by V. M. Burns
“No. I really haven’t, Detective.”
“You weren’t perhaps planning to meet Mr. Parker here to discuss anything?”
I was puzzled. “No. I definitely wasn’t planning to meet Mr. Parker here or anywhere else. We weren’t exactly friends. But, you know that already. Why do you ask?”
Detective Pitt pulled a note in a plastic bag from his coat pocket and handed it to me.
The note was written on a napkin. The writing was simple, block print, rather than cursive.
MIDNIGHT AT GARGOYLE BUILDING
I shook my head and handed the note back. “Sorry, but I haven’t seen that before. You think he planned to meet someone here at my shop?”
“That’s the way it looks.” Detective Pitt returned the bag to his pocket.
“That means this wasn’t an accident, doesn’t it? No chance it was a mugging gone terribly wrong or a robbery. Someone planned to kill him.”
“That’s certainly the way it looks.”
“Who was he planning to meet?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.” Detective Pitt stared at me.
“Me? I have no idea.”
But, it sure did leave me a lot to think about. Who could possibly have come to my shop to murder Clayton Parker? The plot was definitely thickening.
Chapter 7
Victor grabbed a torch from the closet and headed out to the hedge maze. He had no idea what he expected to find but needed to be careful not to disturb anything important.
The moon shone exceptionally bright. He grew up playing in the maze and knew his way by heart. It didn’t take long to reach the center. Just beyond two marble statues stood a fountain big enough to swim in, which he had as a child. Near the fountain was a bench.
In front of the bench lay Charles Parker.
If the large knife next to the body and the amount of blood on his clothing were any indication, Parker was dead.
Victor thought he hated Charles Parker, but seeing the man lying on the ground changed his attitude. He might have disliked Parker, his sense of humor, his cocky self-assured manner, and especially the way he walked in and swept Daphne off her feet, but whoever did this must have really hated Charles Parker.
“I can’t leave him like this, but the police need to be called. Maybe Thompkins . . .” Victor stared at Parker, unsure of his next step.
The orchestra played softly in the distance. Crickets, bullfrogs, and owls croaked, hooted, and chirped with the music. The spot was perfect for a romantic liaison. Had Parker planned to meet Daphne at the center of the maze? Was that how she’d come to find him? How had she gotten so much blood on her dress? Surely she wouldn’t . . . couldn’t have.
Rapid footsteps on the gravel path heralded someone who knew where they were headed. Victor blocked the sight of Parker’s body, and Penelope made the last turn into the center of the maze.
“Did you find out—Oh, no!” Penelope looked past Victor to the body on the ground. She swayed, and Victor grabbed her to keep her from falling.
“Steady on, old girl! Don’t fall apart on me now,” Victor whispered. He held her closely, noting how nice she smelled.
Penelope stopped shaking and pulled away. “I guess there’s no question about him being dead?” Her voice trembled, but only slightly.
“Afraid not.”
“But how? Who?”
“I have no idea, but someone needs to go inside and call the police. Can you manage?”
“Victor, not the police. That’s . . . ghastly.” She paled.
“I’m sorry, but it has to be done.”
She shuddered. “Shouldn’t we move him? I mean, it seems indecent to leave him here like this.”
“No. We can’t move him until the police arrive.”
Penelope seemed to gain strength from Victor’s calm, matter-of-fact attitude. She stood straight. “All right. I’ll call.”
“Good. I’ll stay here and keep guard.”
Penelope turned to go but looked over her shoulder. “Any possibility this was an accident?”
“I don’t see how it could be,” Victor said.
Penelope’s shoulders sagged. “I was afraid you’d say that.” She hurried away.
It took hours for the police to complete their assessment of the scene and remove the body. The darkness hadn’t made their job any easier. The guests were questioned briefly. No one saw or heard anything useful. They left their names and addresses and were allowed to leave.
Dr. Haygood gave Daphne a sedative and prevented her from being questioned. Detective Covington, who appeared to be in charge, didn’t seem happy, but since she was the niece of a duke, the situation was extremely sticky.
On the terrace, Victor sat with his legs stretched out and smoked. He reviewed the evening’s events, still unclear about what had happened.
Penelope joined him on the terrace. She peered at him. “What has you in such deep thought?”
Victor ensured there were no policemen still lurking around before responding. “Did Daphne say anything about what happened?”
“Nothing. I tried to ask. She was too distraught.”
“I need to talk to her before the police do.” Victor’s tone brooked no opposition.
“She’s out for the night. Dr. Haygood gave her a strong tranquilizer. You might as well stay here tonight. It’s late. Or rather, early.” The sun would soon rise. “I’ll have Thompkins get a room ready for you. You’ll be able to see her first thing.” She wearily rose from her seat.
“Thank you.”
She left to see to the arrangements.
Victor didn’t expect to sleep, but exhaustion won out. He slept like the proverbial log until an early morning lark’s song woke him.
The clothes Thompkins had left for him must have belonged to Daphne and Penelope’s distant cousin, Lord Edgar Worthington. Slightly too tight and a mite too short, they were still far more appropriate than the tuxedo he’d worn to the party.
Victor dressed in short order and headed out. He nearly collided with Penelope.
She stood outside his door, hand raised as if she were just about to knock. Still in her dressing gown, she looked as though she hadn’t slept.
“Penelope, what are you doing up at this hour?”
“I’ve been sitting up with Daphne. You wanted to talk to her first thing.”
“How is she?”
“She had a fitful sleep and woke up asking for you.”
“Well, then lead on.” Was his shock evident on his face?
Penelope looked like she wanted to speak, but she led him to Daphne’s room in the west wing without a word. Someone, most likely Thompkins, must have carried Daphne from the study into her bedroom. Victor hadn’t been in Daphne’s bedroom since they were children. He remembered the room filled with dolls and stuffed animals, but that was a million years ago. Flowers and lace and pictures of fashionable women wearing the latest styles, pulled from Harper’s Bazaar, filled the bedroom of the young lady out in society.
Daphne turned her pale face toward Victor. Her eyes were wide and slightly wild. Her hair was mussed from tossing and turning. Yet, in all her despair, something childlike and innocent remained. The room was hot. Despite the warm weather, a fire had been laid.
“Victor, you must help me.” Daphne reached for him.
“Of course, Daphne.” Victor sat at her bedside and clasped her hands.
Penelope remained quietly by the door.
“Penelope, please wait outside. I must speak to Victor alone,” Daphne said.
“Of course. I’ll be right outside if you need me.” Penelope pulled the door closed behind her.
“Victor, please, you must help me. You must,” Daphne said.
“But of course,” he repeated.
“They will think . . . they will question me and they may think . . . what did you tell them?”
Victor wanted to reach out and hold her, but he restrained himself. He focused on her question. “I told the police the truth. I heard a scr
eam and saw you come out of the hedge maze and that you collapsed. Then I carried you to the study.”
“Did you tell them about my dress?”
“Yes. I had to. I’m sure they’ll want to see it.”
“But they can’t. That worried me so much, but I took care of it.”
“What do you mean?” Victor hesitated. “How did you take care of it?”
“Well, I thought it might make them think I had something to do with Charles’s death, so I got rid of it,” Daphne said.
“You got rid of it? How?”
Daphne looked down demurely and plucked at a nonexistent thread on her coverlet. “When Penelope thought I was asleep, she stepped out. I burned it.” She waved toward the still smoldering fireplace. “Which was such a shame because it was a Norman Hartnell, and it cost a king’s ransom. It really suited me so well, don’t you think?”
Victor stared, openmouthed, “But—you can’t do that. That gown was evidence.”
“It was my gown. Besides, it was ruined. I would never be able to look at it again, let alone wear it.” Daphne went from petulant to matter of fact. “Now there won’t be anything to tie me to that horrible man. Don’t you see?”
“Yes, I think I do see.” Victor spoke slowly. “Look, Daphne, what really happened last night?”
“I don’t remember much, really.”
“Please. It’s very important.”
“All right.” Daphne sighed. “We were supposed to meet on the bench at the center of the maze. I got a note.”
“You got a note from Parker?”
“Yes. You see, it was in the pocket of his jacket. We were dancing and I got hot. We went outside to get some air, but then I got chilly. He gave me his jacket.” Daphne gave Victor a coquettish look. “He’d written the note and placed it in his pocket. That’s where I found it.”
“What did the note say?”
“Meet me at the bench in the center of the hedge maze at midnight.”
“Did you ask Parker about the note?”
Daphne blushed. “No. I just thought it was a sort of game. He often left me little love notes.”
“Do you still have the note?”
“I burned it with the dress.”
Victor gawked in stunned silence. He took several deep breaths and regained his composure. He needed the full story. “What happened next?”
Daphne stared at the ceiling as though she were reliving the moment. “We danced several times. Right before midnight, I was dancing with James Hampton and saw Charles slip outside. I thought he was going to wait for me at the bench. So, I finished the dance, made some excuse to James, and hurried outside.” Daphne hesitated.
“What happened next?”
She scowled. “I got to the center of the maze and tripped over him. I think I might have screamed. Then I saw the blood and ran. That’s all I remember.”
“Did you see or hear anyone else?”
“No. I wasn’t really paying attention, though.”
“You’ll have to make a statement to the police. Tell them the truth,” Victor said.
“But what if they don’t believe me?” Daphne grabbed the lapels of his jacket and looked into his eyes. “Victor, you must help me. I can’t bear the thought of going to jail.” Daphne verged on hysterics.
“You won’t go to jail,” he reassured her.
“Do you promise?” She buried her head on his chest.
“Well, I can’t promise, but if you didn’t kill him, I’m sure it will be all right.”
“You will look out for me? You won’t let them take me away, will you?” Real fear shone on Daphne’s face.
“No. I won’t let them take you away.”
Victor had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that his promise might come at a heavy price.
Chapter 8
I spent the next two days taking care of the ordinary things of life, including church and dinner with Mom and Nana Jo. One of my few rituals was spending time with my mom on Sundays. I picked her up for church, and we went out for dinner afterward. Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest. For my mom, who hated cooking, that meant eating out. Usually, dinner with Mom was Cracker Barrel or Red Lobster. We chose Red Lobster this Sunday. We’d done it for so long, the servers all knew us by name. Nana Jo came too. Afterward, we spent the day shopping.
Monday ended before I realized it had begun. From the time I got up, I was on the run. I almost forgot Snickers and Oreo had grooming appointments and rushed to make them on time. I dropped off the dogs and made trips to the dry cleaners, the city building permits office, the health department, the post office, the bank, and the grocery store. I picked up the dogs, and the day was over.
Tuesday, on the other hand, was much more noteworthy.
Tuesday was Senior Citizens’ Day at local restaurants, and Nana Jo and “the girls” were fond of the half-price buffet at Randy’s Steak House. In an attempt to avoid the rush, we arrived at eleven. It didn’t work. I wove between seniors with canes, walkers, and wheelchairs and in and out of multiple buffet lines. I felt like a schoolgirl. Normally, I wasn’t fond of buffets. I preferred food that didn’t sit out all day for men, women, and children with varying levels of cleanliness to handle. However, servers stood at all of the food stations assisting customers, and I had to admit Randy’s seemed sanitary. The food was also noteworthy. The roast beef and barbecue ribs were so tender you could cut them with a fork, and the mashed potatoes—made with actual potatoes, not instant—were creamy and delicious. Randy’s was well-known for their delicious, warm Banana Pudding. After two helpings, I decided I might need to check the place out again the next Tuesday.
We finished eating, sat at the table drinking coffee, and got down to business.
“All right, ladies. Let’s get this party started.” Nana Jo pulled her iPad out of her large bag. “Irma, why don’t you start? What were you able to find out?”
Irma Starczewski was a petite woman, probably in her mid-eighties. Decades of heavy smoking, which she still indulged in, gave her a deep, raspy voice. She wore her head full of jet-black hair in a beehive. I puzzled over how she slept with that mountain on top of her head until I learned from Nana Jo that Irma’s beehive was a wig. She took the beehive off when she went to bed.
“My great-grandson is a realtor, and he said Clayton Parker was a bad little mother—”
“Irma!” Nana Jo interrupted. “Watch your mouth.”
“Sorry,” Irma croaked and broke into a coughing fit. “Well, my great-grandson Ernie said he wouldn’t even show properties listed by Parker. Parker was taken before some board of realtors multiple times and would have lost his license if he hadn’t been so rich and his family so influential.”
“Did he know why Parker sold the business?” I asked.
“Ernie said there were some questionable real estate deals being reviewed. He didn’t have all of the details but promised to look into it and will let me know when he finds out.”
“Great. Nice job.” Nana Jo typed notes into her iPad. “Now, Dorothy how was the wedding?”
Dorothy Clark was about six feet tall and three hundred pounds. She might have been a linebacker for the Chicago Bears in a previous life. Despite her appearance, she had a certain appeal. Dorothy, like Nana Jo, was a hopeless flirt.
“My youngest son, Albert, works at South Harbor Country Club. He’s an accountant. Graduated top of his class, you know.” Dorothy beamed.
“Yes. We know,” Nana Jo said.
Irma and Ruby Mae rolled their eyes. Dorothy’s eyesight wasn’t that great. I doubted she saw them.
“Did Albert know Clayton Parker?” Nana Jo continued typing.
“He didn’t know him personally, but he did say the Parkers had been members of the country club for years. And, the older Parkers were well respected and paid their dues on time, unlike their son. Clayton was far behind. Al actually had to send him several letters encouraging him to pay up.”
“Well, the rotten l
ittle bast—”
“IRMA!” Nana Jo and Ruby Mae both yelled.
Irma clamped her hand over her mouth.
“Geez! I’m sorry.” Irma broke into another coughing fit. She sounded as though she was about to hack up a lung.
I handed her a glass of water. She declined and reached into her purse, pulled out a flask, and took a swig.
“Go ahead, Dorothy,” Ruby Mae said.
“That’s about all Albert knew, but my sister Joyce’s boy, Danny, works at the Yacht club and he said virtually the same thing. Danny works in the dining room. The older Parkers were always good at paying their dues, but Clayton wasn’t and he never gave tips,” Dorothy finished.
“Good work, Dorothy. Very helpful.” Nana Jo patted Dorothy’s hand. She turned to Ruby Mae. “Your turn. Did you have a chance to talk to your daughter?”
“Yes. She told me quite a lot about the family.”
I loved Ruby Mae’s southern accent. Of all Nana Jo’s friends, Ruby Mae Stevenson was my favorite. I’d learned her story from Nana Jo years ago. She was the youngest of the girls, only in her mid-sixties. She was African American with dark chocolate skin that always reminded me of coffee with a touch of cream. She had salt and pepper hair that was more salt than pepper, which she wore pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck. She was born and raised in a small town in Alabama; she moved to Chicago to live with her older sister after both of her parents died. Ruby Mae married a plumber. One day he said he was going out to get beer and never returned. She raised their nine children alone. To support herself and her children, she cleaned the homes of Chicago’s wealthiest citizens, including some well-known politicians. Ruby Mae was proud that all nine of her children graduated from college and were all doing what she called tolerably fair. However, her greatest joy seemed to come from knowing that, with a Master’s degree in Business, her youngest daughter, Stephanie, chose to run Mama Ruby’s Cleaning Service.
Ruby Mae pulled a ball of fluffy pink yarn and knitting needles out of her shoulder bag and started casting on. “Stephanie always investigates clients who request live-in maid service. She likes to make sure her workers are safe. She said Robert Parker was a good man. He was kind to the workers and always paid his bills on time. His son, Clayton, was another story.” Ruby Mae pursed her lips like she was sucking on a lemon. “She had to threaten to take him to court if he didn’t pay his bill. He was almost six months behind.”
