The Butler Didn't Do It - Maria Lima [2]
I couldn’t see any motive for killing my aunt. The staff had a good deal whether or not Clara was dead or alive, unless Jamison had figured out some way to bleed the trust dry. But that was unlikely. To what end? He’d always struck me as a career butler. To my layman’s eye, the provisions of the trust looked pretty straightforward. There was even a clause that made the whole thing invalid if Clara’s death was found to have been caused by any or all of the persons named as benefiting from the will.
I sat staring at my screen wondering what I wasn’t seeing here. Why would Gerald think that Jamison had killed my aunt? What motive would he have had?
“What’re you doing?” my cousin’s voice startled me out of my thoughts. I quickly glanced up at the screen, relieved to find that my screensaver had kicked in.
I closed the laptop and turned towards him. “So, where were you?” I asked. “Taking a joy ride in Auntie’s Rolls?” My voice was sarcastic.
He frowned at me, getting that silly pompous look. It meant that he thought he was being responsible. “I was making arrangements,” he said, puffing up his chest.
“Fine,” I said, crossing my arms. “So what are they?”
“What are what?” he asked.
“The arrangements. What are they?” I looked at him. He hadn’t been taking care of himself. I’m not one to talk, working full time and writing until all hours doesn’t exactly make me a candidate for a Wheaties box, but Gerald looked as if he’d been up all night. Maybe he had.
“The funeral will be tomorrow,” he said. “Montmorency and Sons will take care of things.
“We’ll have the viewing tonight.” He looked down and mumbled something I didn’t quite catch. It almost sounded as if he’d said “if she cooperates”.
I frowned. “What did you say, Gerald?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Would you like to pay your respects?”
Oh, God, it suddenly hit me. “She’s here?” I asked. I had assumed my aunt’s body had been taken to the funeral home. I should have remembered my cousin’s obsession with the whole “lord of the manor” thing.
“Of course she is,” he said. “She’s in the chapel. It wouldn’t do to have the neighboring gentry go to a mortuary.”
I could picture it now. Gerald would be dressed in his best shiny black suit, holding court in the drawing room while visitors traipsed out to the chapel to do whatever it is one does when one comes to view the recently deceased.
“Do you want to go pay your respects?” he repeated.
“Yes,” I stated. “I think I will go see her.” I wasn’t too happy with the idea, but figured I should do something as a family member.
“Would you like me to escort you?” he asked, holding out his hand. He may have been trying to be kind, but I could see his hand shaking a little. It was probably damp, too.
“No, thanks, I’ll go on my own. It’s only Aunt Clara.” I sounded a lot more sure of myself than I was. It was a little weird having the dead body of your possibly murdered aunt in the same house, but the chapel was off one wing and not really in the main section. It’s not as if it was next door to my bedroom or anything. And after all, she was dead.
* * * *
I wiped my hands on my jeans. This wing was darker and much colder, too, as if neither light nor heat could reach this far. The hallway boasted beautiful stained glass panels that, gorgeous as they were, let in precious little ambient light. Clara had never shown much interest in the chapel and the lighting hadn’t been updated. A few flickering bulbs threw off a pale yellow light that made the passageway seem even darker by comparison.
I was hoping the main overhead lights in the chapel still worked, or I was hightailing it out of there. I fully admit to being a bit of a chicken. Maybe it’s the novels I write but I have way too active of an imagination.
I reached the door and pushed it open slowly. A soft flickering light came