Hazel scanned the table. Fran was busy shoveling eggs onto a folded slice of toast. She didn’t seem overly concerned about the previous night’s murder. Edward sipped coffee, his eyes scanning the room. Was he taking inventory of the pieces he would eventually inherit?
Gloria’s plate was still nearly full of her unfinished breakfast. She patted her lips with a napkin and turned to Myrtle. “I’ll stay, too, if you want. You know… until the investigation is over.”
“That would be nice, dear,” Myrtle said.
“I can stay, too.” Fran shot a dark look at Gloria and then smiled at Myrtle. “Family needs to be together at a time like this.”
“I’d love to stay, too, but business calls, and I’ve got to get off to London for the afternoon tomorrow,” Edward said. “I’ve an estate auction to attend.”
His words immediately set Hazel on edge. Was he fleeing because he was the murderer? But whether he was here or not, if he was the killer, he would be discovered.
Finished with breakfast, they all left the table to go their separate ways. Gloria pulled Hazel and Myrtle into the small sewing room where Hazel had confessed her suspicions to Gibson the night before. The room still smelled faintly of his pine-scented cologne.
“I just don’t understand.” Myrtle looked at Gloria in confusion. “I thought you said someone was trying to harm me.”
“They were.” Gloria paced the room, agitated. “Whoever it was must have seen Vera in the chair and thought it was you.”
Myrtle glanced at Hazel, her brow slightly furrowed. Hazel nodded. “You use the same hair dye, and she had your rhinestone gloves. How did she get those?”
Myrtle gasped. “Oh dear, I didn’t think of that. The gloves were so itchy. I had to take them off. I tossed them on the table in the parlor. Vera must have picked them up. Poor thing… she always was attracted to anything shiny.”
“What about the police? Do they have any clues?” Gloria asked Hazel. “Would your detective friend tell you?”
“I don’t know that he would,” Hazel said. “But I can tell you they don’t have any clues. Wes said there was a gun in his cottage, but we didn’t find one.”
“Are they sure the killer used Wes’s gun?” Myrtle asked.
“No, but it was a similar model. Who else knew the gun was in the cottage?” Hazel asked.
Gloria shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe Edward? I think I heard him and Wes talking about guns before.”
“Maybe the gun wasn’t even there. Wes’s memory is a bit impaired from all the drinking he does. Did you see it when you cleaned for them that day they went to see Dr. Forrester in London for Wes’s hand?” Myrtle asked Gloria.
Gloria shook her head. “No, but I wasn’t snooping in their things, just cleaning. I imagine he would have kept it hidden away.”
“Oh, this is all so disturbing,” Myrtle said. “I mean, honestly, one of my own flesh and blood trying to kill me and then killing Vera instead…”
Hazel studied Myrtle. When she’d arrived at Lowry House, Myrtle had acted confused, but then over the course of Hazel’s stay, she had seemed more lucid. This morning, though, she seemed confused again. Probably the stress of having someone murdered in her own home.
Gloria must have noticed Myrtle’s confused state as well, and she pulled her out of the chair, putting her arm around her and leading her out of the room. “Why don’t you get some rest? It was a late and disturbing night last night, and you’re out of sorts.”
“Good idea. I’ll just be in my room. No, dear, you don’t need to take me up there. I can find it myself.”
Myrtle opened the door, and Fran appeared out of nowhere. “I’ll take you, Grandma.” She darted another look at Gloria, and this time her eyes held a sheen of triumph. Was Fran jealous of Gloria and Myrtle’s relationship?
Gloria watched them walk away with a look of concern on her face. She closed the door and then lowered her voice. “Should we let Fran take Auntie to her room? What if Fran is the killer?”
“I just don’t know what to think,” Hazel said. “Fran doesn’t seem to have much of a motive to kill your aunt. But I did notice there was no love lost between Fran and Vera.”
Gloria snorted. “You can say that again. It’s all so confusing.”
“Indeed. But we have one fewer suspect now. I just wish I knew where everyone was at the time of Vera’s murder, but the house was so crowded, and I was keeping my eye on Myrtle.”
“She must have been shot when the champagne corks were popping off,” Gloria said.
Hazel screwed her eyes shut and tried to recall the events of the previous evening, but she couldn’t remember seeing any of the family members during the time of the uncorking. She’d lost sight of Myrtle then run into Gloria, and the two of them had been focused on finding Myrtle while the champagne bottles were being uncorked. “Do you remember seeing any of the family members when the champagne was being uncorked?”
“No. I was busy looking for Auntie, remember?” Gloria narrowed her eyes. “I did see Wes and Vera shortly before running into you. They both seemed drunk, Vera especially. He was taking her somewhere to rest. I guess he must have taken her to the library.”
Hazel felt a niggle of excitement, as if she were homing in on the killer. She knew better than to make a hasty accusation, but things weren’t looking good for Wes. He had motive to want Myrtle dead. He had the same kind of gun that had killed Vera, and apparently, he was the last one to have seen the victim alive. But if he knew Vera was the one in the library and not Myrtle, then why would he have shot her?
An hour later, Mrs. Naughton tapped on the door, summoning Hazel. It appeared Gibson was there and wanted to consult with her. Hazel was flattered. She smoothed her dress and hurried downstairs.
Gibson was standing in the foyer, cleanly shaven and in a tailored suit. How had she never noticed before how tall he was? Hazel was taller than most women, but Gibson practically towered over her. For a minute, she forgot he had summoned her to consult on police work.
“Detective Chief Inspector Gibson.” Hazel nodded.
Gibson cleared his throat. “You can call me Michael.”
Could she? She preferred to think of him as Gibson, and calling him Michael seemed rather informal. Gibson was safer. After all, she hardly knew him, but if it helped her get an “in” with the investigation… “What can I help you with… Michael?”
“I was wondering if we might walk the brick path you mentioned the other night…” He let his voice trail off and looked about as if to make sure no one could overhear. Naturally, he wouldn’t want Hazel’s suspicions to be known to everyone in the house. She appreciated that, and the fact that he actually thought her suspicions were something to consider.
“Certainly. It’s a lovely day for a walk.” Hazel led him out of the house and onto the brick walkway.
Once they were far from the house, he said, “Now, these other incidents, would Wes have been around at the time they happened?”
“He would have. He lives in the stone cottage, so he has access to the property. Unlike the others, he can come and go virtually undetected because he lives here.”
“But the others were here the day the arrow was shot, right?”
“Yes. And there’s another thing. I think some of them may have been lying about where they were at other times. It’s possible any one of them could’ve snuck into the house and changed her pills. And the indigestion… well, I talked to Wes this morning, and he grows Saint John’s wort in his garden.”
“Oh?” Gibson frowned at her, and Hazel realized he probably wasn’t familiar with the side effects of Saint John’s wort.
“It can cause confusion and stomach upset, among other things. It can also help elevate mood, which is what Wes says he uses it for.”
“And now you think someone might’ve been feeding her the Saint John’s wort and not rat poison?” Gibson asked.
“Perhaps.”
“Saint John’s wort could kil
l her?”
“No, but perhaps the killer thought it might. We may not be dealing with the savviest of killers here.”
“Indeed,” Gibson said.
They had come to the area that had been tampered with, and Hazel pointed to the exact spot and told him how she suspected someone had dug out the dirt underneath to make the bricks unstable. Gibson looked at it thoughtfully, even getting on his hands and knees to poke at the dirt and pry up a few bricks. Finally, he stood and brushed his large hands together, the dirt falling onto the ground. “It sure seems like someone could’ve tampered with it. But as with the St. Joseph’s Ward—”
“Saint John’s wort,” Hazel interrupted.
“Right. Wort. Anyway, neither of those was guaranteed to kill. As you said, the killer is not very savvy.”
They turned and started back toward the house. “That’s what I thought, too, but a fall could really harm an old person like Myrtle. Just one small knock on the head, and she’d be a goner. And I suppose I could be wrong about the Saint John’s wort. There was rat poison in the shed as well. Not to mention that the killer is an amateur and perhaps not thinking things through properly.” Thoughts of Fran came to mind. She did seem to be impulsive when she got angry, and a little volatile. Prone to lashing out in the moment without thinking.
“The arrow would have been likely to kill Myrtle if it had found its mark.”
“And the medicines. Even though she didn’t take enough to do her real harm, whoever switched them might not have realized how many pills she would normally take.”
“All of this has merit. But what I’d really like to see is some physical proof.”
“Unfortunately, that is something I do not have.” Hazel thought for a few seconds. “There is one thing, though; in my books, I often rule out suspects by proving they couldn’t have done it. Wes has a broken hand. He showed me this morning that he cannot clench his fist, and so can’t shoot a gun with his right hand.”
“He could be faking that,” Gibson pointed out.
“I thought of that. I know you have the chair for evidence… would you be able to tell if the gunshot was done from a right-handed or left-handed shooter?”
Gibson cocked his head to the side as if picturing the chair. He bent sideways as if tracing the bullet’s trajectory through the chair in his mind. “The bullet was angled from east to west, which would indicate a right-handed shooter.”
“Then, unless Wes is faking, perhaps we can rule him out.”
“Perhaps. But you are making a lot of assumptions, Mrs. Martin.”
“Hazel.” Why had she asked him to call her that? She wasn’t sure she wanted to be on such familiar terms with the inspector.
“What?”
“You can call me Hazel.”
“Oh. Right. Good, then. Anyway, in the business of investigation, assumptions can be very dangerous. For example, the spade in the toolshed of the cottage may not have been the one used on the path.”
“Well, I just…”
“Oh, I know. It could be the one that was used. But a garden as big and well cared for as this”—Gibson gestured toward the lavish gardens before them—“would surely have a variety of tools right in the main garage.”
Hazel glanced toward the garage. It had once been just a big barn, with a second story where the groomsmen stayed. Part of it had been converted into a garage for motorcars. Darn it, Gibson had a point. Why hadn’t she considered that? Of course there would be all kinds of tools that one could dig up a path with right in the garage. And anyone would have access to them. “You do have a point.”
“You have good instincts, Hazel. But it never pays to make assumptions. The real clues can only be revealed by the logical systematic deduction of each specific piece of evidence, and in that way—”
“Of course!” Hazel interrupted him. Rude as it might be, she couldn’t help herself. She had just realized what was wrong with her book. She’d made assumptions, and that was why her detective couldn’t figure out who the real killer was. “I’m very sorry, Michael. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve just figured out what is wrong with my book.”
Hazel turned and ran up the path, leaving Gibson staring after her with an amused look on his face.
Chapter Twenty
Hazel had told Duffy to pick her up on Monday, so she found Giles in the garage and gave him a note instructing Duffy to hold off until further notice. She knew her household would be buzzing with excitement that she was “on a case.” She smiled, picturing Maggie and Alice practically bursting for details. They would have to wait, though. It would be embarrassing to admit to them she was still a bit muddled about the whole case. She handed the note to Giles, who assured her it would make its way to Duffy quickly through their various relations, and then retired to her room. Dickens showed his delight in her return by weaving himself around her ankles until she tripped and almost fell to the floor.
“Okay, Dickens. We’ll have a little bit of petting time.” Hazel sat at the desk, and Dickens immediately jumped into her lap, nudging her hand with his head. She absently stroked his silky fur as she thought of the clues she had thus far.
Wes had brought up a good point about Vera’s shady past, but it didn’t seem likely that someone from her past would have been making attempts on Myrtle. Could Vera’s murder be a big coincidence? Maybe someone from her past really had killed her and it had nothing to do with the attempts on Myrtle.
But the only ones at the party were the Rothingtons. It couldn’t have been them—they were rich and powerful. They wouldn’t stoop to murder, though it might not be a bad idea to find out why they didn’t like Vera.
But Hazel had a feeling, and her feelings were usually right. It was an instinct that she used both in her books and in the cases she’d helped Charles with in real life. She was almost positive that Vera’s killer was the same person who had tried to kill Myrtle; therefore, it was either Edward, Wes, or Fran. Unless it was one of the staff? Hazel almost laughed out loud at the thought. Unlike in her books, in real life, it was never usually the butler who had “done it.”
“Let’s look at the clues chronologically,” Hazel said out loud.
Dickens purred and pushed his head harder against her hand.
“The first incident was the brick walkway. Now, we’ve already determined that Fran, Edward, or Wes could have done that. Wes’s hand was not injured at the time, and he has the spade in his toolshed.”
“Meow.”
“Speaking of the toolshed, the rat poison was found in there, too. So he must have known about that. But Fran planted the garden, so she would have also known what was in the shed.”
“Mereww,” Dickens agreed.
The garden reminded Hazel of the Saint John’s wort. Wes had mentioned that it was in his garden. He was even drinking a tea made from it. Excited that she might be on to something, she turned in her chair to grab her notebook, dislodging Dickens, who thudded onto the floor with an angry meow.
Ignoring the cat, she pulled out her notebook and thumbed through it. “Let’s see… chamomile, gumwort, mugweed. Oh yes, here it is—Saint John’s wort.” She ran down the list of symptoms she’d written for the herb with her ink-stained index finger, her heart beating faster when she noticed confusion and stomach upset were both on that list.
She turned back to Dickens, who was now rubbing his face against the leg of the desk. “What if it wasn’t rat poison at all? What if someone was feeding Myrtle Saint John’s wort?”
Dickens sat and blinked at her.
“You have a point. Why would someone feed her Saint John’s wort?” Hazel consulted her notebook again. “They couldn’t possibly feed her enough to kill her.”
Dickens swished his tail back and forth.
“Right. Let’s get on with the clues, then. So anyone could have dug up the path. But what about mixing up her pills?”
Dickens hopped up onto the bed and curled up in a ball, apparently already bored with the conversation a
bout the clues.
Hazel continued on undaunted. “Fran is studying to be a nurse and knows about medicines. She would know exactly how many to mix in there. Wes admitted earlier that he frequently came into the house without anyone knowing he was here. Could he have snuck in that night and switched the pills?”
Dickens stared at her unblinking from his spot on the bed.
“Or did Edward change them? Where was Edward that night? Where was he when the path was tampered with? And where was he when the arrow was shot?”
Dickens slit his eyes as if to say, “Yeah, where was he?”
“For that matter, where were any of them? The bow was found on the path to the cottage, but anyone could’ve tossed it there. Fran was sitting with Myrtle when I returned from the cottage. And Fran must have lied about seeing Gloria at Fanuel Square the day Myrtle mixed up her pills, because Gloria was on vacation at Gull Landing. Fran was strong enough to dig up the path, and Fran planted the garden… so she would’ve known what was in the toolshed, including the rat poison… not to mention the Saint John’s wort in the garden itself. Yet she’d specifically said she didn’t see any poison when Vera asked her the morning Hazel went shopping. Had she lied twice?”
Hazel got up from the desk and walked the length of the room. “Fran also said she took care of Wes. She brought food. Did she have access to the house? And, if so, to the gun?”
Hazel paced around the room, the clues whirling in her mind. It seemed as if she couldn’t rule any one of them out. But even though Fran looked like she could be guilty, she didn’t have a motive. Edward didn’t seem as suspicious as the others, though something about him niggled at the back of her mind… hadn’t he been the first person besides her to get to the library last night after she’d heard Mrs. Thompson scream? And he hadn’t seemed very upset about Vera this morning at breakfast, though admittedly he probably wasn’t that close to her with Vera being his nephew’s wife.
Murder at Lowry House (Hazel Martin Mysteries Book 1) Page 11
