Death Trap

by Karin Kaufman

  “I don’t know,” Gilroy said. He gave a slight shrug. “Because I’m a cop?”

  “She would have called me. I’m her husband.”

  “I don’t know, Stuart.”

  “It was her last breath.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Gilroy started for the dining room, Underhill close behind him.

  “No, no, I’m sorry, wait,” Stuart called out. “That’s not good enough.”

  Gilroy circled back around.

  “Her dying words were ‘James, no.’ She screamed it.” Stuart put his hands to the chair’s arms. He looked like he wanted to stand but hadn’t the energy. “I was downstairs and heard her. Did the rest of you?” He scanned the room. Kip and Maurice nodded.

  “To be honest, I wasn’t sure what I heard,” Jova said.

  “Brynne?” Stuart asked.

  “I think so,” Brynne answered.

  Underhill cleared his throat. “Chief? We need to get started.”

  “No,” Stuart said. “The chief here is not in a position to question me or any of my guests.”

  “It has to be done,” Gilroy said.

  “I want someone else.”

  Growing testy, Underhill said, “He’s the chief, Mr. Hunter. That’s how it’s done.”

  “I won’t have it.” Stuart forced himself to his unsteady feet. “He needs to be questioned as much as the rest of us do. Maybe more. My wife’s final words were his name followed by the word no. Are we supposed to pretend we didn’t hear that?”

  Gilroy’s expression was at once sympathetic and unbelieving. His old friend was suggesting he was capable of murdering Lesley. I couldn’t sit still for it a second longer. “Chief Gilroy was with me when Lesley screamed. We weren’t even on the second floor.”

  “Oh, I see what you’re getting at, Stuart,” Brynne said.

  “You’re astonishingly quick on your feet,” Maurice said.

  Oblivious to the insult, Brynne went on. “Why did Lesley shout the chief’s name? It’s weird. If it had been me—I mean, if I was dying—I would have shouted my boyfriend’s name.”

  “Would he have come?” Maurice asked.

  “That’s enough,” Gilroy said.

  Maurice held up his hands, pleading innocence.

  “I’m sorry, James,” Stuart said, “but that’s it. We’re talking about Lesley. Someone in this room murdered her. An hour ago I couldn’t have imagined you doing it, but an hour ago, I couldn’t have imagined any of them doing it. And besides that, you’re in law enforcement. How would it look? I heard what I heard. I won’t allow this.”

  Underhill rarely looked gobsmacked, but gobsmacked he was. And a little lost, I think, at the prospect of having to question suspects on his own.

  “What about the cop upstairs?” Maurice said. “He wasn’t here when she was killed.”

  “There you go,” Jova said. “Two clean cops. Officer Underhill and that fellow upstairs.”

  I spun on Jova. “This is ridiculous. Chief Gilroy and I weren’t anywhere near Lesley. On the other hand, you, Kip, and Maurice were.”

  “We’re not doing the questioning, are we?” Jova said. “Call that other cop down.”

  “You don’t make the rules,” Gilroy said. “This is procedure, and we’re following it.” For the first time, I heard anger creeping into his voice.

  When Stuart began to protest again, Gilroy cut him off. “You don’t make the rules either, Mr. Hunter.”

  Stuart sputtered. Though a longtime friend of Gilroy’s, he had been demoted to a “Mr.” In my opinion, he deserved it.

  “She’s my wife,” Stuart grumbled.

  Gilroy pointed at Brynne. “Come with me, Miss. Underhill, stay here and make sure there’s no talking.”

  “I was going to make coffee,” I said.

  “Good,” Gilroy said. “Underhill, they can tell Rachel how they like their coffee. That’s all.”

  Gilroy marched ahead of Brynne, and Brynne, doing that begging-dog thing with her hands, followed hesitantly.

  “I’ll make a number of cups and bring out cream and sugar,” I said to the other guests. “That way you can make it as you like it.” I wasn’t going to miss what Brynne had to say by waiting for special orders.

  As I walked to the coffeemaker, I shot a look into the dining room. Gilroy had his notebook out, pen at hand. Brynne was just taking a seat in her halting way, right across the table from Gilroy.

  Fortunately the coffeemaker was a couple feet from the dining-room door. Perfect for eavesdropping.

  “I’m very nervous,” I heard Brynne say.

  “Just tell me the truth. You’ll be fine,” Gilroy said. “Full name and age?”

  “But we were introduced.”

  “For the record.”

  “Brynne Delia Ware, and I’m thirty-one.”

  “Address?”

  “Myrtle Street, 121. Juniper Grove.”

  “How long have you known the Hunters?”

  “Oh, well.” Brynne paused. “Well, let’s see. Six months, I think.”

  I found coffee in a cabinet, and the filters next to it. I hunted for the cups.

  “How did you meet them?” Gilroy asked.

  “Oh. Well, they came to my adult French class. After hours at the high school. They were thinking of taking a trip to France and wanted to learn basic tourist French.”

  “And did they?”

  “Well, not especially,” Brynne said. “They had a hard time with it. Some people don’t have a facility for foreign languages.”

  I pulled nine cups from another cabinet, set them quietly on the counter, and continued to listen. So what if I took longer to make the coffee? It wasn’t like the morose group in the great room would notice.

  “But you stayed friends?” Gilroy asked.

  “The Hunters and I share a love of plants, and the three of us met a couple more times at horticultural lectures at the library.”

  A brief silence followed Brynne’s words.

  Gilroy finally spoke. “How many times altogether have you met with the Hunters?”

  “I guess three or four. No, three.”

  “They had one French class?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “Have you ever been in their medieval collections room?”

  “I’ve never been in their house.”

  “Did you enter the room tonight?”

  “No. I didn’t know where it was.”

  I scooped coffee and started brewing my first cups. I figured I could eavesdrop more by stretching the process to three separate brews.

  “Have you ever met any of the other guests?” Gilroy asked.

  “Not a single one.”

  “Think back. Have you heard either of the Hunters mention their names?”

  “No.” Brynne laughed. “Isn’t that the strangest thing? I suppose a party is a good way to meet new people.”

  More silence.

  “After we all left the great room,” Gilroy said, “where did you go?”

  “Uh, well . . .”

  Why was she hesitating? I knew exactly where Gilroy and I had gone. It wasn’t as if she had to think back over the course of an hour.

  “I think,” Brynne said, “yes, that’s it. First I went to the kitchen for some water.”

  “Did you have it?”

  “What?”

  “Did you have some water?”

  “Sure.”

  “When you were done, where did you put the glass?”

  Even more silence.

  “Um, on the counter,” Brynne said.

  “There aren’t any glasses on the kitchen counter.”

  “Then in the sink.”

  “There aren’t any in the sink. I looked when we walked through. Start again, Miss Ware, and this time tell me the truth.”

  CHAPTER 4

  I looked at the sink to my left and then scanned the kitchen counters. Gilroy had the eyes of an eagle. Except for my coffee cups, there wasn’t a glas
s, champagne flute, or cup anywhere.

  The coffeemaker burbled to its brewing end, and riveted to Brynne’s next words, I readied three cups for pouring.

  “I was snooping, Chief Gilroy. I didn’t mean to lie, but I didn’t want Stuart to find out.”

  “Where were you exactly? Take me step by step.”

  “When some of the others went up the stairs, I kept walking. Through the foyer to the other side of the house. It’s a huge house.”

  “Rachel?”

  I jumped at the sound of Underhill’s voice.

  “Sorry, but some of our delightful suspects are getting antsy for coffee,” he said, “and I could use some myself.”

  “I have to make it in batches,” I whispered, pulling him away from the dining room. “It’s not a high-capacity coffeemaker.”

  Underhill folded his arms across his chest and grinned. The know-it-all.

  “Yeah, all right, Underhill, so I’m listening in. You would too.”

  “Only I’m stuck out there with the nasties.”

  “I don’t think they’re all nasty. They just rub each other the wrong way. Oil and water.”

  “If I threw a party, I wouldn’t invite them, that’s for sure. Not together, anyway. And some of them not at all.”

  I poured coffee into one cup and handed it to Underhill. “Take a few sips. I’ll take two more cups to the great room and explain what’s taking so long. Then you can go back.”

  “And you can continue eavesdropping.”

  “I’m sure Gilroy will fill you in.”

  I poured two more cups and hurried them to the great room. My reception was less than cordial.

  “It’s about time,” Kip said. “How long does it take to make coffee?”

  “With a smaller coffeemaker?” I replied. “Awhile. Officer Underhill will bring the cream and sugar.” Citing “ladies first,” I gave Jova the first cup. “Stuart?”

  “Yes,” he said, sticking out a trembling hand. “Would you ask the chief if he could question me next? I need to lie down.”

  “Of course.”

  Back in the kitchen, Underhill put down his cup and pulled me aside. “The woman the chief’s interviewing? She was up to something in the house. He can’t quite drag it out of her, but she could be a thief. I’m going to ask around town about her.”

  I nodded. “If she was stealing from her host tonight, she’s done it before.”

  “Gotta go back.”

  “Wait.” I grabbed a carton of cream from the refrigerator and shoved it into his hands. “Sugar next time around.”

  Sidling back to the coffeemaker, I heard Brynne describing her movements around the house. Talking a great deal and saying very little.

  “And then, well, I was interested in this big house. See, I’ve never been here before, like I said. Though Lesley told me where she lived. I think the third time we met she did. Yes, that’s right. And I live in a small house, so I was fascinated. I just wandered, Chief. Looking in rooms, looking at knick-knacks, the oriental rugs.”

  “Where were the oriental rugs?” Gilroy asked.

  “I’m not sure. I know I was wondering if they had a library.”

  “Where were you when you heard Mrs. Hunter scream?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “How did you find your way to the smaller staircase? Why not go back to the main stairs, where you saw the others?”

  “I was closer to the smaller one. I must have just passed by it when I was looking around.”

  Gilroy sighed—not something he often did—and told Brynne that he was done for now but he would question her further tomorrow. “I’ll need to check your coat before you leave. And your handbag if you brought one.”

  “Why?”

  “Procedure.”

  “You have no right.”

  “I do. This is a crime scene.”

  A chair scraped across the floor.

  “You can return to the great room, but don’t leave,” Gilroy said.

  A second chair scraped. “Being searched . . . I don’t . . . Oh, really.”

  I strode quickly to the refrigerator and opened the door just as Brynne stomped out of the dining room, though in her heels and with her strange S-shaped posture, she pranced more than stomped.

  Gilroy exited a moment later. “Can I have the next cup of coffee, Rachel?”

  “Sure,” I said, closing the fridge.

  As he watched me dump the old filter and grounds in the trash, Gilroy said, “So what do you think?”

  He knew I’d been listening, and it was pointless to pretend I hadn’t been. “She’s hiding something. It’s not so strange to snoop around a large house during a party. Rude, but not strange. But she couldn’t tell you where she’d been. If she were really snooping, being fascinated by all she saw, she could give you details. Instead, she gave you generalities, and it sounds like you still don’t know exactly where she went.”

  “Exactly.” He grinned, the skin around those blue eyes of his crinkling. My boyfriend—oh, how I loved the word—of the past four months was easy on my eyes. Trim but muscular, with chiseled cheekbones, a strong, straight nose, and dark hair—though at forty-eight, gray hairs were beginning to overtake the dark ones, especially at his temples. I could have stood there and looked at him for the next hour. Instead, I made the next batch of coffee.

  “I think all the guests are single,” I said, flipping the coffeemaker’s on switch.

  Gilroy lifted his head and cast his eyes to the ceiling. “Hmm. You might be right.”

  “Two in their thirties, Kip and Brynne. Three in their forties, I think, if you include us. And Jova. Stuart made a point of saying she’s sixty-four.”

  “He also made a point of Kip Dempster’s age.”

  “I almost forgot. Stuart asked if you could interview him next. He’s looking pale.”

  Gilroy stood straight. “Thanks. Bring the coffee in when it’s done?”

  He took off for the great room. Moments later he made his way back to the dining room, Stuart following him.

  “I apologize for how long this is taking,” I heard him say. “You must be exhausted, but we’ll be gone soon. When we’re done, is there anyone I can call for you?”

  After Stuart’s not-so-thinly-veiled suggestion that Gilroy might have murdered Lesley, I was a little surprised by Gilroy’s apology and kindness.

  “No one,” Stuart said. “Lesley was it. And I’d rather be alone when you’ve finished.”

  “If you change your mind, let me know.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Stuart”—Gilroy had promoted him from Mr. Hunter—“I’m a little confused by how you arrived at your guest list. Can you tell me why you chose the people you did?”

  “Why not these people? I know them all. So did Lesley.”

  The smell of fresh-brewed coffee filled the kitchen. I readied more cups, Gilroy’s first.

  “But they don’t know each other.”

  “Parties don’t have to be full of people who know each other. What fun is that?”

  “But this party wasn’t arranged for fun, was it?”

  I froze, my hand on the coffee carafe.

  “It was Lesley’s birthday party.”

  “That makes it all the more puzzling.”

  “What puzzles you, James?”

  “Here’s how I see it. Lesley was nervous tonight. I don’t know if she knew or just sensed that something was wrong, but to her this was not a happy birthday party. Your guests don’t know each other, but as soon as they met, they rubbed each other the wrong way. And you made a point of expressing your disdain for all of them, except for Miss Ware.”

  “Brynne is a deeply silly woman, nearly as pompous as Maurice.”

  “And I haven’t even gotten to the display you put on in the greenhouse,” Gilroy added.

  “I take my flytraps seriously.”

  “You need to give me an honest answer, Stuart. Why did you invite these people? Why was Lesley unhappy t
onight?”

  The lull that followed—I figured Stuart was waging an internal debate on whether to tell the truth—was the perfect break in the interview for me to take Gilroy his coffee. I poured a cup and entered the dining room, all the while avoiding Stuart’s gaze.

  Before I made it back out, the doorbell rang.

  “Who would that be?” Stuart said. “This time of night?”

  “It’s probably the coroner,” Gilroy said. “I’ll be back. Please wait here.”

  At least Stuart wouldn’t see his wife wheeled in a bag through the great room, I thought as I poured two more cups of coffee. I was glad Gilroy had told him to wait where he was.

  I took the two cups to the great room, handing the first to Brynne and hovering with the second between Maurice and Kip.

  “Let the Kipster have it,” Maurice said. “Budding assistant managers need their caffeine.”

  Kip rose and snatched the cup from my hand. “Thanks.”

  In the foyer, Gilroy spoke quietly to the coroner while the coroner’s team were lifting the back end of a gurney over the threshold.

  “There was supposed to be sugar,” Brynne said.

  “This is no way to run a restaurant,” Maurice chuckled.

  “Like you know,” Kip said.

  “I’ll get it, Rachel,” Underhill said. “Knock off the side comments, folks.”

  I sat where Stuart had, watching Gilroy and the coroner head upstairs. There would be no need for a toxicology later, or a detailed examination of any kind, I thought. The murder weapon was in plain sight, and Lesley’s wounds were obvious.

  Underhill came back with the sugar, but I lingered in the great room, questions dancing in my head. Did the people sitting around me have anything in common? Is that why they were invited to Lesley’s party? Where did they all go after Stuart invited them to the collections room? Why did they disperse? Why did Stuart accuse one of them of being a thief?

  “I’m going to take Officer Turner coffee,” I said.

  “Good idea,” Underhill said.

  There was just enough coffee left in the carafe to call what I poured a “cup.” Barely. But it was cup enough—an excuse to head up to the second floor.

  As I mounted the carpeted stairs, I listened for creaks, but my footsteps were completely muffled. That explained why I’d seen but not heard someone on the stairs while Gilroy and I were moving through the foyer. The floor under the carpeted hallway was just as quiet.