by MJ Rodgers
“It may be out of our hands, Nancy,” Brett said.
“Then again, it may be within our hands,” Octavia said suddenly from the other side of the room.
Brett looked over to see an unusual expression on her face. He immediately got to his feet.
“Octavia, what is it?”
“Brett, Mrs. Scroogen, Sergeant Patterson, I wonder if you would join me in Katlyn’s room for a moment.”
A moment later, they stood at the entry to Katlyn’s room. The little girl was sitting on her bed, looking very guilty, obviously hiding something underneath her rumpled bedspread.
“Katlyn,” Octavia said, “tell your mommy and your cousin and Sergeant Patterson how you learned to prepare your letters to Santa that special way you showed me.”
“I don’t want to get into trouble,” Katlyn moaned.
“You won’t get into trouble, sweetie. Just tell the truth.”
“I just wanted to help daddy,” Katlyn said. “Only he got real mad at me. He shook me so hard I dropped my scissors.”
“Your scissors?” Brett said. “Katlyn, when your daddy shook you that day, you were using your scissors?”
“Yes. I’m not allowed to use sharp scissors.”
Nancy walked over to Katlyn’s bed and threw the bedspread back. Beneath was an assortment of letters cut out from the headlines of newspapers and magazines. Some had been pasted onto a sheet of paper.
“Mommy, I’m sorry.”
Nancy sat on the bed and took her daughter into her arms. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, dear. Everything’s all right.”
Brett exchanged a glance with Octavia before turning to his aunt. “Nancy, have you been in Dole’s study since he died?”
“No. I couldn’t bring myself to.”
“Which room is it?”
“Down the hall. First one on the right. But I don’t—”
Brett didn’t hear any more. He was already halfway down the hall. The door to the study was closed. He turned the knob and entered.
The room was small, cluttered, dark, the windows tightly closed, the blinds drawn. A taste of dust lingered in the stale air. Brett flipped the light switch. The overhead fixture came to life, but the room remained a dark cubbyhole.
Octavia stepped from behind him. “Over there. On the desk,” she said, pointing.
Brett made for the stack of newspapers and magazines gathered at its edge. He was leafing through them when Sergeant Patterson entered the room. Brett held up one of the newspaper pages with several cutout headlines for the detective to see.
“Exhibit A,” he said.
“You can’t mean—” Sergeant Patterson began.
“All we have to find now is the stationery,” Octavia said, interrupting the detective as she circled the desk and began to rifle the drawers. She lifted several items out of the bottom drawer and held them high.
“Exhibits B, C, D and E, Sergeant.”
Patterson circled around the desk to take the blank sheets of Silver Power League stationery and envelopes, several photocopies of Dole’s business card and paper paste out of Octavia’s hands.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Patterson said as he sunk into the desk’s chair. “Scroogen sent the threatening letters to himself. But why?”
Brett rested a leg against the desk. “To discredit Mab and the seniors, of course. He was very angry at Mab for thwarting his plans to become president of the Chamber of Commerce. So he pretended to get threatening calls from her. He sent himself threatening letters. He did everything he could to put her fight against his condominium complex, and her, in a bad light.”
“But when he reported the calls,” Patterson said, “he was careful to say it only sounded like Mab disguising her voice. Why didn’t he just say it was her?”
“My guess would be because he was afraid Mab might have an alibi for one of those times he claimed to be getting a call from her. By saying it just sounded like Mab, he still could have claimed it was one of the other seniors who made the call if Mab could produce an alibi.”
“All right. I admit that what you’re suggesting makes sense. But if Dole Scroogen stole the stationery and orchestrated this threat campaign against himself, who struck him with the prongs dipped in monkshood poisoning and killed him?”
“There’s only one person it could have been, Sergeant,” Brett said.
“Yes,” Octavia agreed. “Just one person.”
“Who?” Patterson asked.
Chapter Fourteen
“Dole’s coat was the giveaway,” Brett said. “It was a cold morning. Even if he didn’t drive with it on, he would have put it on the moment he stepped out of the car.”
“Unless he was planning something that made wearing it that morning inconvenient,” Octavia said.
“Like rolling on the ground in the mud and striking himself on the shoulder with Mab’s gardening tool,” Brett finished.
“Wait a minute,” Patterson said. “Are you two saying that Dole Scroogen killed himself?”
“Not intentionally, I’m sure,” Octavia said. “When he unlocked the greenhouse storeroom to steal the stationery, he must have found Mab’s gardening tool and gloves and decided to use them to implicate her further in this fabricated campaign against himself.”
“Only he didn’t realize that before putting her cultivator in the greenhouse’s storage room, Mab had done some weeding in her own garden,” Brett said. “The first time I went by her house I noticed the area she had cleared around some Christmas berry bushes. I didn’t think much about it at the time. But now I’m sure she must have dug up some wild monkshood without even realizing it.”
“The forensic people did find soil on the prongs of the cultivator and on her gloves,” Patterson said.
“Dole was trying to make it appear as though Mab had attacked him,” Octavia said.
“While being careful to only say it sounded like Mab just in case she had an alibi,” Brett said.
“He never realized,” Octavia continued, “that by inflicting even those minor wounds on himself with her cultivator, he would be introducing poison into his system.”
Patterson stroked his mustache. “I admit it’s plausible. But before I’m convinced, I’m going to have to see some evidence that points to Scroogen striking himself with that cultivator.”
“Dole sent the letters? He struck himself?”
Brett turned at Nancy’s voice and saw her standing in the doorway, her face white, her body quivering.
He went to her and cupped her shoulders with his hands. “I’m sorry, Nancy. It looks like that’s what happened.”
Tears started to fall from her eyes, silent tears that streaked down her cheeks. Octavia moved to Brett’s side and spoke to Nancy in a gentle voice.
“Mrs. Scroogen, I know this is extremely difficult, but will you try to help us find the truth?”
“What can I do?” she asked.
“Where is your husband’s car?”
“It’s in the garage, has been there since one of Sergeant Patterson’s men returned it to the house a few days ago. Why?”
Brett found himself interested in the answer to that question, too.
“If your husband had Mab’s gardening tool and gloves with him when he drove into work that morning,” Octavia explained, “some of the dirt from them could have gotten onto the seat. If such dirt were found inside the car, that would prove he took the cultivator and used it on himself.”
Brett nodded as he turned to Sergeant Patterson. “It’s worth a forensic check of the car.”
Patterson nodded. “Let’s take a look.”
Nancy led the single-file procession out to the garage. Brett spied the specks of dirt against the beige upholstery first. “There,” he pointed through the open window. “On the passenger seat.”
Patterson nodded. “I’ll get it sampled right away.”
“Dear God, it’s true! He did it all himself!” Nancy cried on a sob.
“Hey, what’s happ
ening?” Ronald asked as he stepped into the garage. When he saw Nancy crying, an angry look descended on his face.
“What are you doing to her?” he demanded as he rushed to his stepmother’s side.
Ronald pulled Nancy out of Brett’s hands and put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her to his side. “It’s all right,” he said as he rested her head on his chest. “I’m here.”
And from the fiercely protective expression on Ronald’s face, Brett knew that eventually it would be all right for Nancy. She had lost a husband in this tragedy. But she seemed to have gained a son.
His beeper went off. He checked the number. It was Zane. His timing was good. Brett was eager to give him the good news that the case was solved. He left Sergeant Patterson to fill Ronald in on the circumstances surrounding Dole’s death as he went to use his car phone.
“We’ve got the goods on her, Brett,” Zane said.
“The goods on who?” Brett asked, momentarily confused.
“We can tie Octavia Osborne to that stone carving through her relationship to a native American chief by the name of Gordon Twobrook. Frankly, we only found out because one of A.J.’s operatives let something slip. It seems Octavia and the chief were pretty chummy back in her law school days. And, get this, he is rumored to have a stash of uncatalogued, bona fide, early artifacts from an ancient people who once lived in Washington State. You’ve got what you need to get her disbarred and charged, Brett.”
* * *
“SO, SCROOGEN KILLED himself?” Adam’s voice asked on the other end of the telephone.
“Yes,” Octavia said. “The forensic evaluation of the dirt on the front seat of Scroogen’s car definitely proved it was the same dirt contaminated with monkshood poisoning that came from Mab’s cultivator and gloves. Sergeant Patterson is now convinced that Scroogen stole the gloves and cultivator when he stole the stationery. Patterson’s drawing up the paperwork now to have Mab released.”
“Congratulations, Octavia. Now, let’s discuss some of the more subtle aspects of this attorney-client relationship you insisted on being established between us.”
Octavia recognized the scolding tone in Adam’s voice. She had heard it often enough. She could guess what was coming.
“Octavia, would it surprise you to learn that two very young and attractive women have taken turns this past week literally throwing themselves at me?”
“Why, Adam, I didn’t know you had it in you,” Octavia said, trying to sound innocent.
“Curiously enough, both ladies proved more interested in you and ancient Indian stone carvings than they were in me.”
“Oh, really?”
“Octavia, let’s not play games. Those women were employed by Coltrane to get the goods on you. You got Gordon to plant that Indian artifact on the land adjacent to that community center your grandmother was trying to save, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Octavia, you’ve always been unorthodox, but I’ve never known you to violate the law before. What’s going on here?”
“She’s my grandmother, Adam. Don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t see. Have you thought about what would happen if Merlin found out about your planting that artifact?”
“He has found out. Matter of fact, I made sure he did.”
“What? My God, do you know what kind of jeopardy you’ve put yourself and the firm in? Have you gone mad?”
“Adam, have you forgotten that I was there six years ago when we were chasing after your wife and breaking every law in the book?”
“That’s ancient history, Octavia.”
Octavia’s voice softened. “No, Adam. It’s still very current history for you. It’s why you refuse to talk about it. The scar that you carry on your neck is nothing compared to the scar that has been left on your heart. You are going to have to deal with that someday.”
“That is my personal business, Octavia. We are discussing a very pressing professional problem that reflects on you and this firm. You deliberately let Merlin know that you violated the law. Now he has to turn you in.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? Octavia, he’s bound, as we all are, by a strict code of ethics. I would have to turn you in if you hadn’t maneuvered me into learning of this stuff while I’m your attorney. Damn it, you’ve taken one too many risks.”
“Adam, the biggest risks in life are the ones that carry the biggest rewards.”
“And the greatest chance for disaster.”
“Yes. Disaster is always a possible consequence. But so is incredible joy. What kind of a life are we living if we never go for that joy? It’s what makes us feel alive.”
* * *
“MAB, YOU AND THE community center look absolutely beautiful tonight,” Octavia said as she surveyed her grandmother’s formal scarlet dress as they strolled in the midst of the beautifully dressed seniors at the Silver Power League’s Christmas Eve party.
“Thanks to you, Octavia, I am free and among my friends with my very special granddaughter. I have much to be grateful for this holiday season. Our center shines for us all tonight.”
“That it does,” Octavia agreed as she looked around at the beautiful new tree at its entrance and all the lovely decorations and twinkling lights everywhere. John sat at a piano donated by a member for the evening and played “White Christmas” as Constance, Douglas, Edith and other seniors stood around singing along.
“I’m sorry about the land, Mab. By the time I spoke to Nancy, she had already sold it along with the building plans to a holding company looking for development property. A.J.’s promised to trace the owners. I’m not giving up.”
Mab sighed. “We have no money to offer them.”
“There has to be a way, Mab.”
Her grandmother patted her hand. “If there is, dear, I know you’ll find it. Just listen to those whispers from your heart.”
Octavia didn’t tell Mab that those whispers had been curiously and sadly silent over the last few days.
John gestured at them from across the room to join the seniors singing around the piano. Mab waved back, a very young smile suddenly drawing back her lips.
“Why don’t you marry that man,” Octavia asked. “It’s so obvious you love each other.”
“We do, but John made a mistake I can’t forgive.”
“You mean when he assisted his wife to die?”
Mab turned to her. “You investigated my friends? Even after I told you they didn’t do it?”
“I’m sorry,” Octavia said. “I should have listened.”
“It’s all right, dear. I know you were thinking of me. Anyway, you got it wrong. John’s mistake wasn’t assisting his sick wife to die. It was refusing to assist her. He wouldn’t go against his doctor’s oath. She had to steal the drug to end her pain. You once said you wanted a man willing to give up everything for the woman he loves. Well, your old grandmother feels the same way.”
“I...see.”
Mab patted her hand. “Don’t look so sad, dear. John and I are good friends. That’s important, too. And speaking of friends, where is that magician of yours? Last time I saw him was at the arraignment, and that was days ago.”
“I haven’t seen him since he left the Scroogens’ garage to answer a call that came in on his beeper. He just...disappeared. Perhaps it’s best.”
“He’ll be back,” Mab said confidently.
“I don’t think so, Mab.”
“Think again. Here comes your magician now.”
Octavia turned her head in the direction of the entrance. Brett was coming toward them, all right, all six-foot-four of him in competent, quick strides. He looked magnificent and utterly foreboding, the shoulders of his custom tuxedo dusted with snow, that obdurate shine in his black-rimmed, silver eyes hard with determination.
Octavia’s heart somersaulted in her chest as her hands and arms tingled in anticipation. God, it felt so good to see him again!
Brett stopped not two feet in front of her
. Without taking his eyes from her, he spoke to Mab with that controlled tone of polite distance Octavia remembered so well.
“Would you excuse your granddaughter and me for a moment, Mab? We have something to discuss.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Mab said as she smiled at them both before turning to join the seniors singing at the piano.
Brett offered Octavia his arm and gestured toward the entry with perfect expectation that Octavia would accompany him. Octavia held her ground.
“We can talk here.”
The silver sabers in his eyes sharpened as he kept his arm extended. “Believe me. You do not wish this conversation overheard.”
She believed him, or, more accurately, she believed that very dangerous look lighting his eyes. She took his formally extended arm and walked to the entry with him.
“This will do,” he said, suddenly pulling her into the cloakroom and closing the door behind them.
She faced him, feeling the danger and excitement he exuded jolt adrenaline into her bloodstream. She tried to sound cool and unconcerned. She was not.
“There’s something you wanted to say?”
He pulled some folded papers out of his jacket and held them out. She stiffened as she realized they were legal papers.
She unfolded them with trembling hands and found to her annoyance that she had to read them twice before the words made any sense. When the message of them finally sunk in, she exhaled in a sudden whoosh of breath.
“This is a land deed for this property. It’s made out to the Silver Power League.”
“They own it now,” he said. “Free and clear.”
She looked up at his face, at his wonderfully solemn face.
“You were the one who bought all the land from Nancy using some dummy corporation. My God, it must have cost you a fortune. What an incredibly reckless thing to do!”
He smiled then, a marvelous smile. “Yes, wasn’t it?”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, tears of relief and happiness stinging her eyes.
“Brett, this is the best Christmas present ever. And you’re the best Santa Claus in ‘bah humbug’ disguise I’ve ever—”
He silenced her with an urgent kiss and with a painful groan at how good she tasted and felt after so many—far too many—days and nights apart. Octavia melted happily into his strong, warm arms, crushing her to him.
