Murder at the Mansion (20 page)

“Those are all possibilities, but how does the attack on Hensley fit in?”
Or me
. “I don't have a clue. We'll have to keep gathering information until something comes to light.”

The Professor said, “Sounds like we have our new direction and our assignments. Maybe tomorrow will take us to the killer.”

Noticing the pitcher was empty, I picked it up. “I'll get some more water.”

I went to the main room and started to fill the container from the water cooler.

Helen came over and handed me a note. “I forgot to give this to you earlier.”

Henrietta, Henry as she liked to be called, had phoned collect. The message said she had more information but not to call after nine, which was six o'clock here. It had been too late to call by the time I got to the inn. I knew what I'd be doing in the morning.

“Thanks, Helen.”

I gazed around the room. The kids and the dogs were playing, while Stevie and Daniel watched television. Helen's cookies had filled the room with mouthwatering smells. I'd be so happy when this was the routine instead of talking about tracking down a murderer.

Henry had called. She wouldn't do that for a social reason. What had she found out? Would it be something that would lead us to the answer we so desperately needed?

H
elen answered a knock on the door and opened it for Detective Rodriguez. We exchanged hellos, decided to meet about seven in the morning, and I said I'd call him when I was ready. Helen gave him his room information, and he excused himself to continue with his paperwork. Daniel and Stevie looked quizzical but went back to watching their show, and I returned to the Sentinels.

Studying our list of our primary suspects, I said, “We have a billionaire, a young woman with a bright future ahead, and a caregiver. It's as clear as mud which one is a murderer.”

Ivan wrinkled his brow. “Clear mud? Would like to see.”

The Professor smiled. “It's an idiom, Ivan.”

“An idiotums?” the big man said, and we all laughed.

“Some of them seem idiotic, that's for sure. The word is idiom,” the Professor explained. “It's when words put together in a phrase have a different meaning than what you'd find looking each individual word up in the dictionary. For example, if you say something costs an arm and a leg it means it's very expensive.”

“Now Ivan get. Like fish on land.”

“Sort of. That one's like a fish out of water,” the Professor said.

“Yah, yah. Now I remember. Fish out of water.”

We worked together to clean dishes and pack up the food. With promises to have an afternoon meeting tomorrow, we said our good nights.

As I was about to leave, I looked at Robert Johnson's picture again. He was talking to a man, and I wondered if it was the CEO. I decided to call Corrigan.

“Hi, Kelly.” Corrigan sounded tired.

“How's Margaret?”

“She has a concussion, but it appears she'll be okay.”

“That's good news. Is the man in the picture with Robert Johnson the one who wanted to buy the mansion?”

“Yes. When I saw that, I had an idea what Robert was up to.”

“Thanks. That's helpful. The Sentinels and I have put together our next plan of action.” I didn't ask him about the last time he saw Hensley or for a description of the buyers—that could wait.

“You've all done a great job so far. I'm glad to hear they're still working on it.”

We ended the call with promises to be in touch with any new developments.

Examining the picture more closely, I saw a gray-haired man, maybe in his sixties. There had been a second man in the picture Sylvia showed me, and it could have been him. Hard to tell his height, but at least now we knew what he looked like.

I packed a few things and went to my new room.

 

I rolled out of bed at six and was ready by seven to go downstairs with Detective Rodriguez. Helen had thoughtfully brought me a thermos of coffee since I didn't have a way to make my own. I was anxious to make my call to Henry.

I phoned the detective, and we met on the landing. “Any new information you can share?” I asked.

He shook his head. “There's nothing new. More of an absence of information—no fingerprints at any of the crime scenes, no weapon so far from yesterday's attack, and nothing useful we can see in the interviews.”

“Frustrating,” I said.

He nodded in agreement.

“Did Michael Corrigan tell you about the papers I've been working on?”

“Just that you found legal documents regarding a lawsuit from about fifty years ago and that it didn't seem relevant to what was happening now.”

“Right. The woman lost the case. I talked to a relative and learned a little more. I missed a call from her yesterday, so I'm going to the office to phone her back.”

We entered the kitchen and workroom area. Helen was slicing bananas. A dish of yogurt sat nearby.

Helen pointed to two plates on the counter. “Good morning. Breakfast is ready.”

Detective Rodriguez's eyes lit up when he saw the frying pan brimming with scrambled eggs with red and green peppers mixed in. Country-fried potatoes heaped on a plate sat on the counter next to a platter of bacon.

“Looks great, Helen. I'm going to return Henry's call, then I'll be in.”

I grabbed a cup of coffee as the detective started filling his plate.

Closing the study door behind me, I hesitated a moment, then locked it. I found a notepad and a pen, settled in behind the oak desk, and dialed Henry's number.

“Evans Residential Care. How may I help you?” a voice asked in well-practiced tones.

“Henrietta Reynolds, please,” I replied.

“Just a moment. I'll see if she's available.” The woman put me on hold.

After what seemed an eternity, Henry came on the line.

“Henry here. Who are you?” the high-pitched elderly voice demanded.

“Kelly Jackson. How are you?”

“Waste of time talkin' about how I am. What do I need to do to get that reward you talked about?”

“Give me new information about Iris and her family.”

“How much is it?”

Right. How much? It didn't exist.

“It's a hundred dollars. Any new information about the Brandon family qualifies you.” I rolled my eyes. May this never get out.

“If I'd known it was that much, I would've called sooner.”

I willed myself to be patient.

“Do Iris's kids count?” Her voice creaked.

“Sure.” I perched on the edge of the chair, pen ready. What did the woman know?

“How do I know you'll send me the money?” Suspicion filled her quavering voice.

“You don't. But I will. And you have nothing to lose,” I replied.

Henry's laugh was like the crackling of dry leaves. “Way to go, girl. I like your style, and you're learnin' how to get to the point.”

I think I heard the phone squeal as I held it in a stranglehold.

“Ethel called yesterday,” Henry declared triumphantly. Silence. She didn't continue.

“Who's Ethel?” I asked.

“My word, girl. Don't you know anything? I thought you were researching this family. Well, doesn't matter.” Her breath whistled softly over the phone.

I drew a smiley face on my notepad to have something cheerful to look at.

“She's a relative. I asked her about Iris's kids. It seems the youngest boy was ill almost from the get-go. The two older ones took care of him as long as they could. Had to put him in some home early on. Hard to imagine being in a place like that all your life.” Her voice trailed off, ending in a whisper.

What kind of life was Henry living? In my excitement, I hadn't thought about the woman I was talking to, where she was, and what she might be going through. I felt a surge of guilt.

In softer tones I asked, “Do you know what happened to the other two?”

“The boy got into some kind of trouble. Both of 'em moved west, Ethel said. Thought maybe California. Wasn't sure.”

“Do you have any idea what the name of the place is where they put their younger brother?”

“Nope. You're talking over thirty years ago.”

“What were the names of the children?”

“Don't remember the youngest—didn't see him much. The boy went by Cash and the girl's name was Catherine. Do I get my money?” she asked with a shot of spunk in her reedy voice.

“I'll send it tomorrow. If you find out anything else, give me a call. It's not a one-time reward.”

I'd pay it myself. A hundred dollars was a lot, but the information might prove useful, and Henry probably needed it more than I did.

“Okay.” Henry's voice suddenly seemed filled with the weight of her years.

“Take care, Henry,” I said.

“I always take care of myself,” Henry fired back. The line disconnected as she banged the phone down.

I sank back in my chair.

Of the current suspects, Robert Johnson and Lily Wilson could be grandchildren, and Tina could be a great-grandchild. I wasn't sure about the CEO and his sister, but the picture made me think they'd be in the grandchildren category.

I kept circling back to the fact Iris had lost the lawsuit. Why would it make any difference now? I didn't think we were going to find the answer in this line of inquiry, but I decided to stay with it. I had nothing to lose, either . . . except my life, if we didn't get an answer soon.

I went to the conference room and studied the photograph of Johnson and the person who was fronting for him. Their facial structures were quite different from each other. Johnson had a narrow face and the other man had high cheekbones and a wide brow. Then it hit me. Family resemblances sometimes were very strong and passed down through the generations. If one of the suspects was a descendant of Mrs. Brandon, the photographs in the carriage house might give us a clue as to who it was.

I went into the kitchen and sat next to Detective Rodriguez, who was heaping a second helping of potatoes on his plate.

“Learn anything?” he asked.

“A little more about the family. Iris Reynolds, who initiated the lawsuit, had two boys and a girl. One of the boys was in poor health and put in a home. The other two might have moved out here.”

“Doesn't seem like you got much to go on.”

I put peanut butter on a piece of toast and topped it with raspberry jam. “I know what you mean, but I'd like to go look at the photos of Mrs. Brandon I found in the carriage house. Do you have time to go with me? It won't take long. I'll grab a few and take them into the mansion . . . if that's where I'll be.” I remembered my day wasn't my own to plan anymore.

“That works. Nelson and I are working in the interview room. We have all our papers spread out there.” He looked at his watch. “I'm meeting him at eight thirty, so I have time to go up there with you. You can come back to the mansion with me until you get your day figured out.”

We thanked Helen for breakfast, got our things from our rooms, and headed for Redwood Heights. We parked in back next to each other and walked up the path. When we arrived at the carriage house, I took out the key and started to move the yellow crime scene tape.

Detective Rodriguez stepped beside me. “Let me do that.” He took the key, pulled the tape aside, and unlocked the door.

He entered and flipped on the light switch. “You stay behind me.”

The first part of the room remained much the same. However, there was a considerable change at the back. The police had broken down a large section of the wall, in order to remove the skeleton. Now one could easily walk into the once-hidden room. The empty carriage sat in the back, a dusty, outdated means of travel, but no longer a casket.

Detective Rodriguez checked behind boxes and inside the carriage. “Looks like the coast is clear.”

His phone rang. “Detective Rodriguez.” He listened. “What do you mean it's about my wife? Just a minute.” He turned to me. “I'm going to take this outside. I'll be at the doorway.”

I'd already headed for the box of photographs. “Okay. I'll be out in a few minutes.”

Some light now found its way into the room from the newly made opening, but I still needed my flashlight to look at the pictures. I pulled it out and opened the steamer trunk. The stack of photos was still there. I wanted to get a good photo of Mrs. Brandon's face, preferably from different angles, as well as a sense of how tall she was.

One photo had her in a portrait setting, leaning against a fireplace mantel, showing her to be on the tall side. Another gave her facial profile as she petted a horse. Digging deeper, I found one of her facing the camera, dark hair piled high, her eyes challenging and inviting. High cheekbones. Wide eyes. Two people came to mind—the CEO and Lily Wilson.

Goose bumps erupted on my arms. I'd found the granddaughter. Why had she kept quiet about her family connection? She must be hiding it for a reason.

Had I found the killer?

“Detective Rodriguez,” I shouted. I jumped up and turned around—only to find Lily blocking my path.

L
ily's silhouette filled the doorway. She turned and pulled the door closed.

The last time the door had closed, I'd been trapped inside. A prickle of apprehension rippled through me.

Her full skirt reached to the floor, the ebony cloth rustling as she stepped toward me. The high-necked lace bodice and long sleeves extending over the backs of her hands had once protected travelers of the horse and buggy era. A fine black mesh veil from a small-brimmed hat shrouded her features—the apparel of mourning. Lily lifted the delicate fabric with one hand.

“Detective Rodriguez?” I forced his name through my constricted throat.

“He won't be coming,” Lily said. “He had to go.”

What exactly did she mean by that?

Lily pointed to the items I held in my hands. “I see you have some photographs.”

“Yes. I was trying to see if there was a family resemblance to anyone involved with the mansion. I think Mark Benton, the man who wants to buy the mansion, looks somewhat like her.”

I had no intention of mentioning her likeness.

She smiled. “As well he should. He's my brother, and we're Brandon descendants. The woman you found in the coach was our grandmother.”

Shocked at her admission, I asked, “Lily, why didn't you tell people about your connection to the family?”

Lily sighed. “It was my secret. When I came here, I took a position as a nurse to care for the ailing owners. They were involved in the lawsuit and wouldn't have hired me if they'd known my mother was the one who sued them. I changed my name from Catherine, my paternal grandmother's name, to Lily, which is what my mother felt was in keeping with the Brandon tradition. Wilson was a convenient name on our family tree.”

I shifted uneasily.

“I decided if I couldn't own Redwood Heights, maybe I could at least live in it. Mom often showed us pictures of the place.” Her face took on a dreamy expression. “I knew every detail of what was in those photographs—the inlaid tables, the crystal chandeliers, the marble fireplaces. It was all to be ours . . . and should be ours.”

“Now there's proof there was a child. You can reopen the case.”

Lily shook her head. “I saw the pitying looks people gave my mother. They laughed her out of court . . . said she'd forged the birth certificate. Threatened to arrest her . . . the owners with all their money and fancy attorneys. It would be no different now. I watched her waste away and die a little more inside each day. Her affection for my brothers and me shriveled to nothing. Besides, it's too late.”

“What do you mean it's too late?”

“The Porter woman, if only she hadn't been such a busybody. My brother saw her taking pictures when he met with Johnson one morning at the mansion. I tried stealing her camera.”

“I planned to make her sick so she'd leave. I brought some pills to work with me. I knew when she showed you the picture and said it was Robert Johnson, I had to do something more. He'd told us the deal wouldn't go through if Corrigan found out he was involved. I couldn't take a chance she'd show it to him or someone who knew of their past.”

My eyes searched the room for anything I might be able to use as a weapon.

“That's why I had to silence Hensley, too. She recognized the name and would've remembered the connection in time. A blow to the head kept her out of commission. For Sylvia, I added a little something to her tea.” Lily smiled. “She'd wanted to try on some hats. I took one to her room. The drug I gave her worked. She could hardly stand. I helped her to the chair; I pulled out my hatpin and stabbed her. It was so easy. You see, that's why there won't be a new lawsuit. It's too late.”

She shifted her position, revealing an aluminum bat she held that had been hidden in the folds of the voluminous skirt.

I stepped back.

Lily glanced at her watch. “The deal would've been done by now.” She laughed, a hollow, mirthless sound. “Today would've been the day for me to take my rightful place as lady of the manor. At last, after all these years, I would've slept in my grandmother's room.”

Fear rooted me to the ground.

“Instead of getting my rightful inheritance, I ended up emptying bedpans and administering medicine to the pathetic owners. Then later, the tours. I hated having all those strangers traipse through my house.”

Her voice got higher pitched and louder. The folds of her skirt whispered together as she stepped toward me.

Her harsh, vehement voice rent the dust-filled air. “First the Porter woman and then you. Messing up my plans. Sticking your nose in where it didn't belong. I tried to scare you away with the fire. If you and those meddling seniors had stayed out of it, I would've been able to live here the rest of my life.” Lily raised her arms, bat overhead. “I got rid of her, and I'll get rid of you!”

I threw the framed pictures in Lily's face, turned, and ran. A crash and the tinkle of breaking glass sounded.

“There's nowhere for you to go.” Her low, husky whisper was more chilling than her loud rant.

And she was right. There was no place to hide, no way out.

I spied the carriage. The dark eyes of its empty window frames stared at me. I reached it, yanked the door open, and threw myself inside. I slammed the door closed and slid the bolt in place just as Lily grabbed the door.

The handle of the carriage door rattled as she twisted it, but the lock held. The carriage tilted as Lily stood on the step. Her face peered through the door's window, her eyes like smoldering black coals. Her fingers curled over the sill.

Her face disappeared. The bat hit the bottom of the window frame. Wood splinters flew, a few hitting my face. The whole carriage shuddered as another smashing blow hit the door. The thick wood remained intact.

Lily hit the side of the window frame nearest the door. “I will get you,” she said through clenched teeth.

The frame began to disintegrate. She was working on the area nearest the handle. If she destroyed enough of the wood panel, she'd be able to reach in and grab the bolt. I tried the door on the other side. Jammed. Probably warped.

I peered out a window next to it. Boxes and trunks blocked the left side below. I could pull myself out through the window, but I'd have to go by Lily to escape the building. I searched around the carriage for anything I could use as a weapon. The dim light showed only the bare interior, disintegrating leather cushions, and a broken sconce.

In the upper corner I spied another wall sconce, this one intact. Maybe that could be used as a weapon. Shaped like a large shell, the glass appeared thick. I didn't want Lily to see what I was doing, so I picked up a cushion and leaned it against the window frame she was smashing. The second seat cushion I placed against the door in case she looked in again.

I reached up and explored the glass cover. How was it connected? The sconces had to be easily removed because they had to be refilled with oil so often. Desperately my fingers searched—shoving, twisting, pulling. I pushed upward, and the glass cover moved. I freed it from its base.

The carriage reverberated from the blows of the bat.

I needed to cover the glass with something to protect myself when I hit her. I cradled my precious cargo under my arm as I tried to unzip my jacket. I tugged at the zipper. It reluctantly went down a few notches. Frantically, I jerked at the zipper. It relented, and I struggled out of the thin jacket and wrapped the sconce.

“I will end this.” Lily's voice was low and menacing.

I heard a large intake of breath. A quick glance out the gaping hole to the left of the door showed a twisted face framed by two uplifted arms.

“Now!” Lily's voice, filled with rage, fueled the bat. With strength born from years of hate, Lily smashed the window frame once again, destroying what was left of the wood panel.

She pushed the cushion out of the way, reached in, and unlocked the door. She opened it.

“You can't get away from me.” She reached up and grabbed the metal handle next to the right side of the door. “I'm going to kill you.” Lily seized the left side of the door frame with her other hand, managing to hold on to the bat. She began pulling herself into the carriage, her features contorted like some primitive mask.

I rose as high as I could and, using both hands, hit her right temple with all of my strength with the sconce. She lost her grip on the door and fell forward into the carriage. She didn't lose her hold on the bat. She shook her head from side to side, as if to clear her mind. It was the best I could hope for. The glass had shattered from the force of the blow. The sconce had done its job. I dropped it. It was of no further use.

I spun around and went to the window. Putting my back against the windowsill, I grasped the top of the frame with both hands and pulled myself out, my back scraping against the rough wood. I dropped among the dark shapes of trunks and boxes and turned to my right. I crouched at the back of the coach and peered around the corner. Lily was still slumped forward.

I lunged past her as she righted herself. She reached out and grabbed my arm. I jerked it away and continued to run. I heard heavy breathing behind me. I wouldn't make it to the door. I needed another weapon. I'd seen gardening equipment along the side wall and sprinted to that area. I snatched an iron rake and turned. Lily was almost upon me.

I swung my rake at her bat; our equipment became our swords. We hit several times, the bat pinging when it hit the metal. I had the advantage of distance, but her bat was stronger. My grip loosened on the handle as she nailed it with a hard blow.

I needed to do something different before I lost the rake.

I rammed the end of it into her stomach then swung the rake tooth side out into the arm holding the bat.

Lily screamed as the metal cut through her sleeve. Her hand went to the wound. She dropped the bat, staggered back, and stepped onto the hem of her long dress. She toppled over and then struggled to untangle herself from all the fabric.

I didn't wait to see if she was successful. Her fall gave me the few precious seconds I needed. I ran.

Then I remembered the two additional wedges I'd found earlier. I grabbed them from the floor near the door, wrenched it open, and plunged outside. Slamming it shut, I shoved one wedge and then the other under the door.

The bat smashed into the wood. Once . . . then again. It held.

Lily shouted, “Let me out!”

I knew only too well how effective those triangular pieces of wood were.