“It’s not like that,” I said with a groan. “Ann wanted to check out a few ideas and asked me to tag along. When Kit found out—”
“She decided to tag along as well,” Aunt Winnie finished.
“Exactly.”
“Elizabeth, I’m forever grateful to you for your help last New Year’s, but please be careful,” she said, the amusement now gone from her voice. “You are not a trained detective. You have a sharp mind and a good sense of people, but there’s something you don’t have.”
“What’s that?”
“A detective’s license and a gun,” she said bluntly. “As you are already well aware from experience, someone who has killed once might do so again, especially if they think they are going to get caught.”
“I promise you, Aunt Winnie, I’m not in any danger. I am just helping Ann. I think she’s conducting her own limited investigation partly to prove that she had nothing to do with it but mainly as a reason to keep in touch with Joe. I’m pretty sure that he still has feelings for her. My only real goal here is to help get them back together.”
Aunt Winnie laughed. “One word, honey: bullshit. I know you too well. If you really think that’s your only motive, you are kidding yourself. You’re bored and looking for some excitement. Please, for my sake, go take up bungee jumping or hang gliding. They’re safer.”
“I’m not—” I began to argue, but she cut me off.
“Yes. You. Are.”
I was silent as I thought about what she was saying. I
“What’s the matter with me?” I asked wearily.
“Nothing at all, honey,” she said gently. “Twenty years ago, you would have been told to settle down and raise a family. God knows, I heard that enough times. It’s utter crap, of course. You need to start doing what you love, that’s all. You hate your job and Peter is gone a lot. You’re just trying to fill the void. But for my sake, don’t fill it with dead bodies.”
I laughed. “Okay, point taken. Maybe I’ll check the want ads tomorrow.”
“An excellent idea. I’m not saying you shouldn’t help Ann. I just want you in one piece. Remember, I need you this fall.”
“So this isn’t about my safety, then, it’s just about you getting some free labor out of me, isn’t it?” I joked.
“Damn skippy it is,” she said.
Over the next few days, Ann and I spent hours hunting down and cataloging all the items listed in Uncle Marty’s will. Many of the pieces were easy to find, such as jewelry, paintings, glassware, place settings, and flatware. Other objects, such as letters, cards, and artwork the girls did as children, were more difficult to locate and necessitated searches of both Uncle Marty’s office and the attic.
The attic was jam-packed with boxes, trunks, and discarded furniture; among which there were a fair number of mirrors. Ann and I rearranged the space somewhat, pushing back boxes and dragging a few chairs together to create a kind of work area. From there we could sit and sort through some forty years of mementos. Uncle Marty had saved everything. Every report card, finger painting, and Father’s Day card was tucked into labeled envelopes. There were some boxes that coordinated with years, others with vacations or holidays. We went through it all.
I noticed at one point that Ann had pulled a small shoe box onto her lap and was digging through the contents with a wistful smile on her face. “Anything interesting?” I asked.
Ann looked up as if surprised to find me there. She seemed a million miles away. “Oh, no,” she said. “Just some old letters from Joe.”
“I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
She nodded. “I will be. Let’s keep going.”
I grabbed the next box nearest to me. It was simply labeled REGGIE/WEDDING/M. “Hey, here’s a box full of plans for Reggie and Michael’s wedding,” I said.
Ann looked up. “Do you think there would be anything in there that could help us?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. There might be.”
Although I looked carefully through the contents of that box, hoping for some clue about Michael’s murder, there was nothing. All I discovered were detailed plans for Reggie’s scrapped wedding to Michael. I found invitation mock-ups, guest lists, catering menus, music selections, flower choices, and a photo of the arch (there were indeed woodland creatures but, alas, no Nessie), but no clues as to why the bridegroom had been murdered.
After the attic, we tackled the office. Here, too, we found a complete and organized cataloging of the past forty years. Each year was captured into a leather-bound volume, much like the kind that Nana employed. I pulled out the year that Reggie’s wedding was to have taken place and opened it to July. I don’t know what I was looking for, but there were no telling notations about Michael. There were notes about business transactions, including Miles’s trip to New York City, with a meticulous account of his receipts. Not only were the airfare, hotel bill, and several restaurant meals itemized, but also were all the miscellaneous tips to the hotel staff. Lord, what was it with some people and their organizational skills? I felt more ashamed than ever of the contents of my purse. However, the meeting apparently went well because there was a notation underneath it all that read: “Mtg. success/signed on 7/6!!”
There were also several notes about the bills coming in for the wedding. Although Reggie was obviously working under the premise that the sky was the limit for spending, it appeared that Uncle Marty was growing concerned at the spiraling costs. The fabled arch alone cost $20,000, and there was a note reading “talk to Reg re: $wans.” From the scribble that followed this entry, I realized that Reggie apparently not only planned on renting real swans for the reception, she also was having someone called a “marzipan master” create individual swans for the guests’ dessert.
“It looks like Laura was right about Reggie’s budget for the wedding,” I said to Ann. “The bills were out of control! Take a look at these.” I handed her the journal. Ann shook her head in disbelief as she read. “Lord, it’s all so silly. Seventy thousand for flowers! My mother would never have allowed this.”
I smiled at her. “Was there method, moderation, and economy employed when she was alive?”
Ann laughed, handing me back the book. “Something like that. There sure as hell weren’t baby swans frolicking about the back lawn.”
I read more. After the notations about the bills, there were several angry entries of the various meetings with the Board of Directors that took place after Michael’s embezzlement came to light. From the venom that laced Uncle Marty’s entries, if Michael weren’t already dead, Uncle Marty would be my top suspect.
It was all very interesting, but other than an odd fact or two, it didn’t bring me any closer to finding out who killed Michael.
The rest of the week progressed slowly, and the only thing I was able to make progress on was my promise to Aunt Winnie. I scoured the want ads, contacted a headhunter, and updated my résumé. I kept my promise to Kit and babysat little Pauly while she and Paul went out to dinner, during which I incurred only minor injuries. Peter’s work crisis seemed finally to be coming under control and he expected to be home by the end of the week. Joe and Ann continued to talk—ostensibly about progress on the case (of which there was absolutely none, of course), and Ann seemed happier than I’d seen her in years. While life hadn’t gone back to normal per se, it was definitely heading in the right direction.
And then Bonnie called and it all went to hell in a hand-basket.
Chapter 18
It was a struggle between propriety and vanity; but vanity got the better.
