Deadly Investment (A Fitzjohn Mystery Book 5) (7 page)

‘Which floor is Mr Ziegler’s apartment on?’ asked Fitzjohn as he peered up the stairwell.

‘The third, sir.’

Fitzjohn groaned and watched Betts sprint ahead. ‘I hope you realise that I could have done that twenty years ago,’ he mumbled as he started his climb.

‘It’s the first door on the right,’ said Betts as Fitzjohn reached the landing.

Moments later, Ziegler’s apartment door opened slightly to reveal the head of an unshaven man who looked at the two officers through bleary eyes. ‘Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying,’ he barked. With that, the door began to close.

‘We’re not selling anything, Mr Ziegler,’ replied Fitzjohn, stepping forward holding up his warrant card and introducing himself. ‘We’re investigating the death of a man by the name of Preston Alexander.’

Ziegler stared at Fitzjohn in silence before he opened the door fully to reveal his dishevelled appearance.

‘I heard about Preston’s death on the news. It’s terrible.’

‘We understand that you were acquainted with him,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘Yes, I was, through my work at the Maybrick Literary Agency.’

‘In that case, we’d like to ask you a few questions concerning his investment. You’re the agency’s accountant, aren’t you?’

‘I am, but you’ve caught me at a bad time. I’m not exactly prepared for visitors.’

‘That’s quite all right, Mr Ziegler. We understand,’ replied Fitzjohn.

Reluctantly, Ziegler stepped back and, favouring his leg, led the way through the apartment and into the kitchen area, its appearance as dishevelled as its owner.

Ziegler gestured to a table strewn with used dishes from several meals. ‘Have a seat,’ he said, shuffling to pull out a chair to sit on before he caught Fitzjohn’s look. ‘I had a fall. Sprained my ankle.’ Ziegler slumped into a chair, took a cigarette from a packet on the table and, with hands shaking, lit up.

‘Can you tell us when you last spoke to Preston Alexander?’ asked Fitzjohn, settling himself in a chair opposite Ziegler.

‘It was last Monday.’ Ziegler exhaled smoke away from the two officers and watched it curl into the air. ‘I take it you’ve spoken to my colleagues at the agency.’

‘We have,’ replied Fitzjohn.

‘Did they tell you about my suspension and the reason for it?’

‘They did, but we’d like to hear your side of that story, Mr Ziegler because we understand that Preston Alexander was involved.’

‘He was, but of course he would be wouldn’t he, being the agency’s primary investor.’ Ziegler stopped. ‘You know that Beatrice Maybrick, the owner, died that day don’t you?’

‘Yes. Her step-daughter informed us.’

‘Right, well, Bea came to me first thing that morning and told me that she’d found discrepancies in the agency’s accounts. She then went on to accuse me of
embezzlement
. I tried to explain to her that I haven’t been doing the accounts for some time. I passed them over to Giles Enfield months ago, but she wouldn’t listen. She told me I was suspended until further notice.’

‘You mean you passed them over to Mr Enfield without her knowledge?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Yes. You see, three months ago my marriage failed. I was finding it difficult to cope. I’m even smoking again.’ Ziegler looked in disdain at the ashtray on the table, full of cigarette butts. ‘I asked Giles if he’d take over until I was able to manage again. He suggested that we okay it with Beatrice first, but I asked him not to tell her. I didn’t want her to know what a mess I was in. Still am if it comes to that.’ Ziegler took another drag on his cigarette. ‘I thought she might take some of my clients off my books and I couldn’t afford that.’

‘Do you have any written evidence that Mr Enfield took over the accounts?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘No. We use an accounting program. Giles used the lap-top computer I’d always used when I worked on the books.’

‘I take it Preston Alexander wasn’t aware of the change either.’

‘No, he wasn’t.’ Ziegler stubbed his cigarette out. ‘Consequently, he continued to come to me with any queries he had.’

‘What transpired between the two of you the last time you spoke?’

‘I told him what I’d told Beatrice earlier that day. That if there were discrepancies in the accounts, Giles was responsible.’

‘And what was his response?’

‘He said that as Beatrice had suspended me, I should leave the office.’

‘How long have you acted as the agency’s accountant, Mr Ziegler?’ continued Fitzjohn.

‘Since the end of 2008. During the global financial crisis. It all got too much for Bea at the time. Soon after I began, Preston invested in the company. But for him, the agency would have folded in 2009.’

‘Can you tell us the extent and details of his investment?’

‘Yes. He invested one million dollars in February 2009 with the proviso that it be paid back to him when the company became solvent.  At that time, the full amount was to be repaid to him.’

‘What incentive did he have for investing in the agency?’

‘He received 5 per cent of all profits at the end of each financial year. That’ll continue, of course, and will now be passed on to his estate until such time that the full investment is repaid.’

‘Did he ever give an indication to you that he wanted to withdraw his investment?’

‘No.’

‘Very well, Mr Ziegler,’ said Fitzjohn, getting to his feet. ‘We’ll leave it there for the time being other than to ask where you spent Wednesday evening up until midnight.’

‘Wednesday? Why? Oh, I see. It’s the night that Preston died, isn’t it?’ Ziegler met Fitzjohn’s gaze. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with his death if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘It’s routine, Mr Ziegler. We need to know where everyone Preston Alexander had involvement with was on the night he died.’

‘I see. Well, I was at a dinner in Neutral Bay with fellow members of my chess club.’

‘What time did you leave the dinner?’

‘I’m not sure. Around ten, I think.’

‘And where did you go after that?’

‘I came home.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you drive to the dinner that night or go by taxi?’

‘I drove.’

‘In that case, we’ll need your car’s registration number as well as the name’s and contact details for those you dined with, Mr Ziegler.’ Fitzjohn paused as Ziegler struggled to his feet. ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘How did you sprain your ankle?’

‘I slipped off the curb when I left the restaurant that night.’

‘Do you think Max Ziegler could have been involved in our victim’s death?’ asked Betts as he and Fitzjohn descended the stairs and made their way back out to the car.

‘We can’t dismiss the possibility,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘After all, Preston Alexander was a player on the day that Ziegler was suspended because it was largely his investment that was thought to have been embezzled.’ Fitzjohn closed the door of the car and settled himself. ‘I doubt that Ziegler gave a true account of all that was said between him and Preston. I suspect that there was a lot more. And then there’s his sprained ankle. I wonder if he really slipped off that curb outside the restaurant that night. Check out his alibi, Betts. Just to make sure he was where he said he was on Wednesday evening.’

Weary, Fitzjohn arrived home that evening, closed the front door and sighed as his mind replayed the events of the day, not the least of which was Grieg’s revelation about the Police Integrity Board’s inquiry. Why couldn’t he remember the case? Determined not to let it spoil his evening, he went upstairs to change and a little later, made his way outside into the garden and headed for the greenhouse.

‘Good evening,’ came an unfamiliar voice. Fitzjohn turned to see a woman in her mid-fifties wearing a green scarf wrapped around a mop of wavy shoulder length grayish hair. She peered at him over the murraya hedge, from Rhonda’s back garden. In the dim evening light the remainder of her outfit looked to be a flowing gown depicting a mass of flowers. In her hand she held a long cigarette holder that emitted a dubious odour. ‘I’m Adele. Adele Carter, but my friends call me Blossom,’ she said in a deep soft voice.

‘Good evening,’ replied Fitzjohn in disbelief.

Blossom moved closer to the fence. ‘I’m Rhonda’s sister.’

‘Really?’ replied Fitzjohn, his voice ascending an octave.

‘Yes. I’m house-sitting for her. She’s gone on holiday to Tasmania, but you probably know all about that being her close neighbour.’

‘No. As a matter of fact, I didn’t. Rhonda and my paths rarely cross.’ Fitzjohn recommenced his walk down the garden path toward the greenhouse, Blossom matching his pace on the other side of the fence.

‘It’s a lovely greenhouse you have,’ she continued. ‘Looks to be Victorian in shape. What sort of plants do you grow, Mr...’

‘Orchids,’ replied Fitzjohn, declining to offer his name.

‘Oh, what a coincidence. Orchids are my favourite flower. They’re so delicate.’

By this time, Fitzjohn had reached the greenhouse door and grabbed the handle, his knuckles whitening before he pulled it open.

‘We must have coffee one morning, you and I. You can give me the grand tour.’

Fitzjohn gave a quick smile and disappeared into the warm humid atmosphere. There he stayed far longer than he had planned, occasionally glancing through the misted glass to see if the coast was clear.

CHAPTER 8

Esme stood at the front of the chapel, her diminutive frame all but obscured by the lectern. Her voice, however, came clear and bright. ‘And so, ladies and gentlemen, Mildred and I wish to say a fond farewell to our dear friend, Beatrice, who we shall miss and remember always.’ Unrushed, and with tears in her eyes, Esme glanced at Beatrice’s flower-covered coffin in the centre aisle and returned to her seat, ignoring Alison’s tapping foot.

As the mourners left the chapel to gather in the surrounding garden, Esme and Mildred followed.

‘It was a lovely service, wasn’t it Esme.’ As Mildred spoke, Alison, her black veil flowing across her shoulder in the soft breeze, pushed passed the two women, bumping Mildred’s arm as she went. ‘I wonder where she’s off to in such a hurry?’ said Mildred, recovering her balance.

‘I daresay she’s on her way home to explain our late arrival to the caterers. I probably spoke a little longer than my allotted three minutes.’ Esme gave a wry smile.

‘You didn’t attempt to keep to Alison’s schedule, did you?’

‘I don’t see how I could, Mildred. After all, how can one put limitations on what one has to say when farewelling a dear friend. It’s just not possible.’

‘I agree, but I expect Alison will have something to say about it when you get to the reception.’

‘I’m sure she will, but that’s the least of our worries,’ replied Esme.

‘Yes, it is because as you said in regards to the theatre performance, if you’re right and Beatrice’s death wasn’t an accident then her killer might also be here amongst us this morning.’ Amidst the crowd, Mildred looked around. ‘What’s our next step, Esme? You’ve spoken to Olive and Alison.’

‘Yes, and with what Olive told me about Max Ziegler’s argument with Beatrice, I’d say we should speak to him as well.’

‘
We?
’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m not sure I’m up to that, Esme. Facing a probable killer.
Oh, my heavens!’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s him.’ Esme followed Mildred’s line of sight to see Ziegler’s wiry frame walking toward them through the crowd. ‘Under the circumstances, I’m surprised he’s here.’

‘He doesn’t look well at all,’ said Esme as she took in Max Ziegler’s unkempt appearance and taut expression. ‘Still, I imagine he wants to do everything he can to show he bears no grudge by paying his respects.’

‘Mmm. I suppose that makes sense. You’re not going to speak to him now, are you?’ asked Mildred with a sense of alarm.

‘What better time. If he is Beatrice’s killer, he’ll feel vulnerable at her funeral. Come along, Mildred.’ Unwillingly, Mildred followed Esme through the crowd to where Max stood alone.

‘Good morning, Mr Ziegler. It’s a sad day.’

‘It is, Miss Timmons. Things will never be the same now that Beatrice is no longer with us. The eulogy you gave just now was wonderful.’

‘Thank you. I spoke for Mildred too, of course. Didn’t I, Mildred?’ Esme gave Mildred a quick smile. ‘And you’re right, Mr Ziegler. Things will never be the same without Beatrice. They never are after someone’s gone. But we have to carry on, don’t we?’ Esme paused, taking in Max’s glistening eyes. ‘Will you be joining us at Alison’s this morning?’

‘No. I’m afraid not. I have a prior appointment.’

A few minutes later, Esme and Mildred watched Max meld back into the crowd, limping as he went.

‘How did he hurt his ankle?’ asked Mildred. ‘I didn’t catch what he said.’

‘He slipped off a curb while out to dinner the other night.’

‘Mmm. Do you believe him? He might have sprained it when he pushed Beatrice down that flight of stairs,’ replied Mildred. ‘But then again. I might be wrong because he didn’t act the way I expected he would. In fact, he looks close to tears.’

‘His tears might be expected,’ replied Esme. ‘After all, he’s having to deal with not only Beatrice’s death but his suspension as well.’

‘If Beatrice’s death wasn’t an accident, do you think he did it, Esme?’

‘I think it’s best to keep an open mind at this stage.’

Mildred scanned the crowd. ‘I thought we’d have seen Giles Enfield by now. Surely he’s here somewhere.’

‘He might be one of those people who can’t handle funerals,’ replied Esme. ‘I had an aunt like that. I see Olive Glossop isn’t one of them though. You might want to mingle because she’s heading this way.’ Without a further word, Mildred blended artfully into the crowd as Olive approached, her chubby frame teetering on black high heels.

‘Hello, Esme,’ she said, from underneath her large, black, brimmed hat. ‘You gave a fine eulogy.’

‘Thank you, Olive. Mildred and I will miss our friend very much.’

‘We all will.’ Olive rummaged in her handbag for a handkerchief to stem a tear. ‘Bea is a great loss,’ she sniffed. ‘Where is Mildred?’

‘She was here a minute ago,’ replied Esme, looking around.

‘I’ll go look for her,’ said Olive. ‘She might like to drive with me to Alison’s for the wake.’

‘I’m sure she’d love that,’ replied Esme with a wide smile.

As Olive went in search of Mildred, Esme left those gathered to stroll amongst the bloom-filled flower beds. With her eyes diverted downward as she went, they came to rest on a pair of shiny black men’s shoes. Esme looked up.

‘
Well, I never
.
Alistair Fitzjohn! You’re the last person I expected to see here this morning.’

Fitzjohn gave Esme a peck on the cheek. ‘I might say the same of you, Esme, except that I listened to your eulogy. It was very moving. A fine tribute to your friend.’

‘Thank you.’ Esme hesitated. ‘Are you here on a case?’

‘As it happens, I am.’ Fitzjohn smiled, well aware of Esme’s inquisitive nature.

‘Would it be Preston Alexander’s murder?’

‘Right again,’ he replied as they fell into step.

‘In that case, I need to talk to you, Alistair. It’s important.’

‘Is it in connection with Mr Alexander’s death?’

‘I don’t know that I’d go as far as to say that, but I’ll feel better if I can tell you what’s on my mind.’

Williams pulled the car over in front of Esme Timmons’s home and with the drone of cicada’s filling the warm afternoon air, Fitzjohn climbed out. Opening the front gate, he made his way into the lush garden, its delicate blooms finding a cool sanctuary beneath the canopy of trees that bordered the path to the house.

‘Hello, Alistair.’ Fitzjohn looked up to see Esme sitting in one of the wicker chairs on the front verandah, a glass of iced tea in her hand.

‘You have the perfect place to contemplate,’ he said, climbing the steps.

‘I do. Especially on such a beautiful day. I was just sitting here thinking about Beatrice and all the wonderful times we had together.’ Esme put her glass down. ‘Have a seat, Alistair,’ she continued, gesturing to the other chair. ‘I’ll pour you some tea.’ Fitzjohn settled himself. ‘I really appreciate you taking the time to come to see me.’

‘You said it was important. You wouldn’t say that lightly. What is it you want to talk about?’ Fitzjohn took a sip of his iced tea.

‘It’s about Beatrice. I believe she was murdered.’

Fitzjohn spluttered and chocked.

Esme turned to pat his back. ‘Are you all right, Alistair?’

‘Yes,’ wheezed Fitzjohn, gasping for air. ‘What makes you think your friend was murdered?’ he continued, trying to recover himself.

‘Because of the circumstances surrounding her death, and reinforced yesterday when I heard about Preston. And, of course, there’s the letter.’

‘What letter?’ Fitzjohn tried to clear his throat.

‘It arrived shortly after Beatrice died.’ Esme relayed what the letter asked of her.

‘And who’s Charles Stratton?’ asked Fitzjohn, his interest peaked.

‘I have no idea. The point is, Alistair, Beatrice must have thought her life was in danger to make such a request.’

‘Unless she’d had a recent health scare and decided to make preparations,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘She’d have told me.’

‘I see. In that case, when did you last speak to her Esme?’

‘It was the Sunday before she died. And there’s something else. She wasn’t at all herself. Quite distraught as a matter of fact. I now wonder if it had something to do with one of her employees, Max Ziegler, because I’ve since found out that she and Max had a blazing row on the day she died, and there’s also the matter of the dressing gown.’

‘You’ve lost me, Esme. What dressing gown?’

‘Beatrice’s. She was wearing it when she fell. That’s peculiar in itself.’

‘It is? Why?’

‘Because although it doesn’t sound like a reason to think that she was murdered, it does to me. I don’t know if you’re aware, but Beatrice’s apartment is above the agency and that night, all but two of her employees were working late.’ Esme shook her head. ‘Beatrice was the queen of propriety, Alistair. Under those circumstances, she would never have gone downstairs wearing her dressing gown.’

‘So, what are you suggesting, that one of them pushed her down the stairs?’

‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

‘But what motive would any one of them have?’ asked Fitzjohn, becoming intrigued.

‘Well, I wouldn’t have thought any of them would have wanted to harm Beatrice until I heard about her argument with Max that morning. Apparently, she’d suspended him for suspected embezzlement.’

‘Ah, yes. Alison Maybrick did mention that when we spoke to her, and in light of your suspicions, it does provide him with a motive if, in fact, there was foul play involved in her death.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ replied Esme.

‘Tell me, Esme. How did she and her step-daughter get along? Did Beatrice ever say?’

‘Only the odd comment or two. Just enough to make it obvious that they tolerated each other. I think that if Alison hadn’t been a relation, of sorts, Beatrice wouldn’t have kept her on. I’m sure she felt that she owed it to her late husband, Stan.’ Esme’s eyebrows lifted. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t have been quite so kind. Still, we put up with some odd behaviour from relatives, don’t we?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Fitzjohn as his sister, Meg, came to mind. ‘We certainly do.’

‘How long had you and Beatrice been friends?’

‘Since our first day at teacher’s college.’ Esme smiled in reflection. ‘She was a talented woman and as such gave up teaching after about ten years to pursue her writing and acting careers. At about the same time, she came into some money when her mother passed away and decided to go into business. That’s when she opened the literary agency. After that, she met Stan Maybrick, a widower, and together they founded the Mid-Town Players theatre group. But sadly, not long after that, Stan died.’

‘What about Preston Alexander, Esme? I take it you knew him.’

‘We met on a few social occasions but I can’t say that I knew him well. All I really know about the man is that he invested in the agency and saved it from ruin. Beatrice was forever grateful. She said so on many occasions.’

‘How did she and Preston get on?’

‘Well, and that did surprise me because Beatrice wasn’t an easy person to please. Preston, however, managed admirably. I think they became good friends and I don’t think it was solely because he’d bailed her out financially. I think she recognised what a fine man he was.’ Esme looked at Fitzjohn. ‘Why would someone want to kill him do you think?’