something crucial to Charlie’s full and speedy recovery, I would provide her husband, Rollie, with a successful murder investigation, something crucial to his well-deserved, long-overdue retirement.
“Maybe some people, like my husband, don’t want to admit it, but when it comes to figuring out a complicated murder, you are a regular Sherlock Holmes,” said Martha. “You have a special gift that enables you to sense when things are not quite right. You are a true problem solver.”
That the woman had such faith in my sleuthing abilities was both flattering and scary.
“It will be like you Americans say,” Martha continued with a confident smile, “one hand will wash the other. It’ll be our secret. Together, we will put our husbands on the road to health and happiness. Is it a deal?”
“But, Martha,” I protested, “what happens if I fail? Or even worse, Matt finds out about my part in the plan?” In my head I could hear Matt’s voice reminding me that he was the detective and I was the decorator. I was to stick with what I do best and he would do the same. “Everyone knows how he feels about me sticking my nose in police business.”
“No, no, no. These things will not happen,” Martha quickly replied. “Your birthday and mine are the same. Those who are born under the sign of Capricorn do not accept failure. Don’t be concerned with your son-in-law finding out. He and Sergeant Rosen are far too busy with what Rollie tells me is an important investigation. Very hush-hush.”
Rollie’s assessment of Matt’s involvement in an unrelated investigation jived with what JR had said when I’d asked for Matt’s help. It also reminded me of something else my daughter had said in that same conversation: This time I was on my own.
“Okay, Martha, it’s a deal,” I said with more bravado than I actually felt. Only time would tell if the deal I agreed to would lead me back to the sunny side of the street or down a dark and dangerous path.
Chapter
ten
It was close to ten p.m. when I left Charlie in the capable hands of hospital personnel and called it a day. And what a day it had been. As I drove the short distance from the hospital to Kettle Cottage, I began to prioritize the things I needed to do to get my investigation of Dona’s murder off the ground. Topping the list was verifying the time and cause of death. Obviously, a visit with Dr. Loo was in order.
I also needed to have a talk with Abner Wilson. If the old man who rented the cottage’s barn and shed from Dona had been in the vicinity around the time of the murder, he might have seen or heard something of importance. And I wanted to interview the members of Dona’s entourage, starting with Rufus Halsted. If the Deville/Halsted divorce was as acrimonious as Dona’s personal assistant, Marsha Gooding, implied, then why was the ex a member of this select group? There must have been a pretty good reason. That the gossipy Goody had purposely misled me crossed my mind.
I hadn’t a clue as to which one of the many bed-and-breakfast establishments in the Seville area counted the entourage among its guests. The thought of methodically checking out so many people, places, and things drained what was left of my energy. Maybe, I reasoned, what I really needed was some comfort food, a hot shower, and a good night’s sleep.
Turning the van onto Blueberry Lane, I was surprised to find the normally dark road bathed in streams of light coming from the Birdwell house.
Separated from Kettle Cottage by a tall, thick hedge, the 1950s, five-bedroom, two-bath, brick Georgian was usually closed up for the night once the sun set. Its owner, Sally Birdwell, a perky forty-five-year-old widow, almost religiously adheres to the old adage of early to bed and early to rise. Knowing this, and that Billy Birdwell, Sally’s twenty-two-year-old son, who was the assistant chef at the country club, generally didn’t arrive home before midnight, I worried that Sally
“Maybe some people, like my husband, don’t want to admit it, but when it comes to figuring out a complicated murder, you are a regular Sherlock Holmes,” said Martha. “You have a special gift that enables you to sense when things are not quite right. You are a true problem solver.”
That the woman had such faith in my sleuthing abilities was both flattering and scary.
“It will be like you Americans say,” Martha continued with a confident smile, “one hand will wash the other. It’ll be our secret. Together, we will put our husbands on the road to health and happiness. Is it a deal?”
“But, Martha,” I protested, “what happens if I fail? Or even worse, Matt finds out about my part in the plan?” In my head I could hear Matt’s voice reminding me that he was the detective and I was the decorator. I was to stick with what I do best and he would do the same. “Everyone knows how he feels about me sticking my nose in police business.”
“No, no, no. These things will not happen,” Martha quickly replied. “Your birthday and mine are the same. Those who are born under the sign of Capricorn do not accept failure. Don’t be concerned with your son-in-law finding out. He and Sergeant Rosen are far too busy with what Rollie tells me is an important investigation. Very hush-hush.”
Rollie’s assessment of Matt’s involvement in an unrelated investigation jived with what JR had said when I’d asked for Matt’s help. It also reminded me of something else my daughter had said in that same conversation: This time I was on my own.
“Okay, Martha, it’s a deal,” I said with more bravado than I actually felt. Only time would tell if the deal I agreed to would lead me back to the sunny side of the street or down a dark and dangerous path.
Chapter
ten
It was close to ten p.m. when I left Charlie in the capable hands of hospital personnel and called it a day. And what a day it had been. As I drove the short distance from the hospital to Kettle Cottage, I began to prioritize the things I needed to do to get my investigation of Dona’s murder off the ground. Topping the list was verifying the time and cause of death. Obviously, a visit with Dr. Loo was in order.
I also needed to have a talk with Abner Wilson. If the old man who rented the cottage’s barn and shed from Dona had been in the vicinity around the time of the murder, he might have seen or heard something of importance. And I wanted to interview the members of Dona’s entourage, starting with Rufus Halsted. If the Deville/Halsted divorce was as acrimonious as Dona’s personal assistant, Marsha Gooding, implied, then why was the ex a member of this select group? There must have been a pretty good reason. That the gossipy Goody had purposely misled me crossed my mind.
I hadn’t a clue as to which one of the many bed-and-breakfast establishments in the Seville area counted the entourage among its guests. The thought of methodically checking out so many people, places, and things drained what was left of my energy. Maybe, I reasoned, what I really needed was some comfort food, a hot shower, and a good night’s sleep.
Turning the van onto Blueberry Lane, I was surprised to find the normally dark road bathed in streams of light coming from the Birdwell house.
Separated from Kettle Cottage by a tall, thick hedge, the 1950s, five-bedroom, two-bath, brick Georgian was usually closed up for the night once the sun set. Its owner, Sally Birdwell, a perky forty-five-year-old widow, almost religiously adheres to the old adage of early to bed and early to rise. Knowing this, and that Billy Birdwell, Sally’s twenty-two-year-old son, who was the assistant chef at the country club, generally didn’t arrive home before midnight, I worried that Sally
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