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I KNOW YOU’LL be stunned to learn I didn’t get much sleep that night. I dozed fitfully, occasionally snapping awake with the realization of what had happened, my mind whirling. Sexy Beast slept better than I did, curled up next to me in bed.
At one point around three a.m. my eyes flew open as I realized I hadn’t called Maria, Irene’s housekeeper. She’d be at the house at nine. Maybe it was better that I hadn’t called her. Breaking the news by phone might be easier on me, but Maria had been with Irene for twenty-eight years. She deserved to be told in person.
Which is why I dragged my exhausted butt back to Irene’s house at a quarter to nine the next morning, hoping to get there before Maria. As I entered the house, the lemony scent of furniture polish told me she’d arrived early. If I’d driven around to the parking area near the garage instead of leaving my car in front of the house, I’d have seen her blue Forester.
I took a couple of deep breaths and automatically reached down to stroke SB, reclining in a straw bucket tote hanging from my shoulder. I’d arranged Irene’s sweater in the bottom of the tote, which was essentially a stiff basket with shoulder straps, and he seemed content to get a free ride in his mommy-smelling nest.
This was not going to be easy. Maria Echevarría had been a nineteen-year-old bride when Irene had hired her as a full-time housekeeper. She’d managed to raise three children to adulthood while working for Irene nine to five, five days a week, rarely taking a sick day.
I found her in the kitchen chopping cilantro on a cutting board. The herb’s pungent aroma filled the room. She’d set out avocados, limes, a white onion, and a tomato. The dishwasher was humming. She appeared mildly surprised to see me. “Are you limping?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I fell and banged my knee.” It was stiff this morning, but I’d popped a couple of Advil and changed the dressing. I’d live.
“Mrs. M isn’t up yet,” she said. “I’m making guacamole for tonight’s Poker Posse. The mayor loves my guacamole.” Her gaze lit on SB’s head and paws perched on the edge of my tote. Her eyes widened. “I thought the dog was upstairs.”
“Maria, I have something to tell you.” My pulse banged so loudly in my ears I could barely hear my own voice. “Sit down.” I pulled out a breakfast-room chair.
She stood her ground, her eyes wide and fixed on me, the kitchen knife still in her hand. “What is it?”
“It’s Mrs. McAuliffe.” Giddily I asked myself where that “Mrs. McAuliffe” had come from. In all the years I’d known Maria, I’d always referred to her employer as Irene, even as she’d always called her Mrs. M. “She... I came here last night to... well, anyway, I was here last night and I... There’s no easy way to say this.”
Slowly Maria set the knife on the cutting board. “She’s dead.”
I gave a little nod. “I’m sorry, Maria. I know what a shock this must be.”
She said nothing for a few moments. I watched conflicting emotions chase one another across her plain face. At least that’s how it seemed to my sleep-deprived brain, which detected something more complex than simple grief behind her dry eyes.
I can’t say what response I’d expected to see. Maria had never been what you’d call the warm and fuzzy type, but she was dependable, trustworthy, and took initiative in maintaining the big house and seeing to her employer’s needs. For Irene’s part, she’d paid her housekeeper a more-than-decent salary with benefits, topped off with a generous Christmas bonus.
But I’d been around those two enough to see what few casual visitors picked up on: Irene’s dismissive and condescending treatment of Maria, her lady-of-the-manor routine meant to keep her longtime housekeeper in her place. I’d been embarrassed by Irene’s attitude and wondered where a poor girl from Brooklyn had learned to put on those kinds of airs. Her beloved movies probably.
Finally Maria said, “What was it? Her heart?”
I nodded again. “That’s what Dr. Diamond says. He came over and, you know, pronounced her.”
“She took pills, but... I didn’t think she was that sick.”
“Neither did I,” I said. “I found her a little after nine last night in her theater downstairs. Dr. Diamond says she hadn’t been gone very long. He says it was quick and that she didn’t suffer.” I figured a little embellishment wouldn’t hurt.
Sexy Beast pawed my side and gave a demanding little bark, asking to be put down. I set him on the pale marble floor and watched him stretch languorously, followed by a vigorous shake—always a spectacle, considering the ratty condition of his coat.
Maria looked down at the ingredients she’d amassed for her guacamole, then without comment took a small plastic bag from a cupboard and scooped the chopped cilantro into it. She opened the refrigerator to put it away and clucked her tongue when she spied the spilled smoothie residue. She grabbed a sponge.
“Oh, that’s my fault,” I said. “I knocked it over last night. Here, let me—”
“I have it.”
As I watched Maria scrub the orange goo, something about the interior of the fridge seemed off. I’d moved the contents around last night looking for treats for SB, and now my subconscious detected that something was missing. It bugged me, yet I couldn’t say why.
“Maria, did you get rid of anything that was in here?” I asked. “You know, since you got here this morning?”
“No. Why?” she asked. “What are you looking for?”
“Nothing. I just... Never mind.” Yeah, that’s what this difficult situation called for—me obsessing over the contents of a dead woman’s fridge. As emotionally wiped out as I was last night, how could I trust my memory? And what difference did it make anyway? I ordered myself to get a grip.
Maria tossed the sponge in the sink. “He’s always bringing those orange-colored drinks for Mrs. M. Supposed to be good for her stomach. Supposed to be better than my cooking, I guess.”
I was tempted to remind Maria that Dom only brought the smoothies because he cared about Irene, and that it wasn’t a rebuke of Maria’s cooking, but I let the subject pass. I’d called Dom last night as soon as I got home. I’d sobbed into the phone and he’d let me, had listened patiently and said just the right things. He’d always done that, always known what I needed.
Well, not always, not when it came to the family I needed to have with him, but that issue was long settled, and there was no sense rehashing it.
Can you see how mature I am, how I resist rehashing long-settled issues?
I’d heard Bonnie in the background asking Dom who was on the phone, followed by subtle changes in the ambient noise as he walked out of whatever room the two of them had been in together—their bedroom? I heard a door close. Even in that moment of unalloyed grief, I couldn’t help wondering whether Mrs. Faso the Fourth would put down her foot after the wedding and demand her husband end his cozy friendship with Mrs. Faso the First. He was pretty chummy with ex-wives two and three, also, but after all, he shared kids with both of them, and wasn’t it better for all concerned if the parents got along?
Maria was on a roll about the smoothies. “I poured a little into a glass once and tasted it.” She pulled a disgusted face. “Worse than medicine. Why do people drink those things?”
“Maria, I need to ask you something,” I said. “I know you were off yesterday, but did Irene have any visitors in the days just before?”
She spoke to the cabinet as she pulled out a red porcelain bowl. “Sure. Almost every day friends come. They stay in, they go out. You know.”
“Right, but I mean... well, the man I’m thinking of is about forty, maybe six feet tall, supershort buzz cut.”
“No.”
“Riveting blue eyes. Strong, chiseled jaw,” I continued, before halting my runaway tongue with a mental bitch-slap. “Are you sure?”
She glanced over her shoulder at me, and in the instant before she schooled her features, I saw twenty-eight years of being treated like milady’s servant. “I’m sure.”
“Of course you are. I just meant... well, maybe he was here yesterday when you were off,” I said, more to myself than Maria.
“Someone was here.” She placed the avocadoes and other vegetables in the bowl.
“What? When?”
She shrugged. “Maybe yesterday, maybe Tuesday evening after I went home.” She routinely prepared Irene’s dinner, then skedaddled at five p.m. “When I came in this morning there was a beer glass in the sink along with Mrs. M’s dishes.”
Irene drank only vodka martinis—no wine, beer, or other spirits, though she kept it all on hand for guests.
Maria scowled. “There were messy rings on the glass coffee table in the living room.”
Irene’s guest hadn’t used a coaster. The fiend!
I heard the jaunty opening bars of “Tequila” and retrieved my cell from the pocket of my suede jacket. I checked the screen. It was Sten Jakobsen, Irene’s lawyer. My gut tightened. Of the many unwelcome thoughts that had kept me up all night, one of the most unwelcome was the question of what would become of Sexy Beast.
The dog was Irene’s only dependent, and Sten was responsible for seeing to his disposition in accordance with whatever instructions she’d left. Which no doubt meant delivering him to whichever well-heeled friend or relative was best equipped to support him in the style to which his pampered little self had become accustomed.
Why else would Sten be calling except to request that I deliver SB to his next owner, who wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about him or know where he likes his scritches or how many hard-boiled eggs to put in his chopped liver.
Answer: two eggs for every pound of liver. And don’t skimp on the chicken fat.
I dumped the call. I was in no hurry to help Sten check that one off his to-do list. That conversation, which would likely include the words “over my dead body,” could wait until I was more rested or at least had a gallon or three of black coffee coursing through my veins.
“Maria, I lost an earring last time I was here. I’m going to go look for it.” I touched her arm and searched her eyes. I could read nothing in her closed expression. “Are you okay? Why don’t you go home. I’ll be in touch.”
“I’m fine.” She waved me away. “I’ll finish tidying up, take out the garbage. Then I’ll go.”
It wouldn’t be easy for a forty-seven-year-old grandmother to get another job in this economy—yet one more worry that had kept me up last night. “Listen, um... if you need references,” I said, “you know, to get another job, maybe they’ll accept a letter from me. I mean, I wasn’t your employer, but under the circumstances—”
“No need. I’ll be all right.” I must have looked dubious, because she added, “Mrs. M took care of me in her will.”
“Oh. Well... good. I mean, I’m glad to hear that.” Irene never mentioned the contents of her will to me, not once. I assumed she had relatives somewhere who would inherit all her worldly goods, but apparently she’d also had the foresight to make provisions for the person who’d seen to her care and comfort for nearly three decades. I guess the lady-of-the-manor thing included a healthy dollop of noblesse oblige.
“Well, if at some point you decide you want that letter,” I added, “just give me a call.”
My first stop was the laundry room, whose floor was now dry. I looked in the recycle bins next to the big upright freezer. Sure enough, I spied, along with a spent bottle of premium vodka and a few empty food jars, a brown Guinness bottle. I picked it up, peered inside, shook it. The heady perfume of Irish stout cut through the cloying scent of fabric softener that always permeated that room. A drop or two of liquid remained. So this bottle had probably been tossed in there in the past couple of days.
Maria must have heard the clinking of glass. “Did you lose your earring in the recycling?” she called.
“I’m checking everywhere.”
I hope you’ve already figured out the lost-earring bit was a big fat lie. My intuition was shrieking like the Bride of Frankenstein. Okay, in all probability the beer drinker was a regular pal of Irene’s—didn’t Sophie Halperin like a brewski or two?—but the whole thing didn’t feel right. Throw a larcenous padre with impeccable timing into the mix and I figured there was a better than even chance said padre had been sitting in Irene’s living room in the past day or two, sipping a cold one and working the conversation around to a certain McAuliffe family heirloom, one with a fishy tail and perky, ruby-tipped tatas.
Had he come here dressed as a priest then? Was that how he’d gained entrance? Irene was raised in the faith but had long ago slipped into your basic A & P routine: Ash Wednesday and Palm Sunday. Would the clerical collar make her easier to manipulate, or would she be quicker than I was to see through it? Knowing Irene, my money was on that second thing.
A plausible scenario was beginning to take shape in my overtaxed brain.
Okay, first of all? I know what I said last night about the guy forcing Irene to talk, but Jonah was right. Torquemada with his rack and thumb screws couldn’t have gotten her to spill the beans about that brooch. This was one stubborn, headstrong broad. But let’s say the padre was just as determined to learn the location of the brooch, or even to leave here with the thing in his pocket. After all, if Jonah was correct, no one outside of the Poker Posse knew that it was no longer in Irene’s possession, and they weren’t blabbing. How many people even knew of its existence? For that matter, how did the padre know?
Anyway, let’s say he’s wrangled an audience with her ladyship and has nothing more to show for his efforts than a bellyful of good Irish beer. Maybe she’s booted him out on that nice, tight butt of his and commanded him never to darken her door again. But he refuses to accept defeat. What then?
My guess? He returns Wednesday evening with a more aggressive plan of action. There’s no talking his way through the front door this time, so he picks the back-door lock, locates the lady of the house in her home theater, and leans on her hard. We’re talking threats, coercion. Maybe he waves a weapon at her.
I still couldn’t see Irene giving in. Well, maybe if he threatened Sexy Beast, but let’s assume he didn’t go to that extreme—mainly because I didn’t want to think about it.
What I could see Irene doing in that terrifying situation is suffering a fatal heart attack. Jonah’s Exhibit C: scary home invasion was gaining credibility by the minute. The padre might not be a murderer in the technical sense, but if he scared her to death, if he stood there and watched her expire without attempting CPR or calling for help, then you tell me where you draw the line.
So now Irene has gone and died on him and he’s no closer to the mermaid brooch than he was before. Yet somehow he finds out not only where the darn thing is but that if he intends to beat me to it, he’d better get the aforementioned butt over to Ahearn’s pronto.
I’d gone back into the foyer and started up the curved staircase before I realized I was headed there. I took the steps more slowly than I wanted to because of my knee. Irene’s library, at the end of the hallway, doubled as her home office. She kept meticulous records, all of which were of the dead-tree variety and resided in an expensive lateral wooden file cabinet. A state-of-the-art laptop sat on her desk, but it was reserved for email, shopping, and of course online poker.
The bottom file drawer contained household paperwork, everything from A for art purchases to W for warranty info. The top drawer was for sensitive stuff such as medical records, investment statements, and invoices from Jane Delaney, your friendly neighborhood Death Diva and dog sitter.
Irene kept the file cabinet locked at all times, yet when I tried the handle, it slid open on well-oiled tracks. My nape prickled.
Delaney, Jane, was filed between Credit Cards and Dentist. I pulled out the extra-wide hanging folder bulging with copies of every piece of paper that had been exchanged between Irene and myself during our long association. She was a stickler for formal record keeping and insisted on presenting me with handwritten work orders before each job and receiving a detailed invoice upon its completion. If Irene had qualms about paying someone to lift a valuable piece of jewelry from her former friend’s corpse, you couldn’t tell from the top item in the folder. It was a copy of the most recent work order, the particulars of the assignment spelled out in cringe-inducing detail, including precisely when and where I would nab the brooch.
But that’s not all that was there. My heart pounded so hard, I nearly stumbled. Irene’s visitor had left his calling card, all right.
No, literally, he’d left his calling card, paper-clipped to the work order. It was a stark white card, a little smaller than a business card. Printed smack-dab in the center, in elegant raised black ink, were the words Mr. Martin Kade McAuliffe.
I’d never been formally introduced to the man, but his reputation preceded him. The black sheep of the family had some explaining to do.
