Dulcie heard a rapping at the museum’s front door. At first she thought it was the wind rattling it, but then she heard it again. She walked back into the main hall and saw Brendan MacArthur standing on the other side. Dulcie gestured for him to wait, then hurried in to her office to get her key. She came back with it, twisted it in the lock, and pushed open the heavy glass.
‘What could he want?’ Dulcie thought. She was a bit uncomfortable being alone with him, but he looked sober enough, she decided. Besides, there were security cameras everywhere.
“My lass, Dulcie!” His voice boomed through the empty room. He kissed her on the cheek.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Dulcie asked, dodging a kiss on the other side.
“I’ve just come to say goodbye,” he said.
Dulcie looked surprised. “Really? Is your work done?” she asked.
“Aye, for the most part. Nothing more can be done on the wreck until springtime, and I’ll leave it with an enthusiastic graduate student or adjunct professor trying to make a name for himself,” he explained.
‘Or herself,’ Dulcie thought. “That’s generous of you,” she said instead.
“I am generosity itself,” he boasted.
“Ah, yes,” Dulcie replied, trying to keep all hints of sarcasm from her voice. She decided to change the subject.
“Did you get a chance to see the exhibit?” she asked.
He craned his neck to see behind her. “Actually, I did not! And I don’t mind saying that, knowing your impressive skills, I’m sure it’s perfection. Shall we take a turn through?”
‘What is this about?’ Dulcie thought. “Of course,” she said, hoping that she was masking her thoughts. “I just need to lock the door first so no one comes wandering in.” She gestured toward the gallery. “I’ll be right behind you,” she added.
Dulcie locked the heavy glass door, then joined Brendan in the gallery. He was standing in front of Raeburn’s The Skating Minister. “Brendan, I am sorry that the other night didn’t work out as planned,” she mentioned as she walked up beside him.
“The other night?” he asked.
“The wine tasting?” she prompted.
“Oh that! Actually that worked out quite well,” he replied.
Dulcie was astonished at his callousness. Perhaps he didn’t remember everything? “Well, a man did die,” she chided.
“True, poor soul, but that was later. We were done by then,” he replied. He turned to Dulcie quickly. “Actually, I wanted to mention something about that,” he said. “I have to confess. I was the witness who saw a tussle between that poor man and the other one who must have killed him. Patrick Spratt. I’ve given my statement to the police. They haven’t asked me to stay, but I’d rather not contact them to get permission. I’m going through some, uh, delicate negotiations at the moment, you might say. Since your current lover happens to be the detective on the case, I thought I could rely on you to smooth things over in case they ask about me. I mean, they really shouldn’t have need to talk with me again. Just tell them that I’m on a dive site in Micronesia, all right? There’s a good girl.”
Dulcie didn’t appreciate the direct reference to Nick as her ‘current lover,’ and she bristled at being called a ‘good girl.’ She also didn’t understand why she would need to lie for him, because they both knew that was exactly what he was asking.
She turned and walked away from him for a moment. None of this was making sense. His sudden appearance in Maine. The risk he took wreck diving in the icy Atlantic in January. The wine. A murder.
She now stood in front of The Magpie. She glanced over at the identification card on the wall. Monet. 1869. France…
Château Lafite Rothschild.
Suddenly, it all fit. The answer flooded over her, leaving her shaking. She looked over at Brendan, then her eyes darted behind him toward the gallery entrance.
She had just given herself away. He took one step toward her. She backed up.
“So you’ve worked it out,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve always had the quickest wit of any woman I’ve known,” he chuckled, emphasizing the word ‘woman’. “You see, the problem arose when you invited that damned somm to be a part of everything. I knew that he would suspect right away. My bloody luck that you had a Master Sommelier candidate in this little backwater village.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Brendan. Jeremy said that the wine was excellent,” Dulcie’s voice was shaking. She tried to convince him that she didn’t understand, to make him still believe that he had gotten away with it.
He shook his head and took another step toward her. “Don’t play the fool with me, Dulcie. We both know exactly what happened. It was what Jeremy didn’t say. Yes, it was an excellent Lafite. However, as Jeremy so astutely realized, it wasn’t an 1869 Lafite. It was considerably more modern. I’d tasted the 1869 that I’d dredged from the deep, and it was complete trash. I knew Jeremy had his suspicions. But it was when he went back for the bottle that I knew I had a problem. You see, I saw him sneak back upstairs. I knew what he was after. He was going to take the bottle and get it tested. Then he’d prove me to be a fraud. And probably boost his own credibility as a discerning somm, the little bastard,” Brendan concluded with disgust.
Dulcie swallowed hard. The room had begun to swim around her. Brendan was still talking.
“When Jeremy left, he was wearing a bulky coat and I knew exactly what was underneath it. I followed him and confronted him outdoors. He reached for the bottle immediately of course to protect it. I grabbed his arm to wrestle it away. I’m a lot bigger than him, so both he and the bottle fell. He hit his head hard and was knocked out.
“I only had one option then. Get him out of sight. I dragged him to the end of the dock and pushed him onto the ice. On the way back I grabbed the damned bottle so I could get rid of it.”
Dulcie felt sick. Her knees could barely hold her. But she had to buy time so that she could think of a way to escape. “Didn’t you see that it was broken?” she asked.
“What was broken?” he looked surprised for a moment. “Oh yes, the bottle!” He eyed her intently. “How did you know that?”
“A piece of glass was found in Jeremy’s collar,” Dulcie replied.
Brendan rolled his eyes as though it was all one big joke. He was walking toward her again. “It all could have worked so well. Samantha came to me suggesting that ridiculous story to point the blame at Patrick. Of course I was only too willing to be an eyewitness,” he crowed. “It was the perfect way to end this thing. And to top it all off, in a twist of irony, Patrick’s good uncle is buying the rest of the bottles! I’ll have the money by tomorrow!” Brendan’s eyes gleamed.
“All you had to do, my sweet little Dulcie was play your part. But no, you’ve never been able to do that from the start, have you?”
“What do you think you’re going to do now?” Dulcie said. “We do have a security camera watching every move you’re making,” she said.
Brendan snickered. “Did I ever tell you how good I was with a slingshot as a child? I used to practice in school knocking pencils out of my classmates’ hands. A rubber band and a penny was all it took. It was so much fun!”
Dulcie glanced up at the camera in the corner. It was pointed toward the ceiling.
“Terrible accidents happen all the time, you know. This marble floor can be so slippery. And it’s quite hard as well.”
He lunged toward her. Dulcie sidestepped out of the way as quickly as she could. She was facing The Magpie, about thirty feet away and remembered the new security system that the museum had just installed. She hoped that it would work. She’d never been a good shot. She hurled the keys that she was holding at the painting. Then she screamed as she felt herself falling to the floor.
The world was a blur but she heard Brendan swearing. Footsteps running on the marble. Someone pounding on the glass door of the foyer. More footsteps….
Dulcie woke u
p surrounded by people. Paramedics were checking her head. Someone held ice to it and she winced. Her focus began to clear and she saw Nick’s face hovering above her.
“Brendan did it,” she said simply.
“Exactly what I thought,” Nick said. “The bastard nearly killed you! He said you slipped but I don’t believe it.”
“Yes. No! I mean,” Dulcie couldn’t get the words out right.
“Shhh, don’t talk,” one of the paramedics said.
Dulcie looked pointedly at Nick. “Brendan killed Jeremy,” she clarified in as loud a whisper as she could muster.
Nick’s eyes were wide. “You’re sure?”
“He told me,” she whispered again.
Nick glanced over at the person taking Dulcie’s pulse. “Is she going to be okay?” he asked.
“She’ll have a hell of a headache, but she should be fine. We’ll have to take her to the hospital just to check her out though. Make sure it isn’t concussion,” he said.
Nick looked back at Dulcie. “I’ve gotta find Johnson. I have to go. I’ll see you in the hospital as quickly as I can,” he said.
“Go,” she replied simply and attempted a smile.
He squeezed her hand and she saw him leave the gallery.
Nick worked quickly. Brendan had managed to slip away from the museum. Nick had a feeling he knew where to find him. He’d already looked up the fishing boat that Brendan had rented for his dive excursion. Nick contacted Johnson, then immediately called for backup as well.
The boat was near the old dry dock at the far end of Commercial Street. Nick ran down the street, hoping he’d get there in time. He saw cruisers coming down the street in the opposite direction. They stopped and police flooded out, along with Johnson. Nick sprinted toward them. “Wait! He could start firing on us if we all go down the dock!” Johnson yelled. They heard a shot. “COVER!” Johnson bellowed, and each of them immediately ducked behind the nearest object.
Nick scuttled over to where Johnson was crouched behind an empty oil drum. “Don’t think we’ll have to worry a whole lot,” Nick said.
“Huh?” Johnson panted.
“Look,” Nick replied.
Marine patrol vessels were closing in on the little fishing boat that had just pushed off from the wharf. It was no match for them. Their spotlights cast a blinding glow off the black water. Nick and Johnson watched as patrol officers boarded the fishing boat and, a few moments later, hauled a handcuffed Brendan MacArthur over the side into one of the sleek blue vessels.
The object of art is not
to reproduce reality,
but to create a reality
of the same intensity.
― Alberto Giacometti
CHAPTER 12
The conference room in the police station was stuffy. Nick cracked the window slightly. Cold air whistled in. “Let me know if this is too much for anybody,” he said over his shoulder.
Samantha breathed a sigh of relief. She was feeling overheated, nauseous, and otherwise miserable. It had nothing to do with her pregnancy and everything to do with the pair that sat opposite her: Geoffrey and Patrick Spratt. She reached into her purse for the tin of peppermint Altoids.
Dulcie sat beside her trying not to squirm. The entire situation was uncomfortable, but she felt at least partially responsible for the series of events and had insisted that she should be there.
Johnson blustered in and hefted himself into the chair at the far end of the table. Dulcie noticed what appeared to be pastry crumbs on his shirt and realized that he looked like he might have put on a pound or two. ‘Poor Adam. He’ll never keep it off,’ she thought. He looked over at her at that moment and she smiled at him, hoping it would mask her thoughts.
Nick sat down at the other end of the table, distracting her. “All right then,” he began. “Let’s put this whole thing together.” He looked at Samantha. “Let’s begin with you, Ms. Sanders. Tell us what happened on the night that your husband was killed.”
Samantha sighed. Better to get this over with as quickly as possible. “I went to the museum with Jeremy. He’d been asked by Dulcie to be a part of the events that night. We mingled around then went up to the boardroom. He did his thing with the wine,” Dulcie noticed the annoyance creeping into Samantha’s voice when she said this, “then afterward, he,” she gestured at Patrick, “thought he could just walk up and start talking with me like nothing had ever happened.” Her face had twisted into a look of disgust.
“Note for the record that the witness is pointing to Patrick Spratt,” Johnson said quietly in the direction of the voice recorder. They had all been told it was being used, but Samantha started when Johnson spoke.
“What do you mean, ‘witness’?” she asked warily.
“You may all be called as witnesses in Brendan MacArthur’s trial,” Nick said.
“You mean this isn’t the end of it?” Samantha squeaked.
“Perhaps not, although it could be if you aren’t needed for trial,” Nick answered.
Samantha sat back in her chair and took a deep breath.
“You okay?” Dulcie asked quietly.
Samantha nodded.
“Can you continue? What happened after Mr. Spratt spoke with you?” Nick prompted.
Samantha stared at the table. “First, I yelled at Mr. Patrick Spratt,” she enunciated his name, “and told him to get away from me. Then his uncle, Mr. Geoffrey Spratt, insulted me with his comments. Everyone cleared out of the room, and I got mad at Jeremy. He hadn’t even tried to defend me!” Samantha was shaking now and looked as though she was about to burst into tears. “I stormed out and went downstairs. Jeremy came down and got me in a cab. Alone. I went home. He stayed. He said there were people there who could help his career.” Samantha suddenly looked up, her head whipping back and forth, eyeing everyone at the table. “What about my career? What about the years that I’d been the stupid Weather Girl?” she ranted.
Dulcie and Nick exchanged glances. Neither dared correct her with ‘weather forecaster’ at the moment.
“I just went home and fell asleep after that,” Samantha continued. “When I woke up in the morning, Jeremy wasn’t home. It wasn’t unusual. But then I called around and couldn’t find him. Then you guys arrived,” she pointed to Nick and Johnson.
“Witness is indicating detectives Nicholas Black and Adam Johnson,” Johnson said quietly.
The room was silent for a moment. They all looked at Nick. “Mr. Patrick Spratt, could you tell us your movements that night,” Nick said.
Patrick looked very pale. Recent events had been sobering. He had never seen the inside of a holding cell before and didn’t want to again anytime soon.
“My uncle picked me up from my apartment right around the time the event was starting. We went to the museum, had some champagne, then went up to the boardroom. After the tasting I did try to talk to Sam, but as you’ve heard already, that didn’t work out. Uncle Geoffrey took me home. I stayed up for a few hours basically contemplating my life, then I went to bed.” Patrick was very concise. He didn’t mention watching the video of Samantha on television for most of the night.
“Thank you,” Nick said. “Now we come to Mr. Geoffrey Spratt,” he said.
Geoffrey looked indignant. “Look, you already have a confession from the guy. Why are we all here, anyway? I’m sure you don’t really need any of us as witnesses. I think I should have a lawyer present,” he concluded.
Nick was ready for him. “All of you are, of course, speaking voluntarily right now. We’re simply trying to clarify the facts so that we can conclude this case as quickly as possible. In that light, however, I might point out that your refusal to speak may extend this investigation which I don’t think any of us wants.”
The others mumbled their agreement.
“Fine,” Geoffrey sputtered. “I did everything that Patrick just said. After I dropped him off, I went home and then to bed. That’s it.”
“There, that wasn’t too hard,”
Johnson whispered facetiously. Only Dulcie heard him. She looked down at her lap to hide her smile.
“Now we come to motivations,” Nick said. “Each of you had reason to end the life of Jeremy Plunkett,” he stated. “We have evidence to suggest that. Samantha Sanders stands to receive a sizeable life insurance policy,” he began.
A gasp came from Samantha. “How did you know that?” she wailed.
“The insurance company contacted the police since the death was suspicious,” Johnsons said. “Standard procedure. By the way, when are you due?” he asked.
“I.. well… the baby…,” Samantha stammered.
“What?” Patrick now sputtered. “A baby?” He turned to his uncle. “Look, I wanted her back for sure. But I do not want to bring up someone else’s brat!” he hissed.
“Look, she’s just pregnant. The kid might not even happen. Or it could get adopted,” Geoffrey said before he could stop himself.
The others now stared at him, aghast. “What I mean to say is…,” he began.
“What you mean to say is that you are a conniving, scheming bastard! I’ve been thanking my lucky stars every day that I didn’t marry your loser of a nephew!” she shouted.
Geoffrey looked disgusted. “Yeah, how are you gonna raise a kid on your own? It isn’t like you have money. And I’m sure the TV station doesn’t want a pregnant weather girl,” he barked.
Samantha’s eyes riveted on Geoffrey Spratt. “Let me clarify a few matters for you, you spiteful little troll,” she said menacingly. “First, Jeremy left me well provided for.” She put her hand on her stomach as if to protect the baby. Johnson saw the gesture and looked at Nick as if to say, “told you so!”
“Second,” Samantha continued, “a pregnant woman on television is not the pariah that it was during the Dark Ages when you were raised. And third, I am a weather forecaster, otherwise known as a meteorologist, a professional title. I am not a weather girl.”
Last of the Vintage Page 16
