The Arms of Death

by Maggie Foster

  * * *

  Chapter 21

  Thursday

  Ginny inserted the thumb drive with Professor Craig’s files on it into her computer and opened the menu, scanning the images (vacation pics), the financial files (no obvious clue there), and audio files (classical music). The specialized family tree files, while fascinating in their own right, were just lists of who begat whom. The e-mail files held more promise. She read through them, but found nothing that caught her attention.

  Ginny sat back and stared at the screen. That was the point. Would she recognize evidence of murder if she saw it? He was the victim, so the only thing that was likely to be on his computer would be something to do with motive and that covered a lot of territory. Who stood to benefit from his death?

  She flipped back over to Professor Craig’s files. Lots of clients, all with folders and subfolders. Would the date/time stamp help her? Was there any reason to believe the motive was recent? It was, technically, a poisoning. That meant not just pre-meditation, but careful thought and preparations. You don’t just grab a poison and dump it in someone’s coffee. Well, none of the best poisoners did, anyway. The perp would have to get his (her?) hands on the poison, covering her (his?) tracks carefully so the trail would not lead directly back to him. Who had access to that virus?

  She grunted in exasperation and turned back to the motive. Ginny was able to eliminate more than half of the entries based on a summary Professor Craig included at the top of each folder. Happy clients didn’t commit murder.

  Of the unhappy (or unspecified) clients, Ginny eliminated anything over five years old on the grounds that no one bent on homicide would wait so long.

  That left forty-two client files, one of which was Hal’s. She left that one for later.

  An hour (and one incipient headache) later, Ginny had found the following:

  Twelve clients who were, more or less politely, calling Professor Craig an ass and a dishonest one at that.

  Three tearful pleas to falsify facts for a good cause.

  Seven (!) attempts at genteel bribery.

  One that combined all of the above in a single ranting missive.

  In addition, there were two threats of legal action; Samuel Adams and a person styling himself the Earl of Morton, demanding Professor Craig cease and desist from using that title though, as far as she knew, Professor Craig had never introduced himself to anyone as the Earl of Morton.

  Ginny wasn’t surprised to find acrimony among genealogists. They were, after all, human. But none of the conflicts seemed important enough to kill someone over.

  On the other hand, buried in the middle of the Work category were two names she recognized.

  In a folder labeled Elaine Larson, Ginny discovered an increasingly heated correspondence, revealing Professor Craig’s plans to fire Elaine. Ginny knew how devastating losing that job would have been to a single mother. For Elaine Larson, this death was fortuitous indeed.

  The second folder had to do with Fiona Campbell. Donald Craig had applied for membership to the Texian Scottish Society. He had explained his interest and his connection, hoping to be allowed access to private files in the keeping of the Society. The reason given for denying him was that the percentage of his blood that could be proved to be pure Scots was insufficient to meet the Society’s criteria. The decision had been appealed and the deciding vote was cast by Fiona Campbell. Her words were both rude and caustic.

  Ginny felt the blood flaming her cheeks. That woman had done the same thing to her, only on the grounds that Ginny hadn’t been born in Scotland. Her blood was pure enough, but her timing was off. Apparently, Scottish Society membership was a matter of whim, with the power to give or withhold in the hands of a few people who clearly had personal agendas and weren’t afraid to use them.

  She took several deep breaths. Had it been the other way around, Professor Craig murdering Fiona Campbell, Ginny could have understood it, but this didn’t help at all. It was merely evidence of the vile, petty, vicious nature of the woman who was now head of the local genealogy society.

  She closed Professor Craig’s files and found herself staring at the Suspects List.

  She refused to believe Mark Craig had flown to Dallas, killed his uncle, and flown back to Tennessee, and where could he have gotten his hands on that virus? She would consider him a viable suspect only as a last resort.

  But that left a lot of other possibilities.

  There were too many people with motives. Hundreds, maybe, that she didn’t even know about. Professor Craig had a talent for making enemies. She should concentrate on means and opportunity. That meant she needed to talk to Jim. Which she did not want to do.

  She closed the rest of the files, pulled the flash drive out of the port, then went to get ready for her date. She hoped Hal was in a good mood because she certainly was not.

  * * *

  Chapter 22

  Thursday

  Ginny forked the first bite of the pilaf into her mouth and sighed in ecstasy. “Delicious!”

  Hal smiled at her across the table, then picked up the wine bottle and refilled her glass.

  “Hard day, darling?”

  Ginny laughed. “How did you know?”

  “That’s your third glass of wine.”

  “Oh!”

  “Care to tell me about it?”

  Ginny looked over at him and found she did, rather, want to talk. “Would you mind very much?”

  “I’ve been wondering what you were up to.”

  “Bad news first, I suppose,” she said. “I couldn’t find those documents you described. There were several primary source documents at Professor Craig’s house, but none looked right. I have the entire collection in the car if you’d like to go through it.”

  He nodded. “I would. Anything with my name on it?”

  “There was a folder with what looked like printouts of computer files. You’ll have to check, but I didn’t see anything that looked old.”

  He sighed. “It’s probably just a duplication of what was on his office computer.”

  Ginny nodded.

  “Anything else?”

  “Not about you.” Ginny spent the next half hour entertaining Hal with a description of the antique art and the Craigs’ reactions to it.

  “Antique pornography! Who would have thought!”

  “I know and you mustn’t tell anyone.”

  “Why not? He’s dead.”

  “Yes, but the Craigs aren’t.”

  “Oh, all right.” Hal’s eyes twinkled at her over the rim of his glass. “I wish I’d been there.”

  Ginny raised an eyebrow. “They give Mark Craig a motive for murdering his uncle, but I don’t believe it. He didn’t know they existed until his wife hauled them out from behind the bookcase.”

  “Murder?” Hal looked startled. “That’s the first I’ve heard of that.”

  Ginny nodded. “It’s beginning to look like it.”

  Hal lifted an eyebrow, studying her. “You know something you haven’t told me.”

  “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

  “You told him.”

  Ginny caught her breath. Hal wasn’t stupid and he’d be less than human if he wasn’t jealous. She needed to explain about Jim Mackenzie.

  “Only because it was a medical device. Besides, you and I haven’t seen each other since this started. There’s been no time to tell you.”

  “I have time now.”

  Ginny nodded. “Yes. I think you need to know what’s going on.”

  He rose from his seat, picked up the wine bottle, then came around to collect her.

  “Let’s move into the den, and I think I’m going to want another bottle of wine.”

  Over the glasses, Ginny outlined what had happened since Sunday afternoon.

  “Elaine is the current front runner in the suspects stakes since we have means, motive, and opportunity for her, all except access to the virus.”

  Hal was seated facing her, one a
rm stretched across the back of the sofa, his expression sober. “I would hate to think Elaine Larson was a murderer.”

  “I feel the same way.” Ginny’s expression hardened. “My money is on Fiona Campbell.”

  Hal nodded. “She’s easy to hate. But?”

  “But I can’t place her in the genealogy library on Wednesday afternoon.”

  “Oh, she was there.”

  Ginny blinked. “How do you know?”

  “I went looking for her at the Convention Center and was told she’d popped up to the library to have a chat with the Professor.”

  “Do you remember who told you?”

  Hal screwed up his face. “No. I mean, I can see her, I could describe her, but I don’t know who she was.”

  “What time was that?”

  “After lunch. Mid-afternoon, I think.”

  Ginny nodded, turning over this new information in her brain. “Everyone knows Fiona Campbell. If she was there, it’s a good bet she was seen.”

  Hal frowned, fixing Ginny with a worried look. “Ginny, you’re not serious about continuing this investigation, are you?”

  She met his eyes. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

  “Didn’t you tell me you’d turned the evidence over to the police?”

  “And they’re investigating. The detective was out talking to the Craigs this morning.”

  “So they took your suggestion seriously.”

  Ginny nodded. “It looks like it.”

  Hal put his wine glass down on the table, then took hers and did the same with it. He moved over, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her into an embrace.

  “Ginny, darling, I hate the thought of you poking around in something like this. You might get too close and then what would I do without you? I would really rather you gave it up.”

  Ginny snuggled closer, her head on his shoulder. It was nice to be held, to be cared about, worried over. She sighed. “Maybe I will.”

  He sat there for a few minutes in silence, hugging her, then kissed the top of her head. “Maybe?” His voice was warm and soft and conveyed both concern and comfort.

  She shrugged. “We’re pretty sure we know how he was killed, but no one knows why.”

  Hal sighed deeply, a rich, masculine sound. “Why do you care, Ginny?”

  She sat up and looked at him, wondering if she could explain. “He was my patient. I promised we’d take good care of him and he shouldn’t have died. So part of my problem is guilt.”

  He shook his head at her. “Blame the murderer, if there is one, not yourself.”

  She put her head back down on his shoulder and let him wrap his arms around her again. “The reason I told Jim Mackenzie was because he has the same obligation to his patients. He and Dr. Armstrong both want to know how this death happened, so they can prevent it ever happening again.”

  Hal nodded. “I can understand that.”

  “And I was exposed to the virus, so I’m still a little nervous about what it might do to me.”

  “I thought the CDC decided no one else was going to catch it?”

  “They did, but they’re guessing. Viruses mutate. Without knowing more about this particular bug, I can’t rest easy.”

  “Oh.” Hal was silent for a minute. “So what you and Jim and Armstrong really want to know is about the virus, not the murderer.”

  Ginny nodded. “But to find that virus, that version of the virus, we need to identify who had access to it and to Professor Craig.” She shrugged. “So that’s what we’ve been looking for.”

  “I might be able to help with that.”

  She picked her head up and looked at him. “How?”

  “I have connections to a lot of labs. I can put out some discreet feelers and see if anyone recognizes the symptoms.”

  Ginny sat bolt upright. “Wait a minute. I’ve just remembered. Alex said they had identified the source. Gene-something-or-other. It’s a lab in the Dallas area. I gave the note to Jim.”

  She pressed her lips together. “That’s why I forgot about it. I was so angry I tossed it at him and stormed out.”

  Hal smiled at her “So the CDC already has the answer and you can stop worrying.”

  “Yes.” She smiled, then handed his wine glass to him and picked up her own. “In vino veritas!”

  He laughed, touched his glass to hers took a sip, then set his glass down, and drew her closer.

  “You are a remarkable woman, Ginny Forbes, but I’m just as happy you won’t have to fight off an attacker in the dark.”

  Ginny was startled. “What attacker?”

  “The evil villain who wants to silence you. Like in the movies.” Hal was teasing, but Ginny couldn’t help feeling a qualm in the pit of her stomach.

  “Well, he’s safe from me. I just hope he knows it.”

  “If he tries anything, he won’t be safe from me.”

  “Dueling pistols?”

  “Smith & Wesson.”

  Ginny grinned, then reached up and kissed him. “My hero.”

  He kissed her back, then again. They were still at it when Mrs. Mason came in to ask if they wanted dessert.

  * * *

  Chapter 23

  Friday

  Early the next morning, Ginny pulled on her nineteenth century frontier woman costume, grabbed breakfast, and hurried out to the car. Every member of the clan, from cradle to grave, was required to devote one day a month to the living history reenactment that was The Homestead. Ginny would be demonstrating period cooking today and she had a lot of preparation to do before the gates opened to the public.

  She stowed her purse, car keys, and cell phone in the locker room hidden at the heart of the complex, grabbed a wicker basket from the props department, and proceeded to collect the raw materials for the four dishes she would be preparing. All of the ingredients had been requisitioned beforehand so were waiting for her, but they had to be picked up, which meant visiting the smoking shed, the hen house, the cold spring, the bakery, the gardens, the larder, and the dairy.

  Loaded down with ingredients, she repaired to her assigned station (located, as in all frontier kitchens, in a separate building, away from the main house) and lit the cooking fires. They had both griddle plates and a Dutch oven to work with so only part of the meal would be prepared over an open hearth.

  The girls who were scheduled to help her this day, ages seven to fourteen, arrived promptly at eight-thirty, smiling and excited to be in costume and allowed to show off their skills to the paying guests.

  “Miss Ginny!” The youngest gave her a hug and Ginny kissed the top of her head.

  “Good morning, Bonnie.”

  She put them to work hauling water from the well, and locating the pots, knives, measuring cups, wooden spoons, dishes, and linens that would be needed. She set up the scullery and assigned one of the older girls to the slicing, dicing, and chopping, and another to the job of teaching the little ones how to measure the dry ingredients and separate the eggs.

  By the time the gates opened at nine, they were well into the tasks required to set the noonday table. On the menu today were Scotch Broth, Fishwife’s Haddie, Winter Brioche, and Apple Amber, all original nineteenth century Scottish recipes prepared traditionally and from ingredients grown or raised on the grounds.

  Ginny paid almost no attention to the visitors. She was polite, smiling at them and answering questions, but they were brought through in groups by guides who explained what was going on. That left her free to concentrate on the food preparation, and making sure none of her assistant cooks sliced off a finger, got burned, or fainted from the heat.

  She was in the process of showing the little ones how to peel and core an apple when she became aware of someone watching her. She was not really surprised. It made sense the Laird’s grandson, newly returned from exile in Virginia, should look the place over, to start learning how the system worked, but she was not sure she wanted to speak to him. He had left two messages for her and neither had seemed u
rgent enough to force her to return the calls, though courtesy would demand a reply at some point.

  On impulse, she addressed the youngest girl. “Bonnie, would you like to know the name of the man you will marry?” The girl nodded cautiously, unsure what to make of this offer.

  “What you do is peel the apple in one long continuous strip, so it comes off all in one piece.” Ginny demonstrated. “Then you must throw the peel over your shoulder.” She tossed it over her right shoulder, in the direction of the door. “If you’ve done it correctly, the peel will fall in the shape of the first letter of your lover’s name.” The entire collection of girls ran over to see what they could make of Ginny’s effort. Ginny smiled to herself, not bothering to join them. It was, after all, just an old wives’ tale.

  “Look, Miss Ginny! Look!” Bonnie grabbed her hand and pulled her over to see. Ginny looked down and felt her cheeks grow pink. She had tossed a large, slightly twisted, but quite recognizable “J” onto the floor.

  “Did it work, Miss Ginny?” Ginny looked up to find Jim trying not to laugh. She turned to the child. “Well, we won’t know until I get married, will we?” She reached down and picked the peel off the floor, tossing it into the slops bucket, to be fed to the pigs later.

  “But does it work?” Bonnie persisted.

  “Why don’t you try it and see what happens.”

  Ginny turned her back on the apples and concentrated on getting the rest of the meal ready, filling the space with delectable aromas and making everyone’s mouth water.

  Jim stayed and watched until all four dishes were ready to put on the table, then politely sampled each one, the girls crowding around him, demanding praise for their work. He obliged with good humor and compliments to each, taking the youngest onto his lap and teasing her about her prospects for a happy marriage, asking her if she might consider marrying him and being told he was much too old for her, being closer to her father’s age than her own.

  Ginny smiled to herself but was not sorry to find the kitchen filling up with visitors and staff, all drawn by the smell and anxious to taste for themselves. The cleaning would have to be done as well, what hadn’t been attended to already, for Ginny believed in cleaning and clearing and putting away as she went, but it was accepted that everyone would pause for lunch. Unnoticed, she slipped out and faded into the crowd.