Marjorie Thelen - Designer Detective

“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.

“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.