by Lane Stone
“There’s only one thing to do,” Lady Anthea said, straightening herself taller.
“Let’s do it!” I yelled. “Let’s find the murderer.”
Lady Anthea’s mouth formed an O in shock and she blinked. Once she recovered, she held up her hand in a stop signal. From the look on her face the gesture meant the same thing in British English that it does in American English. “Excuse me. I’m afraid I’m gobsmacked.” She walked into our store area and then back to Shelby and me at the reception desk. “Solve the murder ourselves?” she asked in disbelief. “I wouldn’t know how to begin.”
“We’ll start by retracing Henry’s steps,” I said. “Dayle Thomas told us and Chief Turner that Henry seemed fine when he dropped Dottie off, so I guess that means he hadn’t been drugged at that point.”
Lady Anthea rubbed her forehead. “Sue, I got the impression you thought she knew more than she was saying.”
“She didn’t seem herself. The Dayle I know would have talked to half the people in Gilligan’s last night. She’s a one-woman Chamber of Commerce for Lewes. And she certainly wouldn’t get home at five o’clock and call it a long day.” I scanned the calendar on Shelby’s computer screen. “We’re obviously not needed here. Let’s pay her a visit.”
“Before you go,” Shelby said, “Lady Anthea, what were you about to suggest?”
Our favorite Brit shrugged her shoulders.
I knew what Shelby was talking about. “You said that there was only one thing to do,” I reminded her.
“I was going to offer to give an interview to your newspaper to refute the rumor about Henry trying to steal the dogs, but that seems a little tame now.” She laughed. “And we need to be at your Lewes beach at sunset to see if anyone saw who Henry was with in the van.”
She was in.
“Quand le vin est tire, il faut le boire,” she said.
“Can’t argue with that,” I said. “No idea what it means.”
“When the wine is drawn, it must be drunk,” Lady Anthea said.
Shelby tilted her head. “Of course, it must. It’s wine. But what does that have to do with catching a killer when you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“It’s the same as ‘in for a penny, in for a pound,’” Lady Anthea said.
That we understood.
Chapter 8
Dayle’s Victorian home was one block off Second Avenue on a quiet, tree-lined lane. Lady Anthea and I hadn’t parked in a driveway because there wasn’t one. We walked from the street up the path made of crushed seashells and river rock, flanked by lush hybrid rose bushes alternating white and ruby-red. Hydrangeas stood guard before the wraparound porch.
Lady Anthea pointed to a wooden projection from the house. “What’s that?”
“It’s an outdoor shower. They’re convenient for washing the sand off after a walk on the beach, before you go inside.”
She cocked her head in disbelief and only started to walk again once she was sure I wasn’t pulling her leg.
I knocked on the screen door and tried to think about how to start this conversation.
Dottie ran to the door and stood wagging the rear half of her body, animating her spots.
“Who is it?” Dayle called from somewhere in the house.
“It’s Sue Patrick and Lady Anthea Fitzwalter.”
“Come on in. The door’s not locked.”
The wood floor was covered in paper, which was covered with construction dust. White sheets were draped over the furniture, filling the rooms we could see into with ghostly blobs.
Dayle descended the stairway which divided the floor in half. “Sorry, I have to use the bathroom up there.” She pointed back up the way she’d come. “What a mess! And it was worse, if you can believe that. I told the contractor I needed to take a break. I wanted a week with no noise or dust. Isn’t redecorating just so much fun? LOL. Ugh.”
I was happy to see a spark of her old vivacity. The Dayle I knew was in there somewhere. Dottie was pressing against her knee, and she gave the dog a pat on the head.
I tended not to stay in any one place long enough to redecorate so I couldn’t sympathize with her domestic problems. “What are you having done?” I asked.
“The upstairs will become my home office and two studios, and I’ll live and entertain down here.” She hesitated and scanned her living room, like she was looking for something and not finding it. “Can we go into the kitchen?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked down a short hallway to the left of the stairs.
“You know I’m photographing two-legged animals now, right? Not just pets,” she said as we walked.
“Yeah, I heard that,” I answered. “Why are you expanding? Don’t you get plenty of bookings?”
“Yes, but as an artist, I’m always looking for something new to try. My work often includes owners, or as you say, pet parents, along with their dog or cat so this isn’t too much of a departure.”
When we got to the kitchen, Dayle lunged for the farmhouse table and sagged against it. Startled, I grabbed her waist before she fell and supported her. She felt light as a bird. Lady Anthea pulled a chair out and I helped Dayle lower herself onto it. I bent over her and rubbed her back.
She looked down and then propped her elbows on the table and covered her eyes. “Thanks,” she said and gave a half-hearted laugh. The effort of putting on a good show had exhausted her. “I think I’m losing it. I let myself run out of sleeping pills. I thought I had enough to last the week.” She looked up at me and then Lady Anthea and sighed. “Anyway, no sleep for me last night.”
Lady Anthea handed her a glass of water. It had been done in such an unobtrusive way and was such a kind gesture that I was ashamed of myself for how picky I, and everyone I knew, had become about what kind of water we absolutely had to have. This was a glass of tap water offered unbidden and gently by a stranger.
“Thank you,” Dayle and I said at the same time.
I took in her thin, limp hair. “Chemo?” I asked.
She nodded. “Please, please don’t tell anybody.”
Lady Anthea and I took chairs on either side of her. I spoke first. “Of course not. I’m so sorry you have to go through this.”
“I think I know why you’re here, so let me make it easy for you.” She gave me a weak smile and took a sip of water. “I have a confession to make.”
Noooo, I thought. She couldn’t possibly have murdered Henry. Could she?
“At Gilligan’s you asked me how Henry seemed when he brought Dottie home. The truth is, I wasn’t here when he dropped her off,” she said, looking at me and then Lady Anthea. “I’m sorry I lied to you, but I haven’t told very many people about my diagnosis. I just need to deal with this in my own way, and I won’t be able to if everyone around me sees me as a patient.” Her voice had gotten stronger as she spoke. “Dammit, I’m still me!”
The emotion was so raw it brought tears to my eyes. “I’m so proud to know you.” It was all I could say.
“I was getting a treatment, but I didn’t want to say that. Sue, I lied to the police too. What are they going to do to me?”
“Absolutely nothing.” Lady Anthea said this with a certainty only people born into her privileged world have.
As for me, I wasn’t so sure. I was thinking about a police chief looking for a suspect. Henry had been poisoned with sleeping pills, and I was ready to put money on them being Dayle’s. Thank goodness she had one whopper of an alibi. “So you didn’t see Henry on Monday?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I knew he had been here since Dottie was in the house.”
The dog was waiting just inside the kitchen door and heard her name. The young Dalmatian dog scrambled to her feet and came to get herself some loving from her mama.
Dayle reached her arm out to her. “Weren’t you, girl?”
Lady Anthea took
this opportunity to give me a furtive look. “Does everyone in Lewes leave their doors unlocked? Yours wasn’t locked today.”
“I don’t know many people around here that do lock their doors—in the daytime, at least,” Dayle answered. “Henry knows, uh, knew,” she corrected herself, “that I leave the door unlocked for him if I go out. That way, if a shoot runs long, he can let Dottie in.” She smiled at the Dalmatian. “She plays so hard the days she has day camp, she conks out when she gets home.”
“Did you read the article about the murder in the online edition of the paper this morning?” I asked. It was time to see if I could count on her for the gala, since there was nothing she could tell us about Henry’s last hours.
“About Henry stealing the dogs? That’s crazy. Most of the time I am here when he drops Dottie off, and he always seemed like he couldn’t wait to get rid of her.” She ran a hand over Dottie’s floppy ear, just in case the dog had heard what she said.
“I apologize,” I said, because the buck always stopped with me. “He was too lazy to plot anything like that, wasn’t he? I know I shouldn’t talk like that about the dead.”
Dayle shrugged as if to say that didn’t bother her in the least.
Lady Anthea got up. “Dear, we should go. You do look knackered, if you don’t mind my saying so. I hope you’ll sleep better tonight.”
“If you happen to hear anybody else talking about the scheme, would you please tell them it wasn’t true?” I got up and gave Dottie a goodbye pat. “Will we see you at the gala Friday night?”
She looked at the glass of water. “Just try to keep me away.” She gave the Lazy Susan in the middle of the table a nudge and it rotated clockwise a few inches bringing a cluster of prescription pill bottles within reach. She picked up one and shook it. “But tonight I will sleep!”
Chapter 9
“I suppose Henry’s memorial will be held in New York?” Lady Anthea asked on the drive to Lewes beach. Next on our investigation to-do list was to try to learn the identity of Henry’s lover. Back at Buckingham’s I’d worked at my desk until close to sunset. Since Delaware is “home to tax-free shopping,” I have less paperwork than business owners in other states, but at the end of each month I certainly had enough to cut into my surfing hours. My accountant had called back to report that my business bank account balance was what we thought it was. Henry had extra money from some place, but thankfully, not Buckingham’s. Shelby, Lady Anthea, and I had been so relieved at that bit of information we’d deputized a part-timer and celebrated with frozen yogurt from the SnoYo around the corner.
“I guess so. Why do you ask?”
“Too bad. In a number of the crime dramas, the murderer attends and stands off to the side of the real mourners. If that happened in real life, we could identify the killer while staying out of harm’s way,” she said.
“Sure thing,” I agreed with a laugh. “Oh, well. I don’t go to funerals.”
“Never?”
“Ever,” I answered. “Or weddings.”
“Why in the world not?” Lady Anthea asked, sounding very interested.
“At funerals, people lie about the past. At weddings, they lie about the future. I just don’t want to be a part of it.”
“But isn’t that the pact we make with people that inhabit the world with us? That we’ll participate in these rituals together?” she asked.
“Yeah, I guess,” I said. “I don’t know…” I let the sentence drift off. I’d shared a lot, maybe over-shared. The truth was that when I was younger I’d tried— I’d really tried—to join in, but… Then we were at Lewes beach and I didn’t have to finish that thought.
I pulled into the parking space next to a late model Lexus occupied by a middle-aged couple licking ice cream cones. Their windows were down which made them easy pickings for my questioning. I approached the man in the driver’s seat.
“Hi. I’m Sue Patrick and this is Lady Anthea Fitzwalter. We’re the owners of the Buckingham Pet Palace,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. We don’t have a dog right now, but I see your place when I go across Route 1,” came his friendly answer.
His wife leaned over. “We’re sorry to hear about your loss.” She stopped here to give me the opportunity to fill in any gaps or share any juicy tidbits on Henry’s murder.
“It was quite a shock—”
I was interrupted by a British voice over my shoulder. “What we need to know is if you saw our van here at sunset? And who was with Henry? Because he was—”
“Easy there!” This time I was doing the interrupting and not a second too soon. It hadn’t been my intention to ask that in so many words. She had made it sound like the Honda van was lost and we needed their help finding it. We were there to quell a rumor, not kick the Lewes rumor mill into overdrive. I turned back to the couple in the car. “You’re here to relax and we wouldn’t want to spoil it.” His wife looked like she would like nothing better. “But, have you seen the Buckingham van parked here at sunset?” I wanted to get the information on who was with Henry in the van without anyone wondering: one, why we wanted to know and two, if I had lost all control over my business. I couldn’t come up with a convincing way to dial back what Lady Anthea had started, at least not on such short notice.
He squinted, thinking. “No,” he said.
She shook her head. “Sorry, no.”
I pulled an invitation out of the pocket of my shorts. “Even though you don’t have a pet, I’d like to invite you to the gala this Friday.”
They took the invitation and thanked me.
Next I led Lady Anthea to a white SUV that had pulled up on the other side of my Jeep. Thankfully, she let me take the lead. I introduced her and then I assured the fifty-something gentleman that it was business as usual at Buckingham’s. I had no reason to think he had been concerned, but hey, if he regularly saw the van at the beach, he might be. I paused. He shrugged and the gesture told me all I needed to know. He hadn’t noticed the van there.
We repeated the act with car after car, speaking with people there to walk the beach, and those arriving to sit and watch the sunset.
Two couples walked up to one of the white wooden benches and sat. All four wore shorts and tank tops. We walked up as the young women were pressing their toes into the warm sand. “Ahhh,” they said.
I recognized one of the women who worked at the day spa at the Villages at Five Points.
“Janice, right?” Even out of context, I recognized her because of her long, thick strawberry-blond hair.
“Yeah, hi!”
“Best feeling in the world, right?” I asked, kicking off my sandals. I picked them up and noticed Lady Anthea looking at our five pairs of bare feet. She glanced at her expensive leather pumps. She didn’t make a move to join us. Her upper-class feet would remain imprisoned.
I introduced Lady Anthea, and Janice introduced the other woman as Kathy and said she was a facialist. Kathy offered Lady Anthea a complimentary treatment, and I gave out invitations to the gala.
Janice introduced us to the guys, both had bulging biceps and pectorals. James, I think his name was, had tattoos running the length of each arm. I had noticed in the last year or so this trend of inking from shoulder to wrist, referred to as sleeves. Then I asked if any of them remembered seeing our van parked there at Lewes beach. No luck. All four shook their heads.
We said our goodbyes, and Lady Anthea and I started walking back to the Jeep. I happened to glance back, and all four of the people on the bench had turned to the left to see what progress the sun was making going down. The two women had their heads on their guy’s chests, and the men had their heads tilted over their date’s heads.
I pulled out my cell phone to call Buckingham’s to ask Shelby to walk Abby and take her home. While I updated her on our lack of progress, my eyes wandered over the paved parking lot dotted with cars, wondering if the
re was anyone else who might have seen the van who we could ask.
Shelby sighed. “What would Elvis do?”
Lady Anthea was still watching the backs of the heads of the foursome. At the same time Shelby was asking her prescient question, Anthea said, “True love,” and sighed too.
I looked at my phone, to Lady Anthea, then to the couples on the bench. I guess I’d been living right because an idea clicked in my head. Something wasn’t right. True love. What would Elvis do? “Shelby,” I said, “I’ll call you back.” There was a light, sugary coating of sand on the asphalt. Something wasn’t right. Along with these thoughts I had an Elvis song in my head, something about true love. “True Love Travels On A Gravel Road.” That was it, that was the title of the song.
“Look at this parking lot,” I said.
Lady Anthea looked up and down the line of cars. “It’s just a car park.”
“There’s no gravel here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let’s go!” I sprinted the rest of the way to the Jeep.
“I’m right behind you,” she yelled at my back.
I jumped in and reached over and opened her door.
“Last night I saw the police pulling gravel out of the van’s tires and bagging it. The Lewes Beach parking lot is paved with asphalt, not gravel! Buckle up.”
“Where are we headed?” she called out as I swung out onto Savannah Road on two wheels.
“Roosevelt Inlet! We have to get there before the sun goes down, or there won’t be anyone for us to talk to!”
Chapter 10
After a short but, at this time of year, slow drive along Cedar Street, we passed the Lewes Yacht Club, then dead-ended at the Roosevelt Inlet parking lot. My tires crunched over the gravel, and I smiled at Lady Anthea like a deacon holding four aces. She laughed and then her eye landed on something over my shoulder. To our left and over the bridge was the four-hundred-foot-tall wind turbine.
I said, “That was a joint project of the University of Delaware and the Gamesa Corporation. No one minds if you refer to it as a windmill, since that’s what it looks like, but technically it’s a turbine. It was erected in 2010.”
