The Death in the Drink

by Shéa MacLeod

I didn’t bother to wait and see what would happen to Anthony. Or what Bat was doing. My entire focus was on Mary Rett.

  “Stop!” I shouted, taking off after her. Fortunately, I’d had the foresight to put on my sneakers and jeans that morning, while Mary wore flimsy ballet flats with a saggy floral dress.

  She hit the slick grass of the front yard, still wet from the morning rain. Her feet slid out from under her, and she went down face-first into a mud puddle. She popped back up, shrieking like a banshee and took off again with me close behind her. My traction was a little better, but I still managed to skid on a mud patch and fall on my ass.

  Mary was a slight thing with decent muscle tone. There was no way I was going to outrun her in a foot race. Not if I played fair. So I did what anyone would do. I slipped off my sneaker and heaved it at her. It smacked her in the back of the head, leaving a glop of mud sliding down her hair. She let out another shriek and whirled around to face me.

  “You bitch,” she screamed, face purpling. Really ugly.

  “Well now, Mary. That’s certainly a creative insult,” I said snarkily. “I’m surprised you even know that word.” I managed to get myself to my feet. The damp mud quickly soaked into my stockinged foot. I kind of wished now I hadn’t thrown my shoe. “You’re going to have to pay for what you did, Mary. You know that.”

  “It’s not my fault,” she yelled. “It’s his.”

  “Anthony?” I asked.

  “I did it for him.”

  “Come on, Mary. Let’s go inside and talk about it.”

  “No.”

  And she took off running again. Oh, Lord. It was really awkward running in one shoe, so I kicked it off and ran in my socks. Which, believe me, on a wet spring day is no fun. Mud squelched up through the fabric between my toes. My feet felt numb. It might have warmed up, but the wind whipping off the bay was still chilly.

  At some point we hit the sidewalk. And the concrete was like a slab of ice. Mary was having even more trouble. Her ballet flats slipped and slid on the pavement.

  She crossed the street without looking. The world’s ugliest car came out of nowhere, blaring its horn. The mustard yellow Gremlin screeched to a stop, narrowly missing her as she staggered out of the way.

  The driver’s side window rolled down and a gray head popped out. It was Hazel from bunko.

  “Come on Viola. Get in,” she shouted. I was covered in mud. I didn’t think she appreciated me getting on her upholstery. I shook my head. “Oh, don’t be silly,” she said. “I’ve got a blanket around the seat for the dogs.”

  Oh. Goody. I got to sit on a dog blanket.

  Since she insisted, I hopped into the car and onto the stinky dog blanket. Now I was covered in mud and dog hair. I wondered if this is what being tarred and feathered was like. Hazel took off with a lurch down the street, chasing Mary.

  “Is that the girl that murdered that poor woman on the ship?” Hazel asked.

  “No,” I said. “Well sort of. She and her boyfriend were involved in all the murders. And she’s definitely the one that tried to kill me at the ball.”

  Hazel gasped, horrified. “Well that’s just not okay.” She said in a very kindergarten teacher voice.

  “No,” I agreed. “No, it isn’t.”

  She stepped on the gas and sped up to where Mary was limping along the sidewalk. I flung open the door and tumbled out, right on top of her. We both hit the ground. Heavily. Mary was beneath me, so she broke my fall, more or less. I was a little worried about that until she jammed a pointy elbow in my side.

  “That’s not okay.” I lamely repeated Hazel’s words.

  “Get her, Viola!” Hazel cheered from the safety of the car.

  “Get off me,” Mary snarled. “I’m not going to jail.”

  “I’m afraid you are,” a voice above us said.

  I turned around with some relief to find Bat looming over us, hands on hips. A pair of handcuffs dangled from one hand. He shook his head at me, but he didn’t say anything else.

  Which was probably a good thing. Because if he had, I might have taken off my socks and thrown them at him.

  By the time we got back to the B&B, Mary and I were both shivering from cold. And the mud had started to dry. I was pretty sure my sneakers and my clothes were ruined, but I felt triumphant. I had stopped Mary from escaping. With the help of Hazel and her ugly car.

  Back in the B &B, Bat shoved Mary onto one of the wooden chairs. Anthony was still sitting on his chair, also handcuffed with the costumers standing guard over him. Kieran Knightly literally had a musket in one hand. I have no idea where he got it. Did the man just travel around armed with a weapon from the 18th century?

  Bat opened his mouth, no doubt to question or chastise, but he didn’t have a chance.

  “It’s your fault,” Mary spat, shooting Anthony a glare.

  “What do you mean, my fault?” Anthony snarled back. “You’re the one who came up with this brilliant plan.”

  “Oh, please.” Mary’s face twisted into an ugly snarl. “I’d have never considered it if it weren’t for you pushing, always pushing.”

  “Men can be like that, can’t they?” Cheryl said sympathetically, sitting down in front of Mary. I was surprised. Cheryl wasn’t always thrilled about my investigations and preferred to let me cozy up to the criminals. “They talk you into doing stuff you don’t want to do, then blame you when it all goes wrong.”

  “Exactly!” Mary puffed out her chest. “Always causing trouble.”

  “So what is it that Anthony forced you to do? Why don’t you start from the beginning,” Cheryl urged.

  Anthony opened his mouth as if to protest. I leaned down and whispered, “Shut your mouth, or I’ll tape it shut.”

  Anthony squeaked, but shut up.

  “Tabitha was a terrible person. We all know that,” Mary said. Everyone, including Bat, nodded. “So when Anthony started confiding in me, well, I just thought I’d do the charitable thing and listen. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just being a friend. We’re all more-or-less friends in this group.”

  “Of course,” Cheryl murmured.

  “But then he started doing little things like patting my knee, squeezing my hand. I thought nothing of it at first, but then one day he kissed me.”

  No doubt poor, plain Mary who always got looked over by handsome men suddenly found herself overwhelmed by the attention of this one man. And it would be easy to convince herself it was okay, seeing as how his wife was such a terrible person.

  “Next thing I knew,” Mary continued, “we were in this relationship, and I was in love with him. I thought he loved me too!” She shot Anthony another glare. “But he was only pretending.”

  Anthony opened his mouth. I shot him a warning look, and he closed it again. Apparently, I was scarier than I realized. Lucas would be proud.

  “He told me he wanted to be with me, but that Tabitha would never let him leave. That she had threatened to accuse him of terrible things and have him locked up if he ever tried.” By now she was sobbing, but it was an angry thing, no sadness in it.

  I wondered if what she claimed was true. I could certainly see Tabitha Yates doing something like that. Accusing people of crimes as retaliation for not doing what she demanded.

  “So when Tabitha told him they were going on this sailboat, he came up with a plan. He’d get Bryon to push Tabitha overboard.”

  Bryon again. I frowned. Had I been wrong? “Why Bryon? Why would he do such a thing?”

  Mary sighed. “Because he knew Tabitha and Jayne had this thing going and, no matter how he acted, he was jealous. Plus Tabitha was always rude to him, and he wanted payback. It was supposed to be a joke. It wasn’t supposed to kill her, or at least that’s what Anthony told Bryon. He was just supposed to push her over, she’d get wet and pissed off, and everyone would laugh at her. It would teach her a lesson.”

  “I’m guessing Anthony had other plans,” Cheryl said softly.

  Anthony made a strangled sound
, but Mary nodded. “He knew Tabitha couldn’t swim. And with her heavy petticoats, she’d be sucked under the water so quick, she would probably drown. Plus he put something in her tea that morning that would make her sleepy.”

  Foxglove, just as the lab had confirmed. It explained why Tabitha had been staggering on the docks that morning. She’d been drugged. No doubt to ensure she couldn’t fight much once she hit water.

  “You bitch!” Anthony roared. “I’m going to kill you!”

  He tried to launch from his chair, but Bat caught him and hauled him over to a waiting uniform. “Take him to the station and book him,” Bat ordered the officer.

  With Anthony gone, Mary looked less nervous. Cheryl gave her an understanding smile and an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “What about Bryon? Did Anthony kill Bryon?”

  Mary jerked her attention back to Cheryl. “Yes. You see, Bryon was upset when he discovered his actions killed Tabitha. He may have been a bore, but he wasn’t a killer. He confronted Anthony who brushed it off, but he must have said something that made Bryon suspicious, and Bryon started hinting that he would tell.”

  “So Anthony confronted him outside Flavel House and made a scene hoping everyone would be suspicious of Bryon,” I guessed. “That way if Bryon did say something, no one would believe him.”

  “Exactly.” Mary beamed at me as if I were particularly bright. “Only it didn’t work, and Bryon just got nastier. So Anthony used the same stuff he spiked Tabitha’s tea with to poison Bryon. Just dumped it in his flask one morning while we were all at breakfast. And that took care of Bryon.”

  So Lucas had been right about the poisoning. “Why did you try to kill me?” I asked, half knowing the answer.

  “I’m sorry about that.” Mary looked genuinely contrite. “But Anthony insisted. He said you were onto us and, if I didn’t do it, we’d both go to jail. So I followed you and, once Jayne left, I locked the door, started a fire in the trash, and…” she shrugged. “You know the rest. I truly am sorry, you know. About all of it. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Mary Rett, I’m arresting you for attempted murder and accessory to murder.” Bat took her arm and we watched as he hauled her out the door, a miserable, hunched figure.

  “I feel bad for Mary,” Cheryl said sadly. “She fell for the wrong man, and look what happened.”

  “It was her choice. She could have said no,” I said, not feeling nearly as sorry for her. Although I got it. After a lifetime of rejection, no doubt a little attention from Anthony was more potent than any drug. Maybe I did feel a little sorry for Mary after all.

  Chapter 18

  Facing the Music

  “So do you think this Anthony Yates just used Mary Rett? Or do you think he really loved her?” Lucas asked. We were sitting in Bakeology overlooking the Columbia River. The morning was gray and chilly, and rain spat against the plate-glass windows.

  Inside it was warm and a bit humid as steam shot into the air from the nearly constant brewing of espressos and lattes. The air was redolent with cinnamon and vanilla and the scent of fresh-baked bread as I cupped a giant mug of honey cardamom latte in my hands, the heat seeping into me. Lucas had a double espresso. Black. Also dosed with cardamom. He said it reminded him of Turkish coffee. Between us sat a small, white plate piled with cheesy Danish pastries and maple walnut scones drizzled with icing.

  “Well, she loved him, that’s for sure,” I said, taking a sip of the sweet, spicy beverage. “But I’m not so sure about him. I got the impression he just wanted to get rid of his wife and get the insurance money. Mary was lonely, insecure, and easily manipulated. So he used her. My guess is if he hadn’t been able to convince Bryon to push Tabitha overboard, he would have talked Mary into doing it.”

  “I don’t feel sorry for her,” he said. “She tried to kill you.”

  I sighed. “I know. What she did was wrong, but I can’t help but feel a little badly for her. She just wanted someone to love her.”

  “Doesn’t mean she had to kill for it. Someone who truly loves you won’t ask you to take that stain on your soul.”

  I eyed Lucas carefully. He didn’t seem upset, more like he was stating a fact. I tore a piece of scone off and popped it in my mouth. It was buttery, flakey, and perfectly sweet. “Sounds like you know more about that than you’d like.”

  “I was with Mossad.” As if that explained it all. Which it probably did. I imagined he had to do a lot of things he didn’t want to do, but it had been his job. I was glad he was a writer now and didn’t have to go around doing… whatever dangerous stuff Mossad agents did.

  “Anthony is definitely scum,” I agreed. “I know Mary had a choice, and she made the wrong one. I just wonder if she had met someone nice, someone who really cared about her, if she would have made different choices.”

  “She’ll have to face the music now,” Lucas said. “I, for one, am glad neither of them will be out hurting people.”

  “There is that.”

  “By the way,” he eyed me over his coffee cup, “I put in an offer on a condo yesterday afternoon.”

  I grinned. “With a river view?”

  He nodded. Should have a nice view of the sunset, too. When it’s not raining.”

  Which was most of the time. “I can’t wait to see it!”

  He reached across the table and took my hand. “I have an idea.”

  My heart raced. “Yes?”

  “Why don’t we take a little mini vacation? Head to wine country, take a tour of the vineyards. There are some stunning inns and really good wines down around Newberg.”

  I grinned. “Sounds wonderful. Very relaxing.”

  “That’s what I thought. We could both use a break. Once the papers are signed on my condo, we’ll hit the road.” He pointed out the window. “Isn’t that Bat and Cheryl?”

  Sure enough, my best friend was clinched in a passionate kiss with our resident homicide detective. “Maybe we should ask them to join us on our trip. A double date vacation could be fun.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Just what I needed. Good friends, good wine, and no more dead bodies.

  I lifted my latte. “To a peaceful vacation with no murders.”

  Lucas lifted his espresso cup. “One can only hope.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He laughed.

  If you loved Viola’s adventures, why not try my latest cozy mystery shenanigans in the Lady Rample Mysteries, set in the glitz and glamour of jazz era London. Keep reading for a sample of book one, Lady Rample Steps Out:

  Chapter 1

  If Sir Eustace didn’t stop yammering on about his adventures in Africa, there was bound to be a murder. His. And the authorities wouldn’t have far to look to find the killer. “Sorry, officer, it was him or me. Self-defense and all that. I was bored out of my skull. You understand.”

  “There I was, face to face with the king of beasts, nothing on me but my pipe. What a to-do!” Sir Eustace gave a belly laugh, his monstrous, white sideburns—in defiance of all current modes of fashion—bobbled wildly. It might be 1932 London, but Sir Eustace was firmly entrenched in tales of the high planes of Africa sometime well before George V took the throne.

  I took a sip of my highball and made a moue, disappointed. I am inordinately fond of highballs, being my cocktail of choice, but the ginger ale was altogether too spicy. It zinged up my nose making my sinuses itch. Anyone who knew anything about mixing beverages knew that ginger ale in a highball should be sweet and sparkly, not spicy. At least they hadn’t used club soda, I suppose. I’d had it made that way once or twice. Vile.

  Reluctantly, I set my glass down on the side table, not much caring if I left water rings on the polished, dark wood which smelled faintly of lemon and wax. After all, Sir Eustace deserved a little furniture destruction, boring me to tears as he was. Really, the man had probably spent all his time in Africa indoors. And I was certain he’d never faced down a lion, no matter what he claimed. I ca
st a longing glance at the dark amber liquid teasing me from within the cut-glass tumbler. It looked better than it tasted. Most unfortunate since I was in dire need of a drink—or several—if I were to survive Sir Eustace.

  If only this unutterably dull affair had been scheduled a week earlier. I could have bowed out, thanks to the appropriate yearlong grieving period. Not that I had been grieving, to be perfectly frank. I’d actually been quite busy with business matters and visiting my newly inherited properties. It just gave me an excellent excuse to get out of ridiculous parties such as the one I was currently attending. Alas, the year was up, and I was forced back into society against my will. Not that I minded society for the most part. I like a good party as much as anyone else. The operative term being “good.”

  I stifled a yawn behind my white satin glove, not much caring if anyone saw. Maybe Sir Eustace would get a hint, unlikely as that was. The man was thick as a brick.

  Once upon a time, I had the great good fortune to meet and marry Lord Rample, a gentleman quite senior to me in both age and rank. It had all been my Aunt Butty’s doing, of course. The woman was an irrepressible matchmaker and thoroughly convinced that wealthy husbands were the way to go. Lord Rample had the great good fortune to be not only enormously wealthy, but without much in the way of heirs. She decided he was perfect. Not for her own husband number four, but for my husband number one.

  The result had been a séance—Aunt Butty was obsessed with spiritualism regardless of it having fallen out of style—in which Queen Victoria’s ghost had appeared and ordered him to marry me. Fortunately, Lord Rample had taken it in stride. He didn’t marry me immediately, but he did ask me on a carriage ride in Hyde Park during which the horses bolted, forcing poor Lord Rample to play hero and take over the reins, bringing us to a safe stop. I’d have blamed Aunt Butty for arranging that, but I can’t see how she could have done it seeing as she was in Cairo at the time.

  In any case, Lord Rample had seemed quite sophisticated and heroic and eventually I’d agreed to marry him. Aunt Butty had been overjoyed.