Dead Jitterbug by Victoria Houston Page B

Kelly set his drink on the table and, clasping both hands together, dropped them between his knees as he leaned forward. He cleared his throat and waited, then swiveled his flushed, square face from Lew to Osborne and back to Lew as he said, “The press is covered. My buddies at Hope’s newspaper syndicate are taking care of it. They know all the top dogs and will make sure that any inquiries go to my Madison office. I briefed the staff this morning.”
    “Really?” asked Lew. “What are you telling people?” “That my wife died at home of undetermined causes—and that we’ll have a press release sometime in the next few days. Are you aware the Packers fired their coach last night, and the president was rushed to the hospital with chest pains? Hope’s death is not likely to be high on any news budget today.”
    “The coroner’s filing will certainly spark interest from local reporters,” said Lew.
    “Taken care of. Called your man Pecore at the morgue right after my plane landed this morning. Wanted to make sure he records Hope’s death under her legal surname, which is Catherine Hope McDonald Kelly. I doubt the local press will make the connection.”
    “Well, you’ve got everything under control,” said Lew. “Fast work.”
    “I’ve been preparing for this,” said Ed with a grimace. “You see,” he pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow, “this spring my wife was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s—early stages but….” He gave a heavy sigh. “We were told to expect a swift decline.”
    The room was quiet. A robin trilled. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Lew.
    Ed nodded. “Not as sorry as we were.”
    “Ed,” Osborne asked, “if that’s the case, why was she living here all alone?”
    “That was about to change. We—meaning my daughter and I—were hoping to hire nursing staff to care for her. But she has been damned difficult to deal with these past weeks. There were good days when she was herself—then she’d go wacko on us. This is not a predictable disease, you know.
    “Kitsy has been driving back and forth from Madison since mid-May. But she needed a break. We thought Hope would be okay on her own for just a week while Kitsy finished moving into her new house.”
    “Two weeks is how long your daughter has been in her new home,” said Lew. “Maybe you can help me with something, Mr. Kelly. I’ve been trying to figure out why this house has bags of potato chips stashed everywhere. I went through it this morning with the team from the crime lab, and we were dumbfounded.”
    “Potato chips?” Ed looked surprised. “What do you mean?”
    “Under the furniture, on every kitchen shelf, in clothes closets, linen closets,” said Lew. “Everywhere you look there are bags of potato chips. Some opened, some not. There are potato chips in the bathrooms!”
    Ed opened his mouth to protest, but Lew put up her hand—“Let me finish. Oddly enough, Mr. Kelly, your wife’s office is the only room where there are no potato chips. And it’s quite tidy—as if someone came in and straightened it up.”
    Ed threw his hands into the air. “I don’t know. Since this all started it’s been one bizarre act by Hope after another. Hell, she accused me of having another family hidden away, of stealing from her—who knows what she’s been up to around here!
    “Kitsy and I have been doing our level best to keep her mother’s column going until we could make a formal announcement. Maybe Kitsy straightened the office.”
    “If she did that, why wouldn’t she take a look around and do something about all the potato chips?” Lew shook her head. “This house must be overrun with mice, not to mention squirrels and chipmunks.”
    “She’s been very busy with her new home. Hope had a housekeeper, but she fired her.”
    “Who was that?” asked Lew.
    “Bunny DeLoye. She’s working for Kitsy now.”
    “Back to the office for a minute,” said Lew. “I found paperwork, which I turned over