Death and the Lit Chick sm-2

by G. M. Malliet

  Annabelle dipped her head once more into her magazine, ignoring them. She looked strangely disheveled, even given her usual standard. The glasses on top of her head acted as a headband, pinning back her hair, which otherwise fell in stringy waves to her shoulders. Of all the women at the castle, thought St. Just, she might have benefited most from a bit of spa pampering. Instead, Portia was busy gilding the lily, while Annabelle…

  Easterbrook, who had been looking on darkly over his reading glasses as if to emphasize nothing thus far in the proceedings met with his favor, spluttered again into life. "All these questions about where we were, and when. How can we possibly know? Do you have any idea the amount of drinking that went on last night?"

  Jay Fforde, who seemed to have adopted a Lord Peter Wimsey demeanor for the occasion, looked over and said, "Quite."

  "There were far too many of us for any one to really be accounted for," continued Easterbrook. Winston nodded agreement.

  "Quite," said Jay again. "Everyone came and went."

  "I didn't," said Annabelle flatly, from behind the magazine. "Like I said, I was with Mrs. E-oh, and then I was trapped by that ghastly little creep B. A. King for simply hours. He'll tell you."

  "You'll have a chance to tell me yourself later on," said St. Just.

  ____________________

  St. Just, carrying a mug of strong black tea, found the Inspector and Sergeant Kittle in Kimberlee's room.

  "The press are onto us," he informed them.

  "I know," said Inspector Moor. He leaned over and switched on a television set in the corner of the room. An excited young BBC announcer, clearly struggling to wipe the ecstatic smile off her face, was offering a breathless recap of Kimberlee's short career as Kimberlee herself smiled in frozen perpetuity from the upper left corner of the screen. As the policemen watched, the screen faded to black, to be replaced by an aerial shot of Dalmorton Castle. Moor leaned over again and switched off. "We've got guarded barriers keeping their vehicles out. Keeping the photographers themselves from skulking around the grounds on foot is going to be more difficult. That's stock footage they've got from somewhere but it's probably just a matter of time before we have helicopters whirring overhead." The torque of his Scottish accent managed to find at least four extra "r's" in "whirring."

  St. Just nodded. "So, what's the status?"

  "We've only got the preliminary results from the body," Moor replied, "But I don't think there will be any big surprises. She was struck a blow to the head which almost certainly would have killed her eventually, but being thrown into the dungeon killed her first."

  "Any sign of a weapon?"

  Moor shook his head.

  "It could have been anything, really. But there was nothing kept down there that would serve as a handy weapon-fire extinguisher or suchlike. Whoever it was, brought the thing with him. Or her. And carried it away with them."

  "Premeditated, then," said St. Just.

  "Almost certainly. Especially given that she must have been keeping some kind of pre-arranged rendezvous-it's unlikely she just took it into her head to pop into the dungeon that time of night."

  "And the lights went out, don't forget. In which case…"

  "Where's the candle?" Moor finished for him. "It helps us pinpoint the time a bit more, doesn't it?"

  "Unless the murderer had the wit to take the candle away with him or her."

  "Hmm," grunted Moor. "Anyway, the way we see it is, someone hid beneath the spiral stairs leading down to the dungeon room. There's just enough space. It was dark, or darkish. The person leapt out. Struck her from behind. Tipped her over into the dungeon proper. The element of surprise had to have helped, which is why a female assailant is every bit as likely as a male-she was a wee thing, so leveraging her over the rail wouldn't be all that difficult."

  "Still, it's hard to picture Mrs. Elksworthy, for example, in that kind of weight-lifting role. What have you got over there?" He indicated an evidence bag.

  "It's the contents of Kimberlee's purse."

  St. Just walked over and picked it up. Lipstick, compact, all the usual. "This is from the purse we found here in her room?"

  "Yes."

  "There's no key in here."

  Moor took the evidence bag and held it to the light.

  "So there isn't. Which means-"

  "I'm not sure I know what it means. Someone stole her key?"

  "I don't understand," said Moor. "We know she got a replacement key from reception. She told them she'd lost hers."

  "It only makes sense if… Hmm. Let me chew on this a bit. What else do you have?"

  "Lots," said Moor, waving a few faxed pages in St. Just's direction. "First, that snarky little Quentin character-the reporter with the hair-he used to work at the same newspaper as Kimberlee, a few years back."

  "At the same time?"

  Moor nodded. "Something he didn't think to mention when my men talked with him."

  "I can certainly correct the oversight later today, if you like," said St. Just. "What else? I don't suppose her watch stopped when she fell, or anything helpful like that, pinpointing the time?"

  "Doesn't appear so. But that's not the big news," said Moor. "I've saved that for last." The man grinned from ear to ear. "The big news is-wait for it-our Kimberlee was pregnant."

  FEMME FATALE

  "Well, if it was Jay," St. Just was saying, "that was fast work."

  The three men stood by the window overlooking the castle grounds-a vista Kimberlee Kalder, tucked on a cold morgue slab, would never again enjoy.

  Moor said, "He gave us a statement saying he and Kimberlee were star-crossed right until the end-there was interest on both sides, but the union was not consummated." He pulled absently on his moustache, adding, "She was only four weeks along, but that's not to say she and Jay didn't meet up in London or somewhere four weeks ago."

  "Right. I assume you've got men on it?" asked St. Just.

  "Men and women. Yes."

  "This whole business with room service might need looking into," said St. Just. "I'll have a word with whoever it was brought that tray to her room next, I think. Quentin can wait. Let him think he's gotten away with something."

  "That would be Florie Macintosh you want-the one who brought the tray," said Moor. "I saw her just now, talking with that Donna Doone woman, in her office. The prehistoric historic writer one. Oh, by the way, some of them have presented us with written accounts of their whereabouts." Moor handed St. Just a sheaf of pages. "That really was rather naughty of you, Inspector."

  St. Just grinned back at him. "Are they dreadful?"

  "Some are not bad: quite straightforward, bare-bones timetables or accounts of where they 'think' they were, and when. Followed by a rash of question marks, of course, in case we try to pin them down. Possibly they are even truthful accounts-there is no telling. Could come in useful for cross-checking their statements. Magretta Sincock, however-but there, I wouldn't want to spoil it for you. You'll just have to read it yourself."

  St. Just pocketed the pages Moor handed him and again headed downstairs, this time taking the grand staircase that would deposit him near both the bottle dungeon and the hotel's reception area. All was preternaturally quiet, but he sensed the presence of his suspects, like mice behind the walls.

  The young receptionist pointed him to the hallway leading to the business offices. Her eyes and nose were reddened, as if she had been crying. The investigation had to be taking a toll on the staff, he reflected. He smiled with more assurance then he felt, and she seemed to perk up a fraction.

  Navigating the narrow hallway, he heard a voice coming from a partially opened door to his right. He thought he recognized the strong Scottish burr as belonging to the woman who'd brought his brandy the night before.

  He soon saw he was right. A small, brindle-haired terrier of a woman in her middle years stood in the center of the room with her short legs braced and fists dug into her wide, sturdy hips. She was also the same woman he'd seen outside
the bottle dungeon, tut-tutting over the lazy workmen.

  "So I told Frank," she was saying "about this old Australian chap. He was such a scamp; he kept saying he wanted to run off with me. He was joking like, of course, but didn't he just make me laugh. So I told Frank and what do you think he said? He said, 'Pack your bags. I'll drive you to the airport.'"

  She cackled at that, slapping her hands against her thighs and ending on a whoop of laughter. Donna Doone, seated at her desk, smiled back distractedly, arrested in the act of sorting papers into a pink foolscap folder.

  "Sorry to interrupt, ladies," he said, pushing the door wider and walking into the room. It was furnished in a utilitarian style, lacking the plushy comforts of the public rooms. Steel file cabinets lined the stone walls, and a stack of cartons of brochures, hotel stationery, and assorted corporate advertising filled one corner. A serviceable glazed teapot with matching cups and saucers sat on a tray at one corner of the desk.

  "Do you know anything about who did it yet?" Donna Doone asked him. "The staff are half scared out of their wits. I think more than a few may give notice."

  "Ruddy cowards," said Florie Mackintosh.

  St. Just shook his head.

  "I realize this is upsetting," he told Donna. With a nod to Florie, he added, "For most of you, anyway. We're doing all we can."

  "I don't find it upsetting, not at all," confirmed Florie. "Makes a break from routine. I didn't even mind stopping here all night. It was my usual night, anyway-but this is my day off now. That policeman asked would I stay around a bit. 'To help with inquires,' he says. Ha! I know what that means. I don't reckon I'll be paid extra for helping anyone with their inquiries. But what I really want to know about is that nasty dust you lot have spread on everything, like they do on the telly." Here outrage deepened her already thick brogue: "Who's gang to clean that oop?" she demanded.

  "The fingerprint dust? I'm afraid the hotel will be responsible for that."

  "Och! It wasn't me who made the mess, now was it?"

  "I know it seems unfair, but you wouldn't really expect the police to expend their resources cleaning up crime scenes, now would you?"

  "I'm saying that's exactly what I would expect. You can't-"

  "I'm certain what the hotel will do is hire a professional crime-scene cleaning company. There are specialists who handle that sort of thing. Now, tell me, Ms. Macintosh, how long have you worked here?"

  "They'd better. To answer your question: twenty year. And it's Mrs. Macintosh. Last time I looked himself was still parked in front of the telly at home, sound asleep. Any road, I worked for the Dalmorton family before they sold the pile to the hotel chain. But this is my first murder."

  St. Just grinned. "I am relieved to hear it. Now, did either of you talk much with Kimberlee Kalder during her stay?"

  Donna Doone shook her head vigorously. Her tightly wound curls stood momentarily out from her head before snapping back into formation.

  "No," she said. She stood abruptly and began trying to pour herself a cup of tea. How long before she realized she'd already emptied the teapot, he wondered? Her hands shook, making the lid rattle. She was nervous and distracted, no question. But it was difficult for him to think of Donna as truly unbalanced or the type easily driven to kill, despite the peculiar judgment betrayed by her strange little novel. Misguided was surely a better word. As to motive-what possible motive could there be except an explosive jealousy over Kimberlee Kalder's easy success? He'd seen weaker motives, but still…

  If only the murderer had thrown a latte on her or knocked her out with a handbag, we'd have a better handle on the professional jealousy angle, he thought.

  Florie was saying, her face a mask of pinched disapproval, "I talked with her as little as possible. She were a right young miss and no mistake. Didn't half think the sun shown out of her arse."

  "Florie!" admonished Donna. For a largish woman her voice was surprisingly high, with a yippy undertone. He imagined one of the Queen's corgis would sound like that if it could talk. It was in complete contrast with that of her small coworker, who he felt could hold her own against an opera singer. "Ill of the dead, and all." Giving up at last on the tea, Donna began nervously smoothing her tight-fitting skirt against her thighs.

  "Their being dead doesn't make them better folk than they were alive," Florie countered. "Only quieter."

  St. Just interrupted, clearing his throat. He felt that left to her own devices, Florie would burble along endlessly, her conversation ranging widely over everything but the murder itself. Sometimes that kind of interviewee was helpful: You could just wind them up and off they'd go. How much useful information could be forked out of the detritus was anyone's guess. Directing his question at Donna, he said, "Tell me about that drawbridge."

  She knew immediately what he meant.

  "I raised it just before the dinner. There were no guests scheduled to arrive, you see, and we needed all hands on deck to handle the meal. We've a small staff and we run the place more like a private club, really, than a hotel. Anyway, when Rachel Twalley and the other people from Edinburgh wanted to leave, I let them out and closed it behind them."

  "That was at what time?"

  She wrung her hands.

  "I've been trying to remember and I can't. About 9:45 at a guess. Earlier than the normal."

  "I think I heard the clanking and groaning when it went up. It doesn't half make a racket, does it?"

  "That it does," she agreed. "By the way, the press have started calling." She looked aggrieved: This is all your fault.

  "You've not talked to them, but passed them along to the communications officer, as we asked?"

  "Yes, yes, of course. But to tell you the truth, I've started letting the answerphone deal with it."

  "Even better."

  He turned back to Florie, who had taken advantage of the lull to begin attacking the pile of cartons with a dust rag.

  "Now, Mrs. Macintosh, you told the other policemen you'd delivered a tray to Kimberlee the night she died," he said.

  "I did that," she said, stowing the rag in her apron. "I was the last to know of her alive, I suppose, excepting her killer, of course."

  "Of course. Now, tell me, what time was this?"

  "Near enough ten as makes no difference. Maybe a quarter after. I still had to do the castle recce, which I do last thing at night."

  "What time did she place the order? And what did she order?"

  "Say nine-thirty or nine-forty. There's a record kept of room service orders. You can check that. I took up wine and some cheese and cream crackers, things like that."

  "For two?"

  "For two. Two glasses, any road. While I was on my way, I delivered a hottie to the room next door to the Kalder woman's."

  "I see. You delivered this hot water bottle to Magretta Sincock's room?"

  "If she be the daft one the staff've taken to calling Greensleeves, aye. She'd let it be known this was a standing request for each night."

  Something Florie had said just registered with him. "You say you were the last to 'know of' Kimberlee alive. Did you actually see Kimberlee?"

  She shot him an appreciative glance: No dust on this fellow. "She didn't answer her door. Just shouted for me to leave it outside. Folk do that sometime-they want to get out of tipping, the cheap bastards."

  "Florie!" This again from Donna, who seemed to regard Florie as a fractious child making a bad impression on the nice visitor.

  "Now, both of you: In the time Kimberlee was here, did you notice anything in particular about her demeanor or behavior? Did she seem worried or anxious about anything?"

  They shook their heads simultaneously.

  "She seemed happy enough to me," said Donna. "She flirted with most of the men, I can tell you. That good-looking agent especially set her preening. If anything she seemed to be in great high spirits. But it was harmless larking about, just general silliness."

  "You think so, do you?" asked Florie Macintosh. "Since when has t
hat kind of thing not harmed some one? And are you forgetting how she laughed at that book you're working on?"

  "Did she?" St. Just asked Donna, who, averting her eyes, looked as if she were praying for the earth to open and swallow her.

  "I asked Kimberlee for her opinion on a few pages of Caveman Death," Donna said at last. "I thought-I actually thought if she liked it, my book, she might help me get an agent. Then I found her reading it aloud to Ninette Thomson. Laughing, as Florie said. She didn't have to be so… mean."

  "No," he said gently. "Try not to let it bother you. Kimberlee did have a mean streak."

  "You can say that again," said Florie. "She was a bleedin' barracuda, that one."

  "But do you know"-and here Donna brightened and raised her head, the look in her eyes both defiant and defenseless-"Ninette told me later she thought she could sell Caveman Death. Told me to send the manuscript to her when I finished it."

  "That's wonderful," St. Just said, struggling to hide his amazement. "I'm sure her advice will be good; Ninette seems to know exactly what she's doing." He stood to take his leave of them. "Now, I want you both to think back. You have wider access to the hotel than the visitors. Maybe you saw something you didn't realize was significant."

  The two women looked at each other, shrugged, and turned bemused looks to him.

  "And you, Mrs. Macintosh, I want you to think very hard about this."

  She frowned, preparatory to thinking.

  "The voice you heard telling you to leave the tray outside the door. Are you certain it was Kimberlee Kalder's?"

  She gazed at him, her face tense with concentration.

  "Now you mention it, no. No, I'm not."

  FIT FOR A KING

  St. Just walked away from Donna Doone's office, lost in thought. He had to take Florie's statement on faith, since only she could verify her experience. And he tended to think her an honest and down-to-earth personality. Would she lie? Alter the room service record? Why would she?