To Catch a Leaf (7 page)

“Is it true they have twenty toilets?” Lottie asked, propping her chin on her hand. At my astonished glance, her cheeks flamed scarlet. “Forget I asked that. Go ahead, Gracie.”

Grace took a swallow of tea and then continued. “I rang the bell, then rapped quite forcefully, but once again no one answered. I tried to use my mobile to ring the house, but I couldn't get a signal. I tried the door and found it unlocked, so I opened it and called inside to see if I could rouse someone. Still receiving no response, I stepped into the kitchen for a look around.

“Well, there was simply no one there, so I continued to call out, ‘Connie? Halloo?' I circled 'round the kitchen—it's very large, you see—and then I noticed a light coming from behind a door that was left ajar, and I thought perhaps I'd discovered someone at last. Well, indeed, I had.

“I opened the door and found myself at the top of a staircase looking down into the cellar at a suit of armor that had fallen over. Sticking out from underneath the armor were two spindly legs, two thin arms, and a head. I knew at once that it was Connie.”

Grace's chin began to tremble. She stopped to press the handkerchief into the corners of her eyes. After taking a deep breath, she said, “I ran downstairs to help her, but after pushing aside the armor, I couldn't find a pulse, so I hurried upstairs again and used the house phone to ring for assistance. As I explained the situation to the dispatch operator, Connie's housekeeper, Mrs. Dunbar, came into the kitchen with her arms full of radishes.

“As you can imagine, the poor woman was shocked at what she overheard. She dropped the radishes and would have run downstairs had I not stopped her. I sat her at the kitchen table, where she sobbed until the paramedics arrived. They were followed in short order by the police, who took our statements and had us sit for an hour before we could make any calls.”

“Poor Gracie,” Lottie said, and leaned over to give Grace a hug. “It must've been a terrible fright seeing your friend under all that metal.”

“Did the police say anything about her death being suspicious?” I asked.

Grace shook her head. So hopefully the cops, being more experienced than Grace, had seen clear indications that the fall was an accident rather than a homicide. “Tell me again why you suspect murder,” I said, running my hand down Simon's soft fur.

Grace closed her eyes for a moment, as though re-imagining the scene. “Have you ever slipped on a step? Then you know that your foot slides forward, your other leg folds beneath you, then you either tumble forward or slide down footfirst, unless you're lucky enough to grab onto a railing.

“When Connie landed, however, she was faceup. Her head was the farthest part of her body from the steps, and her heels were resting on the bottom stair, as though she'd been standing at the top facing someone and was given a hard shove backward. It appeared as though she had tried to grab on to whatever she could to stop her fall and pulled the suit of armor down on top of her.”

“Her position alone wouldn't necessarily mean she was pushed,” I said. “There are many ways to fall. Maybe she took a step backward and didn't know she was so close to the edge.”

Lottie nodded. “Abby's right. I remember one of my boys tumbling down the steps and landing faceup . . . Never mind. I just remembered. One of his brothers pushed him.”

“That's what I mean,” Grace said, her eyes filling with fresh tears. “Connie didn't die accidentally. Someone in her own house murdered her! Abby, we must do something about it.”

“What is it you're always saying about putting the cart before the horse?” I asked. “You might
suspect
she was pushed, but until the detectives find evidence of foul play, you can't know that for sure.”

“Yes, I can,” she stated.

Grace could be exasperating at times. “Okay, how?”

When Grace didn't reply, Lottie said in a coaxing voice, “That's okay, Gracie. You don't have to prove anything to us. If you're afraid to say how you know, then just tell us to leave you alone.”

“I'm not afraid. I simply know how you'll react,” she said, lifting her chin. “You'll think I'm off my nut.”

Lottie held up her hand. “I swear we won't. Right, Abby?”

I nodded.

“Very well.” Grace folded her hands on the table. “Connie told me.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Did she have a premonition before she died?”

Grace shook her head.

“Well, Lordy, woman,” Lottie said. “She couldn't have told you
after
she died.”

Grace took another sip of tea. The clock in the other room ticked loudly.

“Grace?” I said.

Without glancing at us she said, “I told you that you'd think I've gone bonkers.”

CHAPTER FIVE

I
glanced at Lottie, but her mouth was hanging open. Seeing our startled expressions, Grace said, “She told me in a dream. What did you think I meant?”

“Maybe I should write down exactly what happened so we can sort it out.” I held Simon against me as I dashed to the cashier's counter, grabbed a pen and pad, and hurried back. Simon huffed as he settled himself again.

“Okay,” I said, uncapping the pen, “let's start from when you discovered the body. You said that Connie had no pulse, and this was after you pushed aside the armor.”

“Correct.”

“Did any family members show up while you were there?” I asked.

“Connie's grandson did,” Grace said. “His name is Griffin Newport. He's Burnett Newport Jr.'s son. Also Connie's daughter-in-law, Juanita, came in while I was there.”

I wrote down
Griffin Newport, grandson; Juanita Newport, daughter-in-law.
“Is Juanita Griffin's mother?” I asked.

“No. Juanita is Burnett's fourth wife. His first wife was Griffin's mother.”

I wrote it down. “What were their reactions to the news?”

“Griffin was overcome with anguish. He and his grandmother were very close. He lives in an apartment over the garage, you see, and kept going on about how he was only yards away and should have been there to help her in her hour of need.”

“So Griffin believed his grandmother had had an accident?” I asked.

“It appeared that way.” Grace paused to drink more tea. “As for Juanita, Connie's daughter-in-law, she seemed more interested in my reason for being there, questioning me as though she suspected
me
of pushing Connie down the steps.”

“She had her nerve,” Lottie said, slapping the table. “I hope you gave her a piece of your mind.”

“No,” Grace said, “but I did fix her with a chilly glare.”

“Who else lives in the mansion?” I asked.

“Connie's son, Burnett,” Grace said, “and her daughter, Virginia, who, as it turned out, was in the house at the time of Connie's death but was in her third-floor studio. She's an artist and paints up there.”

“Did Virginia hear anything?” I asked. “An argument, a scream . . .”

“I don't know,” Grace said. “The detectives questioned Virginia privately. I did overhear Juanita tell the detectives that her husband, Burnett—Connie's son—was at the horse races.”

She waited for me to finish writing, then said, “I should mention that there's also a young man who lives on the property. He maintains the autos and was Connie's chauffeur. She called him Luce and spoke highly of him. The detectives located Luce in the garage working on a motorcycle and brought him into the house. He seemed completely stunned to hear of the tragedy. I'm afraid that's all I can tell you about him.”

“Why were you meeting Connie today?” I asked.

“She wanted to give me a book, so we arranged a time for me to pick it up. Connie has quite a collection of first editions. We became friends through our mutual love of literature.”

Grace sighed and smiled wistfully. “We spent many happy hours discussing plots, characters, and symbolism over countless cups of tea. It seems impossible to believe that we shall never be able to have those discussions again.” At that, Grace put her handkerchief to her face and wept silently.

Lottie got up to refill the teapot and I petted Simon, giving Grace a few minutes to compose herself.

“I'm sorry,” she said tearfully. “I don't know why I'm blubbering so. Connie wasn't the most likable person you'd ever want to meet. She could be quite vindictive, or so I've been told. Still, she always treated me with respect and kindness.”

Lottie started to refill her cup, but Grace held her hand over it. “No, thank you, love. I'd like to go home now.”

“I'll call Richard and have him come get you,” Lottie offered.

I glanced at the clock. “Yikes. I've got to take off. I was supposed to meet Marco and his mom fifteen minutes ago.”

“You go on, sweetie,” Lottie said. “I'll wait with Grace until Richard comes, and then lock up the shop.”

“I'm sorry for your loss, Grace,” I said, giving her a hug, while Lottie ran to use the phone at the cashier's counter. “If there's anything I can do, please tell me.”

“Then, if it wouldn't be too much bother,” Grace said, “would you and Marco find Connie's killer?”

I'd left myself wide open for that one. “You want us to investigate?”

“We know how the system works, don't we? The last person to be with the victim is the first one the police suspect.”

“We won't let that happen, Grace.”

“I trust that's a yes?”

 

I
put fresh water and food out for Simon, lined a large straw basket with thick towels, and moved it under my desk. “Here, Simon. Here's your bed.”

He sniffed all around the basket, deemed it safe, and stepped inside, kneading the towels with his front feet until he'd softened them to his liking. He curled up in the basket, licked his paws, and began to wash his ears.

“Be a good boy,” I said, and turned out the overhead lights, leaving only the security light on in the workroom.

The day had turned breezy and cool, so I slipped my denim jacket over my white shirt, slung my purse over my shoulder, and headed up the street to Down the Hatch. I was not looking forward to having dinner with my future mother-in-law, Francesca Salvare, because I wasn't sure how to talk her out of sticking around for the next five months. The only positive thing about the forthcoming conversation was that it gave me something to think about other than that Grace could be the prime suspect in a murder investigation.

Down the Hatch Bar and Grill was housed in a narrow, high-ceilinged building that stretched from Franklin Street to the alley in back, just like Bloomers. It had two rows of tables running parallel to the big plate-glass window up front, a polished walnut bar running long and deep, and a row of booths directly opposite it. Marco had purchased Down the Hatch a year ago, just before I'd emptied out my bank account to take over Bloomers. We'd met shortly afterward, when my freshly repainted 1960 Corvette suffered damage in a hit-and-run accident that ended up kicking off our first murder investigation.

Marco's bar was the local watering hole, and one of the hot spots in town, despite decor that hadn't changed in almost forty years. I'd been urging Marco to remodel, but most of the patrons believed the interior should be left untouched because it was a piece of local history.

I disagreed. If a town's history could be represented by wall art consisting of a fake carp mounted on wood, a bright blue plastic anchor, 1970s-style orange padded benches, dark wood paneling, and an old fisherman's net hanging from the ceiling, then the town needed an image makeover.

I caught sight of Marco in the last booth, holding up his hand in greeting. His mother turned and waved, too. As I approached, she slid out of the booth and opened her arms.

“Bella Abby,” she said in her Italian-accented, full-throated voice. She gave me a fierce hug, then held me at arm's length. “Here you are at last. We were beginning to worry.”

Francesca was a tall, beautiful, energetic woman who'd been blessed with an hourglass figure, high, prominent cheekbones, the same big brown eyes Marco had, and a generous mouth. She had a wide, warm smile, and hair a rich brown color highlighted naturally with silver strands. To complement her red silk blouse and black trousers, she wore large, silver hoops in her ears and oversized, tortoiseshell-framed glasses that would have swallowed up my face, but made her look like a younger Sophia Loren. And no matter what time of day it was, Francesca always looked classy and elegant; unlike me, whose best moments were when I first walked out of the apartment. It went downhill from there.