Category: Crime

Chapter 23. Benson

Honey was dressing for a date.

“Look at this!” Jacquetta cried excitedly. “Look what I got at the Open House!”

“Ooo,” Honey gasped excitedly, “The mysterious Benson!”

“And wait what you see that’s inside!”

It was an anonymous letter carefully scrawled on blue paper ornamented with yellow daisies.

U R ROTING INSIDE. FEEL THE CANCER EATING UR GUTS. MAGGOTS CAN’T WAIT THEY ARE STARTING NOW. U HAVE EEN POISONED BY UR LOVING FAMILY. THEY CAN’T WAIT TO SEE U GO. I WOULD NOT EAT IF I WERE U.

“God, that’s awful,” said Honey, sitting down under the force of it. “But why send it to Benson? Wasn’t there a note?”

“No.” Jacquetta fetched the yellow pages and riffled through to “D”. “I think he was a detective she hired to look into the letters and he asked her to send on any more she received.”

“And he refused the letter because she was dead? I don’t get it.”

“I don’t get it either. But we’re way ahead of Benson because we know who wrote the anonymous letters. Yup, here he is. 115 Glasstown Pike. She went local.”

“I don’t get it. Who wrote the anonymous letters?”

“LeRoi! I forgot to tell you she had a box of this stationery in the trash at her apartment. Distinctive, wouldn’t you say?”

“But we don’t know who LeRoi is.”

“True. And I don’t think it’s Penny Dettler. She was at the open house and I’m telling you it would take quite a job to turn her into a cynosure that would impress a real estate agent.” She was dialing.

“What’s a cynosure?” demanded Honey. “Speak English.”

“A sex magnet.” She hung up. “His phone’s been disconnected.”

“I guess he IS dead.” Honey looked bleak. “It doesn’t feel like a coincidence.” She shivered. “I think you may have tripped over someone who enjoys killing.”

“Sure looks that way,” Jacquetta agreed. “And what about this “you” stuff. Weren’t you detecting right along side me?”

“Maybe not,” sighed Honey. “Depends on how dangerous this sociopath really is.

“Yes it does, doesn’t it?” Time to hide out in a convent?

115 Glasstown Pike was a burned-out shell. Jacquetta went into the news agency next door.
“What happened across the way? Looks like you had fire.”

The beaky-nosed man was happy to share his knowledge.

“Guy burned up. It was terrible. Rumor has it he torched the place and then shot himself.” He produced a tabloid-sized Glasstown Extra ARSON SUSPECTED IN LOCAL BLAZE. “Some say he worked for the Mob and it was a hit.”

Jacquetta tried to pay him for the paper but he waved her money away.
“That’s last week’s news – set for the pulper.”

She bought chocolate instead and consumed it nervously while she sat in her car reading. The story backed up the news agent’s first rumor: Benson had been shot with his own gun and the place had been torched by someone who didn’t care to conceal the signs of accelerant splashed every which way, burning up his files, correspondence, anonymous letters, everything. The police had no idea what case he was working on. But which happened first murder or arson? The investigators described the events as “simultaneous”. Jacquetta sat thinking.

Which of her suspects was capable of taking away a gun from an armed detective? George Cleese? Someone the private eye wouldn’t suspect. Certainly not Penny Dettler! Maybe the murderers worked as a team. Avalon and her husband? She didn’t seem to get along well enough with her brothers to keep even the most basic secret, much less one this potent.

I’m out of my depth big time, thought Jacquetta. And I’m making the same mistake Miss Rainbeaux made of underestimating a ruthless opponent.

Chapter 21. Connections

At The Royal Mess, Honey was agog to hear that possibly D.L. LeRoi had some connection to an exotic dancer named Roxelle Shields.

“I’ve seen her!” she gasped. “Maybe you have too. That cheesy shriek-fest movie Dark Turning a few years back. Traveling theatre company gets stranded in the back of beyond?”

“Never saw it,” said Jacquetta, who hated movies like that. “D.L. LeRoi is really some woman impersonating three other women – Roxelle Shields, Roxelle Shield’s secretary, and Avalon Powell. So she probably isn’t any of them.”

“But we won’t know till we ask,” insisted Honey. “This detecting is so much fun! I mean, there must be a connection, we just don’t know what it is. Give me that number.”

“Don’t you want me to call?”

“Heck no. Suppose it’s someone you’ve already met? It’s NOT going to REALLY be Avalon Powell who’s the only one who knows me. I can do voices. You can’t do voices. You don’t realize how distinctive your voice is.”

“My voice?” Jacquetta felt oddly pleased.

Honey slammed the bar phone down on the Plexiglas so noisily the single patron stirred, then disappeared back into his alcoholic coma.

“Hello? I was told I could reach Roxelle Shields at this number. No? How about Avalon Powell?

No? To whom –“

She looked at the phone with considerable surprise. “She hung up on me.”

“Well, where the heck were you calling? Maybe you should have asked that first!”

“Some lawyer’s office. Ummm “ Honey cast her eyes upward, remembering.

“Neil Dettler?”

“That was it!” Honey barked so triumphantly the old soak moved several seats down where his sleep would remain uninterrupted.

“It can’t have been his office, they wouldn’t have hung up on you. It must have been his wife. Rose-Alice said he and Avalon were having an affair.”

“Rumor confirmed,” said Honey, dialing a new number.

“Somewhere in New Jersey, a business called The Brass Ass.” She covered the speaker to hiss, “It’s in Wildwood.”

“Sure you can dial that for me. Thanks.” A momentary wait. “Hello? I’m looking for Roxelle Shields’ secretary. Oh, she doesn’t? How about Avalon Powell? Does that ring a bell? Well, may I speak to Miss Shields? May I leave a message then? All righty then!” She hung up briskly.

“Roxelle Shields doesn’t have a secretary. That guy seems to think the mere idea is hilarious. He doesn’t recognize the name Avalon and Roxelle doesn’t come in Mondays. But he didn’t rule out me speaking to her. I mean, we could call back tomorrow maybe. But he won’t take messages, that’s for sure. He’s probably illiterate!”

“Wow,” said Jacquetta. “You’ve been really helpful. We’ve got SOME kind of connection to Neil Dettler, but what is it exactly?”

“You mean someone could be trying to get him into trouble,” said Honey. “Him and Avalon. What does his wife look like?”

“God,” returned Jacquetta, “I did meet her but she looked so depressed I was scared to meet her eyes.”

“Could she get herself up all young and pretty?”

Jacquetta wasn’t used to looking at people in this way.

“I guess she must have been able to at one point. Her husband says she’s agoraphobic.”
Honey snorted. “Husbands don’t know anything!”

“But why would she use her own number?” Jacquetta was thinking, Mrs. Dettler could probably get her hands on a piece of Avalon’s broken jewelry, too.

“I guess to contain any inquiries – you know, if somebody comes looking for her she’d be forewarned. Don’t ask me.”

“And now she’s forewarned,” Jacquetta said sadly.

“Let me know if you’ve got any more detecting for me to do,” Honey begged her departing roommate. “I just love it! We should open our own detective agency!”

“Honey and Sister?” Jacquetta teased.

“Don’t scoff,” said Honey. “This is the most fun I’ve had all week.”

Chapter 20. A Dancer

Ingebrand Realty was a one man shop, Jacquetta was overjoyed to see. A bilious little man imprisoned by ringing telephones and piles of documents, cast a glance over Jacquetta that can only be described as “concupiscent.” Jacquetta cast her own eyes heavenwards, thanking St. Barbara, who had been the patron saint of realtors ever since she was thrown from a tower.

“Sit, sit!” cried the little man, leaping to his feet. “Coffee? Water? Soda?”

The coffee was soldered to the bottom of the pot and the water came from a highly suspect drinking fountain. But the soda, though syrupy grape, was at least cold.

“What can I do for you?” he perched dangerously on the edge of his desk and when the phone rang, he jerked out the cord. She had his full attention.

“A friend of mine has disappeared,” she said, hoping the frantic calculation behind her eyes was invisible to this man. Apparently, it was.

“Oh?” he encouraged, looking ready to discuss her friend for hours.

“D. L. LeRoi,” she confided. “Of course, that’s a pseudonym. Monmouth Place in Brooklyn.” She was hoping he would give her a clue to the gender of the renter and she wasn’t disappointed.

“D. L. LeRoi!” he winked. “No forgetting her. She admitted it was a pseudonym, but as long as it’s not done for the purposes of fraud – I mean she paid the three months in advance.” He leaned perilously close, “You know Roxelle Shields?”

Jacquetta could not conceal her surprise. “It was rented by Roxelle Shields?” Roxelle Shields was a famous – or infamous – burlesque dancer.

“Well, she sent her secretary. She didn’t come in herself. Pretty blonde girl.”

Jacquetta sipped nervously, getting ready to douse him if he fell into her lap.

“I did wonder if the apartment wasn’t for the secretary, really,” he said. “You’d think a famous name would require something a little more upscale.”

“My friend’s the secretary,” Jacquetta said faintly. “You guessed right. She was staying there and now she’s gone. I don’t know how to get in touch with her.”

“Let’s see.” He reflected for a moment but made no move to look anything up. “She gave Miss Shield’s club name as a reference.”

“Do you have that address?” Jacquetta produced a pad and pen.

“Oh, you can look it up,” he shrugged. “Brass Ass! It’s in New Jersey somewhere.”

“I’m afraid something happened to my friend,” Jacquetta lied. “She was hiding out from her husband and he was so angry. You know how it goes.”

The real estate manager looked alarmed. “Oh, my God,” he said, “Did you go over there? Is it –“
“No one there,” Jacquetta reassured. “The door was open so I looked inside.”

“Well, she had to give a reference,” he admitted. Unwillingly he dragged his brass ass off the desk and searching for files, found one. “Glasstown Bank cashier’s check,” he said, “That won’t help.

Oh, here’s her previous address. “Iridium House, 300 Main St, Glasstown.”

Beatrix’s house! Was that how she found out?

“Maybe she used her maiden name,” said Jacquetta hopefully. “I just can’t remember what that was.”

“Powell?” said the man, reading. He clearly wasn’t going to show her the file. “Avalon Powell?”

“That’s her all right,” said Jacquetta. “Any phone numbers?”

“The club listed under “work”. Oh, here’s one under “personal.”

He peered at her over the file. “It’s a Jersey number.”

“Her Mom’s house!” said Jacquetta. “Maybe she went back there.” She wrote down the number the man gave; it meant nothing. She was dying to phone, but not with Mr. Nosey around. She almost knocked him over as she stood up.

“Thanks so much,” she said, putting her unfinished soda into his outstretched hand. “You’ve been so helpful. I’ve got to hurry so I won’t miss my train.”

It was the only true thing she’d said so far.

“Do you want to leave your name and number?” he called after her hopefully. “Just in case.”

“No, thank you,” said Jacquetta. “I’m scared of that husband!”

“Poor girl.” The manager seemed honestly anxious about LeRoi’s mythical dilemma. “She was so young, too.”

Jacquetta was in no mood to visit the Brass Ass alone. It was her only new clue, but how real could it possibly be? Maybe it was some kind of a joke, prank or pun. No one would describe Avalon as “so young”; she was way too carefully made up; a midlife woman if ever there was one. But the Glasstown names connected LeRoi indelibly to the case.

“I’ll call the minute I get home,” thought Jacquetta. “Maybe from The Royal Mess.”

Chapter 19. LeRoi’s Secret

D.L. LeRoi’s phone number was disconnected, so a personal visit seemed called for. The address turned out to be a spiffed-up brownstone on a changing Brooklyn street. A Chinese hotel, a nail salon, a condemned lot posted with warning signs and a Laundromat made up the amenities. For the rest: anonymous apartments.

No one paid Jacquetta the slightest attention as she stood awkwardly studying a tenants’ list. A nice Hispanic man made it easier for her by unlocking the outer door; deftly she inserted a toe to keep from losing the opportunity.

And then she was climbing, climbing. D.L. LeRoi was on 4 and this wasn’t an elevator building.

The fourth-floor landing was tiny and cramped with three doors set at odd angles. The apartments behind them must be very small.

Feeling self-conscious, Jacquetta knocked. The wrong door opened and a woman with butchered hair in a man’s cut looked out.

“She’s gone away.”

“Oh really? Do you know where?”

But the door closed.

Nothing for it but to try to break in. She imagined herself standing before the judge in her postulant’s garb. But the knob gave, immediately and in seconds, she stood inside.

The high Victorian windows were swathed in curtains but there was enough light to see the bird had flown. Hastily assembled trash bags stood in the room’s center; a disrupted cleanup. Had that occurred before or after Miss Rainbeaux’s visit?

A mattress, a box spring, some plates and glasses in the kitchen. That was the extent of it. Nothing personal. Even the refrigerator was disconnected. In the bathroom, the medicine cabinet gaped open, empty. In a particularly bad omen, the mirror was broken. LeRoi had even taken the toilet paper.

There was nothing for it but to paw through the trash. Jacquetta had no gloves but mittens would be good enough. Pink satin sheets, a crumpled poster for Emmanuelle, the soft-porn film, some bottles of shampoo, shower gel and lotion were filling Jacquetta’s mind with certain ideas. “Midnight Kiss”, eh? Empty liquor bottles and party cups. Partially filled take-out containers. Ugh! The mittens trembled. This was what the tabloids call a love nest!

There was one odd and unexpected find. A box of stationery; blue sheets ornamented with yellow daisies. Strange to say the least. Who could LeRoi be writing to?

Caught in the floor boards a hint of gold. Jacquetta carefully levered it out. Bonanza! A thin gold chain – not a bracelet, more like an anklet – bearing the initial A. Could it be Avalon’s? With only twenty-six letters available it could be a lot of people’s. But it looked like real gold, and that said something. Shamelessly, Jacquetta pocketed it.

Downstairs on the street, business as usual. If people met for a private party, then separated for quotidian pursuits, who would care? If old ladies died, wasn’t that supposed to be what old ladies do?

I care, thought Jacquetta. She made a note of the apartment manager’s name, posted right above the mailboxes. Ingebrand Realty.

Chapter 18. Monastics

The engagement book continued three clues and three clues only – the name “Benson” every Thursday for the past two months and the address of a “LeRoi” in Brooklyn on the day Jacquetta and Miss Rainbeaux met. That’s what she was coming back from on the train, Jacquetta thought, whatever it was, that’s what sparked her mood. It must be significant – she died immediately afterwards.

But the other clue was the moniker “Kleinemann-Lundt” scribbled – in a different pen – the same day as LeRoi. There were no further identifications to help her find “Benson” or “Kleinemann-Lundt” and the phone book couldn’t help her. Miss Rainbeaux seemed to use this book as more of a spiritual journal. She visited a different church weekly and wrote extensively about them in a crabbed hand.

It must have been after two in the morning when Jacquetta drifted off, so that when she placed her call to the convent at nine a.m. precisely, she was just embarking on that first eye-opening cup of coffee.

“Holy Calvary,” barked a busy voice.

“This is Jacquetta Strike.” Jacquetta was not able to keep the nervousness out of her throat. “Am I speaking to Sister Theela?”

“No, this is Sister Elgarde. Are you that wandering postulant that’s got Mother in a swivet?”

Oh, this sounded bad. Jacquetta felt like a catechism-failing ten-year-old.

“I guess I am,” said Jacquetta. “It’s that a friend of mine died – “

“You wait right here,” said Sister Elgarde. “Mother said if you were to call I should get her immediately.”

There was a sound of plastic hitting rock – just like a phone being dropped on a marble floor. Oh God, prayed Jacquetta. Mother Xavier was such an intimidating woman!

After several long moments of dread, the familiar voice barked, “What’s the hold-up?”

Jacquetta, who never cried, felt tears starting at the back of her throat. “A friend of mine has been murdered,” she averred. “Everyone else thinks it was suicide but that’s impossible. She mentioned me in her will. I don’t exactly know what to do but I know I have to do something.”

“What you have to do,” insisted Mother Xavier, “is pass the cares of the world to the persons whose purview those are, I would say, in this case, the police. Can you do that?”

“I’ll try,” said Jacquetta.

“If you can’t do that, then you don’t belong here. Let’s make an appointment, shall we? Wednesday at three o’clock tea? Or would Friday better suit?”

“Friday,” said Jacquetta faintly. A week! A long, glorious week! One could accomplish anything in a week!

“Did you get that, Sister Elgarde?” asked Mother. “If so I’m ringing off.”

Jacquetta was a bit startled to find herself in a three-way conversation.

“Then I’ll be seeing you,” she said formally. “You too, Sister Elgarde.”

“I suppose there’s no help for it,” snapped the sister.

Chapter 17. Philanthropy 101

“Mrs. Cleese? This is Jacquetta Strike. We met at the will reading – remember?”
Judging from Avalon’s snort, it was a bad memory.

“I’m sorry, Miss Strike, I can’t talk now,” said the highly annoyed voice. ”I’ve got someone here.”

“I’ll be entering the monastery in a few days,” interrupted Jacquetta in an uncharacteristically forceful display, “I don’t know if you’ve heard – and I feel we have to decide something about the money.”

Miss Rainbeaux had warned her – however subtly – that this would work, and it did.
“The money?” Jacquetta had Avalon’s full attention.

“Mr. Dettler told me that the money I inherited was taken from a bequest to the Jane Pride Home.”
“He had no business saying that,” spluttered Avalon. “I could – I should – have him removed as executor! I – “

Jacquetta let her talk. The more time her quarry wasted the better. When she seemed to be losing steam vilifying the man Rose-Alice claimed was her ex-lover, Jacquetta put in, “I know I ought to donate it somewhere. But the question is where? I don’t want to do anything Miss Rainbeaux would disapprove of, that would violate her intent. I thought you might have some suggestions.”

Boy, did she! Jacquetta listened smugly for a full five minutes to an unbroken sales pitch about how she ought to purchase something from the house – for six thousand dollars, of course – to remember Miss Rainbeaux by.

Jacquetta hadn’t expected this – it suggested the possibility that she herself could get into the house. But the thought of Avalon peering over her shoulder the whole time made her wince.

“I really like that idea,” she said with honest regret, “but religious life aspirants are supposed to be divesting, not acquiring. Otherwise, I really wish-”

That triggered seven full minutes on how she should buy a stained glass window for the nuns! Wouldn’t they like a rainbow over their door? The windows were worth a lot more than six thousand dollars but possibly a co-donor could be found. Avalon herself had many philanthropic contacts actively searching out religiously based donations. Who wouldn’t want a gorgeous stained glass rainbow over their door, thought Jacquetta enviously. It was evident Avalon was wasting her sales skills as George Cleese’s wife.

“I’d love to just come look,” sighed Jacquetta. Why bring up the fact that donations to a community that was considering your postulancy was a big no-no? It looked too much like a bribe.

“I’m having an open house on the furnishings next Tuesday,” said Avalon. “Ten to four. I won’t be able to give you any personal time but you can certainly come look.”

“Thank you, I will,” said Jacquetta. “I’m looking forward to it.” Wasn’t that exactly what Miss Rainbeaux had asked Avalon not to do? But I suppose so long as it’s not an actual auction…

Once Avalon seemed to be getting her way she was a much smoother interlocutor.

“Goodbye Miss Strike,” she said silkily. “I’ll look forward to seeing you again.”

Jacquetta, too, was in a happier mood. Twenty whole minutes! Honey ought to be able to find something by then.

And she did. A triumphant Honey dumped the “1910” engagement book into Jacquetta’s lap.
“I hate it say it,” she admitted, “But I burned that bridge.”

“Oh, how?” asked Jacquetta, leafing through her treasure, only to be rewarded by a mass of receipts, postcards and religious newsletters.

“I told her the bathrooms and kitchen all needed an upgrade. She was furious.”

“Well, she’s my buddy now,” Jacquetta bragged. “Did she tell you she’s having an open house next week?”

“She’s telling the world. I, of course, will not be welcome. No broken apart pieces of books that I could see. Sorry about the refrigerator, but it was completely cleaned out. And if Miss Rainbeaux had a water bottle or thermos beside her bed, it’s not there now.”

“So now we know the murderer has regular access to the house. That’s something. And this is the mother lode.” She kissed the shabby black engagement book.

“This is my new bedside reading. I’m expecting all secrets to be revealed.”

Chapter 16. An Unexpected Visitor

She was throwing together a scratchy meal when a knock on the door interrupted. To her astonishment there stood Rose-Alice on the door step. At first, she just gaped while her visitor stepped inside.

“Nice place you have here,” said Rose-Alice, taking off her raincoat and looking around. “This is my afternoon off so I thought I’d just come over and say hi.”

Jacquetta summoned up what civility she could.

“Sure, sure. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Fine. Go ahead and eat; don’t let me interrupt.”

Jacquetta poured an extra mug of tea. Her appetite was completely gone. She’d have to throw Rose-Alice out when it was time to call Avalon.

“I love this pattern,” her guest said about the matching sofa and chairs. “Winterberry. Laura Ashley, isn’t it?”

“My roommate’s very homey,” said Jacquetta, feeling awkward and off her game. “I’m actually moving out.”

“Oh really? Going where?”

“I’m entering…a monastery.” Had it ever sounded stupider?

“To become a monk?”

“To become a nun.” Jacquetta knew she was blushing but there was no hope for it.

“Wow.” Yet another astonished person. “I don’t know how you can…see, I grew up in a commune. I don’t think I could ever share anything ever again.”

“Surely when you get married…” Jacquetta temporized but Rose-Alice shook her head.
“We’d have to be at opposite corners of a huge mansion. And how likely is that?”

“It could happen.” Rose-Alice was very pretty. Jacquetta tried to smile. My mother always used to say looking after other people’s children was the best birth control possible.”

‘That’s true,” laughed Rose-Alice. “They’re a lot of work. On the other hand, Avalon doesn’t really care about them so I have a free hand. I couldn’t stand one of those hoverers.”

Jacquetta wondered if she had heard right. Rose-Alice was willing to denigrate her employer! I’ve got to take advantage of this,” she thought. “That’s surprising,” she said. “I mean, what else does she have to do?”

“Well, she has boyfriends,” said Rose-Alice. “Lots of them. That Mr. Dettler, for example. But she prefers the young ones now. So does her husband come to think of it.”

I’m horrible at this, thought Jacquetta. I can’t think what to ask.

“Speaking of Mr. Dettler,” she blurted, “He doesn’t think Miss Rainbeaux committed suicide. You knew her. What do you think?” Inelegant. But at least I got it out there.

“There’s a surprise,” said Rose-Alice. “He’s just feeling for your weakness. He’ll be coming after you next.”

Jacquetta couldn’t get over the unreal Alice in Wonderland quality of this conversation. “So…suicide you think?”

“Accident more like,” said Rose-Alice. “What does it matter now? That old lady couldn’t ever admit she needed help. She wanted to know everything. She always had to know better about everything than anybody. What would be more likely than she would take a dose and then forget?”

This was not the picture of the Miss Rainbeaux Jacquetta had met but she wasn’t inclined to argue. She had to get rid of this girl. She stood up and fetched her guest’s coat. It was a Burberry, but a little worn. A cast-off of Avalon’s?

“I hate to throw you out,” she said, “But I’ve got to make an important phone call. It’s going to be upsetting enough- “

“The monastery?” said Rose-Alice, eyes bright.

Jacquetta seized on this brilliant excuse. “That’s right. I have to ask to come in a little later than we’d planned and I don’t want them to think I’m backing out.“

“Why?” asked Rose-Alice innocently. “Why later?”

She’s a much more effective questioner than I am, thought Jacquetta.

“This whole probate thing,” she answered as vaguely as possible, opening the door. “It’s been a big surprise.”

“I’ll bet,” said Rose-Alice, politely donning the proffered coat. “She was a surprising old lady, I’ll give her that.”

“Well, now that you know where I am,” suggested Jacquetta, “stop by any time.”

What a lot of lies I’ve been telling lately, she thought. There goes my immortal soul.

Chapter 15. Loyalties

On Sunday, the nuns didn’t answer the phone in the extern office. Jacquetta could hardly control her frustration. But there was someone she ought to call who would answer the phone. Looking at the phone as if it was a rattlesnake she played with a few possible conversations in her head. “Mom, I’m holding off entering the convent for a few days because a friend died and – “

The phone rang. Jacquetta jumped back as if the imaginary rattler had struck. It was all she could do to lift the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Jacquie?” gasped a disbelieving voice. She matched him note for note.

“Nelson?”

“I was calling Honey,” the familiar voice said defensively. “What are you doing there? Does this mean you might not –” he hesitated as if before a feat of the etiquette imagination.

Why did everybody talk about the convent as if it was a brain tumor?

“Oh, I’m going in,” she snapped. “I’m delayed. People think a friend of mine committed suicide and I just want to prove that can’t be true.”

Better than mentioning the money, she thought smugly. Nelson didn’t believe in idealism, always saying everyone was controlled by self-interest, even if they didn’t recognize it themselves.

“I get it,” he said annoyingly superior way of his. “In your religion that sends her to hell. Right?”
God, he was the most loathsome man, talking about her “religion” like she was some stick-worshiping Trobriand Islander.

“That’s not it at all,” she snapped. “We’ve moved on past that. When people commit suicide the balance of their mind is disturbed and the balance of this lady’s mind couldn’t be disturbed.” Turn the tables. “What are you doing calling Honey?”

“Er – checking up on you. Did you get off all right and…” he let the sentence dangle. Honey was way too loyal to talk about her best friend with this guy. Wasn’t she? Honey was the one who always said, “dump him.” But because Honey was so man-savvy, she could usually fool any man into thinking she was on his side. It’s what make her such a lucrative barmaid. Jacquetta only hoped it would work on Avalon.

“I’ll be going in next week,” said Jacquetta confidently when of course she had no idea. But Nelson had always treated the convent as a game of “chicken” Jacquetta tested his devotion with. The creep. The world was so crazy she couldn’t wait for the quiet, joyful peace of the convent.

“Maybe we could get together,” he suggested tentatively. “Just for a drink.”

“Where are you calling from?” Jacquetta couldn’t resist asking. “Did your wife run out for cigarettes?”

“Don’t start that again,” he snapped. He was protective of the home he had never allowed her to see, so consequently, she couldn’t imagine him there. Me. The home-wrecker.

“Seems like we have nothing to talk about,” she said, hanging up on him. It was shorter than saying the Rosary and a lot more satisfying.

“I got it!” Honey came bursting in the front door. “She said this afternoon at two! I’ve got to get dressed.”

Jacquetta followed her into her bedroom as Honey took the turquoise suede suit out of its plastic sheathing.

“She wanted to raise me to ten thousand, and since its imaginary money anyway, I said fine.”

She stripped to her underwear and began rolling a clean pair of stockings onto her legs.

“Call the house at say…two-thirty. I’ll distract her with details until then.”

“Two thirty. I’ll make a note of it.”

Jacquetta sat on the bed and continued to look at her friend silently.

“So? What’s up?”

“Nelson just called.”

“That rat bastard,” said Honey. Automatically, yes, but satisfyingly. He was a rat bastard.

“I hung up on him.”

“Good girl.”

“He wanted to talk to you. About me.”

“I would have sent him away with a flea in his ear.” Honey stepped carefully into the skirt.

“You haven’t been talking to him about me?”

“Absolutely not! Scout’s honor!” Her roommate shuddered.

“Don’t you even think it.”

So, Jacquetta didn’t think it. It’s important to know who to trust in this life.

Chapter 14. Suspects

A kimonoed Honey was drying her nails when Jacquetta arrived home. To her querying expression, Jacquetta said,

“Everyone has motive and nobody has alibis.”

“Everyone!”

Jacquetta poured herself a cup of coffee, “That’s poison for you.”

“Poison!”

“Overdose of sleeping meds. Her maid was in the hospital. Anyone who knew her could have let themselves in and doctored up some substance they know she used.”

“God that’s sloppy!” objected Honey. “She could have shared –whatever it was – with a visitor – say, you.”

“That’s the beauty of using a substance she took every night. She’d get double.”

“I think it’s stupid.”

“Well I think it’s clever. If it didn’t work, no harm, no foul. They could never figure out who did it, and they might blame Miss Rainbeaux herself.”

“But if it didn’t work they’d have to try something else.”

“Well, they didn’t have to, did they?”

“So why do you say everyone had motive? Someone must have loved her.”

“The only one I’ve met who qualifies is her maid and even SHE had a motive. She clearly needed to retire and I don’t think Miss Rainbeaux would have liked hearing about that. I know she punished servants who disappointed her by disinheriting them.”

“God! She sounds awful!” said Honey, studying her manicure. “I don’t know why you’re letting this case rule your life. I mean, I like you not entering the convent – you should never go in my opinion – but honestly, is she worth it?”

“Everybody’s worth it,” Jacquetta insisted. “I want you to do something for me.”

“Me? You want me to play Nancy Drew?”

“You know you’re dying to.”

“You probably just want me to vamp someone,” pouted Honey. “That’s no fun.”

“No, this is pure detective work and it’s something I can’t do.”

“Ooooo…now you’re talking.” Honey’s eyes brightened.

“I want you to call Avalon and say you’re interested in renting Miss Rainbeaux’s house.”

“Really? What would that get us?”

“It would get you a tour. I’ll phone her while you’re there so she can’t watch you. Check the refrigerator and take samples of the liquids, also one from any liquid on her bedside table.”

“I guess that’s possible,” said Honey. “I’ve got a ton of my mother’s old homeopathic medicine bottles. They’re so cute.”

“I’m also interested in an engagement book that says 1910 on the cover.”

“You’re kidding me!”

“She seemed to be using it currently. Last time I saw it, the thing was in a velvet carpetbag with tarnished silver handles.”

“Like a purse?”

“Like a holdall.”

“And you want me to steal it?”

Jacquetta grinned. “I’ll absolve you. One Hail Mary and you’re home free.”

“I’m not Catholic so I don’t have to do that stuff. I steal purely for the thrill of it. What makes you think she wants to rent the place out? Before probate even? And why would the lawyer let her?”

“The lawyer’s scared of her. And Avalon needs money – her aunt actually teased her about it in the will.”

“Uh oh. Bullies should know the worm always turns. Sounds like even the lawyer had a motive.”

“I’m telling you they all felt the old lady had outstayed her welcome.”

“How sad. What a terrible way to end one’s life. You’d think money could buy you something better.”

“It can’t. And if you see the signature torn out of my stained glass book, grab that.”

“They’ll have destroyed that, Jackie. This person’s not an idiot. Who should I tell Avalon I am?”

“You can make up any name, any back story you want.”

Honey began to get excited. “I’ll wear my new turquoise suede suit and drive Barney’s car. She’ll think I’m loaded.”

Jacquetta opened her own purse. “I’ve got her number here somewhere.”

“I’ll call her from Barney’s car phone,” said Honey. “She’ll never know it was us.”

“I guess the world missed a great criminal when you decided to be a law-abiding barmaid,” Jacquetta drawled.

“There’s no lengths I won’t go to in the interests of honor and justice,” Honey agreed so smugly her roommate became alarmed.

“Don’t go overboard,” she warned. “One of those people kills for the sheer fun of it. That’s what Miss Rainbeaux thought.”

“Oh, we’re always so careful,” scoffed Honey, pretending to blow fumes off her smoking six-guns. “Don’t you get tired of playing it safe?”

Chapter 13: A Funeral

A drive through Glasstown was a drive to the end of the Rainbeaux family. There was the print works heard about at the will reading, there was the fought-over newspaper office. Across from the police station, the family mansion Iridium, rose like a white mausoleum with a New England cupola awkwardly perched on top. The whole thing looked like a wedding cake with a cupcake hat, thought Jacquetta. And now she was hungry. Hungry, and sadly missing that never-happened lunch. At the moment, lunch was definitely worth more to her than six hundred thousand dollars or a tractor trailer of old books.

The funeral home was on the way out of town, a low, rambling stuccoed building whose sole claim to beauty was its many stained glass windows. Jacquetta felt she could guess their provenance.
Opposite the double doors, a poster sized photograph of Beatrix Rainbeaux beetled its eyebrows at the mourners while an endless loop of family photos played across a white-screen.

Jacquetta signed the guest book and drifted up the aisle behind Dettler, feeling as if she was attending a particularly sorrowful wedding. How she wished funerals came with that signature moment when attendees are invited to object: a much more appropriate reaction to a death than a marriage.

The Powells were ranked along the front row, sitting equidistant apart like birds on a telegraph wire. With the horror of a nightmare Jacquetta suddenly realized where Dettler was taking her, right up to the front, where mourners filed past an open coffin. It was too late to get out of it now; the crush was powerful behind her; she would just have to shut her eyes, dim her senses, and submit.

But in the end, she didn’t need to protect herself from shock. The tiny body lying exposed could have been a child disguised in a Groucho Marx nose and glasses for a prank. Death was so difficult to believe in! There were no messages here because Beatrix Rainbeaux was gone. Sadly, Jacquetta moved on.

Now was the moment to escape from Dettler as he greeted the Powells. She swerved around him and sat on a side bench next to a shriveled old black lady in a massive hat. No one else seemed willing to sit beside her and the snub was too unbearable.

“How do you do,” hissed Jacquetta, “Are you Hortense McGivern?”

“I am,” wheezed the old lady as if her lungs were gone. “Do you think they’d mind if I smoked in here?”

“I’m sure it’s illegal,” panicked Jacquetta, unable to believe this poor old lady had ever waited on anybody or even that she was still alive.

“I’m just out of the hospital,” said Hortense. “Got out special to make this day. Isn’t this just the saddest thing?”

With her maid in the hospital it would have been child’s play to drug Beatrix’s food or drink, secretly if the murderer was suspected, right up front if he or she were a trusted family member.

“It is very sad,” said Jacquetta, offering her hand. “I’m Jacquetta Strike. What do you think of this suicide theory they’re all telling?”

“Miss Bea she weren’t no quitter,” said the little old lady decisively. Jacquetta was relieved to finally locate someone who genuinely mourned the fierce old lady.

Of all people, George Cleese gave the eulogy. Maybe it was because he was so used to public speaking.

“A mighty oak has fallen,” he intoned while Jacquetta rolled her eyes. But she couldn’t share the moment with Hortense, who had clutched her hands together and screwed up her eyes in prayer.
“Can’t just wasn’t in her vocabulary,” said George.

“Amen, father!” shouted Hortense so loudly everybody jumped. Maybe I should have let her smoke, thought Jacquetta.

“Knew how to bring out the best in the community,” said George while Hortense shouted, “Enfold her in your loving arms!”

Jacquetta began to feel like she should contribute, but after carefully choosing a life of silence she didn’t feel she could begin shout-praying now. She began humming “Amazing Grace” while Avalon looked daggers in her direction.

“She never could stand that man,” hissed Hortense, whose prayer was apparently was over. “She called him a harlot.”

“George Cleese?” Jacquetta was unable to keep the delight out of her voice.
“She had plenty to say about these here folks. But she had a soft spot for family. Family could do no wrong.”

I wonder, thought Jacquetta. Was a change on the horizon? And yet she’d made a final will without cutting the family share. Did that mean the sociopath was an outlier?

“She’s laughing at us from the afterlife,” said Hortense. “The beloved dead is around us always.”

At least sixteen more people spoke, each duller than the last. Determinedly nondenominational, there was no mention of God, much less Jesus.

“Oh, well, the better the life the worse the funeral,” said Miss McGivern philosophically. Jacquetta thanked the Almighty – silently – for seating her next to this lady. And the hymns of praise continued when Hortense produced a flask to counteract the day-glo punch and day-old cookies offered by the caterers.

“A transition requires strong drink,” said Hortense. And Jacquetta said, “Amen.”