I was now unemployed. Too bad. I’d some great ideas for a new, contemporary look to the library. Being the practical woman I was, I fished in my purse for my cell phone to call a client who was waiting for me to faux paint her dining room. After dumping the entire contents of my Coach purse, which seconded as a briefcase, I discovered the phone was not in residence. I must have left it in Mr. Lodge's library when I tried to call 911 and couldn’t get a signal. That meant a trip back to his house. I still had the key, so there'd be no problem getting in. I should have given the key to the policeman or Jake Many Horses, but it slipped my mind. That happened to me.
I decided, as I pulled on a pair of black slacks and olive turtleneck sweater after a steamy shower, I should tell Jake about Mr. Lodge having the library redone to erase the memory of his wife. I had asked him why he wanted to re-decorate the library. He said his wife had decorated it. Now that she was gone, it reminded him of her and he wanted a change. He didn't mention whether the memory of the wife was a good thing or a bad thing.
Zipping along the George Washington Parkway on my way to McLean where the rich and powerful lived and misbehaved, it struck me like a hopper of molten steel that I was involved in a murder investigation. Goose flesh prickled on my arms, maybe even my heart. Talk about a chilling feeling.
I didn't know much about Albert Lodge. He had photos sitting about the library, but he hadn't talked about any of the people in the photos. Maybe I should do some looking around on my own when I got there. What if someone had murdered him? Maybe I should forget about getting the cell phone. But my perverse nature made me blunder on.
As I entered the open gate to the Lodge estate, I noticed a car parked on the side of the road in a ditch under a tree shedding golden leaves. That car wasn't there the day before. Or was it? It was a rust bucket that looked like something an illegal alien would drive, way out of place in this neighborhood. I stopped, whipped out my daily planner and made a note under today's date of the license plate number, color and model. We detectives had to keep track of clues. I'd tell Jake about it.
I swung up the circular drive in my racy Acura Legend and parked in front. The place looked English country estate with lots of red brick and two stories of multi-pane windows. The carved entrance door was recessed into an arched portico with wide entrance steps. The sky was still overcast with leaden clouds lumbering by on a serious northwest wind. At least the rain had stopped. I pulled the collar of my suede jacket up around my neck, boldly strode to the door like I lived there, and commenced to wrestle with the lock.
I was starting to feel maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I kept looking around like I was expecting someone to come up to me and say “Hey, what do you think you're doing?” Finally, the door clicked open after I had jiggled the key at least a million different directions.
The foyer had an odd pungent smell. Maybe it was the pipe tobacco Albert Lodge favored. He had stroked and stoked his pipe in an orgasmic ritual Saturday morning when I had come to talk over what he wanted done and quote him a price. He had not flinched at the ball park number I tossed out. Good omen for us interior designers. Too bad the guy had to up and die.
My high heel boots clicked on the marble floors, echoing in the stillness. The drawing room was to the left, the library to the right. I headed for the library and stopped at the entrance a little apprehensive about what I might find. I peered around but detected no dead body or other undesirables. All was still, which gave me the willies. I hurried to look for the cell phone. A huge couch stood where Mr. Lodge had fallen. I went around the space like stepping on the spot would be sacrilegious. I ran my hand along the couch seams and cushions, thinking the phone might have dropped there.
“May I help you?” said a proper English voice.
I jumped and emitted an unladylike screech, gripping my chest to forestall a heart attack. I searched for the voice and saw the source standing at the entrance. “Good heavens. You gave me a fright. Who are you?” I managed to croak.
“My name is Hudson. I'm Mr. Lodge's butler. And you?”
He was an Anthony Hopkins look alike reminiscent of the butler in the movie, Remains of the Day, displaying a countenance more curious than stern. I detected a bit of a twinkle in his eye.
“Fiona Marlowe. Mr. Lodge engaged me to redesign the library. I'm the one who found him yesterday.”
“Quite. I've been away. My sister has been ill so I took leave to visit her. I returned when I heard of Mr. Lodge's accident.”
He walked to the window by the desk and opened the heavy velvet green drapes. They were the first things I planned to get rid of. The windows needed something lighter, airier.
“You came Saturday whilst I was gone, I believe,” he said.
“Yes. Mr. Lodge gave me a key so I could work when he wasn't here during the day.”
“He mentioned he had engaged you. I sometimes work in the far reaches of the house and didn't hear you come in since you didn't ring the bell. Are you here to continue working?” He cocked his head to one side like that was a suspect idea.
I smiled without humor. “No, I realize under the circumstances, my work won’t be needed. I misplaced my cell phone. The last time I used it was here, so I came back to look for it. Sorry to impose.”
He walked to the desk and picked up my cell phone.
“Is this it? I found it on the couch when I was tidying up this morning.”
“Thanks so much. I better run. Sorry.” I took the phone, plopped it in my purse and turned to go.
“You don't have to leave. Would you care for tea? We could talk about your plans for the remodel.”
I looked at him like he had just told me I’d won the lottery. “I thought the job would be over since Mr. Lodge. .” My voice failed me, and I looked down at the place on the floor.
“The house will be put up for sale, no doubt, and anything you could do to spruce up the place would only add to the value. Maybe you could look at some of the other rooms.”
“Maybe we should have that cup of tea,” I said.
Hudson led the way to a dining area looking out on the spacious grounds to the back of the house. Spacious was an understatement. A virtual park unfolded across the horizon. In the immediate foreground was an Olympic size pool prime for swimming. A hint of steam rose from the water. Deck chairs were arranged as if a party might break out at any minute. A breakfast nook off the kitchen had a sparkling glass oval table with place for six. Hudson held my chair at the end to afford me the best view of the park.
“I just made a pot of tea. It won’t take me a minute to assemble the tray.”
He stepped smartly around a central island big enough for ten of my kitchen. On a crystal plate he arranged cinnamon rolls that by the smell would have just come from the oven. I wondered who else was coming. Maybe he had a sweet tooth.
He placed silver teapot, cups and saucers on a silver tray and brought the whole shebang to the table. Did I mention he was done up in black suit, crisp white shirt, black tie? Shiny shoes, too.
“Here we are,” he said, placing the intricately carved silver tray between us. Brilliantly polished, might I add. He seated himself across from me and served. Lovely china, probably Waterford. I restrained myself from turning over the saucer to check the imprint.
“Thank you,” I said, accepting a cup and plate with cinnamon bun, heavy on the glaze. My favorite. It had been a while since breakfast.
I took a sip while Hudson served himself. He had crow's feet around disconcertingly pale blue eyes and the makings of jowls. His jacket was of impeccable fit. He sipped his tea with a genteel slurp. He looked up and an engaging smile lit his face.