Murder at Maple House

by Hugo James King

  “Did they dock you?” I asked after a brief pause.

  He looked to me and tapped his teeth together. “It was an empty bottle,” he said. “I hope not. It was only waste anyway.”

  “Can’t believe it happened in front of the dead guy,” the other boy shuddered.

  “He swore at me.”

  “He did?” I asked.

  Sandra sighed. “I would’ve given him a piece of my mind,” she said. “Imagine, accidents happen, and being scolded by a party guest. Where’s the humility in that, where’s the comradery, people helping people.”

  “It’s no surprise people think someone killed him,” the boy cupping his hand with an ice pack said.

  And therein lied the truth.

  Nobody was surprised, even the people who’d only seen him for a brief moment weren’t.

  ELEVEN

  Charlie wiggled in my arms. I wasn’t sure if he was ready to be let go and put on the floor. The chef hadn’t seemed to mind him being here at first, even though he was a dog, but as soon as two guests walk in, we’re suddenly hazards.

  “Put him on the floor,” Ruth said, watching me struggle as he threw his head and legs back.

  “I think I need a coffee.”

  Charlie was on the floor, where he wanted to be, surrounded by people, getting his second wind of energy as he rushed over to the boys in the corner, they stood around beside a large crate of uncorked champagne bottles.

  “Coffee?” Lorraine said. “I noticed a kettle, if you want me to make you one.”

  “Oh, no,” Ruth said. “We’re very able.”

  On the side, near an emergency exit door there was a kettle, and on the counter, several bowls. One with instant coffee, another with tea bags, and two more filled with white granulated sugar, or salt. Each of them had clingfilm around the porcelain, pulled back around the sides from use.

  As the kettle boiled, we added coffee to our cups and quizzed a woman as she walked by.

  “Which one do we use?” I asked, noting her name, Anna. “One of them is clearly not sugar, but I’m not feeling up to tasting and finding out.”

  “And where’s the milk?” Ruth asked. “I don’t want to get in the way by going through the fridges.”

  She smiled. “I can get you some milk, and I can’t say, we’re only hired hands, this is the first time I’ve been here.”

  “Thank you,” I said as she walked off in search for milk.

  “You’re gonna have to taste them,” I said. “I think all the champagne has gone to my head and tongue.”

  Ruth laughed, hitting my arm with the back of her hand. “If that’s the case, then I don’t think I can either.” She grabbed both the small bowl and the larger bowl.

  “Looking for sugar?” Sandra said. “I made the mistake earlier.” She reached and took the small bowl away from Ruth. “This one is salt. No idea who put it there.”

  Ruth placed the bowl back on the counter. “We were just about to see who would be tasting them.”

  Sandra pulled her face taut and scrunched her nose. “That’s definitely some test of friendship, isn’t it?” She looked into the bowl. “Looks a bit like powdered sugar, I thought it was stevia, everyone is really into the health kick.”

  I peered into the bowl. “Oh, it does.”

  “Should throw it out before anyone else makes the same mistakes,” she said with an eyeroll, pulling the plastic wrap up across the top. “I think there’s some biscuits tucked away somewhere as well. Let me check.” She wandered off.

  Ruth added a spoonful of sugar to each cup as the older woman, Lorraine, arrived with a silver jug filled with milk.

  “I heard you were looking for milk,” she said. “So, what are we talking about?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I said.

  “Have any idea who you think could’ve killed him?” she was quick to ask.

  The conversation on everyone’s lips.

  “Anyone,” I grumbled.

  “The boys over there were talking,” she continued. “He almost hit one of them when the older woman in charge told them to stop topping off his glass.”

  “Hit?” Ruth reiterated.

  “Who did he hit?” I asked.

  The boys were all in the corner, now with Charlie in their circle as they played with him. They were all either adult teens or in their early twenties, and Finley was at least in his fifties. I would’ve liked to see him wobbling around as if he could’ve hit anyone.

  “Surprised they didn’t say something back to him,” I continued. “They look strong.”

  “Bet they’re glad they didn’t now,” Lorraine said. “I mean, the bloke’s dead, you wouldn’t want to be someone who’d gone toe-to-toe with him, and then you know, he offs it.”

  It hit home.

  I was that person.

  Most of us were.

  “It doesn’t shorten the list,” Ruth commented. “If you were out there, you might’ve seen him yourself.”

  “I did hear them talk about how they think he brought an escort,” she said, mouthing the last word. “To this place, as well, imagine if he’s got a wife and kids at home.”

  Click.

  The kettle had boiled.

  “He doesn’t,” I said. “From what I know, he doesn’t have anyone.”

  Lorraine sighed and shook her head. “I can see if some of them want to talk to you,” she said. “I’m sure if they think you’re looking into it, they won’t mind.”

  We were looking into it. “Please,” I said.

  Sandra arrived a couple minutes later with a small plate of biscuits covered in a layer of plastic wrap. She was followed by a boy, the same boy who’d smashed the champagne bottle, and had been sworn at by Finley.

  “Nabbed this,” she said, placing the plate beside the two coffee cups. “It was probably going out for the morning.” She turned, startled in her steps back to see the boy almost a foot taller than her.

  “You want to know more about what happened?” he asked.

  “Thank you.” I nodded. “Please.”

  “I’ll leave you to it.” Sandra shuffled away.

  His name was Christopher Jackson, a university student from a nearby university. Apparently, most of them were, and this was a weekend job they all took up to earn a little extra cash.

  “It was Daniel’s idea,” he said, nodding to the boy with the scald on his hand. “We’ve done three of them, this is our fourth,” he continued. “None of us have ever been shouted at, everyone is usually really nice, friendly people. None of them want to talk with the police, but I want to clear my name, because I know he shouted at me, and the woman said, you were helping out.”

  “We are, we are,” I said, pulling my coffee cup to my lips.

  It was clear none of them had anything to do with this.

  “Do you have any idea who it was, or are you still talking to people?”

  Ruth nodded, humming through her nose. “We’re still talking to people,” she said. “There’s so many people here.”

  “I wasn’t the only person he shouted at,” he said, “one of the guys, they heard a conversation he had on the phone, he was outside, and he was shouting.”

  “What did he say?”

  Christopher quickly glanced behind, over a shoulder to look at the others. They were glaring his way, I hadn’t noticed. He was being watched, for fear he’d say something, perhaps.

  “They’re worried,” he said on his return. “They don’t want anyone to get in trouble.”

  “What did they hear?” Ruth pressed.

  “Something about, you can’t prove it, and I’ll have the last laugh.” His brow creased with concentration. “I mean, I don’t know, but something like that. Whatever it was, he seemed already angry before I smashed the bottle near him.”

  There was one thing the people inside this room didn’t know about yet, and that was the note found on the body, they didn’t know this had been planned, and clearly Finley was fighting it.

  Per
haps he knew just who it was, perhaps they were closer to him than we knew.

  “Eve? Ruth?” a familiar voice haunted me back from my thoughts.

  Paul stood across from us in the kitchen, biting his tongue and mouth shut.

  He had told me I could look into this; I hoped that wasn’t his problem.

  “Having a coffee, Paul, want one?” Ruth asked, holding her cup high.

  In his approach, he looked over the boy standing in front of us.

  “This man will take your statement,” I said with a nod from Paul to Christopher. “Tell him what you told us.”

  “Wait. What?” he mumbled, confused as he looked around.

  TWELVE

  Out in the ballroom, they’d cut lights to the stage, letting the overwhelming orange and purple from the lamplights and sconces do all the work.

  It was clear, the entire hall had been separated into two, those who had been talked to, and those still waiting to say their piece to an officer, and have their official statements written down, or perhaps just throw someone under the bus because nobody was safe around here while there was still an unsolved murder.

  Cradling my coffee cup in hand and Charlie hot stepping at my side, we walked through the ballroom to the front of the hall back to our table.

  “Wonder what happened to him?” Ruth mumbled, planting her cup on the table.

  I looked around, the men behind us were gone. They must’ve been in one of the two piles of people, left and right. “Who?”

  At the table beside us, Diane’s eyes were closed and her arms folded at her chest. Patrick tapped away heavily on his phone, the intense white glare reflected back on his face.

  “Spencer,” Ruth said.

  The stage was empty, even the jazz band had been removed, but their instruments remained.

  Charlie rubbed by my leg as he settled beneath the table once again.

  “Let me ask,” I said with a nod.

  Patrick was brought out of his daze, after staring at his phone, his body gave a shake at the sight of me.

  “What happened?” I asked, gesturing with a hand to the stage.

  “They took him to hydrate,” he said. “How come you’re not with everyone else?”

  “We were in the kitchen,” I said. “I needed a coffee.”

  He nodded to Diane. “Think I should get her one as well,” he said. “You know she didn’t want to let you go, she complained about how she’d have to hire some fresh-eyed university students who’d need to be cradled and handheld.” He scoffed through his nose.

  “She pushed me to leave,” I said.

  He laid his phone flat on the table. “I didn’t give her much choice,” he said. “You, being older, you’re like some investigative aunt.”

  It beat being an agony aunt, a job I’d loathed—and loved. “I noticed.” People were trusting of me because of my age, they warmed to me, unlike they would someone in a uniform who carried around a thick black notepad, and their nose scrunched and stuffed into the air—oh, now I was describing Paul.

  “Have you spoken with the police yet?” he asked.

  “Yes, I did.”

  He turned his head slightly. “Everyone to the right has spoken to them as well,” he said. “Everyone is out to write their piece on this night, and if you want your first article to come out with a bang, then you should think about what you’re going to say.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “These people are all involved in publishing, by tomorrow, or Monday, everyone is going to have their pieces lined up and ready to hit the shelves.”

  I nodded. “I don’t really want to be known as the woman who keeps finding dead bodies.”

  “You didn’t find this one,” he said with a wink. “Just so happens you were here when it was found.”

  He had a point. My ego wasn’t so far grown, I didn’t quite believe myself to be someone who was always finding dead bodies anyway. There’d only been two of them, and those were months ago.

  “So, I think you should go join everyone else and see what you can find out,” he said. “I’m sure Suzanne is all over this.”

  “Well—what?”

  He snickered. “Diane told me about how you two never got along.”

  A snoring snort came from Diane as her chin dipped to her neck.

  “Then I should go and see what everyone else is saying.”

  The fire was lit. It was on.

  Back at the table, I grabbed my cup of coffee and pulled the strap of my handbag onto my shoulder from the back of the chair, leaving my shawl on the seat. “We’re going over there,” I told Ruth.

  She smiled. “What did you find out?”

  “About?”

  “Spencer.”

  “He’s being treated for dehydration, and probably drinking too much.” I chuckled. “Some irony there.”

  Charlie’s head popped out from beneath the table; ready to chase after us wherever we went. It was probably safer for him if he wasn’t around so many unstable bodies or feet, but I couldn’t take him to the room upstairs—we weren’t allowed to leave.

  Clipped phrases came as we grew closer.

  “—he invested—”

  “—an actual plague—”

  “—wouldn’t kill him—”

  “—helped us out—”

  “—seed money—”

  Drunken people continued on their spates, talking to each other, laughing loudly. I stayed on the outsides of the people, with Ruth and Charlie, mainly for fear someone would bump into me and knock my coffee, or worse, stand on my poor beagle.

  “It’s you!” a brash voice chuckled.

  James, or Jim, one of the two brothers stood before me. His beer glass almost empty. The other brother arrived seconds later.

  “You don’t know where the waiters are, do you?” Jim, the wobblier of the two brothers asked as he looked around.

  “Think they’re being questioned,” Ruth said.

  “Sure they’ll be out soon,” I replied.

  “Think we’re all the ones they talked to,” James said. “They should’ve done the waiters first, that way we could at least keep our glasses full.”

  Perhaps that was the problem.

  Charlie yapped at the men, their voices were louder with every passing word.

  “Aw, look!” Jim said. “He’s got a little bowtie.”

  I handed Ruth my cup and squatted to pick Charlie. “I’m surprised he’s not itched it off yet.”

  Both men clinked glasses. “Cheers to that,” they said. As if anything and everything was a cause for celebration, I wondered if they’d done the same after news of Finley’s death was revealed. I probably knew this already happened.

  “I’m surprised everyone is still drinking,” I said.

  They shrugged it off. It was a party after all.

  “From what we heard, Finley’s death means some of the companies he’d invested in are looking at a nice chunk of their business back,” James said. “He didn’t invest in us, but I know he loaned seed money out to a number of companies. I mean, people not here, but we advertised for them, they hired us through him.”

  “I can see why someone would do it,” Jim added, “but personality aside, he was a numbers man.”

  “So, why did you stop working with him?”

  James scoffed. “He stopped working with us.”

  Ruth tutted. “That must’ve really annoyed you.”

  I could see what she was getting at. “I know I’d be annoyed.”

  They clinked glasses once again, except, neither of them had anything left to drink.

  “Not at all,” James said. “It was a blessing. We worked for him under contract, he had our services, and his companies too, now we’re not being screwed out of money we could get from doing business our way.”

  Jim nodded along to what his brother was saying. “That’s why we’re working with Hastings Powell Publishing,” he said. “They run a better business.”

  “But, we’ve
got to give him credit,” James added. “Finley put us in contact with Patrick.”

  Seemed he had a hand in everything and everyone’s business.

  In the darkness, from the stage, a thump came at the metal of the microphone.

  “I have a confession to make,” the low voice sobbed.

  Heads turned.

  In the pitches of darkness, there was only a moving shadow.

  “I—I—I killed him.”

  Dun.

  A white light flooded the stage from overhead.

  THIRTEEN

  Spencer Mortimer. Stood with his shirt dishevelled; half pulled from the waist of his trousers, and half tucked in. His tie swung loosely around his neck, as if replicating the noose he’d created from his words.

  Heavy footsteps of police officers drummed across the wooden ballroom floor, filling in the quiet of where people stood in shock from the news they’d heard.

  Spencer Mortimer had killed Finley.

  “I did it!” his voice shouted. “I was angry.” His fingers curled hard around the microphone. “I killed him. I—I—I—” he dropped to his knees, sobbing. “I killed him.” The microphone echoed in its beat against the stage, whacked once, twice, thud travelled through the speakers. “I did it.” His voice, barely audible from the tears.

  Three Hours Earlier

  Before Finley’s Murder

  I stretched my legs and walked around the hall with a glass of champagne in hand. It was the last work event I’d attend, or perhaps the last time I’d be working with Diane. I needed the moment to take everything in.

  Ruth walked at my side, and Charlie between us.

  “Eve, Eve,” a man called out.

  I turned to see a familiar face, but equally strange to see in the moment.

  I squinted. “Sorry.”

  “Spencer,” he said, holding out a hand. “I saw you earlier, you gave me a weird look.”

  Without accepting it, I nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Spencer Mortimer?” Ruth said, tapping my arm. “Haven’t seen you around here in what—” she chuckled, pretending to look at a watch on her wrist. “Several years.”