand.”

“Holy Shinola!” said Valentina. “That right there makes the price you charged for the survey worth it. I never would've thought that pair of boots was worth a nickel. Thank you!” She turned to Betsy. “This is so wonderful!” Then back to Darel. “Sergeant Malloy said you told him there was twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of things in the house, but I didn't know whether to believe him!” And again she turned back to Betsy. “I'm so glad you suggested the Leipolds. And God bless Tommy for saving all this stuff!” Then she pressed the estimate and her other hand to her face. “Oh, Tommy, Tommy, you stupid, silly man! You could've sold some of this stuff and saved your house!” She burst into tears.

“Here, now!” said Darel, alarmed. “What's the matter?”

“She's just upset over her cousin, that's all,” said Betsy, embracing Valentina with one arm, patting her on the far shoulder. “He died, you know. She's taking his death pretty hard.”

“Well, I'm sorry,” said Darel.

Valentina managed to control her tears long enough to say, “I've got an appointment with Mr. Penberthy, so I'd better get over there. See you later. Thanks, Betsy. Thanks, Mr. Leipold.” She fled up an aisle and out the door.

After she was gone, Betsy said, “Darel, did Tom Riordan ever steal anything from you?”

He laughed, his face scrunching up like a big-nosed Santa. “Oh yes. Once he found a
Life
magazine that was published on the day he was born and stuck it up inside his shirt. It was an old T-shirt, and I could see the cover through the fabric. I suppose I should have stopped him, but heck, it was probably worth three dollars. He never stole anything we couldn't afford to lose. Or if he did, and I caught him, he'd give it back. He liked magazines, especially the kind with photographs of foreign places. That reminds me, tell Ms. Shipp that we'll buy some of those magazines in her house, will you?”

“Yes, I'll tell her. But about Tom, what was he like?”

Darel thought briefly. “He was a man baffled by reality. For example, he didn't steal out of meanness. I think he thought it was clever of him to walk off with something he didn't have to pay for.”

“Do you know anyone who was seriously angry with him for stealing something?”

“I'd want to ask LaVerna about that, but I don't think so. I'm sure nobody ever said anything to me like that.” And Darel was known for talking to everyone on any occasion, so he, more than LaVerna, would know.

“Who actively hated him?”

“Oh, nobody hated him! He could be aggravating, of course, especially when it was near time for his next check and he was out of money. He'd come around talking about how he was kind of hungry and hoped somebody would give him a quarter for a candy bar, as if you could buy a candy bar for a quarter anymore. What he wanted was a dollar.” He smiled, remembering. “I'm going to miss him and his thieving ways. Odd, isn't it? But he was a real character. He added spark to the community.”

“You say you and LaVerna were surprised by how many valuable things there were in Tom's house. That Zane Grey book, for example. Where could he have gotten such a thing? Could it be that he didn't always steal token items?”

“Oh, I suspect that came from a garage sale, or an estate sale. Families come from out of town to close up Grandmother's place after she dies, and they're in a hurry or they're ignorant or both. Maybe Grandmother got a little foolish toward the end and mixed her good jewelry with her costume jewelry and a real diamond ring or ruby brooch gets put out on a tray at the yard sale and someone buys it for fifty cents. Happens more often than you think. Suppose your great-uncle had a thousand books in his house when he died; nobody's going to look at every single volume, so a rarity or a first edition goes for a dollar.” He shrugged and said again, “Happens all the time.”

“So you think Tom Riordan had a good eye for a bargain?”

“Oh heck no! He was like a crow that picks up anything shiny. A chewing gum wrapper, a twenty-dollar gold piece, all the same to the crow. Tom just did so much collecting that no wonder he got lucky once in a while. They will undoubtedly throw a ton of useless, smelly, worthless junk out of that house.”