Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [4]
“So what happened the night the necklace was stolen?” I asked.
Monica picked up the story. “As I told you, for the previous two nights, Sister and I had seen someone on the grounds of Briarcliff.”
“Can you describe the person?” I asked.
“Only generically. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wore dark clothing, and moved with extreme grace.” The sisters shared a look. “We have a live-in gardener, Jerome Lolly. Though he was watching out for the intruder, he never saw a thing. The thief was like a phantom. I could only catch a glimpse here, a flit of movement there.”
“Footprints?” I asked.
“The lawn is thick around the house. There was no trace to support our complaint. That’s one reason the police never took us seriously.”
“And Jerome Lolly saw nothing,” Tinkie said.
“Not a thing.” Eleanor’s tone softened. “But he believed us. He’s worked at Briarcliff for more than three decades and has run off a lot of curiosity seekers and treasure hunters. Briarcliff is a … part of the local lore.”
“We don’t live there year round,” Monica said. “When we’re absent, the mice come out to play.”
They were very feline women—elegant, graceful, and nobody’s fools. “Has anything ever been stolen before?” I asked.
“Statuary from the gardens, furnishings in the gazebo or porches, tack from the old stables. Nothing of real value. I think the young people have scavenger hunts that require a tiny bit of Briarcliff.”
Tinkie put us back on track. “So you saw an intruder two nights before the necklace was stolen.”
“Exactly.” Monica squared her shoulders. “The third evening, Sister and I took something to help us relax. We were exhausted from the past two sleepless nights. I guess we finally accepted the police’s opinion, that the intruder was either a prankster or a figment of our overactive imaginations.”
“You both saw him?” I wasn’t clear on this point.
“Only me,” Monica said. “By the time I roused Sister, he was gone.”
“And the night the necklace was stolen,” Tinkie said, “did you see or hear anything?”
“No. I’d taken the sleeping pill. I didn’t wake up. And neither did Eleanor.”
“How did the thief enter your home?” I asked.
“The front-parlor window. The latch was old.” Monica bit her lip. “Briarcliff needs a complete overhaul. New windows are being built, as I mentioned. The police don’t understand that these things take time.”
I understood. Dahlia House needed work, too, but I wasn’t loaded like the Levert gals. Old homes are a money pit, and some updates, unless carefully orchestrated, can destroy the historic integrity.
“The latch was already broken?” Tinkie pressed.
“Not exactly broken, but antique,” Monica said. “It didn’t take much to pressure it off.”
“How would a thief know to go to that particular window?” I asked.
“These are the same questions Mr. Nesbitt at Langley Insurance asked,” Monica said. “I suppose it might be one of the first windows an intruder would try. It’s on the front of the house, and our bedrooms are in the back wing. And it’s a walk-through window. The house was designed to capture the breezes off the river.”
Most antebellum homes were built with a thought for cooling. Prior to air-conditioning houses made the most of wind and shade, to combat Mississippi’s oppressive summer heat.
“Were any of the other windows even tried?” Tinkie asked.
Monica’s brow furrowed, but it was Eleanor who answered. “How would we be able to tell? Chief Randall dusted, but there were no prints other than ours or Kissie’s, our housekeeper. The police deduced the thief wore gloves.”
“And the necklace was kept in a safe?” I asked.
“Normally, that would be the case. Old Barthelme installed an indestructible vault in the basement. It survived the Yankees and god knows how many attempts by robbers. Barthelme knew the tactics of highwaymen and pirates, and he built a safe no one could crack.” Monica rolled her eyes. “He was thorough in keeping out his brethren.