Murder on Old Main Street (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (13 page)

“Ameliorating?” I mocked. Margo frowned and went on.

“Then there’s accommodation, which comes at a difference of opinion a whole other way. You have to say, okay, doin’ X is important to you, and doin’ Y is just as important to me, so out of affection and consideration, we’ll accommodate each other.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to need an example on that one, Teach. Try not to make it too graphically sexual, please.”

“I can give you two examples, Smartass, and neither one of ‘em takes place between the sheets.”

I smiled encouragingly.

“You’re always goin’ on about Armando’s insistence on drinkin’ one hundred percent Colombian coffee. Nothin’ else will do. And I know for a fact that you have the palate of a turnip and drink that tacky half-caf stuff in the mornin’. So instead of quarrelin’ about such a silly thing, why not just make two pots of coffee, his and hers? I mean, what would it take, an extra coffee filter and two extra minutes to get everybody’s day off to a good start?”

“And if you wanted to be extra accommodatin’, you could bring him a cup in bed, since you leave for work so much earlier than he does. Who knows where that might lead?” She grinned bawdily.

“See, I knew this would wind up in the bedroom.” I shook my head in resignation. “What’s the second example?

Margo thought for a moment. “Space. You’re both just paralyzed with fright about givin’ up your own space. So why give it up entirely?”

“You mean, we should keep both houses but live in one of them most of the time? That would sort of negate the financial benefits of living together, wouldn’t it?”

Margo shook her head. “No, no, no. Having space of your own doesn’t have to mean a whole house or even a separate apartment. Now that I think about it, your place is set up perfectly. You have a bedroom and an adjoinin’ bath on the first floor. In fact, you hardly even go upstairs except to your office. So Armando can have his own bedroom and bathroom upstairs all to his little ol’ self, and you can retreat to your downstairs suite whenever you feel the need!” she finished triumphantly.

I stared at her. “You mean, not share a bedroom? What would people think?”

Margo snorted into her glass, an unladylike habit of her. “Now what in the world do you care what people think? If it works for you, it’s nobody’s damn business, Sugar.”

“You know I don’t give a fig for most people’s opinions. I meant Emma and Joey and Mary and Strutter … you know,
my
people. Wouldn’t they think that’s odd?”

“No, because all of those people know you and love you both. Besides, havin’ separate bedrooms and bathrooms is considered the height of elegance these days.” She tipped her drink all the way up and captured the last ice cube in her mouth, then grinned wickedly. “Of course, you could always clarify the situation by doin’ what a lady of my acquaintance did when visitors were clearly wonderin’ about the separate bedroom thin.”

“I know I’m going to regret asking this, but what did she do?”

“She hung a beautifully framed cross-stitch on the wall outside her bedroom. It read, ‘We Do It Here’.” She dissolved into giggles.

I couldn’t help laughing. “Couldn’t you just see Philpott’s face at my holiday open house?” Edna Philpott was my neighbor two doors down, a prim, self-righteous type who had appointed herself chief enforcer of the rules in my condominium community. Most of us delighted in torturing her by side-stepping minor regulations whenever we thought we could get away with it.

The thought of Edna’s reaction, coupled with the bourbon we had consumed, kept us whooping. As I locked the office door, I noticed that Millie Haines’ light was still on and attempted unsuccessfully to shush Margo. Millie spent her days on the go and caught up on her paperwork in the evening. The best we could do was to muffle our snorts and chortles as we made our way through the lobby. Emma’s day had apparently also ended, as no light was visible when I stuck my head into the loft stairwell, so we let ourselves out the front door and locked it behind us. We wiped our eyes on a shared tissue and bid each other goodnight after agreeing on a time to meet at the Wheeler house the next morning. It promised to be an interesting day, but also one that involved a lot of work.

After an early dinner with Armando at Costa del Sol, I let myself into the condo and fed the cats, then drew my customary bubble bath. It was a peaceful way to end the day, and I had a lot to think about. When the water cooled, I levered myself out of the tub and went through my bedtime ritual of creams and potions before heading for my bed, where Jasmine and Simon already lay neatly curled to one side. It had taken years of training to make them understand that I was entitled to spread out into the middle of the mattress, but cats were expected to fit along the perimeter. When Armando spent the night, they really took issue, especially Jasmine, who considered him her personal heat source.

The crossword puzzle I held propped before me was ignored as I continued to turn over my conversation with Ephraim Marsh in my mind. On the plus side, I was convinced that he had nothing to do with Prudy’s death. On the negative side, that eliminated all of the suspects Abby had asked me to question. Unless she had thought of someone else, or we found Harriett Wheeler’s diaries the next day, I was out of ideas on where else to look for Prudy’s murderer. I wondered if the police were having any better luck.

It was only then that I realized that Margo hadn’t said a word about her evening with John Harkness, and I had forgotten to tell her about my surprising discovery in the reading room that morning.
Oh, well,
I thought drowsily as the puzzle slipped to the floor and I reached to switch off my bedside table lamp,
we’ll have a lot to talk about tomorrow.

About that, I turned out to be right. Oh, boy, was I.

Eight

At 10:30 sharp, I drove up in front of Will and Janet Copeland’s house, which stood next to the old Wheeler residence on Wolcott Hill Road.
 
The street was an interesting one to a realtor and probably to anyone else who had occasion to view its entire length. It extended south from the Hartford border to its terminus at Prospect Street, which fairly accurately bisected Wethersfield from east to west. One of the main thoroughfares in the older part of town, it had evolved over the years into a pleasing microcosm of the evolution of the town itself. Victorians, such as the Wheeler house, sat next to post-World War II frame residences, such as the Copelands’, which in turn enjoyed a ‘60s bungalow as its neighbor on the other side.

The pleasant jumble of building periods and styles was knit together by well-tended lawns and gardens of every shape and size, which spilled over with spider mums, kale, ornamental cabbages, and asters. Their vivid colors were set off by backdrops of thistle and decorative grasses. In this part of town, driveways were edged, and even the foundation plantings were weeded regularly. It all looked perfectly lovely, hardly what one would expect of a murder scene. But then, it wasn’t a murder scene, as far as we knew. It was merely the former home of a murder victim.

I enjoyed the morning as I waited for Margo to join me, knowing that a hard frost or two would put an end to the blooms, for the most part. Many of the perennials in the borders had already been cut back and mulched for the winter, and although the chrysanthemums made a brave display, they weren’t nearly as hardy as most people thought. It wouldn’t be long before we were compelled to settle into the drabness of November, to be followed by the white winter. Each season had a charm of its own, to be sure, but autumn was my favorite. At least it had been until this whole business with Prudy had cast suspicion on friends, colleagues, and even my own daughter.

Impatiently, I checked my watch again. The sooner we found those diaries, the better, so where in blazes was Margo?

Right on cue, Margo slid the BMW in behind me at the curb and climbed out, yawning widely. She carried a cardboard tray with two super-sized Dunkin Donuts coffees in it. Though dressed casually, for her, in denim capris and a navy big shirt with a white tank top underneath, she was as immaculately groomed as always. I wondered yet again how she always managed to look pulled together. My own jeans pouched badly at the knees, and I had barely taken the time to swipe on lipstick and mascara.

“Sorry I was late, Sugar, but I had to drop Rhett off at his pen behind the office and pick us up some caffeine, if I’m goin’ to be of any use at all today.”

She yawned again, and I noticed the dark smudges beneath her eyes.

“Hot date, huh?” I said too casually as I reached for a coffee, and she clammed up instantly. Margo would talk when Margo was good and ready. I got the message and veered into a new subject. “Where do we begin? I’ve been sitting here for several minutes, but Janet and Will don’t seem interested in joining us.”

“Uh uh, no way,” Margo said, taking a pull on her coffee. “The quicker those folks can unload this property, the happier they’ll be. In the meantime, it’ll be just us. Where’s Emma?”

“She’ll be along later. After the week she’s had, I told her she could sleep in.”

Margo nodded. “Okay, then, let’s do this.” She handed me the tray and produced the set of large, old-fashioned keys we had seen earlier. “As soon as I figure out which one of these opens the front door, I’ll put it in a lockbox. I’ve got one in the car.”

A lockbox is a device used by virtually all realtors to avoid having to keep track of hundreds of individual house keys for their listings. The key to each listing is placed in a small box affixed to the knob on the front door. All of the lockboxes can be opened with a single key, which the realtor carries.

The gray house sat quietly behind its forest green shutters, patiently awaiting its fate as it had for so many years. I was humbled, as I always was in the presence of old trees and buildings, by the knowledge of how much they had witnessed and endured. This one had been built in 1925, so it had survived the Great Depression and World War II in addition to the calamitous world events that had occurred in my time, plus dozens more winters and hurricanes. Yet here it sat with its rocking-chair porch and windowed sunroom, dozing serenely in the late-season sunshine, oblivious to the fact that one of its occupants had been brutally murdered.

Inside, we fumbled for a wall switch in the dim interior. I located one to the right of the door and switched on the elegant, crystal-faceted ceiling fixture that graced the modest foyer. Janet and Will had obviously done a lot of work on the first floor. Without needing to discuss it, we could see that the house would show very well—and quickly, too. Properties for sale in Wethersfield were few and far between in this market. Original hardwood floors and moldings led gracefully from a fireplaced sitting room to a formal dining room, eat-in kitchen, the sunroom, and a tiled bath. The rooms were smallish but well-proportioned, and light spilled in from the windows on all sides. I knew from the listing that the house boasted a full basement, something many others of its era did not have. I sincerely hoped it would not be necessary to search there for Harriett Wheeler’s diaries, however.

Leaving our belongings in the kitchen, we finished our tour of the first level and climbed slowly up the wide stairs to what had been Prudy Crane’s living quarters. A heavy door at the top of the staircase separated the apartment from the lower part of the house, and once again, Margo negotiated the key chain successfully. The cleaning crew had removed the yellow crime scene tape, but I was apprehensive as she eased open the door. Almost fearfully, I peered over her shoulder.

Instead of the rabbit warren of tiny rooms I had expected on the second story of this old structure, we stepped into a large, sunny studio apartment. Structurally, the space was very interesting since it had obviously been created by knocking down several interior walls. The result was one open room, flooded with light from the large windows on the back wall. The plainness of the room was alleviated by its buttercup yellow walls and a number of appealing nooks and niches in which hung some beautifully framed botanical prints. A large, decorative column rose from the floor in the center of the room, apparently replacing a weight-bearing wall of years past.

A doorway to our right led into a tiny, but nicely equipped, galley kitchen and an equally well-appointed bathroom. The focal point of the main room was a small gas fireplace on the left wall. It boasted a hand-carved mantelpiece and was flanked by built-in bookcases that held hundreds of hardcover novels. Many were expensively bound in leather, and most of them seemed to be mysteries. Agatha Christie and Ngaio Marsh jostled for space with Joan Hess and Lisa Scottoline, Josephine Tey and P.D. James. Lillian Braun’s
The Cat Who
titles shared a shelf with Nancy Atherton’s
Aunt Dimity
series.

A slipcovered club chair and ottoman sat before the fireplace along with a drop-leaf table, which held a shaded lamp and one tidy coaster. The absence of a television confirmed that reading was Prudy’s preferred recreational activity—that is, when she wasn’t out collecting payments from her blackmail victims. The rest of the room was devoted to a comfy-looking brass bedstead piled high with comforter and pillows, a night table, and an old-fashioned armoire.