The Last Refuge

by Marcia Talley

  ‘Where were you?’ I shrieked, although the evidence of the fly probably told the whole story.

  ‘I had to take a piss,’ he said. ‘There aren’t any bathrooms in this freaking house so I had to use the freaking privy. What the hell is going on? Where’s the fire?’

  ‘I needed to call 9-1-1,’ I babbled, ‘but I didn’t have a phone and I couldn’t find you, so I pulled the fire alarm. Alex Mueller, our dancing master, fell into the spring house. I think he’s dead!’

  ‘Jesus.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. ‘I’ll call it in.’

  ‘You wait here.’ I jabbed a finger at the sidewalk: X marks the spot. ‘I’m going back to stay with Alex until they get here. Do you know where the spring house is?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, sounding professional at last. ‘I’ll show them how to get there.’

  I’ve seen dead bodies before, more than my share. When the spirit’s gone, it’s gone, abandoning the body it no longer needs, leaving nothing behind but a hollow shell. I knew there wasn’t anything I could do for Alex Mueller. One minute, two minutes, three minutes, four. It wouldn’t matter to Alex how quickly I got back to the spring house where he lay, but I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving him alone. As I looked down at his body again from the doorway, at his open eyes and slim, beautiful fingers, fingers that had coaxed magnificent music out of an otherwise un-pedigreed violin, I grieved for his talent, silenced forever.

  It was cold in the spring house, damp. I resisted the urge to return to the house for a blanket to cover him with, or a shawl, because I knew better than to add or subtract anything from the scene before the police got there.

  So I sat down near a rhododendron in a patch of sun, hugged my knees to my chin and wept. Barefooted and bare-legged, my torn gown and stained petticoats pooled around me, I must have looked like Cinderella, sulking in front of the fireplace long before her fairy godmother turned up to wave her magic wand.

  In the time it took for the first emergency vehicle to arrive, I kept turning a single thought over and over in my mind. Back in Amy’s bedroom, when I didn’t know who had climbed into bed with me, I’d said his name: ‘Alex?’

  Had I signed Alex Mueller’s death warrant that night?

  TWENTY

  ‘I knew I’d miss safety razors and toilet paper, but you know what I really miss? RC Cola and Moon Pies.’

  Michael Rainey, tutor

  Historic Waterwitch Hook and Ladder #1 was, quite literally, just around the corner on East Street, but had been sold to the Chesapeake Bay Foundation in the 1980s and converted into offices. I wasn’t sure how long it would take the Annapolis Fire Department to reach us from their firehouse in West Annapolis, considering that they had to navigate a labyrinth of circles and radiating one-way streets that had been all the rage in urban planning back in 1696. Ten minutes after I pulled the lever, however, with sirens screaming, they arrived. Seconds after that, a team of paramedics hustled down the promenade carrying stretchers, bags and boxes of equipment that I knew wouldn’t be needed.

  After pointing out the spring house, I rocked back and did my best to fade into the shrubbery while the paramedics did what they were trained to do. After a few minutes, I heard a Nextel crackle to life, a sputtered reply. They were calling it in to the police.

  ‘Ma’am? Ma’am?’ Somebody had noticed me at last. I tried to focus on the paramedic’s face through a veil of tears. He was young, not more than twenty, and his face was open and sympathetic. ‘Do you know what happened here?’

  I heaved a shuddering sigh. ‘No. I came out to the garden to … to …’ What had I come out to do? The vision of Alex lying dead in the spring house was driving everything else out of my mind. ‘I went for a walk,’ I managed at last. ‘I noticed a torn up patch of grass outside the spring house, a hat. I was curious, I looked inside. I tried to help him, but it was too late.

  The young man extended his hand, I grasped it and he pulled me to my feet. ‘You’ve had a shock. Let’s get you into the house. Is there somebody here … ?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I mean, yes. There are at least a dozen of us living here. We’ve been out today watching the burning of the Peggy Stewart.’

  ‘Ah, I know about that,’ he said as he escorted me to the promenade, made sure I was steady on my pins, not about to take a nose dive into the boxwood. ‘We had our fire boat out there to make sure it didn’t get out of control.’

  While his colleagues were busy packing up, the young man walked alongside me as we mounted each of the three sets of stairs, catching my elbow once when I stumbled and steadying me, then accompanying me up the long flight that led up to the back porch. Once I was delivered safely inside the house, he seemed to relax. ‘Where would you like to sit, Mrs … ?’

  ‘Ives. In the parlor, thanks.’

  I’d just passed the main staircase when French and Michael rushed through the front door, grave-faced and out of breath. ‘My God! What’s with all the fire trucks?’

  ‘Parlor,’ I said, nodding my head in that direction.

  Before I sat down on the loveseat, I pulled aside the parlor drapes and peered out the window. Fire trucks, indeed. In addition to the trucks from West Annapolis, the distinctive red units of the Eastport Volunteers had also responded to my call. I wondered if Paul had noticed all the hullabaloo, too, before remembering that he would be locked up in a meeting at the Academy.

  The paramedic’s eyes ping-ponged between Michael and French, made an executive decision and took French aside. ‘She’s had a shock,’ he told her in a whisper that could have been heard round the world. ‘I think she could use something to drink.’

  ‘Brandy,’ I said. Then added quickly, ‘Please.’

  After French left to fetch the brandy, Michael knelt at my feet like an ardent suitor, rested a hand on my knee. ‘Hannah, what’s happened?’

  I told him.

  I watched his face go white. ‘How …’ he began.

  I flapped a hand, fresh tears coursing down my cheeks. ‘Give me a minute.’

  Once French returned with the brandy and he saw that the snifter had been placed in my hand, the paramedic waited until I took a sip, then said, ‘I’ll be going now, but a detective will be here shortly. He’ll want to talk to you – all of you – so I wouldn’t go anywhere.’

  I nodded dumbly, then took a second more generous sip of brandy, coughed, slapped my chest with the palm of my hand. ‘Smooooth,’ I croaked.

  Michael filled French in, whereupon she burst into tears, which set me off on another crying jag. Michael blinked rapidly, trying to maintain control over his own emotions.

  ‘Where’s Amy?’ I asked, the brandy burning its way down my esophagus.

  Michael answered. ‘Last time I saw her, she was with Melody and Gabe, watching a Punch and Judy show on the dock near the Alex Hailey memorial.’

  ‘Jack?’

  Michael shrugged. ‘Middleton’s, I think.’

  French wiped her nose on her sleeve. ‘Karen took Dex to the memorial, too.’ She sniffed so hard that her nostrils slammed shut. ‘She was telling him the story of Alex Hailey and how he traced his ancestor, Kunta Kinte, to a slave ship that docked right here in Annapolis. I think Dex was more impressed with the statues, though. He kept posing next to the two little bronze kids as if Hailey was reading to him, too. The tourists were going bonkers.’

  ‘Michael,’ I said. ‘I’ll stay here with French. Will you go outside and wait for the others? Tell them what happened? I don’t think I can bear to do it again. When Karen returns, please ask her to make some tea and some sandwiches and bring them up here to the parlor. I have a feeling we’ll be needing them. Oh, as they come in, tell everyone else to join us here.’

  When the detectives finally appeared, everyone had returned to Patriot House except Amy and the children. Jack Donovan was beside himself with worry and sent Jeffrey out to look for them.

  The detective who introduced himself as Lt Picke
tt was string-bean tall and wore a dark blue business suit. A uniformed officer accompanied him whose sole purpose seemed to be to nod and take notes.

  For the third time, I explained how I had happened to find Alex, and it didn’t get easier with the telling. ‘I tried to help him, Lieutenant, but it was too late.’

  Lt Pickett eyed my soiled and torn gown. ‘Was there a scuffle?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘An argument.’

  ‘With me? No. Absolutely not. He was already dead when I got there.’

  ‘And what time would that have been?’

  I stared at Lt Pickett’s well-tanned face, his bright blue eyes accented by minuscule wrinkles, like tiny cat’s whiskers. ‘I don’t know. I don’t have a watch.’

  ‘Will someone please explain what the hell is going on here?’ It was Jud Wilson, red-faced and wild, barging into the room like his hair was on fire. ‘The fire trucks. The goddamn police.’ Catching sight of the police officer, he screeched to a halt. ‘Uh, sorry, Officer.’

  Lt Pickett seemed unflappable. ‘One of your, uh, actors, or do you call them cast members … ?’

  ‘We prefer cast, actually.’

  ‘One of your cast, a Mr Alex Mueller, was found dead in the spring house this afternoon.’

  ‘Christ on a crutch!’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’

  Jud swiped a hand through his hair, paced in the doorway. ‘Oh, God. This is terrible.’ His eyes swept the room, focused on one of the four chairs set around the card table. He crossed the room and lowered himself into it, wearily, as if he were a hundred years old. In the last minute, his face seemed to age by a decade, too.

  ‘Mrs Ives here found the body. We were just asking her about what time that was.’

  I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to hold it together. ‘As I said, Lieutenant, it was not long after the Peggy Stewart celebration was over.’ A sudden thought made my eyes fly open. ‘Wait a minute! There’s a videocam in the entrance hall. You should be able to tell what time I came in by looking at that.’ I swiveled in my chair to face Jud, looking for confirmation. ‘The tapes are time stamped, aren’t they?’

  Jud stopped chewing on the knuckle of his index finger and said, ‘We’ll see to it that you get copies of all the videotapes, detective.’

  ‘All of them? How many are there?’

  ‘Eight? Nine? We’re taping a reality show here, detective, so we have pretty broad coverage. You’ll see when you get them.’

  ‘Are there any in the back garden?’

  Jud shook his head. ‘None outside the house, I’m afraid. We use handhelds for the outside shots.’

  Standing next to the door, the junior officer was scribbling away when Amy rushed in, Melody and Gabe in her considerable wake. ‘Jeffrey came to get us. What’s going on?’

  I patted the cushion on the loveseat next to me. ‘Here. Sit.’

  Jack sprang to his feet. ‘Let me take the children out of here.’

  Melody clouded up and stamped her foot. ‘I am not a child!’

  Her father glanced at me uncertainly. He was leaving the decision to me.

  ‘French,’ I said, ‘would you take Gabe down to the kitchen, please? He can play with Dex. And for heaven’s sake, tell Karen not to let the boys out into the garden.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ French said, actually looking relieved to be leaving the room.

  ‘Melody, you may sit next to your father.’ I gestured with my head in the direction of the sofa.

  When everyone had settled in again, I picked up Amy’s left hand in both of mine and just said it right out. ‘Amy, Alex is dead.’

  Amy’s eyes grew wide as saucers. ‘Dead? How can he be dead? I just saw him!’

  ‘We don’t know, sweetheart. It looks like he fell into the spring house. Hit his head …’ I shrugged helplessly.

  ‘Fell?’ Amy’s face was dangerously red. ‘Fell? No. Nobody’d fall into the spring house. That’s just bullshit.’

  Privately, I had to agree.

  Across the room from us, Jack stirred. ‘What would he be doing out there at this time of day anyway?’

  ‘A reasonable question,’ said Lt Pickett. ‘Who was the last to see him?’ His eyes scanned the room.

  Michael raised his hand, waved it like a schoolboy. ‘It may have been me. We bought a couple of beers at McGarvey’s during the Peggy Stewart celebrations. Alex was supposed to be bringing Amy a Sprite, but he got involved in a conversation with some reporter, so I said I’d take the soda to Amy. And I did.’

  ‘Can you describe this reporter you saw talking to Mr Mueller?’

  Michael shrugged. ‘Black frock coat, three-cornered hat, powdered wig. Impressed me that he was kinda getting into the story, you know? Wait a minute, his ponytail had a little black bag tied to the end of it.’

  ‘A tag?’ asked the junior officer.

  ‘B-A-G, bag,’ Pickett corrected.

  ‘Ponytail with a bag on it,’ muttered the junior officer, his ballpoint pen scratching away. ‘I can’t believe I’m writing this.’

  ‘Do you know what the two were talking about?’

  With a nervous glance at Jud, Michael said, ‘Not really. Because of our contracts, we’re not supposed to be giving interviews, so I split.’

  I raised a hand. ‘I saw Alex, too, Detective. But whoever he was talking to had just left.’ I swiveled on the loveseat to face Michael. ‘Michael, how do you know it was a reporter? Alex told me the guy was a tourist from Raleigh.’

  Michael scowled. ‘If he was a tourist, then I’m a prima ballerina.’

  So, Alex had lied to me. That stung. I stole a quick glance at Amy, but Detective Pickett drew me back to the matter at hand. ‘What happened next, Mrs Ives?’

  ‘We walked for a bit, then we ran into my husband. I didn’t see where Alex went after that.’

  ‘What happens now, Detective?’ Jud wanted to know.

  ‘As soon as we finish processing the scene, we’ll be transporting the body up to the medical examiner in Baltimore for autopsy.’

  Next to me, Amy gasped.

  Lt Pickett addressed her directly, his voice gentle. ‘It will help us find out what killed him, Miss. Whether it was an accident, or … or, something else.’

  ‘Accident, had to have been an accident,’ Michael said. ‘Who would want to hurt Alex? He was one of the nice guys, you know?’

  Jud frowned. ‘What impact will this have on the continuation of our show?’

  ‘Until we get the autopsy results, which, barring complications, should be in a couple of days, I must ask that nobody leaves town.’

  Amy’s giggle had a manic edge. ‘That’s a laugh! We’re stuck here for the duration anyway, right?’

  ‘From a policeman’s point of view, it’s awfully convenient having all of you together in the same house,’ Pickett admitted. ‘Like one of those Agatha Christie novels where everyone’s snowbound at Chipping Monktip for the weekend.’

  Melody, who had been staring at a spot on the wall, sitting bolt upright with her hands folded demurely in her lap, suddenly roused herself. ‘All of the suspects are right here in this room,’ she intoned.

  Jack gave me a look – see, I told you the children shouldn’t be here – and I gave him one right back. Chill out, Jack.

  ‘That’s what always happens on Masterpiece Mystery,’ Melody forged on, unchallenged. ‘Hercule Poirot comes into the room et voilà!’ She pursed her lips, furrowed her brow. ‘Eet iz zee brain, zee liddle gray cells, on which one must rely.’ What we need, is Hercule Poirot.’ She favored us with an elaborate sigh. ‘But he’s a fictional character.’

  Amy and I exchanged glances.

  Both she and I knew that one of the suspects was not in the room, and he was far from fictional.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘What’s two-penny worth of yeast, anyway? A teaspoon? A cup? Then it says to beat for three-quarters of an hour. No wonder they needed slaves.’

  French Fry, ho
usemaid

  Two nights later, with the table set, candles lit and the food laid out for dinner, Jack summoned the family and all the staff to the dining room.

  With a face like Mount Rushmore, he cleared his throat several times, then said, ‘I have an announcement to make. Founding Father has just notified me that according to the medical examiner, our dear friend, Alex Mueller, died of a broken neck as the result of a fall. His death has been ruled accidental. Let us pray.’

  Almost without taking a breath, Jack launched into a rambling grace that touched on food, death, the souls of men (and women) and the downtrodden people of the third world. While the food on the platters cooled, and Jack showed no sign of winding down, I dared to raise my head and look at Amy. She stood by the buffet, hands folded in front of her – even in the candlelight I could see that her knuckles were white. Her mouth was a thin line, and she was shaking her head and mouthing, ‘No, no, no, no.’

  Late that night, Amy came to me in my chamber. ‘Would you like me to brush your hair?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ I threw back the covers, slid out of bed and sat in the chair in front of the vanity table. ‘I’d give anything for some Pantene,’ I mused as she came up behind me and started brushing the tangles out of my hair. ‘One of those itty-bitty bottles of shampoo you get in hotels. Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘You and me both. From the Waldorf-Astoria or Holiday Inn, wouldn’t matter. My hair is so stiff from that bar soap we made that it looks like I’m wearing a helmet. Karen says I should try rinsing it with vinegar.’

  ‘Phew!’ I said.

  Amy brushed in silence for a while. ‘Your husband works at the Naval Academy, right?’

  ‘Uh huh.’ I was enjoying the gentle massage of the bristles against my scalp.

  ‘Drew murdered Alex, I know he did.’

  ‘The medical examiner determined that it was an accident, Amy.’

  ‘I don’t believe that any more than you do, Hannah.’

  ‘You’re right, I don’t. I think it’s possible that Alex broke his neck in a fall, but not very probable.’ I twisted around in my chair. ‘What is Drew’s motive, Amy?’ When I saw the expression on Amy’s face, I froze. ‘Did he know about you and Alex?’