Murder at the Falls

by Arlene Kay

  Babette shook her finger at him in frustration. “Stop with the lawyer talk. Are we on the right track or what?”

  He spread out his hands wide. “Maybe. These documents definitely lean that way. Of course, we have no idea if they are genuine or not. What if the author was delusional or just misinformed?”

  I could tell by the way her cheeks puffed out that my pal was smack in the middle of a major snit. Babette lived her life by a simple credo: things should conform to her wishes rather than reality. “It must be true,” she said. “It just has to be. Magdalen seemed so sure.”

  Micah and I exchanged looks. Perhaps the fantasies of an elderly lady were just another case of wish fulfillment gone awry. No. Even considering that felt disloyal and roused every guilty bone in my body. Magdalen was not fanciful. Right or wrong, she had reason to believe her family’s heritage. The birth certificates validated that Sebastian Melmoth was indeed her father, and research confirmed that Oscar Wilde had adopted that surname name during his final years in France. Moreover, someone else apparently believed in the manuscript as well. How else could one explain the clumsy attempts to silence her and the reality of Nurse Ross’s murder?

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Micah said.

  I grimaced. “Probably overpriced at that. I was thinking strategy, trying to plan our next move.” Before I explained, the ringtone on my cell phone jolted me back to reality and Pruett’s mellifluous voice brought me to attention.

  “Miss me?” he asked in a tone that assured me he already knew the answer. In the background, Babette chortled loudly enough to be heard. “You have company, I see. Am I disturbing anything?”

  “Nope. Micah and Babette are here and we’re puzzling over those documents Magdalen left.”

  Pruett changed immediately to a no-nonsense, newshawk mode. “Be right over. Don’t do anything until I get there. I have some stuff you’ll want to hear.”

  Eavesdropping was among Babette’s major skills, so she had gotten the gist of the conversation. “That boy reminds me of a bird dog my daddy used to keep. No stopping him when he got the scent of something big.”

  Pruett reminded me of a panther rather than a bird dog, but nevertheless I took her point. “If we’re having a strategy session, I’d better call for provisions. Okay with you two?”

  Babette leaped into the breach. “What’s your favorite food, Micah? We love that Peruvian chicken place, right, Perri? Come on, Micah. We’ll buzz over there and pick some up before Pruett gets here.” She grabbed his arm and hustled him out the door before he had time to object. Meanwhile I fed my pets, turned Raza out to graze, and tended to one ornery pygmy goat named Zeke, who had very pronounced methods for getting his way. By the time Pruett’s Macan sailed into view, I felt presentable enough to meet even his high standards. A touch of lipstick, a wisp of blush, and a quick flick of my hairbrush saw to that.

  He stepped warily around Keats and Poe and held out his arms to me. “You are some sight, Ms. Perri. I really missed you.” The gleam in his deep brown eyes was enough to melt even the most resilient woman’s defenses. I wasn’t all that strong, so I immediately succumbed and folded into his embrace. Sometimes Babette got it right. She always exhorted me to loosen up and accept Pruett’s love without reservations. When it came to romance she knew every move before anyone else did. I was a willing pupil but still in need of work.

  “Where’s the rest of the crew?” Pruett asked. “Don’t tell me I scared them off.”

  I explained about their food run and pointed to Magdalen’s papers. “That’s what we were debating. Read up if you have time before they get back.”

  “Got something for you,” he said. Pruett reached into his briefcase and presented me with a bottle of scotch. It was Johnnie Walker Blue, a favorite of Babette’s and, apparently, Micah’s as well. Call me a party pooper, but I detested the vile stuff. I could tell by his snarky grin that he knew darn well how I felt. He bent down and kissed my forehead. “Don’t worry. I didn’t forget you. Ella baked these before she left.” He produced a packet of misshapen sugar cookies festooned with a big red bow. Despite their unusual appearance, those sweets looked perfect to me. Anything from seven-year-old Ella Pruett touched my heart and soul.

  “Delicious,” I said, biting into one. “I won’t share even a crumb with you. Besides, you have work to do.” I handed him the Melmoth papers and shooed him away.

  Pruett finally got serious. He sat in my leather wing chair, put on his reading glasses, and perused the material. By the time Babette and Micah returned, he had read and reread everything, especially Sebastian Melmoth’s letters.

  The scent of roasted chicken temporarily distracted all of us, including our dogs. Keats, Poe, and Clara sat respectfully behind the table, waiting their turn. Cats behave differently. Thatcher simply jumped into my lap, speared a hunk of chicken, and calmly consumed it. When all of us were satiated the hard work began.

  Not surprisingly, Babette started first. “I knew Magdalen wasn’t addled,” she said. “This proves it.”

  Pruett bit his lip. “Not necessarily. It only proves that her father, Sebastian Melmoth, believed his own father was a genius. No names were ever mentioned, and anyone could have written a novel based on the Dorian Gray opus.”

  Micah nodded. “That’s right. The book was a big sensation in Europe. It’s possible that Melmoth Senior knew Oscar Wilde and admired him. Maybe he penned an homage to him.”

  Babette grimaced. “Maybe, maybe, maybe. This gets us nowhere. We’re spinning our wheels while Magdalen sits in that place with a target on her back.”

  She was right, of course. Whatever the fate of the novel, Magdalen Melmoth posed a threat to someone who was willing to kill for it.

  “I say we visit Magdalen tomorrow. Sort of a wellness check. The dogs are due for a Therapy Dog visit anyway.” I turned to Pruett. “I’m sure Sheriff Aleita would love to swap theories with you, Wing.”

  Pruett ignored the sarcasm and checked his phone. “Okay. Tomorrow’s Saturday anyway. How about it, Micah?”

  The lawyer gave us a thumbs-up, as did Babette. Meanwhile I had a brainstorm of sorts.

  “Here’s another suggestion. We need to track down the Farraday clan if that’s possible. Who knows what their story may be?”

  “Such a smart woman,” Pruett said. “Don’t you just love brainy broads, Micah?”

  Sarcasm aside, he was right. Intelligence had always been one thing I could count on and I was proud of it. That emboldened me to suggest yet another line of inquiry. “If Babette and I trace the domestic side, perhaps you and Micah can research the Kingsbury family in Ireland. They had quite a large brood from what Magdalen said. Someone might still be around.”

  We agreed on tactics and went about our separate tasks. Babette grabbed her laptop and followed me into my office while I fired up my search engines. We hadn’t gone far before she wrinkled her brow and stopped. “Perri, where’s your phone book?”

  Nobody used a phone book anymore. As far as I was concerned, those enormous tomes of old merely consumed space and yielded nothing a search of Google couldn’t give. Frankly I saw them as just as archaic as telephone booths.

  I shrugged. “No clue. I doubt I even have one. You have to request them these days, you know.” One look at Babette’s face aroused my suspicions. “Why?”

  She shot me one of her mysterious looks, dialed her cell phone, and left the room. “I’ll just have Dora check something out for us.” Dora was her personal assistant, a pleasant woman of middle years with the patience of a saint and the maturity of a PTA president. Her job description required her to be on call twenty-four/seven and she did so cheerfully and without complaint. When Babette called Dora a treasure, she was merely stating the truth. My pal had learned the value of extreme vetting the hard way after her previous assistant came to an untimely end. Now she welcomed into her inner sanctum only
those with an unblemished record and a capacity for tolerating the unusual.

  When Babette bustled off I busied myself by crossing my fingers and typing the name Farraday into PeopleFinder. Unfortunately, the results exceeded my wildest hopes. Farraday was a popular surname, with over five hundred entries in the continental United States alone. Some occupations stayed in the family and the building trade was among them. The list narrowed when I linked the name to construction companies, although the numbers were still daunting. I printed a directory containing sixty-eight names from Maine to Missouri and began the arduous process of matching phone numbers to each. None of those listed were named Declan Farraday, but that didn’t concern me. Magdalen’s stepfather would have departed long ago. Perhaps his offspring chose more contemporary names. I focused on listings in rural rather than urban settings; Magdalen had reminisced about living on a large homestead.

  The work was tedious, and despite my diligence I had little to show for my efforts. Poe and Keats displayed solidarity by surrounding me in a warm, furry embrace, but even that failed to lift my spirits. I banished every thought of my neglected customers and the orders unfilled, telling myself that I was serving a higher purpose. An hour later, when Babette sashayed into the room wearing a saucy grin, I knew I was doomed.

  “Made any progress?” she asked. Her tone was arch. That really irked me, but I gritted my teeth and stayed silent. That was one game I always won over Babette.

  Finally, she relented. “Gee Perri, you’re such a grump. No fun at all.”

  I painted a smile on my face that would shame a saint. Babette thrust a sheet of paper into my hand with a flourish and sighed. Actually, she harrumphed, but why quibble?

  “Here it is. The address we were searching for. Best of all, it’s close by. Right over in Shenandoah County, not fifty miles away.” She made absolutely no attempt to hide the smirk that covered her face and brought out the mean girl in me.

  “How do you know that? Did you speak with someone?”

  She averted her eyes. “Sort of.”

  I raised an eyebrow and said nothing. During my army days I’d perfected that quizzical look when questioning recruits. It always paid dividends.

  Babette’s shoulders fell. “Okay. If you must be a stickler, Dora tracked her down, but I heard everything. It was my idea.”

  Just then Pruett and Micah joined us. Pruett walked over to me and massaged my aching neck muscles. The feeling was so heavenly, I hoped he would never stop. “What’s up, ladies?” he asked. “Sounds like you hit the jackpot.”

  My guilt-o-meter hit the limit and I immediately caved. “Babette gets all the credit. Come on. Tell them.”

  My pal beamed with a delight that was almost childlike. She waved the printout in the air and launched into her tale.

  “Magdalen’s stepfather was one Declan Farraday, a prosperous builder. The old man’s long gone, of course, but I contacted his son, a guy named Carrick Farraday.” She batted her lashes. “Quite the charmer he is. A retired gentleman living in Strasburg, and get this: He remembers Magdalen and her mother!”

  Micah flashed her a look of pure admiration. “Wow! You did great!”

  Pruett was less interested in flattery. He focused laserlike on the practicalities. “When can we see him? You didn’t mention the novel or Oscar Wilde, I hope.”

  Babette folded her arms and pouted. “Of course not. What kind of ninny do you take me for? I merely mentioned that we were friends tryin’ to reconnect someone with her past. Actually, I hinted that Perri was helping a client who was searching for her roots. Everyone does it these days.”

  Pruett nodded. “Good. Good. When can he see us? We need to strike while the iron is hot.”

  The smirk returned as Babette gave us the news. “Carrick expects us right after dinner. Tonight.”

  Chapter 11

  In the end we formed a caravan consisting of two vehicles, four adults, and three canines. Micah and Babette paired up and, accompanied by Clara, piled into his Cadillac. Pruett drove the lead car with me, Keats, and Poe as his wingmen. I was at once tense and excited at the prospect of meeting one of Magdalen’s relatives even though my expectations were low. Pruett said very little during that eighty-mile drive, but I studied his perfect profile, knowing how those mental gears were grinding. We formulated a loose plan, one that allowed us to explain our interest while probing for any evidence of the manuscript.

  “I’m puzzled by one thing,” I said. “Why in the world didn’t Magdalen mention that Carrick Farraday lived so close to her? She must have known. That woman is a demon when it comes to manipulating Internet search engines.”

  Pruett considered the question before responding. “Maybe they were estranged or lost touch. You know how families are. All kinds of crazy things can cause a rift.”

  Actually I had no personal experience with family rifts or solidarity. I was an orphan who had always longed for contact with any sibling, cousin, or step relation. As Magdalen’s putative heir, I had another ethical conflict that gnawed at me. Carrick Farraday and Lord only knows how many relatives might come out of the woodwork if the Oscar Wilde novel was found and validated. Money sets the proverbial cat among the pigeons, and Sybil Vane was a potential blockbuster.

  I turned to Pruett. “We have to see Magdalen as soon as possible. I phoned her this afternoon, but she didn’t answer her cell. I was reluctant to go through the switchboard at the Falls.”

  Pruett raised an eyebrow. “That bad, huh?”

  I sounded paranoid even to myself. Had I been co-opted by a fanciful tale or was Magdalen in real danger?

  Pruett reached over and squeezed my arm. “It’s hard sometimes to sort out fact from fantasy, but Nurse Carole Ross was definitely murdered. That’s not speculation.”

  “Heard that from Sheriff Aleita, did you?”

  In his profession there were very few boundaries, and Pruett never apologized for pushing the envelope as far as he legally could. He patted my arm once more and said with attitude, “I never divulge my sources, but I can say that the chocolate contained enough strychnine to gag an entire herd of goats. Someone Magdalen’s age wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  My anxiety level rose exponentially as I pictured the scene. Magdalen was the equivalent of a tethered goat awaiting her fate. I blamed myself for getting involved in this foolish quest rather than immediately dampening her hopes. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to Magdalen Melmoth.

  Pruett must have read my mind. He put his arm around me and spoke softly. “Hey. Stop second-guessing yourself. She asked for your help and you gave it. Simple as that. QED. You can’t control every bad thing in life, Perri. Don’t even try. Believe me, I know.”

  He was right, of course, but that didn’t lessen my anxiety or quell the rising tide of panic I felt. No doubt about it—Magdalen touched my emotions. Her bravery, ingenuity, and refusal to back down were emblematic of a senior superhero. I felt connected to her in ways too obscure to explain even to myself. I didn’t understand it, but I made a firm decision: If Carrick had any viable information, I planned to turn it over to Sheriff Aleita and her minions. That was the only way to protect Magdalen Melmoth and stay true to my pledge.

  Babette had fabricated a plausible cover story, saying that our group was doing genealogical research on Sebastian Melmoth and trying to trace any descendants. Initially we intended to focus on my situation and desire for information, but I was uncomfortable with stressing my orphan status. We agreed to link our work to antecedents of the Irish Kingsburys and not to mention that we had found Magdalen. If questioned, Pruett would pretend to be writing a piece on the personal toll of tracking lost ancestors. With his talent for duplicity, I knew that boy would be convincing. His skill bordered on the pathological at times and gave me pause for thought.

  As we exited the freeway, he turned up the GPS. Rural areas were often a tricky pro
position in the evening and directions were crucial. I’d never been to Strasburg, although I’d met several dog breeders who lived in the area. The north central Shenandoah Valley had the advantage of mountains, rivers, verdant fields, and a small but growing population with roots dating back to the Revolutionary War. Apparently the burgeoning suburban sprawl from the DC area had infected even this idyllic setting. Signs announcing the imminent arrival of both single-family homes and town houses dotted the landscape. Builders called that progress, but it saddened me. Surely some corners of rural America should remain pristine, particularly when so much history was involved. I wondered what the reaction had been to this incursion. Local residents were proud of their heritage and touted it whenever possible. I’d seen too much carnage up front and personal to romanticize battles from any conflict, but for many in Virginia reenactments— particularly Civil War ones—were both a passion and a profitable sideline. Tourists flocked to them and adored the faux action. Pruett had no use for that either. He had covered several bloody conflicts—most recently in Syria—and confronted the toll of actual wars. He also had no need to indulge in macho fantasies to bolster his ego; every day he got more than his share of adulation.

  “Kind of a nice country feel to the place,” he mused as he surveyed the terrain, “although that may not last long. Wonder if Ella would like it?”

  Wing Pruett’s devotion to Ella was one of the things I cherished most about him. That didn’t mean I couldn’t rib him about it, of course.

  “Lots of acreage around here,” I said. “Better grab some while you still can. Think how many more dogs Ella could have. Horses too.”

  That ended further speculation about the wonders of the bucolic life. Pruett’s introduction to animals had come rather late in life and was still a work in progress. For the sake of his daughter and me, he tried valiantly to adjust to the four-footed set and had made great strides. Currently Ella had one dog, a champion pointer. I knew, however, that the little girl was eyeing another dog to add to the mix, a Leonberger, a gentle breed of considerable size. Pruett had temporarily fended off those overtures, but in the long run my money was on Ella.