by V. M. Burns
I struggled to understand. I couldn’t imagine this type of relationship.
“Did you and John have an open marriage?” Nana Jo asked.
Open marriage? What did my grandmother know about open marriages? If my grandfather had dared look at another woman with anything resembling lust, she would have pulled out her revolver and shot him.
Mildred sighed. “Open on his end? Yes. I didn’t . . . I wasn’t addicted to men.”
“Did he tell you that he planned to end things with Chastity?” I asked.
“He didn’t have to. I recognized the signs.” She smirked. “Trust me, things had cooled off, at least on his side.”
I glanced at Nana Jo, but she didn’t seem to have any further questions. I turned to Mildred. “Was that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
“No, actually, I wanted to help.”
“Help?”
“Earlier, you said you intended to find John’s killer. Well, I want to help.”
“So, you don’t believe Detective Pitt is guilty either?” I asked.
“I was married to Brad for ten years. Frankly, I find it hard to believe him capable of that much emotion.” She smiled. “That’s partly what ended our marriage. He was such a . . . cold fish.” She glanced into the distance. “John was the complete opposite. He was so passionate and ambitious. He just swept me off my feet.” She looked from Nana Jo to Dorothy and then back at me. “I suppose it’s possible that Brad killed him. The police think so. I mean, John was killed with the gun Brad kept in his nightstand. Plus, he was furious with John, but . . . I believe in keeping an open mind. If there’s the slightest chance that someone else killed him, then I want to see that justice is served. Please.”
I shrugged. “Why not?”
She smiled. “Thank you. Now, where do we start?”
Chapter 16
We started by sending Mildred home to rest. It was getting late, and I knew Dorothy had a date. Normally, I wouldn’t have agreed to go to the Four Feathers twice in one week, but given the fact that both Dorothy’s and Irma’s sources worked there and the victim was a member of the tribe that ran it, I figured the casino might hold some useful clues.
The drive from MISU to the casino was short and uneventful. We continued our routine and started with dinner. As usual, by the time I had dropped off my passengers, parked, and made my way back to the restaurant, they were already seated. Over dinner, we talked about what we’d learned from Mildred.
“Who were you chatting with in the chapel?” I asked Ruby Mae.
“Two of my great-grandkids and a great-nephew. They confirmed that John Cloverton didn’t believe in discrimination. He’d chase after anything in a skirt. My granddaughter and a friend met him when they volunteered to work on his campaign. They said he flirted with all of them . . . that is, whenever Chastity or his wife wasn’t there. But he was on his best behavior whenever his wife or Chastity was around.” She knitted. “According to the kids, both women had bad tempers.”
“Well, we can confirm that firsthand,” Dorothy said. “Plus, there’s that ex-boyfriend, Adam Harmon. He might have killed Cloverton too. I thought I was going to need to flip him on his backside right there in front of the chapel.”
Ruby Mae smiled. “I think you would have enjoyed flipping that boy.”
Dorothy grinned. “I admit it.”
Nana Jo turned to Irma. “What about you? Before I took Chastity outside, I saw you had cornered some old fogey.”
“That was Professor Smith.” Irma preened herself. “He’s taking me to a poetry reading tomorrow night.”
Nana Jo rolled her eyes. “You were supposed to be getting information to help Detective Pitt, not picking up strange men.”
“Some of us are able to do both.” Irma patted her hair. “Smithy was Chastity Drummond’s mentor. According to him, she was obsessed with John Cloverton. She told him that Cloverton planned to leave Mildred and marry her.”
“Did he say that Cloverton actually told her that he was leaving his wife?” I asked.
“No. In fact, he tried to tell her that married men rarely left their wives for their . . . paramours.” Irma glanced around the table. “That means ‘lovers.’ I looked it up.”
“We know what it means,” Nana Jo said.
“How did she take it?” I asked.
“Smithy said she went completely ballistic. He was worried about her. She was just recovering from being dumped by that Harmon boy, and she’d nearly had a complete mental breakdown. Then she’d immediately jumped into this relationship with Cloverton. Well, I can tell you that he was very much concerned about what she might do.”
We talked a bit longer and then followed the rest of our routine. Irma went to the bar to track down her security friend, while Dorothy headed to the high-limits room in search of hers. Ruby Mae was being showered with love, attention, and pastry by her relatives, and Nana Jo wandered out to the blackjack table.
Despite routine trips to the casino, I didn’t consider myself a big gambler. However, I did find the slots surprisingly calming despite the flashing and blinking lights, music, entertaining graphics, games, and videos that interrupted play. I suspected it was the mindless routine of merely pushing a button or pulling a lever. I found the games practically did everything with a minimal amount of interaction from me. On occasion, I would be asked to make a selection, but those were few and far between. Most of my time was spent simply watching the wheels spin, which didn’t require a lot of mental energy.
I found a penny slot that I’d played before called Sun and Moon. I knew from experience this game did practically all of the work. I inserted twenty dollars and selected a bet that would cost me one dollar and fifty cents. I pressed “spin” and was surprised to see that I got five moons. In addition to tripling my twenty-dollar investment, I was now awarded fifty spins. I sat back and allowed my mind to wander while the machine went through its paces.
John Cloverton was a predator. He was a Don Juan who preyed on young, vulnerable women like Chastity Drummond. Normally, I didn’t have a lot of sympathy for women who dated married men, but Chastity was different. She had been dumped by her previous boyfriend. It sounded like she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown when John Cloverton came along. He was handsome, and she probably found his attention flattering, especially after a breakup. If Mildred Cloverton was right and John had tired of Chastity, she might have been capable of murder. Based on her interaction with Adam Harmon, she was certainly capable of violence.
I glanced at my machine. I must have gotten more suns and moons, because rather than decreasing, my number of free spins was now at eighty-seven.
Mildred said John Cloverton was addicted to women. Sharon Carpenter was also addicted, but her addiction appeared to be gambling. If she owed the casino money, how far would she have gone to have her debts eliminated? She shared secrets that might have gotten her husband ousted from office. Or did she? Charmaine Carpenter sounded like an overprotective mother-in-law. She might have embellished Sharon’s faults to make her daughter-in-law look bad. I’ve certainly heard similar stories from friends through the years who’ve had mothers-in-law who were overbearing monsters-in-law. Leon’s mother was the kindest person I’d ever met and never interfered in our lives. When she died, I mourned as much as Leon did. I wondered about Frank’s mother. I knew she was alive, but he rarely talked about her.
I glanced at my machine. One hundred and twelve games. I must have retriggered the fifty spins.
What about the chief of police, Zachary Davis? If Ruby Mae’s cousin was to be believed, he was misappropriating money from North Harbor’s already small coffers. Would he have murdered John Cloverton to put an end to the negative publicity? Abigail had told Ruby Mae that Davis was fearful that Cloverton would demand an audit. What lengths would he go to in order to avoid an audit and potential jail time?
I watched the wheels spin, and something in my brain spun. There was some piece of information . . . some clu
e that was spinning like the wheels of a slot machine. Unfortunately, the clues kept slipping by. The harder I tried to stop the wheels spinning, the more frustrated I became. Experience had taught me that dwelling on this issue wouldn’t produce the jackpot I desired. So, I forced myself to focus on the game and let the clues spin in the background. When the free spins finished, my twenty dollars had turned into three hundred. I cashed out my ticket—no point in pressing my luck.
I needed to think. Writing helped me sort through problems. So, I looked for my quiet corner near the hotel reception area, sat down, and pulled out my notepad.
“Peter, you’re late.” Lady Clara rose to greet the detective, but something in his face made her stop. “What’s happened?”
“I’m afraid I can’t stay. I only came by to give my apologies. There’s been a murder at The Park.”
Lady Clara halted. “Murder?”
“Dear God,” James said. “Who?”
“Stop firing questions at the poor man,” Lady Elizabeth said. “Peter, have a seat and tell us what happened.” She turned to the butler, who had just entered. “Thompkins, please bring Peter a drink . . . brandy.”
Peter opened his mouth to protest but changed his mind. He sat in a chair by the fireplace and turned to James. “I knew there was something wrong at that place. When the call came in that there’d been a murder, I was terrified that it was . . .”
Lady Clara hurried to his side. She dropped to her knees and grabbed his hand. “I’m sorry you were worried, but I’m fine.”
Thompkins entered with a tray with a glass of brandy and offered it to the detective.
“Thank you.” He took the drink. His hand shook slightly. “That’s why I didn’t want you working there.”
“Clara’s perfectly fine,” James said. “She wasn’t scheduled to start working until tomorrow, but . . . who’s been murdered?”
Peter took his hand from Lady Clara to get his notepad. He pulled it out of his pocket and flipped a few pages. “A young man named Philip Chester.”
James released the breath he was holding, and his shoulders relaxed. “How?”
Peter moved to the edge of his seat. “That’s the strange part. At four o’clock I was sent a note to come to Bletchley Park.”
“From whom?” James asked.
Peter glanced at Clara. “I assumed it was from you.”
“It wasn’t me,” she whispered.
“Why did you think the note was from Clara?” Lady Elizabeth asked.
Peter flushed. “It was . . .personal.”
“What exactly did it say?” James asked.
“ ‘Darling, meet me at The Park at five.’ ”
Lady Clara shook her head. “I didn’t write it.”
“Did you know this man . . . this Philip Chester?” James asked.
Peter shook his head. “Never heard of him before. I asked around, and he’s some kind of maths genius.” He stood up and paced. “When I got to The Park, there’s Chester on the floor having convulsions and a box of chocolates lying nearby. The chocolates had my name on them.”
Clara gasped. “Your name? But . . .” She stared hard. “Don’t tell me I’m supposed to have sent them.”
Peter Covington nodded. “The card read: ‘To P.C. With all my love, T.’ ”
“T?” Lord Browning asked.
“Trewellan-Harper,” Peter explained.
The color drained from Lady Clara’s face, and she swayed. Peter hurried to her side and helped her sit down.
“I’m fine. Really, but someone tried to kill you.”
Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m afraid it isn’t the first time.”
“What do you mean?” Clara asked.
Lady Elizabeth pushed the button to summon the butler. When Thompkins arrived, she said, “You’d better tell the cook we’ll be eating late, and I think we may need more brandy.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
Thompkins returned with a tray and five glasses. He poured the amber liquid into each and distributed them around. When he was finished, he turned to leave.
“Thompkins, perhaps you’d stay,” Lady Elizabeth said. “I suspect we might need your assistance.”
Thompkins bowed and stood silently in the corner.
“Now, James, I think it’s time you told us the truth about what’s really going on at Bletchley Park, so we can figure out who killed that poor man and prevent them from succeeding in killing Peter.”
Chapter 17
Part of our routine involved meeting in the lobby around midnight. So, I put away my notepad and prepared to head down to the lobby. Along the way, I passed a sculpture I’d noticed on previous visits but never stopped to examine in detail. Tonight, I stopped. The sculpture was a wood-carved figure of an eagle. The wings were extended, and the span appeared more than six feet from tip to tip. The feathers were intricately carved, as were all the bird’s features. I was particularly in awe of the feet, which had sharp talons that looked as though they could easily rip a person to shreds.
“The eagle is sacred to my people.”
I jumped at the unexpected voice. “Oh, I didn’t hear you.” I patted my heart.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
An older man with tanned skin that was so wrinkled it looked like leather stood beside me. He had a head full of thick white hair and sharp eyes. His nose was prominent, and he wore an amulet around his neck that bore the symbols of the Four Feathers.
“This sculpture is amazing. There’s so much detail.”
He smiled. “Thank you.”
“You did that? You’re the artist?” I turned and stared at the metal plate with the artist’s name and bio.
He chuckled. “Guilty as charged.”
“That’s beautiful. It looks so realistic. It looks like that eagle could just take off.”
He placed his hand over his heart. “Thank you. That is the best compliment you could have given me. My people believe that all living things have souls. Trees have souls—water, earth, and air. When I take a piece of wood that has died from the ground and carve the wood into an eagle, it allows the wood’s soul to return. The wood’s soul combines with the soul of the carved creature, and both of them live as one.”
I was mesmerized by his words. “That’s beautiful.”
“You are a very kind and . . . smart woman. You understand what it means to bring something that is dead back to life.”
I paused. “I write books, and sometimes when I’m writing, it feels like I’m taking something that’s dead. Words, just plain black letters, and by arranging them on the page, I’m able to pull things from my mind that don’t exist—things that aren’t real—and breathe life into them. I’m able to create people who feel real to me.” I stopped and sighed. “It’s silly, I know.”
He held up his hand. “No, it’s not silly. You, too, are an artist, just like me. My medium is wood, but yours is paper and words.”
“I guess so. Well, I’d better go. My grandmother is waiting for me.” I started to walk away, but when I turned back to thank him he was gone.
I got a shiver down my spine but shook it off. There are probably hidden doors all over this place.
Nana Jo and the girls were all waiting in the lobby for me. When we settled up at the end of the night, I wasn’t the only one who had managed to come out ahead. Everyone, including Irma and Ruby Mae, had been successful, but the biggest winner was Dorothy. Thanks to her good luck, we all walked out fifteen hundred dollars richer. The winnings from the high-limits room were always impressive.
I brought the car around, and everyone piled in. I was barely off the premises before Dorothy started sharing what she’d learned.
“Emile wasn’t working, and I was bummed out until I looked up and saw Sharon Carpenter walk in.”
“Was she alone?” I asked. “Did you talk to her?”
“Hold your horses and I’ll tell you.” Dorothy took a deep breath, which I suspected was more for
dramatic effect than out of a need for oxygen. “So, I was playing blackjack when she walked in and sat down right next to me. I couldn’t believe my luck. We just started talking. You know, nothing serious, just the usual ‘Have you been here long? Found anything that’s paying?’ The normal stuff. She said she’d been there most of the day and had just about lost her shirt, but she refused to leave. She just had to win her money back.”
“That’s never good,” Nana Jo said. “I’ve seen people like that. It never works out the way they want, and they just keep throwing good money after bad. Before they know it, they’re head over hills in the hole.”
From the rearview mirror, I saw Dorothy nodding. “That’s exactly what seemed to happen to her. She panicked, and the more she lost, the more panicked she became. It was awful. I tried to help her, but she just kept making more and more reckless bets, and then she had a complete meltdown.”
“Poor woman,” Ruby Mae said. “The casino shouldn’t be allowed to do that. It seems like they ought to be able to ban her from the premises.”
“They do have a program for people who are addicted, but it’s a self-reporting program,” Dorothy said. “The person turns their name into the casino, and they aren’t allowed to gamble, but . . . it’s hard to enforce.”
“I’m sure it is,” I said. “That building is massive.” I thought of how my artist friend had disappeared so suddenly.
We talked about the dangers of gambling, but as we got closer to home Dorothy continued to fill us in.
