Marjorie Thelen - Designer Detective

“All right,” I said. “We best keep to the matter at hand. How did you get hired for this job?”

He did a one-shoulder lift. “I owe a family member a favor. How did you get the job?”

“Referral. I've done other estates in McLean. Good work is its own advertisement.” I put on a smile with an edge. “Did you interview the butler?”

“Yes. Did you?”

“I talked to him in the kitchen. I'm being retained to finish the library.”

“Interesting. So you went back there yesterday.”

I could feel heat creep into my face. “I left my cell phone by accident and went back to retrieve it. Here’s an interesting detail for you. There was an old beat up Toyota in the ditch outside the entrance to the estate when I went yesterday.” I opened my trusty daily planner, copied down the pertinent details on an old envelope and slid it toward him. “There, I got the license and model and color. You said any little detail.”

He looked at the envelope. I could see he was impressed by the nod of his head. “Thanks. I didn't see the car. I'll follow up.”

“See, I'm trying to be helpful.”

“I appreciate it. Are you going to tell me what the butler told you?”

“He must have told you the same thing.”

“Let's compare notes. You first.”

“The most interesting tidbit was the sister who is the executor. Is she the one who hired you?”

“Matter of fact she is.”

“You owe her a favor?”

“Yeah.”

“What was the favor?” I was being a bit nosy.

He squirmed a little. “She helped me out once. Long time ago. Let's leave it at that.”

I filed that for later reflection.

“Tell me,” I said. “Do you think she'll pay me if I finish the job?”

He shrugged. “I don't see why not. Between Albert and his wife they had enough money to run California.”

“That wealthy, eh?”

“I'm exaggerating but yeah, they have money.”

“How do you know?”

“Wait a minute. I'm the private investigator here. I ask the questions.”

“I think you need help.” That was out of my mouth before I had time to censor it. What was I saying?

“I work alone.”

I shrugged. “If I'm in there every day, there's no reason to think I wouldn't pick up valuable information.”

His brown eyes closed to slits. “What's in this for you?”

I guess he thought I wanted a take. Not a bad idea. I cocked my head to the side, a habit that helps me think and scheme better. “I’m curious, intrigued, fascinated. And I’m really good at crossword puzzles and Sudoku. You need someone with a sharp mind like mine to help you. It’s obvious that a family member did it. Money is the motive.”

“Might be family. Might be money.”

“Include the executor.”

“I don't think so. She's over eighty years old and got money.” But he didn't look so sure. He was folding a paper napkin in tiny squares.

“What's your theory on whodunit?” I asked.

He stopped fiddling with the napkin and gazed out the window. Small drops of rain splashed the windowpane. The traffic on Wilson Boulevard moved sluggishly, seduced by the rain.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, turning to look at me, “I don't know why she wants me to investigate. She seems to think I have superior investigative abilities since I figured out who was rustling her cattle a while back. She called awful quick after you found Albert on the floor. It was almost like she knew it was coming and had already decided to conduct an investigation of her own. Like maybe she suspected somebody.”

Now we were getting somewhere. “Does she have a name?”

“Opal Crawford.”

“Married?”

“Husband died a long time ago.”

“Does she live here?”

“Nope, lives on a ranch in southeastern Oregon.”

“We should get more background on her. After all, if she inherits, she’s a suspect.”

He looked at me sideways. “We?”

“Hey, I'm not looking for a cut. I just want to get paid for the work I do. I'm fussy that way. Help me get my money. I'll help you get yours.”

He parked his chin on his fist and ran his tongue around his teeth with a focus on my eyes that sized me up in one quick take.

“Okay. But you're not off the hook as a suspect until you have someone can verify your whereabouts Tuesday night.”

“Gosh, I wish I could say George Clooney or Viggo Mortensen spent the night. But they were busy Tuesday. It was just little me in bed with my chicken pillows.”

“Chicken pillows?”

“I'll show you my collection sometime.”

I left Cafe Francois and headed for the Lodge estate. I wanted to do some work and talk to Hudson about Opal Crawford. As I drove through the gate of the estate, my sharp eyes detected that the beat up car in the ditch was gone. Maybe the owner had it towed. Maybe a neighbor had complained to the police, and they removed it. Maybe it had nothing to do with Albert Lodge’s demise. But I wondered.

I knocked on the door and rang the bell, hoping that Hudson would be in. He did not appear. I waited and rang the bell intermittently for a few minutes but nothing. I whipped out the key and let myself in, after the usual wrestle with the lock.

Throwing my jacket on the couch, I commandeered Mr. Lodge's large mahogany desk for my work area. I was about to sit down and input the layout of the new library while it was still fresh in my head when it occurred to me that now might be the perfect time to sleuth around the house looking for clues. I'd only take a few minutes.

First, I had to find out if Hudson was about. Maybe he hadn't heard the bell, although I'm sure it rang in the kitchen. Calling his name, I headed for the kitchen. I searched but found no evidence of Hudson’s recent occupancy, which was odd. No enticing smells from the oven. No silver service standing ready for tea.

I stood at the French doors that overlooked the swimming pool. Raindrops flipped coins on the water. I reflected on the money needed to maintain an estate of this magnitude. It boggled the mind. But where were the people? No laughter rang through the myriad of rooms. The house sat empty with exquisitely coiffed gardens and rooms, anti-theft systems, and multi-car garage, waiting. I wasn’t sure for what.

A disturbing thought surfaced in my ever-alert mind. There was no burglar alarm on the front door. I didn't have to punch in any code or switch off the alarm before it sounded. Mr. Lodge must have been a trusting soul. I wondered if Jake had noticed the lack of security. He hadn’t said anything, but that was an important clue right there in my detective book. No security on a valuable house bore further investigation.

I decided to tour the back rooms for clues and found pantry after pantry of imported dry goods, silverware, sets of ornate dishes, plush towels, silk sheets, and other extravagances needed to run the wealthy household. A hallway connected the pantries, and I caught a fragrance of damp soil and greenery. I followed my nose to a charming conservatory tucked away in the west wing.

The exterior wall of windows fanned out in a half hexagon shape. Outside, boxwoods surrounded a wide brick patio. The shrubs were clipped in shapes of a suit of cards — clubs, diamonds, hearts, spades. The whimsy of it brought to mind Alice in Wonderland . Then again someone might have a gambling habit. A low brick wall trimmed in yellow mums surrounded a single spray fountain in the center of the patio.

A wicker chair with rose cushions faced the patio. On a stand a book lay with a pair of reading glasses on top. I put the glasses carefully aside and picked up the book — Remembrance of Times Past by Marcel Proust. Someone with the fortitude to read Proust might be interesting to talk to. My bet it was Albert’s sister, and I wondered where she was.