by Anna Gerard
Relief that swept through me.
“Harry, you’re brilliant!” I told him, and meaning it … at least, in this particular instance. “Your explanation makes perfect sense. If that residue isn’t pollen, then that’s probably what it is, one of Len’s pills.”
And not something else. Not something more sinister slipped into his glass by some unknown person.
“Good. So now you can wash that glass with a clear conscience.”
“Are you kidding? It’s still evidence. I’ve got to turn it over to someone.”
Harry’s features tightened in disapproval.
“Seriously? Take it from an actor, Nina. You don’t want to go around drumming up drama if you’re not getting paid for it. Wash the glass, and be sure you send a nice flower arrangement to Len’s memorial service.”
“Seriously?” I echoed, shooting him a disbelieving look. “Don’t you think I—we—owe it to Len to make sure the cause of his death is thoroughly investigated? I couldn’t sleep nights know I’d destroyed what could be crucial evidence.”
“Or what could be pollen.”
Then his expression thawed slightly. “I’ll give you that much. If I kicked off unexpectedly, I’d want someone like you in my corner to make sure everything was on the up-and-up. So maybe we can bag that glass and drop it off to Connie in the morning.”
I shook my head and reached into my T-shirt pocket for the business card that the Reverend Doctor Bishop had given me that morning.
“Actually, I should bring it to Dr. Bishop, since he’s the coroner. Besides, I have a feeling he’ll be a little more open to checking it out. I’m sure he can get the residue tested.”
Harry gave a wry chuckle. “If his setup is anything like when I worked there, he can probably do it right there, without waiting weeks for a toxicology test. His basement is like a mad scientist’s lair. Scary as all get-out.”
“So that means you’ll go there with me tomorrow?” I asked in a hopeful voice.
He shook his head.
“Not a chance. We’re starting up rehearsals first thing in the morning. Plus I’ll have to start damage control with Professor Joy and the SOCS committee tomorrow, as they’ll probably have heard about Len by then. We don’t want panic in the streets with folks worrying that the festival won’t have its play.”
Then, as visions of Cymbeline’s populous rioting on the square demanding more Shakespeare flashed through my mind, he added, “Besides, I’m only agreeing with you to humor you. I’m pretty sure you’re going to find out whatever is in there is pollen or moth wings or something equally unexciting.
“I hope so,” I replied.
Heck, whatever was in the drink could be eye of newt or toe of frog for all I cared, just as long as Len’s autopsy came back as death by natural causes.
Chapter Twelve
You have reached the voice mail of the Reverend Doctor Thaddeus Bishop, pastor of the Heavenly Host Baptist Church and owner of the Heavenly Path Funeral Home and Crematorium. If you are in the midst of a spiritual crisis, press one. If you wish to secure our funeral services for you or your loved one’s final journey, press two. If you have other business to conduct, you may press three.
The dulcet tones in the recorded message were that of the good Reverend. I went with choice number three and listened.
Thank you for contacting the Reverend Doctor Thaddeus Bishop, the same velvety voice continued. If you are calling on a Sunday, please be aware that I do not conduct any business not of a spiritual nature on the Lord’s Day. If you are a telemarketer or are attempting a telephone scam, you might as well hang up now, as the ongoing burden of my duties does not allow time for such nonsense. If, however, you have a legitimate need to converse with me, please leave your name and phone number and the nature of your business after the tone. May the Lord bless you.
I smiled a little at the blunt wording, wishing I dared put a similar warning to scammers on my own business line. But for now I waited for the beep and then began recording.
“Hello, Dr. Bishop. This is Nina Fleet. We met at my B&B this morning when you came here to—”
I hesitated, not sure how to put it tactfully. To declare a man dead was a bit too straightforward. To perform your coroner’s duties was a bit too formal.
“—to assist with Mr. Marsh,” I settled on. “I wanted to let you know that earlier this afternoon I found the champagne flute he’d been drinking from before he died, and there appears to be some unusual residue on the glass. I thought it might be important to your investigation. I’d like to bring the glass by tomorrow sometime before lunch, if that’s all right.”
I repeated my name and left my cell-phone number, then hung up. Mattie, who was sprawled belly-down on my bed, lifted her head and gave me a quizzical look
“Everything’s taken care of, girl.”
Still, I couldn’t help glancing over to my dresser, where the glass in question currently sat in one of those resealable plastic bags. The bag, in turn, I’d slipped into an empty potato-chip canister. The packaging served the dual purpose of protecting the glass from damage and disguising it from prying eyes. Not that it had been difficult to get Harry’s promise to keep my errand on the down low.
Don’t worry, I refuse to stir up the troupe more than they already are, had been his exact words. And please don’t say anything to Susie about the glass. She’s already enough of a basket case as it is.
Deliberately, I turned my attention back to Mattie.
“It’s after six,” I told the pup. “Come on, let’s get some supper. And guess what? We’ve got the place to ourselves for the next couple of hours.”
Around five, Radney and the Benedicts had made a triumphant return from their venture to the town square with a fistful of fliers from various local restaurants offering pre-festival specials. While Susie, via Marvin, had declared herself not up to leaving her room, the remaining troupe members had been eager for distraction after the day’s tragedy.
Harry, I was pleased to see, had encouraged the expedition. He’d even deigned to join it—this despite the fact that he was a professed vegetarian and the final choice of eatery had been Brutus Burgers (which, contrary to its name, was probably Cymbeline’s best casual steakhouse).
Since it would be dark by the time they’d be finished with their meal—and, thus, somewhat cooler—they had elected to brave the remaining late afternoon heat and walk the three blocks back to the square rather than try to squeeze into a single Uber. Before they left, Marvin had tried to persuade me to join them.
“C’mon, Number Nine. You deserve a night out too,” he’d cajoled, finding me in the kitchen making up a couple more batches of cold brewed tea for the next day. “I’ll buy.”
“Thanks. It’s tempting,” I had replied, “but I wouldn’t feel right leaving Susie all alone here.”
“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. Then, with a sly little grin, he’d added, “I guess you don’t scare easy, do you?”
I set down the gallon jug I’d just filled with tea leaves and cool water and gave him a questioning look. “Not really. Why?”
He grinned. “Knowing Len, he’ll probably be a jerk even in the afterlife. I can just picture him pulling a ‘ghost of Hamlet’s dad’ on us. You know, wailing around out in the garden after dark.”
“Thanks, Marv,” had been my wry reply. “If Len does show up, I’ll be sure to remind him where your room is so he can do his wailing there.”
But, probably as he’d intended, Marvin’s joke had stuck in my head. Though it was still full daylight out, the house’s main hallway at this time of day was shadowy even with the lights on. I told myself I was being foolish, but I couldn’t help shivering as I glanced toward the back door that led out to the garden. While I wasn’t superstitious in that way, I had to admit I was glad of Mattie’s stoic company as we headed to the kitchen.
I scooped Mattie’s food and gave her fresh water; then, as she crunched away, I pulled out the fixings for
some chicken salad on lettuce for me. As I chopped and diced, I deliberately made some extra for Susie. Not that she’d yet shown any interest in eating. Radney had brought her a slice of veggie pizza at lunchtime, which had gone untouched. And mid-afternoon, I’d gone up to her room with bottled drinks and healthy snacks in case she needed a little something.
“Thanks, Nina, but I just can’t think about food right now,” had been her tearful response when I’d left the tray inside her darkened room. “I’m going to take one of my pills and nap for a while.”
With that in mind, I refrigerated her portion of the salad for later. Then, opening the radio app on my phone to a New Age channel and pouring myself a glass of boxed white wine, I pulled up one of the barstools for a casual meal at the kitchen island. By now Mattie had finished her own supper and lay at my feet as I ate. Her motivation, I knew, was not so much affection as the fervent doggie hope that I’d spill a bit of chicken salad onto the linoleum floor.
“Don’t worry, girl,” I told her, slipping off one shoe to give her a little massage on the rump with my toes. “I’ll save the last bite for you.”
As I chewed and listened to the music, I realized that this was the first chance I’d had to catch my breath since morning. Which also meant I had a few minutes to think about the ramifications of what had happened today. For now it was dawning on me that I, too, likely needed to do a bit of damage control on behalf of my business.
By now, news of Len’s death likely had spread around town, helped by the ubiquitous online neighborhood network platform that was growing in popularity in even as small a burg as Cymbeline. Of course, Harry had already said that he would be the one to assure the Shakespeare festival committee that all was well despite the unfortunate loss of one of the troupe’s members.
My situation was different. A man had died on my property, hopefully of natural causes. But no matter the cause, potential guests might well shy away from Fleet House because of that.
“Darn you, Len Marsh,” I muttered, and then immediately felt guilty. I would recover from this figurative bump in my life road, but obviously Len … and to a lesser degree, Susie … would not.
I stifled a groan. I needed advice from my friend and fellow business owner Gemma. After I paid my visit to Dr. Bishop tomorrow, I’d drop by Peaches and Java to see what she suggested.
Feeling better now I had a plan of action, I gave Mattie her promised bite and then let her out into her side yard to take care of business. While she did her sniffing and wandering, I went back to the kitchen for a quick cleanup. A coffee-cake muffin was left over from that morning’s breakfast, so I grabbed it along with a refill on my wine. I’d enjoy my dessert on the front porch, at least until the mosquitoes came out.
But as I left the kitchen again and started for the front door, I saw something new. A sliver of light shone beneath the closed door of the parlor … the same room where Len had spent his last night. Moreover, I could hear what sounded like a murmur of voices from behind that closed door.
I shivered again.
Darn you, Marvin, and your ghost of Hamlet’s father!
Rationally, I knew that at least one of the troupe had to have returned early, though what they were doing in the parlor, I couldn’t guess. Setting down my muffin and wine on the hallway table, I quietly moved toward that closed door, ears straining as I tried to figure out who was talking—and to whom. For a few seconds, it was quiet again. Then the conversation resumed, this time louder and sharper.
“I don’t care, Ralph. The minute the market opens tomorrow, sell that stock and roll it into my personal account before anyone knows he’s dead.”
The unmistakable sound of Susie’s voice drifted from beneath the parlor’s closed doors. I halted there, hand on knob, and unashamedly listened for more. But apparently I’d caught the tail end of the discussion with this unknown Ralph—Banker? Broker? Personal assistant?—because I heard a final, You do that, and then silence again.
I frowned. Susie obviously was over her nap … and, it seemed, over her grieving. So much for the prostrate Widow Marsh that Marvin had spent the afternoon comforting. In fact, this was a whole new Susie Marsh. Or was it?
Feeling an unexpected flash of righteous indignation on Len’s behalf, I threw open the door and stepped inside.
Chapter Thirteen
“Oh!”
“Oh!”
Susie Marsh’s startled reaction was genuine … mine, not so much. Still, I made a show of gasping and throwing up my hands.
As for Susie, she had spun about from leaning over an old-style briefcase that was open on the cot. Catching sight of me, she stared with eyes and mouth wide, the morning’s pink lipstick long since worn off. Then she quickly twisted about to shut the briefcase’s lid. When she turned back toward me again, both hands were pressed over her ample breasts as she gave a choked laugh.
“Oh, my goodness, Nina, you scared the heck out of me. I thought you’d gone out with the others.”
“You scared me, too,” I replied, somewhat truthfully. “I thought you were still asleep upstairs. I wasn’t going to leave you alone in the house, and I thought I’d pack up Len’s things so you didn’t have to do it yourself. But it looks like you beat me to it.”
Susie nodded and glanced around the parlor where Len’s belongings still were neatly strewn about.
“I—I was just getting started. I knew Len wouldn’t want anyone but me going through his things. I mean, he’d have been embarrassed to know someone else was packing his unmentionables.”
“Actually, that’s one of the innkeeper’s unofficial duties, gathering up whatever a guest leaves behind,” I told her. “I’d be glad to finish if you want to go back upstairs and lie down again.”
“Oh, heck no! I couldn’t stand another minute in that horrible room.”
Then, realizing what she’d said, she clarified, “No offense, Nina, it’s really quite lovely, but you know what I mean. I felt like the walls were closing in on me. I had to do … something.”
At that, she slumped onto the corner of the cot and buried her face in her hands, body shaking with suppressed sobs. Suddenly feeling guilty for my earlier judgmental lapse, I promptly sat beside her and gave her a comforting pat on the back.
“I can’t guess how hard this is for you,” I told her, “but I understand needing to keep busy when something terrible shakes up your life.”
“You’re right,” she wailed through her fingers, “but it’s not just that. I’m having to do financial stuff that I don’t know anything about, just to make sure I don’t end up on the streets before the estate is settled. I called one of Len’s money managers a minute ago, and he treated me like I don’t know anything … which I guess I don’t!”
That last ended on another wail. Not that she’d sounded helpless on the phone from what I’d overheard, but then I hadn’t been privy to the full conversation.
“Why don’t you go ahead and finish packing,” I suggested, “and in the meantime I’ll bring you some homemade chicken salad since you missed lunch. And when you finish getting everything rounded up, I can help you carry it upstairs to your room if you like.”
Susie lifted her tear-stained face from her hands and managed a quavering smile. “Oh, Nina, that would be nice. Both the chicken salad and the help.”
I left her to resume packing and went back to the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with the promised meal. As for the conversation I’d overheard, I dismissed it once I recalled something similar from when my ex–father-in-law had passed away. His body hadn’t even been cold before my then mother-in-law had hurried off to the bank and emptied their safe deposit box.
She’d explained later that the bank would have frozen even that joint asset upon learning of her husband’s death. That, in turn, would have meant she’d be unable to access their stashed cash and other items like their passports for some time. Especially with a pre-nup in place, Susie was probably simply being prudent in making sure she had ac
cess to sufficient funds while the lawyers and government got their ducks in a row.
With Susie temporarily settled, I retrieved my abandoned muffin and wine and finally headed outside. As the mosquitoes had already begun their assault, I bypassed the hanging swing near the front door. Instead, I barricaded myself inside the screened porch off my room, where I’d recently added a lighted ceiling fan to make the spot more conducive to evening use.
But that wasn’t the only upgrade I’d made. In a nod to Georgia tradition, I’d also repainted the ceilings of all the porches haint blue. The practice dated to the early nineteenth century, originating with the African slaves who believed the sky-blue color warded off unwelcome spirits from a home. These days, the superstition part of the practice had given way to simple Southern custom. I grimaced. Hopefully, it still would work on Len should the man decide to make a ghostly curtain call.
Mattie joined me, happily catching a few muffin crumbs tossed her way before settling at my feet. Meanwhile, I finished my wine and made progress on a paperback mystery I’d left out there for downtime moments like this.
So absorbed in my book was I that I didn’t realize darkness had fallen. In fact, I didn’t look up until the sound of a drunken chorus drifted to me from the street. With Mattie barking an accompaniment, I set down my novel and hurried out the screened door to the main porch. Then, grinning and gesturing Mattie to follow, I started down the dimly lit front walk toward the sidewalk.
The returning troupe was singing what sounded like sea chanties, based on a few bellowed yars and heigh-hos. My grin broadened. While not exactly the repertoire I’d have expected from a Shakespeare troupe, doubtless this was the closest they could come, given a likely limited Elizabethan songbook. The pirate tune ended as they reached the front gate, the final notes followed by laughter and a few drunken cheers.
