A Dark Homage, page 7
But her bike was by Miriam’s house. No way she could go there now.
And she had no money for a train, taxi or bus.
Fuck.
She headed for the Quaker Meeting House and ran to the back of the building. She pulled her hair out of the clips, quickly unzipped her hoodie and threw it into the dumpster. It wasn’t much, but any alteration of her appearance would help. She kept the knife closed, but held it against her palm. Just in case.
She needed to get out of the area. Fast.
She looked around the side of the building and scanned the park. No sign of either of them. Goon number one would need medical attention. He could tell the cops she attacked him, but if he was a bad guy, and she was sure he was, he wouldn’t risk police involvement. And if he went to the hospital, they’d call the police. They always did for a knife wound. So he would dress it himself or, if he was Mafia, he would head for a mob doctor.
But goon number two would be more worried about her than about goon number one. That was the nature of those guys. And they would make her look a lot worse than goon number one looked.
If they caught her.
Natasha ran through her options in her head. Hiding was out of the question. They would out-wait her. She needed to go now, while they were still off-balance. She jogged down the Mall until she got to Market Street. There, running would be too conspicuous. She walked, quickly, side-stepping pedestrians and looking over her shoulder for her assailant. Her heart was pounding but her attention was razor-sharp, a benefit gleaned from years of living on the streets. She angled her way toward Penn’s Landing, her eyes on the river front.
At one point, she thought she saw the taller goon. She dashed across the street and flattened herself against a brick wall in a small alley way. But it turned out to be an elderly man. Same shape, different guy.
Once she got past the crowds, Natasha broke back into a jog. It wasn’t until she sprinted her way across Delaware Avenue that she let herself slow down. She looked behind her. No sign of the assholes. She tucked the knife into her front pocked and scanned the marina. There, on the side of the river, she saw what she was looking for. An unattended kayak, its paddles thrown carelessly alongside the fiberglass craft. Before she could talk herself out of it, she picked up the small boat, pushed it into the water, and jumped it. She had never kayaked before, but she’d figure it out. How hard could it be?
She pushed away from the edge and headed down-current. She didn’t need to go any great distance—just far enough to put some miles between her and the goons. She paddled, hard, trying to blend with the other boats in the marina while staying upright, just another jock out practicing on the river. She felt bad about stealing the boat, but she’d had no choice. She chided herself for coming into the job with no back-up money.
Never again. Natasha always made a point to learn from her mistakes.
She looked up. Route 95 followed the Delaware River. She’d get out along the way, dump the boat, and hitch a ride. Things would work out.
No sweat.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Natasha stood outside of Delilah’s barn, clearly terrified of the horses. Considering what she’d just been through, Delilah found this current fear amusing. She was proud of the girl for her resourcefulness. But she was annoyed that Natasha had followed the men at all. It’d been a huge risk.
Delilah finished brushing Millie. She stroked the silky underside of the mare’s muzzle and listened to Natasha’s recounting of events. It was late Monday afternoon. Clouds were crowding the sky and Delilah braced herself for a rash of evening thunderstorms. The humidity felt like a wet, heavy cloak. At least with rain there’d be some relief.
“Any sense of who they were?”
Natasha shook her head. “Goons. Hired ones, if I had to guess. At first I thought they might be cops, staking out the place. But neither of them looked too gifted in the brains department. And the short one had a New York accent.”
“Funny that Barb didn’t see anyone Saturday. So why would they be watching Miriam’s house now?” Delilah said. “And why risk coming after you?”
Natasha shrugged. “I thought I was being inconspicuous. I stayed back a full block,” she pointed at her clothes, “and I dressed like a student. Maybe they were there Saturday. Maybe Barb didn’t see them.”
“Doubtful, but maybe.” Delilah thought for a moment. “Either you saw something they didn’t want you to see, or you happened along at the wrong time.”
“Drugs?”
“It does sound like they were waiting for a delivery. But why would Miriam be mixed up in drugs?” Delilah gave the horse a gentle pat. “Did you see anything else suspicious?”
“No. Just the men.”
Delilah threw a saddle blanket on Millie’s back and a saddle on top of that. She buckled the belt that went underneath the horse and slid a finger between Millie and the girth to check for tightness. Next, she put the on the bit and the bridle. Gentle Millie leaned in toward Delilah, making the process easier. When Millie was saddled up, Delilah turned to Natasha.
“Want to give it a go?”
“No way.” Natasha backed up so that she was tucked into the trees that lined the other side of the fence. “Me and horses don’t mix.”
Delilah smiled. Natasha didn’t look any worse for wear after today’s ordeal. But she had stabbed a man. That was serious. And had the men caught her…Delilah didn’t even want to think about what could have happened. She purposefully hired competent women, women who could blend and be unobtrusive, but who had guts and wits and a dose of common sense. Barb was heavy on the common sense. Margot was big on wits. Natasha had enough of all three, but guts were her thing. And sometimes guts needed to be tempered with a strong dose of reality.
“No more going after people like that, Natasha. Until we know more about what we’re dealing with, we keep it clean and simple. You should have let them go. We gained nothing by your little adventure, other than risking your life.”
Natasha looked angry. “Is that an order?”
“I admire your courage. And your quick thinking. But yes, it’s an order.”
Delilah put one foot in a stirrup, heaved her weight onto that leg and swung the other leg over the horse’s back. She wiggled in the saddle, shifting forward to get comfortable, and grabbed the reins. She was in the mood for a ride through the woods. She’d get Millie some exercise, clear the cobwebs from her own head, and then go back to work. Natasha’s misadventure had made her curious. She wanted to speak with Lucinda again. There were a few things she needed to know.
When Delilah looked up from the reins, she saw Natasha staring at her. She looked like she’d swallowed nails.
“What?” Delilah said.
“You gave me an order.”
“I give you a paycheck, too,” Delilah said.
“You never give me orders. It makes me think you’re nervous.”
Delilah nudged the horse forward. Millie responded with a slow walk toward the fence where Natasha stood.
“I’m not nervous, Natasha,” Delilah said. “This is a game of chess. But until we know who our opponent is, we don’t what we’re up against. And we can’t be sure of our strategy.”
“Nothing’s going to happen if we just sit around, waiting for them to make a move.”
Delilah smiled. “Who said anything about sitting around? Besides, our opponents proved today that whatever Miriam was mixed up in, it didn’t end with her murder. It’s just a matter of time until they make their next play.”
After Natasha left, and after a short ride through the woods, Delilah called Lucinda. She didn’t answer her cell phone, so Delilah tried her work number. Someone picked up on the third ring.
“River Crossings Assisted Living, where the golden years are golden,” a flat voice said. “How may I direct your call?”
“Lucinda Mills, please.”
“One moment.”
One moment turned into three minutes, but eventually Lucinda came on the line. She spoke so softly that Delilah had trouble hearing her. In the background, Delilah heard the constant murmur of voices and the clang of metal against ceramic. She assumed Lucinda was in the nursing home’s dining room.
“I can’t really talk,” Lucinda said. “Did you find out anything?”
“I’ll update you, but not on the phone. We need to meet.”
“I get off work tonight at seven. I can meet you then. At Starbucks again?”
“No. At Miriam’s house in Chestnut Hill.”
Lucinda hesitated for a moment. “Why there?”
“You have a key?”
“Yes.”
“I want to look around. Meet me there at seven.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. The police—”
Delilah cut her off. “I need to look through her things, Lucinda.”
“There’s really nothing there. Nothing of importance, at least.”
Delilah persisted. “Trust me. Seven in Chestnut Hill?”
“If you say so,” the other woman said finally. “I’ll see you then.”
Delilah arrived at the Chestnut Hill home at six o’clock. She wanted time to check out the place while it was still light outside, to make certain it wasn’t being watched. If Natasha encountered henchmen at Miriam’s Center City house, it made sense that they could be here, too. She drove the nondescript Honda around the block until she’d located the property. Then she parked a block and a half away and watched for any signs of visitors.
The house was a three-story stone row home on a quiet city street, the end unit. Obviously old but, like the other houses in the neighborhood, well cared for. Flagstone steps led to a small landing. Wooden double doors marked the entrance, which had a peep hole and a bell, but no windows in the door. Instead, sidelights flanked the doorway, the trim around them painted a deep burgundy. No newspapers on the front porch, no piles of store circulars or UPS packages stacked by the door, no lights on inside. The house looked buttoned up and empty.
Delilah decided to take a walk around the property. She rarely carried a gun, but she’d brought her .38 snub nose today. She tucked it into the holster around her ankle and pulled the leg of her boot-cut jeans down to conceal the bulge. Then she got out of the car, locked the doors, and pushed her key down into her front pants pocket.
Outside, the afternoon sun sat low in the sky. Bands of pink and orange rose from the horizon. Delilah squinted in the glare. She walked down the block, attentive to her surroundings. There were few hiding places on this street. No rows of overgrown shrubs or iron gates. Just the rose bushes that lined the neighbor’s stoop. Still, she scanned the street for parked cars or unmarked vans. All clear. If someone was watching this property, they were well hidden.
Delilah checked the front door to Miriam’s house. Locked. Windows in the front were intact. Delilah walked quickly around the concrete path that led to the back of the property. A detached stone garage sat at the back edge of a small yard, a paved parking place in front of it. Like the house, the trim on the garage was freshly painted. The doors were in good shape and locked. There were no windows.
Delilah walked around the perimeter of tiny back yard, alert for sounds or movement. The grass was overgrown and weeds had sprouted between unkempt perennials. A koi pond sat empty next to a small stone patio. An iron bistro table and two iron scroll chairs adorned the patio. One chair had fallen onto its side.
Three concrete steps led to a back door, its window barred. Delilah tried the door. Locked. She scanned the back of the house for signs of a break-in. Nothing looked disturbed. The house seemed desolate and lonely, but solid. Delilah took a deep breath. It was six-forty-eight. Lucinda should be here soon. Delilah walked around the front of the property and waited.
Lucinda arrived ten minutes late.
The younger woman ran up the steps. She still wore her work uniform and her rubber clogs made a hollow sound against the stone. She nodded at Delilah and pulled a key from her purse. Once inside, she flicked up the light switch, and a soft glow flooded the front foyer.
“I figured the power would be off,” Lucinda said.
“It’ll take a few months before the power company gets around to cutting off service.”
“But that means she kept the power on when she wasn’t living here. Why?”
“Appearances,” Delilah said. “She wanted people to think she still lived here. Mind if I look around?”
Lucinda shook her head. “Not at all. I’m going to sit for a few minutes. Been standing all day.”
Delilah took off down the hall. The front door opened into a small foyer, outlined with white and gray marble tiles. Through an open closet door, Delilah saw coats and shoes on the floor. One scarf, knitted from fuzzy purple wool, lay half in and half out of the cramped space.
The entryway led into a large living room. On one end stood a baby grand piano. The other end was designed to be an intimate parlor: a loveseat and two upholstered chairs faced each other across an antique coffee table. Stacks of books, their jackets now dusty, had been scattered across the table. A notebook sat on the floor next to a Bic pen, its cap off. Delilah flipped through the notebook. Mostly blank.
Delilah walked through a small dining room and into the kitchen. Clean but cluttered. Stacks of books were scattered on a small tiled table. Mostly fiction, but Delilah also saw a photography book on Russia and a treatise on investing. Two kitchen towels hung crookedly from the stove handle. A saucepan sat in the sink, its bottom covered with a cloudy liquid. The small countertop was covered with dishes and cups. They were all clean, but someone—either Miriam or the police—had placed them haphazardly on the granite surface. Two cabinet doors stood open, their dark interiors mostly empty.
Unlike the Philadelphia property Barb had described, this house looked as though its owner left in the middle of everyday activity. Delilah thought about what Enid, Emily Cray’s landlord, had told her: Miriam arrived with only a few boxes of belongings.
Which meant she had needed a place to stay, quickly. And that matched the look of this house, which said she’d left in a hurry. And never returned?
If so, what was going on? Why had Miriam Cross needed to abandon her beautiful old home in Chestnut Hill?
There was a beater involved, Enid had said. There’s always a beater.
Delilah was beginning to wonder.
At 8:10 p.m., Delilah finished her walk-through the property. The rest of the house looked like the downstairs. Closet doors open, cabinets half empty, towels scattered on the bathroom floor, medicine cabinet empty. Books and magazines were strewn everywhere, but none of them gave Delilah any clue to what Miriam had been working on. There were no themes, no red flags. Just the eclectic collection of an educated, intellectual woman.
Miriam’s bedroom was the only oddity. The bed was stripped—the police again, probably looking for semen or some other DNA sample that might offer a clue. But other than that, the room was largely intact. Someone had folded the comforter over a taupe armchair. The room itself was decorated in browns, taupe, and ice blue. The furniture was a rich Cherry wood, simple, with antique brass pulls. It looked custom made.
Most of Miriam’s clothes were still in the closet and the drawers. Suits, jeans, sweaters, many of them designer pieces, size six petite, hung on black matching hangers in a closet that seemed small by today’s standards. Delilah reached toward the closet, then hesitated. It felt wrong to go through another woman’s things. But she had no choice. Just maybe buried within this closet was a clue. A woman’s clothes spoke volumes about taste, priorities and finances.
The closet was stuffed to capacity. Why hadn’t Miriam taken more clothes when she left? And why hadn’t she come back again to pack them up? The full closet supported the notion of a fast escape and backed up Enid’s story that Miriam had showed up with only a few suitcases. Miriam apparently wanted to change her name and her image. She wanted to blend in with the norm in Willston. And two-hundred-dollar silk blouses would not have helped her to do that.
Finished with the closet, Delilah glanced around the room. Only Miriam’s tall dresser remained. Delilah opened the top drawer and did a quick inventory of cotton underwear and flannel nightshirts. Nothing interesting. In the second drawer though, Delilah found lingerie. Not simply Victoria’s Secret, the kind Delilah might buy for herself, but expensive French lingerie, some of it risqué. Peek-a-boo teddies and crotch-less panties and corsets with matching garter belts. Silk sheer stockings and lace chemises and jeweled thongs.
And tucked way in the back, behind hundreds of dollars of foreign-made underwear, were the toys.
Padded handcuffs, a black satin blindfold, and beautiful silk scarves with colorful, intricate designs. It wasn’t a lurid collection, which was probably why the police had left it all here. Rather, the items in the back of Miriam’s drawer were oddly sophisticated, well-made and had been almost lovingly wrapped and hidden.
Delilah had the feeling that these items represented something to Miriam.
Something she was willing, or needed, to leave behind.
Delilah heard footsteps on the wooden floor in the hallway. Hastily, and for reasons even she was unsure of, Delilah tucked the items back in the dresser, covered them with lingerie, and closed the drawer.
“Find anything?” Lucinda said. She looked and sounded exhausted. In the watery bedroom light, Delilah could make out dark bags under her eyes, gray hair at her roots. Delilah felt a tender concern.
“No, but I have just a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
Lucinda nodded warily.
“Did your aunt have a lover?”
Lucinda looked startled. “Aunt Miriam? No.”
“Never?”
Lucinda shook her head. “None that we ever met. I often wondered if…if Aunt Miriam was gay.”
“Did she have girlfriends? Talk about women?”
“No, it wasn’t that. She just seemed asexual, I guess. Like relationships weren’t important to her.”
And she had no money for a train, taxi or bus.
Fuck.
She headed for the Quaker Meeting House and ran to the back of the building. She pulled her hair out of the clips, quickly unzipped her hoodie and threw it into the dumpster. It wasn’t much, but any alteration of her appearance would help. She kept the knife closed, but held it against her palm. Just in case.
She needed to get out of the area. Fast.
She looked around the side of the building and scanned the park. No sign of either of them. Goon number one would need medical attention. He could tell the cops she attacked him, but if he was a bad guy, and she was sure he was, he wouldn’t risk police involvement. And if he went to the hospital, they’d call the police. They always did for a knife wound. So he would dress it himself or, if he was Mafia, he would head for a mob doctor.
But goon number two would be more worried about her than about goon number one. That was the nature of those guys. And they would make her look a lot worse than goon number one looked.
If they caught her.
Natasha ran through her options in her head. Hiding was out of the question. They would out-wait her. She needed to go now, while they were still off-balance. She jogged down the Mall until she got to Market Street. There, running would be too conspicuous. She walked, quickly, side-stepping pedestrians and looking over her shoulder for her assailant. Her heart was pounding but her attention was razor-sharp, a benefit gleaned from years of living on the streets. She angled her way toward Penn’s Landing, her eyes on the river front.
At one point, she thought she saw the taller goon. She dashed across the street and flattened herself against a brick wall in a small alley way. But it turned out to be an elderly man. Same shape, different guy.
Once she got past the crowds, Natasha broke back into a jog. It wasn’t until she sprinted her way across Delaware Avenue that she let herself slow down. She looked behind her. No sign of the assholes. She tucked the knife into her front pocked and scanned the marina. There, on the side of the river, she saw what she was looking for. An unattended kayak, its paddles thrown carelessly alongside the fiberglass craft. Before she could talk herself out of it, she picked up the small boat, pushed it into the water, and jumped it. She had never kayaked before, but she’d figure it out. How hard could it be?
She pushed away from the edge and headed down-current. She didn’t need to go any great distance—just far enough to put some miles between her and the goons. She paddled, hard, trying to blend with the other boats in the marina while staying upright, just another jock out practicing on the river. She felt bad about stealing the boat, but she’d had no choice. She chided herself for coming into the job with no back-up money.
Never again. Natasha always made a point to learn from her mistakes.
She looked up. Route 95 followed the Delaware River. She’d get out along the way, dump the boat, and hitch a ride. Things would work out.
No sweat.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Natasha stood outside of Delilah’s barn, clearly terrified of the horses. Considering what she’d just been through, Delilah found this current fear amusing. She was proud of the girl for her resourcefulness. But she was annoyed that Natasha had followed the men at all. It’d been a huge risk.
Delilah finished brushing Millie. She stroked the silky underside of the mare’s muzzle and listened to Natasha’s recounting of events. It was late Monday afternoon. Clouds were crowding the sky and Delilah braced herself for a rash of evening thunderstorms. The humidity felt like a wet, heavy cloak. At least with rain there’d be some relief.
“Any sense of who they were?”
Natasha shook her head. “Goons. Hired ones, if I had to guess. At first I thought they might be cops, staking out the place. But neither of them looked too gifted in the brains department. And the short one had a New York accent.”
“Funny that Barb didn’t see anyone Saturday. So why would they be watching Miriam’s house now?” Delilah said. “And why risk coming after you?”
Natasha shrugged. “I thought I was being inconspicuous. I stayed back a full block,” she pointed at her clothes, “and I dressed like a student. Maybe they were there Saturday. Maybe Barb didn’t see them.”
“Doubtful, but maybe.” Delilah thought for a moment. “Either you saw something they didn’t want you to see, or you happened along at the wrong time.”
“Drugs?”
“It does sound like they were waiting for a delivery. But why would Miriam be mixed up in drugs?” Delilah gave the horse a gentle pat. “Did you see anything else suspicious?”
“No. Just the men.”
Delilah threw a saddle blanket on Millie’s back and a saddle on top of that. She buckled the belt that went underneath the horse and slid a finger between Millie and the girth to check for tightness. Next, she put the on the bit and the bridle. Gentle Millie leaned in toward Delilah, making the process easier. When Millie was saddled up, Delilah turned to Natasha.
“Want to give it a go?”
“No way.” Natasha backed up so that she was tucked into the trees that lined the other side of the fence. “Me and horses don’t mix.”
Delilah smiled. Natasha didn’t look any worse for wear after today’s ordeal. But she had stabbed a man. That was serious. And had the men caught her…Delilah didn’t even want to think about what could have happened. She purposefully hired competent women, women who could blend and be unobtrusive, but who had guts and wits and a dose of common sense. Barb was heavy on the common sense. Margot was big on wits. Natasha had enough of all three, but guts were her thing. And sometimes guts needed to be tempered with a strong dose of reality.
“No more going after people like that, Natasha. Until we know more about what we’re dealing with, we keep it clean and simple. You should have let them go. We gained nothing by your little adventure, other than risking your life.”
Natasha looked angry. “Is that an order?”
“I admire your courage. And your quick thinking. But yes, it’s an order.”
Delilah put one foot in a stirrup, heaved her weight onto that leg and swung the other leg over the horse’s back. She wiggled in the saddle, shifting forward to get comfortable, and grabbed the reins. She was in the mood for a ride through the woods. She’d get Millie some exercise, clear the cobwebs from her own head, and then go back to work. Natasha’s misadventure had made her curious. She wanted to speak with Lucinda again. There were a few things she needed to know.
When Delilah looked up from the reins, she saw Natasha staring at her. She looked like she’d swallowed nails.
“What?” Delilah said.
“You gave me an order.”
“I give you a paycheck, too,” Delilah said.
“You never give me orders. It makes me think you’re nervous.”
Delilah nudged the horse forward. Millie responded with a slow walk toward the fence where Natasha stood.
“I’m not nervous, Natasha,” Delilah said. “This is a game of chess. But until we know who our opponent is, we don’t what we’re up against. And we can’t be sure of our strategy.”
“Nothing’s going to happen if we just sit around, waiting for them to make a move.”
Delilah smiled. “Who said anything about sitting around? Besides, our opponents proved today that whatever Miriam was mixed up in, it didn’t end with her murder. It’s just a matter of time until they make their next play.”
After Natasha left, and after a short ride through the woods, Delilah called Lucinda. She didn’t answer her cell phone, so Delilah tried her work number. Someone picked up on the third ring.
“River Crossings Assisted Living, where the golden years are golden,” a flat voice said. “How may I direct your call?”
“Lucinda Mills, please.”
“One moment.”
One moment turned into three minutes, but eventually Lucinda came on the line. She spoke so softly that Delilah had trouble hearing her. In the background, Delilah heard the constant murmur of voices and the clang of metal against ceramic. She assumed Lucinda was in the nursing home’s dining room.
“I can’t really talk,” Lucinda said. “Did you find out anything?”
“I’ll update you, but not on the phone. We need to meet.”
“I get off work tonight at seven. I can meet you then. At Starbucks again?”
“No. At Miriam’s house in Chestnut Hill.”
Lucinda hesitated for a moment. “Why there?”
“You have a key?”
“Yes.”
“I want to look around. Meet me there at seven.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. The police—”
Delilah cut her off. “I need to look through her things, Lucinda.”
“There’s really nothing there. Nothing of importance, at least.”
Delilah persisted. “Trust me. Seven in Chestnut Hill?”
“If you say so,” the other woman said finally. “I’ll see you then.”
Delilah arrived at the Chestnut Hill home at six o’clock. She wanted time to check out the place while it was still light outside, to make certain it wasn’t being watched. If Natasha encountered henchmen at Miriam’s Center City house, it made sense that they could be here, too. She drove the nondescript Honda around the block until she’d located the property. Then she parked a block and a half away and watched for any signs of visitors.
The house was a three-story stone row home on a quiet city street, the end unit. Obviously old but, like the other houses in the neighborhood, well cared for. Flagstone steps led to a small landing. Wooden double doors marked the entrance, which had a peep hole and a bell, but no windows in the door. Instead, sidelights flanked the doorway, the trim around them painted a deep burgundy. No newspapers on the front porch, no piles of store circulars or UPS packages stacked by the door, no lights on inside. The house looked buttoned up and empty.
Delilah decided to take a walk around the property. She rarely carried a gun, but she’d brought her .38 snub nose today. She tucked it into the holster around her ankle and pulled the leg of her boot-cut jeans down to conceal the bulge. Then she got out of the car, locked the doors, and pushed her key down into her front pants pocket.
Outside, the afternoon sun sat low in the sky. Bands of pink and orange rose from the horizon. Delilah squinted in the glare. She walked down the block, attentive to her surroundings. There were few hiding places on this street. No rows of overgrown shrubs or iron gates. Just the rose bushes that lined the neighbor’s stoop. Still, she scanned the street for parked cars or unmarked vans. All clear. If someone was watching this property, they were well hidden.
Delilah checked the front door to Miriam’s house. Locked. Windows in the front were intact. Delilah walked quickly around the concrete path that led to the back of the property. A detached stone garage sat at the back edge of a small yard, a paved parking place in front of it. Like the house, the trim on the garage was freshly painted. The doors were in good shape and locked. There were no windows.
Delilah walked around the perimeter of tiny back yard, alert for sounds or movement. The grass was overgrown and weeds had sprouted between unkempt perennials. A koi pond sat empty next to a small stone patio. An iron bistro table and two iron scroll chairs adorned the patio. One chair had fallen onto its side.
Three concrete steps led to a back door, its window barred. Delilah tried the door. Locked. She scanned the back of the house for signs of a break-in. Nothing looked disturbed. The house seemed desolate and lonely, but solid. Delilah took a deep breath. It was six-forty-eight. Lucinda should be here soon. Delilah walked around the front of the property and waited.
Lucinda arrived ten minutes late.
The younger woman ran up the steps. She still wore her work uniform and her rubber clogs made a hollow sound against the stone. She nodded at Delilah and pulled a key from her purse. Once inside, she flicked up the light switch, and a soft glow flooded the front foyer.
“I figured the power would be off,” Lucinda said.
“It’ll take a few months before the power company gets around to cutting off service.”
“But that means she kept the power on when she wasn’t living here. Why?”
“Appearances,” Delilah said. “She wanted people to think she still lived here. Mind if I look around?”
Lucinda shook her head. “Not at all. I’m going to sit for a few minutes. Been standing all day.”
Delilah took off down the hall. The front door opened into a small foyer, outlined with white and gray marble tiles. Through an open closet door, Delilah saw coats and shoes on the floor. One scarf, knitted from fuzzy purple wool, lay half in and half out of the cramped space.
The entryway led into a large living room. On one end stood a baby grand piano. The other end was designed to be an intimate parlor: a loveseat and two upholstered chairs faced each other across an antique coffee table. Stacks of books, their jackets now dusty, had been scattered across the table. A notebook sat on the floor next to a Bic pen, its cap off. Delilah flipped through the notebook. Mostly blank.
Delilah walked through a small dining room and into the kitchen. Clean but cluttered. Stacks of books were scattered on a small tiled table. Mostly fiction, but Delilah also saw a photography book on Russia and a treatise on investing. Two kitchen towels hung crookedly from the stove handle. A saucepan sat in the sink, its bottom covered with a cloudy liquid. The small countertop was covered with dishes and cups. They were all clean, but someone—either Miriam or the police—had placed them haphazardly on the granite surface. Two cabinet doors stood open, their dark interiors mostly empty.
Unlike the Philadelphia property Barb had described, this house looked as though its owner left in the middle of everyday activity. Delilah thought about what Enid, Emily Cray’s landlord, had told her: Miriam arrived with only a few boxes of belongings.
Which meant she had needed a place to stay, quickly. And that matched the look of this house, which said she’d left in a hurry. And never returned?
If so, what was going on? Why had Miriam Cross needed to abandon her beautiful old home in Chestnut Hill?
There was a beater involved, Enid had said. There’s always a beater.
Delilah was beginning to wonder.
At 8:10 p.m., Delilah finished her walk-through the property. The rest of the house looked like the downstairs. Closet doors open, cabinets half empty, towels scattered on the bathroom floor, medicine cabinet empty. Books and magazines were strewn everywhere, but none of them gave Delilah any clue to what Miriam had been working on. There were no themes, no red flags. Just the eclectic collection of an educated, intellectual woman.
Miriam’s bedroom was the only oddity. The bed was stripped—the police again, probably looking for semen or some other DNA sample that might offer a clue. But other than that, the room was largely intact. Someone had folded the comforter over a taupe armchair. The room itself was decorated in browns, taupe, and ice blue. The furniture was a rich Cherry wood, simple, with antique brass pulls. It looked custom made.
Most of Miriam’s clothes were still in the closet and the drawers. Suits, jeans, sweaters, many of them designer pieces, size six petite, hung on black matching hangers in a closet that seemed small by today’s standards. Delilah reached toward the closet, then hesitated. It felt wrong to go through another woman’s things. But she had no choice. Just maybe buried within this closet was a clue. A woman’s clothes spoke volumes about taste, priorities and finances.
The closet was stuffed to capacity. Why hadn’t Miriam taken more clothes when she left? And why hadn’t she come back again to pack them up? The full closet supported the notion of a fast escape and backed up Enid’s story that Miriam had showed up with only a few suitcases. Miriam apparently wanted to change her name and her image. She wanted to blend in with the norm in Willston. And two-hundred-dollar silk blouses would not have helped her to do that.
Finished with the closet, Delilah glanced around the room. Only Miriam’s tall dresser remained. Delilah opened the top drawer and did a quick inventory of cotton underwear and flannel nightshirts. Nothing interesting. In the second drawer though, Delilah found lingerie. Not simply Victoria’s Secret, the kind Delilah might buy for herself, but expensive French lingerie, some of it risqué. Peek-a-boo teddies and crotch-less panties and corsets with matching garter belts. Silk sheer stockings and lace chemises and jeweled thongs.
And tucked way in the back, behind hundreds of dollars of foreign-made underwear, were the toys.
Padded handcuffs, a black satin blindfold, and beautiful silk scarves with colorful, intricate designs. It wasn’t a lurid collection, which was probably why the police had left it all here. Rather, the items in the back of Miriam’s drawer were oddly sophisticated, well-made and had been almost lovingly wrapped and hidden.
Delilah had the feeling that these items represented something to Miriam.
Something she was willing, or needed, to leave behind.
Delilah heard footsteps on the wooden floor in the hallway. Hastily, and for reasons even she was unsure of, Delilah tucked the items back in the dresser, covered them with lingerie, and closed the drawer.
“Find anything?” Lucinda said. She looked and sounded exhausted. In the watery bedroom light, Delilah could make out dark bags under her eyes, gray hair at her roots. Delilah felt a tender concern.
“No, but I have just a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
Lucinda nodded warily.
“Did your aunt have a lover?”
Lucinda looked startled. “Aunt Miriam? No.”
“Never?”
Lucinda shook her head. “None that we ever met. I often wondered if…if Aunt Miriam was gay.”
“Did she have girlfriends? Talk about women?”
“No, it wasn’t that. She just seemed asexual, I guess. Like relationships weren’t important to her.”
