The Marsh Madness

by Victoria Abbott

  Vera huffed, “Why on earth would we do that?”

  “We had no reason to hit Chadwick over the head, but it’s obvious that pushing him down the stairs after he was dead was a ploy to cover up the crime.”

  “To cover up the crime?”

  Really, for someone who had read all those mysteries, she seemed deliberately obtuse. “To make it look like an accident.”

  Vera rolled her eyes. “There are these procedures called autopsies. Everyone knows that would be obvious to the pathologist.”

  “Right. Everyone with a working television set or anyone who’d read a couple of police procedurals, but that’s not the point.”

  “What is the point, Miss Bingham?”

  “They think we wanted it to look like he slipped and fell.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Stupid.”

  “Yes. But didn’t they ask you all these questions, Vera?”

  “They did not.”

  “They don’t think you did it, but they believe Kevin and I did—”

  “What an outrage! Mr. Kelly would never do such a thing.”

  “Of course he wouldn’t. And neither would I.”

  “They certainly have a nerve. I shall have to ensure that he has legal representation.”

  “Thank you, Vera. I appreciate that,” I breathed. “If we can find him.”

  “The poor man must have been traumatized by the very suggestion of culpability.”

  “Um, indeed.” I didn’t bother to say that Kev was in the wind before any accusations had been made. Vera wasn’t altogether informed about Kevin’s history. And that was a good thing. Trust me.

  “This is a bad situation,” Vera muttered.

  “That’s an understatement. They say they found all of our fingerprints at Summerlea. And our prints are all on file.”

  “Well, of course, they found them. We were in the house.”

  “Listen to me, Vera. They also say they found Kev’s prints on a statue that was used to kill Chadwick.”

  Vera’s always pallid, but she paled more. “Nonsense.”

  “It could be nonsense. They are allowed to lie to suspects.”

  “I am not a suspect.”

  “But they didn’t tell you. They told me.”

  “Are you telling me that you are a suspect?”

  “I think so. They may even think that you and I are shielding Kevin.”

  “Preposterous.”

  “Exactly, because we don’t know where he is.” I was pretty sure that Vera would shield Kev even if she did know where he was. For sure, I would have. “But Kev didn’t kill Chadwick and he didn’t go upstairs.”

  “I see now why that question was important.”

  “Exactly. But you weren’t paying attention, so you can’t swear that we never went upstairs.”

  “I didn’t realize the implications.”

  “Mmm. Were you paying attention, Vera?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Well, there you have it. It’s only me, and as you know, Kevin is my uncle—” I wasn’t a hundred percent sure that Vera did know this, as we’d been vague on that detail when Kev joined the household as gardener, handyman, troublemaker.

  “Yes, yes. Old news, Miss Bingham.”

  “So they have a very good reason to suspect that I would lie to protect him.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “And they may believe—and who could blame them—that I was also involved.”

  “I would never employ someone who would do such a vile and uncivilized thing.”

  Uncivilized? That was one way of describing cold-blooded murder.

  “It gets worse.”

  “How could it be worse?”

  “I think they believe there was a conspiracy to kill Chadwick. And that we were part of the conspiracy.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what they think.”

  “But this is dreadful.”

  “Yes, it is. And that’s why we have to be careful that we don’t implicate each other. That’s what they’re counting on.”

  “But why would we conspire to kill him? He wanted to sell some books. We wanted to buy them. Everyone was satisfied. What reason could there be?”

  “I don’t know. But once the police come up with a theory, we’ve got real trouble.”

  * * *

  I WAS SURPRISED by a text from Tiff. I had known she was in port today, but still wasn’t expecting a text, because there must have been a million more interesting things to do in Aruba.

  Wow, I was so happy to get to port today! They sure work us hard, but the crew are friendly, and all I’ve really had to deal with was a few sunburns and some seasickness. I’m off to enjoy a few hours of well-deserved R & R. Our next stop is Cartagena, in three days. Hope all is well in HF.

  I sent Tiff a smiley face with sunglasses on in reply. It was all I could manage, and I wasn’t going to dump any of the current nastiness on her. There was nothing she could do from Aruba.

  Meanwhile, my life was hardly relaxing. I kept expecting a knock at the door and the reappearance of the two detectives waving a warrant for my arrest or to search the house.

  Before the detectives returned, I needed to check something. I pulled on a heavy sweater and dug my red rain boots from the cupboard by the back door again. I could hear the wind howling, so I jammed a wool hat over my hair, covering my ears, and even picked up mittens. So much for spring. This was a curling-up-in-a-chair-to-read kind of day, and if it hadn’t been for the police ruining the mood, I would have been catching up on those Ngaio Marsh books. But I was worried about Uncle Kev. It was one thing for him to hide under the bed in case the cops came, but he’d left in the middle of a meal and missed his regular snacks as well as the makeup lunch. That was out of character.

  I clomped through the back garden, avoiding the stubborn lumps of blackened snow that had survived our long, cold winter. It was easy enough to follow the muddy path that Kev must have created. What could he have been doing there? Whatever it was, I hoped he was still hanging around doing it, because I needed to tell him what was going on with the police and what had happened to Chadwick Kauffman. And he really needed to know that the police were saying that his fingerprints were on the statue that had killed Chadwick.

  I trudged around behind a tight row of trees that had been planted as a windbreak near the edge of the property. “Kev!” I yelled. There was nothing but the wailing of the wind.

  Behind the trees was not Kev, but a collection of odd-looking objects. First, what looked like a primitive stone fireplace or stove. It seemed to be connected by pipes to a few barrels. Some gallon jugs stood around, empty, but ready for business. One barrel was shattered, the staves scattered widely. That explained the puffs of smoke.

  I sighed heavily.

  Kev had built a still on Vera’s property, and the construction of this highly illegal system coincided with the arrival of the police, soon to be back with a search warrant, to start inspecting Van Alst House and probably stalking around the property as well. Kev, Kev, Kev. I knew when I got the chance to blast my darling uncle, he’d claim that I’d never cautioned him against building a still there.

  That was true.

  I just needed to remain calm.

  I whirled when I heard a rustling behind me. Kev stood there with a sheepish grin on his face.

  “What is this?” I shouted. So much for remaining calm.

  “Gonna be a nice little moneymaker, Jordie, once I get a few bugs ironed out on the distribution side.”

  “Get rid of it.”

  “Jordie, I can’t. How could I do that?”

  “The cops will be all over the property within hours. I don’t care how you get rid of it, but do it. Do you want to get the ATF on our case too?”

  “The ATF? That
would be the worst thing that could happen.”

  “Actually, the worst thing will be if you go to prison for life for killing Chadwick Kauffman.”

  “What?”

  “Uncle Kev, the police said they have your fingerprints on the statue that killed him.”

  “What?”

  I repeated myself and added, “I don’t know if it’s true, but that’s what they’re saying.”

  “But I thought he fell down the stairs.”

  “Yeah, well, the police said he was killed by a blow to the head. And then he ‘fell’ down the stairs.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Why would anyone do that?”

  “To make it look like an accident. And the cops believe you did it.”

  “But I didn’t do that! I wouldn’t. You know me, Jordie. I couldn’t do that.”

  I knew Kev hadn’t killed Chadwick.

  Kev was still talking. “Why would anyone do that to a person? ’Course, he was kind of nasty, so somebody probably hated him.”

  “The big problem is that little statue on the table outside the powder rooms—”

  “Never touched it.”

  “You did, Kev.”

  His familiar sheepish look was back.

  “The cops found your prints. But I need to know, did you go upstairs?”

  “Upstairs? Why would I go upstairs? All right, I did touch the statue. I couldn’t resist it.”

  Knowing Kev, he’d given a bit of thought to liberating it from Summerlea.

  He decided this would be a good time to get on his high horse. “I didn’t see a ‘DO NOT TOUCH’ sign, Jordie. That little thing was just sitting there on this little table. I’m surprised you didn’t touch it yourself.”

  “Then the cops would have found both our fingerprints on the murder weapon, wouldn’t they?”

  “That was the murder weapon?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Maybe it would have been better if I had taken it, Jordie.”

  I tried not to sigh. It was getting to be a habit. And Kev is, in case you haven’t worked this out, like the world’s largest and most dangerous child. We all love him, but there’s always a lot of sighing when he’s in the vicinity.

  Still, there was a big difference between Kev being typical Kev and Kev committing murder. And this thing with Kev’s prints on a murder weapon was really bizarre. If the police were telling the truth about the weapon. A big “if.”

  “Wait a minute. Did anyone see you?”

  “Nobody. Well, that butler, What’s-his-name.”

  Ah. That probably explained why the statue wasn’t residing in Kev’s quarters above the garage as we spoke.

  “Thomas. They said his name was Thomas. And then what happened?”

  “He just touched his nose like this.” Kev tapped the side of his nose.

  “Uh-huh. Well, there’s a few other things you need to know.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, there was no butler.”

  “Yes, there was.”

  “Apparently, there was not. No butler, but Chadwick had a housekeeper.”

  “But we saw that Thomas guy.”

  “We saw someone who wanted us to think he was the butler. And someone else who said she was Lisa Troy.”

  Kev nodded. “Pretty lady. Real nice too.”

  “Except that she wasn’t Chadwick’s assistant. We don’t know who she really is, but she wasn’t who she said she was.”

  A pained expression of confusion clouded Kevin’s face. “I don’t get it, Jordie.”

  “Join the club.”

  “Why would they fake it?”

  “A really good question. I wish I knew the answer.”

  “They were nice to us. They invited us. They served us that awesome lunch.”

  “Yes.”

  “But they weren’t who they said they were.”

  It always takes a while for things to sink in with Kev.

  He scratched his nose. “And we don’t know why.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, Chadwick must have known who they were.”

  “If they were conning us, then they must have found a way to con him too.”

  “Why? Right, you don’t know. But, Jordie . . .”

  “Yes, Kev.” I needed him to get the still out of there, but with Kev, you have to wait until he gets his head around things.

  “Well . . .”

  “Out with it, Kev.”

  “Anyways, was Chadwick really Chadwick?”

  “Of course, he was—”

  I felt a wave of dizziness as the significance of Kev’s question hit me. I grabbed a tree trunk to steady myself. It’s bad when Kev introduces the one piece of information you need to make sense of what’s going on.

  “Jordie? Are you all right?”

  Of course I wasn’t. Why hadn’t I thought to ask that most important question?

  Was Chadwick really Chadwick?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I LEFT KEV reeling from my threats of dire consequences if the still wasn’t gone within an hour. It’s not easy to scold an older relative, but there was no choice. And I wasn’t exaggerating. If the police found this mess, someone would be arrested for running an illegal still, and I hoped it wouldn’t be me or Vera or the signora.

  As I clomped back to the house, I could hear Kev bellowing into his cell phone to his friend, Cherie. That was good. Cherie could make things happen. For all I knew, this wouldn’t be the first still she’d relocated. Not much would surprise me about her. She was a whiz with wiring, technology and computers, but she wasn’t a lawyer. I hurried back to do two key things: Make sure Uncle Kev had legal counsel ready to roll and find out if Chadwick had really been Chadwick.

  Uncle Mick returned my call as soon as I left the message. We’d recently agreed on the code phrase “Olaf in Dublin.” It meant trouble, as I am sure it had for Dublin way back when.

  “I hate to bother you when you’re in Manhattan, Uncle Mick.”

  “No problem, we’re in the middle of—”

  “Sorry to cut you off, but Kev is in trouble, though it’s mostly not his fault.”

  “What do you mean, mostly? Of course it’s his fault.”

  “This time it really isn’t, believe it or not. He did pick up a statue and he did get his prints on it, but he didn’t steal the statue, because if he had, it wouldn’t have ended up as a murder weapon. So I guess he’s getting better.”

  “Murder weapon? Kev wouldn’t kill anyone . . . on purpose. Sure, he could blow up a house, but he’s never been violent. Kellys are peace-loving people. You have to explain Kev to them.”

  Good luck to me explaining Kev to the cops. I said, “It isn’t because the police don’t believe me. They think we conspired to kill—”

  “Kill who?”

  “Not entirely sure about that, Uncle Mick. His name was supposedly Chadwick Kauffman, the heir to the Kauffman fortune. But at this point, honestly, I have no clue. It’s like an episode of Scooby-Doo. Now I’m wondering who’s real and who’s really dead.”

  “You have to talk sense, my girl.”

  “I’ll fill you in when I know more, but the reason I called is that Uncle Kev will need a good lawyer. Vera offered to pay. But she doesn’t know any defense lawyers. Yet.”

  “I’ll call Sammy.”

  “Too late. Sammy’s representing me.”

  “But—”

  “Someone called him and retained him on my behalf, and he says he can’t represent the two of us. And I don’t think even if I fired him that he could represent Kev after that.”

  “Who’s paying him?”

  “Oops. I’ve got to go. Can you get on it? I think the police are working on a warrant. They’ll probably be back soon to comb t
hrough Vera’s looking for who-knows-what.”

  “What’s Kevin said to them?”

  You never knew when someone managed to get a wiretap authorized. No way was I messing up on Uncle Kev by saying I knew where he was. It would have brought us a lot of grief.

  “They haven’t found him yet. He’s out on errands and we haven’t seen him. He could be anywhere, and he doesn’t know the police want to talk to him.”

  He did, of course, but we had to play the game in case the wrong ears were listening.

  Mick grunted. “Leave it with me.”

  * * *

  WHEN THE GOING gets tough, the tough get going. They also get dressed up, or at least I did. I pulled on my vintage merino wool boatneck sweater in thick cream and black horizontal stripes. It went well with my black cigarette pants and sensible black ballet flats. Kind of Hepburnish. I was good to go. You’d never know I’d been grilled by the police.

  I raced to the Saab and drove to the library.

  Lance’s eyes widened when he saw me. He came straight around the reference desk, bypassing a line of his posse, each with their question du jour.

  You could tell he was rattled. He didn’t bother with “beautiful lady” or any other endearments. “Jordan, about Chadwick Kauffman. Now, they’re saying he was murdered.”

  “He was, and the cops think we did it.”

  “What?”

  I sighed. “All anybody seems to be able to say lately is, ‘What?’”

  Lance crossed his arms over his chest and pursed his lips. “It seemed right for the moment.”

  “I get that. So here’s the thing: We were seen leaving in a hurry. The Caddy and my Saab. There were witnesses. The people we met in the house have vanished and, in fact, they don’t seem to exist, except for Chadwick, who is dead, unless he wasn’t really Chadwick. And it gets worse.”

  “How can it get worse?”

  I explained about Kev’s fingerprints and everything that had gone on between Castellano and me. I said I had a lawyer. I may not have mentioned that Tyler had made that arrangement.

  “Well, this time, I’m there for you, beautiful lady. Do you need . . . What do you need?”

  “Information. And photos. I need to see what Chadwick Kauffman really looked like. I’ve done image searches and I can’t find a picture of the man we met.”