Murder by Design Trilogy Page 18

  “Seattle Times reporter. He’s here for background information—in case we need him. Mr. and Mrs. Wellington—

  “Let’s make it Philip and Eleanor, Detective—full names in the paper, of course.” Philip looked pointedly at Skip.

  “Please, everyone, have a seat,” Mrs. Wellington said. “Tea? Anyone?” The men declined her offer, and DuBois turned to Mr. Wellington.

  “Do you know a Jack Carlson?”

  “Yes. He used to work for me.”

  DuBois caught a slight reaction from Eleanor as her eyebrows twitched up then relaxed.

  “When, and in what capacity?” DuBois asked.

  “He was my financial consultant.”

  “And what did that exactly entail?” The detective withdrew a small pad, his pen poised.

  “Well, he did everything. Administered my portfolio, negotiated venture capital investments for me, as well as kept my accounts. But we parted ways two years ago.”

  “Oh? And why was that?” DuBois asked writing furiously. When Wellington didn’t answer, DuBois looked up. “Why did you part ways?”

  Skip looked up from his own notepad, waiting to hear Wellington’s answer.

  “He was too much of a risk taker. I didn’t mind at first, but then a few of the investments he put me in went sour. I lost quite a bit of money. I never trusted the market—only gold bullion. So, I let him go.”

  “I see. I would imagine he didn’t like being fired.”

  “Fired? … yes, I guess you could call it that. He didn’t say much. Cleaned out his office, here in the house, and was gone. By the end of the day. We never saw him again. Did we, Eleanor.”

  “No, no. Never again.” Eleanor leaned back in the overstuffed, leather couch.

  DuBois fished out the picture of the dead Carlson that Skip had emailed to him. “Is this Jack Carlson?”

  “This man is dead,” Wellington said, speaking slowly as he scrutinized the picture DuBois handed to him. “There is a resemblance. The hair is different. Jack would never have worn a ponytail. At least I think that’s what it is poking out from under his head. What do you think, Eleanor?” He handed the photo to his wife.

  “Oh, my. I, I don’t know.”

  “Here, ma’am.” Skip pulled out the touched-up photo showing the man with blonde hair. “What about this picture.”

  “Well, I guess so. Philip?” She handed the picture to her husband.

  “Yes. This is definitely Jack. When did he die?”

  “About two months ago,” DuBois replied. “I’m going to have to question everyone on your staff again. Now, from the group of pictures you gave to my officer, Mrs. Wellington, we’ll want to question former employees over the past three years. I’d appreciate your making a list, matching their photograph, with names, and last known addresses and telephone numbers. Today, we’ll start with your current staff—that would be your cook, cleaning lady, maid, and Mr. Sacco.”

  Mrs. Wellington looked toward the library door then back down at her hands.

  “Certainly, Detective. Do you want to talk to them now? They’re all in the house.”

  “Yes, but one at a time. We saw Mr. Sacco. He met us at the door, so we’ll talk to him last.”

  Philip stood, strode to his desk and pushed a button. Speaking into the intercom, he requested Mr. Sacco to coordinate the staff to come to the library for questioning again by Detective DuBois, one after the other, regarding the robbery. “Gerald, come in last and then escort Detective DuBois and the reporter to the door.”

  DuBois met the cook first. Skip stood in the back of the room to one side of the door. Staff members being questioned didn’t know the reporter was in the room until they saw him as they turned to leave. The rest of the staff retold their stories but now they also acknowledged knowing Carlson, except for the cleaning lady, who had joined the staff eight months ago. None had any direct dealings with Carlson so their questioning was brief.

  The faint sound of squeaky shoes preceded Gerald Sacco as he entered the room.

  DuBois asked Mr. Sacco to restate his previous answers starting with when he began working for the Wellingtons. Sacco told the detective he had been employed in the house for ten years. His job was to manage the staff and to administer all of the Wellingtons’ private affairs as they pertained to the property. He said he knew Carlson but had no idea he was dead. He had never heard from, or seen the man since the day he left.

  DuBois looked at his notes and then back at Sacco. “Tell me again about the night of the robbery.”

  Sacco crossed and uncrossed his legs, looked to the ceiling, and then at the detective.

  “The Wellingtons went out to dinner and then to the symphony. They had been gone for about an hour when the doorbell rang. I answered it. When I opened the door, two men wearing black ski masks, all in black actually, pushed me inside and one of them hit me on the head with something. That was all I remembered until I came to, lying in the library, tied up, tape over my mouth. That’s how the Wellington’s found me when they came home several hours later. I was scared to death lying there. I didn’t know if the men were still in the house.”

  “Very well, Mr. Sacco. I guess that wraps it up … for now. Mr. Hunter and I will be on our way. Thank you for your time.”

  Sacco showed the pair to the door, watched them stroll down the driveway, and shut the door.

  “They know something, DuBois,” Skip said looking straight ahead. “Every damn one of them. Did you see the way Mrs. W. reacted when you first said Carlson’s name … and when you showed her the picture, she looked as if she might faint … just for a split second.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you, Hunter. Except, that each staff member’s reaction was different. Fascinating.”

  “Okay, let me ask you this. Did you hear the noise in the hallway and the way Mrs. W. looked over at the door? She was expecting to see someone come in. But I have a guess as to who was lurking in the hall … when that last guy came in, Sacco, his shoes squeaked.”

  “Hunter, maybe you should join the force … give up the reporter gig. I did not hear the noise in the hall. But really, Hunter, don’t you think you’re being a little melodramatic—lurking in the hall? Perhaps you should write mystery stories. I could certainly fill your computer with some wild tales.”

  ───

  “GILLY, IT’S SKIP.”

  “I know. I saw your name on my phone, silly. Loved lunch today, and … Agatha—

  The line was charged with silence. The image of their passionate embrace swam in front of his eyes. He wanted to reach out and touch her.

  “I can’t talk now. I’m on assignment. May have a potential break in my murder case.”

  “Skip, are you in danger?”

  “No. But that’s why I called. Gilly, make sure your grandfather always has someone with him. Don’t leave him alone.”

  “You mean besides killer with the funny feet and stubby tail?” Gilly said chuckling.

  “That goes for you, too. I’ll explain later. Gilly, I’m not kidding. Be careful. I’ll see you soon.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Gotta go ... bye.”

  Chapter 38

  ───

  PHILIP WELLINGTON STOOD staring out the library window at Lake Washington. Where was his gold bullion? Who had it? If he didn’t find it he’d be ruined. Never imagining such a turn of events, the backbone of his wealth gone, he had created a lifestyle that suited him. But, he needed the gold, especially the bars to maintain the standard of living he had worked so hard to obtain. He served on the boards of several charities, in Seattle as well as other major cities across the country. He entertained lavishly, had a home on the French Riviera as well as Rio de Janeiro.

  “Eleanor, what do you think of DuBois? Do you think he’s competent?”

  Hearing no answer from his wife, Philip turned to ask her again but she had left the room.

  ───

  ELEANOR RETREATED TO her hideaway—t
he solarium. The glass enclosure, filled with tropical plants and moisture laden air, was not soothing as usual. Agitated, she punched the button for her personal maid, Gladys, ordering a cup of chamomile tea, lemon on the side and a lemon cookie. Eleanor appeared composed but her mind whirled with possibilities.

  So, her former lover, fired former lover, had returned. But now he was dead. Probably an accident the detective said, yet she had the feeling DuBois knew more. She had listened outside the door when the detective questioned Sacco. Hearing Sacco’s reply to the question if he knew Carlson was back and had he seen him, Eleanor knew he was lying when he answered no to both questions.

  Gladys brought Eleanor her tea and quickly left noting madam was in no mood for chit chat—she was dismissed with a wave of her hand. Too bad, because Gladys was always up for a little staff gossip and today certainly piqued her desire to know the nitty-gritty about the two visitors—a detective and a newspaper reporter.

  Eleanor sipped her tea sometimes standing, or pacing through the greenery, or sitting on the lovely muted-yellow garden bench. A plan began to emerge in her mind. She kept playing with different scenarios to see which would benefit her most. God knows, she was suffering as the devoted wife. Fifteen years his junior, she took no pleasure living in her husband’s shadow. Finishing her cookie and the last drop of tea, she smiled. The details of her plan were brilliant. She felt confident her scheme would work. Tomorrow morning she would test her plan.

  Chapter 39

  ───

  THE OCTOBER SUN WAS low in the sky, the pine trees casting long shadows over the Wilder property. Gilly scooped up bowls of chicken stew for her grandfather and herself. No biscuits this time—they were watching their waistlines. Gilly blew on the steaming spoonful of sauce. Hearing an unlikely sound of a motorcycle, she looked up at Gramps.

  “Now, who could that be?” she stood to take a look. “You go ahead and eat, Gramps, I’ll go see.”

  Agatha trotted alongside but Gilly closed the patio door before she could escape outside. Gilly raised her hand to her eyes blocking the direct rays of the sun. She immediately recognized the silhouette at the door of the guesthouse and she was not happy. Charging up the steps, she started shouting.

  “You have a nerve coming here, Mr. Spiky Hair. Get off our property, you thief.”

  “You’re the one with the nerve,” Edward yelled back. “Thanks to you I was fired. That high and mighty lawyer of yours sent a copy of that letter, that lying letter accusing me of stealing your designs, to the president of my company.”

  Gilly smelled liquor on his breath as Edward stepped closer.

  Gramps heard the yelling and looked out the patio window to see who was causing the ruckus.

  “You did steal my designs, you creep. Now get out of here before I have you hauled out on your sorry ass.”

  “Steal your designs? What a joke. Nothing but a bunch of chicken scratches. You’re pathetic,” he yelled punching her in the chest with his finger. “Thanks to you nobody will hire me. I’m going to sue you and your stupid, loser family for every last penny you own. You bitch.”

  “GET OFF MY LAND!” Gramps bellowed raising his pistol. “NOW!”

  “Oh, this is rich. Hillbilly heaven. Come on, old man. YOU DON’T HAVE THE NERVE TO SHOOT. SEE WHAT YOU’VE DONE, BITCH!”

  “DON’T YOU TALK TO HIM LIKE THAT, YOU … YOU SPIKY BASTARD!”

  Edward lunged at Gilly, grabbing her around the throat. “I’ll show you a spike. STRAIGHT THROUGH YOUR HEART.”

  A shot rang out.

  Edward cried out.

  Turned. Hobbled onto his motorcycle, the tires spitting out gravel as he careened off the edge of the driveway. Righting the bike, he roared up the driveway, Agatha in hot pursuit.

  Gilly looked at her grandfather, the gun still raised.

  “It’s okay, Gramps. He’s gone. The creep. I’m calling that deputy, Kracker. He can put out a bulletin … an all points bulletin … he’ll catch that monster. I’ll charge the creep with assault and battery. He’ll be sorry he ever stepped foot back here.”

  Agatha, unable to catch up with the loud noisemaker, returned and flopped down on the grass in front of Gramps, her tongue hanging out.

  “I doubt he’ll be back. Gilly, come here. Your lip is bleeding. Come on. I’ll get some ice.”

  “I’m okay.” Gilly stepped down to the patio, swiping her hand across her mouth. “Ouch! You’re right. Spiky cut my lip.” Looking at her bloody hand, she took the handkerchief Gramps held out to her and pressed it to her lip. Her face scrunched as pain shot through her head.

  “Come on, sugar. Let’s get that ice.”

  Gilly followed her grandfather into the kitchen, Agatha close behind. Gramps pulled out a tray of ice, and wrapped a couple of cubes in a clean white dishtowel.

  “You may need stitches, Gilly?”

  “There are a couple of medics at the casino. I’ll ask them to take a look.” Gilly pressed the ice to her lip as she paced around the kitchen, sparks continuing to shoot from her steely green eyes.

  “Sweetie, I don’t think you should go to work tonight.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not letting that spiky punk keep me from going to work. I’m just glad Maria wasn’t here. He probably would have attacked her, too.”

  Wrapping fresh ice cubes in the towel, she held it to her lip. Another incident, the second involving a gun, and then there’s John Doe. If Skip feels in his bones the man was murdered then she believed him. What about Skip’s call? A break in his case he said, warning her and Gramps to be careful. Maybe he’s in danger. He said no, but what else could he say. Putting the ice on the counter, Gilly rubbed her arms from a sudden chill running up her body.

  Chapter 40

  ───

  THE MORNING SUN POURED through the solarium windows as Gladys served Mrs. Wellington her daily routine of coffee, with a soft-boiled egg and a slice of buttered whole-wheat toast on a tray. Eleanor slowly dipped her toast in the egg, as she went over her plan conceived the day before. She smiled, raising the china cup to her lips, savoring a small sip of coffee. Yes, the plan was brilliant. Putting her breakfast tray to the side of the rare, mosaic bistro table, she called Sacco on the intercom.

  “Yes, Mrs. Wellington. What can I do for you?” Gerald’s melodic voice flowed softly from the speaker.

  “Gerald, I need you to go into Seattle, the museum office. The staff has put together descriptions on the pieces I donated for the charity auction. I understand the layout of the pamphlet is ready for my approval. I would like you to pick up the envelope, right away, now … do you have a problem with that?”

  “No problem at all. I’ll let Mr. Wellington know I’ll be away from the house for a couple of hours. Actually, I see him pulling out of the driveway, so I’ll leave now. I’ll bring you the package as soon as I return.”

  “Thank you, Gerald.” Eleanor released the button, and took up a position at the front of the house, watching for Gerald’s car. Seeing him leave she waited five minutes to be sure he didn’t return for some forgotten item. Feeling the coast was clear, she strode to the far wing of the mansion where her husband had set up a suite of rooms for his head of staff. The door was locked to Sacco’s suite, but Eleanor, thinking this might be the case, removed a master key from the pocket of her silk jacket—after all she was the head of the household … along with her husband.

  Now inside Gerald’s living quarters, she wasn’t sure what she was looking for, didn’t know at all really, but wanted to find something to prove that he had been in touch with Carlson. Things were adding up in Eleanor’s mind … her lover returning, the gold missing, Sacco denying he had seen him, Sacco tied up at the scene, Carlson knowing about the safe where her husband kept his gold … what was going on here? She was determined to find out.

  Eleanor went to the bedroom—people always hid things in their dressers didn’t they? She quickly searched the drawers, careful to move items a little to the side so she could see
the bottom of each drawer. Nothing peculiar there except for an expensive diamond ring she had never seen Gerald wear.

  Standing in the bedroom doorway, she scanned the room and then turned to the small living room which Sacco used as an office. She slowly walked to the desk, sat in his chair, swiveled a bit … left and right, and then started with the center drawer. It held several papers on the maintenance of the mansion, but nothing personal. The drawers on the left side were organized with supplies for his computer’s printer, then files labeled for the different companies that were retained to maintain the mansion—air conditioning, heating, plumbing, electrical. The top drawer on the right held nothing interesting, but a label on a hanging folder in the bottom-right drawer caught her eye. NEXT.

  That was a strange label. There was only one sheet of paper filed in the NEXT folder, but it was just the piece of information that Eleanor hoped to find. A contract for a storage locker made out to Jack Carlson and dated two days before Detective DuBois said he died. Two days before the robbery. A receipt was stapled to the contract for one month’s rent and two keys. The contract was open ended, payments of $58 due and payable the first of each month. The fine print stated that if payments were in arrears for ninety days, the contents of the locker would be sold at auction. To enter a unit, the renter must have the code to the outside gate and the key to the storage unit’s door.

  Four numbers were written at the bottom of the sheet. She smiled, surmising the numbers stood for the code. All she needed was the key. She would have bet her life that the storage unit contained the stolen gold bullion. She assumed the key was the problem. Why else would Sacco still be around. He would be long gone if he possessed that key.

  Eleanor turned on Gerald’s copy machine, made two copies of the contract and receipt, turned off the machine, and returned the original paperwork to the NEXT folder. Locking the door to his suite, she quickly walked to her dressing room, hiding one copy of the contract in the bottom of the drawer with her nightgowns, and the other in a handbag on the top shelf of her walk-in closet behind a pair of riding boots she no longer wore.