Chapter 32
Beatrice walked up the sidewalk to the Drummond house. Halloween was in a few weeks and it occurred to her that the place looked like something straight out of a clichéd horror movie. The sidewalk was cracked and lopsided. The house needed a good painting and the porch was sagging.
If Emma was dead, she’d be turning over in her grave—but instead she was at an assisted living place, afraid to leave her room and thinking that she’d killed her husband. A shiver traveled up Bea’s spine. Emma must be mistaken. Nobody is living here.
But when she stepped up onto the porch, she glimpsed a movement in the window. And there were curtains! Bea rang the doorbell.
A short, dark-haired woman opened the door. “Can I help you?”
“I’m a good friend of Emma Drummond—”
“She doesn’t live here anymore,” the woman interrupted curtly and started to close the door.
Beatrice’s arm prevented it. “I know that. I’d like to see her daughter, Michelle. She lives here, right?”
“Yes, come in.” The woman sighed and reluctantly opened the door.
When Bea walked through the door, she was taken straight back to the last day she had been in the house. The day she’d witnessed Emma being smacked across the face by her husband. Beatrice had intervened, not thinking, and the man almost struck her as well.
The woodwork was polished and shining. The carpets and curtains were beautiful, clean, and well-appointed. What’s the deal with the outside? thought Bea.
The woman gestured to the couch. “Please have a seat.”
Well, Michelle must not be that bad off if she has a housekeeper. Just what’s going on here?
“Hello.” A small, childlike voice came from around the corner. Beatrice twisted around to see. The approaching woman was a wisp of a thing. A little younger than Vera, maybe, and pretty as she could be.
“Michelle? I’m Beatrice, a friend of your mom’s,” Bea said, standing and offering her a hand. The last time she had seen Michelle she had still been in diapers. Beatrice was certain she wouldn’t remember her.
Michelle took her hand and shook it, only meeting Bea’s eyes once.
“I was just visiting Emma,” Bea said. “And she mentioned that you lived here.”
Michelle sat down. “Irina,” she called. “Can we get you some iced tea? Water?”
“Nothing for me, thanks,” Beatrice said.
“Yes, for the time being, I live here,” Michelle said, returning to Bea’s earlier question. “I love this old place. It’s the only home I’ve ever known.”
“I used to visit here back when Emma and Paul lived here. It is lovely. The other day I was walking over by the park and saw the place, which prompted me to look up your mom.”
Michelle simply said, “Ah.” She wore no makeup. She had pretty, big brown eyes, framed in long, dark lashes, a button nose, and an unfortunate, pointy chin. “How is she?” asked Michelle.
“Fine. She doesn’t leave her room?” Beatrice asked. She liked that Michelle wasn’t all made up.
“No,” Michelle said, meeting Beatrice’s eyes with her own. “Unfortunately, it runs in the family.”
“You don’t leave the house?”
She shook her head. “Oh I have, but not recently. That’s why I have Irina. She gets me what I need. Between her and the Internet, I have no need to go out, really.”
So that’s why the place had gone to pot outside. Michelle never saw it.
What to say to something like that? Beatrice knew there were shut-ins everywhere. But this young woman appeared healthy. It must be a form of agoraphobia.
“When I was walking the other day and saw the place it made me kind of sad. I didn’t know anybody lived here. From the outside . . . well, I thought it was abandoned,” Beatrice said carefully. That was as polite as she could put it. She was pleased with herself.
“It’s intentional,” Michelle said, jutting that pointy chin of hers out farther. “I want people to stay away, especially the Kraft Corporation.”
“What? Why?”
“We had to sell part of our land to help keep Mom in the nursing home. So we sold it to them. Then they built those stinking apartments, brought in bad sorts of people. I figure if folks think the place is abandoned, they won’t be robbing me or bother with me at all.”
“What makes you think they’d rob you?” Beatrice asked, thinking that Michelle sounded a bit paranoid.
“I’ve had a few incidents already. And the Kraft Corporation wants the whole shebang. I’ll never leave here!” Michelle was getting hoarse. Her voice was draining.
“Ms. Drummond.” Irina suddenly appeared. “Shall I get you some of your medicine?”
Michelle nodded. She sat very straight in her chair. Her body belied the look on her face, which was borderline panic.
“I’m sorry. I get a bit upset sometimes. They really have upset me. The men that come here and try to get me to sell this place. It’s the last link I have to my family. I’m the last one. Well, aside from my mother and my cousin. And they want to take it all from me,” she said.
Irina appeared again, seemingly out of nowhere, and handed Michelle a glass of water and a pill.
That was the thing about hired help, they were always around. It was something Beatrice could never have abided. “What men?” she asked.
“The Kraft Corporation. The ones who built the apartments.”
Beatrice sank back into the cushions on the couch.
“They want this place and the rest of the land. They can have it over my dead body,” Michelle said.
“Good for you,” Beatrice said. Kraft, she thought.
That was Pamela’s last name. Was the Kraft Corporation hers? Or was it a relative? Kraft was a popular name in these parts. It could have no bearing at all. But it might be a little too coincidental—the women who were killed had links to the Pie Palace and also lived in apartments possibly owned by a member of Pamela’s family. Just what was going on?