“She’s practically in tears,” Dina said indignantly. “Those lawyers must be bullying her.” She took a breath and leaned into the screen. “You go, Devora!”
Quill stared at the video clip. Her own voice sounded strange in her ears. “Can you rerun that?”
“Sure.” Dina tapped the screen. Devora reappeared, walking into the courtroom.
“Can you stop it?”
“Sure.” Dina tapped the screen. “How come?”
“That’s not Devora Watson. That’s Rose Ellen Whitman.”
19
∼Potato and Leek Dumplings∼
2 leeks cut into thin slices
1 pound russet potatoes, peeled and cut into quarters
3 small eggs
Salt and pepper to taste
Blanch leeks for ten minutes in boiling salted water. Pat leeks dry. Puree in food processor. Boil potatoes for fifteen minutes in reheated leek water. Drain the potatoes. Mash all ingredients into a thick dough. Form the dough into egg-sized dumplings. Cook dumplings in boiling salted water for fifteen minutes. Serve as a side dish with a meat entree.
“You are out of your flipping mind,” Meg said. “That is a short, dumpy woman with a terrible complexion. Rose Ellen Whitman looked like Audrey Hepburn.”
Quill breathed so hard she was dizzy. “Rose Ellen wore three-inch heels. All the time. She didn’t eat a thing. Take away the heels. She’d be about that height. And if anybody started eating five thousand calories a day at Burger King, you’d have zits and a potbelly, too.”
Quill whirled the laptop around on the tabletop. Dina had frozen the photo in place. Devora Watson had a scattering of pimples at the side of her mouth. “She killed Edmund for the twenty million dollars. She did it.”
“I think you should sit down and have a nice cold shot of vodka,” Meg said.
“But they were engaged.” Dina took her spectacles off and put them on again. “They couldn’t be engaged if she was his sister.”
“Sure they could. Although Rose Ellen exhibited some sense. At least she didn’t sleep with him. That we know of. Wow.” Quill wanted to slap her forehead, but didn’t. “How could I be so stupid? Cui bono. Who benefits? The sister does. Good grief. Myles is going to be astounded.”
Meg squinted at the monitor. “I don’t see it. And no jury’s going to see it, either. Really, Quill. You’ve been under a lot of stress, lately. Sit down and let me get you something soothing. If you don’t want vodka, I’ll make some nice chamomile tea.”
“I have not been under any stress and I do not need a restorative. Look, do I tell you how to cook?”
“Of course you don’t tell me how to cook.”
“Then don’t tell me you don’t see what I see. I see things you don’t. I paint because I see bone structure, skeletons, and the way things are put together. I am telling you, as an artist, as a person whose job it is to see the skull beneath the skin, as a person whose eye cannot be fooled for long, that Devora Watson is Rose Ellen Whitman.”
They stood together and stared at the monitor. Devora Watson stared at the lawyer bending over her, frozen in time.
“Oh. My. God,” Dina said. “I think I see it, too. I’d better get Davy.”
“Hang on a minute,” Quill ordered. “Let’s think this through.” She clutched at her hair, which made it fall down, so she scooped it up and rebundled it on the top of her head with her elastic band.
“This will be so good for Davy,” Dina said. “He had to close out the basement and attic burglaries because of you-know-who. And just yesterday he put the Tree case into the cold case files. This is going to help his career a lot.”
“If Quill’s right,” Meg said. “Personally, I’ve never heard of anything as crazy in my life.”
Dina’s eyes glittered with excitement. “Let’s call the lawyers and tell them she’s really Rose Ellen Whitman. Then Davy can reopen the case and she’ll go to jail. And Davy’s career will be saved. It should be easy, shouldn’t it? I mean a person can’t just turn into another person, just like that.”
“Maybe they can,” Quill said. “This could be a lot harder to prove than we think.”
“It could be hard to prove because she isn’t Rose Ellen,” Meg said stubbornly.
Dina waved her hand. “DNA. DNA would prove who she is.”
Meg scowled. “It’d prove she’s his sister. How is it going to prove she’s Rose Ellen? Rose Ellen doesn’t exist.”
“Of course she does,” Dina exclaimed. “My gosh, her pictures have been all over Vanity Fair. She knows thousands of people. She’s got friends everywhere. She’s in the newspapers. DNA again. Trace evidence.” Dina clapped her hand over her mouth for a long second. “Wait. I think I see where you’re going. You mean there may be no evidence proving Rose Ellen is a real actual person with a blood type, a genetic code, and a dental chart?”
“Exactly.”
“Wow.” Dina sank down on one of the stools at the prep table. “She like, totally wiped out the antique shop. It’s been repainted and steam cleaned. The apartment, too, I’ll bet.”
“Her fingerprints are on file with Davy, aren’t they?” Meg asked. “She lived in Hemlock Falls for three months—she must have seen a doctor or a dentist during that time.” She looked at the monitor again. “You guys are nuts.”
“Fingerprints,” Dina said. “Of course. I’ll call Davy right now. Good grief, Quill. This is just amazing. Oh! Wait! I left my cell phone at the front desk.”
Meg pointed at the phone on the wall by the sauté pans. “That one’s free.”
“I don’t know his number. It’s on speed dial. Hang on. I’ll be right back.”
Quill spoke up. She was beginning to doubt herself. “Dina?”
“Yes, Quill?”
“Don’t tell him just yet. Just ask him if he’s got her fingerprints on file.”
“But this is huge! How can I keep it to myself?”
“It’d be good if you could, just for a bit.” Quill bit at a fingernail.
“If Quill’s wrong, Davy’s going to look the fool,” Meg said tactlessly. “He’s concerned about his record his first year as sheriff. We all are. Just in case Quill turns out to be mistaken you’d better just ask him about the fingerprints. I know you’re excited, but don’t blow it.”
“Good point. Okay. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
Quill stood at the back window and looked out at the gardens.
Mike had tied up the rosebushes and covered them with burlap. The winter parsnips had been harvested and so had the potatoes. Here and there amid the dead and dying leaves were a few bright yellow and green gourds.
“You really think this woman posed as Rose Ellen Whitman?” Meg asked.
“I know she did.” Saying it aloud helped. Quill walked over and looked at the computer monitor.
She was sure.
“Okay. I believe you, you know, about what you see that the rest of us don’t. Of course Davy’s got fingerprints on file, so I guess we’ll know for sure pretty soon.”
“I’m sure already.”
Dina walked back into the kitchen, her cell phone at her ear. “No, D, no special reason. And don’t worry about it. We were just hashing things over in the kitchen, you know, things are a little slow this week, and the case came up and Quill wondered about fingerprints. Sure. Right. Of course they won’t care. Love you, D. Bye.” She flipped the phone shut and tucked it in her shirt pocket. “It’s good news and bad news. The good news is that one of the deputies—Neville Peterson, Davy said, went up to Rose Ellen’s apartment and got her fingerprints. All ten. The bad news is, paint solvent got spilled on it somehow, and the prints were ruined. All ten. By the time Davy sent Neville back to get a new set, she was out of here, back in New York, and he followed up with her to get them done there, but she like, disappeared. The NYPD still has a request on file to get them. It just got lost in the shuffle.”
“Hm,” Meg said. “If you ask me, that’s pretty susp
icious.”
“This,” Quill said, “is a very clever woman.”
“I know one thing she left that she had her hands on,” Dina said. “That painting. The one of the fountain with the bunch of grapes. You put it in the Provencal suite, didn’t you?”
“Dina, you’re a genius!” Quill said.
“I have to be. My boyfriend’s career is on the line.”
“I hate to be the grinch in the group, but if she was clever enough to trick Neville Peterson, would she be brainless enough to leave her fingerprints on that trompe l’oeil? Not only that, but there are bound to be a bunch of other prints on there, too. If we don’t have a benchmark for her fingerprints, even if they are on the painting, they’ll be useless as evidence.”
Quill started to pace. “Rose Ellen told me she picked the painting up at a flea market somewhere. Belter told me Your Ancestor’s Attic made a practice of buying antiques cheap and selling high from prospects that showed up to audition for the show.
“I’m wondering a lot about that painting and I need to sit down and think.” Quill sat down in the rocker and got it going with a push of her toe. “Now, who’s more believable? A murderess or an honest pawnbroker in flip-flops?”
“You’ve lost me, Sis.”
“First thing we do is get Devora Watson up here. And the second thing—can you Google an address for me, Dina? I’ve got an idea.”
20
∼Potato Crepes with Caviar∼
1 pound white potatoes
5 eggs
1 tablespoon flour
1¾ cups sour cream
½ shallot, peeled and crushed
Grated peel of lemon
Sprigs of dill
Salt and pepper to taste
1 tablespoon butter for each crepe
4½ ounces salmon or white fish caviar
Cook potatoes in boiling salted water for twenty minutes. Let cool. Peel and grate in food processor. Add eggs, flour, sour cream, and shallot. Season with lemon peel, pepper, and salt. Mix well. Divide the batter into four parts. Melt butter in frying pan, and spoon the batter evenly into the pan. Sauté until golden on each side.
Serve each of the four crepes with one teaspoon sour cream, a sprig of dill, and a fourth of the caviar.
Ida Mae Clarkson liked the look of Hemlock Falls. There was a lot of snow on the ground. She hadn’t dealt with snow for years, not since she and Frank had left Madison, Wisconsin, for Delray Beach, Florida. But it suited this cobblestone village. Christmas was more than three weeks off, but that’s what the village made her feel like. Christmassy.
She liked the look of this Provencal suite, too. The blue-and-yellow patterns on the duvet and the old settees were just about perfect. There was a fire in the small fireplace, scenting the air with pine and apples.
And it really was astonishing that Aunt Cecilia’s trump loy painting of the fountain had ended up here, of all places, right over the fireplace mantel in this elegant room. That pretty innkeeper had asked her if she wanted it back, but she’d had enough of that painting after being embarrassed by the smarty-pants Edmund Tree on national TV. The innkeeper could have it, thank you very much. As for Edmund Tree—well, he’d gotten what was coming to him, hadn’t he?
Ida Mae tweaked the lace scarf at her throat and smoothed the lapels of her Alfred Dunner black velveteen jacket. She’d looked up the Inn on the Internet, right after the phone call that told her she and Frank had won this all-expenses-paid weekend. It was famous for its food and the setting of the waterfall. She’d gone right out and ordered the jacket to celebrate.
“You ’bout done there, Ida Mae?” Frank shrugged into his sports coat with a reluctant frown. He hadn’t been happy about leaving his shorts and sandals behind in Florida, but he could hardly go to a gourmet dinner at a five-star Inn in his flip-flops.
“I’m done, Frank. How do I look?”
“Beautiful.” He swept her in his arms, bent her over, and gave her a kiss. “My bride.”
“Old fool,” Ida Mae said fondly. “Let’s go on down.”
They took the elevator—Ida Mae’s shoes pinched a bit, and she didn’t want to chance the stairs—and went through the small, delightfully furnished foyer into the dining room.
The dining room was magnificent. There was a full moon out, and Ida Mae made out the faint, silver reflection of the falls outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The tables sparkled with wineglasses and fine cutlery. Arrangements of white carnations and pine boughs sat in the middle of each table.
There weren’t as many diners as Ida Mae had expected, what with the Inn being so famous. A tall, good-looking man with gray eyes and a deepwater tan sat at one table. Next to him was a young, fair-haired guy who blushed bright red when she looked at him. The other tables seemed to be occupied by a different assortment of people. There was a pudgy guy in one corner who looked as uncomfortable as Frank in his sports jacket and tie. She thought the man looked familiar. She poked Frank. “My gosh, Frank, that’s Belter Barcini! You know, from Pawn-o-Rama!” She wasn’t surprised to find celebrities here, not at all. “He got married, you know. To some nice hairdresser who gets to do all of the makeup for the show.”
There were three other ladies with him, an older one, who wore a brilliant gold lamé top and a feather boa, and two younger women with very distinctive hairdos. Ida Mae wasn’t sure which one was the wife.
“You sure this dinner is with the contest?” Frank hissed in her ear.
“Darn sure,” Ida Mae said confidently.
The dark-haired hostess caught sight of them and came up with a smile. “Mr. and Mrs. Clarkson? I’m Kathleen. I’m glad to say your table’s ready.”
Ida Mae and Frank followed her across the room.
Kathleen stopped at a table for two. An unhappy-looking man in a three-piece suit sat across from a small, dumpy woman in a caftan that looked homemade. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I forgot to bring your salad out. If you’ll just give me a moment, I’ll be right back. Mrs. Clarkson? This is another one of our guests.”
Ida Mae bent forward. “My goodness!” she said. “Why, I know you! You bought that tromp loy off of me after I was on Ancestor’s Attic. It’s Smith. Mary Smith. How have you been, honey?”
Mary Smith jumped, as if Ida Mae had stuck a knitting needle up her backside. “Never seen you before in my life,” she whispered.
“Now,” Ida Mae said kindly, “I’d know you anywhere from those poor scarred hands of yours, remember?” She took Mary Smith’s left hand in hers. “See? Poor Mary got these little scars from putting out a kitchen fire. Remember, honey?” She turned to Frank, beaming. “I remember the name Mary Smith because it’s such an ordinary name. It’s funny, though, it’s so ordinary that not many people have it? You remember that, Mary. We laughed a lot about it. Whatever are you doing here?”
The man with the deepwater tan and his younger partner got up from the table. The younger one had a pair of handcuffs. “What Ms. Watson is doing here,” said the young man, “is getting arrested. Devora Watson, also known as Rose Ellen Whitman, also known as Mary Smith. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney …”
Epilogue
Quill raised a glass of Moët & Chandon champagne and swept a low bow. “We couldn’t have done it without you, Mrs. Clarkson.”
She had shepherded the Barcinis and the Clarksons into the Tavern Lounge after Myles, Davy Kiddermeister, and his deputies had taken Rose Ellen away to be arraigned for the murder of Edmund Tree.
Quill was shaken.
Mrs. Clarkson was bewildered.
Mr. Clarkson sank his head between his shoulders and looked as if he wanted to be back in Delray Beach.
Josephine Barcini looked grave.
Belter asked for two Molson Goldens from Nate the bartender and drank both of them one after the other. Nadine Peterson Barcini patted his hand and sipped at a Brandy Alexander.
Mrs. Barcini was simply quiet. Then she said, “What you
couldn’t have done without is my boy.”
Nadine Peterson Barcini patted Belter on the shoulder. “That’s right.”
“I don’t understand a thing about what just happened,” Mrs. Clarkson said. “Who was that woman? She wasn’t Mary Smith?”
Quill said sadly, “She wasn’t Mary Smith. And she wasn’t Rose Ellen Whitman. She was Edmund Tree’s half sister, Devora Watson, and she murdered her half brother for his twenty-million-dollar estate.”
Ida Mae’s eyes widened. “Glory,” she said. “I read about that in the Palm Beach Post. I’ll tell you what I thought. I thought it was that woman chef.”
“Clarissa Sparrow?” Quill said, startled. “For heaven’s sake. Why?”
“Stands to reason. It was her kitchen. But you say it was Mary Smith? I sold Aunt Cecilia’s painting to a murderer?”
“She wasn’t a murderer then,” Frank Clarkson said heavily. “If I’ve got that right. So don’t you go puffing off to the girls at the coffee club, Ida Mae. When did this Mary Smith decide to turn to crime?”
“My guess is pretty early on. At least two years ago, when the woman we knew as Rose Ellen Whitman showed up as a buyer for Your Ancestor’s Attic TV show. She is—was—very beautiful and she knew a lot about antiques, and she caught Edmund Tree’s eye right away.
“Rose Ellen’s real name is Devora Watson. Edmund’s birth mother divorced his father soon after Edmund was born and moved to California. She traded her little boy to his father for a generous settlement in the divorce.” Quill stopped speaking for a moment and took a sip of the wine. That fact that Edmund’s mother had given up her own child for a mass of money had made her ache for Edmund Tree.
Dread on Arrival Page 22
