by V. M. Burns
“I thought so at first too,” Lady Elizabeth said. “But then I remembered Mrs. McDuffie’s comments about the missing tablecloth.”
James and Penelope looked at each other and both looked at Lady Elizabeth as though a light had been turned on behind their eyes.
“That must be it,” James said. “I wondered how someone could have managed to stab him and not get any blood on his clothes. I thought he must have left the party.”
“Everyone was present and accounted for when the police arrived,” Penelope added.
“That explains it then,” James said.
“Will someone tell me what the devil you’re talking about?” Lord William said.
“Can’t you see, Uncle? The killer must have removed his clothes and then stabbed Charles Parker in the garden.”
James picked up the tale. “Then he washed off the blood in the pond.”
Lady Elizabeth shook her head. “No. I don’t think he washed in the pond, at least not entirely. Or the carpet wouldn’t have been soaked through.”
James nodded. “I see what you mean.”
“He must have gone into the library and gotten a container and washed in the library.”
“Pouring the water on the floor and soaking the carpet,” James added.
“There were several large vases in that room,” Penelope said.
“Then he dried himself with the tablecloth and put his clothes back on. That’s who Mrs. McDuffie saw running naked in the moonlight,” Lady Elizabeth finished the story.
Lord William stared for several moments before illumination came and he smiled. “That’s how the carpet got wet.”
Lady Elizabeth nodded. “Yes. And he hid the tablecloth in the chest because it was wet and stained with Charles Parker’s blood.”
“But why?”
They turned to stare at Lord William.
“Why bother taking off your clothes and washing? Why not leave?” Lord William asked.
“Because he couldn’t leave. If he left, it would draw attention to him. For whatever reason, he couldn’t just walk away. He had to stay until the end,” Lady Elizabeth said.
“That’s why the police had such a hard time. Everyone was present and accounted for,” James added.
Lady Elizabeth nodded.
Lord William pounded the arm of his chair. “Well, by Jove, I think you’ve figured it out.”
Lady Elizabeth smiled vaguely and continued her knitting.
Penelope looked at her aunt and her smile faded. “What’s wrong? We need to call Scotland Yard and tell them. You’ve figured it out.”
Lady Elizabeth said, “I’ve figured out how, yes, but not who.”
Penelope’s face dropped. “But surely it couldn’t be Victor. I mean he would hardly have had time. We were dancing most of the evening. And, he certainly wasn’t wet.”
James nodded as he lit a cigarette. He smoked for a few seconds. “Your aunt is right. You’ll need a lot more than a stained, wet tablecloth.”
Penelope plopped down on the sofa.
Lady Elizabeth said, “We know how he did it. Now we just need to know who and why.”
James suddenly reached into his pocket and pulled out a telegram. “I almost forgot. This telegram came earlier from the policeman in America.”
“What is it?” Penelope walked close by to get a better look at the telegram.
“The Chicago policeman, Patrick O’Hara, is coming to England. He should be here in a few days.”
“How will that help?” Penelope looked puzzled.
James shrugged. “I hoped if the killer followed Parker from America, then maybe he might recognize him. At the time, it seemed so farfetched that anyone here would have killed him.”
Lady Elizabeth stopped knitting and smiled brightly. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“All right, dear. What do you have in mind?” Lord William asked.
“I was thinking maybe we could re-create the scene of the crime.”
“What?” Lord William and James exclaimed simultaneously.
“What do you have in mind?” Penelope asked.
“What if we have another party and invite all of the same people. The killer is bound to be there. Maybe this Detective O’Hara will recognize him.”
“Absolutely not,” Lord William said. “I will not have you inviting a killer into the house. He’s killed once. What’s to stop him from killing again?”
“We can make sure the police are present,” James said slowly.
Penelope frowned. “But if the police are here, the killer will know it’s a trap. He’ll be on his guard. He might not even come.”
“We’ll have to make sure the police aren’t obvious. If they’re in disguise, they’ll be like all the other invited guests.”
“Invited guests? Who would believe that?” Lord William asked.
James stood and walked in front of the fireplace. “It might work if we’re the only ones who know the truth. The killer might think he’s been invited to another party.”
“But why?” Lord William asked. “Why would we have another party?”
Lady Elizabeth resumed her knitting and smiled at Penelope. “Well, if we were to announce an engagement between Victor and Penelope . . .”
Penelope stood motionless as heat crept up her neck. “How did you know?”
Lady Elizabeth smiled, put down her knitting, and lifted the teapot. “More tea?”
Chapter 22
I would have slept late had it not been for biological constraints and the urgent allure of the smell of coffee. Nana Jo, Dawson, and the nephews kept things going until I made my way downstairs.
Dark circles and red eyes told the tale Dawson was too silent and sullen to tell. It was obvious he hadn’t slept, but the delicious aroma of cinnamon indicated he hadn’t been idle either. Dawson definitely had a talent for baking, and I was amazed at the delicacies he produced in his tiny kitchenette. He often tried out recipes in his apartment but was only able to cook on a small scale. When he baked complementary items for the bookstore, he needed more space so he used my oven. The last time I’d gone up to see him, he’d installed floating shelves which held an assortment of old cookbooks. Some were gifts from Nana Jo and the girls. Others were garage sale finds marked with price tags of one dollar or less. Today’s treats were cinnamon and orange rolls with a sticky icing, and they were excellent.
His baked goods had gained a reputation among the nearby shop owners and vanished quickly. He’d taken to baking more batches to insure there were goodies for people who shopped later. I was thinking about moving ahead with the plans for the tea shop, but I didn’t want to say anything to Dawson yet. It would be nice to sell the baked goods rather than give them away for free. Things were still in the early stages. He had school and football in the fall. I didn’t want him to feel obligated. He’d be busy enough keeping up with his studies and football practice, training and travel and enjoying college. The last thing he needed was more pressure. No. The more I thought things through, the more I thought it better to wait. I’d given him a budget to buy supplies. He was free to bake as much as he wanted but providing a true café would be a bad idea right now.
One decision made, I grabbed another cinnamon roll and worked on inventory and store displays. A steady string of customers passed through, but at the end of the day, I wasn’t tired, nor did I want to sit home alone. Dawson headed back to his studio. Nana Jo had a date. Even Snickers and Oreo abandoned me. I let them out to do their business, and they promptly went to the garage and barked and scratched at the door until Dawson came down and opened it. He glanced at me. I nodded and shrugged. He opened the door wide enough for them to enter, and I was alone.
Most nights the thought of eating alone in my apartment didn’t bother me, but that night I didn’t like it. I had friends and family I could call, but I wasn’t in the mood for conversation. So, I grabbed a mystery by a new author that sounded promising. Ghost in Glass Houses by Kay Charles was a paranor
mal cozy mystery and if the blurb on the back cover was any indication, it promised to be an engagingly funny read. Since opening the bookstore, I’d had so little time to read. I guessed that came with the territory.
On the shores of Lake Michigan were many fine seafood restaurants. One of my favorites was a little place called The
Daily Catch. Locals called it The Catch. It wasn’t fancy. The nautical décor reminded me more of Gilligan’s Island than anything else. But the food was delicious. Leon and I treated ourselves there once a month. I hadn’t been back since he passed away, thinking the memories would be too painful. However, as I sat on the wooden bench in a booth that extended out over the water and watched kids play on the beach, sailboats float across the lake, and the sky change from bluish purple to a vibrant orange as the sun set, memories of Leon and I enveloped me like a cozy, comfortable sweater and warmed my heart.
The rainbow trout was delicious, and after, I relaxed with a cup of coffee, a slice of cheesecake, and my memories. My book lay on the table, unopened. I never minded eating alone in restaurants. My mom said she always felt people stared at her, and she dropped food in her lap. That was one of the reasons we had started our Sunday dinner outings after my dad died. Mom was uncomfortable, and Jenna needed someone to talk to. When my sister found herself alone, she got out her cell phone and found someone to talk to. She often annoyed me by doing it, even when I was with her.
The high-back, hard wooden seats in the booths resembled church pews. Sitting in them made me feel I was in a cocoon. Nice for quiet, romantic dinners, but the high backs meant I couldn’t see anyone in the booths around me. I heard an embarrassing story about a wife seated in a booth behind her husband and his girlfriend for close to an hour before she recognized his laugh, stood, and walked around and caught him in a compromising position. The story popped into my head when I recognized a laugh from the booth behind me.
The disembodied laugh belonged to a woman, and it was familiar, although it took me a few minutes to figure out who it belonged to. I leaned back, turned my head, and discretely tried to put my ear to the back of the bench and still present a somewhat natural-looking pose to onlookers. Snatches of conversation floated up and over the booth, not loud enough to make out more than every fifth word. If I could lie back and gaze out the window, maybe I could maneuver enough to justify having my ear plastered against the back of the bench. Unfortunately, grace was never my strong suit and when I turned, I hit my elbow against the back of the booth. It hit in just the right place and produced a booming thud, which caused me to jerk forward and then backward, hitting my head on the back of the pew with another thump. Tears came to my eyes. I must have cried out because two servers and the manager rushed over to make sure I was okay. Whether due to the thuds of my elbow and head hitting the bench, my cries of pain, or the concerned attention of the waitstaff surrounding my booth, the people behind me stopped talking and came to investigate the commotion. Through the tears I tried hard to keep from falling, I saw Diana Parker and her handsome hulk of a boyfriend, Hans Ritter.
“Oh my God. Are you okay?” Diana Parker seemed genuinely concerned. I guessed a clear conscience could make you sympathetic.
I forced a smile, which I suspected came out more like a grimace because she immediately asked her hunk to check my elbow and make sure nothing was broken.
“He’s wonderful with identifying broken bones.”
“Do you mind?” He smiled and firmly, but gently, checked for broken bones. “Nothing’s broken.” He gently massaged and exercised the joint, which functioned quite nicely. Satisfied my elbow worked, he lightly probed my head. “Yep, there’ll be a bump.” He suggested an ice pack and aspirin would be a good idea.
Diana watched the probing from the bench across from me. Once Hans had made his diagnosis, the restaurant staff left. The manager was so concerned for my comfort and well-being, he took care of my meal. Handsome Hans slid in beside Diana.
I knew an explanation was called for but, for the life of me, I couldn’t come up with anything. “Lovely evening. Do you come here often?” was all I could manage.
Neither of them seemed the least bit suspicious.
“It’s pretty close to the house, and we can walk over,” Diana pointed out the window. The Parker home was probably less than three blocks from the restaurant.
“Wow. That is close.” I stared out the window. The bump must have emptied out my brain cells because I couldn’t think of anything to say.
The silence got awkward and I was just about to make an excuse and leave when Diana groaned. “I wonder what he wants now.”
I turned and saw Detective Pitt heading straight for our booth.
“Hello, Detective Pitt. Can I help you?”
He barely looked at me. Maybe he was still upset about Jenna. My sister could be a real barracuda, and I suspected she had taken a few choice bites out of Stinky Pitt’s tushy. He was probably still finding it painful.
Detective Pitt glanced at me and then turned all of his attention and focus onto Diana Parker and her hunk.
Diana was beautiful in a crimson red, sleeveless, curve-hugging dress. Her bright red lipstick and soft wavy hair made her look like a 1920s pinup model.
“We have some additional questions to ask you,” he said.
“Now? You have questions now? Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Diana rolled her eyes.
Detective Pitt was stony faced. “It’s a murder investigation. I’m sure you want us to catch your husband’s killer.” Detective Pitt turned his gaze to the hunk and then back to Diana. “Or, don’t you?”
A flush rose from Diana Parker’s sweetheart neckline straight up to her face. Her eyes flashed and a vein on the side of her forehead pulsed. She leaned toward Detective Pitt and spoke slowly and quietly. “Actually, I don’t really care who killed him. He was a spoiled, arrogant prick, so unless you’re prepared to arrest me, I’m not going anywhere with you. And, in the future, if you have questions for me, you can refer them to my attorney.”
Surprise flashed across Detective Pitt’s face before he returned to his normal, stony faced stare. He glared at Diana Parker in what looked like a misguided attempt at playing chicken. Whoever blinked first, lost. If that was his intention, he didn’t know women. He certainly didn’t know Diana Parker. After what felt like fifteen minutes, but was more like ten seconds, she lifted a hand and snapped her fingers.
The manager rushed to the table. “Is there a problem Mrs. Parker?”
“Would you please escort this gentleman away from our table? He’s bothering us.” Diana Parker was a modern woman and capable of multitasking. While she stared down a police detective and signaled for the manager with one hand, she pulled a cell phone from her clutch with the other. “Hello, Mr. Monteagle? This is Diana Parker. You told me to contact you if I had any more trouble with the police. . . .”
I guessed Mr. Monteagle was her attorney and she had him on speed dial.
Check and mate. Diana Parker accomplished all of this, and as far as I could tell, she still hadn’t blinked.
Detective Pitt held up a hand to ward off the manager. With a sardonic smile, he turned and walked away.
I took a deep breath and watched Diana Parker in awe. She told Mr. Monteagle she’d be in touch and explain everything first thing tomorrow. She ended the call, reached for my glass of wine, and downed it. The only indication that the encounter rattled her was her shaking hand.
“You were amazing,” I said.
“I can’t believe I did that.” She set the empty wineglass on the table.
Hunk Handsome grabbed her hand and squeezed it. Then he lifted it to his lips and kissed it. They gazed at each other like lovesick teenagers. Rather than gagging, a silly grin spread across my face and an “Aww . . .” escaped my lips.
Diana giggled. Hans smiled and slid out of the booth. He excused himself and mumbled something about getting some air.
When he was gone, I raised an eyebrow, and Diana gi
ggled again.
Her face lit up and her eyes sparkled. “Oh my God. I just want to pinch myself. I can’t believe how kind he is, especially after . . .” She shook her head as if to clear away any lingering thoughts of her husband. She leaned across the table. “I guess that’s wrong, but I don’t care. I was miserable with him for so long. It feels good to be free.”
I didn’t want to be a wet blanket, but time was short. “So, Detective Pitt has—”
“That crazy man thinks I killed Clay. He has been coming to the house and asking questions. He keeps asking the same questions over and over again. I thought he had eliminated me. I had an ironclad alibi, but now that David is dead, he’s back at it.”
“You have an alibi. You were at the hotel with Hans, right?”
“Well, yes. But now Pitt’s implying we plotted together to kill Clay so we could get rid of him and take his money.”
I hated to admit it, but it sounded like a possibility. I guess I didn’t hide my feelings very well because Diana looked hurt.
“Not you too.” She grabbed her clutch and started to leave the booth.
“I’m sorry.” I reached out and touched her arm.
She stopped. “I suppose the spouse is always the best suspect. But it’s not true. I didn’t love Clay anymore, but I certainly didn’t kill him.”
“You could have divorced him.” I tried to sound reassuring, but she shook her head.
“Remember I told you I signed a prenuptial agreement. That meant I got nothing if we divorced. Now . . .” The word lingered in the air.
“Now you get everything.”
Diana snorted. “Yeah, everything. As if there’s anything to get.”
“What do you mean?”
“Clay had been scheming and siphoning money. There’s basically nothing left. He never talked to me about business. Now I’m getting calls and subpoenas left and right. That attorney, Mr. Monteagle, I hired him to sort out this mess. Clay was in debt up to his eyeballs.”
“Wow. And you had no idea?”
She shook her head.
“Lots of people are in debt, but they aren’t killed for it. Who hated Clayton so much they wanted him dead?”
