Marjorie Thelen: Designer Detective

That answered my big question of who had the authority to pay me, if I undertook the rest of the project.

“I see. I don't mean to be nosy but aren't there children or relatives or an executor? I mean this is quite an estate.”

“Mr. Lodge has a older sister who is executor of the estate. She's quite sharp given her age. Mr. and Mrs. Lodge had no children. Mrs. Lodge’s sister and brother live abroad.”

Now we were getting into the good stuff.

“Won't the sister or whoever inherits have a say in how money is spent?”

He patted his lips with linen napkin and frowned. “Ms. Marlowe, I know what I'm doing. You shall be paid for your work. Now shall we discuss your plans for the library?”

On the drive back to my condo, I mulled over what to do. I wasn't convinced that Hudson had the authority to go ahead with the job. What about the sister executor? She could refuse to pay. I didn't like working for nothing, and I didn't want to argue about it. If I were smart, I’d try to get hold of the sister. I bet Jake knew who she was.

I tried my cell phone at a red light. Darn thing didn't work. I had to get to that stack of unopened bills. I needed someone like Hudson badly. Maybe I should hire a butler. Maybe younger, more handsome. Infinite possibilities there.

When I got back to the condo, the answering machine was chirping and the message light was on. I listened to a message from PI Jake. He wanted to meet me for coffee in the morning. I called back on the number he left which he didn't pick up, so I left a message on his answering service that I'd be available after ten in the morning.

He called back. “How about eight?”

I chewed my lip. I rarely got out of bed before nine, but I didn't want this guy to think I was a deadbeat freeloader. “Nine,” I said in a bargaining mood.

I heard him sigh through the phone waves. “All right. Nine.” He hung up. Maybe the autopsy report the family had ordered was back on Albert Lodge.

* * * * *

I showed up at Cafe Francois, a little dive I recommended, around 9:15. I like to be fashionably late. Jake was already there, sitting at a window booth, gripping a cup of coffee. I’d thrown on a pair of pressed designer jeans, black turtleneck, and tan corduroy jacket. The weather was forty degrees and raining which I detest. I love corduroy though. Cafe Francois was like home to me. I walked to the booth and slid in. Jake managed a grunt in greeting.

“Bad night?” I asked.

“Not much sleep.”

“I get those, too.”

Kathy, the waitress, came over. “Coffee, Fiona?” she asked.

“And a cinnamon bun,” I added since I hadn’t bothered with breakfast.

“Haven't seen you in a while,” she said, turning up the coffee cup and pouring. “You been out a town on one of the cushy jobs you pull in?”

I shook my head. “No, I've been working locally. Several weeks ago I went to Honduras to do some work for Mrs. Velasquez, you know, the one I did a lot of work for last year.”

“I remember.” She shook her head. “Some people know how to live. Anything else for you, sir?”

“Just coffee, thanks.”

“Sure, big boy,” she said with a grin. As she sashayed away in the tightest black waitress dress you'd ever want to see, I noticed Jake’s eyes following her retreat. He recovered and stirred an armload of sugar into his coffee.

“You know the help,” he said.

“I come here a lot. Where are you from?”

“Out west. Grew up in Oklahoma.”

“You've come up in the world.”

He gave a half laugh that lifted his mouth on one side. “I'm not sure. Not many people speak English around here.”

“A sad commentary on our world.”

Kathy sauntered over and slid a big, warm cinnamon bun in front of me. She plunked down two plates and a knife. “Thought you might like to share,” she said. I knew she was thinking this was the start of another romance.

“Thanks,” I said, not able to hold back a smile. “You devil.”

She winked at me and left to devil another customer.

When I offered Jake a slice of my bun, he held up his hand. “I never indulge. I get all the sugar I need in my coffee.”

I shrugged and sipped my coffee, waiting for Jake to tell me why he wanted to see me.

“The coroner’s report is in. Albert Lodge died of an overdose of Propranolol.”

I'm sure my face registered a dumb look. “Am I supposed to know what that is? I can't even pronounce it.”

“Propranolol is prescription medication used to treat high blood pressure, rapid heart rate, tremors, stuff like that. It can be lethal in high doses. Albert took a small daily dose.”

“Wow, you think he might have committed suicide?”

“Maybe.”

“Of course, someone could have given him an overdose.”

“Maybe someone could have.” He nodded his head up and down slowly, all the while holding my gaze.

Something niggled at my brain and then exploded full screen into my mind's amphitheater. “I'm a suspect.”

He smiled. It was a nice smile, but not under these circumstances. “You might say.”

“Wow,” I said again. My vocabulary seemed to be failing me. “I bet you want to know more about me. Did you do a background check?”

“Yes, m'am, to both.”

“You already know about me then. What's to tell?”

“Current history. How long have you known the deceased?”

I frowned. This conversation was not going in the right direction.

“I met him for the first time last Saturday. He’s a little too old for me, so dispense with that idea. But I have some information that might interest you.”

He sat back and played with his empty coffee cup, twirling it around. “Shoot,” he said.

“When I met with Mr. Lodge to determine the scope of work for the library redesign, he mentioned he wanted the work done because his wife had died. He didn't mention whether he had fond memories. But I got the feeling that he didn't particularly care for her. The redesign might have been his way of scrubbing away an unpleasant memory.”

“Okay,” said Jake. “But the wife is dead so she’s not a suspect.”

“Right. But maybe she had unpleasant feelings for him, which she shared with other family members. Maybe they did him in. I'm just throwing out possibilities here.”

“Grasping at straws?”

“Very funny. I'm trying to help your investigation. I have no feeling invested in this. I met Mr. Lodge Saturday. I was there Monday and Tuesday of this week while he was at work. Wednesday I find him on the floor. Friday I'm a suspect. I don't think I've had enough emotional investment in the affair to murder him.”

“You could be working for someone else.”

“Look at me. Do I look like a murderer?”

“Hon, I've seen sweet little old ladies do worse.”

“I'm sure you have.”

“Can you account for your whereabouts Tuesday night?”

I blew out a breath. “Home alone in bed. No witnesses. What was the time of death?”

“Sometime during the night.”

“Someone could have slipped him something with dinner.”

“The contents of his stomach indicated Chinese food.”

“There you have it.”

“I'm trying to eliminate you as a suspect.”

I threw up my hands. “It was Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick.”

“Hey, that's good. You used to play Clue?” Jake perked up at the mention of Clue. This was the most animated I'd seen him.

“Hours on end when I was a kid.”

“Yeah, me, too. We got white people’s discarded board games on the reservation. We gave all the characters Cherokee names.”

I frowned. “You grew up on a reservation?”

“Yeah, didn't everyone?”

Did I detect bitterness behind that comment? I studied his face but he had withdrawn behind a smirk.