To Catch a Leaf (16 page)

Was this karmic punishment for hitting the cat?

I returned to the kitchen and sat down beside Marco. He had made notes in my absence, so I read over them. He'd written that Mrs. Dunbar was seventy-one-years old, had worked for the Newports for thirty-one years, and had no family. She'd lost her husband twenty years ago and her only child, a son, died in a car crash after graduating from college.

“Are you planning to stay on as housekeeper?” Marco asked her.

“God willing,” she said, making the sign of the cross. “I don't have much money tucked away and I can't afford to retire, so I hope the family will keep me on.”

“I'm sure they'll want you,” I said. “Someone has to run this big house, right?”

She pressed her hands together in prayer. “From your lips to God's ear. This job has been my salvation.”

Seeing her eyes fill up with tears, I braced myself for more wails. My headache had just begun to subside, too.

“Were you aware that Grace Bingham was coming to visit Mrs. Connie on Monday?” Marco asked.

I gave him a grateful smile for changing the subject. He quirked one corner of his mouth to let me know he understood.

Mrs. Dunbar shook her head. “No, sir. I'm not told of such things unless I'm needed for something.”

“Have you seen Mrs. Bingham here before today?” Marco asked.

“Oh, yes. Mrs. Connie has entertained the English lady on many occasions.”

“Would you say they're good friends?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I couldn't say, miss. I'm not privy to Mrs. Connie's thoughts.”

“Did Mrs. Connie seem agitated about anything besides her missing cat?” Marco asked.

Mrs. Dunbar thought for a moment. “She did seem a bit on the snappish side after she talked to Mrs. Juanita.”

That was new information. “When did she talk to Juanita?” I asked.

“During breakfast. I could hear them arguing all the way back in the laundry room.” She paused, considering. “Come to think of it, they were at it again later, too, during lunch.”

“What were they arguing about?” Marco asked.

“I never listen in on private conversations, sir,” Mrs. Dunbar said, shaking her chins.

“So you have no idea what their argument was about?” I asked. Seriously, who could resist listening to an argument?

“No, miss, I don't.” She began brushing invisible crumbs from the table into her palm. It seemed to give her somewhere to look other than at me. I made a note of her reaction and put a star beside it.

“Did the two women argue often?” Marco asked.

“I wouldn't say often. They seemed to go out of their way to be polite to each other.”

“Are you sure you didn't hear any of their argument?” I asked. “It might be helpful.”

Mrs. Dunbar shook her head but she didn't meet my eyes. I put another star beside my previous note.

“Is Mrs. Connie's daughter living here?” Marco asked.

“Yes, sir, that would be Ms. Virginia,” the housekeeper said.

“Has she always lived here?” Marco asked.

“No, sir. She moved back home from Chicago after her divorce. That was about five years ago.”

“How does Virginia get along with her sister-in-law?” Marco asked.

Mrs. Dunbar shook her head slowly. “Ms. Virginia and Mrs. Juanita don't get along at all. They avoid each other.”

“Why don't they get along?” I asked.

“I couldn't say.” She hesitated. “I can offer an opinion, though.”

“That'll work,” I said.

“There's a big difference in their ages,” Mrs. Dunbar said, “and in their personalities.”

“How would you describe Juanita's personality?” Marco asked.

“On the prickly side.” Mrs. Dunbar smiled at some inner thought, shaking her head as though amused. “Mrs. Connie refers to Mrs. Juanita as the spoiled brat. That was one of the few things Ms. Virginia and her mother agreed upon.”

Apparently, the housekeeper
did
listen in on conversations.

“Where was Juanita when you went out to the garden?” Marco asked.

“I don't know, sir. I expect she was still in the house.” She was back to sweeping away more of those invisible crumbs.

“Who else was in the house when you went out to the garden?” Marco asked.

“As far as I know, it was just the three: Mrs. Juanita, Mrs. Connie, and Ms. Virginia.”

“Was Virginia present during lunch?” Marco asked.

“Just for a bit, sir. Then she went up to her studio, as usual. We don't disturb her once she's there.”

“You mentioned that Juanita was one of the few subjects Virginia and her mother agreed upon. Did mother and daughter not get along, then?” Marco asked.

“Oh, my, not at all,” Mrs. Dunbar said with a scowl. “Mrs. Connie was extremely unhappy when Ms. Virginia lived on a commune, and she sure didn't like it when Ms. Virginia took up with that professor, either.”

“Why was that?” Marco asked.

“Mrs. Connie had her reasons, but I wouldn't know what they were, sir.”

“Can you tell us anything about the professor?” I asked.

“Only a little,” the housekeeper said. “His name is Francis Ta . . . Oh, phooey. It starts with a T. Taylor? No, Talbot. That was it. Francis Talbot. Ms. Virginia met him when she worked for the Art Institute in Chicago. He's some kind of art expert, from what I gathered. He came out to the house once to have dinner with the family and see Mrs. Connie's collection of Victorian art. That's how I got a look at him. I could tell by the way she acted that Mrs. Connie was impressed with him. But then later I heard her tell Ms. Virginia only a fool would fall in love with a man like that.”

Nope. Never listened in on conversations.

“What was her objection to the professor?” I asked.

The housekeeper shrugged. “I wouldn't know, miss.”

“Is Virginia still seeing Talbot?” Marco asked.

“You'd have to ask her that, sir. I'm not privy to Ms. Virginia's personal life.”

“What can you tell us about Mrs. Connie's son?”

“I can tell you that Mr. Burnett has always been kind to me, but I hear he can be a bit forward with the ladies—a skirt-chaser, if you get my meaning.”

I wrote
lecher
beside Burnsy's name.

Marco was on the verge of asking another question, but surprisingly, the housekeeper wasn't finished.

“I know Mrs. Connie wasn't happy at all when Mr. Burnett decided to retire, but why should he work when his mother was providing every creature comfort a body could want? It wasn't my place to say anything, but I have to tell you, sir, that I believe she did wrong by her children.”

“It sounds like you've thought a lot about this,” Marco said.

“I've watched those kids go from being young adults to middle-aged,” Mrs. Dunbar said, “and I've seen their motivation fade right away. Mrs. Connie took away any desire to do for themselves; then, when she didn't like it anymore, she punished them for it.”

“How did she punish them?” Marco asked.

“She changed her will,” Mrs. Dunbar said.

“Were you present when the will was read?”

“Yes, sir.” She shook her head. “Wasn't a pleasant time, no, sir.”

“Did Mrs. Connie's children seem surprised by the will or did they seem to know what was coming?”

Mrs. Dunbar said carefully, “If they knew what she'd done ahead of time, they were mighty good actors, because they seemed shocked when the attorney read it.”

“Were you surprised that Mrs. Connie left you all her silver?” I asked.

“No, miss,” Mrs. Dunbar said, two spots of color darkening her cheeks. “Mrs. Connie told me what she was planning to do for me. She said it would help me in my old age.”

“How long ago did this conversation take place?” Marco asked.

“Maybe a month ago.”

“What prompted her to tell you about it?”

“I really couldn't tell you, sir,” she responded.

“So out of the blue, she came up and said, ‘Oh, by the way, I'm leaving you my silver?'” I asked.

Mrs. Dunbar began to sweep up those crumbs again. “I might have expressed some concern about my retirement. I expect telling me about the silver was her way of assuring me that I'd be provided for.”

“It was a generous gift,” I said.

“Yes, miss,” she said, keeping her gaze lowered.

“Probably worth thousands of dollars,” I added.

“I'm sure it is,” she said, twisting around to see the clock on the wall behind her.

Why did she seem reticent to acknowledge the silver? Was she embarrassed—or afraid we'd think it was a good motive for murder?

“We're almost done,” Marco said. “Just a few more questions. Do you know where Griffin was when you came back from the garden?”

Mrs. Dunbar smiled, as though Griffin held a warm spot in her heart. “He was in his apartment, working, as usual. He writes articles about the Victorian era, you know. He's quite an expert on the subject. Of course, he's been surrounded by all the collectibles since he was a boy, so it's no surprise, really.”

“Where are the collectibles kept?” Marco asked.

“The most valuable paintings hang in the main hall and front parlor,” she said. “There's also a temperature-controlled storage room where the paintings are kept that aren't on display. The art gets rotated every three months. The Victorian furniture is scattered all over the house, and the antiquities are displayed down in the lower level. Mr. Burnett Sr. set up quite a nice museum down there.”

“What do you mean by antiquities?” Marco asked.

“Well, mostly they're a collection of ancient weaponry, suits of armor, that sort of thing.”

An art gallery, a basement museum with suits of armor, ten bathrooms . . . I couldn't imagine living in such a house. I really wanted to take a tour, but didn't see how I could make that happen.

“Did I understand that there's an art appraiser here today?” Marco asked.

“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Dunbar said. “That would be Mr. Ventury. Mrs. Connie's lawyer sent him over first thing this morning, just as Mrs. Connie wanted. He's in the storage room at present.”

“Do you have any knowledge as to why Connie wanted an appraiser to view her art collection immediately after her death?” Marco asked.

“No, sir. You'd have to ask the attorney.”

“I'd like to talk to Mr. Ventury,” Marco said. “Can you take me to him?”

A loud bang made me jump. It was followed by a bellow, and then rapid footsteps. Moments later, a portly man in a gray suit rushed into the kitchen, holding on to the fringe of gray hair above his ears as though he was about to tear it out. “Forgeries!” he cried. “They're forgeries!”

Without batting an eye, Mrs. Dunbar said, “Here's the appraiser now, sir.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“C
all the police!” the little man cried, flapping his arms as he circled the kitchen, as though unsure of which way to turn. “This is a disaster! A catastrophe of immense proportions!”

As Mrs. Dunbar jumped up to make the call, a tall, lean, middle-aged woman in a white artist's smock, long navy-and-orange plaid peasant skirt, and heavy Birkenstocks came striding into the kitchen. When she saw all of us, she stopped in surprise.

“What in heaven's name is going on here? Mrs. D., would you kindly tell me who these two strangers are?”

“Investigators, Ms. Virginia,” the housekeeper whispered, still on the phone.

So this was Virginia Newport-Lynch, the attic artist. Someone should really have clued her in on that long gray braid. They'd gone out of fashion in the early seventies along with that voluminous peasant skirt.

“Marco Salvare,” my intended said, showing her his ID. “And my fiancée, Abby Knight.”

“Owner of Bloomers Flower Shop,” I said, then remembered I had on the yellow T-shirt with the Bloomers logo on the back. I turned so she could see it.

“Why are you here?” she asked, looking down at me as though she'd scraped me off the bottom of her thick sandals. She talked through her nose, giving her voice the nasal quality of a honking goose. And Grace was right. Virginia did have a rat-shaped face.
Oops
. Right about those chin whiskers, too.

Hearing the appraiser wheeze, Virginia took hold of his arms. “Mr. Ventury, please calm down. You're hyperventilating. Whatever is the matter?”

“It's a cataclysm!” he cried. “A cataclysm, I tell you!”