Pasta Mortem

by Ellery Adams

  “I’ll be back with your orders shortly.” Dolly rushed away, no doubt to pass along this latest piece of news.

  James drank some coffee, then said, “Sullie taking the murder weapon over to Charlottesville?”

  “Good guess.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  Lucy nodded. “A rush job.”

  “What was the murder weapon?”

  Lucy sighed and pushed her coffee cup to one side. She folded her arms across her chest, then said, “You’ll keep this between us, at least until Sheriff Huckabee makes his statement?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  Lucy leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Edwards was killed by a hard, sharp blow to his head. The murder weapon was one of those heavy glass cardinals that were on all the mantelpieces at the Red Bird B and B, where he and Murphy, along with the cast members of Hearth and Home, are staying.”

  “Male or female cardinal?”

  “What difference—okay, it was the male bird, the red one.”

  “Where did Murphy find the body?”

  Lucy looked away for a moment, then met his gaze. “In the king-sized bed they were sleeping in.”

  “Oh, no!” James exclaimed.

  Lucy looked around. “Sshh. It was a mess.”

  James held up a hand. “Okay. I get the picture.”

  “So you see how there’s no possibility that anyone other than Murphy could have killed him. No one else was in the room with them, James.”

  James huffed out a breath.

  Dolly returned with their orders. Lucy tucked into her cheeseburger. James put the image of the crime out of his head and focused on Murphy’s condition before she went upstairs with Edwards.

  “Murphy and Edwards had been drinking heavily. You were there, Lucy.” He took a big bite of his omelet and let the melted cheese linger on his tongue before swallowing.

  “Yeah, I saw them argue, too, and that strengthens the case against Murphy.”

  “But they were so drunk. They’d been through two bottles of champagne. I can’t imagine Murphy doing anything other than passing out the minute she got in bed.”

  “That’s what she says happened. Doc put the time of death between midnight and two in the morning. Murphy and Edwards could have gone to bed and fallen into a deep sleep, but in certain amounts alcohol is a stimulant. It disrupts sleep patterns. Murphy likely woke up half sober, picked the cardinal off the mantel, hit Edwards with it—”

  “And gotten back in bed with the corpse?”

  “Don’t be morbid. They had the largest room at the inn with an office attached. She could have done some work, or fallen asleep in a chair, anything. Then, a little after seven, she screams the house down and pretends she has no idea what happened to Edwards.”

  “But why? What did Murphy say when you questioned her about the argument she had with Edwards last night?”

  Lucy popped a French fry in her mouth. “She didn’t. The minute she realized we thought she’d murdered Edwards, she clammed up. The only person she’s talked to since we took her into custody is her lawyer.”

  James shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. You heard their plans the other night when we were all at Mamma Mia’s. Edwards and Murphy stood to make a fortune with their development corporation. Why would she kill the golden goose?”

  Lucy shrugged. “Lovers’ quarrel, probably. The reason will come out. Once they get the fingerprints off the bird, we’ll be able to formally charge Murphy with murder.”

  “Surely those cardinals had been handled by many people, guests at the inn. Can forensics even get a clear print?”

  “Mrs. Anderson, the innkeeper, said that she spent the last few days cleaning ahead of the Hearth and Home reunion. She dusted and polished everything, including the cardinals. Sheriff Huckabee thinks we’ll get the killer’s fingerprints.”

  “I can’t picture Murphy as a murderer. Someone else must have gotten into that room.”

  “They were on the third floor. No one could have come in through the window without a very tall ladder. Someone would have heard or noticed that.”

  “What about the bedroom door?”

  Lucy shook her head. “Murphy admitted she locked the door before getting in bed for the night after Edwards came up to the room. James, why are you defending Murphy? She’s not a nice person. Look at what she had planned for Quincy’s Gap. Look at how badly she’s treated the supper club members in her books. Murphy lets nothing stand in the way of what she wants. She’s ruthless.”

  “What about Buford Lydell? You heard him threaten Edwards. Not that I want to think the farmer capable of carrying out his threats.”

  Lucy wiped her hands on her napkin and dropped it on her empty plate. “Buford Lydell wasn’t in a locked bedroom with Edwards. No, James, this was a crime of passion. Whether Murphy killed Edwards over another woman, something about their business together, or the way he parted his hair. She’s the only one who could have murdered him.”

  After Lucy left, James finished his cold omelet. He then ordered and absentmindedly ate a huge piece of Dolly’s special buttermilk pie. He decided he’d like to see the crime scene, talk to some of the other guests, those TV actors. Sheriff Huckabee probably had a deputy on guard, maybe even the nasty Keith Donovan. He’d have to wait.

  Pulling his wallet out, James thought he’d like nothing more than to call a meeting of the supper club members. He couldn’t, though, before Sheriff Huckabee’s statement or Lucy would find out right away. She’d consider it a betrayal. But maybe they could gather and watch the five o’clock news together in the library break room. Lucy couldn’t object to that.

  He dropped bills on the table and headed back out into the cold. The Bronco started up with minimal encouragement. James pointed it in the direction of Buford Lydell’s peach farm.

  Chapter Seven

  James drove along a two-lane road and turned left at the weathered, gray wooden sign that read Lydell’s Peach Farm. A large image of a peach, the yellow and orange colors faded over the years, was situated next to a big dark blue arrow that pointed toward the farm. As James rode down the driveway the few miles to the white farmhouse, he saw the peach orchard with trees bare of leaves.

  Memories of summer visits when he was a boy flickered through his mind, the trees heavy with fruit. He could almost taste the delicious peaches, the juice running down his chin, as he and his parents laughed in the July sunshine.

  All of a sudden, James felt a sharp pain the region of his heart at the thought of his mom, Constance Henry. It had been several years now since she died, leaving him and his father bereft. James never stopped missing her, never stopped wishing that she’d lived long enough to see Eliot and, soon, his new little girl. While James was happy that his father had found Milla, and James loved her dearly, no one could replace his mother in his heart. Instead, his heart had grown bigger to include Milla. When they were old enough, James would tell his children all about their grandma so that her memory would live on through them. James thought he wouldn’t wait too much longer to show his mother’s photograph to Eliot.

  James cleared his throat and set his mind on the task at hand: finding out where Buford Lydell had gone after he’d left the Red Bird B&B last night.

  He stopped the Bronco on the gravel drive next to the farmhouse. No sooner had he turned off the engine than Lydell appeared on the front porch. James waved and covered the distance to the farmhouse steps.

  “Hello, Mr. Lydell. I wonder if I might speak with you a minute?” James asked.

  “Better come in out of the cold,” the farmer replied, rubbing his short white beard. He turned and walked stiffly back into the house. James followed.

  Inside, the living room was packed high with moving boxes.

  Lydell led him back toward the kitchen. “Got until the fifteenth to be out of the house before that Ray Edwards takes over. Huckabee told me last night I haven’t got a chance tryin’ to go back on the sale. Some people will neve
r strain their backs totin’ their brains. That’s how I’m feeling about myself right now for being taken in by Edwards.”

  James realized that Lydell didn’t know that Edwards was dead. Either that or he was as good an actor as any of the Hearth and Home cast.

  “Edwina, James Henry’s here,” Lydell announced as they reached the bright white and green kitchen.

  A gray-haired woman wearing a pink cardigan over a neat blouse and jeans turned from where she’d been carefully packing glassware wrapped in newspaper into a sturdy box. “James! How nice to see you. How’s your father?”

  “He’s doing much better, thank you, Mrs. Lydell. Milla’s taken good care of him.”

  “And your wife? She’s due this month, isn’t she?” Mrs. Lydell asked, her soft blue eyes filled with concern.

  “Yes, ma’am. Not too much longer now.” James paused, unclear as to how he should go on. He realized that he hadn’t considered the fate of the land now that Edwards was dead. Had the corporation Edwards set up owned the land outright, and if so, would Murphy now be the sole owner? What would happen if she were convicted of killing Edwards? No, that simply wasn’t possible, James decided. Murphy was innocent of murder at least.

  The Lydells were studying him with curious eyes. “Would you like some coffee?” Mrs. Lydell asked.

  “No, thank you. I came out to see if you’d heard about Ray Edwards,” James fibbed.

  “What about the bastard?” Buford Lydell asked.

  “Buford! Language,” Mrs. Lydell scolded.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Lydell, did you know that Mr. Edwards died last night?” James looked right at Buford Lydell when he posed his question.

  The man’s eyes widened in shock. He gripped the top of a ladder-back chair. “What happened to him?”

  Mrs. Lydell had moved to stand next to her husband. She wrapped her hands around his arm and gave him a comforting squeeze.

  “I have it on good authority that he was killed, Mr. and Mrs. Lydell. Sheriff Huckabee will be making a statement for the press later today. It’ll be on the five o’clock news.”

  “Does this mean we’ll get our land back?” Mrs. Lydell asked.

  “I honestly don’t know,” James replied. “Unless there’s something in the contract that specifies . . .” James stopped himself. He remembered that Lydell had burned the contract and poured the ashes into Edwards’s lap. Surely there was another copy. “I suppose it depends on how Edwards’s business corporation was set up.”

  “You say he was killed,” Buford Lydell said. “How? He was drunk last night. Don’t tell me he left the Red Bird and got behind the wheel of a car.”

  “No, sir, not that I know of. Talk in town is that Ray Edwards was murdered.”

  “So we weren’t the only ones who hated him,” Mrs. Lydell said in a voice that suddenly was as cold as the outside temperature.

  James saw that she was staring off into the distance, out the window over the kitchen sink to the bare peach orchards.

  “Murdered? Who did it?” the farmer asked.

  “That’s, um, unclear right now. I expect we’ll know more when we get that statement from Sheriff Huckabee. I guess the sheriff will be questioning everyone as to where they were last night.”

  Mrs. Lydell turned her gaze from the window to him. “We were both here together, like every night.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” James agreed although, for a second, he thought he saw something in Buford Lydell’s expression. Something quickly covered.

  James couldn’t put a finger on exactly what it was, but it piqued his curiosity.

  • • •

  Back on the two-lane road, James used his cell phone to call Gillian. He hated driving and talking on the phone, but he didn’t have much time. He asked Gillian to have the supper club members meet him at the library at four forty-five. Dodging her questions by telling her that he was driving, James disconnected the call.

  And not a moment too soon, as he slowed the Bronco for a pair of riders on horseback in the nick of time. Two teenage girls guided their horses as close to the side of the road as they could so that he could pass. James looked in the rearview mirror and saw them turn into the drive of a farm.

  That’s when James thought of Arthur Pritchard IV. Did the racehorse breeder know of Ray Edwards’s murder? Could he take him by surprise the way he’d done Buford Lydell? What excuse could he give for calling on the distinguished man?

  His mind fixed on this dilemma, James turned at the forest green sign with gold letters that announced he’d arrived at Pritchard Stables, Established 1935. As he drove down the winding drive and the house came into view, James admired the red-brick, stately two-story house with the white columns and double chimneys. He felt himself growing nervous and almost turned the Bronco around.

  Mrs. Pritchard answered his knock. She had on a pair of slim, camel-colored tailored slacks and a chocolate brown turtleneck sweater. Her silver hair had been styled in a short cut with bangs sweeping to one side. She didn’t look particularly welcoming, but she gave him a polite smile.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pritchard. I hoped I might see your husband for a few minutes.”

  “All right, Mr. Henry. Arthur’s out at the stables with the vet. You can wait in his study.”

  James followed her across Oriental carpets and into a wallpapered, masculine room where a fire burned brightly. A winged-back chair sat behind Pritchard’s polished desk. Mrs. Pritchard gestured to a smaller chair on the other side. James sat down and she left the room.

  After five minutes of waiting, James felt even more antsy. He saw a newspaper on the side of the desk and reached for it. It was the Louisville, Kentucky, Courier-Journal. “Probably subscribes to keep up with horse-racing news,” James muttered to himself.

  He’d read almost the entire paper before Mr. Pritchard entered the room and sat behind his desk. “I’ve heard the news, Mr. Henry. I can give you a few minutes.”

  James folded the newspaper and dropped it on the desk. “What news would that be, sir?”

  “Don’t play games with me, young man. I share an attorney with Murphy Alistair. Cyril Morton called me an hour ago and told me Edwards is dead. I also know that you and your friends have been instrumental in solving murders around Quincy’s Gap in the past, but I believe the sheriff has the murderess in custody.”

  “Mr. Morton doesn’t think so, does he?” James asked.

  “I’m sure he has no opinion on the matter. It’s not his job to determine whether or not someone is guilty of a crime. Morton’s job is to defend his clients and keep them out of prison.”

  James thought about that for a moment, then said, “I wondered if you’d seen Ray Edwards after he confronted you at Mamma Mia’s.”

  Mr. Pritchard steepled his fingers. A long moment of silence passed and James fought the urge to fidget in his seat. Then Pritchard said, “That’s none of your business, but as I’ve nothing to hide, I’ll answer your question. Edwards came here the very next day. I assume he wanted to try and persuade me to sell my land.”

  “You assume?” James asked, puzzled.

  “I was on horseback at the time and couldn’t be bothered to dismount. I’ve met men like Edwards before in my lifetime. I knew he wouldn’t change his mind and see things my way.” Pritchard paused and a slight smile appeared on his lips. “I do believe I gave Edwards a fright. I was riding Ivor, you see, and he’s quite spirited.”

  Visions of Pritchard using the horse to trample Edwards, or at least intimidate him, flashed through James’s mind. His gaze met Pritchard’s, and all at once James was convinced that Pritchard knew exactly what he was thinking. What’s more, the man did nothing to contradict the idea. James was certain there was more to the story, but the powerful man wasn’t about to enlighten James.

  Pritchard rose and James followed suit.

  The older man adjusted his cuffs. “If there’s nothing else . . .”

  James gathered his courage. “Where were you last night, sir
?”

  Pritchard gave him an incredulous stare. “You overstep yourself, Mr. Henry.”

  James allowed himself to be ushered to the front door. He turned and gave Pritchard a final look. “What you said about Mr. Morton and his job, well, I’m sure that’s true. But Sheriff Huckabee and his deputies have a job too: to uncover the truth about who killed Ray Edwards. I intend to help them in any way that I can because I don’t believe Murphy Alistair is guilty of murder.”

  Mr. Pritchard’s brows came together. “I thought you had enough to do as head librarian. If not, maybe that’s an issue I should bring up with my friend at the Greenloft Club who sits on the county library system board.”

  At those words, James’s heart fell to the ground. “We have plenty to occupy our time, thank you.”

  James hurried to the Bronco and seated himself behind the wheel thinking that not only had Mr. Pritchard threatened his job, he’d not answered his question as to his whereabouts the night before.

  On the way back to the library, the setting sun brought a last welcome light across the fields. James wore his sunglasses to guard against the glare. He thought about what he’d said to Mr. Pritchard about Murphy. Why did he feel the need to defend her? Was it because long ago they’d been lovers? Was it impossible for him to comprehend that someone he’d once been so close to had cold-bloodedly killed another?

  James had to talk to Murphy. After Sheriff Huckabee’s statement, he’d go to the jail and see if Murphy was allowed visitors. Or, if this lawyer, Mr. Morton, was so efficient, maybe she’d be released and James could see her at home.

  • • •

  He posed the question to Lucy when the supper club members sat around the table in the library’s break room. Scott and Francis had set up a laptop where they could live-stream the news. The twins promised to hold down the fort while James and his friends watched the broadcast.