Brewster left his post at the door, and strode over to the piano to bang out a few jangling notes, causing me to jump three nervous steps back from the instrument. “I’m here to meet someone, Pro-fess-or Pelletier.” He gave my title his usual sarcastic twist. “To conduct a little family business.” Then, as he heard Will Thorpe’s heavy step on the stairs, he started, and his hand jerked up. I froze. His gesture reminded me of Schultz’s as we’d approached the house, when she’d gone for her gun. Will entered the room, exclaiming at Brewster’s presence, and Brewster’s hand, arrested at his waist for an interminable second, continued its rise, more smoothly now, to scratch at his graying sideburns.
“Tib!” If Will was concerned to find Brewster here, he showed no sign other than his initial surprise. I relaxed, but kept my eyes on Brewster’s uneasy hand. Where was Schultz, anyhow? Will strolled across the room toward Edith’s nephew. Jill, standing by Edith’s chair, was silent, her bright hair ablaze above her pale face and snowdrift dress. I took two short steps toward her, then halted, baffled by the protective impulse. Really, Brewster might be obnoxious, but we were all civilized people here. No one was in any danger.
“Uncle Will?” Tib Brewster pulled at his earlobe, then rubbed the side of his long nose, before he allowed the hand to drop back to his side. His eyes narrowed, as if he were assessing this new wrinkle in the situation. “Well, well. This is looking like old home week. My dear aunt’s longtime paramour; the lucky lady who managed to ingratiate herself into said aunt’s good graces; and the unwed mother-to-be of a possible family heir.” Brewster’s tone maintained its assurance, but his right hand fidgeted, long fingers rubbing now against the thumb.
“How did you know that, Mr. Brewster?” I queried.
“Know what?” Brewster responded. “That Will was Edith’s lover? I would have thought that was fairly obvious.” He tapped his forefinger against his nose.
“No,” I replied, suspicion rising. “How did you know Jill’s baby might be a Northbury heir?”
Then Will spoke, his voice low and controlled. “Yes, Tib, how did you know? Edith never told anyone but me that Gerry was descended from Mrs. Northbury.”
“No? Well, Aunt Edith must have had a change of heart at the last minute.” Brewster’s demeanor remained cool, but his hand slid from his nose to tug at his earlobe again. The hand fascinated—and unnerved—me; it seemed to have a life of its own, independent of Brewster’s will. Three earlobe tugs, and it was back tapping at the nose again. Surely a self-assured man such as Thibault Brewster shouldn’t fall prey to so many nervous tics. But his tone was cool as he continued. “She did tell Novak. And Novak simply couldn’t resist blabbing to me.”
“I see.” Will and I spoke the words simultaneously. Our eyes met. We needed no words to communicate our appalled speculations. I took another involuntary step toward Jill. There was total silence in the room as we all, Brewster included, realized he’d just, to all intents and purposes, given himself a powerful motive for murder.
Where the hell was Felicity Schultz? I couldn’t believe I was actually wishing for the presence of the annoying little police officer. And how long did it take to make a phone call to headquarters, anyhow?
“Hmm,” Brewster said, thumb to chin, forefinger still tapping his nose. Then he broke the freighted silence with a nervous laugh. “What’s the problem, Will? You look … stunned. Surely you don’t think …”
Will did appear stunned. Even more than stunned, he suddenly looked startlingly ill, eyes dark and sunken, a gray tinge suffusing his usually ruddy complexion. This time I took a step toward him, then stopped at his abrupt gesture. “I’m okay, Karen,” he said carefully. “I just need to speak with Tib for a few minutes. Alone. Why don’t you and Jill go back to the kitchen, make us all a cup of tea?”
The kitchen. Schultz. Get Jill out of here. “Okay, I …” But as I shifted in my young friend’s direction, Brewster’s agitated hand jerked out to stop me.
“Oh, I don’t think so, Professor Pelletier.” Although the tone of his voice was as peremptory as ever, the man’s air of smooth assurance had faltered. The patrician facade didn’t crack altogether; its patina simply crazed a little, as if fine, glazed porcelain had shivered under stress. The forefinger jerked back to his nose, the right eye blinked twice. For an infinitesimal moment he looked profoundly pained. But not for long. His next words were, to all intents and purposes, a command. “Why don’t you and Miss Greenberg stay right where you are until Uncle Will lets me know what it is he has on his mind?”
Will sank onto the piano bench, the only seat within reach. Jill rushed to his side. “Dr. Thorpe, what’s wrong?” The elderly man had broken out in a sweat. His face was ashen. I stared at him, horrified. Will Thorpe had always been so hearty; I’d completely forgotten how advanced in age he was. Now I recalled his passing reference to heart trouble the night we’d had dinner at Rudolph’s.
“Dr. Thorpe is ill,” I said, turning to Brewster. “I’ve got to call for medical help.”
“No.” Brewster held up an imperious hand, as, with an effort, Will straightened up, leaning back against the wall.
“Karen,” he said, weakly. “I’m all right. Really.” The words were addressed to me, but he was looking at Brewster. “Tib, I don’t know what you mean. I don’t have anything in particular on my mind. While the young women make us some tea, we can have a chat, you and I.” He paused, lips tight, then ran a quavering hand over his brow.
“Will, you’re not well. I’m going to call—” My move toward the door was halted by the abrupt, spasmodic movement of Thibault Brewster’s hand toward his waist. Did I detect a slight bulge in the otherwise immaculately cut blue blazer? Could Brewster be carrying a gun? I fastened my eyes on his restless hand, as if my fixed gaze might arrest any further motion.
“You know, don’t you?” Brewster’s appalled expression was directed at Will Thorpe, as if his aunt’s longtime friend were the only other person in the room. “You know.” He stammered both times on the word know.
“Tib …” A shudder ran through Will’s body, whether of emotion or pain, I couldn’t tell.
“All I wanted was what is rightfully mine,” Brewster burst out, and stammered on wanted and mine. “That’s all. My inheritance.” His hand had wavered away from his waist, was now held halfway out to Will, open as if in supplication. Will sighed deeply, as if at the culmination of a lifetime of disappointment. Brewster hurried on, more confident now in his words. “And I was patient. But Edith lived on and on, and then … things got … got out of control. I had to have the money now.” He seemed to be pleading for Will’s understanding. “I needed it, Uncle Will.” For a brief moment, he was a boy, caught out in some particularly nasty naughtiness.
Horrified, I blurted out, “You killed Dr. Hart!”
He pivoted toward me. His expression was sufficient affirmation.
“But she was your aunt!” A stupid thing to say, but I couldn’t help it.
A lifetime of command is not so easily jettisoned, and Brewster’s habitual control reasserted itself in face of a social inferior, his expression changing almost mechanically from tremulous to stony. “She was an old woman,” said Edith Hart’s nephew, “who didn’t know when it was time to die.”
Jill’s eyes were wide. “Oh my God. Gerry. You killed Gerry.”
He turned his eyes to her. “He had no right! No right to what was mine. I was supposed to get everything. I’d built a life on that! I don’t understand how Edith could do what she did to me.” Another fracture in the patrician facade. Brewster looked as if he might burst into tears at any moment: not tears of sorrow for Edith; not tears of repentance for his unspeakable deeds; but tears of hot disappointment for the thwarting of his life’s monetary expectations.
The decades-long, arduous accumulation of wealth by Serena Northbury had not held tragedy at bay for the author or for her descendents. This was merely another chapter in the complex, passionate story that had begun wit
h Mrs. Northbury’s sour marriage, and continued with her impulsive following of her heart in a direction forbidden by a straitlaced and racist society. Around us the ornate chairs and sofas with which Mrs. Northbury had furnished this comfortable parlor stood mute testament to generations of family life, a life that seemed at once generous and courageous in the persons of Serena Northbury and Edith Hart, and stifling and destructive in the presence of the selfish, twisted man who stood here now, his right eye twitching as he poured out his bitter tale of frustration.
Will groaned, distracting Brewster for a moment. Jill, mopping the elderly physician’s brow, stuttered, “Karen, do something. He’s in pain.” Eyeing Brewster carefully, I moved toward Will. All this while Brewster had made no overt threats to those of us in the hushed room. But it was difficult to imagine where he was going to go from here, after this admission of guilt, what he intended to do. I knelt by Will and scrutinized his pale face. Beneath half-lowered lids, the sick man’s eyes were surprisingly alert. They flickered toward me, then toward the door. Go. He was right; I had to go, to get out—and take Jill with me. I rose, and reached for Jill’s arm, as if reassuring her. Will groaned heavily, but Brewster noting my action, ignored him, pivoting quickly toward us, nervous hand rising to his waist. The well-cut blazer fell open, and suddenly Brewster’s restless fingers were compulsively tapping the grip of a small revolver stuffed in the waistband of his Eddie Bauer casuals. Jill’s mouth opened in a wordless Oh. Will sat up sharply on the piano bench. I tightened my grip on Jill’s arm. What had we gotten ourselves into here? Just then—hallelujah—Sergeant Schultz spoke brusquely from the shadows of the darkened back parlor. “Police, Mr. Brewster. I’m going to ask you not to move.” She stepped into the room, blue steel automatic extended steadily in both hands.
But Brewster had already jerked the gun from his belt. He froze for less than a second. Then, on the pretense of reaching out to drop the lethal-looking little weapon, he looped Jill around the neck in a cruel head-lock, and thrust the gun into her side. Jill struggled briefly, then ceased, giving a strangled little cry as Brewster tightened his hold.
“You drop it, Officer.” As Schultz stood paralyzed, indecision playing across her tight features, Brewster barked, “Drop the damn gun!” The situation had been decided for him. No more explanation. No more irresolution. His right eye blinked twice, then the New England Brahmin was firmly back in control.
Reluctantly, Schultz lowered her hand, let the automatic fall to the floor.
“Now kick it away.”
“You watch a lot of television, don’t you, Mr. Brewster?” Schultz asked. But she kicked the gun. It skidded across the polished hardwood—in my general direction. I know how to use a gun; Tony taught me to shoot on an automatic just like this one. All I needed was one chance …
But Brewster’s grip on Jill was tight, and the gun he held on her was steady. He shook his head, in what seemed to be genuine regret, as he considered the gravity of the situation. “This is an unfortunate circumstance,” he said. “I never intended … anything like this to happen. The piece of business I came here to conduct tonight would have compensated somewhat for the loss of my inheritance, and then this whole regrettable affair would have been over. No one else would have had to be … well … As it stands, I don’t know—”
“Mr. Brewster,” the sergeant’s voice was flat, “the situation is regrettable. But I’m certain we can work something out.”
“No!” he snapped, his eyes fixed on Schultz, as if at this moment she were the only impediment between him and his freedom. What threat were the rest of us, after all? A sick old man and two academic women? No threat at all. I sidled toward the sergeant’s relinquished gun. “I’m not going to allow myself to be cheated again, Officer. Miss Greenberg is going to drive me out of here.” Brewster laughed, nervously. “Perhaps that’s ironically appropriate, since she’s carrying a new Northbury heir.”
“Please,” Jill croaked, “the baby …”
“The baby?” He flicked her a glance of contempt, but his gaze returned immediately to Schultz. “Miss Greenberg is coming with me, Officer, and if I see anyone in pursuit, I won’t hesitate to shoot her. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Mr. Brewster.” Schultz’s plain features were rigid. “But I wonder if you do. Wherever you go, we’ll find you, you know. It would be better for you if you released Professor Greenberg now. It’s not too late. Then we could talk about this. Just you and me. Don’t make this any worse than it is.”
He shook his head, as if in pity at her transparency. “Officer, do you really think I’m that stupid?”
“Think about Joyce, Tib,” Will was attempting to rise. His voice was weak, but steady. “You know how much she needs you right now. And Tibby? Don’t let him down. Don’t get yourself any more …”
Brewster paid little attention to Will; he was still fixated on Schultz. It was so hushed in the room as Thibault Brewster paused to contemplate Will’s words, that a squeak, then a skitter from the hall startled me. I turned my eyes—not my head, just my eyes—in that direction, saw little but shadows, then identified the combination of sounds as heralding the passage of a mouse. Eyes front again, I took another baby step toward the gun.
Tib Brewster seemed to consider these words. When he spoke, he directed his words to Schultz. “It looks as if I’m already in it as deep as it gets. Doesn’t it, Officer?” Then he glanced briefly in Will’s direction. “But, don’t worry, Will, I’ve made contingency plans, for Tibby—and for myself as well. Just in case.” Then the gaze returned to Schultz. “All I’ve got to do is get myself out of here, and I’ll be all set. That’s all I ask. If everyone behaves themselves, Miss Greenberg won’t even have to get hurt. That’s reasonable, isn’t it? I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m only asking for my just due.”
A shadow moved abruptly in the hallway behind Brewster, then became a quiet black puddle among other pools of darkness. The mouse squeaked again. I blinked. The shadow had vanished. Had I actually seen a stealthy motion? Or had the almost phantasmagorical flutter in the darkness been nothing more than wishful thinking?
Then four things happened at once: Brewster turned to propel his terrified hostage into the hallway; I lunged for Schultz’s gun; Schultz crouched and yanked a little revolver from her ankle holster; and Earl Wiggett, literary gumshoe, stepped inward from his dark niche behind the hall door and smashed Thibault Brewster senseless with his trusty little notebook computer.
Twenty-nine
The teakettle’s whistle shrilled, and I poured boiling water over tea bags, then handed the steaming mugs to Piotrowski and Schultz. “There’s no milk, of course,” I told them, “since no one’s living here, but I think you’ll find sugar in that canister.” It was long past midnight and the police activity at Meadowbrook was finally winding down. Schultz and I had just finished filling Piotrowski in on the evening’s incidents. The lieutenant looked very tired, and his hair was mussed.
“I don’t understand it, Doctor.” He measured four teaspoons of sugar into the black tea. “You always end up at the point of a gun. How the heck does that always happen?”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Piotrowski held up a meaty hand and shook his head. “No. Let me finish.” He took a loud slurp of his tea. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your help. We coulda never unraveled this without you. But why …” Here he gave me one of his trademark slit-eyed looks. “… Why does it always have to come to gunplay? Huh, Doctor? Can you tell me that? A nice quiet teacher like yourself: Why do you always end up facing a gun? And, tonight, I understand you were all set to fire one.”
“Uh, I—”
“She was real good, Lieutenant.” Schultz’s praise astounded me. Hot tea sloshed onto my hand as I plopped my cup down on the scrubbed pine of the tabletop. I sucked on a scalded finger and stared at the sergeant in amazement. “Real good. You shoulda seen her, boss. She knew right away why I kicked that forty-five where I did. And she moved
fast; soon’s Brewster turned his back for a second, she had that gun in her hand. Almost as fast as I got mine. Of course, by that time, we didn’t need guns; the skinny guy, he’d already bonked Brew—er—rendered the perp unconscious.”
The lieutenant emptied his cup and rose, still shaking his head at me. “You always look so—so—sort of ivory-towerish-like, Doctor, with those cool gray eyes and that I’m-better-than-you-are air. If I didn’t know for a fact you were straight off the streets of Lowell—” Felicity Schultz shot me a startled look. I returned a cool gray stare. “—I’d think you were born—no—conceived and born—in the Harvard library. But you’re a fighter all right.”
“Well,” I replied, “you can take the girl out of Lowell—”
“But you can’t take Lowell out of the girl,” Schultz finished sourly. “‘Kid from Southie,’ huh?” She looked at me, slit-eyed like her boss. “Chip on my shoulder ‘the size of a Douglas fir,’ huh? Well, it takes one to know one.”
I laughed.
So did Schultz.
Piotrowski gaped at us, baffled.
The despicable Earl Wiggett, of course, was the true hero of the day. Wiggett had been summoned to Enfield by Thibault Brewster, who had represented himself as Edith Hart’s rightful heir. Brewster had snatched the manuscript of Child of the North Star from his aunt’s bedside, and, when he learned that he’d been left only peanuts in her will, he’d contacted Wiggett about the novel’s potential for publication. The two men had arranged to meet at Meadowbrook that evening to search for the missing manuscript pages, the pages in the possession of the state police. But upon entering the Northbury mansion that night, the hapless Alcott editor had stumbled upon a scene as melodramatic as anything Louisa May—or Mrs. Northbury herself—had ever trusted to paper. Although Wiggett’s personal habits may have left much to be desired, his hero’s heart was true. At the sight of a damsel in distress, Wiggett knew precisely what an honorable gentleman should do: attack the villain with whatever weapon was close to hand. Earl Wiggett never went anywhere without his notebook computer, and the blow he gave Brewster with his little PowerMate stunned that villain long enough for Schultz to restrain him.
The Northbury Papers Page 30
