Blood Will Tell

by Mary Bowers

  Whenever I reached those points in my life when I didn’t know what to do next, there was always Michael. He would know.

  Chapter 23

  “It happened again, didn’t it,” Michael said as he saw me coming in empty-handed. Bastet had refused to come with me, so I didn’t have the pet carrier.

  I had wanted to pack up all my things – especially Bastet – so that if I decided not to spend another night I wouldn’t have to go back for anything, but when I saw Willa again, I just couldn’t do it, and as I say, Bastet wouldn’t come.

  “Yeah. It happened again.”

  We didn’t say anything else about it until work was done around the shelter.

  It was a Sunday, so there weren’t as many volunteers around as usual, but animals don’t understand the calendar. They need their everyday care and feeding on Sunday just as much as every other day of the week.

  At lunchtime, even our housekeeper Myrtle seemed subdued. She’s superstitious, and she’s always wary of me when stuff is happening. Any other time she’s the housekeeper from the sitcom, making dry remarks and ignoring orders she doesn’t want to hear. She doesn’t like Ed, either, come to think of it. I always thought she considered him something on the order of the boot boy, in that fine-tuned pecking order employees anywhere seem to fall into, but maybe it was really because of the occult things he was always talking about. They made her nervous.

  Whatever the reason, she was strangely silent as she served lunch, and instead of sitting down with us she said she wanted to take her lunch up to her own room and watch TV while she ate, and walked off before we could say anything.

  That left Michael and me sitting over our plates looking at one another.

  “It’s such a nice day. Why don’t we eat outside?” he suggested. It was a cold lunch, salad and tuna sandwiches. “Pick up your plate and I’ll get the door.”

  Sitting on the veranda, we weren’t facing one another, and somehow that made things easier. I told him all about it, and he listened quietly.

  When I’d finished, he asked his first question. “Is she really in danger?”

  “I don’t know. Oh, hell. She might be.”

  “Physical, psychological or spiritual?”

  I looked at him. He’d hit the nail on the head, as usual. “I don’t know.”

  We ate in silence for a while, slowly, not interested in our food. Then he asked, “Going back there tonight?”

  I sighed. “I think I have to.”

  He turned to face me. “Do you think you’re doing more harm than good?”

  Another excellent question. “I don’t know. But somehow I don’t have any choice. What do you think I should do?”

  He didn’t waste my time saying I’d have to decide that for myself, which was the truth. Instead, he gave it some honest thought and said, “If you’re there to support a friend, it’s the right thing to do. But the moment you feel like you’re pulling her down instead of holding her up, get out of there.”

  I nodded.

  He was right, as always. I’d known he would be. He never lets me down.

  * * * * *

  I pulled into Willa’s driveway that evening with a sinking feeling. I didn’t let myself hesitate; I got out of the SUV and locked the door.

  “Ah, Taylor,” a man’s voice said behind me. I turned.

  “Oh, hello, Kip.”

  He was walking towards me, looking handsome in the evening’s golden hour, his auburn hair almost glowing. He smiled as he approached me. Keeping his voice down (we were directly below Willa’s balcony), he said, “I’ve been wanting to tell you how much I admire and appreciate the way you’re watching over our friend during this terrible time. Willa told me how you and Trixie are looking after her in the wake of the, er, violence that has occurred. She’s taking it hard, I know. Having friends like you and Trixie stand with her must mean so much to her.”

  “Thank you, Kip.”

  “Do you have a minute?”

  The answer to that one is always, “For what?” but given the fact that he was one of our primary suspects, I decided I’d better find out what he wanted.

  He glanced up. “We can’t talk here. Why don’t you come inside for a bit?”

  He meant his house. Deciding he couldn’t murder me with my car sitting right outside Willa’s house and any number of neighbors watching us from their windows, I said, “Sure.”

  I’d been in the house before, when the previous owners had lived there, but he had done it over completely and it looked nothing like the quiet oceanside getaway it had been.

  No house with as many windows as that one could really look like a dungeon, but his décor was definitely heavier, darker and more ancient than any I’d ever seen outside a museum. Gretel had been right: the man lived with a collection that could have come directly from the Tower of London, Department of Torture.

  What had once been a large, conventional living room with a view of the ocean was now dominated by a stunning desk, obviously a rare antique. I’d never seen anything like it. It was approximately the size of a double bed, with inward curves at the corners that were festooned with plaster garlands and what-not. I didn’t see any cupids, but I’m not going to swear that there weren’t any. At the sides were sets of full-sized drawers, within which I presumed some of his collection was stored. It was gorgeous, and at the same time, monstrous, and it was sitting on a red-and-gold toned oriental carpet that was probably worth as much as the desk.

  On top of the desk, the antique and modern eras came together with an almost audible clash. A custom-cut, curve-hugging sheet of glass protected the desktop, and on that were a computer, printer-scanner-copier and various blinking routers and electronics. Cords snaked all over the place, and anywhere something wasn’t humming or blinking there were open books, piles of paper, scattered pens, talismans, and to the right of the computer’s mouse, what looked like a firearm. Like a rifle, but not a rifle. Something old and dangerous-looking.

  He saw me looking at it and picked it up. I managed not to shy back, but I did not look happy, I’m sure. He didn’t aim it anywhere. He just stood there holding it and looking it over lovingly.

  “It’s a harquebus,” he said. “Personal firearm from the 15th century. I’m taking a break from Homer. In medieval Italy, a warrior-friar from Germany got up in the pulpit with one of these and opened fire on a band soldiers who were trying to arrest his leader, Savonarola. I’ve always found that episode thrilling, somehow. Think of it! A friar, in his coarse robe and rope sandals, climbing up to the high pulpit, full of grim determination, unshakeable righteousness, preparing to fight for the Lord – literally! – by defending his mentor, the great Savonarola. Ready to kill, ready to die, fearless in the face of anything, knowing without a doubt that his was the true cause. Ancient Warriors magazine wants me to write an article on the incident.” He put the gun down and gave me the look of a little boy showing off his train set. “Not much of a paycheck in it, but heck, I’d pay them! Imagine being paid to research what you really want to read about anyway.”

  “Nice,” I said, looking at the object, which was just a decorated wooden stick, after all. It was unnecessarily artsy, with scrolled metal plates and curlicued bits of metal – and, incredibly, draped over the barrel from a clamp where there should have been a sight, a dangling length of fuse. It made it easy to imagine the ancient harquebusiers blowing their own heads off. “If you like that kind of thing,” I added doubtfully.

  He laughed.

  I turned to him and said, “What was it you wanted to talk to me about? Willa’s expecting me; I don’t want to keep her waiting too long. She’ll wonder where I am.”

  “Then I’ll be frank. Linda and I noticed that the neighbors seem to be splitting up into factions, and no one is including us in theirs. Sherman and Carr also seem to be outsiders. Is there anything I can do to set your suspicions to rest? I want to help as much as the rest of you do.”

  I noticed that he didn’t take the op
portunity to declare their innocence. A little demon inside me whispered that the killer always tries to insinuate himself into the investigation to see if anybody’s getting close.

  I also quickly decided that two could play the game of fishing for inside information.

  “Let’s be comfortable in the family room,” he said, gesturing across the open floor-plan of the house to a heavy, dark leather suite of furniture lined with brass tacks that faced the northern wall of windows.

  “Okay.”

  * * * * *

  “It’s because Linda was Frazier’s mistress, and now it appears she’s about to become mine, isn’t it?”

  I gazed at him, not quite openly, and gave a small nod.

  “Revenge for Frazier’s death, is that it?”

  I let my breath out. “Maybe. Nobody seems to know of a money motive, at least not for you.”

  For some reason, that made him laugh. A throw-back-your-head and overreact kind of laugh. “I assure you, dear lady, neither Linda nor myself is in any need of money, and there was no obscure clause in Frazier’s will diverting Harriet’s inheritance to Linda in the event of her death. Frazier left nothing to Harriet at all. By the end of his life, he had become completely exasperated with her.”

  I blinked. “Did you know Frazier? Personally?”

  He caught himself. Then he shrugged. “As a matter of fact, I did. We happened to share an interest in European and Mediterranean history. He read my article on the muddled objectives of the Greeks in the Trojan War and sent me a letter, praising the article but disagreeing on a minor point. We began a friendly exchange of letters and eventually met in person. In fact, I was the one who nominated him for membership in the Preudhommes. Perhaps Ed has told you about my interest in King Arthur? He was kind enough to say he read my article.”

  “Yes, he mentioned that you were interested in ancient legends.”

  “Arthur is no legend!” he declared, suddenly hopping on the hobbyhorse. “He was real. In fact, it may very well be that a researcher in England has located his final resting place. Avalon! A small patch of farmland now, but at one time, an island, where the nine virtuous women may very well have lived, and tried to nurse the mortally wounded Arthur.”

  I had had enough lectures on what “may very well be” from Ed, and I wasn’t going to get him started on the nine virtuous women, whoever they were.

  “The knife,” I said. “The one they found on the beach. It’s yours, isn’t it.”

  He sat back and let go of Avalon. “Yes. It came from my collection.”

  “Hmmm.”

  He looked away, harrumphed a little, then said, “I lock up neither my collection nor my house, at least not until nightfall. And as you can see, I enjoy showing off my collection. I’ve shown that dagger – and many others – to every single resident of Santorini, with the exception of Carr and Kip, and given time, I would have had them in here and shown them everything, too.”

  “I see. So according to the police, somebody killed Harriet with a kitchen knife, then came in here while you slept, stole your fancy dagger and planted it on the beach. Why would the killer want to incriminate you?”

  “Why would the killer want to incriminate anybody?” he cried, exasperated. “To exonerate himself!”

  “Oh, well, that makes sense, I guess.”

  “Thank you. Now. Just what were all of you talking about yesterday morning?”

  I went for a half-truth. I wouldn’t be fooling him for a minute and we both knew it, but I didn’t care. Suddenly, his enchanting, “you are too, too fascinating,” manner had evaporated, and I was seeing the man inside. He was looking pretty selfish, even ruthless.

  “We were all worried about Willa. She started talking about seeing things. Ghosts. That’s when we decided that Trixie and I would stay with her nights, until she got over Harriet’s death.”

  He sat back and stared at me. “That’s all?”

  “Yup.” I stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Willa will be wondering where I am.”

  I didn’t expect him to escort me out but he did, almost clinging to me in a way that made me want to flinch away from him.

  And then, suddenly, he was the courtly gentleman again, because out in Santorini Drive, he saw Willa.

  “How are you my dear?” he said, moving out of my personal space and into hers. It was a relief to have some distance between us. That miasma Ed had been telling me about was sending me really intense messages about Kip all of a sudden.

  I stood about ten feet away from them as he went to her and apologized for stealing Taylor for a few minutes, he hoped she didn’t mind, and how was she doing now? He certainly hoped she was feeling less sad, though one doesn’t get over these things in just a couple of days.

  I watched them closely, realizing that Willa was shrinking back from him. She tried to keep a distance between them, but he kept advancing. When Trixie came out of her house and yelled a big hello down the driveway, they both turned to look at her, but I couldn’t take my eyes off them. In profile, her lips were actually trembling. In profile, just behind her, his face had turned to granite. Then he smiled.

  “Good evening, Trixie. Well, I’ll let you ladies get on with your slumber party. Although,” he said, turning back as he began to step away, “this may be as good a time as any to make a statement to you all. As I was just telling Taylor here, the dagger found on the beach is indeed mine. As you suspected.”

  Trixie stopped dead in her tracks, upstaged for once. Willa brought her hands together and began to wring them, and I wished the stupid man would stop talking about daggers in front of her.

  “Yes, the dagger is mine. But of course you’re aware by now that it is not the murder weapon. That was another knife. From that house’s kitchen. Something that was simply handy, sitting out on the counter in a knife block. Something a man could just pick up in his hand,” – he curled his hand and looked at it, leaving a space where a knife could be held – gripped – with the blade pointing down, “and take it through the house in the dark, following the sound of gentle breathing to its source, high above. And then – a thrust – and the breathing stops.”

  We were gaping at him by then, wondering if he was confessing.

  Abruptly, he laughed. A wild, frightening laugh.

  “Now,” he said, suddenly stopping, “you have to admit that you deserved that. Not you, Willa, I do apologize. But your friends, here . . . really, ladies! Getting yourselves all worked up behind my back and letting your imaginations run wild. Gossip is irresponsible at any age, and can be terribly damaging. There’s no excuse for it. Let this be a lesson to you.”

  We watched him with saucer eyes as he turned and went back to his house.

  “That man’s crazy,” Trixie breathed as we heard his door close.

  I looked at Willa and decided to take things down a notch. “Crazy like a fox,” I said. “He knows we’ve been cooking up a lot of theories, and since he wasn’t invited to the meeting, he knows we suspect him. This is his way of telling us to leave it to the police and stop making up a lot of nonsense.”

  “Yes,” Willa said gratefully. “Of course you’re right. I’m so ashamed.”

  We turned toward Willa’s house and behind her back, Trixie leaned into me and whispered, “I’m not.”

  “Me neither,” I shot out of the side of my mouth.

  I wished I could have a moment to think. Something had just happened, and I didn’t quite have a handle on it.

  Not the phony hysteria of Kip’s laughing fit. I knew he’d just been putting on a show. But it had been shocking enough to throw me off-track, and maybe that had been his intention. There had been something underneath it, something that should have meant something to me, and I couldn’t quite catch it.

  * * * * *

  That night was nothing like the night before. I began to think it would be the last night I’d need to stay with Willa unless I wanted to party on, because we actually had a good time together, the three of us
. Trixie got lit and won at cards, at 11:30 we got the munchies and rooted around Willa’s pantry and fridge, cooking a frozen pizza and pairing it with potato chips and ice cream, (Willa protesting all the time what a terrible hostess she was), and I had no glimpses into the fourth dimension.

  We didn’t close the blinds, but only because nobody thought of it. If the guys on the shrimp boats wanted a look, they were welcome.

  Trixie and I sent Willa off to bed around one in the morning, and not a ghost was stirring.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking last night,” I said to Trixie once Willa was out of the room, “but there’s no reason we can’t share the guest bedroom instead of you sleeping on the couch. It’s a double bed.”

  Trixie looked at the sofa, where bedding and my black cat awaited. I’d hoped Bastet would sleep with Willa, but with typical feline contrariness, she maintained a central position in the house by sleeping with Trixie on the couch.

  “No thanks,” Trixie said. “I had a good night on the sofa last night, at least until you started creating.” She looked directly at me. “I had wonderful dreams. I . . . hope maybe I’ll have just the same kind of dreams tonight. If I sleep in the same place, maybe I will. Wait. I want to show you something.”

  She went to her overnight bag and took out a little book with a thick, burgundy cover, very scuffed and worn. When she handed it over, I saw that it was a small photo album, the kind we used to put snapshots into many years ago.

  “That’s her,” she said, pointing to a black-and-white picture. “That’s my Queenie.”

  I looked at the little dog and saw her again, the same dog I’d seen the night before, only frozen in time and faded. The night before she’d been alive, happy, ready to play. Wiggly.

  I handed the album back. “Adorable. She was a really good girl, wasn’t she?”