Heart vs. Humbug

by MJ Rodgers

  “Ned Nordix tells me that stone carving is real,” he said immediately upon reaching her.

  “Is it?” she said, using her sweetest tone. “How nice.”

  The driving rain formed rivulets down his furrowed brow. He looked like an angry thundercloud himself, one about to burst.

  She decided to give him a break and led the way into the lobby of Constance’s modest apartment house. Pinecones tied to red ribbons added a touch of holiday cheer to the faded walls. Once out of the wind and rain, Octavia folded her umbrella, and her arms, and then faced Brett.

  “So what’s the problem?” she asked.

  “You deliberately led me to believe that stone carving was a fake.”

  “If you think back, I’m sure you will remember that not once did I ever venture an opinion as to whether that stone carving was real.”

  “You told me you would risk your license, even your freedom, for your grandmother. You can’t deny that.”

  “And you took my words to mean what? That I stayed up all night to chisel that stone carving? You should be happy to discover I didn’t.”

  “Octavia, I’m no fool. There was nothing coincidental about that stone carving suddenly appearing at that construction site.”

  She smiled. “Wasn’t there?”

  “The only possible explanation is that you secured that stone carving from somewhere and planted it there.”

  She stepped closer and gazed up into his scowl. He had such a wonderfully dangerous look in his quicksilver eyes.

  She was playing with fire and she knew it. Fire could burn. But it could also generate a hell of a lot of heat. And she loved the feel of this man’s heat.

  “So that’s why you’re upset, Brett. I’m not behind bars yet. Are you so afraid of my being free? Am I that much of a threat to society? Or am I that much of a threat to you?”

  For a moment she waited breathlessly as she watched the silver sparks igniting within his black-rimmed eyes.

  Then he groaned and pulled her into his arms. His skin was icy wet from the rain, but his mouth was very hot and very hard and so was the rest of his body pressed suddenly so closely against hers.

  His touch shot through her like a lightning bolt. She shook and tingled, a sweet ache opening deep inside her. His smoky scent surrounded her and held her captive in a velvet fog.

  There was no mistaking his want of her. Or her want of him. She had never felt this aroused by a man before.

  Was it the continuing risk he represented? She didn’t know. She didn’t care. She wanted and that was enough.

  When he finally released her lips, she rested her cheek against the racing pulse in his throat and sighed as its heated throb beat inside her blood.

  He held her strongly to him while he swore very softly in her ear, expertly enunciating every expletive. He even cursed like a gentleman.

  She chuckled, happy to find this continuing evidence of that refined core inside him that appealed to her so much. What a waste it was for such a man as this to be so out of touch with his heart!

  It seemed like a very long time before she felt her pulse and his slowing to anything approaching normal.

  She leaned back, out of his arms, and reached for one of his hands, slipping both of hers into it.

  “I was just heading up to Constance’s place to have dinner with her and Mab. There’ll be plenty for you, too. And I’ve found out something about Constance that is worth investigating.”

  “That business about her selling her home to Scroogen way below market price?”

  “Zane Coltrane strikes again, I see. Come on. Since you know, too, you can help me ask her the right questions.”

  They climbed two flights to reach apartment 340. Constance answered Octavia’s knock and greeted them both with a big smile. Octavia performed the formal introductions, although Brett and Constance had seen each other before.

  “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you lately, Mr. Merlin,” Constance said as she took Octavia’s rain cape and umbrella and Brett’s overcoat to deposit in the hall closet. “Mab very much appreciates your help.”

  “You don’t mind my dropping in unannounced?” Brett asked.

  “No, not at all. Mab has been preparing enough loin of veal with roasted garlic and Dijon mushroom gravy to feed the neighborhood.”

  “Hmm. Smells heavenly,” Octavia said as she followed her nose into the kitchen where Mab stood over the stove stirring something in a gravy pan.

  “Hi, Mab. I brought Brett for dinner, too.”

  “Good. Now, get out of here, I need to concentrate. This is at a very critical stage.”

  Octavia obediently left, closing the kitchen door behind her. She joined Brett seated on the small couch. His imposing size made it look like it had been designed for Munchkins. She brushed up against him as she made herself comfortable, her body tingling at the touch.

  As she leaned back, she decided that Constance Kope’s apartment was much like the little lady herself—tiny and tidy.

  But despite the smallness of the place and its furniture, it was warm and bright with the glistening bulbs of a corner Christmas tree reflecting its bubbling lights. From the old-fashioned radio on a corner table, Nat King Cole’s voice rung out, singing about Jack Frost nipping at a nose. It was a cozy, comfortable room and a welcome respite from the freezing air and rain outside.

  Constance was seated in what looked like her favorite chair—swaying back and forward on its well-worn rockers, her hands busy knitting Christmas squares.

  “Mab won’t even let you in your own kitchen, will she?” Octavia asked.

  Constance smiled. “No.”

  “She’s that way with me, too, when she comes to my place,” Octavia admitted.

  “She accused me of trying to poison her the first night when I opened a can of hash,” Constance said. “Since then, she’s been buying and cooking all the food. But I can’t say I’ve minded. She’s wonderful in the kitchen, as you must know. I’ve never been much of a cook. I loved to clean, my husband loved to cook, we both loved to design. We were never blessed with children, but we were blessed with each other.”

  “How long ago did your husband pass away?” Brett asked.

  Constance’s eyes veered to the picture sitting on the table next to the radio. It was of a young smiling couple, clearly her and her husband in their early years of marriage. It was a moment before she looked back at Brett and answered.

  “Several months ago. It was a blessing. He was sick for many years.”

  Octavia shifted her position on the couch to more fully face their hostess. Brett had gotten the conversation steered into the right direction. It was time for her to zero in on what they needed to know.

  “Long illnesses like that have a way of eating up savings, don’t they?”

  Constance answered as she continued to rock and knit. “So many of the newer procedures aren’t covered. Most are still considered experimental. They’re so expensive. Of course, you feel the need to try everything, even though there is a part of you that knows nothing will work.”

  “I understand that after your husband passed on, you were forced to sell your home to Scroogen at below market rate,” Octavia said as gently as she was able.

  Constance suddenly stopped rocking and knitting and leaned forward until she was on the edge of her chair. Her glasses slipped on her tiny nose. She pushed them back.

  “How did you know that?”

  “The real estate agent spoke of it, Constance.”

  “He had no right.”

  “He was upset for you. He didn’t appreciate the fact that Scroogen took advantage of your position. You knew Scroogen did, didn’t you?”

  “Please, don’t tell Mab.”

  “Why, Constance? This is not your shame. It’s Scroogen’s.”

  Constance looked uneasily at the closed door to the kitchen. She grasped her knitting needles tightly.

  “It is my shame.”

  “Are you embarrassed be
cause of your financial difficulties? You must know that at least half of the members of the Silver Power League are relying solely on their social security checks to make ends meet?”

  “I paid off the bills. My credit rating is good. I’m proud I’ve managed within my means.”

  “Then what concerns you?”

  Constance’s eyes once again darted to the kitchen door. She lowered her voice, remaining on the edge of her seat.

  “When I had to put my home on the market to meet my bills six months ago, I was very sensitive about it.”

  “I’m sure that was only natural.”

  “Listen to what I’m saying, Octavia. Six months ago I found out what kind of a man Scroogen was. I knew he was our new landlord at the community center. I knew I should warn Mab and the others what he was like. If they had known sooner—”

  “It probably wouldn’t have made any difference, Constance,” Octavia said. “The building was already underway. They couldn’t stop in the middle. Besides, you couldn’t have been sure what Scroogen had in mind for the community center. He might have lived up to his great aunt’s wishes and let the seniors stay.”

  “No, I knew he wasn’t going to. You would have known it, too, if you had seen his eyes the day he took my house from me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Constance’s right hand suddenly grasped her knitting needle like it was a knife.

  “He liked doing it, Octavia. He liked trading in on my distress. He was an evil man. I’m glad he’s dead. Very glad.”

  Octavia was chilled at the tiny woman’s suddenly stiff posture, at how she held that knitting needle, at how she said those words with such relief and such relish.

  “Were you the one who attacked him?” Brett asked.

  Constance slowly released her tight hold on the knitting needle. Her body relaxed back into her chair. She rocked.

  “Attacked him? Me? Heavens, no. What a thought.”

  “Have you ever let your key to the greenhouse storeroom out of your sight?”

  “Never. It’s right here in my purse.”

  Constance leaned over, picked up her purse and produced the distinctive silver-plated key for Octavia and Brett to see.

  “Where were you when Scroogen was attacked?”

  “At the community center.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “I think John was there then. Or maybe Douglas. One of them came later.”

  “Who do you think attacked Scroogen?”

  “Mab’s the only one of us with that kind of courage.”

  The doorbell rang and Constance rose to get it. She returned to the dining room with Sergeant Patterson on her heels.

  “Good evening, Mr. Merlin,” Patterson said. He then nodded at Octavia. “Ms. Osborne. I’m looking for your grandmother.”

  “I’m right here,” Mab said as she stepped out of the kitchen with a large steaming serving dish in her hands. She headed toward the dining room table.

  “Dinner is ready, everyone,” she called.

  “Ma’am, I’m afraid there isn’t time for dinner,” Patterson said. “I need you to accompany me downtown.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Octavia said, immediately rising to her feet. “What’s this all about?”

  Before Sergeant Patterson could answer, Mab moved into the living room and planted herself in front of the detective.

  “Ronald Scroogen was lying about seeing me attack his father. If you question him closely, I know you’ll find that out for yourself.”

  “That’s not necessary, Mrs. Osborne,” Patterson said. “Ronald Scroogen came into the office this afternoon and recanted his statement. He wasn’t even near the parking lot when his father was attacked. He was miles away meeting with an employee at a job site. The assault charge against you has been dropped.”

  “Well, thank heavens,” Mab said.

  Octavia wasn’t so sure heaven deserved that thanks yet. She didn’t like the somber look on the detective’s face.

  “If the assault charge has been dropped as you say, why does my grandmother have to go downtown with you?”

  “Because this time,” Sergeant Patterson said, “I’m arresting her for murder.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Brett walked up to Octavia in the hallway at the police station. Her face was composed, her posture poised, but there was an unusual quickness about her movements and an uncharacteristic pacing that spoke of her inner agitation.

  She turned to greet him. “Did you find out about the evidence against her?”

  Brett gestured toward the nearby wooden bench. Octavia refused the offer of a seat with a swift shake of her head.

  Yes, she was worried all right. Very worried. Which didn’t make what he had to tell her any easier.

  “The toxicology results came in on cause of death, Octavia. Dole died from monkshood poisoning.”

  “Monkshood is a poisonous plant. Patterson can’t think Mab fed him a poisonous plant?”

  “The plant’s poison got into his bloodstream when Dole was struck on the back of the shoulder with the cultivator. The Seattle lab found aconitine and aconine from monkshood on the prongs, along with some of Dole’s blood. And the only fingerprints on that gardening tool are Mab’s.”

  “So that seemingly superficial attack was the cause of his death. This is incredible.”

  “There’s more. The threatening letters that Dole received over the last couple of weeks have definitely been determined to have been prepared on Silver Power League stationery.”

  “You can’t tell me Mab’s fingerprints are on that paper.”

  “No, just Dole’s. The police have concluded that whoever prepared the letters wore gloves. Naturally, they also have concluded that person was Mab since the stationery was kept in the supply room at the back of the greenhouse and she had a key.”

  “And so did three other people.”

  “I told Patterson that. But he’s not particularly interested in pursuing that lead.”

  Octavia tossed her head, her eyes flashing. Both actions belied the continuing mellowness of her tone.

  “Of course not. Why should he ruin his case against my grandmother by trying to find the real culprit?”

  Brett took her hands into his. “Octavia, we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  She gave his hands a quick squeeze, a signal to him that despite her distress, she was dealing with it.

  “Thanks, Brett. It’s obvious that the same person who sent those threatening letters has to be the same person who stole Mab’s cultivator and struck Scroogen with it. That person couldn’t get Mab’s prints on the paper, but he or she knew Mab’s prints would be on her gardening tool.”

  “Possibly, but how did this person know Mab would take the cultivator to the greenhouse and put it in the storeroom?”

  “Maybe he or she didn’t. Maybe the perpetrator just went in there to get the stationery, nosed around, found Mab’s cultivator and decided to use it as the murder weapon.”

  “I suppose it could have happened that way.”

  “It’s the only scenario that makes sense.”

  “There’s something else you should know, Octavia.”

  “What?”

  “Since those threatening letters promised harm to Dole if he didn’t cease his takeover of the senior’s community center, and since grievous harm was subsequently done, the prosecuting attorney is going for premeditation.”

  “You mean the charge will be murder in the first degree?”

  “Yes.”

  Octavia released Brett’s hands and sank to the bench. Her shoulders were too stiffly erect, her gaze too fixed. Brett understood she was benumbed by the blow of that last bit of news.

  After a moment she sighed. “I had a hard-enough time believing one of her friends was setting her up for an assault charge. But now she’s being framed for first degree murder.”

  Brett sat beside Octavia. He said nothing. Uttering empty assurances that things would be a
ll right had never been his style. He was a man who went out and made things right—if they could be made right.

  He pulled some photocopied sheets out of his pocket.

  “Patterson gave me copies of the threatening letters Dole received. Maybe they can tell us something.”

  Octavia took the three photocopied letters from his hand, unfolded them and studied them critically.

  “The words have been cut out of newspapers or magazines and pasted onto the sheet. Were the envelopes like this?”

  “Photocopies of Dole’s business card were pasted to them.”

  “Give us the land or you will pay,” Octavia read aloud, then shifted pages. “Hand everything over to us or else.” She flipped to the third note and read, “You had your chance. Now we take our vengeance.”

  She folded the short notes and handed them back to Brett.

  “They sound like bad dialogue from some B-rated Zorro movie. The seniors have never suggested they be given the land, to my knowledge. Only that they not be charged an exorbitant rent designed to force them out.”

  “Well, one of them obviously thought otherwise. The envelopes and stationery are those made especially for the Silver Power League. And the only people who had access to that stationery are the people who have access to that storage room at the back of the greenhouse.”

  “So they had to have been prepared by one of the other members of the executive committee of the Silver Power League.”

  “The police are satisfied they have the guilty party in custody, Octavia. If we don’t find the real person responsible, it will be tough to prove Mab innocent with the kind of evidence they have against her.”

  Octavia nodded but said nothing this time.

  “Is Mab in there being booked?” Brett asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Has Patterson told you what will happen to her after she’s been processed?”

  “A policewoman will be taking her directly to a nearby hotel room for the night. She’ll be arraigned tomorrow at eleven.”