The Antique House Murders Read online

  Charley’s heart swelled with love and hope. She glanced at Lawrence, his own smile a mile wide. While watching an NFL playoff game this past January, Marc had engaged Bobby in a good-natured argument about the relative merits of the two quarterbacks. To everyone’s astonishment, her father’s aphasia had receded, and he’d begun speaking with almost perfect fluency. He had good days and bad, but progress remained steady. Speech seemed to come easiest when he was thinking and talking about football.

  “He’s accessing memories that are deeply imprinted and highly interactive.” Her father’s speech pathologist had been thrilled at the development. “Coaching football engaged every aspect of Bobby’s life: physical, mental, emotional. We don’t fully understand how areas of the brain interact. But when you hit on a winning combination, you go with it.”

  The doctor had urged them to talk football with Bobby whenever they could. What could be simpler? When the NFL season ended a few weeks later, Lawrence and Marc had come up with this new scheme, a friendly neighborhood football game against a group of guys Lawrence knew from pickup skirmishes at the local park. So far, it was working like a charm.

  “Let me know if you think of anybody else. Game’s in two w…weeks, and we want to get in at least one practice,” Bobby said.

  Lawrence stood. “I need to see to the lunch. You staying to eat with us, Chip?” His glance was sharp.

  “Dierdre opened today, and I don’t trust her on her own for more than an hour or two. I’ll get something later.”

  “I’ll pack you something decent. And please do not spread it in the parking lot for the birds like last time. I will know.” Lawrence made tracks for the kitchen, moving with a speed and agility that promised nothing but pain for the enemy.

  “Geez, he’s worse than a nanny cam.” Charley took his place on the sofa, tucking a foot under her and turning to face Bobby. She studied his beloved face with concern. “How are you feeling?”

  Bobby reached for her hand and regarded her sadly. “I should be asking you that question.” They sat in silence, fingers linked, each drawing comfort from the other. “I’m going to miss him,” he murmured at last. “At my age, friends are a precious com…modity.”

  “Oh, Daddy. I miss him, too.” She stirred, his comment about age sparking an idea. “Did you know Augusta Mulbridge?”

  Bobby frowned. “Why?”

  “Well,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “you know I bought a number of her things from”—she faltered briefly—“from Calvin. I saw that amazing house, saw how she’d been living. With the Planning Commission voting, who wouldn’t be curious?”

  Charley hadn’t breathed a word of what had transpired with Pamela yesterday. Any hint that she was becoming involved in another murder case would worry her father. That kind of stress could undo all the progress they’d accomplished. Still, her father knew her well, and the eye Bobby turned on her now was highly skeptical. She focused on radiating innocence. After a long pause, he finally gave a one-shoulder shrug.

  “Gussie Mulbridge. A strong woman, like Evie Trenault.” He smiled. “I knew her some, but Evie knew her better. She supported every charity in town, the arts, even funded a scholarship at UD. Gussie Mulbridge was always a fixture at those fund-raising sh…shindigs. Gave plenty of money. Held court. Always had a—” Bobby pointed at the coffee table, which held that morning’s newspaper.

  “She read the paper?”

  “Puzzles.” He waved Lawrence’s pen. “All kinds. Worked ’em all the time, even in company.”

  “How strange.” Charley marveled at the oddities of the very rich.

  “That old crow did what she wanted. Never cared what anybody thought.” Bobby shrugged. “Spoke her mind. Tongue like a lash.” It sounded a bit like “lush,” but Charley got the message.

  “What about her children? Holland and Jamie?”

  “Never met ’em.”

  “I don’t think they spent much time here.” Lonely old lady, she thought. “Did you ever go to Mulbridge House? Daddy, you should have seen it. No, smelled it!” She wrinkled her nose at the memory.

  “Never. Think the old—” He made a gesture Charley didn’t think was complimentary. “Too much effort for others. Rather sit and order people around.” He shot her his lopsided grin. “Like me.”

  “Yeah, you’re a regular Genghis Khan. So, committees and charity work. She and Evie probably ran into each other all the time. Did she ever talk about Augusta?”

  “Not really.” Bobby was staring into the middle distance, lost in memories.

  “How about SOAP?”

  “Some old biddies…after her to join. Just before she died.” He smiled again. “She showed ’em the door. ‘Nosy Nadines,’ she called ’em. No fool, our Evie.”

  Charley smiled, remembering Marc’s late mother fondly. “She was no fool,” she agreed. But then again, from all she’d heard, neither was Augusta Mulbridge. “So, what’s your position on the redevelopment plan?”

  Bobby leaned back. “If the house is as bad as you say? Just because something’s old doesn’t mean it’s w…worth saving.” He grinned. “Old man’s opinion.”

  She grinned back, then grew thoughtful. “Fourteen beautiful new homes mean more taxpaying families in town. That’s good. I think the neighbors’ concerns about increased traffic on Runnymede are overblown. Fourteen more cars, give or take? Hardly a gridlock.”

  Bobby grunted. “Not to hear them tell it. They’re raising hell in the paper.”

  Charley recalled her confrontation with Ellen Meade. “Some of their concerns may be exaggerated. On the other hand, we shouldn’t allow the pursuit of profit to steamroll over everything.”

  Bobby regarded her fondly. “That’s my girl.”

  “It strikes me that there are quite a lot of people with a stake in the fate of Mulbridge House.” Almost as an afterthought, she asked idly, “You ever heard of Gallagher’s Island?”

  To her surprise, Bobby nodded. “What the locals call that big patch of woods next to Mulbridge House. Current owner’s Richard Gallagher. Lives in Chicago, family’s held it for generations. I heard he’s g…got over twenty acres, four times the size of Gussie’s patch.”

  Charley gaped at her father. “How on earth do you know all that? I’ve never heard of Gallagher’s Island, and I’m a local. When we were kids, Frankie and I played down at Houk Stream all the time. The trails and public woods run right through that area.”

  Bobby tapped his skull. “Plenty of spare lumber piled up in here.”

  She shook her head in amazement. “You are absolutely the limit. So, why do they call it an island?”

  “No clue.” Bobby shrugged. “People over there use it like a big commons, for camping and picnicking, w…wedding pictures, parties. They don’t talk it up—keeping it private, quiet. Wild deer roam through, and they’ve even seen a red fox or two in years past.”

  Charley nodded slowly, picturing the dense woods surrounding Mulbridge House, the birdsong, the clean smell of trees and earth after a hard rain, the feeling of isolation even as crowds of people arrived for the auction.

  “Everyone probably assumes those woods are just part of the Houk Stream preserve,” she mused. “It’s not like there are any signs or fencing. I’m sure I’ve walked through it and never knew I was on private property. And it’s yet another good reason why the neighbors are so upset about the proposed construction. Can you imagine raising your children next to a pristine tract of forest in the center of town? Dump a bunch of new homes back there, and you threaten a lovely wildlife refuge. What I don’t understand is, if the Mulbridges are building houses on their property, what’s to stop this Gallagher fellow from building on his?”

  “Good question.” Bobby winked. “Sounds like something worth investigating.”

  Charley considered Richard Gallagher from Chicago. If Bobby was correct, he owned twenty prime wooded acres, four times the acreage of the Mulbridge estate. Holland and Jamie were going to make a fort
une on just fourteen housing lots. Why had Gallagher never done the same? Charley checked her watch. A project for another day. Or, she thought, another researcher.

  “I’ve got to run. Feel like poking around? That is, if Lawrence ever gives you a break.”

  “I heard that,” boomed a voice from the kitchen.

  Father and daughter chuckled. “I can do some digging,” Bobby said, looking pleased at the prospect of a project to fill his afternoon. “What do you want to know?”

  “No digging until after lunch,” Lawrence pronounced, returning to remove Bobby’s work tray and steering his chair toward the dining room.

  Charley grabbed her coat. “No rush, and I’m not sure what I want. Maybe you could find a history of the area? See if we can solve the mystery of why everyone calls it an island.”

  “Think that’s important?”

  “Could be,” she replied. “Also, it seems strange that such a valuable land parcel has gone undeveloped. I’d like to know why. Holland Mulbridge certainly hasn’t wasted any time.” She kissed Bobby’s cheek and accepted the sack lunch Lawrence pressed on her. “Tag me if you find anything interesting. You boys behave.”

  Chapter 7

  Charley parked behind her shop, shouldered her laptop bag, and then, after a brief contemplation of the employee entrance, veered left and headed up the alley. When Dierdre opened or worked a solo shift, Charley liked to pop in through the front to see how her lazy clerk comported herself when she didn’t know it was the boss coming through the door. Heddy was a dream employee, but Dierdre needed to be kept on her toes. Not that Dierdre seemed to respond to her directives, Charley thought wearily. Definitely a management problem to be tackled sooner rather than later.

  Emerging onto the sidewalk, she glanced across Park Avenue and recognized a familiar figure unlocking a car parked in front of the Safety Building.

  “Counselor?”

  “Charley! What a lovely surprise.” Assistant County Prosecutor Trent Logan strode across the street, took her hands, and kissed her on each cheek, his light brown eyes twinkling over a friendly smile. “Although why should it be? That is your little shop, of course.”

  “And you’ve never kept your promise to visit me,” Charley scolded, but she was smiling, too.

  She’d met the Montgomery County Prosecutor’s deadliest weapon during the Lucy investigation. Despite the grave situation that had brought them together, she’d liked him right away, drawn to his gentle humor, his intelligence, and, despite his relative youth, his air of competent good sense. According to Marc, ACP Logan had a higher conviction rate than any other attorney in Herbert Lawson’s highly talented stable of legal eagles. Their paths hadn’t crossed since that case, which was a shame, she decided.

  “I am a man who keeps his promises, but alas, today will not be that day. No rest for the wicked.” Trent looked relaxed and elegant as always, perfectly tailored suit immaculate, not a blond-streaked brown wave out of place as his gaze traveled up and down Park Avenue. “I’ve always thought this was such a charming street. A bakery, and even a salon? I will definitely return.”

  “I can give both establishments my highest personal recommendation,” she said warmly. She glanced behind him. “Were you meeting with Marc?”

  “I was, as well as with Detective Brixton and Chief Zehring. We’ve got various matters in the pipeline, and two cases coming to trial this month. Nothing as interesting as the Prescott case, of course.” Trent touched her hand. “He was a personal friend of yours, I understand. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Charley’s eyes stung, the sincere expression of sympathy catching her off guard. “Thank you. His death hit my dad pretty hard, too. At least we know the best detectives in the world are searching for his killer.” She smiled faintly. “And the best prosecutor will see justice is done.”

  “A bit early in the day for that, but yes,” Trent said, nodding, “I’ll no doubt handle the case. Once we have a suspect to prosecute. Hopefully today’s development will bring that happy occasion closer. Amazing things, these 3D cameras.”

  Development? “They are,” Charley agreed, choosing her words with care, knowing she had absolutely no right to ask for official information, but suddenly desperate to know what the camera had revealed. “I was at the scene, you know, and had the privilege of seeing Officer Salvatore operating it. Did it, um, confirm our suspicions about…the suspect?”

  Trent grinned. “I might have known Marc would keep you in the loop, and that you’d have your own theories about the case. Dr. Krugh called with preliminary autopsy results just as we wrapped up our meeting. I’m sure you’ll be as stunned as we all were at the conclusions she was able to draw. Based on an MRI of the victim’s skull and the 3D re-creation of the scene, she’s confident the perpetrator is between six foot five and six foot eight. Factoring in the angle of attack, she’s also determined he’s almost certainly left-handed. Isn’t that incredible?”

  Charley gasped. “Amazing! That should narrow the field.”

  “It is, and here’s hoping,” Trent agreed. “Now I really must run. Time to prep Dr. Finch for court. Unlike Sharon, our chief coroner needs plenty of practice before he takes the stand.” He winked. “Expert testimony falls flat with juries when the doctor stutters and sweats through his suit jacket.”

  With a final hug and a promise from Trent to visit Old Hat in the near future, Charley continued toward her shop, mind filled with what she’d just learned.

  “I did not ask him to tell me anything,” she said aloud. “He volunteered. Not my fault if he assumed Marc was looping me in on the case.” Perhaps not, but she had a feeling that, if he ever found out about Trent’s indiscretion, Detective Trenault might not see it that way.

  When she stepped through the bright green door of Old Hat, the smell of greasy fast food nearly knocked her back outside. Dierdre sat behind the counter, chowing down on an enormous, dripping cheeseburger. Another girl—heavy-handed with the eyeliner, hair tortured into purple spikes, inexplicable chains attaching various parts of her anatomy—leaned against the counter, shoveling fries into her black-lipsticked mouth with one hand while she stared fixedly at a smartphone held in the other. Fingerprint smudges decorated the front of the display case. Rings from sweating take-out cups puddled the countertop.

  “What the hell, Dierdre?” Charley was livid. “You know my policy about food in here during business hours. It reeks! And you’ve got the floor. What if I’d been a customer? Were you going to touch my clothes with those hands?”

  Dierdre gaped, a deer in the headlights. She tried to swallow the enormous chunk of burger in her mouth, frantically wiping her fingers and sweeping trash into a paper bag. Her friend slouched, unconcerned.

  “Busted, Dee,” she said without inflection, her tongue stud imposing a lisp over this pearl of wisdom.

  Finally clearing her esophagus enough for speech, Dierdre whined, “It’s, like, way past lunchtime, Charley. No big deal. Nobody came in or anything. I called Sally and she, like, stopped in with some calories.”

  Charley strove for a reasonable tone. “When you open at ten o’clock, you take your break at one. It’s barely eleven-thirty. You agreed to that schedule when I hired—” Her employee stared at the floor, pouting like a child receiving a reprimand. There was mustard on her faded black sweater. Sally slurped loudly through a straw.

  “You’re fired.”

  Dierdre’s head shot up, raccoon eyes wide with shock. “What? Come on, Charley, it’s just a little—”

  “It’s not just this, Dierdre.” Charley sighed. “You’re not right for Old Hat, and frankly, I don’t think you even like this job. If you did, you’d never pull a stunt like this.” She addressed Sally. “Beat it. You’re getting DNA on my display case.”

  The girl slowly stood, moving with deliberate insolence. She flipped Charley off and strolled for the door. “Ass-lickin’ job, Dee. Who needs it? Besides”—she waggled her phone—“bitch won’t be in business too lo
ng once her butt’s in jail.”

  Sally managed to smear her fingers thoroughly on the brass doorplate as she yanked it open. She left it ajar, and a welcome breeze blew the smell of stale sweat and cheap food out of the shop.

  Dierdre started crying, which did nothing to improve her appearance. It took another twenty minutes for Charley to calm her down, collect her things, and get her out the door.

  Charley stood, hands on hips. Well, wasn’t this peachy. She’d just given one-third of her staff the axe. Thank heaven no customers had witnessed the unpleasant scene. Which was odd, she thought suddenly, since Thursday mornings were usually pretty busy. Anxiety about her business resurfaced. She recalled Sally’s cryptic comment about someone going to jail, but shrugged that off as the parting shot of a wounded, and not too intelligent, animal.

  She pulled out her cellphone and dialed. When the call was answered, she skipped the preamble.

  “I fired Dierdre.”

  “Finally,” Heddy said promptly. “That girl was abysmal. Do you need me to come in?”

  “Would you?” Charley stifled a twinge of guilt. Good old Heddy, she thought as she stepped through the narrow doorway into her tiny office and consulted a calendar. “We’re going to have to juggle the schedule, run an ad— Oh, crap. Interviews. I hate interviews.”

  “I’ll help you. We’ll get through it together.”

  After a whirl of cleaning and a final inspection to ensure no stray fries were littering her immaculate hardwood floors, Charley returned to her office, where she discovered that Dierdre had at least managed to deposit the mail safely on her desk. Beside the small stack of envelopes was a slim roll of newsprint. An Oakwood Register? It wasn’t Tuesday. She unrolled the paper and saw they’d put out a special edition about Calvin and all the burglaries. She couldn’t blame them. There hadn’t been this much news to report since the Lucy killings last November.

  The seventy-point headline screamed at her: CRIME WAVE GRIPS CITY. With growing concern, she read the list of those who’d been victimized. Most of these people were friends and customers.