MURDER at CRAWFORD HOUSE (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 3) (7 page)

              The morning was bright, but the wind was still up, and snow was still blowing in misty clouds off trees. Every now and again a swarm of icy motes in the air caught the rays of the sun and shone like a mass of frozen diamonds. If Bertie was right about anything, he was certainly right about the sun shining right into this room. The rays awakened Allie from her two and a half hours of broken sleep. She was groggy, anxious, and irritable.

              In other words, in the perfect mood to interrogate a bunch of murder suspects.

              Throwing on some sweats, she decided it was a good time to head downstairs and check out the library before breakfast. She'd just gotten on a pullover hoodie when she noticed something outside, through the clouds of tree-blown snow. A dark figure was approaching the house.

              At first, she couldn’t make out whether or not it was actually human. It wasn't uncommon to see a bear every once in a while in Vermont, especially in secluded areas surrounded by woods. However, this figure walked upright, as she now saw, and it lumbered laboriously through the snow. As it got closer, she noticed it had on snow shoes, and that it was dressed in a one-piece ski suit with a camouflage pattern, and it wore goggles.

              She watched it just long enough to see that it was now approaching the main entrance of the house, and thus was about to disappear from her field of vision.

              Quickly and quietly, she descended the staircase and opened the front door.

              The man – for it was a man – started at the sight of her.

              "Hello!" he said jovially. "You scared me. I didn’t think anyone would be waiting for me!"

              "I saw you coming from that direction. You a hiker or something?"

              He got to the base of the porch and ascended the snow-heaped steps sideways. "I am a hiker," he said with shorted breath, "but I'm not on a hike
per se
. I came over here to see how my friends the Gordons fared in this lovely weather. As I cleared the woods I saw they had company. Everyone ok in there?"

              "Uh, who are you again?" said Allie.

              "Ah yes," he said as he made it to the top of the stairs, and took off his goggles, revealing soft eyes and a bearded, weather-beaten face. "So sorry. Brother Al." He held out his hand. "And you are?"

              "Allie Griffin. Did you say
Brother
Al? You're a monk?"

              "No, monks are ordained. I'm a brother in a Marianist Community, a layperson committed to acts of charity, prayer, and the support of our neighbors. We have a house about a mile beyond those woods over there."

              He was tall, about six-foot-five, and he spoke in a chesty baritone that male singers would kill for.

              "Sorry," said Allie, "Marianist?"

              "Order of St. Mary."

              "Ah. Well, Al – can I call you Al?"

              "Brother Al."

              "Yes, well, Brother Al, since you asked, we're having a helluva time here at Chez Gordon. Sorry, Crawford House. It seems one of our guests had a heart attack in the upstairs bathroom and that, coupled with our lovely weather as you put it, has sort of put a damper on the weekend."

              The man's features froze. "Oh my... I'm sorry. Did you call 911?"

              "We tried. There's no service."

              He grimaced. "Yeah, it's the same over at our place."

              "I just realized," said Allie, looking off toward the woods, "you hiked all the way here on snowshoes?"

              "Yeah, I'm a hiker and a snowshoer."

              "Crazy."

              "So...may I come in?"

              "Oh, terribly sorry. Of course."

              "Just give me a moment," he said, plopping himself down in the threshold of the door and removing his snowshoes, which he steadied against the house. "Are Larry and Molly here?"

              "They're here. Not sure if they're up yet."

              He stood up and removed his hat, which he tucked into a front pocket, and he tousled the pate of short, dirty blond hair that grew thickly and showed no intention of receding.             

              "So," he said, "let me get this straight. You have a man who passed away upstairs?"

              "In the bathroom, yes."

              "And..." He looked over at the staircase. "Is he still...?"

              "Still up there, yes."

              "Oh my," said Brother Al, and bit his bottom lip.

              "Indeed."

              "Well, that is a problem. I mean, no phone service and all." He bit his lip again."Heart attack, huh?"

              "Yup."

              "Mmm. I'd like to talk with Larry and Molly, but I guess I should let them sleep a bit. I guess you all probably had a pretty rough night."

              "Well, I can’t speak for anyone else, but I sure did."

              He stared at her with faint recognition. "Where are you from?"

              "From Verdenier."

              "Verden—, wait, what did you say your name was again?"

              "Griffin. Allie Griffin."

              "You're not the Allie Griffin I read about in the news? The one who solved that murder case?"

              She raised her hand. "One and the same."

              A bright smile appeared on the man's rugged face. "How about that." He held out his hand and she shook it. "You were a kind of folk hero there for a while."

              "I wouldn’t say that."

              He smiled and shook his head. "Isn’t that something?" He looked around and over her shoulder. "So I gather Larry and Molly's staff isn’t here?"

              "They dismissed them yesterday, and...well, with the storm and all..."

              "Mmm. So there's no one here to cook breakfast."

              "Uh, no, I guess not."

              He nodded. "Mmm. How many people you have staying here?"

              "Uh, seven? Sorry, six altogether." She felt stupid making that mistake.

              "Six. Mmm." He nodded with a brooding expression, and then his face suddenly became animated. "Well, I guess then I have some work to do here." With that, he began heading toward the back of the house.

              "Wh-where are you going?" Allie said.

              Brother Al spun around, continued walking backwards, opened his arms, and said, "Going to make some breakfast."

              As Allie watched him go, she heard an all-too-familiar voice say, "Nice of that man."

              It was Jürgen, standing in the threshold of the drawing room. He had a book under his arm, and he looked as though he'd slept in his clothes.

              "Where did you come from? Were you..."

              "I sleep here last night. I couldn’t fall asleep with that horrible wind and the snow and the man dying upstairs. Terrible. I come down here and get a book from the library and I sit and read on the couch till I pass out."

              "Did you sleep well, at least?"

              He stretched with a great deal of vocalization that sounded like a cockatiel squawking in protest at the approach of a cat. "No. One, maybe two hours."

              Allie's stomach tightened. "And you've been down here the
whole
night?"

              "Mmm hmm. I sit in library for a while then I come in here."

              Allie realized there was very little chance Jürgen heard any of her and Del's escapades during the night. Still, there was a chance, and that worried her. She decided now was as good a time as any to begin her official investigation, if one could call it that.

              She decided that caution, extreme caution, would be the watchword of the weekend's remainder.

              "Jürgen," she said, "can you and I talk a little bit?"

              The man smiled. "If we can have coffee."

              The coffee flowed, and so did Jürgen's conversation. The two sat in the little breakfast nook on the western side of the house.

              "What is the last thing you remember about Bertie? Your last impression?"

              "Well I would say when he brush-off his jacket."

              "Explain."

              "Well, I pass his room after dinner, because his room was near the top of the stairs. I looked in and I saw him brush his coat. Over and over again he brush like his life depends on it." Jürgen pantomimed the motion.

              "Ok, so go on."

              "That's it. I thought he was strange as I always did."

              "Well, what did you do after that?"

              "Why you ask all these things?"

              "It's just... I want to find out what happened to Bertie."

              "They say he had a heart attack. That's what you say."

              "I know, but I want to figure out all the steps he took along the way that eventually led up to his death in the bathroom. That's all. It's just for my own...interest."

              Jürgen shook his head. "You're beautiful but you’re very strange."

              "I've heard that often. Did you hear or see him go into the bathroom?"

              "Yes, that I saw."

              "What time was that?"

              "Oh, I don’t know. But I did see him, and then I shut my door. I heard the bathroom door close and the water go on for a long time. A few minutes later I hear footsteps pass my door. Then I hear smaller footsteps."

              "Smaller?"

              "Yes, like a smaller person walking. The footsteps come past my room and stop at the bathroom. I hear them jiggle the door handle."

              "The bathroom door handle."

              "Yes. It was locked I guess."

              "Ok."

              "And then the small footsteps walk past my door again."             

#

              As soon as she could, Allie got back to her room and jotted down a bunch of notes about her conversation with Jürgen in her journal. Whenever she wrote, she had a tendency to mutter under her breath. This was enough to awaken Del, who stirred and moaned and lifted her head, staring blankly at her roommate.

              "Whah you doin? Stahp talking."

              "Hold on," Allie said softly. "I just spoke with Jürgen."

              "Ah you still talkin' to him?"

              "Shush. Go back to sleep."

              Del yawned noisily and rubbed her eyes. "I can’t sleep with you muttering."

              "Then go downstairs," she said dismissively. "There's a monk down there making us breakfast."

              "Excuse me?"

              She looked up from her journal, annoyed at the interruption. She did little to hide the annoyance in her voice. "Actually, it's not a monk, it's just a brother. He's from a brotherhood next door, a mile away. Go say hi. He's making us breakfast. There's coffee down there too."

              With a tired roll of the eyes, Del got up without a word and headed to the bathroom. Meanwhile, Allie scribbled as much as she could remember from the conversation, and wrote herself little notes in the margins.

              This murder – murder, indeed, perhaps she was a bit premature with that charge – Bertie's death occurred in between two bedrooms: Jürgen's and Rachel's. So Rachel was next. She decided she'd better go in blindly to this conversation. Although she never really had much luck with this approach in the past, it felt right to do it this way. It helped her build conversational chops, and relieved her of the pressure of having to stick to a script.

              It was early still. She decided to wait until after breakfast.

              When Del came out, Allie was standing there waiting for her. She thrust the paper in her face. Del read it over.

              "This is... I can’t believe it."

              "Bertie's a fence. Do you know what a fence is?"

              "Where'd you get this?"

              "Our friend Bertie had this hidden in his suitcase."

              "Unbelievable."

              "I trust you agree this puts a whole different light on things, Watson?"

              "Sure does. I'm going back to bed."

              "You can't. Breakfast."

              Del ran a hand through her hair. "This should be fun."

#

              Breakfast was a strange, stilted event, as if all the awkwardness and angst of the entire weekend were compressed into this tiny space surrounding the table in the breakfast nook. Larry and Molly Townsend were up, chatting freely and seriously with Brother Al while he puttered in the kitchen. The couple helped to bring plates of steaming food – scrambled eggs, rashers of bacon, a heap of buttered sourdough toast, and a crystal pitcher of orange juice, not to mention the all-important porcelain carafe of fresh, piping hot coffee surrounded by assorted creamers and a sugar bowl made of fine china.

              Everything looked and smelled delicious, but the atmosphere was leaden. The guests sat sullenly before their plates. Brother Al did his best to engage everyone in conversation, which worked until the inevitable lull was reached, and everyone shut up and stared awkwardly at their food. No lack of appetites anywhere to be found, which Allie thought was odd. She was ravenous herself, which made her think that this was probably a normal response to being so close to death. Self-preservation takes many forms, and in this house a specific form had manifested in the shape of a half dozen growling tummies.

              Radiant sunlight shone through the long windows, the view partially obscured by the four feet of snow that had accumulated over the past fourteen hours or so. The same icy mist Allie had seen earlier in the morning was still there, blowing about just outside the breakfast nook. Nobody cared enough to look up and marvel at the inherent loveliness of the scene even for a second.

              Allie ate, lost in thought. Bertie had received a search warrant. The cops obviously didn’t find anything or he wouldn’t be here, unless he was a fugitive. But that was a bit farfetched. Still, if he were on the lam, this would be a pretty good place to hide: out here in the middle of nowhere.

              No, he couldn’t be. It was too risky. They conducted the search and didn’t find anything. Still, Bertie was a suspect, and the police had found probable cause to believe he was a suspect.

              So why did he bring the warrant here? And why did he feel the need to hide it?

              "She spends most of her time on Jupiter."

              That was Del's voice, and it shook her out of her intensive thoughts.

              "What?" Allie said.

              A slight chuckle went around the table, and Del said, "Brother Al here just asked you a question and you weren't paying attention, so I said, 'She spends most of her time on Jupiter.'"

              "Ha ha," said Allie, making it plain she was not amused.

              "It's ok," said Brother Al, "I have a sister just like you. Thinks an awful lot. Hard nut to crack."

              "I didn’t sleep well last night, that's all."

              "I'm afraid none of us did, darling," said Molly, a grave look on her face that made Allie more than a little nervous.

              "Anyway," said Allie, "I'm sorry. What did you ask me?"

              "I asked you what you went to school for."

              "Oh, American Literature."

              "Ah, a bookworm."

              "Guilty."

              "Well then, have you visited the Gordon library?"

              "Not yet, but I intend to."

              "So do I," said Rachel Forrester. "I figure I'm going to escape into some pages for a while after breakfast."

              "You might as well," said Jürgen, "there's nothing else to do here. Until the police come. Then there will be plenty to keep us interested."

              No one responded to that remark, which turned out, upon further reflection, to have multiple layers of meaning to it.

              "Well, I just stole – oh, excuse me,
ahem
– I meant to say I just
borrowed
a book that I plan on rediscovering." He winked at Larry, who smiled back.

              "Which one?" said Allie.

              "
The Sun Also Rises
."

              Molly Townsend put down her coffee cup. "I detest Hemingway. Always have, always will. Larry knows this too, poor dear. It's been a sore spot before. But I absolutely refuse to indulge him and crack open one of those wretched works."

              Larry simply looked down, with not even the ghost of an amused expression on his face.

#

              After breakfast, Allie and Del returned to their room.

              "So, I need to ask," said Allie. "Am I crazy? Or did we see Bertie pass by our room last night after dinner, before I went to use the bathroom?"

              "You're crazy, but you did see him. I did too."

              "Ok, well, Jürgen said he saw Bertie pass his room and then heard the bathroom door close. He heard water running. For a long time, he said. Then, a few minutes later, he heard a second set of footsteps walk past his door again. Then he heard another set of footsteps, this time he said they were smaller. They passed his door, they stopped at the bathroom, they jiggled the doorknob, finding it locked, and then walked past his door again. Do you notice anything odd about this?"

              Del thought for a moment, and then shook her head. "I don’t think so."

              "Think. Picture it. According to Jürgen, he only heard the bathroom door close once. The second time he heard anything happening with the door it was someone jiggling the doorknob. We saw Bertie pass our room."

              "Ok... and..."

              "Del! He only heard the door close once. If that was Bertie, and then Bertie left the bathroom to pass our room, who did that second set of footsteps belong to? Don’t you see? Everything Jürgen described happened in the time span between Bertie entering the bathroom and yours truly going there and finding it locked. Bertie left, passed our room, then a second set of footsteps went to the bathroom, only this time, that person didn’t bother to close the door. And yet, someone with smaller footsteps goes to the bathroom door and finds it locked.
Now
do you notice anything odd?"

              Del chuckled with amazement. "I can’t believe it. This is really weird."

              "You're telling me. I'm willing to bet that the second set of footsteps that Jürgen heard was Bertie returning to the bathroom. The so-called smaller steps belonged to the person who, contrary to what Jürgen believes he heard, didn’t find the door locked – instead they
locked the door themselves.
Yours truly then goes past Rachel's room and finds the door truly locked, with poor Bertie inside, either dying or dead. God I hate to think of that."

              "It's not your fault."

              "I know; it's just a sick feeling I get when I think about it. So, the question remains: who locked the door and why did they lock it? Bertie was obviously suffering from some heart trouble, which is why he grabbed the aspirin. So why lock the door behind him?"

              "To make it look as though... I don’t know."

              "You almost had it there. I saw it in your eyes. we already established that someone wanted this to look as much like natural causes as possible, eliminating all suspicion of foul play by locking Bertie in the bathroom, making look like he'd done it himself. And you want to know the clincher?"

              Del took a nervous breath. "Go on."

              "Have you forgotten that this luxurious room of ours here was supposed to have been Bertie's from the beginning?"

              Del's eyes widened.

              "Let's assume for a moment that this was an instance of foul play. It would have been very easy to coordinate the whole affair without witnesses of any kind if Bertie had his own bathroom, would it not?"

              "It certainly would have," said Del.

              "Ok, so we know why our small-footed friend locked the bathroom door. Now the only question that remains is
who
. Now I don’t know about you, but I've actually taken a look at Larry Gordon's feet."

              "Of course you have."

              "Size eleven wide, if I had to guess. Tom had big feet too. That leaves us with Molly."