by V. M. Burns
“But he was antagonized. Cloverton goaded him into hitting him so that he could make Detective Pitt look bad. Surely, he can see that. Why else would he have shown up at the restaurant like that with a camera crew in tow?”
“Agreed, but you have to admit it worked.”
She sipped her tea in silence, making me ask, “What else?”
“There’s talk going around that the mayor and the chief of police intend to sacrifice Detective Pitt. They need a scapegoat to get the heat off them. Detective Pitt will take the fall for killing Cloverton, whether he’s guilty or not.”
“But I thought the police always stuck together? What happened to their blue wall of brotherhood?”
“That wall has closed, and Detective Pitt is on the outside.”
“It’s not fair. But if he’s not guilty, they can’t really hurt him, right?”
She hung her head. “It means the police and the D.A. stop investigating. They believe they have their man. So, rather than looking for the real killer, they focus on finding evidence that will link Pitt to the murder.” She sighed. “Sam, I don’t know what I can do. I might not even be able to get him out on bond.”
“But that’s not fair. What about his cousin? He was the former chief; can’t he vouch for him?”
She shook her head. “Refuses to get involved. The fact that he won’t speak up will come across like he knows his cousin is guilty. It’ll be just as bad as if he got on the stand and testified against him.”
“I can’t believe they’re doing this to him. I mean, Detective Pitt may not be the best detective on the force, but surely he deserves better than this.”
Jenna finished her tea. “Agreed.” She stood up. “Now I’m going home to soak my feet and try to come up with some miracle which will at least get Detective Pitt out of jail long enough for you and Nana Jo to figure out whodunit.” She grabbed her briefcase and headed for the door.
Chapter 11
After Jenna left, I sat at the bistro table for several minutes. Detective Pitt’s gun was the murder weapon. He certainly had a reason to be angry with John Cloverton. I thought about Leon, and I know that if he’d had an affair and cheated on me I’d have been furious. We made vows, and as far as I knew, we’d both honored and kept them. My mind drifted to Frank. We weren’t married. There was nothing tying us together. If he wanted to date other women, he was free to do so. I was free to date other men, but . . . I didn’t. We didn’t. At least, I didn’t think so. I shook my head to erase the images and uncertainty that had slipped in. This wasn’t about me. I needed to focus on Detective Pitt. He’d punched John Cloverton and given him a black eye. Only a man who still cared, still had feelings, for his ex-wife would have done that. Right? That meant he had a motive. Detective Pitt could have followed John Cloverton when he left the police station. According to his testimony, he left for home not long after Cloverton. His gun was the murder weapon. Motive, means, and opportunity. He had them all.
“Samantha,” Nana Jo yelled.
I nearly jumped out of my seat. “Nana Jo, you scared me.”
“Well, I’m not sure where your mind was, but I called you three times.”
I took several deep breaths to steady my heart. “I’m sorry; I was . . . lost in thought.”
“Freddie will be here any minute. I fed the dogs and let them out, so they should be good, but . . .” She scowled at me. “Aren’t you and Frank going out tonight?”
“What time is it?”
She looked at her watch, but before she could respond, Frank Patterson walked in the front door.
“I saw the lights on, so I came to the front.”
“I must have forgotten to lock up after Jenna left.”
“Jenna was here?” Nana Jo asked.
I took a moment and updated her on what Jenna had said. Nana Jo was furious. “Why, those lily-livered cowards. If they think I’m going to stand by in silence and let them get away with railroading Stinky Pitt to take the fall for them, they’ve got another think coming.”
Freddie Williams walked into the store. One glance at Nana Jo and he stopped and asked, “What’s got Josephine so worked up?”
Frank opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Nana Jo interrupted. “I’ll tell you why I’m so worked up. It’s these two-bit politicians who think they can get away with running roughshod over an innocent man, that’s what.”
I hurried to lock the front door. “We won’t solve it tonight. I need to change, and you two are going dancing.”
Freddie was in his seventies and had a full head of silver hair. Between his superstraight posture, authoritative walk, and haircut, which was short on the sides and in back but longer on the top in a variation of the army’s high and tight, he broadcast his roots as former military or ex-cop. At six feet, he was slightly taller than Nana Jo, and he had kind eyes and a heart the size of Lake Michigan. The fact that he loved my grandmother showed he had excellent taste, and I liked him.
Despite the fact that Nana Jo was still ranting about government corruption, Freddie managed to get her outside and away. I hoped a good meal and a night of dancing would calm her down.
When they were gone, Frank helped me lock up and make sure the store was ready for the next day. Then we headed upstairs.
“It’ll just take me a few moments to get ready. I just need to—”
Frank held up a hand. “Why don’t we just stay in tonight. We can order in and watch a movie.”
“Are you sure?” I searched his face but didn’t see any signs of disappointment.
He removed his jacket. “Absolutely.”
Frank was a bit of a food snob, which was understandable considering he owned a restaurant. We’d been dating long enough for him to know my likes and dislikes, so I was happy to let him handle the restaurant selection and the food recommendations. He chose Italian from a restaurant we’d visited many times before. I smiled at the thought of digging into my favorite spicy pasta dish and the most amazing cheesecake I’d ever eaten.
Even though the food would arrive in plastic containers, I pulled out china, glassware, and real utensils. Just because the meal wasn’t prepared in my kitchen didn’t mean we couldn’t enjoy it in style. Frank made a call to his restaurant, and within moments one of the waiters was downstairs with a bottle of wine.
It didn’t take long for the food to arrive, and we sat down and enjoyed it in the comfort of home. Apart from intense stares from the poodles that watched each and every bite in case something dropped to the floor, it was wonderful to have the formality of a delicious meal with none of the work.
The cheesecake was lighter and fluffier than I remembered, and I moaned when I ate it. When I opened my eyes, Frank was laughing at me.
“What?”
“Nothing. I was just wondering if you wanted a moment alone with that?”
I stuck out my tongue and took another bite and another and another until I was scraping up the graham cracker crust with my fork to get every crumb.
When we were done, I loaded the dishes into the dishwasher. I turned around to find Frank staring at me. “What? Do I have crumbs on my face?”
He walked over, took me in his arms, and kissed me. When we parted, we were both breathing hard. “Samantha, I have a question for you.”
“Okay.”
“Do you think you could ever . . . I mean, have you ever thought about maybe one day remarrying? Because if you do, I’d like to apply for the job.”
I took a deep breath and sorted through my thoughts. “When Leon died, I never dreamed that I would even consider the idea of getting married again. I was devastated. I loved him.” The light I’d noticed in Frank’s face moments ago went out. I continued. “I never thought I would ever even date anyone else, but then . . . I met you, and being with you felt right. No one will ever be able to take Leon’s place, but I’ve also learned that my heart is bigger than I first thought. Leon will always be there, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t have room for someone
else . . . for you.” The light flipped back on, and his eyes shone. “However, marriage is a big step. There’s a lot of adjusting, compromises. I’m a creature of habit. I like routines. I’m not sure I’m ready for change quite yet, so if you’re asking me . . . could I have a little time to think about it?”
“That’s a fair request, and for the record, I am asking.”
My heart skipped a beat, and my pulse raced. “I just need a little time.”
I was afraid the rest of the evening would be awkward, but it wasn’t. Rather than watching a movie, we talked. We talked about Detective Pitt, John Cloverton, and the allegations Mildred Cloverton threw at their door.
“Do you think there’s any truth in them?” I said.
“I can be very cynical and tend to believe where there’s smoke there’s fire.” He paused in thought. “What’s that quote about power corrupting?”
“ ‘Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men, even when they exercise influence and not authority, still more when you superadd the tendency or the certainty of corruption by authority.’ It’s a quote from Lord John Dalberg-Acton, first Baron Acton, thirteenth Marquess of Groppoli.”
He whistled.
“He was a British politician, historian, and writer. I’ve researched so many dukes, earls, and marquesses for my books, I’ve become a font of useless facts about the British aristocracy.”
“Speaking of writing . . . how’s my favorite, soon-to-be-published author?”
I sighed. “It depends on what part of writing you’re asking about. If you’re talking about the book, that’s fine. I’ve murdered a young man at the American Embassy at a dinner party hosted by Joseph Kennedy.”
He looked impressed. “I’d forgotten that the elder Kennedy had been the American ambassador to Great Britain.”
“He was until he became such an embarrassment to Roosevelt that he was called home.”
“What scandal did the senior Kennedy do that got him called home?”
I held up a hand and ticked off his offenses one by one. “First, Joseph Kennedy was anti-Semitic. Not only did he disapprove of war with Germany, but he openly supported Neville Chamberlain’s policy of appeasement.”
Frank groaned.
“Oh, it gets worse. Several times he tried to arrange a meeting with Hitler without the approval of the State Department to try and bring about what he called ‘a better understanding between the United States and Germany,’ and—”
“There can’t possibly be more.”
“He argued against providing military and economic aid to England.”
“Wait, please tell me this wasn’t while he was still the ambassador.”
“He not only did all of that while he was the ambassador to the United Kingdom, but he did it openly in front of British citizens and the media.”
Frank stared at me with his mouth open. “It’s a wonder someone didn’t murder him.”
“I’m sure Roosevelt wanted to, but Joseph Kennedy was wealthy by this time, and he’d donated a lot of money to get Roosevelt elected. Of course, he did it in the hopes that he would one day be president himself.”
“I knew he wanted his sons to be president, but I never knew he wanted to be president.”
“I suppose when he realized he would never be a viable candidate he turned his attention to his sons. It’s fascinating stuff.”
Frank smiled. “I love that even though your books are fiction, you do so much research to make them realistic.”
I smiled. “Thanks. I love researching. I guess it’s the teacher in me. I love adding elements from real life into the books whenever I can, but the interesting person in the Kennedy family for me wasn’t Joe, but his daughter Kathleen. Everyone called her Kick.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think I remember hearing anything about her.”
“Few people know her full story. While the family was in England, she met and fell in love with William John Robert Cavendish, the Marquess of Hartington. His father was the tenth Duke of Devonshire. Unfortunately, their union wasn’t supported by either of their families.”
“Why? Because her father was so . . . ?”
“Actually, it was because she was Catholic and he was Church of England.”
He rolled his eyes. “You have got to be joking.”
“I wish I were. Back then, Catholics weren’t looked upon very favorably. Her family and her mother, in particular, felt if she married outside of the Catholic faith that she would be damned for all eternity. While his family . . . well, you know there was a long history of opposition to Catholicism in England ever since the fifteen-hundreds when Pope Clement the Seventh excommunicated Henry the Eighth and refused to annul his marriage to his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, so he could marry Anne Boleyn.”
“Hard to believe four hundred years later people still had a problem with interfaith marriages. So, is that one of the great tragedies of the Kennedy family? Kathleen never married her marquess?”
“Oh, but she did. She went against her family’s wishes and married the man she loved.”
He stared at me. “Then why do you look so sad?”
“They married on May 6, 1944 . . . he was killed four months later, fighting in World War Two.”
A tear rolled down my cheek. Frank gently wiped it away.
“I’m being silly. Here I am crying over someone I never met. It’s just, she was so young. Her wedding day should have been the happiest time of her life. They got married in the registry office and not in either of their churches, and the only member of her family who attended the wedding was her brother JFK. Then, four months later, her husband was dead.”
Frank pulled me close, and I put my head on his shoulder and wept for Kick Kennedy and Billy Cavendish. I couldn’t help but think about all of the obstacles that Kick and Billy had to overcome just to get married, and even then, they had such a small amount of time together before they were torn apart by war. Here I was waffling about giving up my freedom to marry a man I loved when Leon’s death reminded me of how short life was.
“You’re not Kick Kennedy,” Frank said, “and I’m not Billy Cavendish.”
“What?”
“Don’t make a decision based on something that happened to other people. You wanted time to think about it, and I want you to think about it. I don’t want you to marry me because you feel bad for these other young lovers.” He stared into my eyes. “Take your time and think about it. I’m not going anywhere.”
He kissed me, and that put an end to the conversation and all rational thought until his phone rang.
He glanced at the number and then answered. “Is the restaurant on fire? Because if it’s not, this is not a good time.” He listened for several moments. “Okay, I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Is the restaurant on fire?”
“No, but we do have a major plumbing problem, and I have to go.” He stopped. “Hey, you were going to tell me about Sherlock Holmes and how it tied into my assignment.”
“It’s nothing; just one of Holmes’s clients was hiding something from his past, and his former military buddies came looking for him.”
“You think Cloverton was hiding something?”
“I don’t really know. It’s just a feeling I got when he was talking.”
I walked downstairs with Frank and took the opportunity to let the poodles out. We took a few moments and said our good-byes. Then he left. Snickers and Oreo had been asleep when I woke them to go potty. So, they were quick about taking care of their business. I set the alarm for the store and went upstairs.
Frank had given me a lot to think about and I knew I wouldn’t sleep, so I sat down at my laptop.
“Welcome home. Welcome home. I hope you’re done gallivanting all over Europe and are ready to settle down. Speaking of which, how’s that beautiful wife of yours?” Inspector Buddington asked.
Everything about Chief Inspector Albert Buddington wa
s large. His height and his girth both stood out as above average. Beneath his large nose was a large mustache that twitched when he talked. Big, bushy eyebrows that seemed to have a mind of their own, with each individual hair moving in a different direction, framed his eyes. To the detectives he supervised, his demeanor could be frightening, especially when he frowned, the two brows came together, and his voice boomed. However, to his godson he had always been kind.
“Daphne’s wonderful,” James said, smiling. “I’m a lucky man.”
“Ha!” Inspector Buddington said. “Indeed. That you are. You are indeed, and I hope she won’t let you forget it.” He chuckled. “Tea?” He didn’t wait for a reply and picked up his phone and requested tea for two. He leaned back in his chair. “Now, what brings you to the Metropolitan Police? You’re not in any trouble, are you?”
James smiled. “No, sir, I was just wondering if one of my friends was in some kind of trouble.”
“A friend, eh? I hope it’s not a case of murder, like the last time you came down to the Met.”
There was a knock on the door.
“That’ll be our tea. Come in!”
A young man entered carrying a tray with tea. He set the tray on the inspector’s desk and then hurried out of the office, closing the door behind him.
Inspector Buddington poured tea into both cups and then handed one to James. Cup in hand, the inspector leaned back in his chair and stared at his godson over the steaming cup. “Now, why don’t you tell me who is this friend that’s gotten himself into trouble, and let’s see what can be done.”
“Detective Inspector Peter Covington.” He watched his godfather’s face.
“Ah, yes, I thought that might be what brought you down here. Although . . . well, I had wondered if you didn’t have a hand in . . . well . . . difficult situation, that.”
“I understand there was a murder.”
Chief Inspector Buddington took a deep breath and held it for several moments. “A young man named . . . a British policeman, Oliver Martin, died suddenly at the American Embassy. There’s no evidence that it was murder. His father had a bad ticker . . . the blasted thing runs in the family. There’s no way to prove he didn’t just have a heart attack.”
