Murder In the Past Tense (A Giorgio Salvatori Mystery Book 2) (17 page)

As she stepped aside to let them in, she happened to look past Giorgio and spy Grosvenor sticking his nose out the open window of the car.

“Is that a Basset Hound?” she cooed.

Giorgio glanced back at the car. “Yes,” he said innocently, knowing full well he’d left the window open hoping Grosvenor would show himself. “He’s on his way to the groomer’s.”

She stepped out onto the porch to get a better look. “Well, why don’t you bring him in? It’s cold out here, and we love dogs. I used to have a Basset when I was a little girl. I’d love to meet him.”

Giorgio shot a look at Rocky. It seemed at least once a week someone mentioned that they’d owned a Basset. He returned to the car, clipped on the dog’s leash and let the dog out.

Grosvenor ambled up the walkway, stopping once to lift his leg on a rose bush that lined the walk. Giorgio jerked the leash, shot a sheepish smile at Mrs. Johnson, and Grosvenor reluctantly hefted his heavy body up the steps. He approached the woman with his head down and his tail wagging.

“This is Grosvenor,” Giorgio said.

“Well, aren’t you the sweet thing?” she said, reaching out and petting him.

Grosvenor knew a soft touch when he met one and wiggled his entire body in response. Mrs. Johnson was charmed.

“Grosvenor, that’s an odd name,” she said, her eyes dancing.

“He was a rescue dog. It was on his tag. But it seems to fit,” Giorgio said, looking down at his short-legged companion.

“Yes it does,” she said. “Well, c’mon, Grosvenor – let’s go inside.”

She led them into a richly carpeted entryway and then closed the big door behind them.

“Welcome to the Pinney House,” she said with a broad smile.

Giorgio glanced around, impressed with the grandeur of the décor. The walls were painted a soft crème color accented with brass wall sconces. Pine wainscoting wrapped around corners and all the way down the hallway, and a handsome oak staircase extended to the second floor. Holiday garland and red bows accented the bannister. An elegant crystal chandelier hung from the center of the foyer ceiling.

“It’s lovely,” he said.

“We’re very proud of what we've accomplished,” she said. “It wasn’t in very good condition when we bought it. What you see is the result of a lot of blood, sweat and tears. And money,” she joked.

Giorgio had explained on the phone that he wanted access to the home to get a better sense of the layout.

“We’d like to look around if you don’t mind,” he said.

“We’re full right now, so I’m afraid the guest rooms wouldn’t be available,” she said, reaching down to pet Grosvenor again.

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Giorgio told her. “We just need to see the study and the basement.”

“Of course. The study is down here.”

They followed her past a set of beautifully carved wooden doors that opened up onto a large room that looked out onto the front porch. It was filled with antique furniture and fresh flowers tastefully arranged in large cut-glass vases. A floor-to-ceiling Christmas tree stood in the corner, decorated with Victorian bows and glass ornaments.

“If we go back here, behind the staircase,” she said, leading them back into the entryway and past a guest bathroom, “this would probably have been the study. We use it as a library today.”

She stopped across from the foot of the staircase and opened the door to a room the size of a large bedroom. On the far wall was a fireplace framed by an oak mantle inlaid with blue Moroccan tiles and flanked by two tall, leaded windows. In the far left corner were heavy green floor-length drapes.

Giorgio moved into the room and went directly to the set of drapes. He pulled them aside and found the French doors, picturing himself standing outside the night before.

“I have a photo taken the night the girl went missing,” he said, pulling out the photo Claire Martinelli had given him. “Can you look at it and tell where it was taken.”

He showed her the photo.

“Yes, that’s this room,” she said. “You can tell because of the French doors.”

“Okay, the desk would have been here,” he said, pointing to the center of the room. “Facing that wall.” He pointed to the bookshelves.

“Yes, it looks that way,” she confirmed.

Giorgio went back to the door leading to the hallway, glanced at the photo and back at the room. He backed up until he was at the foot of the stairs.

“So Mrs. Martinelli must have been standing about here when she took the photo.”

Mrs. Johnson followed him, looking at the photo in his hand and then back at the room.

“That seems right,” she agreed.

“From what I understand,” Giorgio said, “the master suite used to be at the south end of the building. I suppose at the end of the hallway up there,” he said, pointing up the stairs and to his left. “Do you know?”

“I believe that’s right,” she said. “But the Pinney House has been renovated several times since then.”

“Then the master suite would have been closest to the garage. And if you were sleeping in that room, you could hear someone pull up the driveway into the garage, couldn’t you?” he asked.

“I would think so,” she said with a nod of her head.

“May we see the basement?” he said.

“Of course.”

As she led them to the back of the house and into the updated kitchen, Rocky pulled Giorgio aside.

“Why are we looking in the basement?”

Giorgio turned quickly. “I just want to understand the building,” he said quietly, following Mrs. Johnson again.

Mrs. Johnson led them down an old set of wooden stairs off the kitchen.

“I’m afraid we just use the basement as an extra pantry and laundry room now,” she said. “But I understand that there was a root cellar somewhere at one time which was used for fruits and vegetables.”

She pulled the string for an overhead bulb that illuminated a small room, maybe five hundred square feet. The walls had been lined with sheet rock and painted brown. The floor was untreated concrete.

Aged, but sturdy wood shelving lined the far wall and held canned fruit and canisters of flour and sugar. A large washer and dryer sat against the right wall, flanked by a sink and a set of cupboards and a long counter. Storage boxes and a couple of old chests were stacked against the wall under the small horizontal window that faced the backyard.

Giorgio felt a tingling at the back of his neck as he glanced out that window. He could see a few bushes close by and imagined the girl hovering there and pointing through the window.

“You said you remodeled,” Rocky said to her.

“That’s right. There used to just be old paneling that covered the walls. We tore that down and put up the dry wall and added a dropped ceiling. The bookcases were here when we moved in. We just painted them over.”

The center of the room was empty, except for an old rickety table, a support pillar and a drain in the middle of the floor.

Giorgio wandered the perimeter, surveying the walls. Grosvenor followed him partway and then stuck his nose to the floor and made a beeline for the drain. He then headed straight for the bookcases at the far end of the room.

Giorgio looked up from where he was staring at the drain in the middle of the floor and watched the dog intently. “What’s Grosvenor doing?”

They all turned. Grosvenor was running his nose along the bottom of the center bookcase at the far end of the room, sniffing with loud snuffling noises.

“He must have found some food under there,” Rocky said with a chuckle.

Grosvenor suddenly backed off, sat down and let out a “woof.”

“What’s the matter, Buddy?” Giorgio said, moving over and reaching out to touch him.

Grosvenor whined and backed up even further, his mouth open now in a rapid pant.

“What’s wrong with him?” Mrs. Johnson asked with concern.

Giorgio knelt down, stroking the dog’s back. “Hey, G, what’s up? You okay?”

Grosvenor leaned into Giorgio and licked his hand, and then went back to panting. Giorgio looked over his shoulder at the bookcases.

“Why don’t I take him upstairs?” Mrs. Johnson offered.

Giorgio stood up. “That’s okay. I think we’re done down here anyway. Maybe we could look at the backyard.”

“Of course,” she said with a smile.

Grosvenor led the group back up the stairs, with Giorgio bringing up the rear. He couldn’t help a final glance back at the basement. He’d learned to trust Grosvenor’s nose and his own instincts. And both were screaming for attention.

Once they were outside, Grosvenor’s demeanor changed immediately. He watered a nearby bush and began to aimlessly wander around the yard, completely relaxed again.

Giorgio watched him for a moment and then began to concentrate on the yard.

Everything seemed innocent in the afternoon sunlight. There were no ghosts, just a well-groomed yard with winter bare trees.

Giorgio moved to the garage and turned to look up to the second-story corner window, trying to focus on the Lisa Farmer case and not the other dead girls.

“What are you thinking?” Rocky asked.

“That someone sleeping in that corner bedroom would have heard a car pull in.”

“I thought the mother said she was asleep when her son got home that night,” Rocky said.

Giorgio studied the yard some more. “She seemed confused by that the other day,” he said.

His eyes involuntarily drifted over to the planter beneath the small basement window.

“From what I read, the Martinellis only had the one son. Is that right?’ Mrs. Johnson asked.

“Yes,” Giorgio replied, turning his attention to her. “Ron Martinelli.”

“Does he still live in the area? I was just wondering because there was something in that box we found that might belong to him.”

Giorgio turned to her. “What was that?”

“The box is filled with mostly girl stuff, but there is a St. Christopher. I know a lot of the boys back then wore those. My brother did. Anyway, I just thought it might be his.”

Once again, Giorgio’s antenna went up.

“Could we see that box?” he asked.

He felt a slight humming in his ears. It happened every time he was about to discover something important. He felt the familiar accompanying adrenalin rush.

“Just a minute. I’ll go find it,” she said.

Mrs. Johnson bustled into the house, leaving the brothers to themselves.

“It looks like they’re having some sewer line problems,” Rocky said, eying the trench.

“Yeah,” Giorgio replied. “Probably costing them a fortune.”

Grosvenor had moved over to the trench that ran under the basement window, and Giorgio purposely turned his back on him.

“So what are we looking at here?” Rocky asked impatiently.

“I’m just kind of mapping the building,” Giorgio replied. “So, there are two exits in addition to the front door,” he said, trying to sound as if he was really trying to make a point.

“Yeah? So?” Rocky said.

“Well, it’s important to know how people get in and out of a building,” Giorgio said, stalling for time.

Meanwhile, he waited for Grosvenor, hoping against hope the dog would find something. He’d done it up at the monastery when he’d found a body buried in the vegetable garden. Maybe he would do it again.

Rocky stuffed his hands into his pockets, clearly bored.

“I think it’s interesting that you two are brothers,” Mrs. Johnson’s voice called out as she came out the back door again. “And you’re both police officers.” She scurried across the lawn, holding something in her hands. “My uncle was a security guard on a university campus,” she continued. “He loved that job.”

When she reached them, she stopped and said, “Here you go.” She handed an oblong tin box to Giorgio. “There’s just a lot of old trinkets in there. But you’ll also find the St. Christopher.”

“Thank you,” Giorgio said, taking the box.

He popped the lid and glanced inside. There was a layer of random pieces of jewelry, hair clips and things like shoe strings and old tubes of lipstick. But his heart stopped when he saw a pair of old-fashioned eye glasses with winged tips and accented with rhinestones. They looked just like the ones the first ghost was wearing the night before. Giorgio forced himself to ignore them, and used a finger to search through the junk until he found the St. Christopher. He lifted it up by its chain.

“That’s it,” Mrs. Johnson said. “It might be that boy’s, don’t you think?”

“Could be,” Giorgio murmured, glancing back into the box, knowing that this box had just become evidence. He dropped the medal back into the box and pulled out a folded piece of paper from the bottom. It was a deposit slip for Heritage Bank from 1966; Royce Martinelli’s name was on it.

“What’s that?” Rocky asked.

“A bank deposit slip for Royce Martinelli,” Giorgio said, studying the slip of paper.

“That’s how I knew the box belonged to the Martinellis,” Mrs. Johnson said.

“May we keep the box?” he asked.