“Yes, captain my captain?” said Cordelia, draping herself against Jane’s office doorway. “You rang?”
“I’ve never heard anyone combine Walt Whitman and Maynard G. Krebs before,” said Jane, closing the cover on her laptop.
“I was quoting Lurch from The Addams Family, but it’s six of one. They’re both famous for the line.”
“You are such a consumer of mass culture.”
“Don’t be annoying. I am a creature of the mind, of deep and impossibly lofty philosophic thought. I just happen to watch a lot of TV. Now, you summoned me, but you failed to tell me why.” She sauntered over to one of two chairs in front of Jane’s desk and sat down. “I hope it’s not bad news about Julia.”
“No, she’s doing much better this morning.” Jane wanted to tell Cordelia about Lena, but didn’t feel it was right to do it in a text or over the phone. After she delivered the bad news, Cordelia’s shoulders sank.
“Such a shame. I liked her. She had ’tude.”
“One of the police officers on scene was leaning toward suicide. One of the neighbors, Butch Averil—”
“The muscular one? Kind of cute, if you like good looks and dazzlingly white teeth.”
“He said it made no sense to him. She wasn’t the least bit suicidal.”
“And what do you think?”
“I have no idea. I will say, I don’t trust anything that comes out of her sister’s mouth.”
“Eleanor? Pillar of the Lutheran community?”
Jane spent the next few minutes giving Cordelia a blow by blow of the conversation she’d overheard between Eleanor and Sergeant Corwin of the PPD. “Either Eleanor is lying or Britt is. Their stories can’t both be true.”
“Wait wait wait. Eleanor admitted that Timmy actually existed?”
“She did.”
“And that Stew Ickles fathered both Timmy and Britt?”
“That was the story.”
“And … and the grandfather accidentally murdered him?” Cordelia fluffed her hair, giving the situation some thought. “That last part seems awfully convenient.”
“Isn’t it. Britt said she remembers seeing her father after they returned from the funeral. She even has that photo taken at that train museum. If he was still alive then, Eleanor’s father couldn’t have murdered him.”
“So if it wasn’t the father, who was it?” asked Cordelia.
“It had to have been someone in the family. With my own ears, I heard Lena say she had nothing to do with it. So, if our time line is right, and Stew died sometime after Britt and her mother returned home from the funeral—when Pauline and Stew were in the midst of a divorce—that only leaves three other people who could have done it. Eleanor. Her son, Frank. Or Iver.”
“Well, four if you count the newly arisen Timmy.”
“But he was only six years old at the time.”
“Perhaps he was precocious. Or big for his age.”
Jane shot her an exasperated look.
“I’m just saying it’s possible. And what was the motive?”
“I can think of several, but all of them would just be guesses.”
“Does Britt know about Lena’s death?”
“No, I left her a voice mail message, asked her to call me. This is her last full day at the conference. I’m sure she’s crazy busy.”
“Boy, the news about Timmy is going to blow her mind.”
Jane was more worried about how she’d take the news of Lena’s death. “Look, the officer I talked to last night pressed me about how long I’d been living at the house. I had to tell him that I was a PI. Or, maybe I didn’t have to tell him, but … it came out. Butch Averil was there, so I figure it’s only a matter of time before the family finds out. I’m busted, Cordelia. I can’t go back there. But … Olive Hudson can. In fact, she has to.”
“Listening at keyholes is a specialty of Olive’s.”
“That would be good, but there’s something else. You know that young blond kid, Quentin Henneberry, the one who rented the other large bedroom?”
“I saw him waft by once or twice.”
“There’s something odd about that guy. When I was leaving my bedroom this morning, after I’d packed my bag, I noticed something on the floor next to the credenza that sits between my room and his—right next to his doorway. It was a little digital recorder. About the size of a large paperclip. I priced them once because I was thinking of buying one. It can store something like ninety hours of recordings. Why would he put that outside his room? What was he trying to capture? Eleanor? I mean, from what I was able to observe, she goes up to her room around nine, closes the door, and doesn’t come out until morning.”
“What about secret assignations with Iver? It’s always possible. Maybe the kid’s kind of kinky and wanted to record a little senior hanky-panky.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
“Well,” said Cordelia, slapping her thighs and standing up. “I will head over there tonight, sniff around, do my Olive Hudson routine, for which I expect, at the very least, a Golden Globe nomination, and give you a full report in the morning.”
“By the way, I’ll need to stop by tonight and pick up my dogs.”
Cordelia sighed. “Hattie won’t be happy. She’d take in every bunny, chipmunk, squirrel, duck, goose, and raccoon in the metro area if she could. Did I tell you she’s talking about becoming a field biologist when she grows up? I suppose that’s slightly better than her yearlong infatuation with astrophysics, and the earlier obsession with bugs.” She gave a shudder. “Why oh why can’t she be interested in, oh, I don’t know—Theater of the Absurd, Elizabethan court masques, or epic poetry. Something normal. Something practical.”
“Where there are no wood ticks,” said Jane.
“Precisely.”
“You’re a good auntie, always encouraging her to be what she wants to be.”
“Yes, I am,” said Cordelia. “I’m a saint.” Throwing a grin over her shoulder as she headed for the door, she added, “Saint Cordelia of Thornfield Hall.”
* * *
Jane spent the remainder of the morning in her office, drinking copious cups of coffee to stay awake while she attempted to catch up on restaurant business. Shortly before noon, she removed her reading glasses, leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms high over her head. Julia was never far from her mind. She had every intention of spending the afternoon at the hospital, though it was too early to leave just yet. She placed another call to the mysterious Dixie in Charlotte, North Carolina, Stew’s onetime girlfriend, but once again had to leave a voice mail message.
As she turned her attention to the monthly profit and loss statement, the name Karen Ritter popped into her head. Bringing up Facebook on her laptop, Jane typed the name in and waited for the page to appear. Instead of “friending” Karen, she decided to leave her a private message.
Karen, hi. My name is Jane Lawless. I’m
a private investigator. I’ve been hired by Britt
Ickles, Lena Skarsvold’s niece, to look into
certain family matters. I understand that you’re
a friend of Lena’s. I wonder if there’s any way we
could meet and I could ask you a few questions.
Jane left her cell phone number and her number at the restaurant, and then signed off. She switched over to her own page to see if there were any new posts. While she was reading something from her niece, Mia, she received a response from Karen.
Jane, hi. Karen here. Yes, Lena and I were
once great friends. We haven’t seen each other
in years, but keep in touch via Facebook. Sure,
I’d be happy to meet with you. I must admit,
I’m curious about what you’re “investigating.”
Tonight would work for me, as long as it’s
early. I’ll be out and about, so I could meet
you. Just tell me where and when.
Jane responded, thanking her, suggesting six o’clock, and then giving her the address of her house. Karen might not have much to add to what Jane already knew, and yet finding an old friend of Lena’s seemed like something she needed to check out.