Murder at the Mansion (12 page)

S
tunned silence filled the room.

Corrigan sighed, shook his head, and looked at Stanton. “I didn't know her.”

“I understand. I know your company is very large.” The deputy looked at his notepad. “She was employed as a spotter. What did she do exactly?”

“That's someone who—”

Before Corrigan could say more, Hensley, her eyes wide, her chin jutting forward, interrupted him. “It means she was a spy! Michael, how could you? You sent her to check on me? And the staff I was responsible for? After all the years we've known each other?” Her voice shook with fury.

“Margaret, you know I have an interested buyer for Redwood Heights, and it's company policy to have places reviewed before they're sold.”

“But me? You doubted I was doing my job?”

Corrigan's lips formed a tight line. “No, I didn't.”

Deputy Stanton cut in. “Mr. Corrigan, you were starting to give an explanation. Go on.”

“Her job was to be at a site, without anyone knowing who she was. Even me. There's one administrator who handles that department, and she's the only one who knows who those employees are.”

“What kinds of things do they look for?”

“They measure staff courtesy, cleanliness of the site, and following protocol, to name a few. It's a long list. I'll write down the name and number of her supervisor for you.”

“I'd appreciate that.” Stanton looked at me and at the manager. “Ms. Jackson and Mrs. Hensley, now you know the deceased woman's purpose for being here and that she was a company employee, is there anything you can think of that she said or did that has a new interpretation?”

I thought a moment, then shook my head. “No, not offhand. I'll go back through my interactions with her and let you know if I think of anything.”

“Mrs. Hensley?” Stanton turned to the manager.

Would she be able to talk, considering her tightly clenched jaw?

“It explains why she was so annoying to the staff. Testing us—seeing what our limits were.” She shot an angry glance at Corrigan. “I'm sure you'll find everyone did well.”

Stanton tapped his pen on his notepad. “Anything else?”

The manager looked away. “I'll give it some thought, too.”

“We're asking for alibis between eleven thirty, when she was last seen, and twelve forty-five, when guests began arriving in the lobby for a tour. The entrance to Sylvia's room is visible from there, and no one saw anyone enter or leave. We suspect closer to eleven thirty because she hadn't taken the nap she mentioned and the blood on her blouse had begun to dry a bit around the edges.”

I shuddered at the details. Sylvia had wanted to rest and sip her hot beverage. Instead she was murdered.

Deputy Sheriff Stanton looked at the other two officers. “Do you have any questions?”

“None that I can think of at the moment,” Detective Rodriguez said.

Detective Nelson nodded in agreement.

Deputy Stanton glanced around the room. “Jerry Gershwin confirmed Cindy's account of yesterday morning. Your other two live-in staff members don't have alibis.” He slipped his notes into the front pocket of his shirt. “Okay, folks, that's all for now.”

I got up and started for the door. Scott caught up with me. We didn't say anything until we were outside.

“That was a shocker,” Scott said as we stopped next to my truck.

“I agree with you there.”

“Kelly, this is a difficult situation and trying for all of us. How about we take a break from it and have dinner tonight? I'll make the long, steep, perilous hike to the grocery store.” His wide grin acknowledged the joke, as it was a short, flat walk to the market. “Then I'll slave over the deli counter and put something together for us to have at your new place, Redwood Cove B and B.”

A quiet night with Scott pulled at me. Maybe this was my chance to have someone help me like I'd done with Stevie and Tina. “I'd like that.”

“Great!” Scott checked his watch. “I'll talk to Michael about what else needs to be done and head for the store.” He turned to leave.

“See you in a bit.” I hesitated. “I'm looking forward to it.”

He paused on his walk back to the mansion and looked over his shoulder. “Me too.”

I got into the truck. So much had happened, my mind was spinning. Hensley had been furious about Sylvia being a spy. She appeared surprised, but had she already known? She had a short fuse. Had it ignited and she killed Sylvia in a fit of rage?

Or had one of the other employees had enough of Sylvia's pushy ways? Tina didn't have an alibi for the time of the murder. Had she been fed up enough with the woman to kill her?

Jerry Gershwin's alibi had checked with Cindy's account of the day. Could someone corroborate both their alibis? They could be covering for each other. But the chef hadn't stayed there long enough to be part of the robberies if they were connected.

Then there was the attack on Gertie by someone about my height. I believed the hatpins connected the two incidents. The people similar in height to me included Hensley, Tina, Lily, and Robert James. Anyone else? The chef was a little on the short side, but the lighting hadn't been great. I kept him on the list.

Lily hadn't had a chance to take the hatpin from Sylvia's body because she was leading a tour group. Robert James wasn't a guest at the time and, to the best of everyone's knowledge, he wasn't on site. Lots of pieces weren't fitting together. A quiet night with Scott sounded perfect.

I pulled into the parking lot of Redwood Cove Bed-and-Breakfast, put the box in the shed, and entered the multipurpose room. Andy and Phil were at the counter. Andy arranged an assortment of cheese and crackers as Phil studied the labels on several bottles of wine.

“Kelly,” Phil greeted me. “I just chose the wine to pair with our cheese for tonight. Do you recognize the label?”

I looked at the label featuring a delicate greyhound with a flowing red scarf, a Pegasus-like wing tucked against its side. “I do. It's from the Flying Dog winery. The sampling of their merlots you poured for me provided an educational afternoon on flights of wine.”

“Cheese, cheese, cheese. Wonderful cheese,” Andy sang as he unwrapped and sliced a couple of exotic-looking cheeses. “Would you like to join us?”

“Not tonight, but thanks. Scott's bringing dinner from the market, and we're going to relax a bit.”

“Ahh . . . the business at the mansion. I understand. Nasty stuff.” Andy shook his head.

“Did either of you have any interaction with Sylvia Porter?” I decided not to complicate matters with her real name.

Phil began to open the bottle of wine. “Very little.” The cork popped as he pulled it. “She was abrasive at times but certainly nothing to kill over.”

Andy put the finishing touches on his tray. “That was my experience of her as well. We were at the Heights doing some prep work for the festival. She asked me questions about cheese. At times there seemed to be a very sweet person amid her difficult demeanor.”

“Thanks, guys.”

Andy busied himself over a plate and then put it on the counter. “Here's a little something for you and Scott.”

“How sweet of you.”

The cheese monger pointed to a wedge of light yellow cheese. “Pecorino Toscano, made of sheep's milk. Many people describe it as sweet and nutty. It's PDO—protected geographical indication—meaning it has to come from a certain region in order to use the name.”

I reached into the cupboard above me and pulled out crackers, along with a small wicker tray. “I'm sure it'll be delicious.”

“The other one is Cantalet and AOC designated, which is basically the same as PDO. One's Italian, the other French. It's produced in Auvergne, France. Made with cow's milk. It ages wonderfully, but the wedge I brought with me isn't going to have that chance.”

I lined the container with a green cotton napkin and arranged a variety of wafers in it. “It'll be a wonderful way for us to start our dinner.”

Andy opened a second bottle of the Flying Dog wine. “And here's a gift from me as well.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

Andy and Phil departed with their cheeses and wine for the parlor, and I set the table for Scott and me. As I was putting the napkins down, Helen, Tommy, and Fred came in.

Helen put the bag she was carrying on the granite divider. “Hi. Looks like you have plans for tonight.”

“Yes, Scott's doing another market special.”

“Well, that's a great place. Lots of organic and local food in what they make.”

“I know. I'm looking forward to it.”

“I bought a few things we need for tomorrow. I'll get them put away and then we'll go next door.”

Tommy jumped onto one of the counter stools. “Did I hear you say Mr. Scott's coming over?”

“Yes, you did.”

As if on cue, Scott appeared at the back door. I could see him through the window. I opened it, and he deposited a bag on the counter.

“Mr. Scott. Hi!” Tommy raced toward Scott.

“Hi to you.” He gave Tommy a big hug. “And you, too,” he said as Fred nosed in for his attention. His tail wagged like a furry metronome.

“Do you want to see my new Legos?” Tommy asked.

I remembered the memorable night Scott and I had spent in Helen and Tommy's cottage. Scott had been surrounded by Legos and animal posters as he was being the good sport and sleeping in Tommy's room.

“I'll pass tonight. I promise I will before I leave town.”

Helen picked up her purse. “Come on, Tommy. It's time for our dinner.”

They left, and Scott and I were alone.

We began to unpack the grocery bag. Scott stopped and put his arm around my shoulders. “This has been a rough time for you.”

His touch felt light and warm. I glanced at him and turned away quickly from the look of care and concern in his eyes. The tiredness, the stress threatened to leap out of the place I'd been keeping it penned in and flood through my body, my mind. I took a deep breath. Determined to keep it corralled, I stepped away, busying myself opening containers—and breaking the moment between us.

“There have definitely been some uncomfortable situations.” I grabbed several serving dishes from the cabinets. “I'm glad we're doing this. Thanks for suggesting it.”

Scott emptied one of the containers into a blue-and-white ceramic bowl. “The stir-fried shrimp looked particularly appealing.”

I agreed with him as I placed it on the table. It was full of red and green bell peppers and what looked like shiitake mushrooms mixed in with large shrimp and a sprinkling of peanuts. A complex blend of spices filled the air. I put the brown rice and green salad next to it.

“We can't forget the fortune cookies.” Scott put two on the table.

I put Andy's cheese tray out and poured glasses of the deep red merlot.

Scott picked up our glasses and handed me mine. “Here's to your new beginning at Redwood Cove Bed-and-Breakfast.”

We touched glasses and took a sip. The wine had a soft, fruity flavor.

“I'm so excited to be here,” I said.

“I'm looking forward to hearing why you made the decision to become a manager and leave your position, which would've taken you around the world.”

“Happy to share.”

We served ourselves in companionable silence.

When we were settled and had begun to eat, Scott asked, “So how is it a village on the coast of California appeals more to you than trips to international resorts?”

I speared a forkful of arugula and spinach, beets, and feta cheese. “I grew up on a ranch and went to school in a small town. The town's people helped each other. There was a real community feel. I have a big, loving family, and many of the ranchers and townspeople were like extended family. I want to travel, but I want my home to be about people as well as a place.”

“I had such a different life.” Scott sipped his wine and sat back. “Dad worked for a large corporation, and we'd stay a year or two in one place, then we'd move. We lived overseas on several occasions.”

“How was that for you in terms of friends and school?”

“I didn't develop any strong relationships with other kids. Mom always wanted the best schools for me, and a few times that meant boarding school when she couldn't find anything local that met with her approval.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“I was okay with it. We went to some fun places and stayed at nice hotels while Mom was working out housing.” He set his utensils down. “I love my parents, and they love me, but we're not close like a lot of families. Dad worked long hours, and Mom kept busy with all the moves.”

“How often do you see them?”

“A few times a year. We usually have Christmas together.”

“What's that like?”

Scott laughed. “Mom unfolds the three-foot-high white vinyl Christmas tree she got in Japan, puts it on the coffee table, decorates it with small two-inch baby blue bulbs, and makes a reservation for Christmas dinner.”

I just about choked on my wine. “No real Christmas tree?”

“Nope. She'd be happy if she could figure out a way to keep the bulbs on it when she packs it up.”

“And eating out?”

“She always got our reservations in early.”

“What about the smell of Christmas? You breathe Christmas, not just look at it. Oh, my gosh, you missed the smell of Christmas.” I was shocked someone could grow up without that special experience.