The Pinch of Death – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

Chapter 22. Open House

At last she was standing in Iridium. This was the house where the difficult – probably impossible — Beatrix Rainbeaux had been born, lived out her days and died, that self-same house whose family myth she spent her existence tending, the house where Jacquetta would have lunched, discussing Evil Part Two: had a murderer not intervened.

Jacquetta was grateful for the crowd. And there was a crowd; looky-lous mostly; Avalon had hired a security guard to stand in each room as a threatening presence. She acknowledged Jacquetta’s presence but there was no possibility for conversation, Jacquetta was grateful to see, given the crush. She could snoop to her heart’s content.

The rooms were wide, beige, pillared and in need of a paint job. The place had been “sanitized” – swept clean of the “personal” — the usual detritus of everyday life, unto and including family pictures. Jacquetta thought she could guess where they had gone, seeing an impressively sized dumpster standing out back. Dare she come back at night and try to explore further? She could imagine herself wrestling with a seagull at the dump. Ugh! This would not be the kind of “detecting” that Honey – or any sane person – would choose to do.

While wondering she wandered, pretending to look at objects. Many, many objects; lamps, bowls, knick-knacks, chairs, beds, vases, bibelots, tchotchkes of every description. All, Jacquetta was forced to admit, unblushingly hideous. Poor Avalon. None of it was her style at all. The stained glass, on the other hand, was lovely, but big. Jacquetta didn’t see a single piece anyone would estimate at six thousand dollars or under.

And then, in the upstairs hall, she saw Mrs. Dettler. She went hot, then cold, and immediately turned her back. Mrs. Dettler was bending over a glass case of particularly hideous damascened and enameled knives and boxes: typical tourist litter. Jacquetta hadn’t been at all sure she would recognize her again, but she was unmistakable.

She had a long horse-face, a wide jaw and an untidy brown ponytail, but she was nicely enough dressed in a navy-blue suit, white blouse and pumps, as if for a job interview. So the agoraphobia was manageable to at least this extent or the vaunted medications were working.

Was it possible that the Ingebrand realtor would have ever gushed over this woman, described her as “pretty”? Jacquetta didn’t think so – it seemed surprising the fussy Neil Dettler had even married her – but Mrs. Dettler might once have looked very different. A long advertising career had shown Jacquetta more than one make-up miracle.

Mrs. Dettler was trying to lift the lid on a locked glass case that wasn’t going to cooperate. Trying to steal a stiletto?

God, I’m a horrible detective, thought Jacquetta for the thousandth time. I need to speak to her and all I want to do is run away.

She cleared her throat and Mrs. Dettler jumped – out of her fantasy world – wherever it had been – and back into reality.

“Morocco,” she said distinctly.

“What’s that?” Jacquetta asked with equal nervousness.

“These come from Morocco,” said Mrs. Dettler. “My father was in the foreign service.”

Her pale blue-gray eyes swept over Jacquetta unseeingly. Jacquetta offered a hand. “We met the other day,” she offered, when I gave your husband a ride to the funeral.”

“We didn’t meet,” argued Mrs. Dettler, weirdly wiping her hands on her thighs before touching Jacquetta’s skin. “And you are?”

“Jacquetta Strike. I was a friend of Miss Rainbeaux’s.”

“Oh, the Johnnie-come-lately. That’s what Neil called you. Meet Beatrix one day and show up in the will the next. I’m Penny Dettler.”

She was looking a bit more bright-eyed now. She looked like a bad bet for the pretty secretary of a famous exotic dancer, but a good bet for a murderer. If I – or anyone – knew what a murderer looked like, thought Jacquetta.

“Oh, you knew Miss Rainbeaux?”

“I saw her a few times.” Penny Dettler seemed uninterested. She looked around and sniffed. “This is my first time here, though. What do you make of it?”

“It’s depressing,” said Jacquetta honestly. “So big and full of junk.”

Penny warmed up. “That’s what I thought! Poor Avalon!”

Jacquetta echoed, “Poor Avalon!” and they smiled at each other.

They were standing on a balcony with a view of the downstairs foyer; out of the corner of her eye Jacquetta distinctly saw mail – quite a lot of mail! – come through the mail slot and hit the floor. Mail!

“Well, I have to be going,” she gabbled with entirely false heartiness. “Nice to see you looking so well!”

Penny Dettler’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Divorce is very energizing,” she said.
Jacquetta thought over this comment as she walked downstairs. Were the Dettlers divorcing? It certainly sounded like it. She could see a motive for investigating Avalon, impersonating Avalon – even killing her or Mr. Dettler – but why Miss Rainbeaux? Because she had stumbled over said murderer’s dastardly plans?

If only Jacquetta could recall exactly what the old lady had said. Something about exposure; a false self. What if Penny Dettler were not who she pretended to be? The only person who seemingly would care was Neil Dettler but Penny seemed thrilled to be divorcing him. Jacquetta couldn’t wait to throw this inchoate problem into Honey’s capable lap.

The front door had opened a few more times and the mail was getting kicked across the floor. It seemed natural enough for Jacquetta to pick it up, open the front door again, stand behind it, and toss the circulars into a ready jardinière. The security guard could not care less. Bill, bill, bill, “Miss Beatrix Rainbeaux.” A returned letter! It had been sent to “Mr. Carter Benson” but was marked, “Deceased.”

This must be the very Benson Jacquetta was looking for; and it turned out – providentially, perhaps? That he, too was dead.