part0015

We didn’t proceed very far, however, before Piers steered us down a ramp toward the back of the mansion.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“I’d like you to see Kar—”

“Karen’s van!” I ran, and by the time he caught up, I had the back doors open and was stepping inside.

“Jessie!” Piers said. “Lieutenant Kapinski won’t approve.”

“Then why did you bring me down here?”

“Thought so,” I said and took a look around.

Like her condo, Karen’s van is a workshop—her travelling workshop. A workbench stood in the middle of the cargo area, ladders of varying sizes hung along one wall, and cabinets filled with who knows what lined the other. Who knows why, but I peeked inside each of those.

“Anything missing?” Piers asked from his post outside.

“Karen,” I whispered. I stepped back to the pavement, which was when I noticed the other cars.

“The staff parking lot,” Piers said.

I scowled. “Your staff owns cars?”

He chuckled and reminded me we live in the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth. “This isn’t your TV show, Jessie.”

Yes, but I was still confused. “Doesn’t everyone live here?” I asked.

“We’re not a prison.” He pointed out the Witherspoons’ cars—a Honda sedan for Gerald and a Toyota for Abigail—and waved at some other Toyotas. “The maids like Toyotas.”

“They’re nice cars,” I said. “You must pay people well.”

He shrugged and gestured to several empty spaces. “The groundskeepers park there. They drive trucks mostly.”

I asked where they were and learned the groundskeeping staff, other than Caesar Newland, lived off premises.

“It’s their choice,” Piers told me, and as we returned to the garden path, he explained that room and board are part of the salary negotiations at the Rigby Estate. “Caesar’s crew prefers to live elsewhere,” he said. “Too bad, since we have plenty of room in the big house, or in the apartments over the garage.” He pointed to the building in the distance. “That’s our next stop.”

“The employee apartments?”

“They’re nice,” he said. “They were built in the last decade, so everything actually works. Sometimes I think maybe I should live out ther—” He stopped. “You’re awfully quiet, Jessie.”

I was thinking about Caesar’s crew. “They have legitimate access into the estate every workday, and a legitimate excuse to leave every night.” I frowned. “And so—”

Piers sighed. “So why don’t I have a camera at the gate?”

“Caesar’s doing,” Piers told me when I admired the flower beds outside the garage. As we climbed the stairs at the side of the building and traversed an open balcony, I also admired the hanging pots of white geraniums, although I wasn’t crazy about the music blaring from the apartment at the far end of the balcony.

“Too loud?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Loud is fine, if it’s good old-fashioned rock and roll. What is that?”

Piers named a few supposed musicians Mallory Fleet liked, and we marveled at the supposed taste of today’s youth. He reached to knock on the nearest door, but I held him back and asked to see the empty apartments first.

“No stone left unturned,” I said, but no Karen, either.

Eventually we knocked on Caesar Newland’s door. No Caesar. And on Wayne Stasson’s. No Wayne. But clearly Mallory was home. We ventured forth, and somehow she heard the knock.

“Mr. P!” The very young and very pretty Mallory Fleet invited us inside before scurrying across the room to turn off her music. “Sorry about that,” she said. “I thought no one was around.”

Piers made the introductions, and Ms. Fleet directed me to an easy chair. “Something to drink, Ms. J? Soda, or coffee, or water, or beer, or—”

“Nothing, thank you.” Piers said, and while they took seats on opposite sides of her couch, I took stock of Mallory’s living room. Everything was as bright and cheerful as she was—lots of bold colors and—”

“Karen’s not here,” she said.

I smiled. “You have a lovely home.”

“You can check, if you want. I don’t mind. Go ahead. Really.”

“Mallory,” Piers said firmly. “Relax.”

“But, Mr. P! Karen’s been kidnapped!”

Personally, I was shocked she knew this, but both employer and employee reminded me about the Rigby Estate grapevine. Vicki, one of the maids, had enlightened Mallory on all—and I do mean all—the details. Pierpont’s chauffeur knew everything that had transpired at the “the big house” that morning. She knew about Al Kapinski, his inside job theory, and the missing ransom note.

“Vicki told me about you, too, Ms. J, but I already know about you.” Mallory pointed to her television. “I watch the news. You always catch the bad guys.”

Well, not always. But truth be told, I am somewhat of a local celebrity, because I have, on occasion, helped Wilson catch a bad guy or two.

“You’re here to observe,” Mallory informed me. “That’s interesting how you figured out about Karen’s apartment and Wednesday and all.” She turned to her boss. “Too bad she can’t observe Lieutenant Kapinski’s interviews, huh, Mr. P?”

While I shook my head in dismay at all this woman knew, Piers smiled. “You will cooperate with Lieutenant Kapinski, Mallory?”

“Sure thing. Have you seen his Chevy out front? It’s a classic.”

Piers smiled again. “You’re such a kid. ”

“Am not.” She sprang up. “Want to see Mr. P’s cars?” she asked me, and soon she was leading us across the balcony and down the stairs, all the while enthusing about her employer’s vehicles. “You have a great car, too,” she told me. “You drive that gold Carrera parked at the big house, right? I love Porsches!”

“Perhaps we could take it for a spin sometime,” I suggested, and Mallory thought that was a great idea.

We reached the garage, and she opened the side door and turned on the lights.

“Start with your car,” Piers said, and she gave the hood of a blue Prius an affectionate tap, before pointing to the vehicles next to hers. “The Mazda’s Wayne’s, and the Dodge truck belongs to Caesar,” she said. “Mr. P lets us park here instead of in the staff lot.”

I scowled at the two vehicles. “I thought they weren’t home.”

“They’re around here somewheres,” she said and pointed out the Land Rover.

“Karen’s favorite,” Piers informed me, and I had to smile. Leave it to my no-nonsense friend to prefer her beau’s least fancy car, replete with a healthy supply of dust, dings, and scratches.

“But look at these!” Mallory led us to the fancier cars, where I learned everything I ever wanted to know about the RPMs, horsepower, and suspensions of Maseratis and Rolls Royce limousines.

I must have feigned interest fairly well, because she was disappointed she couldn’t show me Coco’s Ferrrari. “She took it shopping,” she said. “I thought she’d want me to fly her somewheres, but she said she’s going to Tate’s.” Mallory scowled at her boss. “Like, the Tate’s in Clarence.”

Piers patted her shoulder and told her not to fret. “I’m sure Coco will want to leave town this evening,” he said. “Fly her anywhere she wants.”

“Sure thing, Mr. P.” The chauffeur turned to me. “Ms. CC and I go everywhere when she’s here. Like yesterday, I flew her to Miami.”

“To shop?” I asked .

“Her chum Muffy Bichette lives there. That and Ms. CC needed a manicure. She likes a salon in South Beach.”

Of course she did. I glanced around. “Where’s the plane?” I asked, and Piers told me he rents a hangar at the Clarence airport to house his jet.

“Maybe I can fly you somewheres sometime,” Mallory suggested.

“So?” Piers asked once we took our leave of Mallory and wended our way down another garden path. “What do you think?”

“Your dogwoods are lovely,” I said.

“Caesar’s doing. But about Mallory?”

I said I liked his chauffeur. “She’s so exuberant.”

He nodded. “She’s a good kid.”

“She is young,” I agreed. “She must be your most recent hire?”

“She and Wayne.” Evidently Mallory had been hired only two years earlier. “She was only nineteen,” Piers said. “But she answered an on-line ad and came all the way from Iowa for the interview. Before that, she worked as a mechanic in her father’s garage.”

“Working for you must be far more exciting,” I said, and Piers agreed it was her dream job.

“Mallory loves cars, and she loves to travel.”

I shot him a sideways glance. “She likes you, too, Mr. P.”

Mr. P shrugged. “She’s a sweet kid. She likes everyone.”

“You said Wayne’s a recent hire also?” I asked.

“That’s right.” He pointed ahead and told me the stable was our next stop. “Wayne loves horses as much as Mallory loves cars, but I’m not so sure he likes his job as much.”

“He has other plans, unlike my head gardener.” Piers indicated someone bending over a boxwood hedge in the distance. “Caesar Newland holds the record for employee retention. ”

I studied the gardener, so intent on trimming the boxwoods. “He looks rather elderly,” I said.

“He’s pushing eighty.” Piers stepped forward. “Caesar!” he called out. “I keep telling you not to work on weekends.”

The old man lowered his hedge clippers and frowned at the meticulously-manicured hedge. “Mrs. Rigby would be ashamed of this mess,” he said. “She’d fire me on the spot.”

“Caesar. You know Mother would never fire you.” Piers waved me over and made the introductions, and I told Mr. Newland how much I always enjoyed the garden portion of the tours.

The gardener snarled. “Mrs. Rigby never allowed tours.”

Piers said something about how times change.

“Change!” Caesar practically spat the word and pointed to a nearby golf cart overflowing with tools and trimmers. “I hardly need that anymore, do I? Mrs. Rigby used to appreciate the garden.”

Piers caught my eye. “The gardens are a tad smaller now than in my mother’s day.”

“Mrs. Rigby appreciated the garden,” Caesar repeated.

“Yes,” Piers agreed patiently, “But Father wondered why we needed formal gardens more expansive than the Palace of Versailles. Having some woodlands is environmentally sound.”

“Environment! Mrs. Rigby used to—”

“Karen!” I said, and both men looked up. I addressed Mr. Newland. “I know Karen loves your gardens, whatever the size. I do believe she likes the rose garden the best,” I said, and the old man visibly softened.

“Roses were Mrs. Rigby’s favorite, too.” He turned to his employer. “I heard the news, sir. I’m sorry.”

Ah, yes. Evidently the Rigby Estate grapevine had spread to the boxwood hedges, and Caesar Newland knew everything about everything, just like Mallory Fleet.

“You’ll cooperate with Lieutenant Kapinski?” Piers asked.

“Anything for Karen, sir. She’s a good worker.” The gardener dropped his hedge trimmers into the cart and climbed aboard. “A fine worker,” he added before taking off for the next row of hedges.

“Your observations?” Piers asked once we, too, were moving along.

“Honestly?” I said. “I don’t believe Caesar likes you very much.”

“Because he thinks I’m disrespecting Mother’s wishes with this reforestation project.”

Piers offered a firm no and insisted his mother had become environmentally conscious in her later years. “Mother would approve of the woodlands, and she’d definitely approve of lightening Caesar’s workload.”

“They must have been quite devoted to each other.” I coughed. “Would you care to hear what my intuition is telling me?”

“Not really.” He kept his focus straight ahead as the stable came into view. “Speaking of workloads,” he said.

“We weren’t speaking of workloads.”

“Speaking of workloads, Wayne Stasson works on weekends also.”

Okay, so I gave up on any Caesar Newland-Mrs. Rigby angle and listened politely while Piers told me a basic fact about horses—unlike boxwood hedges, they actually do need tending on weekends. He pointed to the beasts in the nearby pasture. “Badger’s missing, which means Wayne’s out exercising him.”

“So let’s head back to the house.” I turned around, but he grabbed my elbow.

“Don’t you want to say hi?”

I swallowed. “Of course!” I lied, and much to my chagrin, he led me to the fence, and both horses stopped whatever they were doing to saunter over.

“They’re humongous,” I observed.

“They’re horses, Jessie. ”

“I’m a cat person,” I said, but evidently horses don’t understand English, and the light grey spotted one seemed especially interested in yours truly.

“That’s Maybelline,” Piers said as Maybelline thrust her muzzle over the fence.

“I’m a cat person,” I told her.

Piers smiled. “Maybelline won’t hold that against you.”

Maybelline nudged me again, and I took an inconspicuous step back. But Piers stopped my progress and guided my hand up to her neck. “She wants to be petted, Jessie.”

I deftly avoided eye contact with Maybelline and watched as Piers demonstrated the technique on the brown horse. “Is that Nell?” I asked.

“Coco is Nell’s favorite.” He smiled at the beast. “I’m Badger’s, and Maybelline loved my mother the best.”

I tried smiling at Maybelline, and she showed me her teeth. I yanked my hand away. “Does she bite?”

Piers shook his head. “She’s just hoping for a carrot. You’re just like Karen, you know.”

He again guided my hand to Maybelline. “I can’t get her to try riding.”

“Oh?” I squeaked.

He scowled. “Don’t tell me you’ve never ridden?”

“Does a carousel count?”

“Jessie! What about your books? Aren’t they filled with dashing heroes on horseback?”

Well, yes. In fact, Kipp Jupiter, the star of A Singular Seduction , was a cowboy. “But that’s fiction,” I said. “Maybelline is real.”

“Surely you’ve done research?”

Oh, heck no. I insisted Adelé Nightingale never resorts to anything as tedious—or in this case, terrifying—as actual research, and continued stroking Maybelline. “I feel like Slipper Vervette with Maurice.”

“Slipper was the heroine of Shimmering Silk . She was terrified of Maurice, who just so happened to be a camel.”

“Shimmering Silk was set in the Sahara.” Lord help me, now Nell wanted attention. I reached out my other hand. “I’m a cat person,” I told her.

“So?” Piers asked. “Did Slipper ever climb aboard Maurice the camel?”

“Indeed.” I concentrated on keeping the two beasts at bay—stroke, stroke. “Conrad Montjoy, Slipper Vervette’s ever-so-handsome hero, helped her overcome all her fears and trepidations.”