Chapter Fourteen
Araminta was at her wits’ end. The police had questioned Yancy and were now combing the grounds in search of the murder weapon. Apparently, they hadn’t located it among the knives they took from the kitchen. Detective Hershey was overseeing the process and had commanded his team to leave no leaf unturned.
While they were busy, Araminta decided it would be a good time to slip upstairs to search the guests’ rooms for clues—before the whispers started and fingers were pointed at Stephanie.
Araminta didn’t really like snooping in people’s things, but she had to do it for Stephanie. She searched Cousin Charlotte’s room, her grandnephew Terrence’s room, and her second cousin Velda’s room, but she came up empty.
It was in Owen’s room that she hit pay dirt in the old oak rolltop desk that was once her grandfather’s. She had fond memories of Gramps sitting there, writing with his fountain pen. The blots of ink that had spattered from it were still visible on the worn surface of the desk.
The cats had followed her in and then proceeded to jump up onto the top of the desk and meander around, flicking their tails and meowing.
“Yes, it is a lovely piece, isn’t it?” Araminta said to the cats as she ran her hands along the surface and opened the door to one of the cubbies just like she’d done many times as a little girl.
“Meow!” Arun pawed at the narrow drawers in the center, and she wondered if they still stuck like they had when she was little. She opened one, and that was where she found the letters.
There were five of them, written from Angie to Owen. Though Araminta tried not to read the contents of the letters, she was certain Angela would not want her husband to see them. But she had to take a little peek, just to see if the writing matched the note she’d found in Shirley’s room. The penmanship was similar—fine with open, scrolling letters—but she couldn’t be sure the handwriting matched without a side-by-side comparison. Plus, she had given the other note to Hershey—something she could not do with these. Not if she wanted to continue to protect Angela and Owen’s secret.
“Meow.” Arun rubbed his cheek against the edge of the letters.
“Yes, indeed. This is a bit of a pickle. How can I do a comparison? I promised Angie I wouldn’t let on about her secret, so I can’t show the letters to anyone, and there is no way for me to get the other letter from Hershey.” Could she somehow get a photo of the other letter? Perhaps Stephanie could help? But it must be in evidence by now, and even though she suspected Ivan Hershey was a bit enamored with Steph, she was certain he wouldn’t let her plunder about in the evidence room.
Before she could think further, the cats suddenly jumped down from the desk and rushed back and forth between Araminta and the door, their tails held high in the air.
A board creaked in the hall. Someone was coming!
She shoved the letters back into the drawer. She couldn’t get caught in Owen’s room and have to answer a lot of questions. Luckily, she had the perfect excuse. She rushed over to the doorway.
“Now go on, you scamps. You know you aren’t supposed to be in the guests’ rooms!” she said very loudly as she backed out of the room, making shooing gestures with her arms as if she’d only been in the room to shoo the cats out.
She turned, surprised to find Olive standing there. “Oh, sorry, Olive. Didn’t see you there. Darned cats are so mischievous!”
Olive’s gaze flicked from the cats to Owen’s open door. She stepped closer to Araminta. “That’s Owen’s room. Were you investigating? I was right, wasn’t I?”
Araminta supposed it wasn’t going back on her word to Angie if she confirmed Olive’s suspicions about the affair. Olive had been the one to tell her in the first place. “Yes, you were.”
“Did one of them kill Shirley?” Olive’s lower lip trembled. She looked like she was about to burst into tears, and Araminta hastened to assure her she wasn’t sure. “There’s no evidence right now to confirm that.” The last thing she needed was to have Olive yell out accusations against Angie and Owen, especially if they didn’t have anything to do with Shirley’s death. She still wasn’t sure about that, but if they were innocent, it wouldn’t be right to let on about the affair.
“But you suspect them?” Olive persisted.
“Among others.” Araminta didn’t want to encourage Olive. Best to make a quick getaway. “I really must run. I have an important call to make.”
“Of course.” Olive reluctantly moved out of the way. “But you’ll let me know when you find anything out?”
“You’ll be the first to know!”
Araminta rushed down the stairs. She actually did have an important call to make, one she dreaded and would never even consider making unless it was a last resort. But she was out of ideas and was worried about the evidence that seemed to point toward Stephanie.
She closeted herself in Daisy’s office. This was only the second room in the manor still sporting a phone connected via landline. She dialed the one number she’d never thought she would dial, put the receiver to her ear, and waited.
After several rings, she heard the line connect then a bit of a grumble before the person she’d rung finally spoke. “You’ve reached the Hershey residence. May I ask with whom I am speaking?”
“Jacob Hershey, you know who I am. I know you’ve got your caller ID on.”
Araminta fidgeted for a moment with the receiver cord then swallowed back her pride. Stephanie’s future depended on whether or not Jacob could help her piece things together, so she pushed her feelings for Jacob aside and got down to brass tacks. “You’re the last man I wanted to call on, but I find myself in a time-sensitive twisted pickle. Do you think, for just a moment perhaps, that you could put your animosity toward me aside and lend an ear to my dilemma… and maybe give a bit of advice?”
“Ah, Araminta. How lovely of you to call. Dare I trust my ears? Could swear I heard you say you really need my help.”
A roll of her eyes said she noted the way he’d changed up what she had actually said, but for now, she decided to ignore it. She told him everything she knew about the situation at hand: the murder with no weapon, the gloves, the note, and the letters. She even told him about Daisy and Reginald and Stephanie.
Finally, once she had wound down to give him time to process his thoughts, Araminta spoke into the phone. “Well? Are you still there? Or, more importantly, what am I missing?”
“Of course I am here, Araminta. Where would I go? I’m thinking about the notes and letters. Penmanship is all good and fine, but did you notice any particular slant to the letters?”
Araminta had forgotten about that part: right-handed people tended to slant their letters in one direction, while left-handed folks leaned them in the other. “No, I didn’t. And I gave the first note to your grandson, so I cannot compare them. But if memory serves, both bits of writing slanted to the right. Which would mean the killer could be right-handed.”
“There is that,” Jacob agreed. “Still just circumstantial. Sounds like a mess, to be sure, and I can’t think of any way you can look at the first letter. You’ll have to find another clue. How will you protect Stephanie?”
Araminta frowned. “Well, I had hoped you’d be more help, Jacob. That poor girl, she’s so young, and if Ivan arrests her—”
Jacob interrupted, “Don’t be so quick to write off the girl’s mettle, Minta, darling. She is Archie’s daughter, after all. A true Moorecliff if ever I’ve seen one. Reminds me of yourself, actually, from back in the day.”
“Heaven help us if you’re crushing on old memories, Jacob,” Araminta grouched, although she could feel the heat of a pleasant blush warming her cheeks.
Jacob laughed. “Don’t go fishing for compliments, Minta. My point was that this particular branch of the Moorecliff family tends to be bright, if a bit soft. But you of all people should know by now the apple never falls far from the tree.”
Chapter Fifteen
Instead of following Araminta downst
airs, the cats had remained on the second floor. Lingering outside the cheese-scented closet, they watched as Angie and Owen snuck back into his room.
Both cats crept toward the door, their ears angled to catch any whispers of conversation.
A voice sounded from the other side of the door. “We have to be careful, Angela. If this gets out…”
The fur on Arun’s neck stood on end. It was Owen. He was warning Angie about something, but what?
Two seconds later, he heard Owen say, “The police are asking a lot of questions. If they find the letters you wrote, they will know everything.”
Eyes narrowed, Arun glanced at Sasha. Everything? Was he merely referring to the affair, or did “everything” include murder?
“We will be fine,” a voice Arun recognized as Angie’s said. “Look, I have them all now. Don’t worry. No one knows. No one will find out.”
He must have indicated that he didn’t feel as confident of their escaping unscathed as Angela, because she followed her reassurances with “But you are right. We must destroy all the evidence.” Her tone was pouty.
Evidence?
Was she disappointed because he wanted her to get rid of the murder weapon? Absurd. What murderer in their right mind didn’t want to get rid of evidence? Arun nudged closer to the door. If the murder weapon was in Owen’s room, he needed to see it.
There was another long stretch of silence, then Angie opened the door and stepped out into the hallway so quickly, Arun had to sprint to the side to keep from being mangled by her glossy red heels. She had something in her hand, but he’d had to run away so quickly, he hadn’t seen what it was.
Hurrying to Sasha now, he hunkered down beside her and watched in silence as Angela Moorecliff walked to the end of the hall and glanced both ways to be sure no one was about to see what she was doing. At first, he thought she might be about to open the hall window that was in a vestibule opposite the grand stairway, but then she slid open a hidden panel in the wall.
Memories rushed in of a small box. Darkness. Sailing downward, only to be pushed back inside it, and then black until he reached the top again. Arun felt nauseated. Sasha nudged him with her nose in commiseration, but she didn’t take her eyes off Angela.
Papers. Arun realized Angela was holding a handful of papers the same instant she tossed them into the void of darkness she had revealed, and then she slid the panel closed again. Only papers. Not the murder weapon.
“It’s the old dumbwaiter. David showed it to me one time when we were first married,” she explained to Owen, who had stepped out into the hallway, presumably to keep watch in case someone came upstairs while Angela was dumping the evidence.
Owen nodded. “I remember it from when I was a kid. No one uses it anymore. I haven’t even thought of it in years.”
“That’s what makes it the perfect hiding place for the letters. I know we should destroy them, but I don’t have the heart. After the investigation is over, we can retrieve them.”
Owen frowned. Arun thought he was about to protest, but Angie rose up on her toes and pressed a quick, silencing kiss on his lips. She reached up to soothe his brow with her fingers, almost as if she thought she could wipe away his fierce look of skepticism. His brow smoothed, and she smiled. “No one will think to look in there, I promise. Our secret is safe, my darling.”
Forced to rely on her promise that all would be well, Owen reluctantly pulled the door closed behind him and then followed Angie downstairs.
Sasha looked at Arun. She knew he was uncomfortable, because she knew what the Moorecliff cousins had used the dumbwaiter for in times long past—a device for feline torture neither she nor he would ever forget. But rather than bring up more bad memories, she chose to focus on the present. Nudging him again, she asked, “What now?”
Arun stretched out beneath the panel Angie had opened, then he curled up in a ball, his chin resting on outstretched paws much the same as he had earlier in front of Owen’s door. If one of them was the killer, those papers might be the thing that could help match the handwriting to the note they’d found in Shirley’s room. They could be important, but Arun wondered if Araminta would think so too. “Now we wait for Araminta.”
Chapter Sixteen
After ending her call with Jacob, Araminta decided to run back upstairs to have another look at the letters Angie had written to Owen. Jacob’s comment about the slant of the letters had her thinking. She might not be able to look at the letter she found in Shirley’s room, but she could at least try to ascertain if Angie was left- or right-handed. Maybe she would be able to sweet-talk Ivan Hershey into telling her if the stab wounds indicated which hand the killer used.
She had barely rounded the corner toward Owen’s room at the top when she was waylaid by the cats.
Sasha ran to the landing area by the window then waited for Araminta to follow. Arun walked a few steps ahead of her, but then he stopped and stretched up onto the mahogany-paneled section of the wall, putting both front feet as high up as he could reach.
He began to knead the wall with his claws. Sasha meowed so loud, Araminta knelt and scooped her up into her arms for a quick pet.
“Quiet now, you two. Stop that, Arun. You’ll scratch the wood! I’ve spoken with Jacob, and he has given me little help, but I need another look at those letters Angela wrote.”
Sasha didn’t wait to be put down. Araminta was taken aback when the cat scrambled from her arms and rushed to Arun’s side to join him in mauling the wall.
“None of that, now. Trinity will not like it if she has to cover up scratches in the paneling,” Araminta scolded, then she drew up, her narrowed gaze focused on the wall the cats were currently using as a temporary scratching post. They were trying to tell her something. “Have you heard something in there?”
Yesterday, Prudence had sworn she’d heard mice in the walls, and now these two seemed determined to tear their way into them for some reason. But mice? It’d seemed highly improbable when Pru mentioned it at the table… of all places… but if there were rodents scurrying around inside the walls, Araminta knew it was best they find out early rather than late.
But why would the cats be concerned about that when there was a murder investigation going on? Araminta stood back and studied the wall. The panels were polished to perfection, and the handle blended in seamlessly. The handle! She’d almost forgotten about the old dumbwaiter hidden discreetly behind the panel.
As a child, she had played in the hand-drawn elevator, along with her cousins and several of their friends. The old box was hand-worked with a rope-and-pulley system, which butlers and maids would use to move meal trays and laundry to the basement. Over the years, the staff at Moorecliff Manor had been reduced, and the family had become more self-sufficient. The dumbwaiter hadn’t been used in decades.
There was a separate section in the back of it, if she correctly recalled how it was put together. Yes, there was. It was originally used to put a small block of ice to keep things chilled in the smaller compartment while it was on the way up to the family’s rooms. She remembered she used to hide things in it.
Later, her nieces and nephews had played in it, too, and some of them were wont to put the cats inside the thing and send them up and down or tie it off halfway between floors, where they would leave it until someone missed the cats. Her brows drew downward. “Is that why you brought me here? Has someone been putting you two in this thing?”
No, that couldn’t be it, Araminta decided. She would be surprised if it even still functioned. Sliding the panel aside, Araminta peered into the darkness. The first thing she noticed was that the box itself wasn’t on this floor. The next thing was that the rope used to pull the thing up was missing. It had been frayed from use years ago; she wasn’t surprised at all that it had finally broken. Reaching up, she turned the large cast-iron wheel that the rope used to be attached to.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
Could the squeaking be what Prudence had heard? But the rope was brok
en, which meant the dumbwaiter didn’t work, and therefore, no one would be pulling it up to produce the squeak. And it must have broken long ago, or surely someone would have heard it crash to the basement. Unless… someone sent it down to the basement and then cut the rope on purpose so that no one would be able to bring it up.
Owen’s room was on this floor—he or Angie could have easily done it.
Movement outside the window caught her eye. Yancy was in the garden, using a rake to clear some leaves that had fallen where they shouldn’t. He was quietly going about his daily routine, blithely minding his own business. For someone who had just been a murder suspect, he seemed quite calm.
Araminta thought of his recently resumed relationship with Shirley—and perhaps some others if what Stephanie had said was correct. Had he killed Shirley? If he had, why? Nothing was amiss in the gardener’s shed—other than the things that Reginald had brought in.
For the life of her, Araminta could not imagine the gentle soul that was Yancy raising a hand to another. How could this man possibly be guilty of murder? She found it hard to believe, but she knew Stephanie was not the one, despite the glove the police had found. But if it had been Yancy, why would he use Stephanie’s glove? Knowing Steph, she had left it hanging around where anyone could have grabbed it.
Araminta continued to watch him rake back the leaves for a moment, his strong hands grabbing the handle of the rake and pulling.
His hands! An image of him holding the glove up against his right hand to illustrate bubbled up.
Wait! He’d matched the glove to his right hand, laying it on top, which meant the glove was right-handed. That glove wasn’t the bloodied glove though, that was the match. So the bloodied glove was the left glove! With that bit of information, Araminta didn’t need Ivan Hershey to tell her that the killer was left-handed!
Without waiting around or bothering to explain herself, Araminta whirled around and rushed down to the hall. She had to have a second look at those letters inside Owen’s room.
Stabbed In The Solarium Page 6
