Tag: Writing Community

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.”

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.