Marriage, Monsters-in-Law, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  A long beep sounded from my phone. I jerked the phone back to my mouth. I’d completely stopped listening to Redding’s voice-mail greeting. “Redding. This is Ellie. Ellie Avery.”

  I sprinted up the steps toward the second floor, putting on a burst of speed that would have impressed my fellow neighborhood walking companions, the Stroller Brigade. “It was Graham,” I said, then sucked in a breath. Adrenaline and sprinting up the stairs had robbed me of my breath. “Graham—” As I cleared the last step and came out on the landing, I put my hand in the little interior pocket of my tote bag where I usually placed my room key card, but the pocket was empty. “I don’t have it,” I muttered under my breath, remembering that when we’d left the room this morning, I didn’t have my key, but Mitch had his, so I hadn’t worried about it.

  I didn’t want to turn around and go back down the stairs and encounter Graham. It was irrational, but thoughts of Julia and her accident on the stairs flashed through my mind. No, avoid Graham. A quick glance over my shoulder showed that he hadn’t reached the landing yet. Instead of turning to the right to the hallway that contained our very securely locked room, I darted to the left to a smaller door marked with an exit sign.

  It was the only place I could go. There were no maids or carts or open doors anywhere in sight on the long hallway that stretched out to the right. The knob turned easily in my hand and I slipped inside the shadowy hallway as my phone emitted a long beep, the signal that the voice-mail recording had run out.

  I ended the call then redialed, scanning the small, dim room. It wasn’t a hallway. A narrow window high above my head let in a stream of light, illuminating a thin metal handrailing. My fingers traced along its upward curve. A circular staircase.

  I leaned over the railing, peering downward. The staircase seemed to twist on for a long way, but when I thought of the high ceilings in the lobby and the airy grand staircase, it would be quite a long distance between the second floor and the ground-floor lobby. A muted noise from the hallway had me scooting up steps, climbing toward the thin stream of light. The third-floor landing should be closer. I could get out of the stairway faster by going up.

  I moved up as quickly and quietly as I could, assuming it was another servant staircase. There hadn’t been a lock on the door below, and I didn’t want to give away my whereabouts by making any noise. If I could get to the next floor, presumably the servants’ quarters that I’d toured a few days ago, I should be able to find the other set of stairs that we’d taken during the tour and follow them back down to the main floor where there were lots of people.

  The phone rang in my ear as I continued up the steps. After a few turns, I expected to come to a small landing that jutted out from the twist of the stairs, like the one below, but the stairs continued to spiral upward, giving off an occasional creak as I carefully moved up the treads. Redding’s outgoing voice-mail message finally came on as I came even with the narrow window that was letting in the light. My thighs were beginning to burn. Surely I should have reached the next floor by now? I’d covered more than enough distance vertically to be at the third floor.

  I leaned toward the center support and glanced up for a quick check. The stairs continued to corkscrew upward for several more twists. That’s when it hit me: I wasn’t on a servants’ staircase. I was in the old bell tower that soared over the resort. The bell tower we had peered up into after the bachelorette party that the guide, Emma, had guarded so that we wouldn’t go up. I was in the bell tower that was closed for safety reasons. Suddenly those creaks that I’d mentally written off as part of an old building sounded a lot more ominous.

  I turned around to make my way back down. Hopefully, Graham would have come out on the second floor, not seen me, and assumed I went into my room. I doubted he knew which rooms were ours. If he hadn’t decided to wait in the hallway for me, I could slip back into the hallway and return to the main floor.

  Far below me, the door that I’d entered through from the hallway opened. I froze, one foot poised in the air. Because I was so high I couldn’t see who had opened the door. The metal of the staircase blocked my view of the doorway and its tiny landing, and there was no way I was going to lean over the railing and reveal myself. If I didn’t move . . . perhaps the person would close the door and go away. Winded from the climb, I tried not to breathe.

  I’d completely tuned out Redding’s voice-mail greeting, which had been droning away in my ear, but his words stopped and the high-pitched tone, the signal to leave a message sounded. It wasn’t extremely loud, but the small, silent, enclosed space of the bell tower seemed to magnify the faint sound.

  The door below opened wider, throwing more light onto the staircase, but it was briefly blocked as a figure moved through the door and hit the metal treads at a running pace.

  I whirled and ran toward the top of the steps as fast as I could, my tote bag banging against my side. The sound of our feet hitting the stairs reverberated up and down the tower.

  “Ellie again. I got cut off,” I said into the phone as I flew around the last twists of the staircase and stopped at a flat wooden panel placed at an angle above my head. I traced my fingers along the edge, and they brushed over a chain draped loosely across the panel. At my touch, the chain rattled, then slipped clear of whatever had been holding it in place with a noisy cavalcade of metal striking metal as the chain hit the stairs and slithered through the treads.

  I felt the outline of a doorknob. I twisted and pressed forward up the rest of the steps. The little door was like an old-fashioned cellar entrance. I pushed it back and continued up the rest of the steps out onto the square viewing platform where a fresh, cool breeze whipped over me, feeling wonderful after the stuffy, closed tower. A narrow metal handrail ran around three sides of the staircase opening. Dead-ending into the door and getting it open had only taken seconds, but it felt like much longer with each thump of the footsteps echoing up through the tower.

  “Like I said before, it was Graham,” I said into the phone as I glanced around the tower. “He poisoned Summer. I have pictures that show her glass had something extra in it.”

  Four arched windows, one on each side of the tower, gave an amazing 360-degree view of the whole island, from the water sweeping up the beaches to the crumbled stones of the ruin in the distance. A glance down to the roof of the resort below did funny things to my stomach, and I quickly transferred my gaze back to the bell tower. There was no bell in the eaves overhead, but the sturdy beams that had once supported the bell stretched across the top of the tower.

  The wind whipped my hair into my face, and I tilted my head to get it out of my eyes as I flipped the door closed, but there was no latch on the outside of it, no way to secure it in place. Rough wooden flooring planks covered a foot or two of space between the handrail and the window openings. I swept my gaze over the tiny walkway area around the door, but there was nothing, nothing I could use to brace it to keep it closed.

  I moved around to the side opposite the opening for the stairs, getting as far away from them as I could, which wasn’t very far in the tight confines of the tower. I said into the phone, “But the poison was actually meant for Brian. Summer picked up his glass by mistake.”

  The doorknob rattled, a hand shoved the door, throwing it open with a crash, and Graham moved up the last steps to the platform. He was winded and breathing hard. I flashed back to the morning we’d seen him on his run. With the beginnings of a potbelly, his heavy breathing, and bright red face, it had been obvious that working out was not high on his list of activities. He looked worse now. He gulped in air, his gaze flashing from my face to the phone.

  I backed into a corner. The rough surface of the stucco dragged at the fabric of my shirt. At least it was a solid wall at my back and not one of the open windows. I knew time left on the message must have been close to running out. “As to why he did it,” I said with my gaze locked on his, “I have no idea, but I think it has something to do with a real estate deal in Sarasota.
I’m sure you’ll figure it out. He’s just chased me up the bell tower at the resort.”

  “Give me the phone,” Graham said between gasps.

  “Stupid of me to go up into the tower, I know,” I said into the phone. “I didn’t realize at the time it was the bell tower when I started up the stairs. But he’s here with me now. Graham. Graham Murphy. So if anything happens to me, you’ll know who did it.” The beep signaling the end of the message cut off my last words.

  I hit the end button and said, “Even though it cut me off, I’m sure he’ll get the gist of it. The best thing to do would be for us to go back down the stairs.”

  He didn’t reply, just stood there, his hands on his hips, working air in and out of his lungs as he watched me. The wind stilled for a moment, and I thought I heard a creaky metal sound. Was someone else on the staircase? I wasn’t sure. A gust of wind whistled through the window openings, blocking out all other sounds.

  I shifted my shoulder, letting my tote bag slide down my arm to my hand. “No need to be upset,” I said, trying to use the same soothing tone as I did when Livvy or Nathan were upset. “I’m sure once you explain everything, it will be fine.” I tightened my sweaty hand around the handles of the tote bag. With the wedding notebook inside it, it was actually quite heavy.

  “The phone”—he paused for breath—“hand it to me,” he repeated, his chin down.

  “Sure.” I tossed it toward him, intentionally throwing it wide, so he’d have to step away from the staircase opening. He took a half step so he could catch the phone, and I darted around the metal handrail for the stairwell. If I could get just a few seconds’ start on him, I thought I could make it back down the stairs. I wasn’t in spectacular shape, but I was in better shape than he was. I had been winded when I reached the viewing platform, but I was already breathing slower than he was.

  I was on the first step down when he lunged for me. He caught my shoulder and threw me backward. Instinctively, I let go of the tote bag and reached out to break my fall as I hit the worn floorboards. Pain shot through me as I scrambled away, but he was on top of me, his hands closing around my throat before I could get any distance between us.

  His red, sweaty face was bent over mine, too close. What scared me was that he wasn’t infused with rage or anger. He applied pressure with a workmanlike concentration, his face almost impassive. I punched at his shoulder, clawed at his eyes, twisted, and kicked out, but he only turned his head away so that I couldn’t reach his face. The pressure on my throat didn’t lessen.

  My vision went cloudy, then weird, pulsing black blobs appeared.

  I reached out, my hand tracing along the floor as my vision distorted and darkness crept in at the edges. My fingers connected with something cool and round. Through the haziness, a thought connected somewhere in my fuzzy brain, and I realized I was touching a metal ring of the wedding binder. It must have fallen out of the tote bag when Graham knocked me down. I curled three fingers of my left hand through the ring and heaved it at Graham’s head.

  I must have connected with a sensitive spot because the pressure on my throat went away immediately, and he reeled back. I blinked and worked to suck in air. It burned and felt terrible, yet wonderful at the same time. As I blinked and cleared my vision, I saw papers from the binder flickering around the tower as the wind drove them into corners or swept them out the windows. But the fluttering papers were only a background to Graham, who had a hand pressed to his face over his eye. Blood seeped through his fingers as he gasped in pain, but he moved back toward me, his visible single eye fixed on me. I crawled backward.

  Mitch emerged through the staircase opening. He took one swift glance around the tower and landed a right hook squarely on Graham’s jaw that sent him sprawling onto the rough planks of the floor.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A couple of hours later, I sat on one of the library sofas. Mitch was beside me, his arm stretched along the back of the sofa lightly brushing against my shoulder. After knocking Graham out, Mitch had stayed at the viewing platform with me, calling first Redding then Mr. Markham, who called for an ambulance. When the paramedics arrived, they attended to Graham first, then carted him away and informed me that the corner of the binder that I’d thrown at him had hit him in the eye. “He may not see again out of that eye,” the paramedic said.

  Since Graham had been trying to choke the life out of me at the time I’d hit him, I wasn’t able to muster up much sympathy for him. Redding had informed me that once the hospital finished patching up Graham, he had been placed under arrest.

  Nathan’s paper airplanes had been collected from his suitcase and were now flattened and stacked on the coffee table between Detective Redding and me. Uncle Bud was on the veranda with Livvy and Nathan teaching them how to fold new airplanes to replace the ones that the police had confiscated.

  “I’m thoroughly confused.” Summer sat in one of the leather club chairs near me. Brian perched on the arm beside her. “I know the hospital pumped me full of drugs and stuff yesterday, so maybe I’m still loopy on the aftereffects of those, but did you say it was Graham who did all those things?” She looked at me with concern, as if maybe I’d mixed up my words.

  “I’m afraid so,” I said as I glanced at Brian, who looked stunned.

  Summer looked at him, too, out of the corner of her eye. “You’re sure?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m absolutely sure.” Brian looked doubtful, so I added, “I’m positive it was Graham who choked me.” I rubbed my throat where the skin was tender. Mitch assured me that my throat only looked a little bit pink, but I knew I’d have huge black bruises in a few days. Explaining that to Livvy and Nathan would be fun.

  The paramedics had looked me over after they’d attended to Graham and said they couldn’t detect any permanent damage. They had recommended that I go to the hospital for a more thorough exam. I’d refused. I would go see my regular doctor when we returned to North Dawkins, but I wanted to stay close to Mitch and as far away from Graham as I could. I thought it was rather ironic that Graham would be going to the same hospital where Julia and Summer had been taken.

  Brian shook his head and looked toward Detective Redding. “I’m having a hard time taking it all in as well. If you could give us some more details?”

  “Yes, that’s why I asked you all here,” Redding said. “I figured it would save time. In case you want to, um, continue with the events you had planned for the day.”

  Summer looked militant, and I thought she was about to launch into an adamant affirmation, but then she caught herself and glanced over her shoulder to Brian. “I suppose it depends on how everyone feels,” she amended, glancing back to me.

  “Oh, I’ll be fine. I’m a little shaken up, but now that I’ve got my feet back on solid ground, I’m doing much better. Certainly better than Graham.” I hadn’t seen Graham since our encounter at the tower. Redding had already interviewed me alone. After Graham left for the hospital, I’d given Redding a blow-by-blow description of everything that had happened since breakfast.

  Redding cleared his throat. “So Mrs. Avery, let’s start with the photos you mentioned in your phone message, if you’re able to talk . . .”

  “Oh, yes. I can explain. Sorry about the incoherent messages. Talking while running isn’t my strong suit.” I glared at Mitch, who I knew might want to throw in a quip about running not ever being my strong suit to lighten the somber atmosphere, but he only raised his eyebrows, silently communicating a look to me that said, I wouldn’t dare bring that up here. He removed my phone from his pocket and handed it to me. “I picked this up off the floor of the tower.”

  “Thanks,” I said as I brought up the photos, then handed the phone to Brian. He had already forwarded the photos to Redding. I explained about the photos on my phone and the volume in Summer’s champagne flute and how the poison had actually been in Brian’s glass. “Summer picked up the wrong glass,” I said. “Once we sorted that out . . . well, the rest fell into place.”
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  “But why poison me?” Brian asked. “Graham is my cousin. Why would he do that to me?”

  I glanced at the crinkled and folded papers on the coffee table. “I’m not exactly sure, but I think it has something to do with a real estate deal.” I described how Nathan had taken the papers from the recycling bin. “I didn’t think anything about it until breakfast this morning. Nathan flew his plane across the room and tagged Graham with it. When Graham returned the plane, he definitely noticed the paper. There was such a large amount of money involved. . . I don’t know. It just seemed it might be possible that it had something to do with everything that had happened. I took the paper airplane with me when I left the restaurant, and when Graham saw me in the lobby with it . . . well, it sounds weird, but his gaze locked onto it, then his face changed, and I knew I wanted to get away from him. Somehow it’s linked.”

  Brian reached for the papers and scanned the print.

  Redding said, “I made a couple of calls during the last few hours and can fill in the gaps. I spoke to one of Murphy’s coworkers at his law firm in Macon, a Ryan Philmore. I believe you have a recently deceased aunt on your mother’s side, Gloria Dupree?”

  Brian nodded. “Yes, she died last month.”

  “Were you aware that Murphy’s firm handled her legal matters, including her will?”

  “Yes, he mentioned he had put her in contact with someone in their office.”

  “Did he say why he didn’t do it himself?” Redding asked.

  “I don’t know. He works mostly in corporate.”

  Redding made a hmming noise then said, “Well, that’s not the way Murphy’s colleague Ryan Philmore felt. He said Murphy could have easily handled the will—it was very simple—but he hadn’t wanted to take the time.” Redding consulted his notebook. “ ‘The lazy dog pawned it off on me,’ according to Mr. Philmore.”