Designer Detective (A Fiona Marlowe Mystery) (2 page)

“May I help you?” said a proper English voice.

I jumped and emitted an unladylike screech,
gripping my chest to forestall a heart attack. I searched for the voice and saw
the source standing at the entrance. “Good heavens. You gave me a fright. Who
are you?” I managed to croak.

“My name is Hudson. I'm Mr. Lodge's butler. And
you?”

He was an Anthony Hopkins look alike
reminiscent of the butler in the movie,
Remains
of the Day,
displaying a countenance more curious than stern. I detected a
bit of a twinkle in his eye.

“Fiona Marlowe. Mr. Lodge engaged me to
redesign the library. I'm the one who found him yesterday.”

“Quite. I've been away. My sister has been ill
so I took leave to visit her. I returned when I heard of Mr. Lodge's accident.”

He walked to the window by the desk and opened
the heavy velvet green drapes. They were the first things I planned to get rid
of. The windows needed something lighter, airier.

“You came Saturday whilst I was gone, I believe,”
he said.

“Yes. Mr. Lodge gave me a key so I could work
when he wasn't here during the day.”

“He mentioned he had engaged you. I sometimes
work in the far reaches of the house and didn't hear you come in since you
didn't ring the bell. Are you here to continue working?” He cocked his head to
one side like that was a suspect idea.

I smiled without humor. “No, I realize under
the circumstances, my work won’t be needed. I misplaced my cell phone. The last
time I used it was here, so I came back to look for it. Sorry to impose.”

He walked to the desk and picked up my cell
phone.

“Is this it? I found it on the couch when I was
tidying up this morning.”

“Thanks so much. I better run. Sorry.” I took
the phone, plopped it in my purse and turned to go.

“You don't have to leave. Would you care for
tea?
 
We could talk about your plans for
the remodel.”

I looked at him like he had just told me I’d won
the lottery. “I thought the job would be over since Mr. Lodge . . .” My voice
failed me, and I looked down at the place on the floor.

“The house will be put up for sale, no doubt,
and anything you could do to spruce up the place would only add to the value.
Maybe you could look at some of the other rooms.”

“Maybe we should have that cup of tea,” I said.

Hudson led the way to a dining area looking out
on the spacious grounds to the back of the house. Spacious was an
understatement. A virtual park unfolded across the horizon. In the immediate
foreground was an Olympic size pool prime for swimming. A hint of steam rose
from the water. Deck chairs were arranged as if a party might break out at any
minute. A breakfast nook off the kitchen had a sparkling glass oval table with
place for six. Hudson held my chair at the end to afford me the best view of
the park.

“I just made a pot of tea. It won’t take me a
minute to assemble the tray.”

He stepped smartly around a central island big
enough for ten of my kitchen. On a crystal plate he arranged cinnamon rolls
that by the smell would have just come from the oven. I wondered who else was
coming. Maybe he had a sweet tooth.

He placed silver teapot, cups and saucers on a silver
tray and brought the whole shebang to the table. Did I mention he was done up
in black suit, crisp white shirt, black tie? Shiny shoes, too.

“Here we are,” he said, placing the intricately
carved silver tray between us. Brilliantly polished, might I add. He seated himself
across from me and served.
Lovely china, probably Waterford.
I restrained myself from turning over the saucer to check the imprint.

“Thank you,” I said, accepting a cup and plate
with cinnamon bun, heavy on the glaze.
My favorite.
It
had been a while since breakfast.

 
I took a
sip while Hudson served himself. He had crow's feet around disconcertingly pale
blue eyes and the makings of jowls. His jacket was of impeccable fit. He sipped
his tea with a genteel slurp. He looked up and an engaging smile lit his face.

I gathered my courage and waded in. “Not to
rush the subject but who's running the show now?”

“I am,” he said with the engaging smile. His
teeth were not perfectly straight which I appreciated after years of looking at
the
orthodontically
correct generation. Crooked teeth
were a mark of character in my book.

My raised eyebrow triggered more information.

“Mr. Lodge had every confidence in me. I manage
the entire operation of the house, including finances. That's what the modern butler
does. The library redesign will be small in terms of my signature authority.
Mr. Lodge had already approved it.”

That answered my big question of who had the
authority to pay me, if I undertook the rest of the project.

“I see. I don't mean to be nosy but aren't
there children or relatives or an executor? I mean this is quite an estate.”

“Mr. Lodge has
a
older
sister who is executor of the estate. She's quite sharp given her age. Mr. and
Mrs. Lodge had no children. Mrs. Lodge’s sister and brother live abroad.”

Now we were getting into the good stuff.

“Won't the sister or whoever inherits have a
say in how money is spent?”

He patted his lips with linen napkin and frowned.
“Ms. Marlowe, I know what I'm doing. You shall be paid for your work. Now shall
we discuss your plans for the library?”

On the drive back to my condo, I mulled over
what to do. I wasn't convinced that Hudson had the authority to go ahead with
the job. What about the sister executor? She could refuse to pay. I didn't like
working for nothing, and I didn't want to argue about it. If I were smart, I’d
try to get hold of the sister. I bet Jake knew who she was.

I tried my cell phone at a red light. Darn
thing didn't work. I had to get to that stack of unopened bills. I needed
someone like Hudson badly. Maybe I should hire a butler.
Maybe
younger, more handsome.
Infinite possibilities there.

When I got back to the condo, the answering
machine was chirping and the message light was on. I listened to a message from
PI Jake. He wanted to meet me for coffee in the morning. I called back on the
number he left which he didn't pick up, so I left a message on his answering
service that I'd be available after ten in the morning.

He called back.
“How about
eight?”

I chewed my lip. I rarely got out of bed before
nine, but I didn't want this guy to think I was a deadbeat freeloader. “Nine,”
I said in a bargaining mood.

I heard him sigh through the phone waves.
“All right.
Nine.” He hung up. Maybe the autopsy report the
family had ordered was back on Albert Lodge.

* * * * *

 
I showed
up at Cafe Francois, a little dive I recommended, around 9:15. I like to be
fashionably late. Jake was already there, sitting at a window booth, gripping a
cup of coffee. I’d thrown on a pair of pressed designer jeans, black turtleneck,
and tan corduroy jacket. The weather was forty degrees and raining which I
detest. I love corduroy though. Cafe Francois was like home to me. I walked to
the booth and slid in. Jake managed a grunt in greeting.

“Bad night?”
I asked.

“Not much sleep.”

“I get those, too.”

Kathy, the waitress, came over. “Coffee,
Fiona?” she asked.

“And a cinnamon bun,” I added since I hadn’t
bothered with breakfast.

“Haven't seen you in a while,” she said,
turning up the coffee cup and pouring. “You been out a town on one of the cushy
jobs you pull in?”

I shook my head. “No, I've been working locally.
Several weeks ago I went to Honduras to do some work for Mrs. Velasquez, you
know, the one I did a lot of work for last year.”

“I remember.” She shook her head. “Some people
know how to live.
Anything else for you, sir?”

“Just coffee, thanks.”

“Sure, big boy,” she said with a grin. As she sashayed
away in the tightest black waitress dress you'd ever want to see, I noticed
Jake’s eyes following her retreat. He recovered and stirred an armload of sugar
into his coffee.

“You know the help,” he said.

“I come here a lot. Where are you from?”

“Out west.
Grew up in Oklahoma.”

“You've come up in the world.”

He gave a half laugh that lifted his mouth on
one side. “I'm not sure. Not many people speak English around here.”

“A sad commentary on our
world.”

Kathy sauntered over and slid a big, warm
cinnamon bun in front of me. She plunked down two plates and a knife. “Thought
you might like to share,” she said. I knew she was thinking this was the start
of another romance.

“Thanks,” I said, not able to hold back a
smile. “You devil.”

She winked at me and left to devil another
customer.

When I offered Jake a slice of my bun, he held
up his hand. “I never indulge. I get all the sugar I need in my coffee.”

I shrugged and sipped my coffee, waiting for
Jake to tell me why he wanted to see me.

“The coroner’s report is in. Albert Lodge died
of an overdose of Propranolol.”

I'm sure my face registered a dumb look. “Am I
supposed to know what that is? I can't even pronounce it.”

“Propranolol is prescription medication used to
treat high blood pressure, rapid heart rate, tremors,
stuff
like that. It can be lethal in high doses. Albert took a small daily dose.”

“Wow, you think he might have committed suicide?”

“Maybe.”

“Of course, someone could have given him an
overdose.”

“Maybe someone could have.” He nodded his head
up and down slowly, all the while holding my gaze.

Something niggled at my brain and then exploded
full screen into my mind's amphitheater. “I'm a suspect.”

He smiled. It was a nice smile, but not under
these circumstances. “You might say.”

“Wow,” I said again. My vocabulary seemed to be
failing me. “I bet you want to know more about me. Did you do a background
check?”

“Yes,
m'am
,
to both.”

“You already know about me then. What's to
tell?”

“Current history.
How
long have you known the deceased?”

I frowned. This conversation was not going in
the right direction.

“I met him for the first time last Saturday.
He’s a little too old for me, so dispense with that idea. But I have some
information that might interest you.”

He sat back and played with his empty coffee cup,
twirling it around. “Shoot,” he said.

“When I met with Mr. Lodge to determine the scope
of work for the library redesign, he mentioned he wanted the work done because
his wife had died. He didn't mention whether he had fond memories. But I got
the feeling that he didn't particularly care for her. The redesign might have
been his way of scrubbing away an unpleasant memory.”

“Okay,” said Jake. “But the wife is dead so
she’s not a suspect.”

“Right.
But maybe she
had unpleasant feelings for him, which she shared with other family members.
Maybe they did him in. I'm just throwing out possibilities here.”

“Grasping at straws?”

“Very funny.
I'm
trying to help your investigation. I have no feeling invested in this. I met
Mr. Lodge Saturday. I was there Monday and Tuesday of this week while he was at
work. Wednesday I find him on the floor. Friday I'm a suspect. I don't think
I've had enough emotional investment in the affair to murder him.”

“You could be working for someone else.”

“Look at me. Do I look like a murderer?”

“Hon, I've seen sweet little old ladies do
worse.”

“I'm sure you have.”

“Can
you account for your whereabouts Tuesday night?”

I blew out a breath. “Home alone in bed. No
witnesses. What was the time of death?”

“Sometime during the night.”

“Someone could have slipped him something with
dinner.”

“The contents of his stomach indicated Chinese
food.”

“There you have it.”

“I'm trying to eliminate you as a suspect.”

I threw up my hands. “It was Colonel Mustard in
the library with the candlestick.”

“Hey, that's good. You used to play Clue?” Jake
perked up at the mention of Clue. This was the most animated I'd seen him.

“Hours on end when I was a kid.”

“Yeah, me, too.
We got
white people’s discarded board games on the reservation. We gave all the
characters Cherokee names.”

I frowned. “You grew up on a reservation?”

“Yeah, didn't everyone?”

Did I detect bitterness behind that comment? I
studied his face but he had withdrawn behind a smirk.

“All
right,” I said. “We best keep to the matter at hand. How did you get hired for
this job?”

He did a one-shoulder lift. “I owe a family
member a favor. How did you get the job?”

“Referral.
I've done
other estates in McLean. Good work is its own advertisement.” I put on a smile
with an edge. “Did you interview the butler?”

“Yes. Did you?”

“I talked to him in the kitchen. I'm being
retained to finish the library.”

“Interesting.
So you
went back there yesterday.”

I could feel heat creep into my face. “I left
my cell phone by accident and went back to retrieve it. Here’s an interesting detail
for you. There was an old beat up Toyota in the ditch outside the entrance to
the estate when I went yesterday.” I opened my trusty daily planner, copied
down the pertinent details on an old envelope and slid it toward him. “There, I
got the license and model and color. You said any little detail.”