She couldn’t help breathing more quickly as she approached the stairs to the Stroden mansion. It wasn’t the climb stealing her breath, but the fact that she might be calling on a blackmailer. A blackmailer indirectly responsible for murder. She lifted her finger to the doorbell. Luke pulled open the door before she’d pushed the bell, and she stepped back.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t expect you to answer so fast.”
“Come in. I was just bringing down a suitcase.” Two pieces of luggage sat to the door’s right.
Luke was soberly dressed today. It crossed Joanna’s mind that he might be wearing one of Stroden’s old suits. The lapel was topstitched by hand, and the fact that Luke hadn’t buttoned the vest suggested it had been tailored for someone with a tighter waist—or a corset.
She followed him in. The scent of violets was nearly gone, but Stroden’s personality still infused every corner. She wondered what Mary Pat planned to do with the house, if she’d even be able to keep up with the property taxes.
Luke led her through the dining area to the morning room. The clothing she’d chosen on her last visit was packed into five grocery bags stacked against the wall. She recognized the lavender ruffle of one dress and the mint green sleeve of another.
“Since you’ve already seen the clothes, I put them in bags. Why don’t we say five hundred for the lot?” Luke said.
She could probably sell them for a thousand dollars, over six months or so. With rent, paying Apple, and other operating expenses, she needed a larger margin. “How about three-fifty?” Even that was a push. These styles were off-market.
“All right. Three-fifty, then.” He was quick to respond. Too quick.
“Obviously, I can’t write the check to Mr. Stroden.”
“You couldn’t do cash?”
“I’d need to go to the bank.” She hesitated. “How about if I write the check to you? Or Mary Pat?”
“Why don’t you leave that line blank? I’ll fill it in later.”
Her hand paused mid-reach for her checkbook. He planned to make off with this money, she was sure. “Maybe I’d better write it to you. For my records.” She wasn’t going to get involved in stealing a dead man’s clothes. “You can always sign it over to Mary Pat later. What’s your last name?”
“Brock. Luke Brock.” He was already moving the bags of clothing to the entry hall.
She ripped the check from the book and set it on the table next to a pile of the day’s mail. “Speaking of Mary Pat, I brought her this.” She pulled a small padded-velvet Victorian scrapbook from her bag. “It was probably meant for autographs, but I thought it would make a nice memory book. There’s a card inside. I feel awful about my last visit.”
“Thanks. I’ll give it to her.” He set the book on the side table. “Don’t worry about Mary Pat. She hasn’t said a word about it since. She was kind of emotional, that’s all.”
“She seemed worse than that.”
“Like I said, don’t sweat it. She’s fine.”
He was already hustling her out the door, and she hadn’t even been in the house ten minutes.
“One more thing. Do you think I could take a peek at the Edith Head costumes? You were going to show them to me last time when we were interrupted.” As he showed her the costumes, she’d try again to quiz him on the memoir. It would buy her time and give her a look at the wardrobe.
He lifted another two bags and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
She followed him to the entry hall. “I came so close to seeing them last time. I admit, I’ve been dreaming about those costumes ever since.”
He set down the bags. “I’m afraid I can’t. I have somewhere I have to be. These are the last two bags of clothes. You can take them to your car while I finish up a few things here.”
She looked at him blankly. He wasn’t even going to help? “It will take a couple of trips.”
“I’ll leave the front door open.”
“Luke,” she said firmly.
He turned to face her. “What?”
“Why are you in such a hurry to leave? You knew I was coming. You called to set it up.”
“Why are you so eager to stick around?” he countered.
“You have on Mr. Stroden’s suit, don’t you?”
He looked down at his torso, as if he didn’t know what he was wearing.
When he didn’t respond, she nodded. “And you can’t get rid of me—or collect my money—fast enough. What’s going on?”
“I hope you aren’t insinuating anything.” He stepped closer. His breath wafted the sour tang of sugared coffee. “If you’re smart, you’ll take your clothes and leave.” He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “You were the last person to see Bradley alive, you know.”
Oh, she knew that. “Yes—”
“I might have heard you yelling at him. In fact, I think I did. Mary Pat couldn’t have. She was in the kitchen. But I might have been in the hall when you threatened Bradley. Then, poisoned him.”
“That’s insane. I—”
“It’s your word against mine, isn’t it?”
Anger burned through her arteries. She didn’t dare look at him, that blackmailer. Yes, blackmailer. Now she was sure.
“Remember what Mary Pat said. You killed her brother. She’d back me up.”
Joanna stepped back and fought to steady her breath. Five bags sat side by side on the entry hall’s polished parquet floor. So, that was it. No further info about the memoir. Not even a peek at the Edith Head costumes. No, all she’d come out of this with were a threat and five bags of clothing that would take ages to sell.
“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Not even a thank you?” he practically sneered. “We probably won’t meet again. I’m off to New York for a few months. I can’t take another rainy winter, anyway.”
“I’ll be out of here in a few minutes, and you can catch your flight.”
Luke saluted her from the doorway and headed toward the morning room, probably to stash the check she’d written him in his wallet ASAP.
She loaded a bag in each arm, took the stairs down to Old Blue, and stuffed them in. She looked up to the house, two flights of concrete steps from the street, and started the climb again. No wonder Stroden had been so thin.
As she took the steps, she pondered their hasty meeting. Luke sure was eager to get out of town. And so suddenly. Why? She picked up the next two bags of clothes. The police must have ruled him out as a suspect—or witness—to let him move out of state so soon. That is, if they knew about his plans.
She heaved the bags into the Corolla’s hatchback and returned to the stairs, with a quick glance to see if the neighbor was watching again. The curtains remained still.
Luke had wanted cash, but had happily snatched the check as long as she’d written it out to him. Mary Pat wouldn’t take it well if she discovered Joanna had been buying her brother’s things and paying Luke. Maybe Joanna should send a note thanking her and letting her know that Luke had the check.
Then there was Luke’s threat of fingering her as the murderer. He could flourish her check to the police and say it was a bribe to keep him quiet.
She wanted a receipt, and she wanted out of there. She had to think.
“Luke?” she called out in the entry hall, a sack of shoes and hats in her hand.
He didn’t answer. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the quarter hour, nearly causing her to drop the bag. She glanced toward the street. No sign of Mary Pat returning. No anybody. Relax, she told herself.
She raised her voice. “Luke?” Maybe he went through to the kitchen. Probably a servant’s staircase led upstairs where his bedroom was. She’d try calling out just one more time, then she was going home, never to see his nasty face again.
She set down the clothing and passed through the dining room. Her steps made no noise on the rose-patterned rug.
She turned to the morning room. “Luke? Would it be too much trouble to get a receipt? I know you—”
She froze at the doorway. Luke was there, all right. At the table, face down, an opened letter in his hand and a cup of coffee next to him. She touched Luke’s shoulder, jiggled it, and drew back her arm. Words froze in her mouth.
It was a week to the day that Stroden had died. Two dead bodies in seven days.