by Doug Burgess
Now the two surviving Laughing Sarahs are back, with cake. “I was going to bring this out as a surprise,” says Aunt Constance, “but then I saw that family of hers and thought, nah.” She puts the cake on the coffee table with a possessive thud. Sugar sponge studded with almonds and icing hearts. It looks delicious, but decidedly out of place.
“You made it?” I ask.
Aunt Irene laughs. “No, honey, Emma did.”
Is there something ghoulish about eating a dead woman’s last cake? What if Aunt Emma had been reaching for the cake tin, when the cake tin came to her? But Aunt Irene has already handed me a slice. I dip in a fork, thinking I will just have one bite, and realize, This is really good. The frosting is buttercream, the cake thick and moist with the tiniest hint of anise, like a wry smile. Emma was always the best baker.
The cake, it turns out, is not the only act of larceny being contemplated. Aunt Constance takes a sip of coffee and says quietly, “The appraisers are coming in the morning. Figure on that bunch to not even wait for the body to cool. It’s going to be a long night.”
I understand everything except the last part. “Why?” I ask.
Aunt Irene smiles and pats my knee. She is often given the unlovable task of softening Constance’s decrees. “Emma was our family,” she says gently. “She was your grandma’s best friend. Her house is full of memories, and we don’t want them to just disappear into the back of a truck.”
“So you’re going to…take them?” I’m thinking of the Chippendale chairs, the Morris hutch, the glassware brought back on a tea clipper by Great-Uncle Elias, whose picture still hangs in Emma’s parlor.
“Not all of it—” Irene avers.
Constance cuts her off. “You bet, all of it,” she interjects. “All the good stuff, anyway. Want anything?” There has always been a hint of pirate rascality about Aunt Constance.
Grandma wakes up with a snort. “Where’s Emma?” she asks at once.
The two ladies look at each other. “She made you this cake, dear,” says Aunt Irene.
“Why are you eating it, then?”
We all laugh, and Irene hands her a piece. Grandma’s table manners haven’t left her. She unfolds a napkin and places it in her lap. The cake is consumed in six remarkably dainty bites. A few minutes later her head nods, and Aunt Constance takes the plate from her lap.
Irene leans over to me. “I’ve been dying to tell you,” she begins conspiratorially, “about the latest with Wally and that floozy wife of his. You know she left him for some nightclub bouncer in Cranston. Well that ended, but only because he took her purse with all her cards, and now she’s back, but neither of them—”
This interesting narrative is interrupted by a sharp knock on the back door. There stands Billy Dyer, resplendent in his light blue uniform with polished silver badge identifying him as police chief of Little Compton. He still looks about fifteen years old.
“Hiya, Billy.”
“Hey Ro…er, David.”
Oh, so it’s going to be like that. Okay, then. “Heard you got married to Debbie Spaghetti,” I say brutally. “Congratulations.”
He shifts from one foot to the other. “Can I come in?”
“Better than standing outside.”
The Aunts look up as I bring him into the parlor. There is something wary in Constance’s expression. “Evening, Chief,” she says. “If you’ve come for the obsequies, you’re too late.”
“Not exactly. Can I sit down?” His voice sounds oddly strained. Constance waves toward a chair, and Aunt Irene automatically cuts him a slice of cake. Just as automatically he begins to eat it. “Hey,” he says finally, looking up from an empty plate, “that was good.”
“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” Irene tells him.
“No, no, that’s okay.” He looks at me and swallows rather painfully. I can actually see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “So, David, how you been keeping?”
“Not bad, considering. You?”
“Oh, you know, about the same.”
“That’s good.”
“Would you lovebirds like some privacy?” Aunt Constance cuts in. Billy blushes to the roots of his hair.
“I haven’t seen you since you left for grad school,” he goes on, still awkwardly polite. “You look…”
“Different,” Constance supplies.
“So handsome!” Irene adds.
“Bigger.”
That can’t be the word he was hoping for. “I mean,” he chokes, “you know, fuller.”
Silently Aunt Irene hands him another slice of cake. He shovels in a mouthful, as if to prevent any more words from escaping.
“Yeah,” I say, taking pity on him. “That happens sometimes. You look good, though. Married life agrees with you. And I hear a little stranger is on the way.”
I meant it kindly, but Billy’s face falls even more. Clearly the subject is delicate. “It’s good to see you, Billy. But did you just come here for cake and a social call?”
“Not exactly. Fact is…well…”
“Is this an official police matter?” Constance inquires with a raised eyebrow, rolling off the syllables unctuously.
Billy answers by saying nothing. Suddenly there is something else in the room, a different kind of tension. Cold, as if Death brushed us with its wings.
“My God,” Irene whispers, “what is it? What’s happened?”
“Is it true Emma Godfrey was worth millions, and they’re looking for the heir?”
Even in the age of Internet and text, nothing is faster than the Little Compton bush telegraph. “That’s about the size of it,” Constance confirms.
“Damn. That’s bad.”
“Not so bad for the heir, or heirs.”
“No, it’s just…well, I got the coroner’s report back about an hour ago. It’s not good.”
Chief Billy has been reduced to monosyllables and Constance seems frozen in her chair, but Irene looks puzzled. “Not good? But Emma was sound as a bell!” she protests. “If it weren’t for the accident, she might have gone on for years.”
“Yeah,” Billy sighs, “that’s kinda the problem. I know she was your friend, and there’s no easy way to say this, but it looks like we might have a homicide case on our hands.”
The two ladies stare at him. I realize I’m still hovering like a ghost in the doorway, and sink down onto the divan next to Irene. “Homicide?” she repeats blankly. “Who was killed?”
“Emma, you twit,” snaps Constance.
“No. Oh, no. That’s not…no.” Irene shakes her head. “That’s nonsense, Billy. She was reaching for a pot when the shelf collapsed.”
Billy nods. “That’s how somebody wanted it to look. But I examined that skillet myself. There’s a dent on the base. If it just fell from a shelf it might have cracked Miss Emma’s skull, but there’s no way it could have gone that deep. Someone swung it overhead and brought it down on her. Then they pulled all the pots down to make it look like an accident.”
Irene still looks incredulous, but Constance hums appreciatively. “Clever,” she muses.
“But Connie,” Irene turns to look at her, “you don’t believe this, do you? For God’s sake, it’s Emma! Who on Earth would ever want to hurt Emma?”
It is Billy who answers her. “You heard yourself. She had three million dollars in the bank, and some very greedy relations. Not to mention this mysterious Arabella Johnson, wherever she is.”
Constance scoffs. “I’ve got a pretty healthy savings account and a whole gaggle of worthless relatives. None of them have taken a swing at me yet.”
“You wouldn’t let them near enough,” Irene mutters under her breath.
Billy pretends not to hear. “You’re right, Miss Constance, but the fact is somebody probably did.”
Since there is no answer to this, we sit in sil
ence. I’m thinking of the hook-braid rug in Emma’s front parlor, the watercolor of Block Island on the wall, how relentlessly normal it all looks. And yet on the floor, a body. A house where murder was done. It all seems unreal, unnatural. “Why did you come to tell us this?” I ask. “Isn’t it normal to keep investigations under wraps?” The lingo comes right from one of Emma’s cop shows, and I wonder if I sound ridiculous.
“Oh, David,” sighs Constance, “isn’t it obvious? He’s here to question us.”
Irene gasps, but Billy shakes his head. “Not you, Miss Constance. But Miss Margaret was the one that discovered the body. And she was probably the last one to see Emma Godfrey alive. I need to talk to her.”
“Good luck,” Constance mutters, glancing over at Grandma’s recumbent form still snoring in her chair. She turns back to Billy. “I take it,” she says slowly, “that you have considered the impracticality of an eighty-year-old woman with arthritis and Alzheimer’s braining her next-door neighbor and then having the presence of mind to conceal the crime in this colorful manner.”
“My God, of course! But she may be an important witness. In fact she may be the only witness.”
“Poor Mags,” murmurs Irene. “She’s all alone now.”
“We’ll wake her presently,” Constance tells him, “but you might as well know she won’t remember a thing. Never does anymore. And if she thinks you’re looking for a story, she’ll quite happily concoct one. Most of what she says these days is one part old memories and nine parts delusion.”
“I know, I know.”
“Billy,” Aunt Irene interjects, studying his face deeply, “are you sure about this? I mean, I’m not a pathologist or anything, but isn’t it possible it was just an accident, after all? Couldn’t the pan have just dropped a certain way?”
Billy shrugs. “Sure, I guess. That’s what the Providence police think, too. Dr. Renzi did the autopsy, and even he couldn’t be certain. Plus Providence is up to their knees in tax records from Plundergate. They’re not gonna waste much time on a little old lady in the boonies.”
The sudden and dramatic collapse of Ocean State Building and Loan, coupled with charges of embezzlement, graft, and extortion, has kept three police divisions and the FBI happily occupied for months. Last week the state speaker of the House was hauled off to jail; they say the mayor is next. But Aunt Constance cocks a quizzical eyebrow at Billy. “You’ve already got a suspect.”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, come off it. Providence and the coroner tell you it’s just an accident, but you think it’s murder. Well, the four people who knew Emma best are all in this room right now and you haven’t asked us a single question about alibis or anything. For all you know, any of us might have whacked her. God knows I’ve been tempted a few times.”
“Constance!” Irene cries, scandalized.
“Well, it’s true, ain’t it? He knows who killed her. Don’t you?”
Faced with a frontal assault, Billy surrenders. “I don’t know anything yet, Miss Constance. But there is this fellow, I’ve got the name here somewhere…” He begins to fumble with his notebook.
Constance answers wearily, “I suppose you mean Marcus Rhinegold.”
“How on Earth did you know that?” I ask, amazed.
Constance shrugs. “It’s Little Compton. Nobody comes here, nobody leaves. Nothing ever happens. Then two months ago a big fancy yacht pulls up in the harbor and now there’s a murder. Not exactly rocket science.”
“Right,” Billy concurs. “He’s an outsider. Nobody knows a thing about him. He came to the funeral, though. And I understand you do some work for him.”
“We were hired to take down the Armstrong place. But I’m not privy to his secret demons, and I gather Irene isn’t either.”
“Certainly not,” Aunt Irene concurs, shivering a little.
Some obscure instinct for academic impartiality leads me to come to the unknown Rhinegold’s defense. “But Billy,” I protest, “that’s not fair. Just because this guy’s not from around here doesn’t make him a murderer, for Christ’s sake.”
“It’s not just that. We’ve got a report that his car, a big black Mercedes, was in the area that afternoon. It’s a dead end street, so either he got lost and was turning around, or he was here to visit someone. The car passed by right about four o’clock, according to my witness.”
“Gladys Furman,” Constance says knowingly. “That woman don’t miss a thing. But she’s crazy as a loon, Billy, and I’m not sure she’d know a Mercedes from a Pinto with those big specs of hers.”
Billy coughs into his hand noncommittally. “Yeah, well, anyway, I’ll be along to see this Rhinegold as a matter of course, but I doubt he’d have much to say to me. But maybe if you talk to him…”
“Us?” Irene bleats.
“You’re up at the Armstrong house all the time. And you’re the only people in town who actually know him.”
“We don’t know him. Not like that. For God’s sake, Connie?” Irene turns to Aunt Constance and spreads her hands in mute appeal.
“This seems a little…unorthodox,” Constance says slowly.
“Of course it is. But Providence won’t back me up—it’s my case, for what that’s worth. And I figured with you all being so close to Emma, you might want to help.”
That’s it, of course. The vision of her lying cold and alone in one of those grisly filing cabinets down at Newport General is in all our minds. Constance puts it into words. “So what you’re really saying is that if we don’t help you, Emma’s killer might never be found?”
Billy takes a breath, lets it out. “Well, I’m still not saying Rhinegold is the killer but…yeah.”
Aunt Constance crosses her arms and is silent for a moment. “We’ll do what we can,” she answers, surprisingly. “But he isn’t likely to say much to us. Not part of his world, if you know what I mean. Might have better luck with David here.”
“Me?”I stare back in disbelief. “I’ve never said a word to him.”
“Exactly.” Aunt Constance is sibylline. “You’re an outsider, too, more so than the rest of us, anyway. And you’re closer in age. We’re just a couple of old broads.”
“Oh, Connie, I don’t know,” Irene says worriedly. “Should David get mixed up in all this?”
I have to agree. But Billy runs a hand through his hair, which means he’s thinking deeply. He looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Not a bad idea, that.”
“Is it normal procedure for the police to deputize random history professors to interrogate suspects?” I protest.
“Oh, please,” scoffs Constance, “calling Billy ‘the police’ is like calling Fred Barnes down at Narragansett Savings the Secretary of the Treasury.”
I can see Billy isn’t exactly flattered by this, but he plows ahead, “You’re smart, David. Smartest person I ever met. And it’s not very much, just a friendly conversation.”
“What if he doesn’t want to talk to me?” I object, rather feebly.
“He will,” Aunt Constance affirms. “I’ll just ring him up and tell him you want one last look at the old Armstrong place before we take it down. You’re a historian writing a book on ugly old Victorian homes. Couldn’t be simpler.”
Billy squirms a bit. “Just be careful,” he says awkwardly.
“The thought had occurred to me. But what am I supposed to get out of him? It’s not like I can go, ‘Hey that’s a nice moulding. By the way, did you kill any old ladies this week?’”
“Get him to talk about himself,” Constance suggests, as if it had all been her idea. “Ask if he has any relations in town. You could start by asking why he went to the funeral of a woman he supposedly never met.”
“You don’t have to do it, David,” Irene adds. “You can say no. After all, Emma was our friend.”
“She was mine, too,” I say qui
etly, and for the first time realize it’s true.
“It probably won’t come to anything,” admits Billy. “But Rhinegold’s all I’ve got. And I was really sorry about Miss Emma. She was always good to me. Gave me a loan for the police academy. Even said she’d pay for the wedding if we ever…”
“Coffee, anyone?” Irene interrupts.
Now Grandma is awake. She stares unblinkingly for a moment at Billy, then turns slowly to me. “You can’t have the wedding now,” she announces, “It’s too damn cold. Wait till May at least.”
“I guess I’ll be going.” Billy is on his feet. He stares down at his notebook.
Irene protests, “But didn’t you want to talk to…?”
“Later. There’s no hurry. Thanks for the cake, ladies. David, I’ll be seeing ya. Let me know how it goes.” The door slams behind him.
“Well,” says Grandma, absorbing his exit, “that was weird. What did he want?”
“To deputize David.”
“Don’t be disgusting, Constance. That isn’t even legal in some states. Anyway, in my day, we called it plucking the rose.”
Chapter Four
“Be patient and let time pass,” Queen Elizabeth once advised. What was good for the Virgin Queen seems to be the order in Little Compton as well. Days pass without word from Chief Billy—not that I expected any. Aunt Constance and Aunt Irene dutifully tried to engage Marcus Rhinegold in a friendly conversation about his antecedents, relatives in town, future plans—and were politely and firmly rebuffed. They tried again with his wife, Alicia, and got the same—more firm, less polite. “Well, so much for that,” Aunt Constance reports at dinner.
“Did you mention me?” I ask, hoping my voice betrays no anxiety.
“Sure. He seemed a little more receptive there. Wanted to know if you were at the funeral, and made me describe you in some detail. I had to fudge a bit about what your doctorate is actually for, but I don’t think he cares. I’m not sure I know, anyway. You may hear from him, you may not.”
On this unsatisfactory note Emma’s would-be murder investigation rests. I check the papers every morning, just in case Billy decides to go public, but there is nothing in the Journal, save various sweating councilmen being paraded past klieg lights into the courthouse. Plundergate rolls on.
