Designer Detective (A Fiona Marlowe Mystery) (5 page)

I filled her in and she, a woman of some
expertise, immediately said, “The butler did it. They always do in the
mysteries I read.” She’s quite a connoisseur of the genre.

“No, it has to be one of the nephews.”

“Why not a niece?”

“Or a niece.”
I
shrugged. “Jake the PI is running all that down.”

“Is he married?” she said.

Driving back to my condo, I thought about Hudson.
Maybe he did do it. I mean, fifty million mysteries can't be wrong, can they?
Maybe he was broke. Maybe he was ready to retire and needed the money. He'd
know Albert's medications. Surely, Albert would have provided for the loyal
butler in the will.

I pulled into my parking space in the
underground garage. I loved having a sheltered space for the Legend. Then I
didn't have to try to find a parking place in a neighborhood that never had
any. As the elevator whirred up to the top floor, I envisioned a quiet evening
finishing the oil painting I had started of the marina basin near Alexandria in
the spring. Popcorn and a beer sounded good for dinner.

The message machine blinked and chirped at me,
so I pressed the play and listened as I emptied the grocery sack. Six pack of
the latest microbrew, jar of popcorn, two cans of canned chopped clams, celery,
and carrots, two bottles of Tabasco, and a dozen eggs.

The great carpenter said to call him back this
evening, he'd be home. Shirley at Colonial Furniture Gallery said to come
tomorrow around two P.M., she could help me. Dear Shirley, she was a hustler
and liked to push what made her the best commission. I'd have to watch her, but
she knew her stuff. Last message was from Jake. “Call me” was the message. He
was talkative this evening. No message from Hudson.

I dialed Jake's cell phone. He picked up on the
first ring.

“You were expecting my call,” I said.

“Right.
Have you seen Hudson?”

“No, why would I have seen Hudson?”

“You go out there, don't you?”

“Sure, but not today.”

“He seems to have left town.”

“You mean as in disappear?”

“That's right.”

“I called earlier today and left a message for
him to call me, but had no call back.”

“Opal hasn't seen him since he served dinner
last night. When she went down to the kitchen this morning, he wasn't there.
She checked the garage for his car, and it's gone. She thought he ran an errand,
but he still isn't back as of an hour ago. I thought maybe he was with you,
doing the library thing.”

“Nope, haven't seen him. So it was the butler
in the library with an overdose.”

“What?”

“My friend Judith said it is always the butler
that commits the crime. So it couldn't have been Colonel Mustard. Hudson
murdered Albert with an overdose in the library.”

“Fiona, you have a very active imagination.”

“You're not the first person who's told me
that. Have you called the police to report Hudson missing?”

“Not yet. We'll give him a day to show up. But it’s
very unlike him to disappear.”

I hung up and stood looking out the windows
across the Potomac at the lights of D.C. The monuments stood stark white
against the black of night. Light reflected off the river. Red lights blinked from
atop the Iwo Jima Memorial.

Hudson gone
missing. Now
there was an interesting plot twist Olympia would like.

* * * * *

Shirley at Colonial Furniture was delighted to
see me on Sunday afternoon. She always saw dollar signs when I walked in. After
a tussle over a number of high priced offerings, I ordered two great off white
loveseats with a chicken wire bas relief pattern in the same color. I know, it
doesn’t sound haute
coteur
but trust me, it will look
great. Working a deal with Shirley is always exhausting, so I took the rest of
the day off.

All afternoon I worried about Hudson and couldn't
resist a call to Jake that night.
“Find Hudson yet?”

“Yes, he came back late last night. Opal said
he’d gone to his sister's again in West Virginia around Harper's Ferry. She’d
had a relapse. He forgot to tell Opal he was leaving. Or Opal forgot that he
told her he was leaving.”

“Don't you think that’s strange?

“Apparently there a serious
case of memory loss in the Lodge household.”

“But that is strange. Opal seems pretty sharp
to me. Unlikely to forget the butler was leaving for the day.”

No answer.

“Jake?”

“Yeah.
There's some things not making sense to me. Maybe
it's because there's a boatload of relatives descending on the house, and
everyone is stressed out. This is traumatic for all of them. Plus Hudson’s
sister is going downhill, and he’s worried about her.”

“He runs the household.”

“Right.
They hired a
maid and a cook through a temp agency to help with the relatives. There’s a
relative a minute showing at the front door. Everyone’s running around like
coyotes after sage rats because the memorial service is tomorrow afternoon, and
the reception is at the house.”

“Are you going to the memorial service?” I
asked.

“You bet.”

“I'll look for you there. We can sit together
and you can point out the cast of characters.”

“I can't wait.”

The
memorial service was held at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church, one of those nice
old Tudor style churches with lots of pointed arches and mahogany trim. Sun lit
the stained glass. The place glowed. Nice touch for a funeral. I arrived early
to get a good seat toward the back to watch the parade of people. I was not
disappointed. The turnout included men in severe business suits and matching
women in stylish black and hats. Jake slid in beside me. He had poured himself
into a dark suit, stretching a bit at the buttons.
 

“How are things at the home ranch?” I said for
openers. I smoothed down his collar that was standing up in the back. This man
needed a butler.
Or a wife.
Butler would be less
trouble.

“Chaotic.” Jake was watching people walk down
the aisle as he spoke.

“See anyone you know?” I asked, following his
gaze toward an eye catching blond in tight black skirt, matching jacket, super
high heels and black bolero hat.

“That's Albert’s girlfriend.”

“Where?”
It couldn't
be the blond.

“The blond.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. I talked to her yesterday. She says they
were just
friends, that
Albert thought there was more
to it than she did. She's older than she looks.
Probably in
her forties somewhere.”

“I wonder what she does to keep looking so
young.”

“Maybe it's in the genes.”

I looked at him.
“More likely
in surgical tools.
Does she have a name?”

“Lisa Lundgren.”

I watched her sitting alone, toward the middle
of a row way in front of us. She, too, seemed interested in the parade of
stars.

“There's the niece that lives in Arlington,”
Jake said. “She came by the house yesterday while I was there.” He nodded at a
woman leading a little boy by the hand, followed by a tall, Ivy League looking
guy. She was way shorter than her lanky husband and a bit on the plump side. They
sat in front with the family, which was getting more extensive by the minute.

Opal entered escorted by a youngish man in a
gray suit.

“Nephew from Oregon,” said Jake out of the side
of his mouth. “He arrived Saturday and has been helping Opal with arrangements.”

The church was large, but a respectable crowd
filled it. The people looked Washington think tank, white haired men in bow
ties,
Capitol
Hill types with billboard smiles. Albert
had friends in high circles. During the eulogy several men spoke in admiration
of Albert's work and life that included postings as political attaché for a
number of embassies. That might mean he was doing work for the Central Intelligence
Agency in his diplomatic postings. One could never be sure in this town. Several
of the nephews spoke of their uncle as a mentor, how kind he was, what an
inspiration, his droll sense of humor.
The usual.
It
could make a person wish they had known the old guy while he was living.

In the receiving line at the end of the
service, Opal pressed my hand. “You will come over to the house, won't you,
dear? You can meet some of the family. Have Jake bring you. He's a good
escort.”

I smiled. “Sure, I'll stop by for a few
minutes.”

I waited for Jake who was behind me in line.

“Opal says you should be my escort to the
reception.”

He held out his arm.
“My
pleasure.
Leave your car here. I'll drive you over.”

The crowd at the reception seemed bigger than
the memorial service, or maybe it was because they were spread all over the
house.
Valet parking, waiters in black and white with trays
of champagne, maids in black and white with canapés.
The din rivaled the
Met on opening night. People spilled into the patio to the back of the house
where the swimming pool sparkled in the afternoon sun. These folks were
seriously into celebrating Albert's life.

I hung on the outer edge of the chaos with Jake
and sipped champagne, engaging in my favorite past time of people watching.
Washington crowds can be boring, but this one showed promise.

“I think it was an accident,” I heard a nearby
matron say. She clutched the arm of a young man. Her accent might be South
African. Could this be the wife of Olivia's brother? “Albert was terribly
forgetful. He must have slipped up on his meds, don't you think, dear?” She was
smiling at the most attractive man I have ever seen in my life. If he wasn't
George Clooney, no one was.

“Not for us to say,” he said. “The old boy's
gone and there's nothing to be done for it.” His accent was definitely London.
I've spent time in England sorting out accents, and I know a London accent when
I hear it. This was one of the infamous nephews.

I nudged Jake. “Did you catch the conversation
in front of us?”

He looked at me over his glass of champagne.
“Yeah.
You've already figured out who they are, I bet.”

“Her side?”

He nodded and looked at his empty champagne
glass. “I got to get some real booze. This fuzzy stuff just doesn't do it for
me.”

“I thought you were on the wagon.”

“Only when it suits me.”
He gave me a wicked grin that made him look almost handsome although he would
have looked better in a Stetson and Tony Llama boots.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked.

“Glass of red wine,
please
.”

He sauntered off toward the bar located at the
far end of the drawing room where the celebrants, I mean, mourners were
congregating three deep. A waiter came by with tray of champagne.

“Thank you, kind sir,” I said as I lifted a
fluted glass and replaced it with my empty. What the hell, I thought. I'm not
driving, and I do so love the bubbly. Besides, they were small glasses.

I surveyed the crowd for faces I knew from the news.
I thought I recognized a congressman or two, maybe a senator from New England.
If Albert had been connected to the intelligence community, I wouldn't know
those faces. They were a closed group. That set me to wondering what Albert did
at his think-tank job and which think tank it was.

Jake returned with the red wine. That put me in
the embarrassing position of having two drinks in my hands. I tossed down the
champagne and set the glass on a side table.

“Doing some serious drinking, I see,” said
Jake. “Don't let it get away from you. There probably are some real leeches in
this crowd. I guess I'll have to look out for you.”

I smiled into his eyes. He had disgustingly
long lashes for a man. I hate when men have nice eyes and don't have to wear
makeup. On the other hand, I do so love to apply eye makeup in the morning. It
entertains me and isn’t life all about entertainment? All those marvelous
colors of shadow, eyeliner, mascara.
All those wonderful
shades of blusher and lipstick.
But I digress.

Jake looked away from my smile. I guess the
smile was too flirty.

“Look, big boy, I've been watching out for
myself for a long time. I won't mention how many years.”

He didn't say anything.

“But I appreciate the offer.”

He smiled. “Nice dress.”

I smiled back. “Do you like the plunging
neckline?” I take wicked lessons from Kathy the waitress, and the champagne
helped.

His eyes rolled around trying not to look. “Yeah,”
he said in a whisper. “
Kinda
fancy, but it fits with
this crowd. You'd think Teddy Kennedy died again.”

“Truly.
By the way,
where did Albert work?”

“The Pinnacle, conservative
think tank in D.C.”

“Pretty elitist.
Do
you think he was in intelligence?”

Jake glanced around, looking to see who might
be listening. “Keep your voice down.”

I leaned over and whispered in his ear. “That
doesn't answer my question.” Nice aftershave. I couldn't quite put my finger on
the scent. This had to be my last glass of wine. My mind was leading me in
dangerous directions, and I was feeling as
rubby
as a
cat in heat.

He hid behind a show of sipping his whiskey on
the rocks. “Albert might have had his fingers in some stuff he shouldn't have.”

“Are you going to tell me what that might be?”

He turned to face me and put his mouth next to
my ear. “It's making me edgy talking about this here. Later.”