Dying to Be Murdererd, Page 3

  Waiting not so patiently for Jennifer to struggle up the last steps with Muffy, Melba pulled open the door to the room in the far corner on the right. “This is Juliet’s room.”

  Immediately Jennifer sensed something wasn’t quite right. “Don’t most bedroom doors open in?” she asked.

  “It was necessary that this door be changed,” Melba stated.

  “Why?” Jennifer asked. If Melba wasn’t going to volunteer information, she didn’t feel at all awkward about asking for it.

  “This room originally belonged to Amy Loggins.”

  “The ghost?” Jennifer uttered the words before she had a chance to stop them.

  Melba gave her a strange look. “She wasn’t always a ghost, you know.”

  “Did you know her?” Jennifer asked.

  Melba nodded. “I wasn’t much more than a slip of a girl, but I met her a few times. My mother worked for the Ashtons. Amy was fine most of the time, but sometimes she’d become agitated, wring her hands, and start to fret. When that happened, she had a tendency to roam. That’s why they had the door turned ’round, so they could bar it at night, to keep her from wandering off while they slept. They never bothered to change it back after she died.”

  Jennifer ran her hand down the outside of the door frame. It had been refinished, but the evidence remained, putty-filled holes where brackets once stood. It seemed barbaric, even if it had been for Amy’s own good.

  “You haven’t ever...I mean, after she died, you didn’t...”

  “See her?” She leaned conspiratorially toward Jennifer as though to whisper in her ear and then said in full voice, “No.”

  Melba drew back and gestured for Jennifer to go on into the room, obviously ready to dispose of her and get on with her own afternoon work.

  The room itself was huge, bright and cheery with old-fashioned ruffled organza curtains covering windows that ran from the tall ceiling down to white-painted window seats with large, fluffy pillows in pink gingham. Bright pink rosebuds and green leaves dotted the white crocheted coverlet spread over the high four-poster bed. A small tapestry-covered step stool stood at the side of the bed, which was too high for a person of average height to climb onto without help. Jennifer thought she’d never seen a more warm and inviting room, a haven amidst the brooding darkness of the rest of the house. A most unlikely place for a ghost to choose to inhabit.

  “It’s lovely,” Jennifer gasped involuntarily as she let Muffy off the leash to scoot about the slick wooden floors. She slid into the braided cotton rug at the foot of the bed and then went about snuffling under the bed ruffle.

  Obviously, Melba was not pleased with the idea of having an animal in the house. But, aside from an expression that looked as if she’d been tasting lemons, she kept it to herself. “I’ll bring up fresh linen shortly,” she told her, bending to straighten the rug. “You’ll find the bathroom two doors down the hall on your left.”

  Jennifer nodded appreciatively, dropping her shoulder bag on the seat of the chair at the small writing desk.

  Then Melba threw wide the large doors to the closet and pushed blouses and dresses to one side and then the other, forming a decent-sized space in between. “I’ll bring you up some hangers, too. The drawers are almost all full, but I’ll see what I can do about that later if need be. You’ll find fresh towels and washcloths in the bathroom.”

  Melba crossed to the door and paused, one hand resting on the knob. She turned and raised an eyebrow. “Just how long do you plan to stay?”

  “I’m not sure,” Jennifer waffled, touching the framed snapshot of an attractive, smiling, tan young woman, sitting in the grass, squinting at the sun. Her dark hair was long and straight, parted in the middle and held in place by a beaded band around her forehead. She had on a halter top and cutoff jeans, and her right hand was raised in a peace sign. The photo sat atop the dresser, next to a tortoise shell comb and brush set, a jar of peach blush makeup that had long since dried into layers, an inlaid jewelry box, and a dish of bobby pins. “Do you expect Juliet back anytime soon?”

  Melba gave her a strange smile. “Mrs. Ashton didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Juliet’s dead.” And with that she pulled the door shut. Jennifer could hear her laughter grow fainter as she walked down the hall.

  Chapter 7

  With her laughter, Melba had turned Juliet’s beautiful summery room to winter. Even the sunshine that had poured brightly through the tall windows just moments before seemed to dim.

  Jennifer knelt down, a shiver dancing across her shoulders, and Muffy scampered over to her, licking at her face and whimpering. She buried her face against the dog’s neck, glad to have something warm and living to hold onto. “I know, I know,” she soothed. “I feel it, too.”

  An almost imperceptible tap sounded on the door, and Jennifer scrambled to her feet, Muffy slinking behind her. Before she could speak, the door cracked, and she could see Mrs. Ashton peering at her through the slit.

  “Are you decent?” the woman whispered. Not waiting for a reply, she slipped in, closing the door behind her, and leaned back against it. “You can’t imagine how relieved I am to have you here. I received another threat, just this morning.”

  Maybe this wouldn’t be the best time to bring up the fact that Jennifer wasn’t wild about staying in a dead girl’s room, especially one that was reputed to be haunted by Amy Loggins and that still contained all of Juliet’s possessions.

  “What happened?” Jennifer asked.

  “When I awoke, it was lying on the pillow beside me, written in bold red letters that looked as if they’d been made with a felt-tipped marker.”

  “What did it say?”

  “‘You’ll pay.’”

  “That was it?”

  “Yes. They’re never more than a few words long.”

  “So where is this note?”

  “I have it here.” She pulled the folded piece of paper from her skirt pocket and handed it to Jennifer, who looked at it closely. The carefully formed block letters would be impossible for a handwriting expert to interpret. But the eggshell-colored paper was of heavy stock and was covered with a faint floral design in a light beige. It shouldn’t be too hard to trace.

  “Have you seen this stationery before?” Jennifer asked.

  “Yes, of course. I bought some just like it some time ago. Then she had to have some. I know it’s hers, but she’ll say it’s mine. Don’t you see, that’s how clever she is.”

  “Who is she?” Jennifer asked, certain she already knew the answer.

  But Mrs. Ashton only shook her head.

  “Was your door locked?”

  “I keep it locked when I’m in my room and when I’m not.”

  So Mrs. Ashton’s room was not secure. Which meant Jennifer’s room, most likely, was not either.

  “And you have no idea how she is getting in?”

  “None.”

  “What, exactly, do you want me to do? Take this note to the police?” Jennifer asked.

  “No, not yet. I want you to write it down, that I awoke this morning to that horrible threat, and yesterday’s, and the day’s before. I want you to record every unusual occurrence in this house, every strange sound, every intrusion. I want to get those notes to you before they somehow disappear. She won’t dare do anything to you, I know it. Your sanity has never been questioned, has it?”

  Jennifer shook her head. Not officially anyway.

  “I have to have some sort of proof of these threats.” Mrs. Ashton grabbed Jennifer’s hands and squeezed, what looked like terror shining through her eyes. “Someone else has to see them, someone they’ll believe. Promise me that you won’t leave me alone in this house until we get to the bottom of this.”

  The threat couldn’t be real. Someone must simply be trying to scare her. Society matrons weren’t murdered, certainly not in Macon, Georgia. “No one is going to—”

  “Fine. Then it won’t hurt for you to promise, will
it?”

  Caught by her own words, Jennifer could have kicked herself. “All right then, I promise. I won’t leave you until you feel safe. But I can’t spare more than a week.”

  “Agreed, whichever comes first. Besides, a week should be all we’ll need. And...” Mrs. Ashton paused, one eyebrow raised, waiting.

  “And if you’re murdered, which you won’t be, I won’t let them get away with it.”

  Relief washed over Mrs. Ashton. She was almost bubbly. “Having you here, in this room, well, you simply can’t know what it means to me. I’m in the room directly below. It helps, more than you’ll ever know, to think that you’re just above me.”

  So that’s why Mrs. Ashton had chosen Juliet’s room for her.

  “But you have to tell me,” Jennifer insisted. “Who do you think is trying to kill you?”

  Mrs. Ashton lowered her voice and leaned in close. “My sister-in-law, Eileen McEvoy. She’s never liked me, not from the first moment we spoke.”

  Mrs. Ashton walked over to one of the tall bedposts, turned, and grabbed it behind her back. She looked almost martyr-like, holding her head high, and standing there like a suspected witch bound at the stake. “She did everything within her power to dissuade her brother from marrying me, and she’s made it her mission on this earth to make me miserable. But there was nothing she could do. Shelby and I were meant to be together. He adored me.”

  “I’m sorry about your loss,” Jennifer offered.

  “Thank you, but don’t concern yourself with it.” Mrs. Ashton came back to Jennifer, grabbing her arm. “It’s my death we have to deal with now. Eileen wants the house. And the money. To leave to her children. She says it’s their birthright. She’s been plotting ever since Shelby died. She’ll do whatever it takes to get it.”

  “Even murder?”

  “The competency hearing didn’t work. Murder seems the next logical step. It’s so final. No appeals, you see. I knew it was her immediately when the threats started coming. She grew up in this house. She knows every inch of it

  “She even told me,” Mrs. Ashton added. “Outside the courtroom. She came up to me, took hold of my arm, and said, ‘It’s not over.’ Then she leaned close to my ear and whispered, ‘I’ll get the house one way or another, over your dead body if need be.’ How many ways can you interpret a statement like that?”

  It seemed pretty plain to Jennifer, but people say things all the time they don’t mean literally.

  “I’ll get the other threats to you later,” Mrs. Ashton added. “You brought the notebook, didn’t you, the one I asked you to purchase?”

  “It’s in my bag.”

  “Wonderful. Dig it out.”

  The woman stood over Jennifer until she’d retrieved the small book.

  “Marvelous.” Mrs. Ashton’s eyes shone. “Now open it and record this morning’s incident.”

  Jennifer didn’t much care for someone standing over her shoulder and dictating her actions, but she reminded herself that she was being well paid to do exactly that. She scribbled the date and a few words, then shut it.

  “Now put it in your pocket,” Mrs. Ashton ordered, watching until she stuffed it in her jeans.

  “I’m so pleased you’re here to help me, Jennifer,” the woman added kindly. “I can’t do this without you.”

  Then she turned and was at the door before Jennifer could utter another word. She pushed it open the tiniest bit and peered out, seeming to search the hallway.

  “Before you go,” Jennifer called after her. “I want to know about Juliet.”

  Mrs. Ashton turned a steely eye in her direction. “I never talk about Juliet. Don’t ask me again.”

  And with that she slipped back into the hallway, pushing the door shut behind her.

  Chapter 8

  “Tell me about Juliet,” Jennifer insisted. She was perched on a sturdy wooden chair in Mrs. Ashton’s kitchen, which was located in the far back corner of the basement.

  “Juliet? What you doin’ asking me ’bout that girl? She was dead before I was born.” Arthur Johnson lifted the pan off the heat, flicked his wrist, and the strips of squash, peppers, and onions flipped neatly in the air to plunge back into the sizzling olive oil. Jennifer could only stare. Except for Dee Dee and cooking shows on television, she’d never seen that done, at least not successfully, and certainly never that high.

  “I’m staying in her room. All her things are there, and Mrs. Ashton won’t tell me anything about her,” Jennifer explained.

  “Gettin’ to you, huh?” Arthur dropped the pan back onto the fire and turned his brown, almost black eyes on her full force. He was probably a few years younger than she was, tall, well past six feet, with muscled upper arms straining in his white T-shirt, and skin as dark as richly finished mahogany. Gazing up at him, she thought he looked formidable. She wondered where she’d summoned the nerve to ask. Then his broad lips broke into an engaging smile, revealing perfect white teeth.

  “What say I add a little chicken in with these veggies, just enough to give them some flavor? I’ve got some marinating in my special lemon sauce in the refrigerator.”

  “Can’t let you do it.”

  “I don’t have none of that tofu stuff. Where you gonna get your protein, girl? What if I scramble you up an egg?”

  “This glass of milk is fine. And you’ve already fed me a muffin.”

  “Muffins? Add that to this rabbit food and it still ain’t enough to keep a bird alive. I’ll put some pinto beans to soakin’ tonight. You can have those along with brown rice and whatever I get together for Mrs. A tomorrow. Nobody’s nutrition suffers when they’re under my care. We’ll see if we can’t get some meat on those bones of yours.”

  “Juliet,” Jennifer offered again, taking a bite of a second unbelievably delicious blueberry muffin. “You ever been in her room?”

  “’Course. I’ve been all over this house, used to play up there when I was a kid.”

  Jennifer threw him a look.

  “My grandpap was Mrs. Ashton’s cook. How you think I got this gig? He retired three years ago. I was just finishing my commitment to the service, and Mrs. Ashton asked me on.”

  “Which branch of service?”

  “Air Force. Four years.”

  “Did you cook for them, too?”

  He shook his head. “Med tech. Smoothest needle in my unit. Never took me more than one stick.”

  “Yeah? So why didn’t you stay with it? They’re in demand.”

  “You kidding me? I don’t intend to spend my life ’round no sick people.”

  “I see. So you’d rather cook in a private home instead.”

  Arthur raked the vegetables onto a plate and handed it to Jennifer. Then he sat down across the stainless steel table from her and helped himself to one of the muffins that sat in a basket. “Do I look like someone who would content himself with this?”

  He motioned about the spacious state-of-the-art kitchen. It had four ovens, two sets of four burners each, two refrigerators with see-through doors, enough work space to pull in an army of assistants if need be, and two stainless steel doors side-by-side behind her. She’d seen restaurant kitchens that weren’t nearly as well equipped. Dee Dee would think she’d died and gone to heaven if she had a kitchen like that.

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  “Because it’s not mine,” he told her, leaning in.

  “This is some setup.” She took another glance around the room. “What’s that?” She pointed at the solid doors.”

  “Those are freezers.”

  “They’re huge.”

  He nodded.

  “Just how many can you feed out of a kitchen like this?”

  “How many you got hungry?” he asked, grinning.

  Point taken. “But why all this equipment in such a small household?”

  “Mrs. A liked her parties, yes sir. But all that’s stopped now.”

  “Since Mr. Ashton’s death?”

  “Sort of. Not too long after th
at.”

  The competency hearing. Something like that could put a dint in one’s social life.

  “But you eat up,” Arthur told her. “I didn’t make that for you to let it get cold.”

  She took a bite of squash. It was to die for. “And I thought Dee Dee was a good cook.”

  “Dee Dee Ivers?”

  Jennifer nodded.

  “She’s good all right.”

  “You know her?”

  “I do some catering on the side.”

  “Really? I help Dee Dee out.”

  “Wait a minute!” He smacked the table with the palm of his hand. “You’re that Jennifer Marsh. You do those fancy vegetable bouquets that Dee Dee has so many orders for.”

  She nodded. “That would be me. So we’re competitors. What’s the name of your business?”

  “The Art of Good Food. Clever, huh?”

  She grinned at him. “So you’re the Art. Dee Dee’s mentioned you. So why are you working in a private home?”

  “Mrs. Ashton asked me for a five-year commitment when she hired me. I’ve put in three years.” He abandoned the muffin, stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankle, and leaned back with his hands clasped behind his head. “I’ve got two more to go. It’s sort of like signing on for the military. A little green upfront as an incentive, I do my time, then Mrs. A sets me up with my restaurant. She lays out the cash, part of it is her investment, the rest an interest-free loan that I’m to pay back as the business takes off. In the meantime, I’m developing my recipes, putting together my own cuisine, building my reputation with my catering gigs. I make her meals and she gives me full use of this kitchen. That way I don’t have to rent one.”

  Jennifer nodded. Sounded like a good deal to her, but he had adroitly avoided telling her what she really wanted to know. “You’re not going to tell me about Juliet, are you?”

  “Oh, I can tell you all right. I just ain’t so sure that once you hear, but what you’ll decide you really didn’t want to know after all.” He got up and pulled a milk jug from the fridge and refilled Jennifer’s glass.