Death Is a Cabaret Page 14

  “I agree. But to answer your question: I’m not giving anything away. You’ll just have to join us for dinner to see what we’ve come up with.”

  He accepted the invitation. He thought about making another drink, then decided against it for fear he’d disturb Trudy, whose even breathing indicated that she’d fallen asleep. He could feel Jennifer’s breathing, too, seated beside him. She seemed calmer now that she’d admitted to her relationship with Frank Hamilton.

  Jeff heard the sound of a key finding its mark in a door’s lock. At first, he wasn’t sure if it was the door to the suite, but then tumblers rattled and clicked into place, and Ben walked in.

  Jeff didn’t understand at first why Ben stopped in his tracks and glared at the love seat where Jeff was sitting with Jennifer. He watched as Ben’s head jerked toward the bed.

  Jeff’s gaze followed. Trudy’s tiny figure could barely be detected. To anyone not knowing she was there it looked like the bed was unoccupied. . . now. But it did look like it had been occupied recently.

  Jeff suddenly, regretfully, realized what the scene must’ve looked like to Ben. He stood, hands outstretched, and started to explain.

  Ben balled up his fists and lunged.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Jeff felt as if he were in slow motion, trapped in a bubble of water, drifting while everything around him happened at triple speed. Although he hadn’t been prepared for a confrontation, he had dodged just in time to avoid a broken nose. The blow ricocheted off his cheekbone just below his right eye.

  Jeff staggered and found his balance. He gingerly touched the wound, then looked at his fingers. Blood. He looked at Ben’s hand and saw the ring. Nice touch.

  “Ben!” Jennifer bolted from the love seat. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “The same thing any other man would do who’d just caught another man in his wife’s bed. What the hell’s going on here?”

  “For God’s sake! Shouldn’t you have asked that question before you hit Jeff? You’ve never acted like this before.”

  “I’ve never found you in a hotel room with another man before.”

  “You still haven’t,” Jennifer said through gritted teeth. The room grew quiet.

  “I beg your pardon?” The corners of Jeff’s mouth twitched slightly. He fought hard to keep from grinning. He watched as Jennifer’s expression changed from anger to realization to embarrassment. “I—’’

  “You don’t need to explain. If I were in Ben’s shoes, I would probably react the same way.”

  “Benjamin Hurst,” Jennifer said with the tone a mother would use on a child who’d been a bully. “Shouldn’t you be apologizing to Jeff?”

  “You heard him. He knows how it is.”

  “Your gender exasperates me,” she said hotly. “I could write a book. You know what? Maybe I should. I’ll call it Women Are From Venus, Men Are From Hell.”

  “I’ll buy a copy.” Trudy sat up in the bed.

  Ben threw a confused look at the strange girl.

  Jennifer went to her. “Trudy, we woke you. I’m so sorry.”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  Jennifer gazed at her husband for a long time, then turned to Jeff. “Would you keep an eye on her?”

  “Sure. It’ll give us a chance to visit.”

  Jennifer took Ben’s arm and led him toward the French doors that opened onto a deck. “I need to tell you about someone I once knew.”

  After they left, Jeff seated himself on the edge of the bed beside Trudy.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “It could’ve been a lot worse.” He glanced at the couple on the deck, sitting across from one another, holding hands. He wondered how Ben would take the news of Jennifer’s past. It was apparent Ben loved his wife. Hopefully, he loved her enough.

  “Trudy?” Jeff suspected it would be difficult for the girl to talk, but he needed to learn what was going on. “Do you feel like talking about it?”

  “I can try. My brother may have been unscrupulous, but I don’t think someone should’ve killed him for it.”

  “He arranged for you to meet him here?”

  She nodded. “He had an envelope messengered to me at the shop. In it was an airline ticket, a confirmation letter from the Murray Hotel for two nights, and three hundred dollars in traveler’s checks.”

  “Do you know why he wanted you here?”

  “Partly. He told me he’d worked out a way to get Mrs. Appleby’s tea set, but he needed some help playing a trick on someone. He knew so much about it that I didn’t have any reason to suspect anything. So I came here thinking I could somehow help get the tea set and take it back to her.

  “But last night, when he came to my hotel, I found out he wasn’t trying to get the tea set for Mrs. Appleby at all. Honestly, Mr. Talbot, after I learned that, I told him I wasn’t about to help him. Mrs. Appleby has been more like family to me than anyone else. I’d never do anything that would hurt her.

  “I was trying to figure out what to do when you found me. But I wanted to see if I could talk some sense into Frank first.” Trudy looked down. “Only he never showed up.”

  “Did you try to call him?”

  “Yes. I left several messages. You can check with the front desk if you don’t believe me.”

  “Trudy, I don’t doubt that you’re telling me the truth. I’m just trying to find out what happened to him. You want to know that, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Okay, try to remember: Did he tell you anything that might help?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so. All he said last night—other than to meet him—was that he’d found a way to make a lot more money on the tea set and he didn’t care who ended up with it. He said he could make enough so that he’d never have to worry about money again.”

  “Do you know how he intended to do that?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  “Was someone else in on this with him?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me that, either. He just said there was someone willing to pay a huge sum of money for the set.”

  “Was it Blanche?”

  “No. I wondered that, too. But that’s all he would tell me. It wasn’t her.”

  Jeff said, more to himself than to Trudy, “I wonder if it was the woman I saw him talking to last night.”

  “You saw him with someone?”

  He told her about the scene in the gardens, the woman—or, at least, he assumed it was a woman—in the picture hat, Frank’s body language that revealed his frustration, his anger. When Jeff demonstrated by popping his forehead with his palm, the young woman flinched.

  “Trudy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He gently touched her arm.

  Suddenly, he wondered if Trudy trusted him. When he thought about it, he realized that they really didn’t know each other very well. “I didn’t kill your brother, Trudy. I hope you believe that.”

  “I’m sorry. I only jumped because you. . . I’ve seen Frank get angry more times than I care to remember. You reminded me of his cruel side when you did that. But I know you didn’t kill him. Mrs. Appleby has told me several times that if I ever need anything when she’s dead and gone, you’re the one person I can truly rely on.”

  Jeff grinned. “I can’t see her taking the time to die, can you?”

  “No.” Trudy let out a little chuckle, then grew quiet. After a moment, she said, “Will you help me find out who killed him?”

  “I’ll do everything I can, Trudy. That’s a promise.” Jeff wondered how she’d summoned enough nerve to stand up to her bully brother. Likely, she was a lot stronger than she realized. Now she just needed to learn how to draw from that strength. “Trudy, you’ve heard of Edward Davenport, haven’t you?”

  “The auctioneer? Of course. Mrs. Appleby relies heavily on his writings when verifying English antiques. Why?”

  “Do you know if your brother knew him?”

  “Frank never mentioned him
. But we haven’t been in touch very much over the last couple of years. Usually just when Frank wanted help with one of his schemes.”

  “Davenport was supposed to conduct a special auction tomorrow—an auction that was to include the cabaret set.” Jeff hated to upset Trudy further, but he charged ahead. “Trudy, this afternoon Davenport committed suicide.”

  “Suicide?” She was quiet for several moments. “But why would someone so passionate about antiques kill himself doing what he loved to do? And at a place where hundreds of antique lovers are gathered. Are you sure it was suicide?”

  “Not completely, no. If it was murder, though, someone did a hell of a job making it look like suicide. The medical examiner is checking now for poisoning, signs of struggle, that sort of thing.”

  “Did he leave a note or anything to say why he’d do such a thing?”

  “That’s the big question. They didn’t find one, and it makes me suspicious. I mean, Davenport was a writer. I can’t imagine him checking out without some commentary. Yet, if someone killed him and made it look like a suicide—well, that took some doing. He was a big man.

  “Hopefully, the ME’s report will tell us something. Either way, I can’t help but feel it’s somehow tied to Frank’s death.”

  The doors leading to the deck opened, and Jennifer and Ben walked arm in arm into the room. Although their eyes were rimmed red from what had to have been an emotional session, Jeff could see that they’d come through intact. Instinctively, he touched his own eye and winced. At least women could hide behind makeup. He was wondering if he’d have to resort to a pair of glasses when Jennifer walked over and gave him a hug. “It looks sexy,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t do a thing to cover it up, if I were you.”

  “A man’s thoughts are never sacred when there’s a woman in the room, are they?”

  “You got that right,” Ben said. “Jeff, I—”

  “No need, Ben. I would’ve done the same thing.” Jeff turned back to Trudy. “Would you like to join us for dinner tonight?”

  “Thanks, Mr. Talbot, but this place is a little too fancy for me. I think I’ll go downtown and get a sandwich.”

  Jennifer stepped in. “Trudy, are you sure? Because, if you need a dress, I’ve got—”

  “Really, Jen. I appreciate it, but I’d rather not be around here tonight. You understand?”

  Jennifer nodded.

  Jeff understood, too. Trudy didn’t want to be reminded of her brother. “Let me take you downstairs and get you a cab.”

  “No, thanks.” Trudy got out of bed and slipped on her shoes. “I’ll walk. It’s only about fifteen minutes.”

  “I’m going to win this one, Trudy, so you might as well save us all some time.”

  Trudy obviously sensed Jeff’s determination. She nodded and walked with him toward the door. Before leaving, Jeff said to the Hursts, “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The phone’s message light was flashing when Jeff entered his room.

  Two new messages, the recording told him. The first was from Gordy.

  “Sorry, bud. All hell’s broke loose, and I’m on my way to Chicago. Stay out of jail.”

  Jeff punched Seven, and the system moved to the second message.

  Sheila’s voice, excited, announced that she had news and asked that he call as soon as he could.

  Jeff wondered why women couldn’t just leave a message. They always wanted to watch your face when they delivered news, capture your reaction. Second best was delivering news over the phone. They’d do it if they had no other choice, but they’d be damned if they were going to leave a recorded message and miss your reaction altogether.

  He called.

  “Where have you been?” Sheila’s voice was high-pitched, a phenomenon that rarely occurred. It put Jeff’s nerves on edge. “I hit paydirt, and you’re nowhere to be found!”

  “Sheila, honey, calm down. You’re not the only one who’s been working.” An attempt at explaining the altercation with Ben Hurst could wait until later.

  “Oh. Sorry. Well, don’t you want to know what I found out?”

  He had an image of her expression, the anxiousness to be a part of things, the excitement at being able to help. “Should I write this down?”

  “Jeffrey.”

  When she used his full name, he knew he’d better cut the crap. “Yes, ma’am. Pen in hand.”

  She cleared her throat. “The document you have is a diploma given to Eric von Schreibtisch by Friedrich Wilhelm University in Berlin. He graduated with a doctorate in Europaervolkswirtschaft. That’s the phrase you gave me. Roughly translated, it means European socioeconomics. He was married, had one daughter, taught at his alma mater—or whatever they call it in Germany—for fifteen years before retiring.”

  “Retiring? If he did all this over the normal course of things, then he would’ve been—what? —thirty-seven, thirty-eight? Same age as I am now. Hell, I can’t imagine retiring.”

  “But you did retire, basically. You left the FBI so you could get into antiques.”

  “I don’t think of it that way. Retired is synonymous with old in my book.”

  “Are you still stewing over Frank Hamilton’s ‘old man’ remark?”

  “No, that’s not it.” Jeff asked himself if that was it. Was he really that sensitive about his age? He didn’t think so. “No,” he repeated with more conviction. “Retirement is my grandfather shuffling around the house with Auntie Pim taking care of him.”

  “Need I remind you, Mr. Talbot,” Sheila said, “that when I agreed to marry you, you assured me you’d never grow old?”

  People always said that a notable age difference between partners didn’t matter as the couple grew older together. Jeff was finding the opposite to be true. When he was younger, he could keep up with Sheila’s boundless energy. Lately, he’d felt a turning point approaching, and that damned climb to the fort had hammered it home.

  For now, though, he needed to get the conversation back on track before resorting to words like Little Missy and Young Lady.

  “Maybe the German translation for retired is the same as resigned. Did you find out anything about whether Schreibtisch moved on to another university or to some other academic field?”

  “No. At least, not so far. It’s as if he dropped off the face of the earth. The trail stops with his resignation.”

  “What about the wife and daughter?”

  “Fortunately, I have a friend from a chat room on European cooking. She knows some German and gave me the gist of a newspaper article I found—something about Schreibtisch receiving some sort of recognition. She said the article reported that Schreibtisch’s wife, Ilka, and daughter, Ingrid, attended a ceremony in his honor.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Good question. I can’t find anything about any of them after he left the university.”

  “Damn it. All three of them couldn’t have just evaporated.” Even as he said it, Jeff realized how ridiculous it sounded.

  “Stranger things have happened. I’ll dig some more.” Sheila paused. “It’s after six there. Wish I could see you all decked out for the evening.”

  “You and me both. I haven’t had a chance to change.”

  “We’d better get off the phone, then. I’ll call you tonight if I get any more information.”

  The two said their good-byes, then Jeff began dressing. He wondered absently what the Hursts would be wearing and decided that their effect was probably never as striking and powerful when each was alone.

  He buttoned his white Burberry and set about threading a cuff link shank through one of the sleeves. The links were a Napoleonic design, gold with a rich carnelian ground. Surmounted on each red disk was a golden bee. He had purchased them during a Napoleonic costume exhibit in New York at about the same time he’d begun searching for Blanche’s cabaret set.

  The strange and deadly events of the last twenty-four hours made him question his prior premonitory actio
ns: attempting to book the Napoleon Suite—and feeling unlucky upon learning that it was already spoken for, buying the cufflinks, studying up on Napoleon and Josephine. Of course, the research gave him a base knowledge of Empire antiques, which had proven lucrative many times over. Now, though, as he looked at the cuff links, he saw a red flag waving an announcement to everyone at the festival: “Here I am, anxiously waiting to drop a fortune on a tea set.” His lips tightened. He contemplated wearing a different pair but didn’t want to waste any more time.

  As he aggressively threaded the second cuff, he went over what he’d learned so far. Everyone—Ben and Jennifer Hurst, Lily Chastain, Ruth Ann Longan, and Asia Graham (the Three Musketeers, as Gordy had cleverly called them), Frank Hamilton, Edward Davenport—either knew or had met everyone else before this year’s festival.

  He was still amazed at, and a little suspicious of, the coincidence of Jennifer Hurst’s engagement to Frank Hamilton. Then, to top off everything, Trudy Blessing had turned out to be Hamilton’s sister.

  It suddenly occurred to Jeff that Trudy and Frank didn’t share the same last name. Now, what the hell was that about? Could Trudy actually be married? Surely to God he’d know about that, wouldn’t he? Just as surely, he questioned why he would. Until this afternoon, he and Trudy had never had a real conversation.

  He wondered whether Trudy had called Blanche and told her about Frank’s death, revealed that they were brother and sister. He would call Blanche before turning in tonight. With the time difference, he could catch her right after her dinner hour.

  And the Three Musketeers. Did the three Southern women, like Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, have an all-for-one-and-one-for-all pact? If so, were they hiding something? Covering for one another? In on it together? In on what? Murder? Jeff shook his head, as if to erase the silly notion from his thoughts. Hell, with their obvious arthritis, osteoporosis, and canes, all three added together couldn’t get the lid off a mayonnaise jar without the aid of a rubber grip and the local fire department.

  A two-headed monster assaulted Jeff’s conscience. It was created from Auntie Pim and Blanche, and both heads were talking at once but delivering a single message: Don’t dismiss us just because we’re old.