“Yikes,” A.J. said, watching Elysia deal quickly, if grimly, with the mess. The pointy-faced culprit gazed down at them from the recipe books on the shelf above the stove. “Is that-?”
“It is,” Elysia said darkly. “We’re working on potty training.”
“Uh oh.”
“Oh, she’s not so bad,” Elysia said quickly. “A little mischievous, perhaps. In fact I was thinking Monster might like a little sister.” As convincing performances went, she’d given better.
“You’ve got to be joking,” A.J. said. “A little snack maybe. A little sister, no. He’s definitely an only child.”
They both studied the ferret peeking out at them.
“She’s very cute,” A.J. said.
“Yes. I suppose she’s missing Maddie.”
“Well then she’ll probably settle down, don’t you think?”
“I think she’s a fiend from Hell in cuddly clothing,” Elysia stated for the record. “On the bright side, I’ve been reading up and they don’t live that long. Usually six to ten years, and I believe Maddie said something about her being seven years old.”
“Mother.”
“I’m just being realistic, pumpkin. She’s as adorable as a stuffed toy, yes, and if she were stuffed, we’d get along beautifully. As it is, she’s one hell of a nuisance.”
A.J. had to bite her lip to keep a straight face. “Look at that little face. That little pink nose, those little beady eyes.”
Elysia sniffed. Morag sniffed back. Or perhaps she hissed. It was uncertain at that height.
“Maybe next time you’ll think twice before you nab someone’s pet.”
Elysia ignored this and went back to restoring order to her ransacked kitchen. A.J. found a sponge under the sink and scrubbed the granite counter as she filled her mother in on everything Jake had told her the evening before.
“Perhaps we should go see Dora Beauford,” Elysia said thoughtfully, tossing the soiled sponge in the trash bin.
Her kitchen was once more immaculate. However, if the sounds of tinkling glass from the dining room were anything to go by, Hurricane Morag was striking the west wing of the house.
A.J. thought it might be in Morag’s best interests if she were to otherwise occupy Elysia’s attention. “I’m not sure there’s a point. Jake seemed to think Beauford’s alibi was pretty much unshakeable.”
Elysia shook her head in the manner of Holmes lamenting Watson’s general obliviousness to the significance of tropical flowers. “One doesn’t question suspects merely to eliminate or convict them. Suspects often have useful information about other suspects. We need to gather as much information as possible to form an accurate picture of what really happened to poor Dicky.”
“Dora might not want to talk to us.”
“We won’t know unless we ask, will we?”
A.J. used her Palm Pre to look up Dora Beauford on the Internet. There were two Dora Beaufords. One was an elderly South Carolina widow who had passed away in 2001 and one was a professor at Warren County Community College.
“Got her!” Elysia’s smile would have given Snow White’s stepmother pause for thought.
“How do you want to approach her? Drop her an e-mail or call the college?”
“Why shouldn’t we call her directly? She’s in the phone directory.” Still smiling that alarming smile, Elysia held the book up.
Dora Beauford lived in a very old brick apartment building in the small, historic borough of Washington. A.J. had been lucky and caught the archeology professor just before she left the college campus for the day: mention of Dicky Massri had apparently convinced Dora to see them. Within a few minutes of walking into the relaxed but stylish clutter of Dora’s apartment it was immediately clear to A.J. why Dora loved to talk. Especially about herself.
“Coffee, tea, mineral water… wine?” Dora inquired as they seated themselves on the long zebra-striped sofa. The room’s furnishings were modern and eclectic: tailored, upholstered furniture, oriental tables and chests, lamps of blown glass and bronze, and a quantity of Egyptian-looking statues and objets d’art.
Replicas?
The long, low, carved table in front of the sofa was covered with papers, books, folders. Dora appeared to have been grading papers when they interrupted.
“Tea would be lovely,” Elysia said.
A.J. agreed.
“Well, I’m having a glass of wine,” Dora stated. She disappeared in the apartment cubbyhole of a kitchen.
Elysia nodded at the resin cat statue on a low bookshelf. She raised her eyebrows.
A.J. shrugged. She whispered, “Do you think her voice sounds anything like the voice we heard in Dicky’s apartment when we were searching it?”
Elysia considered. She was still considering as Dora reappeared with a glass of wine and sat down on a blue tailored chair across from them. “The kettle’s on. Chin chin.” She sipped her wine.
A.J. curiously scrutinized their hostess. Dora was a trim brunette in her mid-fifties with dark hair and brown eyes. She was very put together: designer jeans, a shortsleeved silk blouse, and ethnic jewelry.
“So how did you know Dakarai?” Dora inquired, looking from Elysia to A.J. with her bright, dark eyes.
Elysia said, “We were seeing each other shortly before his death.”
Dora gave an unexpectedly harsh laugh. “Oh yes?” She took another sip of her wine. “Well, if you want to know my opinion, the little twerp got exactly what was coming to him.”
It didn’t get much blunter than that. A.J. had to wonder at such frankness to strangers. Once again she considered Dora’s voice. Had it been the voice of the woman in Dicky’s apartment? By now it was difficult to accurately remember those slightly harsh but definitely feminine tones.
“What did he do to you?” Elysia asked the other woman with genuine interest.
Dora said flatly, “He lied to me. He cheated on me. He broke my heart-”
“Did he try to blackmail you?” A.J. questioned.
Dora, mid-tirade, stopped. “Blackmail? No. What could he blackmail me about?”
Now there was a good point. Blackmail was only possible where the victim had something significant to lose by exposure. Dora did not seem like the retiring flower type.
“The papers said something about extortion. Some women are sensitive to-”
“Some women are idiots,” Dora retorted. “If that little weasel had ever suggested blackmail, I’d have…” She described in lavish and loving detail what she would do to any man foolish enough to, in Elysia’s vernacular, “put the squeeze on her.”
Two things became immediately clear to A.J. First, Dora had a slight impulse control problem. Secondly, Dora would be a very bad person to try and blackmail. If Dicky had been foolish enough to try, A.J. could believe that Dora might very well have killed him. Unfortunately, there remained the problem of Dora’s alibi.
Could it be broken? It seemed unlikely. If there was one person whom it would be all but impossible to fake out, it would be one’s hairdresser. She-or he-would be bound to notice one disappearing in the midst of the cut or color.
Besides, Jake was thorough about such things. He understood what was at stake.
Elysia was asking, “Where did you meet?”
“Egypt. I was part of an international professor exchange. My field is archeology. I met Dakarai in Cairo. He told me he was wary of involvement, a poor risk for a relationship; that he was getting over a bad marriage to a rich American actress.” She sneered at some memory and took another swallow of wine. “Oh, he did it beautifully, I’ll give him that. I realize now none of it was true.”
“He was briefly married to a friend of mine,” Elysia said. “The actress Medea Sutherland. That was probably what he was referring to.”