The glass on the tall front doors afforded a view of the grand entry with its marble floor, richly textured wallpaper and glittering chandelier. Movement inside stopped Lacey from ringing the bell. Grace, Etta's assistant who had been loaded down with baskets at the flea market, didn't notice the two visitors at the door as she carried a large, brown floppy hat to the coat closet. She opened the closet door. With her height, she easily placed the hat on a high shelf before shutting the door again.
Lacey reached up and rang the bell. Grace spun around, slightly startled. Her heels clacked on the marble floor as she walked to the front door. She opened it and eyed us both with suspicion before working up a courteous smile. "I'm sorry but we don't allow solicitors."
I whipped up my press pass. "Hello, we're here from the Junction Times."
Grace went to close the door. "I'm sorry, we're in mourning and have nothing to say to reporters."
"Actually, I don't want to ask about the case. I'm here to write a story about Minnie Smithers. She lived here all her life and was a business woman and friend to the community," I spoke quickly to get it all in before she shut the door. "I was hoping to get a few personal narratives from the person who knew her best, her twin sister."
"It's all right, Grace," a voice called from behind. Grace stepped to the side. Etta Derricot was standing in the entry beneath her huge chandelier, a sparkly contrast to her pale gray skirt and ivory blouse.
Etta stepped forward. Her thin, straw colored hair was pulled back in a bun, a pearl drop hung from each ear. Her hands were folded together. "Did I hear right? You're writing an article about my dear departed sister." She unclasped her hands and pulled a tissue from her sleeve to blot at her nose. I didn't see any tears but she was certainly trying to give the illusion that there had been some.
"What do you think?" Surprisingly, Etta looked at her assistant, the woman she spoke to so condescendingly at the flea market, for her opinion.
Grace gave a sort of half nod. "Of course, it's entirely up to you, Mrs. Derricot." Grace, who was a good thirty years younger and an entire head taller than her boss, seemed bewildered and almost concerned that Etta would ask her opinion. Maybe she worried it was some kind of trap. Grace's non-response rather confirmed it. Was it possible Etta liked to play games to keep her assistant on her toes? She seemed so demure and polite but then we'd seen her in action at the flea market. Etta was anything but sweet, at least when it came to her assistant.
The Etta Derricot standing under the chandelier had welcoming blue eyes. "I was just about to have my tea," she said quietly. "Why don't you women join me? It'll be hard, you understand, but I'm sure I can come up with some wonderful anecdotes about my sister. She was a truly colorful, gentle soul," she added.
Lacey and I flicked each other surprised looks as we entered the house. Jackson had mentioned that Etta had become so distraught, she had to be rolled out of the morgue in a wheelchair. Yet Wanda was sure the two sisters never spoke, even though they lived just a few miles apart.
On a day when we weren't chasing down clues for a murder, Lacey and I probably would have loved to have a tour of the home. The staircase was grand with a polished oak banister and royal blue carpet runner. There was a richly appointed sitting parlor to the right of the corridor and a more relaxed but still nicely furnished library on the left. We passed a cavernous dining room, complete with a gleaming, cherry wood dining table and matching chairs, enough for at least twenty people. Something told me the chairs had not been filled since her husband's death. The room had that peaceful, deserted look to it. It was a massive house for one elderly woman and her assistant.
"I was just about to sit down to tea." Etta led us down a hallway and opened two French doors into a stunning atrium that was glass from top to bottom. Two large spinning fans kept the space cool and tall potted plants dotted the long glass walls. A white ornate iron table was set with a silver tea service. There were four chairs, one of which was occupied by a big gray cat. The cat's head popped up when we entered the room.
"Sorry, Princess, we're going to need that chair." Etta reached down to push the cat from the chair. The cat hissed and swiped at Etta's wrist. "Ouch, you darn cat." She wiggled the chair enough that the cat had no choice except to jump off. It slinked away, angry about being dislodged from its napping chair.
"Oh my, you're bleeding." Grace hurried forward and picked up a napkin off the table. She handed it to Etta to cover the thin scratch that was now beaded with drops of blood. "I'll get something to clean and dress it." Grace strode out of the atrium.
Etta pressed the napkin over her arm and forced a gracious smile. "I don't know what got into Princess. She's normally as docile as a couch pillow."
"Maybe we woke her right in the middle of a dream where she was about to pounce on a fat mouse," Lacey suggested. "I think my cat would be grumpy too."
Etta chuckled as she waved for us to sit down. "I hope you like the tea. It's my favorite, ginger, lemon and honey." She took the napkin off the scratch. There was still a considerable amount of blood trickling from the wound. She pressed it there again. "Would one of you mind?" She looked at the teapot.
"Not at all." I hopped up.
"You know, I think this will be better taken care of in the powder room. That's where Grace keeps the first aid supplies." Etta stood up from the chair. "I'll go see what's keeping her and take care of this cut. I hate to ruin a perfectly good tea with blood. I think there are some cinnamon sugar cookies in the pantry. Should I bring some for our tea party? I wasn't expecting guests, otherwise I would have already set out a platter."
"No, don't go through any trouble on our account," I said. "The tea is fine. Please take care of your arm first."
Etta walked out of the atrium. Seconds later, Princess crept out from behind a potted fern. The cat danced around our legs, curling its tail around our calves and rubbing her nose against us.
"Well, you're certainly more friendly now that you've shaken off the grumpies," Lacey cooed as she reached down to pet the cat's head. She leaned closer. "What do you think about the way she's acting? There was the moment of drama at first, but her grief was easily forgotten once we settled down for tea."
I glanced back to make sure we were still alone. "I think she should be in a much greater state of shock, whether they were close or not. Growing up, I lived next door to a pair of identical twins, Kate and Karol. If one got hurt, the other would cry. They finished each other's sentences. Even when they grew into their teen years and made their own friends, they were still attached by whatever that magical thread is that connects two humans who shared a womb and the exact same genes. Even if they were no longer talking, it seems Etta would feel the loss keenly."
Voices made us both sit up at attention. We sipped our tea as Etta and Grace entered the atrium. Princess shot out from under the table and out the door.
"I guess Princess isn't interested in our tea party," Etta mused as she fingered her strand of pearls. She had a square of gauze secured in place over the scratch with pieces of first aid tape.
"How is your arm?" Lacey asked.
"It's fine. Looks far worse than it is." Etta sat down with a smile. "Where should we start? As I said, I have many wonderful stories about my sister."