"She's dead,” she bawled. “She's been murdered."
* * * *
2.
What Happened?
The cops were immediately called, but this being an old mansion, and there being a murder and all, the night decided to erupt into a fantastic storm. The rains would prevent the police from coming for some while. Adam Jericho took charge of the crime scene, sifting through the evidence with a fine-tooth comb. A comb that revealed hairs that were definitely not the property of a woman in her twenties. The hairs were blue. Jericho bagged them with a suspicious glance at the old woman, who peeked through the doorway with the others. They were like vultures to carrion. Luckily the corpse was in the bathroom, away from prying eyes.
The woman who had been in the tiny red dress wasn't wearing the dress anymore. A red towel was wrapped around her body, as if she'd been ready to take a shower. Her head was stuffed into the toilet bowl like so much excrement. Someone had held her head under the water until she drowned. Her hands were limp on either side of the bowl. If she'd given the murderer a fight, she had lost. What a shameful way to die. Jericho saw to it that no one saw the state of the corpse except for him (and Kelly Greene, who had seen too much already). He would not disturb the corpse before the tech boys showed up.
The others watched every move he was making as he examined the bedroom. This wasn't some highway accident that you just couldn't turn away from. They had all spent the afternoon with this woman. So he walked over and closed the door to cut off the gawkers’ view.
He found her journal. It was sitting beside a half-eaten bagel spread with cream cheese. She'd made an entry before she'd been stuffed into the toilet and drowned. "I think I'm in trouble" was all it said. Short, simple, and completely damning. If the girl in the scarlet dress was suspicious of one of the others in this mansion, surely she had confided in someone.
Someone had gone through her things. Her bureau drawers were all open and clothes were scattered about. What had they been looking for? Was it a robbery gone bad? Had a thief been caught with his hand in the cookie jar? The woman in scarlet was a powerful Hollywood executive. She'd been sporting fine jewelry all night. Had someone wanted her fine necklaces and bracelet so much that they resorted to murder? Or was it something more personal? Did someone in this mansion have a bone to pick with little miss tiny red dress?
Jericho came across a key to her door as he prowled about the room. He locked the scene of the crime up tight for the tech boys. They would arrive right after the storm let up, whenever that might be. The way the wind and sky were warring right now, it didn't look as if that would be before morning. That gave Detective Jericho plenty of time to interrogate the people at this happening. He figured he might as well get some interviews in while the events were still fresh in everyone's mind. He descended the steps. As he scanned the lobby full of distraught players of a game suddenly turned real, he saw immediately who he wanted to question first.
He escorted the sniffling Kelly Greene into the kitchen, despite the simmering glare he got from Oliver Powers. The radio personality seemed to distrust him, though he had never given the gargantuan man any reason to be suspicious. Jericho made note of his reaction. Perhaps the powerful Mr. Powers was trying to cover his own guilt by pretending to suspect Jericho of foul play. But Oliver would have to wait. He had to focus his attentions now on the woman who discovered the body.
Kelly Greene was sniffling still and Jericho couldn't help but believe the tears were real. He'd seen a number of her films and was quite positive that she was not a good enough actress to manufacture such waterworks. But were they tears of shock and fear, or simply the reaction of a woman who had done a terrible thing and was having a hard time dealing with it? There are many people in this world who have murdered but are not natural killers. Most people don't have the stomach for it. They might muster the drive to complete the act, but guilt gets them in the end. Miss Marple and Sherlock Holmes wouldn't have closed half their cases if the killers hadn't wanted to be caught.
Jericho took Ms. Greene's hand gently in his. The personal touch. He was a friend. You could tell ole Adam anything. AndKelly Greene did tell him everything, precious little that it was. She had gone up to check on the woman in red. She had rapped on the door several times, and getting no response, had tried the doorknob. The door had been open. Kelly went inside, calling the woman's name. No answer. Kelly admitted that she had started getting worried. She saw the drawers that looked like someone had gone through them. Then, entering the bathroom, she saw the woman in the red towel. That's when she'd run downstairs, hysterical. She hadn't seen anything else. She didn't notice anyone acting suspicious.
"Has anyone talked to you about her jewelry?” Jericho asked.
Kelly Greene looked off into the distance, searching her memory. She came up with a little something. Yes, the pale teenager from the South had asked Kelly if she thought the jewels complemented the red dress. "Very pretty," the girl had said, or so Kelly Greene recalled. Was the actress just trying to throw Jericho off the scent?
Jericho went upstairs again, to the scene of the murder. He wanted to verify that the woman in scarlet was no longer wearing the diamond jewelry. He carefully pulled her submerged head out of the toilet and looked inside the bowl in case something had slipped off. Nothing. Her ears were naked; her neck was bare; her wrists were empty of ornamentation. Jericho now had a solid motive for her murder. This wasn't personal. It was pure greed. Or was Kelly Greene just making it look like that? He hadn't made up his mind yet, but all signs right now pointed to the pale teenager.
The teenager's name was Sally Freddins. She sat silently in the conservatory as Jericho circled her. He wanted to intimidate her a little, but the girl seemed to live on a planet all her own. No, she didn't know the woman in red. No, she hadn't thought about anyone, including herself, stealing the jewels. No, she hadn't paid any attention to the woman's necklace or bracelet or earrings. No, she didn't give one hoot or holler what Jericho “suspected” or what he found missing in the scarlet-toweled corpse's room, or that Detective Adam Jericho had put sixteen murderers behind bars in his long and illustrious career. Sally Freddins just wanted to go back to Texas.
Jericho finally excused her after she ducked more than a dozen questions, answering without more than a mumble. He did notice the cut on the side of her head, though. Had the demure albino been in a tussle? Had the poor victim in the scarlet dress put up a fight, trying to defend herself against a lunatic kleptomaniac teen who was holding her head in the toilet? Jericho watched the antisocial girl leave and wondered just what she was doing at this little party when she so obviously detested companionship. Was she here merely to rob other rich snobs? Sally was at the top of Jericho's list.
The old woman with the blue hair was named Margaret Painsbum and she soon became a veritable pain in Detective Jericho's bum. Jericho managed to ask her only one question before she turned the tables on him, interrogating him like a CIA agent with a Communist mole in the hot seat. Jericho actually found himself sweating inside that sunshine-yellow coat, feeling like he was under a hot lamp, though the library to which they'd retreated was shadowy and cool. He wondered if the old hag might have been a cruel librarian or maybe a prison guard before she married Gene Painsbum of Painsbum Enterprises a century or so ago. “Do you have an alibi for the time the victim was attacked and killed?” she demanded. “You're the only one of us who is not independently wealthy, so isn't it logical that you would most desire the valuable jewels? I noticed you eyeing the woman earlier tonight; did she spurn your romantic advances and you reacted violently? Just what did you learn from all those psychopaths you tracked down?"
Jericho finally let her go after almost half an hour (or was it Mrs. Painsbum who let the detective go?). But not before he noticed that she had a slight tear in the brim of her peacock hat. Had she been in a struggle? Surely someone so regal would never prance around in such shabby headdress. Unless she did not want to draw attention to
the ostentatious hat's absence if she'd tried to get rid of the torn evidence. Jericho's gut now made him suspect the old woman of foul play.
He knew that talking with Oliver Powers was going to be a treat. The massive man was parked in the large easy chair in the study. There was a smug upturn to each of his doughy cheeks, a cocky smirk that mocked Jericho's authority. Ollie was one of those guys who thought that everyone in leadership was inept at everything they did: cops, teachers, other news folk, politicians (especially the politicians). No one knew anything in the whole wide world except the egotist himself.
"Shouldn't we be waiting for the police to start this whole process?"
Jericho assured him that he was a cop, after all.
"I'd rather wait for the local authorities."
Jericho knew that Oliver did not like celebrity cops. But Jericho's fame had been hard won. He'd caught the notorious murderess Danielle Kohl when he was barely a kid! And that was just for starters. Oliver's digs at his qualifications were getting to him. Just as Oliver Powers wanted. Why was he pushing Jericho? Was he trying to throw him off, afraid that Jericho's superior detective skills might smoke out the murderer before the locals arrived? Maybe Ollie had a very good reason to try to stop this investigation.
Jericho let Oliver go, but he did note that the man had a white smudge on his left sleeve. It looked like cream cheese, possibly from a bagel—maybe the bagel that was sitting beside the journal of the woman in scarlet. Jericho did not recall seeing another such bagel anywhere in the mansion tonight. Another strange coincidence? There were a lot of odd parallels here. Too many. Some of those connections were not just chance.
Jericho gathered the guests together in the living room. It was time that he solved this murder.
* * * *
3.
What Might Have Happened
Oliver Powers sat on the davenport, engulfing nearly half of the large piece of furniture. He glared at Jericho with a look that was half amusement, as if he were a barker at a carnival sideshow, and half disdain, as if he'd have preferred to get right up and sit on Adam Jericho's brilliant little head. On the other end of the grand sofa sat Kelly Greene, keeping up the appearance of being distraught, although her performance was starting to flag. Sally Freddins was curled into a high-back leather chair with hand-carved birch legs turned in ornate shapes and stained as dark as Sally was pale. The chair huddled in the shadows and Sally seemed to blanket herself in the darkness, almost disappearing into the sliver of night. Margaret Painsbum looked as if being relegated to the audience—the subject of speculation instead of the purveyor of questioning—was pure torture. She stared out of withered eyes as Jericho began to outline the events of the night.
It started as the woman in the red dress ascended the steps to retire to her room before dinner. Jericho had been there when Oliver bade her goodbye. They had all seen Kelly and the woman go their separate ways at the top of the stairs, after a short conversation in which they had briefly discussed the possibility that the killer in the game was the woman in scarlet. The lady in red had answered Kelly with a sly smile. She went to her room alone, though she was not alone for long. Jericho whirled around and glared at Margaret Painsbum, who was still staring at him like a hungry vulture. He was holding the Ziploc bag that contained her hair.
"You were in that room,” he accused the old woman.
She sat still, unblinking. She was not rattled at all. Either she hid her guilt well, or she was not the murderer. Jericho still wasn't positive, but this was the process that all great detectives went through to solve the case: Poirot, Holmes, Frank and Joe Hardy.
Mrs. Painsbum did not deny it. In fact, she nodded her head once, slowly. She admitted to being there! Jericho found it very suspicious that she had not mentioned this before. A wide smile spread across his face.
But then the old woman asserted that she had been invited to stop by the room of the woman in the red dress. When Jericho pressed her for an explanation another look flickered across her eye: something that wasn't stubborn superiority. It looked more like shame.
"Fine. You need proof of my innocence...” She reached up and lifted off her hat. Her blue hair came with it. She was bald beneath the camouflage of hat and hair. “She said she had a comb that could loosen some of the snarls in this thing. Wigs get so tangled, you see. I even tore my hat with the comb, pulling the snarls out. Said she'd help me stitch the hat. Tomorrow. Never, I guess. Nice girl. Didn't ask a thing about the cancer. Didn't have pity. Just wanted to help me look nice.” Her voice trailed off. Did Jericho hear it crack at the end? Was it in sorrow at the passing of a kind stranger, or was she so humiliated that her concrete countenance had crumbled?
Moving on...
He had all but eliminated Margaret Painsbum. She could be lying, but he didn't think so. Besides, he had other suspects. He turned to Oliver Powers and looked down his nose at the mountain of opinionated flesh. He hoped with all his heart that Powers was the killer. “You shared a bagel with the deceased!” For dramatic effect, Jericho thrust his finger in Oliver's face. He pulled it back when it looked as if Powers was considering biting the extremity right off. “Explain that stain on your shirt sleeve!"
Oliver, too, had an explanation. One that was also less than flattering. This interrogation was turning into an exercise in embarrassment.
"I went to her room. I brought her a bagel. More original than flowers, I thought. I asked her if she'd care to see me after this game was over. She ... wasn't interested. I told her to keep the bagel. No hard feelings. A guy like me can get girls whenever he wants. It wasn't a big deal.” He faltered in the middle, but by the end of his statement, the Powers attitude was back in full force. Humiliation was a state seldom visited by a Powers, and one they were quick to recover from. Jericho felt some smug satisfaction at the fact that Ollie had been turned down by the woman in red.
It was the other girl's turn, little Sally from Texas, who looked more like death than the corpse upstairs. He walked right up to her and leaned into the chair in which she was trying to disappear. Her pale face glowed in the thick shadow. “And where did you get that cut?” he said. Sally's hand went up to her head, almost as if she'd forgotten about it, a guilty reminder of a terrible sin, like an adulterer who forgets his mistress's lipstick smeared across his neck. Jericho enjoyed watching the rich little girl squirm. Her life of convenience was over. This quiet little thief-turned-murderer was going to jail.
She looked confused, almost as if she'd just woken up. Jericho wondered if she'd only just realized that this wasn't a part of the game. There was a real dead person upstairs. There was an honest-to-goodness punishment for such a transgression. There was a great detective present who was going to solve this terrible crime, and the guilty party was going to jail. This wasn't some little rich girl's world where money buys freedom. “The scratch ... I didn't. It wasn't her. It was her." Sally pointed across the room at Kelly Greene.
From her seat on the davenport the actress gaped wide-eyed at her pale accuser. “I ... It was an accident. I brushed her temple with a serving tray while we were preparing for dinner.” The actress. Of course! She had been the one who told Jericho that the girl had admired the dead woman's jewelry. She had put the scrape on Sally's head to cause suspicion, to cause Jericho to envision some sort of struggle with the deceased, a superficial injury that might have been incurred during the tussle before the murder was complete.
Jericho crossed the room toward the guilty thespian at a brisk pace. If he'd had his handcuffs with him, he'd have been slapping them on her right then and there.
"Wait, wait,” she said, sinking back into the sofa, clearly fearful of the charging cop. No doubt she would try to come up with something, anything, that might clear her name. How clever that she had “volunteered” to find the body. Certainly it made her seem less suspicious. But she had not anticipated the presence of a world-class detective in the house. None of these pompous elitists had realized what Adam Jericho was c
apable of before the murder. He'd hoped his name might make someone slip up and reveal themselves. A story that fooled the locals would not be able to trick the great Adam Jericho.
But then Kelly Greene did something that made it all click. She reached up and tugged her ear, fiddling with the gold heart that was stabbed through her left lobe. It was a nervous gesture, completely unconscious, but it caused one of those revelations in Jericho: like at the end of a great Scooby-Doo mystery when the caretaker at the cemetery sneezes and reveals himself as the monster who's been chasing the Scooby gang around the haunted graveyard for the last half-hour. Everything fell into place. There was suddenly a piece of incontrovertible evidence that wasn't going to be easily explained. Someone in this room had slipped up.
"Tell us, Sally,” he said. “Why did you kill her?"
* * * *
4.
The Way It Happened
Sally looked even more pale than she had before, if pure white can get any whiter. She sat there, stunned. Jericho didn't rush at her as he had Kelly. He didn't want to frighten her. She was the killer. He had no doubt. “Where are the jewels, Sally?” If she gave them up, he'd have hard evidence. Sure, he'd put it all together. But she was rich. He needed to catch her red-handed if he was going to avoid public embarrassment. He needed the diamonds. Jericho knew she had them. Sally did not reply.
He walked around the room. Outside, the thunder rumbled, enhancing the dramatic mood in the mystery mansion. It was time to reveal what exactly had happened upstairs this evening. “This is the way it happened...” he said.
"The woman in the red dress went upstairs about the same time Kelly did. Not long after she retired to her room, after a short debate with Oliver and me, Mrs. Painsbum went to the victim's room for help with her wig. Not long after Mrs. Painsbum left, Oliver made a brief visit with his request for a date, and was shot down. Sometime after that you came along, Miss Freddins."
EQMM, December 2006 Page 12
