The Guy Who Died Twice Read online

  She pushed away from the wall, glanced down the stairs. The waiting staff saw her silhouette and immediately scattered. She swore the maid, Paulette, was holding an old-fashioned feather duster, another piece from the Downton Abbey stage set, which she now hastily brushed over random pieces of furniture.

  “Tell me about Paulette,” D.D. murmured.

  “Umm.” Carol swiped through some screens on her phone. “Paulette Grenville. Thirty-four. Immigrated to the U.S. from Belgium three years ago.”

  The accent, D.D. thought.

  “Unmarried,” Carol continued. “No driver’s license, which must make getting around the city a pain in the ass, especially during the winter. Though, given she’s a live-in, I’m not sure how much she gets out and about. I found her room on the third floor. Not a single personal item present, unless you count the piles of makeup in the attached bath. She’s definitely a woman passionate about beauty products, though not necessarily to the best effect.”

  “Expenses?”

  “Doesn’t seem to have any.” Carol shrugged. “On paper, her life is uneventful.”

  D.D. gave her a look. “Seriously? How does a grown woman become a maid? Gotta be some kind of story behind that.”

  “Most likely a domestic hiring service. That’s how these things are usually done. Paulette immigrates to the US. Maybe doesn’t have a lot of skills or can’t transfer the degree she has earned in Europe.”

  “Such as the lag with Dr. Anil’s licensing,” D.D. murmured. He’d come from France fifteen years ago. Paulette from Belgium three years ago. The countries were close; parts of Belgium spoke French, if memory served. Could there be a connection between Dr. Anil and Paulette? A dozen years later? Seemed a bit far-fetched.

  “Paulette registers with a domestic hiring service,” Carol continued. “They run a background check, rate her skills. She passes muster, then they place her with one of their clients, such as the LaToiles. It’s probably how most of the staff got their jobs. Or the LaToiles hired them away from their wealthy friends. That happens, too.”

  “And you know this how?” D.D. asked.

  “I read a lot,” Carol deadpanned. “Unfortunately, I can’t tell you anything about Paulette’s life before she immigrated, and I can barely tell you about her life now. Tax forms aren’t exactly riveting material. But as a matter of principle, she doesn’t appear to have any financial irregularities in her income or expenses.”

  D.D. frowned again. They needed information. Even more than Mrs. LaToile appeared to be generously providing.

  “Who else? Manuel? Ernesto?” D.D. prodded.

  “Ernesto the gardener—excuse me, head gardener—has been employed for the past eleven years. He also has the distinction of withdrawing significant funds each month. In cash.”

  That caught D.D.’s attention. “Gambling? Sex addict? Give me something I can use.”

  “Mmm, if I had to guess, supporting family back home. He’s from Mexico. Has his green card—again, the LaToiles do everything by the book. I don’t see any record of a wife, however, but I noticed he’s wearing a wedding ring. I’m guessing his family remained behind.”

  “For eleven years?”

  “Some marriages work better that way.”

  “If Ernesto has a green card, I’m willing to bet Adam LaToile helped him get it. Don’t you think if Ernesto really wanted his whole family to be with him in the US . . .”

  “The LaToiles have the kind of money and resources to assist with that as well,” Carol filled in.

  “But he didn’t. Why?” She stared at Carol. “Any evidence he’s involved with someone else? Second family? Hell, Paulette?”

  “I can’t get that from tax forms,” Carol said, holding up her phone again.

  “No, we’re going to have to dig deeper. This household, there’s something about it . . . Manuel?” she prodded now.

  “Fifty-two, married, three kids. Been employed for twelve years. Donates to his church regularly. On paper, a nice, stable guy.”

  “Before this?”

  “Uh . . . haven’t had time to go back that far. We could just ask him.”

  “Charlie?” The driver and now their last hope for something, anything significant.

  Before Carol could answer, there was a noise in the doorway. Ben appeared, the gurney directly behind him. He regarded D.D. levelly. She nodded her assent. Removal of the body was always a sobering moment in an investigation. Especially in this kind of circumstance. A man murdered in his own bed in his own home. His loved ones, staff, associates, gathered on the premises.

  Most would mourn. But one would not.

  Neil and Phil were already taking up position downstairs. Their job would be to monitor the crowd, so to speak. Gauge each person’s reaction. See who might give him- or herself away.

  Ben rolled the gurney to the top of the stairs. And as if summoned, the staff reappeared one by one. Including, this time, Mrs. LaToile and Dr. Anil.

  Ben picked up one end, his assistant the other. Slowly they descended the stairs. Below, the staff wordlessly formed two lines, one on each side, as custom dictated.

  In the middle of the gurney, Mr. LaToile’s corpse was zippered tight in a black body bag. A small gasp from someone. Mrs. LaToile, covering her mouth with her hand.

  Still, so quiet, you could hear every breath taken.

  Descending the stairs behind the ME, D.D. began to scan faces.

  Manuel silently stepped forward, opened the front door, held it open. He stood at rigid attention, his face grave. A soldier paying final respects. Charlie had his driver’s cap in his hands, lines of moisture obvious on his face as he watched his employer—his friend?—of twenty-five years make his final exit. Chef Dennis was once again wringing a towel but holding his place with quiet dignity, while Ernesto the gardener stood slightly to the side, his features drawn, anxious.

  Then there was Paulette, closest to the stairs. Her heavily made-up face as impassive as ever. But a tremor snaked through her as the body passed. Then another, another. She looked at nothing, no one.

  But D.D. would swear the woman was grieving. Personally, deeply, even if D.D. didn’t understand why.

  The gurney passed through the door. With a shuddering sigh, Mrs. LaToile turned toward Dr. Anil. He patted her shoulder, awkwardly D.D. thought, given how intimate their conversation had appeared only an hour before.

  Then Adam LaToile was gone, their twice-dead victim now officially on his way to the morgue.

  Manuel closed the door.

  One by one the staff dispersed back into the gaping maw of the mansion.

  D.D. returned to Carol.

  Just in time for the screaming to begin.

  Back at home on the sofa . . .

  “Screaming?” Alex spoke up in surprise. “Like, eek, there’s a mouse screaming, or full-on horror show?”

  “Full-on horror,” D.D. assured him. “It went on and on. Carol and I practically fell down the stairs trying to race to the source.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Mrs. LaToile. She’d returned to the sunroom with the good doctor.”

  “And, what, stumbled upon another dead body?”

  “Come on, I’m going for winner of strangest case. A second body wouldn’t be strange. It would be obvious.”

  “Only in your world,” Alex assured her. “What would make a woman scream like that?”

  “Words,” D.D. supplied. “Scrawled across the far wall in dripping red: ‘I am not dead.’”

  Alex’s eyes widened. “I am not dead?”

  “Yep. Then all hell broke loose.”

  Three hours earlier . . .

  D.D. and Carol had barely made it down to the foyer when Mrs. LaToile came racing straight at them. Her face was pale, her eyes frantic, as she threw herself at the front door.

  “G
et him out, get him out, get him out. He’s not dead, he’s not dead, he’s not dead. Adam . . .” the woman wailed.

  Manuel was only steps behind. The burly manservant caught his petite employer around the waist and scooped her back just as she started pounding her fists against the heavy mahogany door. Dr. Anil was steps behind him, the rest of the staff following quickly in his wake.

  “Martha, you must calm down. Take a deep breath. Martha!”

  “Adam, I must see Adam. We must check Adam. That bag. The horrible black bag, get him out, get him out!”

  “Mrs. LaToile.” D.D. had just stepped forward when Charlie surprised her by holding up a hand.

  “I will go, Mrs. LaToile,” he spoke up, his calm, deep voice penetrating her hysteria. “I will personally check on Mr. LaToile. It would be my honor.”

  Mrs. LaToile stopped screaming long enough to stare at the family driver. “You must help him, Charlie. Please, help Adam.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  “What if there has been some terrible mistake. What if he wakes up, zipped in that bag? I could never . . . Oh, my poor Adam. I could never forgive myself.”

  “I will take care of Mr. LaToile,” Charlie promised solemnly. He nodded at each of them in the foyer, then—squeezing around Manuel, who still had a grip on Mrs. LaToile—exited through the front door. D.D. nodded at Neil, who quickly followed the driver, Carol in tow.

  “Show me the sitting room,” she ordered no one in particular.

  “I would like to take Mrs. LaToile to rest in her study,” Dr. Anil spoke up. “I don’t think she should return to . . . that.”

  “Fine.”

  “I will stay with her,” Manuel said stiffly. D.D. looked at the big guy. Mrs. LaToile had practically collapsed against him. If he let go now, D.D. wasn’t convinced the woman would remain vertical.

  “Okay.” She glanced at Phil, who already knew the drill. He’d take the three to the study, which left D.D. with a maid, a chef, and a gardener, all headed for the sunroom. Paulette, D.D. noticed, had picked up the feather duster again. She was spinning it in her hands over and over again.

  When D.D. had entered the rear sitting room earlier today, it had been a peaceful composition of pale cream and soothing sage. Now, scrawled on the back wall, like a giant, bloody billboard, were the words I am not dead.

  The were more drips of red on the sofa, leading across the floor to the patio doors. A rush job, D.D. thought. The perpetrator struggling to get the cap back on the spray can as he or she raced from the room.

  Ernesto led the way to the French doors. D.D. and Paulette followed. The red drips led to a small outbuilding.

  “My shed, for gardening supplies,” Ernesto volunteered, unlatching the door.

  “And you carry red spray paint?”

  “No, ma’am. Never. Some black Rust-Oleum for outdoor furniture repair. But red? We have no such color on the property.”

  Inside the shed were shelves filled with various gardening supplies and rose fertilizers. Then, in a trash can in the corner, a new can of red spray paint, exterior still dripping. Also a pair of cotton work gloves, covered in red and hastily discarded.

  D.D. scowled at the gloves. Rubber, latex, she might’ve been able to get some prints she could finally use. But cotton work gloves? Her case wasn’t getting any easier to break.

  She eased back from the shed, which was pretty much standing room only.

  “Where were you when Mrs. LaToile screamed?” she asked Ernesto.

  “In the kitchen. With Chef Dennis. I help him sometimes, chop things. It is . . . soothing.”

  D.D. turned her attention to Paulette. “And you?”

  “In the butler’s pantry, polishing and putting away the tea service. I had cleared it just before . . .” The woman swallowed heavily. “Before,” she said simply.

  Before Mr. LaToile’s body had been removed on the gurney.

  “You were the last person in the sunroom?”

  Paulette shook her head. “Mrs. LaToile and Dr. Anil were still present when I removed the tray. I didn’t see them again until . . . the foyer.”

  “You didn’t go back into the sunroom.”

  “No. My work there was done.”

  D.D. tried to picture the sunroom, kitchen, butler’s pantry, in her mind. Which rooms led to which, how many entrances and exits. She failed miserably. The house felt like a giant labyrinth to her. Problems, on her detective’s salary, she would never have.

  “Where is the chef?” she asked now, because she swore Chef Dennis had been right behind them.

  “He returned to the kitchen.” Ernesto hesitated. “He doesn’t like drama. Recipes, he says, are easier to manage than people.”

  D.D. studied Ernesto. “Did you happen to see his hands? Were they red?”

  Ernesto shook his head. “He was cleaning the scallops. I watched him wash his hands right before he started. He saw me. I saw him.” Ernesto flicked a glance at Paulette. In other words, he didn’t see her.

  In response, Paulette extended both of her hands for D.D. and Ernesto to see.

  No traces of red paint.

  Nothing about this case wanted to be easy.

  “All right,” D.D. declared. “Back to the house. All of us.”

  I am not dead, she thought.

  Then, as if to prove her point, Charlie the driver returned to report that Adam LaToile was indeed, still, again, definitely dead.

  “So why the message?” D.D. muttered at Phil, Neil, and Carol as they all lingered in the foyer, no one sure what to do next. “I am not dead. I am not dead. I am not—”

  D.D. paused, staring at her detectives, and finally, finally, felt the pieces click into place.

  “Fetch the chef,” she murmured to Phil, as the cook was the only staff member missing. “Carol, Neil, I have one last research assignment for each of you. And then . . .”

  “Then?” Phil prodded.

  “I believe I will expose all. In the library, with a candlestick. Or something like that.”

  Her squad rolled their eyes at the melodrama but each went to work, while D.D. prepared for what she needed to do next.

  Back at home on the sofa . . .

  “It’s the wife,” Alex said again.

  “Close, but no cigar.”

  “How can it be close? The wife is the only family Mr. LaToile has left. And the one with the most to gain.”

  “If the motive is money.”

  “The motive is almost always money. Or love. Either way, we’re back to the wife.”

  “Spouse! Now, come on, you want to know who did it or not?”

  “You solved the case? In a matter of hours?”

  “I said the case was strange. I didn’t say I was incompetent.”

  Alex grinned at her. “All right, my confident spouse. Proceed.”

  Two and half hours earlier . . .

  Neil did the honors of rounding up the staff and getting them ensconced in the downstairs library, which was off Mrs. LaToile’s private study. No one was speaking as they took up positions around the wood-paneled room. Mrs. LaToile took center seat on a dark-green velvet sofa. Dr. Anil and Manuel made themselves comfortable on either side of her, both still studying the shell-shocked woman with open concern.

  Ernesto the gardener perched on the end of a wooden chair, clearly uncomfortable in the dark, cluttered space, where old, leather-bound volumes outnumbered the humans by at least twenty to one. Chef Dennis didn’t look much happier about being out of his natural habitat, taking the wooden chair across from Ernesto and still clutching his tea towel.

  Which left Charlie the driver in one monstrous wingback chair, appearing resigned to his fate, while Paulette sat stiffly in the other. As usual, her gaze was fixed straight ahead, lost beneath a sea of blue eye shadow.

  No tea serv
ice or cookies this time. Having eaten nearly an entire plate of shortbread, D.D. figured that was probably a good thing.

  She conferred briefly with Carol outside the library, touched base with Neil, then nodded at Phil, who had the final role in the unfolding events.

  With all the players present, D.D. walked into the room. Neil went to stand by one doorway, Carol the other.

  “Do we need lawyers?” Dr. Anil asked nervously. “I think we should call our lawyers.”

  “You can. But I’m not here to ask you questions,” D.D. said. “I’m here to tell you a story.”

  The assembled cast shifted nervously. But no one tried to leave.

  “It starts nearly twenty years ago, with a death of a young girl, Leticia LaToile. A terrible tragedy for any family, but especially for a father prone to acute depression. His fifteen-year-old daughter died, his first marriage crumbled, and Adam LaToile was left adrift.”

  She paused, looked around the room. The chef was still working his tea towel. Nervous breakdown, Carol had learned. The real reason Chef Dennis had had to leave his high-end job two years ago and take up a position with the LaToiles. He hadn’t the stamina for the restaurant industry. Which was why D.D. now mentally removed him from her suspect list. For Chef Dennis, the job to serve as resident cook for Adam LaToile had to have seemed like a godsend. Why kill the golden goose indeed?

  Which left her with . . .

  She homed in on Charlie the driver. “You were with Mr. LaToile back then. One of his only remaining staff members who knew his first wife, had memories of his daughter. He must’ve leaned on you heavily in the wake of the tragedy.”

  Charlie nodded earnestly. He had tear tracks on his cheeks.

  “You traveled with him, didn’t you? You and his private nurse. All through Europe. You were his driver, whether home or abroad. And you loved him, didn’t you? Enough to keep his secrets.”

  Charlie bowed his head. “Mr. LaToile was a great man,” he said heavily. “Carrying burdens no man should have to bear. I was honored to be his confidant.”