Murder in a Teacup

by Vicki Delany

  “If you can tell me what you’re looking for,” I said. “I might be able to help.”

  “Unlikely.” The female officer checked the closet, empty of everything except a row of hangers and two white robes. “There’s not much here.”

  “Nothing in the bathroom, either,” said the other officer.

  “Which would be correct,” I said, “as I could have told you, if anyone had taken the trouble to ask, because the guest checked out. I called her a cab.”

  The woman turned and stared at me. The man emerged from the bathroom. “She did?”

  “Yes. She did.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  I decided, as Rose would put it, that discretion was the better part of valor, so I didn’t say, “Because you didn’t ask.” Instead, I said, “Detective Williams asked me to show you to Mrs. French’s room. Which I have done.”

  The woman dropped to her knees and lifted the dark red bed skirt to peek under the bed, while the man studied the top of the dresser. “What’s this?”

  A ten-dollar bill was tucked under a plastic bag containing brown and green vegetation.

  “The tip for the housekeeper, I assume.”

  “Do people tip cleaning women?”

  “Some do.”

  He opened the bag and sniffed it. “And this?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but it’s most likely the tea the late Mr. French drank.” I was surprised to see it. I’d assumed the police would have taken Ed’s entire supply, but they must have only analyzed the amount Trisha had with her at the hospital. “When people don’t want to take things home with them, they sometimes leave them here, in case the staff can use it. Mrs. French didn’t drink the special tea her husband did, so she had no reason to take it with her.”

  The two cops had put on thin latex gloves. He picked the bag up. “We’ll take this with us.”

  The woman got to her feet with a grunt. “Nothing under there. Not so much as a dust bunny.”

  “We have good housekeepers,” I said.

  I led the way downstairs. We found Rose sitting at the reception desk in front of the large empty spot the computer had previously occupied. Bernie was leaning against a wall and straightened up when she saw us. She threw me a questioning look. I shook my head.

  Someone had brought Trisha’s suitcase inside and put it with the other.

  “Are those the woman’s suitcases?” the cop asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “The red one belongs to Mrs. French,” Rose said, “and the brown one contains her late husband’s things. I was going to drop it off at the charity shop.”

  “We’ll take them with us.” He made no move to pick the cases up, but instead glanced around the hallway.

  “Detective Williams told you to search Mrs. French’s room,” Rose said. “That was all. Thank you so much for your time.”

  “Let’s go, Rick,” the female cop said. “We’re done here.” She grabbed the handle of the red suitcase and dragged it away. Rick LeBlanc shrugged and took the other.

  I let out a long breath when the door slammed shut behind them. Rose’s shoulders slumped and she rested her elbows on the desk with a groan.

  “Where are Sandra and Heather?” I asked.

  “Heather’s calling her lawyer,” Bernie said. “She’s going to ask him to recommend someone in North Augusta to help Trisha. Sandra went with her. Do you think she did it?”

  “I’ve no idea,” I said. “The police must have some reason for arresting her.”

  “Try and find out what that reason is, love,” Rose said.

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Ask.”

  “Williams isn’t going to accept a call from me.”

  “Ask Detective Redmond.”

  “Who is equally unlikely to share police information with me.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to ask,” Rose said.

  “I can try to find out what I can about the Frenches’ financial situation,” Bernie said. “Maybe he had a big insurance policy or a lot of debts to the mob. Or something.”

  I stared at her. “I hate to think that sort of personal information is sitting around waiting for people like you to find it. I hope you don’t know all my secrets.”

  “You mean you have secrets other than the ones you told me? Never mind, don’t answer that. Is your financial information stored on a computer somewhere? If it is, it’s available to anyone who knows how and where to look. But don’t worry, I won’t be looking. I doubt I can find anything about Ed and Trisha French, either. I have no contacts in Iowa. But I can give it a try.”

  “Debts to underworld figures might be something worth following up on,” Rose said. “We’re assuming Ed’s killer was part of the group he joined here. But it might have been an outsider acting for reasons we don’t know.”

  “May I remind you,” I said, “that the killer had to have been in the tearoom at the same time as Ed.”

  “Perhaps someone was following him and saw their chance. A hired killer.”

  “Or perhaps a Russian agent. Come on, Rose, the guy was a computer salesman from Grand Lake, Iowa.”

  “Someone thought it worth going to the trouble of killing him. That’s not a task one takes on lightly,” Rose said.

  “She’s got you there,” Bernie said, and I had to admit my grandmother was, as usual, right.

  Heather and Sandra came down the stairs. Sandra gripped the banister, and Heather had a firm hold on her grandmother’s other arm. “I called my lawyer in New York,” Heather said. “He’ll see someone gets to the North Augusta police station tonight.”

  “Trisha,” Sandra said, “I can’t believe it.”

  “Nothing’s been proven, Gran,” Heather said.

  “If there’s anything we can do . . . ,” Rose said.

  “The police wouldn’t have arrested her if they didn’t think she did it,” Sandra said. “Still, better her than someone in my family.”

  “You don’t mean that,” Heather said.

  “Of course, I do. Julie-Ann said Trisha was jealous, knowing Ed would rather be with Julie-Ann than her. Looks like she was right. You never should have invited them on this trip, Heather. You’re too kind for your own good sometimes.”

  “That, obviously, was a mistake,” Heather said. “I can’t deny that, but I was trying to do the right thing. It was time to reconcile with Ed, like you said. It’s what Norman would have wanted.”

  “Sandra needs to sit down,” Rose said. “Let’s go outside. I believe we left a bottle of wine untouched. Just this once, I’ll have a glass of wine myself.”

  I took my grandmother’s arm and helped her to stand.

  “Did you know Trisha well?” Bernie asked Heather, once we were settled into our chairs on the veranda, glasses in hand. “Before you moved away, I mean.”

  “Not well, no,” Heather said. “I knew her, of course. She and Ed were married when Norman and I started dating. I never . . .” Her voice drifted off.

  “You never?” Bernie prompted.

  “Nothing. I always found Trisha cold and distant, but that’s just the way she was. She was certainly possessive of Ed. Jealous when she had no reason to be. Maybe he was going to leave her for Julie-Ann.”

  “Believe it or not,” Sandra said, “Ed French was a handsome man in his youth and considered to be quite the catch.”

  “You knew him before Heather married his brother?” Bernie asked.

  “Oh, yes. The McHenry and French families have always been close. As in closely intertwined, not close as in good friends.” She smiled at Heather. “Not until Heather and Norman fell in love.”

  Heather reached over and took her grandmother’s hand. “And I’ll never forget that the only one who supported me was you, Gran. My dad was particularly nasty about Norman, and he turned Mom and Lewis against our marriage. Dad had been in business with Ed at one time and it had not ended well. I don’t know the details.”

  I exchanged
glances with Rose and Bernie.

  “But,” Heather said, “that’s all water under the bridge. Dad and Mom are having a great time on this holiday. It’s doing them good, wouldn’t you agree, Gran?”

  “I would,” Sandra said. “Except for the murder part.”

  “Uh, yeah.” Bernie left her wine untouched and got to her feet. “Except for that. And when that kid almost killed himself on Simon’s bike.”

  “That boy’s spoiled rotten,” Sandra said. “It’s driving Brian to an early grave.”

  “Don’t interfere, Gran,” Heather said. “Dad shouldn’t, either. Tyler’s not his son.”

  “Hard not to,” Sandra said. “Any grandmother worth her salt wants to do everything she can to help her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Isn’t that right, Rose?”

  “It is,” Rose said.

  “I’m on my way,” Bernie said. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” they chorused.

  “See you tomorrow,” I said.

  “Uh, Lily, can I have a word?”

  “About what?”

  Bernie’s red curls flew as she jerked her head.

  “Oh, a word,” I said. “Right. I have to let Éclair out, anyway. Catch you all later.” I took my barely touched wineglass with me.

  “I hope we’ll be able to go home, now that they’ve found the guilty party,” Sandra said.

  * * *

  “What do you want to talk to me about?” I asked as Bernie and I crossed the lawn.

  “You need to phone Redmond and ask what they have on Trisha.”

  “Why?”

  “If she did it, fine. If the cops have a good case against her, fine. But if she didn’t, then someone else did, right?”

  “Why is it up to us to determine that?”

  “Because Williams is a lazy cop. You know that. I know that. Redmond knows that. Even Williams knows that. He might have grabbed at the smallest clue pointing to Trisha, and he’s hoping the whole thing can be dumped on her and off his workload. This way, he can get back to arresting teenagers for underage drinking and go home for his supper at a reasonable hour.”

  We rounded the big house and my little cottage came in sight. I knew I was wasting my breath, but I spoke, anyway. “Bernie, I have two jobs. I have a business to run and this is the busiest time of the year. You quit your job and cashed in all your savings so you could take the chance of a lifetime and write your book. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Would you let an innocent woman go to jail so you can spend more time making scones?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know it’s not,” she said with a sigh. “You’re right. You are busy. I’ll ask Rose to make the call.”

  “Manipulative much? Okay, I give in. Let’s see if Redmond will talk to us.”

  We went into the cottage to be greeted by an enthusiastic dog. Bernie greeted her equally enthusiastically. Greetings over, I put Éclair into the enclosed yard, and while she went about her business, I phoned Detective Redmond.

  I almost didn’t expect her to answer, but she did.

  “Hi,” I said, trying to sound cheerful and friendly. “It’s Lily Roberts here. From Victoria-on-Sea?”

  “I know who you are, Lily. What can I do for you?” Her voice was distant and tinny. She was on a speakerphone. I heard the soft hum of an engine and guessed she was in her car.

  “Are you aware Trisha French has been arrested?”

  “I am.”

  “Good. I mean, good that you are aware. Not good that she’s been arrested. Are you . . . uh . . . okay with that?”

  “If I was not okay, as you put it, I wouldn’t tell you. Not in so many words.”

  Maybe I was reading undercurrents that weren’t there, but I took that to mean Redmond was not okay with it.

  “Are you still on the case?”

  “It’s a busy time in North Augusta,” she said. “A massive influx of visitors, but no additional police resources to cope with it.”

  I took that to mean she was no longer on the case.

  “What’s she saying?” Bernie whispered.

  I turned my back to her. Bernie walked around me.

  “Can you give me some idea of why Trisha was arrested? Something must have happened. Williams must have learned something new. I was with her when he got here, but he didn’t say anything. Just cuffed her, stuffed her in the car, and drove away.”

  “He doesn’t have to explain his reasoning to you, Lily.”

  “I know that. I’m just . . . trying to understand.”

  “Invite her to come over for a drink,” Bernie whispered.

  “Is Bernadette Murphy there?” Redmond asked.

  “Yes, I am!” Bernie yelled.

  “What about Rose Campbell?”

  “She’s at the house with Sandra and Heather.” I decided to tell a little white lie. “Sandra was upset at the arrest of her family friend.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Bernie said, “give me that. She knows why we’re calling, don’t beat around the bush.” She snatched the phone out of my hand. “Detective Redmond, Bernie here. If it’s not breaking police confidences, can you tell me why Trisha French was arrested?”

  I leaned in so I could hear the reply.

  “It’ll be in the paper tomorrow,” Redmond said. “And no doubt on social media before that. What will not be in the paper is that I tried to stop it, but Detective Williams made a statement to the press from the steps of the police station moments ago.”

  “How did the press know he’d have something to say?”

  “They’d been sent an anonymous tip.” Redmond cleared her throat.

  Edna had told me Chuck Williams was fonder of media attention than he should be. The chief of the North Augusta Police Department was notoriously camera-shy and more than happy to let Williams grab the spotlight.

  “For my pains,” Redmond said, “I’ve been sent to North Truro to liaise with them about handling crowds expected for the forthcoming music festival weekend. I’m on my way there now.”

  “Music festival,” I said. “That could be important. Hard-rock fans can get out of control.”

  “Chamber music festival,” Redmond said.

  Bernie scrunched up her nose.

  “In answer to your question as to why Trisha French was arrested. Her iPad was used to search for information about gardens in North Augusta and environs.”

  “That’s it? Maybe she likes plants,” I said. “She is, was, on vacation.”

  “Or maybe she was looking for something in particular. I’m not saying the evidence isn’t valuable. I thought, I still think, the arrest was premature, that’s all. Any reasonably competent lawyer will have her out tonight.”

  “Heather French has someone heading for the station as we speak,” Bernie said.

  Redmond didn’t reply.

  “Is that all you have?” Bernie asked.

  Redmond said nothing for a long time. I assumed her car window was down, as I could hear traffic zipping past. I looked at Bernie. Bernie looked at me. She shrugged.

  Eventually Redmond said, “You tipped me off about the intruder in Linda Sheenan’s yard. I went there the following day and had a look around. It’s been several days since the supposed incident, and the woman and her gardeners have been tramping all over everything, so no chance of finding any evidence. She gave me a nice tour, though. It’s a lovely garden. Plenty of foxglove. I asked if they might have been interfered with, and she said she’d thought the bed around them had been trampled on. I realize that’s an extremely leading question, but I simply couldn’t get the information otherwise. She was more concerned that the intruder might have intended to climb up her drainpipe into her bedroom window and murder her in her bed.”

  “Is that possible?” Bernie asked.

  “For Spider-Man, perhaps. No one with lesser abilities. To make her feel better, I advised her to cut back some of the ivy growing on the side of the house, although I tested it mysel
f and it came away with a strong tug.”

  “And this ties into Trisha how?” Bernie asked.

  “Mrs. Sheenan keeps a blog about gardening and gardens. Trisha accessed it from her iPad. It contains lots of pictures. Some of which include the foxglove. On the other hand, the blog doesn’t have her address, or even name the town. It just says the garden’s located on the Outer Cape. Mrs. Sheenan’s house is part of the forthcoming garden tour put on by the local gardening club, and her name’s mentioned on their page. Again, no address, but information about the tour says it’s limited to homes within North Augusta. Mrs. Sheenan has a landline at her house and the address has an entry on 411-dot-com.”

  “Okay,” Bernie said.

  “All freely available information for anyone to access. No hacking skills required, Ms. Murphy.”

  “I hope you’re not implying—”

  “I never imply. If I ever intend to accuse you of engaging in illicit computer activity, I’ll do it. Trisha French’s iPad accessed Mrs. Sheenan’s blog, and it also checked the North Augusta garden club page.”

  “What about 411-dot-com?”

  “No evidence of that. There are, of course, other ways of finding addresses and other computers.”

  “Did the iPad show any attempt to hide these searches?” I asked. “Surely, if she’d been planning to steal foxglove to murder her husband, she would have tried to cover her tracks?”

  “Criminals are not always as clever as TV programs make them out to be. Otherwise, we’d never catch half of them.”

  “There’s a cheerful thought,” Bernie said.

  “If the person who killed Jack Ford had been smart enough to shut up and lay low,” I said, “they wouldn’t have been caught.” I was referring to the late, unlamented real-estate developer who’d met his end at the bottom of the bluffs not long after getting into an altercation with Rose.

  “It’s only because you put yourself in danger over that,” Redmond said, “that I’m talking to you two about this at all. And that is not, by the way, an invitation to you to do so again.”

  “I have no intention of ever again running through the night pursued by a deranged killer armed with one of my kitchen knives.” I shuddered at the memory.