tales.”
He massaged his brow, muttering a psalm. The Twenty-third, I believe. “All right, but make yourself scarce before the coroner gets here. He’s had it in for me ever since he declared that ax murder last February a suicide.”
I tendered a demure nod to Hopkins and the other man, then decamped. As I traversed the corridor, I recorded in my notebook the burglar’s method of egress, a description of the pillow slip, and the relative positions of the French doors, jewel case, and the body.
I’d have preferred interviewing the household staff downstairs, but would delay until the coroner was sequestered in Belinda Abercrombie’s bedroom.
Her husband and stepdaughter were still lodged in the room at the end of the hall. She seemed bewildered by my introduction but said her name was Avilla and confirmed her relationship to the deceased.
Hubert Abercrombie invited me to take a second wing chair. He was in his fifties, but his skin was as yellowish as tallow.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Abercrombie.”
“Did you know Belinda?” he asked.
“Miss Sawyer is with the police, Father.”
I saw no reason to correct Avilla on a minor technicality.
Mr. Abercrombie beseeched the patterned ceiling.
“Avilla and I were right here when—” Pain suffused his expression. “How could this have happened? And why?”
Avilla sighed and sat back in her chair. “It wouldn’t have had we dined with the Estabrooks as planned.”
I noted the name and question-marked it. At the time of the previous burglaries, the owners had been away for the evening.
Avilla went on to explain that Belinda had complained of an upset stomach shortly after lunch. “When it didn’t abate, I sent Jules to the Estabrooks with a note of apology.”
“Jules is your butler?”
“Majordomo, actually. He’s been with Father for as long as I can remember.” Anticipating my next question, Avilla added, “Jules’s wife, Pansy, is our maid, and we have a cook—Gertrude Hiss. She’s only been on staff a few months.”
“Did your former cook resign?”
“Retired. Yolonda was almost a second mother to me—or grandmother, I suppose. She moved with us from Kansas City, but instead of helping, the mountain air only worsened her rheumatism.”
Avilla frowned. “I’m not terribly fond of Gertrude’s cooking, but my stepmother’s people were a generation’s remove from the Old Country. For Belinda, I think the sauerbraten and gurkensalat were like letters from home.”
I asked, “Were Mrs. Abercrombie and Gertrude acquainted before she was hired to cook for you?”
“Of a sort. Gertrude’s mother and Belinda’s father were distant cousins.” Avilla hastened to add, “So distant, Gertrude and Belinda weren’t aware of the relation until they stumbled upon it in conversation, after Gertrude was hired.”
“It must have been odd, learning that an employee was kin.”
“Four or five times removed,” Avilla stressed. “Hardly more than a coincidence, really. Gertrude was glad to have the work. If Belinda played favorites with the staff, I never saw it.”
Ah, but had Gertrude expected her to?
A moan rattled out from Mr. Abercrombie’s throat. “How’ll we ever break the news to Belinda’s poor mother? She’s still in mourning for her husband, and now—”
“Just rest, Father. I’ll see to it. I’ll see to everything.”
“Murdered. Almighty God, what is this world coming to?”
New male voices and a terrible racket funneled down the corridor. The coroner, who was also an undertaker, had arrived with his lackeys. Any who spied me would take me for a neighbor or family friend, but it wouldn’t be long before inquiries of an official nature were launched.
“Mr. Abercrombie, can you tell me how the evening transpired after Jules was dispatched to the Estabrooks?”
Avilla shot me a scathing look. I understood her desire to spare her father more anguish, but such was impossible in a homicide
He massaged his brow, muttering a psalm. The Twenty-third, I believe. “All right, but make yourself scarce before the coroner gets here. He’s had it in for me ever since he declared that ax murder last February a suicide.”
I tendered a demure nod to Hopkins and the other man, then decamped. As I traversed the corridor, I recorded in my notebook the burglar’s method of egress, a description of the pillow slip, and the relative positions of the French doors, jewel case, and the body.
I’d have preferred interviewing the household staff downstairs, but would delay until the coroner was sequestered in Belinda Abercrombie’s bedroom.
Her husband and stepdaughter were still lodged in the room at the end of the hall. She seemed bewildered by my introduction but said her name was Avilla and confirmed her relationship to the deceased.
Hubert Abercrombie invited me to take a second wing chair. He was in his fifties, but his skin was as yellowish as tallow.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Abercrombie.”
“Did you know Belinda?” he asked.
“Miss Sawyer is with the police, Father.”
I saw no reason to correct Avilla on a minor technicality.
Mr. Abercrombie beseeched the patterned ceiling.
“Avilla and I were right here when—” Pain suffused his expression. “How could this have happened? And why?”
Avilla sighed and sat back in her chair. “It wouldn’t have had we dined with the Estabrooks as planned.”
I noted the name and question-marked it. At the time of the previous burglaries, the owners had been away for the evening.
Avilla went on to explain that Belinda had complained of an upset stomach shortly after lunch. “When it didn’t abate, I sent Jules to the Estabrooks with a note of apology.”
“Jules is your butler?”
“Majordomo, actually. He’s been with Father for as long as I can remember.” Anticipating my next question, Avilla added, “Jules’s wife, Pansy, is our maid, and we have a cook—Gertrude Hiss. She’s only been on staff a few months.”
“Did your former cook resign?”
“Retired. Yolonda was almost a second mother to me—or grandmother, I suppose. She moved with us from Kansas City, but instead of helping, the mountain air only worsened her rheumatism.”
Avilla frowned. “I’m not terribly fond of Gertrude’s cooking, but my stepmother’s people were a generation’s remove from the Old Country. For Belinda, I think the sauerbraten and gurkensalat were like letters from home.”
I asked, “Were Mrs. Abercrombie and Gertrude acquainted before she was hired to cook for you?”
“Of a sort. Gertrude’s mother and Belinda’s father were distant cousins.” Avilla hastened to add, “So distant, Gertrude and Belinda weren’t aware of the relation until they stumbled upon it in conversation, after Gertrude was hired.”
“It must have been odd, learning that an employee was kin.”
“Four or five times removed,” Avilla stressed. “Hardly more than a coincidence, really. Gertrude was glad to have the work. If Belinda played favorites with the staff, I never saw it.”
Ah, but had Gertrude expected her to?
A moan rattled out from Mr. Abercrombie’s throat. “How’ll we ever break the news to Belinda’s poor mother? She’s still in mourning for her husband, and now—”
“Just rest, Father. I’ll see to it. I’ll see to everything.”
“Murdered. Almighty God, what is this world coming to?”
New male voices and a terrible racket funneled down the corridor. The coroner, who was also an undertaker, had arrived with his lackeys. Any who spied me would take me for a neighbor or family friend, but it wouldn’t be long before inquiries of an official nature were launched.
“Mr. Abercrombie, can you tell me how the evening transpired after Jules was dispatched to the Estabrooks?”
Avilla shot me a scathing look. I understood her desire to spare her father more anguish, but such was impossible in a homicide
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