Dial M for Mischief. Kasey Michaels

“Did the police search up here that night?”

      “Up here?” Jolie frowned as she carefully laid the blouses, hangers and all, in the suitcase opened on the bed. “I don’t know. Why would they search up here?”

      “Isn’t Jade’s office up here?”

      “Yes, but—oh. You’re saying that someone might have come here to demand something that Teddy had and then somehow shot him with his own gun and left before he found whatever it was that he wanted?”

      Sam didn’t say that he found it difficult to believe that Teddy could “eat” his own gun unless he’d done it himself. He certainly couldn’t say that he was just plain nosy, even if he was. “Anything’s possible,” he said, shrugging.

      “We’ll have to ask Jade.”

      “True, but she’s been under a strain these last days. You all have. Plus, Teddy might have hidden something in his bedroom rather than keep it in his office if he was worried about something.”

      “I didn’t think of that. We only went into his room one time, to get clothes for the burial.”

      “Maybe if I took a quick look around?”

      “I can’t go in Teddy’s room again, Sam. Not yet. You do it while I finish up here.”

      He didn’t need a second invitation or even bother to ask Jolie which room was which.

      The first door he opened had to be to Jessica’s room. Pink and white, complete with a canopy bed littered with stuffed animals and a half dozen huge cheerleading trophies lined up on wall shelves. The huge wall poster of Dan Rather during his years of reporting in Vietnam would have seemed out of place expect for the career path Jessica had chosen.

      He opened the other door on that side of the large, square hallway and stepped into Teddy Sunshine’s bedroom. It was a small room, clearly not designed as the master bedroom, and held only a single bed, a large dresser that was probably the companion to the one in Jolie’s bedroom and a small desk on the far wall. The only thing on the desk was an ancient twelve-inch television set.

      Sam opened the door to the closet and smiled at the colorful array of Hawaiian-print shirts and a short row of identical khaki slacks. Teddy’s post-cop uniform. Sam wondered if he’d been buried in his only suit and then wondered if Teddy had even owned a suit.

      “We buried him in his blues,” Jolie said from the doorway as if he’d spoken out loud. “Even as a detective, he had to keep a set of blues for certain occasions. He was so proud to have been a cop. And then to be denied a cop’s funeral? Right now we should all be crowded in down at Shandy’s Pub for one hell of a party, laughing, telling stories about Teddy, listening to more outrageous stories, all while lifting pints to his memory. That’s the way he wanted to go out, Sam, he always said so. No tears. Laughter.”

      Sam closed the door on the Hawaiian shirts. “Jade’s room is across the hall?” he asked, feeling stupid because he had nothing to say that could make up for the honors Teddy had been denied.

      “She won’t like us looking around in her room,” Jolie said, leading the way. “Just look at her desk, Sam, that’s all.”

      He waited for her to enter the room and then followed after her to see that Jade had the largest bedroom.

      Once again Jolie seemed to be reading his mind. “When Mom left, Dad took over Jade’s room and gave her his. He just couldn’t stand being in the room anymore. Jade was the oldest, so she got it. I don’t think she wanted it, to tell you the truth. But it worked out in the end, because it’s large enough to also serve as her office.”

      Sam looked around the room, one word repeating inside his head: spartan. No photographs, no prints or paintings, no knickknacks on the furniture tops, just an alarm clock next to the bed and a single lamp. The space was as impersonal as a hotel room, maybe even more so. And the empty curio cabinet and wall shelves seemed almost ominous.

      “What did Jade do in high school and college?” he asked.

      “Do? What do you mean?”

      “I’m not sure. You’ve got movie posters on your wall, Jessica’s got her cheerleader trophies and stuffed animals—I’d mention Dan Rather, but I’m not sure I want to go there. Jade’s got nothing here, nothing of herself. It just seems strange, that’s all.”

      Jolie looked around the room. “You’re right. I guess I wasn’t paying attention. She used to collect Belleek china. You know, that china made in Ireland? Oh, of course you know what I mean. Teddy brought her a few pieces back from a trip he took to Dublin years ago, and she added to it a lot over the years. Pretty pieces, mostly with little green shamrocks on them. I wonder what happened to it all.”

      While Jolie spoke, Sam made himself busy walking around the room, inspecting the areas around the locks on the filing cabinet and the desk drawers. Everything seemed neat, with no signs of tampering. As a private eye, he was pretty much striking out. Hell, as a nosy snoop, he was also batting zero, less than zero. Then he opened the door to Jade’s closet.

      “Omigod! Oh, Jade…”

      Sam caught Jolie’s arm as the two of them looked down at the floor of the closet, littered with shards of once-treasured Belleek china. He pushed aside the clothing, exposing gouges in the back wall of the closet where the pieces had hit, shattered and fallen to the floor. Pieces thrown in rage, grief—what?

      When presented with her father’s death, Jolie had held it together as long as possible, denied her grief until the floodgates opened on their own. Jessica had “cried buckets” and then gone to work.

      And Jade? Sam could see her in his mind’s eye. All alone in this house, waiting for her sisters. Unable to cope with the horror of what she’d seen, Teddy’s body being taken away in a body bag, listening to people telling that her father was a murderer and, worse, a coward who had killed himself knowing his oldest daughter would find his body.

      She hadn’t cried. No, not Jade. She’d come up here and taken out her anger, her grief, her rage, by methodically smashing her beloved collection against the back wall of her closet.