Maybe that was all there was to it in both cases. All perfectly innocent, with no connection to the murders, other than Carey Warriner’s episodes of raging jealousy against d’Arcy. What about Dan Bellamy? I wondered. Had Warriner exhibited any similar behaviors toward Dan? Dan hadn’t mentioned any, but then he might think it best not to bring up the subject. I reasoned, however, if Carey Warriner had suspected Dan of any designs on Irene, he would have displayed those feelings at the event Dan and Irene shared at the bookstore. Instead, Warriner had attacked d’Arcy.
A thought niggled at the back of my consciousness. Something—or someone—I hadn’t included. But who? Or what?
Then it came to me. Barbara Lamont. Helen Louise and I both thought she exhibited signs of being in love with Carey Warriner. If she were indeed in love with Warriner, how could she be involved in the murders?
For the same reasons as Irene Warriner, more or less, I thought. She could have found out about Dixie Compton and decided to remove her from her path to the man she wanted. With Compton out of the way, though, there was still the matter of Irene. But perhaps Warriner had rejected Barbara Lamont in a way that infuriated her. She could have struck out, killing him in a fit of rage.
I added these thoughts to my document and saved it. Now I debated whether to share it with Kanesha. Would she consider this helpful? Or would she think I was trying to push myself into a bigger role in her investigation?
I knew it would be a mistake to underestimate Kanesha’s intelligence, but I couldn’t be sure of what details she knew about some of these people. For example, did she know anything about Barbara Lamont? Granted, Helen Louise and I didn’t know for sure that she had been in love with Carey Warriner, but the possibility was there. Every plausible possibility had to be considered.
What about Dan Bellamy? I had already considered the fact that he could have murdered Carey Warriner, or he could have helped Irene dispose of the body. If he were the murderer, though, what was his motive?
I hadn’t observed any signs of his being in love with Irene Warriner. During the interactions I witnessed, he had treated her as a friend, a colleague, nothing more. He had appeared badly shaken by the news of his former sister-in-law’s death, and I thought that exonerated him in this murder. What motive could he have had, other than resentment against her for the estrangement from his brother?
He hadn’t appeared to know much about her recent life, although that could have been a deliberate deception on his part. If he had known, perhaps he was disgusted by her activities. He could have confronted her, argued with her, and struck out in a rage, not meaning to kill her. That was plausible.
What about Carey Warriner? That was the sticking point. Why kill Carey Warriner?
I stared at the screen of the laptop for several minutes while I tried to come up with plausible motives. I finally gave up in irritation and shut down the laptop. I set it aside.
That was one decision made. I wouldn’t share my theories with Kanesha for now. If she came to me and asked for my thoughts on the case, I would feel free to give her the sum of my speculations. Until then, I had other things to consider, more facts, I hoped, to uncover.
Restless now, I couldn’t decide what to do. My gaze settled on the stack of Lucy Dunne books on my desk. I got up and pulled one, The Marquis and the Murderer, and began to read the first chapter. The eponymous marquis, the hero of the tale, entered the scene a few pages in, and the heroine’s description of him signaled her immediate attraction. She mentioned his darkish blond hair, curls flopping over his brow, and his deep blue eyes. As she watched him, he casually brushed the curls back with one hand.
My meeting with Dan Bellamy in my office came immediately to mind. The marquis sounded a lot like him. No wonder Dan had seemed familiar. Irene had modeled her hero on him, at least physically.
Curious, I picked up another book and another, skimming them until I had found descriptions of the heroes in each. Three others Irene had described in similar fashion. Surely this was no coincidence. Was Irene in love with Dan Bellamy?
TWENTY-THREE
Dan Bellamy hadn’t come in by the time I went to bed, and that left me feeling a bit frustrated. I wanted to talk to him, although I felt diffident about prying into his relationship with Irene Warriner. After rereading some of the intensely emotional scenes in the Dunne books between her heroines and the heroes who, I was now convinced, were modeled on Dan, I had concluded that Irene had strong feelings for Dan. They might amount to no more than lust, to put it crudely, projections of her fantasies about physical contact with an attractive man other than her husband.
Dan surely must have read one or two of the Dunne books, if not all of them. Had he read one in which the hero matched his own physical description? I didn’t know Dan well enough to compare his personality to that of the men in the books. He could have read them and been totally unaware of the likeness, I supposed. If Irene were truly in love with him—or in lust—from what I had observed on two occasions it must be one-sided. Dan had evinced no signs of a similar attraction while they were together.
If Irene wanted to replace her husband with Dan, that gave her a strong motive to get rid of Carey Warriner. A divorce would no doubt have been messy, but she wouldn’t end up in prison for life—or worse—with a divorce. Why did he have to be killed?
Money.
Carey’s wealthy family. Irene might not have received much from a divorce settlement. At least, not nearly as much as she would potentially inherit as a grieving widow.
Was Irene Warriner that coldly calculating? That ruthless?
My thoughts returned to Dan. Perhaps he was aware of Irene’s attraction to him. Perhaps he even returned her feelings. I wouldn’t be able to tell unless I could observe them interact again.
What about Dixie Belle Compton? How did she fit into this?
The more I thought about the whole situation, the more I started to think that she might be the key to solving the case. Why did she have to die? What threat did she pose? And to whom?
I might be trying to follow a red herring, but knowing more about the woman’s past could lead to information relevant to the present. I wanted to talk to Dan about her. If Kanesha had uncovered more of the woman’s background, she had not shared that information with me. There were far too many unanswered questions in this investigation, and as usual I was working at least half-blind. Kanesha wanted any information I stumbled across on campus but left me in the dark to do it.
I woke up the next morning still feeling frustrated. I felt tired. From what I could recall of my dreams, I had been on a fruitless search for something and not ever finding it. Before I came completely awake, I felt a small body land on my chest, and then a cold nose against my cheek.
“Good morning, Ramses.” I rubbed his head, and he purred in satisfaction. A rumble near my ear reminded me that another feline wanted attention. “Good morning to you, too, Diesel.” I felt the brush of whiskers against my ear as Diesel laid his head on my pillow and stretched out alongside me.
We lay there for several minutes, and I began to relax. Nothing like a bit of feline therapy to improve one’s mood, I reflected. I thought briefly about my agenda for today, a day when I didn’t have to be at work. I needed to go to the music department office and finish signing up to audit Armand d’Arcy’s course. Then I had to be at the Farrington Hotel restaurant for lunch so I could listen while Melba persuaded her friends Viccy and Jeanette to talk about their respective departments. I hoped all this effort yielded useful information.
There was no sign of Dan at breakfast, and I resigned myself to having to wait to talk to him. I didn’t really look forward to the task, but I felt that I had to try. I might be able to find out something he wouldn’t tell Kanesha, but I figured he might be wary of letting anything slip. Devious means, therefore, might yield information I couldn’t get otherwise, information that could lead to the
truth. I was being a snoop, and eavesdropping on conversations wasn’t a nice thing to do, but cold-blooded murder was far worse. That was how I justified my behavior to myself. Specious reasoning, perhaps, but there you had it.
At breakfast I told Azalea I had errands to run and needed to leave Diesel at home with her and Ramses. She simply nodded to acknowledge my statement. I thanked her and headed upstairs to get ready for the day. Diesel and Ramses remained with Azalea, no doubt hoping bacon might mysteriously appear in her hands.
Armand d’Arcy’s class started at 9:40, and I decided that arriving at the music department around nine should give me plenty of time to take care of completing my registration. When I checked online earlier in the morning, my request was still marked as pending. I hoped there wouldn’t be an impediment to my joining the class.
A light rain had set in about twenty minutes before I planned to leave for campus, and I decided to drive and park in my usual spot. The music school occupied a building half a block down the side street past the library, and I wouldn’t mind a short walk in the rain. Better than walking all the way from home, anyway.
My lower pants legs got damp, as did my shoes, but not unpleasantly so. They would dry quickly once I was inside. I pushed open the door of the music school and furled my umbrella. I gave it a quick couple of shakes to get rid of some of the water, then went inside to find the department office. I hadn’t been inside this building for many years, and I had only a hazy memory of where the office was.
I found the office suite number listed on a board in the foyer, and I ambled down the hall in search of the number. As I neared the doorway I thought I recognized a voice coming from inside the office.
When I entered the outer room, I found my suspicions confirmed. I had been right. Miss Dickce Ducote stood there, talking to one of the office personnel. The young man behind the desk glanced my way when I entered, and Miss Dickce turned to see who had arrived. I smiled at her, pretty sure I knew why she was here.
“Why, if it isn’t Charlie Harris.” She beamed at me. “What a pleasant coincidence. I wonder if you’re here for the same reason I am.”
“And what would that reason be, Miss Dickce?” I asked, trying to keep a straight face.
“I’m signing up to take a course on early music,” Miss Dickce replied, her eyes twinkling. “I’ve heard good things about the professor, and you know how interested I am in music. I thought this would be the best way to indulge my craving for knowledge.”
“This certainly is a coincidence,” I said blandly. “I’m here for that exact same reason. Isn’t that interesting?” I smiled at the young man behind the desk, who was eyeing us both and grinning. No telling what he was thinking.
“This nice young man was telling me that there’s still time to join the class.” Miss Dickce turned the full wattage of her smile upon the assistant, and I saw him redden slightly. According to the nameplate on his desk, he was Arthur Glanville.
“That’s excellent news,” I said. “Good morning, Mr. Glanville. I put in a request yesterday online, but this morning it was still pending. Is there any further information you need? I’m hoping to audit the class. I don’t need to take it for credit.”
“I told him the same thing,” Miss Dickce said. “Won’t this be fun? We can audit the class together.”
“I just need to check with Dr. d’Arcy,” Glanville said, his voice a reedy tenor. “If you don’t mind waiting, I believe he’s in his office.” He reached for the phone and punched in a number. After a brief pause, he identified himself and explained that he had two people in the office interested in auditing his course. He listened for a moment, said “Okay,” and replaced the receiver.
“He’s coming to the office,” Glanville said. “He’ll be here in a moment.” He indicated a small row of chairs against the wall. “Have a seat if you like.”
“Thank you,” Miss Dickce said.
I led her to the chairs, and we sat to await the professor. “I didn’t expect to see you here this morning,” I said in an undertone, hoping that Glanville couldn’t understand what I was saying.
Miss Dickce grinned. “I’m sure you didn’t,” she whispered back. “But I thought it would be fun. I am interested in music, you know, and of course I wouldn’t mind helping the investigation, either.”
I gazed fondly at her. “Does Miss An’gel know about this?”
Miss Dickce tossed her head. “She doesn’t. Not yet, anyway. I’ll tell her after I find out whether we can get into the class.”
I didn’t think Miss An’gel would be too happy that her sister had decided on a course of action without consulting her, but that was between the two of them. Having Miss Dickce in the class with me could be fun, unless she took it into her head to start asking the wrong kind of questions or somehow tipped her hand to let d’Arcy know the real reason behind our interest in him.
Moments later a tall, dark man entered the office. When he spotted us, he walked over and regarded us without smiling.
“Good morning. Are you the persons who wish to join my early-music class?” His voice had the lilt of a native French speaker, and I wondered how a Frenchman had ended up in Athena, Mississippi, teaching music history.
Miss Dickce extended her hand, smiling up at him. “Yes, we do. I am Dickce Ducote. I’ve heard great things about you, Professor d’Arcy, and music is my great love, you see. I often sit in on courses here.”
D’Arcy had taken her hand and pressed it lightly. He evinced no sign of recognition at the Ducote name. He turned to me. “You, too, are interested in music?”
I nodded. “Yes, I’m not musical myself. I mean, I can’t play any instruments, but I love music and history. Your course seems like the best way to know more about both.”
“I see.” He regarded us, still unsmiling. “You are both registered as students here?” He sounded as if he found that doubtful.
Miss Dickce laughed. “Heavens, no. I was a student here, eons ago. My sister and I, An’gel Ducote, are members of the board of trustees of the college, and we both take a great interest in the school. We’ve both audited classes on occasion.” She paused to let the effect of her words sink in, and I could see a subtle change in d’Arcy’s posture. It at once became less stiff and forbidding, now more relaxed and seemingly open.
“I am also a graduate of Athena,” I said. “I’m currently an employee as well. I’m a librarian, the archivist for the rare book collection. My name is Charlie Harris.”
I might have imagined it, but I thought there was a flicker of recognition in his gaze when I mentioned my name.
“I see,” d’Arcy said, his tone a bit more cordial. “I am happy to welcome you both to my class. You both wish to audit, I presume?”
Miss Dickce and I nodded.
“That is fine,” d’Arcy said. “You will be able to attend the class this morning, I trust. This is the second meeting of the class, so you have not missed much.” He bowed his head quickly and turned as if to depart.
“Pardon me, Professor,” Miss Dickce said, “but I must ask. Your charming accent. You are French, of course.”
D’Arcy turned back, with what looked like a forced smile. “Mais oui, mademoiselle. French Canadian, from Quebec.”
“A beautiful city,” Miss Dickce said.
“Merci,” d’Arcy replied. “I will see you in class.” He left the room.
Miss Dickce and I smiled at each other. “You pulled rank on him,” I whispered.
“I thought he might refuse to let us in the class if I didn’t,” Miss Dickce said. “I hate doing it, but sometimes you have to.”
“I’m thinking that if you hadn’t been here,” I said, “he would have refused to let me in.”
Miss Dickce patted my hand. “Then I’m glad to be of some use.” She stood, and when she spoke, she used her normal tone. “Let’s see what else Mr. Glanville
needs us to do so we can get to class on time.” She walked over to the desk, smiling at the young man, and I joined her.
Finalizing our presence in the course took only a few minutes. When we finished I checked the time and saw that we had a little over fifteen minutes before the class started. “Shall we go ahead and find the room?” I suggested.
“I know where it is,” Miss Dickce said. “Follow me.”
We walked to an elevator and took it to the third floor. A few doors down we found the room, and when I glanced inside it, I remembered having a class in it as an undergraduate. It was a small amphitheater in style, and we stood at the base. “Music Appreciation 101,” I murmured.
The room appeared to be empty upon first glance, and I ushered Miss Dickce in. To my surprise, however, I saw that one person had arrived ahead of us. She occupied a seat toward the back of the amphitheater. I was even more surprised when I realized who she was.
Irene Warriner.
TWENTY-FOUR
Miss Dickce and I exchanged startled glances. She had seen and recognized Irene Warriner also. Irene Warriner, however, did not appear to have seen us yet, her gaze focused on her phone.
“Good morning,” I called out to her. For a moment, I thought she hadn’t heard me, but then she raised her head. Seeing us, she appeared puzzled, as if she recognized us but wasn’t certain who we were.
“Good morning,” she said in a polite tone, but immediately went back to staring at her phone.
I shrugged, and Miss Dickce and I found seats about halfway up. Irene Warriner sat several rows behind us, slightly to the left. I had to admit to being a little shocked at seeing her here. Not that I expected her to be at home, wearing sackcloth and ashes, bewailing her loss, but given the circumstances of her husband’s death, I thought she might have felt inclined to withdraw from the public eye. I shrugged. Sitting in a college classroom wasn’t exactly the same thing, but I knew if I were grieving, I wouldn’t be going to a lecture so soon after my spouse’s murder.
The Pawful Truth Page 16
