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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.”

Chapter 12. Contretemps

Returning Sunday from early Mass, Jacquetta was just kicking off her shoes when the phone rang.
“Hello, Miss Strike,” said the smooth tones of Neil Dettler, “I wondered if I could bum a ride to the funeral from you.”

Jacquetta hit the ground running.

“Of course,” she said. “I want to talk to you.”

“And I,” said Dettler, “want to talk to YOU.”

Surprisingly, Neil Dettler lived in an unremarkable yellow rancher guarded by phony Spanish grillwork. A sad-eyed woman dragging a baby struggled with the gate in a lackluster manner, finally saying, “I’ll get him.”

Wow, thought Jacquetta. And people say cloistering is so old fashioned.

Neil Dettler, on the other hand, was freshly shaved, jowls burnished, clutching a glossy briefcase.
“I’d like to apologize for my wife,” he said.

You’ve got some nerve, thought Jacquetta, but the attorney misinterpreted her expression of shock and said,

“It’s a medical condition. Post-partum depression. Agoraphobia. We’re evaluating medications.”
But she’s still gets that baby and you’ve got that briefcase, thought Jacquetta.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” asked Dettler, lowering himself gingerly into the Datsun’s rust bucket passenger seat.

“There’s something missing from my book collection,” said Jacquetta, who had reaped nothing but dust and dirt exploring said collection all weekend.

“Oh?” returned Dettler coldly. Plainly indicating she was looking a gift horse in the mouth.
Not for the first time, Jacquetta cursed her own directness.

The power balance between executor and legatee was not being improved by her struggle to get the Datsun’s balky transmission into reverse.

“A signature fell out of one of them,” she explained. He stroked his moustache thoughtfully.

“Oh yes. That one you showed me. Is it valuable?”

It seemed everyone but Jacquetta was obsessed with money.

“I haven’t had a chance to look it up,” she said honestly, “But if the signature just fell out it could always be re-glued.”

“Just what are you asking me?” inquired the attorney.

“Couldn’t we look for it in the house?” Whiny. Beggy. Unpersuasive. What the hell’s the matter with me? Was it what Honey called “the Catholic girl thing?”

“We could not.” Said Dettler forcefully. “You could speak to Avalon. It’s her house now.”
“But aren’t you the executor?”

“I have that honor.” Freezing cold. “And if you’re dissatisfied with my execution you’ll need an attorney of your own.”

Wow! Jacquetta felt the forceful smack down to the bottom of her heels. Luckily the Datsun, after some coughing and spitting, switched smoothly into third gear. Wonder what he wants to ask me, thought Jacquetta. I’m guessing it isn’t “let’s go for a drink and can he be my buddy”.

He put her out of her misery.

“Ivor says you told him Miss Rainbeaux couldn’t have committed suicide,” he said. “Since by your admission you’d only just met, I wondered what made you so certain.”

She hadn’t been ready for this. I’m not just a bad detective, thought Jacquetta, I’m an incompetent human being. I can’t figure out or achieve my own goals, forget about anybody else’s. Was her ex-boss and ex-lover right, was she entering the convent to escape the world rather than solve her problems? Thinking of Nelson gave her an idea. He had been big on “interpersonal dynamics”, in fact, she’d felt uncomfortably “managed” by him on a personal level. She knew exactly what Nelson would advise in this particular circumstance. “Turn the tables.” Carry the game onto his side of the field.

“She didn’t seem like the type,” said Jacquetta. “And since you knew her so well I’m surprised you thought she was.”

Dettler looked decidedly uncomfortable. Score!

“There were health issues,” he said, clearing his throat. Like a liar! He tried – feebly – to struggle for the ball. “What did she say to you?”

Here it was! This was it!

“She was full of future plans.” Said Jacquetta. I’ve got him!

From the corner of her eye she watched him struggle for a way to ask, “And what were they?”

“There’s your exit,” he said. “Glasstown.”

Was he giving up? Or was he afraid to find out?

Chapter 11. A Royal Mess

Jacquetta plopped a box of books on an empty barstool and sat down heavily on the one beside.
“Sherry” she requested. “Since that’s what I’m drinking these days.” Luckily the pub was fairly empty at this hour.

The beautiful barmaid – it was her own roommate Honey – widened her eyes as she wiped the lacquered finish.

“Have you been dumpster diving again?” she demanded.

“This is a third of my legacy, I’ll have you know,” said Jacquetta. “Plus, there’s money.”

“Money!” Honey gasped like a child sighting Santa Claus.

“The family had the exact same reaction,” teased Jacquetta.

Honey smacked a double of dry sherry on the bar, and poured one for herself.

“There goes that vow of poverty,” she quipped. “Tell all.”

And she dropped her head into her hands, propped herself up on her elbows and listened wide-eyed as Jacquetta spun her tale.

“Well, these are not nice people. They were having a brawl when I left – complete with broken glass.”

“Who? Not George Cleese!” Honey was satisfyingly bug-eyed.

“He was there. But more likely it was the heirs. Miss Rainbeaux took care to insult each one of them in the will. She didn’t say anything about George.”

“That Cleese is a secretive slimeball. You wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley! What did the will say?”

“She told George’s wife not to hold a yard sale, she said her nephew Ivor the lawyer was probably getting disbarred, and she asked the other nephew Chester to stop hiring people using his libido.”
“Wow! Disinherit anybody?”

“Not the family. She disinherited the chauffeur and the Jane Pride Home, whoever they are.”
“That’s an old age home. You mean she insulted her family while giving them cash?”

“It looks that way.” Jacquetta put a hand over her drink refusing seconds. “Coffee please. And maybe food. I’m starting to feel woozy.”

“Don’t wooze in here. I’ll get you a chef salad.”

She was as good as her word.

“If that doesn’t beat all,” Honey shook her head while pouring coffee, “Lectures them but goes on rewarding them! Anyone could have told her THAT wouldn’t work. And all you get is a box of dusty books.”

“And six thousand bucks. She took it from the old folks.”

Honey shook her head wonderingly. “What is the MATTER with people?”

“Insensitivity,” Jacquetta offered. “They can’t imagine other people’s lives, so they don’t.”

While Honey wandered away to build up a destroyed-looking businessman, Jacquetta tucked into her salad.

“I’m expecting a big tip,” said Honey, returning.

“Forget it. First there’s probate, expected to take forever. Second, I’ll probably give it to the old people. It depends.”

“On what?”

“On how difficult and time consuming it is figuring out what Miss Rainbeaux was trying to tell me.”

“Why should you care? Is it the “God’s purpose” thing again? Miss Rainbeaux sounds like a thoroughly nasty old bird to me.”

“She really wasn’t. And – well – they’re trying to tell everyone it was suicide!”

“Suicide?”

“Exactly. I’ll never believe it. She was totally not the type.”

“You just can’t believe anyone would commit suicide to get out of lunch with you.”

“Har har. Is there dessert?”

“Lemon meringue pie. And there might be some doughnuts left in the break room.”
“Forget it.” Jacquetta pulled out her wallet. Honey forestalled her.

“You know your money’s no good here. So, if probate takes forever, what are you doing with those books?”

“That’s a really good question,” said Jacquetta thoughtfully. “The executor – Neil Dettler – read the will, rushed right over to Miss Rainbeaux’s house, got the books and put them in his car.”

“Without even meeting you? That is strange. I suppose “just being nice” can’t be the answer.”

“He did invite me for a drink,” said Jacquetta smugly. “Of course that was AFTER he met me.”

“Wait till you put on your nun disguise – they’ll be all over you like flies. Guys love the Basic Black. Not to mention the wimple.”

“It’s a cloistered order, please remember.”

“I just can’t picture it,” Honey sighed, leaning on her elbows.

“And if you can’t picture it, it probably won’t happen, because you’ve got a very good imagination. Is this Dettler character mentioned in the will?”

“Sort of. Executors get a percentage, if that’s what you mean.”

“If it’s a good enough motive for Columbo. It’s good enough for me,” said Honey.

Jacquetta pulled out the broken book. “There’s also the possibility someone was looking for any message Miss Rainbeaux tried to send me. Look what Rose-Alice dragged out of the trash at the Cleese’s house.”

“Who’s Rose-Alice? You didn’t mention her.”

“Didn’t I? She’s the Cleese’s au pair.”

“What’s she like?”

“Pretty, but not too pretty. Young but not too young.”

“You’ll make a horrible detective,” said Honey. “Next time take a Polaroid.”

“I know she wants to travel,” offered Jacquetta.

“Who doesn’t?” Honey took the book and studied it thoughtfully.

“The Romance of Stained Glass. Well, we’re definitely too late for this one. Someone tore out the whole midsection.”

“Let’s hope we’re not too late for everything,” said Jacquetta.

Chapter 10. A Pile of Books

Neil Dettler rushed out of the room, his face red and the tips of his moustache quivering, suggesting he had not emerged unscathed. He offered Jacquetta her coat. She thanked him with her eyes.

“How about my coat?” He then inquired of a seemingly frozen Rose-Alice. Rudely, Jacquetta thought. But Rose-Alice meekly brought him a taupe garment festooned with flaps, buckles and straps, even helping him into it.

“Are they upset about my bequest?” asked Jacquetta. A reasonable – but unpleasant assumption.
“Oh, no, no, no,” said the attorney. “You didn’t get anything from their share – it’s the Jane Pride Home that got stiffed. They’re always like this where money’s concerned. They’ve been whirling around the old lady like buzzards for years. I’m thankful that it’s over.”

Rose-Alice held the door open for them and Dettler granted her a curt, “See you soon.”
“Definitely,” returned the au pair.

Dettler swept Jacquetta out before him. She was so accustomed to forceful men, that she began to dislike him.

“I’ve got your books in my car,” he said. “Much easier than waiting through probate. Avalon’s going to make the lives of anyone trying to enter this place a living hell.”

Jacquetta showed him the book she was carrying. “Rose-Alice found this in the trash.”

Dettler gave it a cursory glance. “I can see why. Well, perhaps it still has some value. That’s up to you, not us. Where are you parked? That far? I might as well drive you down there – books are heavy.”

And there were three boxes of them, completely filling Jacquetta’s back seat. Acquiring lumpy new possessions was NOT supposed to be part of my life plan, thought Jacquetta. Where could she donate these books? She doubted the convent would be interested. It might be worthwhile calling the Jane Pride Home to see if they see if they still wanted them. But that could prove more embarrassing. No doubt they would have preferred the six-thousand-dollars.

And Jacquetta wasn’t even going to get that money until probate was completed – which she recalled in her grandparents’ case was almost two years! And she needed to go through these books carefully to see if Miss Rainbeaux had left her message. Although she was much more likely to have left the message in this book – the one that had been destroyed.

Dettler interrupted this reverie, and Jacquetta could tell from the expression on his face that he’d probably spoken before a she’d been so lost in thought she hadn’t heard him.

“Drink? The Blue Goose is right down the street. Charged to the estate,” he hastily assured her.
“Perhaps another time,” she answered as smoothly as she could manage. “I’ve got an appointment.”

She would be having her drink at The Royal Mess. With Honey.

Chapter 9. A Clue

“Excuse me,” Jacquetta said in a strangled voice, slipping past her inquisitioners and into the hall. The house was decorated in a mishmash of competing styles: “depressed Americana” which she attributed to George – and “aspiring billionaire” which she assumed was Avalon’s – or perhaps her designer’s — contribution.

She chose the first door under the stairs but it was not a bathroom. On the contrary, it was so much like a nun’s cell Jacquetta stood in slack-jawed surprise. No windows. A single bed – more like a cot, really, and a white-painted chest of drawers. A bookcase. In place of a cross over the bed, a travel poster for France featuring Monet’s ubiquitous waterlilies. Ordinarily when faced with something like this Jacquetta read the book titles to understand their owner. Too late – Rose-Alice came surging up behind her.

“Sorry,” said Jacquetta. “Bathroom?”

Sunny-natured Rose-Alice seemed not in the least put out. “Right next door,” she offered cheerfully, opening the required door. “Make yourself to home.”

Make yourself ”to” home…what part of the country said that? It wouldn’t be rude to inquire – but there was too much to do what with blushing, bowing, changing places and doors opening and closing. One of the contemplated pleasures of the monastery was an end to interactions like these. Blessed hours of silence! A blessed set occupations – study and prayer – a blessed “knowing for certain where things were.”

This, for example, was obviously Rose-Alice’s bathroom! There was probably a gaudy powder room decorated with a bald eagle motif situated somewhere else for guests – but Rose-Alice had invited her to use this. So presumably it was all right. She, too, must have felt the current that passed between them. So why feel so awkward? Like an invader?

It couldn’t be the bullfighting poster that invited her to visit Spain – or even the silver-papered ceiling – that could be Avalon’s contribution. It was the detritus of a hopeful, even romantic young woman, “Love’s Babysoft perfume”, curling wand and hairspray on the sink and a litter of downscale drugstore cosmetics.

It was when Jacquetta sat on the commode that she saw something interesting. A book was stuffed down behind the water pipes. Not hidden, exactly – possibly just held in place. The Romance of Stained Glass and not in good condition either – the entire mid-portion had been ripped away, bleeding glue and binding string. Yes, the book-plate placed it in the “Iridium” library.

That means it’s mine, thought Jacquetta. Surely, she was too close to the convent to be feeling this much of a thrill of ownership. Still, it’s always exciting to receive a book – even if it was something she would never have chosen.

After she washed her hands and exited carrying the book, she was surprised to bump into Rose-Alice. Yet again. This time, the other girl who blushed.

“I guess that’s yours now,” she said. “I got it out of the trash. I suppose they threw it away because it wasn’t perfect.”

Jacquetta soon found out why Rose-Alice hadn’t re-entered the library. There was a full-scale verbal battle in progress – complete with the smashing of glass.

Chapter 8. A WILL READING

                “This will was hand delivered to me this morning by Miss Rainbeaux’s chauffeur,” Neil Dettler announced. “It is a holograph will.”

                “But if it didn’t reach you until after Aunt Bea’s death,” said Chester hopefully, “Isn’t it invalid?”

                “Certainly not,” said Dettler. “It’s a holograph will entirely in the hand of the testatrix.”
                “Maybe it’s a forgery,” Ivor’s blond “associate” suggested.

                Jacquetta, who had been brewing up a dislike for the man, studied at him with new respect.  You had to admit he was a fighter.

                “It’s been passed by my Questioned Documents team,” said Dettler, “As a matter of course. Why don’t you let me read it before you start objecting to it?”

                “Sorry,” apologized Ivor, “It’s just that if it ISN’T a true will, you don’t HAVE to read it.”
He held out his sherry glass for refills and Rose-Alice scuttled forwards with the tantalus.

                “It IS a true will!” insisted Dettler.  “And I am now going to read it.” He cleared his throat.

                “I, Beatrix Cleanth Virginia Rainbeaux, being of sane mind as sound body as befits an abstemious woman of eighty-seven summers- “

                “You can skip that part,” said Avalon.

                “I can’t skip ANYTHING,” roared Dettler.  “The entire will HAS TO BE READ. You, on the other hand, DON’T HAVE TO HEAR IT. I invited you as is only proper but you are welcome to DEPART if you SO WISH.”

                Sounds like he’s given up on this crowd’s business, thought Jacquetta.  Avalon Cleese, quiet as a mouse, meekly held out her glass for seconds. 

                “Who are the witnesses?” asked George Cleese.

                “There are no witnesses.”  Having blown his gasket, Neil relaxed. “Holographic wills need no witnesses.”

                “Put us out of our misery,” wailed Chester. “Blindfold, cigars, last meal.”

                “Not necessarily in that order. Carry on,” contributed his brother. He and “Blade” tensely held hands.

                Dettler carried on. 

                “Let’s see…where was I…unimpaired mental faculties…here we are.  Declare this my last will and testament revoking all others.”

                “Leaving all my bits and pieces to The Old Cat’s Home,” said Ivor in a high whine only Jacquetta could hear.

                “With no expectation of life continuing past its present form – “

                “A little Darwin by way of Swedenborg,” offered Chester.

                “To my dear, devoted servant, Hortense McGivern, in gratitude for her years of selfless service – “

                “Here goes.” Ivor gripped the arms of his chair. Jacquetta looked around.  No faithful servant.  Surely, she had been invited?

                “I leave the Wedgwood nursery set she so admired.”

                “Wedgwood holding steady,” said Chester in a stock market announcer’s voice while Ivor appeared to relax.

                “That set’s probably worth two thousand bucks,” said Ivor, seeing the look on Jacquetta’s face. But Dettler was far from finished.

                “-The kitchen table and chairs, my Lazy Boy recliner, my Pontiac limousine and $10,000 cash.”

                Chester sat up. “Hello!” He exclaimed. “McGivern up one car!”

                “-I hereby revoke my previous will in which I left my limousine to my chauffeur, Herbert Slaws, since he did not stay sober as he promised.”

                That’s a good one, thought Jacquetta.  Get the chauffeur to deliver the will that disinherits him!  Did Miss Rainbeaux have a touch of the sociopath in her own makeup? This was enough to make anyone enter a monastery.

                “The carriage house and land that was to have been his will thereby be counted with the house as a whole.”

                “He’s got 30 days to depart,” said Avalon triumphantly. “And good riddance.”
                Jacquetta glanced around. No Herbert, either.

                “The house, its land and all personalty not otherwise designated becomes the sole property of my dear niece, Avalon Rainbeaux Powell Cleese.”  Sigh of relief from both Cleeses.

                “I understand she will probably sell it all and I only ask she insist on obtaining a decent price for everything instead of holding some fly-by-night yard sale with herself as auctioneer.”

                Dettler continued, unimpressed and possibly not even noticing Avalon’s head-snap.
Ivor made a hissing noise.

                “To my dear nephew, Ivor Rainbeaux Powell, I leave the Powell Printing Works and half my portfolio of stocks and bonds, to be divided with his brother, Chester. If they cannot agree on how to divide said stocks and bonds my executor, Neil Dettler, has full authority to sell said stocks and bonds and divide them fairly to the penny. And why should they agree for the first time in their lives simply because I am dead? To my nephew, Chester Rainbeaux Powell I also leave my share in the newspapers Glasstown Express, Freetown Garland and Post Village Citizen. I admonish him that now is the time to stop his libido from dictating his employment policy as all lawsuits will from now on have to be settled with his own assets.”

                A low whistle from George Cleese snapped Chester’s head in that direction.  He was angrier at his brother in law than at his aunt.  Doubtless, he had heard it from her many times before.

                “Since the Board of Directors of the Jane Pride Home has seen fit to fly in the face of my seasoned advice, I hereby revoke the codicil leaving them my six-thousand-dollar certificate of deposit at the Glasstown Bank and leave that instead to Miss Jacquetta Strike of Post Village whose business card I enclose. I would also like her to have my considerable library on stained glass since she is the only person I can think of who will actually appreciate it. I thank her for her interesting conversation and ask her to bear it in mind in the coming weeks.

                I direct the cash in my two checking accounts and four savings accounts be used to pay taxes and executors’ fees.  Anything left over will become the property of Avalon Cleese.

                I entrust Mr. Neil Dettler with the job as my executor, noting that although my nephew Ivor is also an attorney anyone who employs him will be an accessory to his inevitable disbarment. Signed this day – “

                Ivor turned bright red but the rest of the room heaved a sigh of relief. There was no representative from the Jane Pride Home to glare daggers at Jacquetta and the rest of the family didn’t appear to grudge her a share coming out of someone’s else’s pocket.

                “That wasn’t so bad,” said Chester to Ivor. “No changes, really. Don’t take it so hard, you know the way she talked.  Look what she said about me.”

                Worriedly Jacquetta saw George Cleese making his determined way in Jacquetta’s direction.