Marjorie Thelen - Designer Detective

“Come over. Kahn is coming this afternoon, and we'll have you fixed up in no time.” Judith was a woman of action from New York City, replete with long frizzy hair, dyed red.

Happily, the sun was shining when I finally hit the road. I love Arlington, but a friend who lives in Northwest D.C. won't come here. She says she gets lost if she ventures over Key Bridge. For the same reason she won't come, I delight in living here. Small community neighborhoods abound like Roslyn where I live — Westover, Ballston, Shillington, Clarendon — each with little strip shopping centers with diverse restaurants and shops from every corner of the world. And I’m not kidding.

Judith's store was in one of those cute strip malls off Lee Highway. She saw me pull in, waved and met me at the door.

“Hey, you,” she said and gave me a big hug. “I thought you were out of town.”

“No, I'm working this redo on a library over in McLean except I found the guy dead in the library.”

Her hand flew to her wide open mouth. “Oh, my gosh. I read about that in the Washington Post. You mean that was your job? They didn't say who found him.”

“I did, believe it or not.”

Judith led me to the big design table she had in the back room away from the yards of fabric in the sales room. “Sit. Talk. I want to know all about it. I can't believe you found a dead man on the job. You don't think this is a new trend in interior design, do you?”

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.