Marjorie Thelen - Designer Detective

He looked at the envelope. I could see he was impressed by the nod of his head. “Thanks. I didn't see the car. I'll follow up.”

“See, I'm trying to be helpful.”

“I appreciate it. Are you going to tell me what the butler told you?”

“He must have told you the same thing.”

“Let's compare notes. You first.”

“The most interesting tidbit was the sister who is the executor. Is she the one who hired you?”

“Matter of fact she is.”

“You owe her a favor?”

“Yeah.”

“What was the favor?” I was being a bit nosy.

He squirmed a little. “She helped me out once. Long time ago. Let's leave it at that.”

I filed that for later reflection.

“Tell me,” I said. “Do you think she'll pay me if I finish the job?”

He shrugged. “I don't see why not. Between Albert and his wife they had enough money to run California.”

“That wealthy, eh?”

“I'm exaggerating but yeah, they have money.”

“How do you know?”

“Wait a minute. I'm the private investigator here. I ask the questions.”

“I think you need help.” That was out of my mouth before I had time to censor it. What was I saying?

“I work alone.”

I shrugged. “If I'm in there every day, there's no reason to think I wouldn't pick up valuable information.”

His brown eyes closed to slits. “What's in this for you?”

I guess he thought I wanted a take. Not a bad idea. I cocked my head to the side, a habit that helps me think and scheme better. “I’m curious, intrigued, fascinated. And I’m really good at crossword puzzles and Sudoku. You need someone with a sharp mind like mine to help you. It’s obvious that a family member did it. Money is the motive.”

“Might be family. Might be money.”

“Include the executor.”

“I don't think so. She's over eighty years old and got money.” But he didn't look so sure. He was folding a paper napkin in tiny squares.

“What's your theory on whodunit?” I asked.

He stopped fiddling with the napkin and gazed out the window. Small drops of rain splashed the windowpane. The traffic on Wilson Boulevard moved sluggishly, seduced by the rain.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, turning to look at me, “I don't know why she wants me to investigate. She seems to think I have superior investigative abilities since I figured out who was rustling her cattle a while back. She called awful quick after you found Albert on the floor. It was almost like she knew it was coming and had already decided to conduct an investigation of her own. Like maybe she suspected somebody.”

Now we were getting somewhere. “Does she have a name?”

“Opal Crawford.”

“Married?”

“Husband died a long time ago.”

“Does she live here?”

“Nope, lives on a ranch in southeastern Oregon.”

“We should get more background on her. After all, if she inherits, she’s a suspect.”

He looked at me sideways. “We?”

“Hey, I'm not looking for a cut. I just want to get paid for the work I do. I'm fussy that way. Help me get my money. I'll help you get yours.”

He parked his chin on his fist and ran his tongue around his teeth with a focus on my eyes that sized me up in one quick take.

“Okay. But you're not off the hook as a suspect until you have someone can verify your whereabouts Tuesday night.”

“Gosh, I wish I could say George Clooney or Viggo Mortensen spent the night. But they were busy Tuesday. It was just little me in bed with my chicken pillows.”

“Chicken pillows?”

“I'll show you my collection sometime.”

I left Cafe Francois and headed for the Lodge estate. I wanted to do some work and talk to Hudson about Opal Crawford. As I drove through the gate of the estate, my sharp eyes detected that the beat up car in the ditch was gone. Maybe the owner had it towed. Maybe a neighbor had complained to the police, and they removed it. Maybe it had nothing to do with Albert Lodge’s demise. But I wondered.

I knocked on the door and rang the bell, hoping that Hudson would be in. He did not appear. I waited and rang the bell intermittently for a few minutes but nothing. I whipped out the key and let myself in, after the usual wrestle with the lock.

Throwing my jacket on the couch, I commandeered Mr. Lodge's large mahogany desk for my work area. I was about to sit down and input the layout of the new library while it was still fresh in my head when it occurred to me that now might be the perfect time to sleuth around the house looking for clues. I'd only take a few minutes.

First, I had to find out if Hudson was about. Maybe he hadn't heard the bell, although I'm sure it rang in the kitchen. Calling his name, I headed for the kitchen. I searched but found no evidence of Hudson’s recent occupancy, which was odd. No enticing smells from the oven. No silver service standing ready for tea.

I stood at the French doors that overlooked the swimming pool. Raindrops flipped coins on the water. I reflected on the money needed to maintain an estate of this magnitude. It boggled the mind. But where were the people? No laughter rang through the myriad of rooms. The house sat empty with exquisitely coiffed gardens and rooms, anti-theft systems, and multi-car garage, waiting. I wasn’t sure for what.

A disturbing thought surfaced in my ever-alert mind. There was no burglar alarm on the front door. I didn't have to punch in any code or switch off the alarm before it sounded. Mr. Lodge must have been a trusting soul. I wondered if Jake had noticed the lack of security. He hadn’t said anything, but that was an important clue right there in my detective book. No security on a valuable house bore further investigation.

I decided to tour the back rooms for clues and found pantry after pantry of imported dry goods, silverware, sets of ornate dishes, plush towels, silk sheets, and other extravagances needed to run the wealthy household. A hallway connected the pantries, and I caught a fragrance of damp soil and greenery. I followed my nose to a charming conservatory tucked away in the west wing.

The exterior wall of windows fanned out in a half hexagon shape. Outside, boxwoods surrounded a wide brick patio. The shrubs were clipped in shapes of a suit of cards — clubs, diamonds, hearts, spades. The whimsy of it brought to mind Alice in Wonderland. Then again someone might have a gambling habit. A low brick wall trimmed in yellow mums surrounded a single spray fountain in the center of the patio.

A wicker chair with rose cushions faced the patio. On a stand a book lay with a pair of reading glasses on top. I put the glasses carefully aside and picked up the book — Remembrance of Times Past by Marcel Proust. Someone with the fortitude to read Proust might be interesting to talk to. My bet it was Albert’s sister, and I wondered where she was.

Feeling guilty about snooping, I hustled back through the pantries and collided with the door from the garage, which opened right in front of me. Hudson stuck his head around the door to see what he had hit.

“Miss Marlowe. How good to see you. We saw your car in the front drive. Might I be of assistance?”

“No, actually, I was giving myself a little tour. You know, to get an idea of how other parts of the house were furnished.”

“What is it, Hudson?” a quiet, disembodied voice said. “Is someone there?”

Hudson turned back and said, “Yes, ma’am. It is Miss Marlowe, here to attend to the redesign of the library.”

“I see. Let's have tea. I feel chilled to the bone.”

He stepped into the hall, and Opal Crawford followed him in. She looked at me and smiled. Her eyes danced. I liked her at once.

“Tea?” she said to me.

“I'd be delighted.”

While Hudson was assembling tea, Opal led me to the music room complete with piano and harp. Red Persian carpets adorned the natural wood floors in a conversation grouping including two facing loveseats in gold stripe. She sat on one and patted the seat beside her.

“This room is too formal, don't you think, dear?” Opal said to open the conversation. “I never liked Olivia's taste in decorating. She was English, you know. Rather stiff and conservative. I do like a music room though.”

The smile she turned on me, I’ve seen on cherubs. I succumbed to her charm. She didn’t seem disturbed in the least that they found me wandering around the house. And she didn’t look like she lived on a ranch out West. I was expecting leather, fringes, denim and boots. She wore a polyester knit suit in navy blue.

“The library is the same way,” I said, “though I don't have trouble with English formal. That’s the way they are.”

Opal sighed. “Yes, they are. I think Albert was happy with her, or he always pretended he was. Albert excelled at pretense, but he had a good heart.”

“When did you arrive?” I said.

“Yesterday. When Hudson called me, I booked the next plane to Washington, D.C.”

“And before you left you called Jake Manyhorses.”

Again, no surprise. “Yes,” she said. “Then you've met him.”

“He came to see me the night of Mr. Lodge's death. I'm a suspect, you know.”

She smiled. “Jake's very good. He'll get to the bottom of this.” She peered into my eyes. “You didn't do anything wrong, dear. Jake's just doing his job.”

“Then you think there is something amiss?”

“Absolutely. Albert was given an overdose. He would never have done that himself. He had one of those little pillboxes with the days of the week, and he carefully put his medications in each day. He was very precise about things. He would never have taken an overdose. There was no point. He wasn't unhappy.” She stared off into the distance for a while, her hands resting quietly in her lap.

“Olivia died about a year ago. Stroke. She went just like that.” Opal snapped her fingers for effect. “They weren't close but they were fond of each other. They often went their separate ways, what with her family in England and South Africa. No, Albert was a well-adjusted person and took things in stride. He even mentioned a lady friend in our last conversation. I was happy for him.”

“Lady friend? Did he mention her name?”

“No, he didn't. Now I wish I had asked. I'm sure Jake will find out who she is.”

“How old was Albert?”

“Eighty-two. Our family is long lived. Our father died when he was one hundred. He was fit as a fiddle and had a keen mind until a heart attack took him.”

Hudson entered with tea on the fancy silver tray, and Opal poured. “One lump or two?” she asked.

“Just cream for me, thank you,” I said. She handed me a cup and saucer and offered a small crystal plate with cookies. I took one. Ginger snaps. Homemade. I could live like this.

Opal sat back into the loveseat and sipped her tea. “Well, Miss Marlowe. .”

“Please call me Fiona.”

She smiled and said, “Fiona. Lovely name. Is that Irish, dear?”

“It is. I have a strong strain of Irish on my mother’s side of the family.”

“I have a bit myself.” Her soft blue eyes twinkled like she might belong to the Irish little people. She wore a light dose of blusher and lipstick that went well with the snowy white hair. This was anyone's favorite aunt. I adopted her forthwith.

“My dear, we must talk about the library.”

I held my breath. She was going to fire me.

“You might show me what you've done and what you have in mind and how long you think it will take. I suppose we should spruce up the place a bit and get rid of some of these heavy drapes. The house will have to go on the market.”

“You mean, you want me to continue with the library?”

“Of course. Albert wanted it, and it is something I could do for him. I'm executor of the estate.”

“Jake mentioned that.”

“More tea?” she asked.

“Yes, please. I could show you the new floor plan with furniture. I thought we might forego drapes and use simple tiebacks and valances. After all there isn't anyone around to peek in. The natural light would cheer up the room.”

“I like that. What else?”

“Why don't we go to the library, and I'll show you my ideas?”

* * * * *

I called Jake when I got home, that is, after I called my cell phone provider and got my cell phone reinstated. That took the better part of an hour. No one speaks English anymore on help desks. This support person was in Belize of all places.