Murder at the Falls

by Arlene Kay

  After easing through the main thoroughfare, we turned abruptly and reached a bumpy rural road.

  “There go the springs on this heap,” Pruett groused. He cherished his snazzy SUV almost as much as he did me, and perhaps a bit more. Props to Micah—he powered his Cadillac over those same roads without flinching.

  A mile or so later, a large farmhouse emerged in the clearing. Nothing fancy, just a weathered, two-story structure that looked solid and homey, the way Carrick himself might be. I visualized a flock of chickens, geese, and several cows and horses, a living embodiment of Old MacDonald’s farm.

  To counteract the fading sunlight, our host had thoughtfully illuminated the driveway with floodlights. As we pulled in, a deep, soulful bark sounded a warning. Pruett’s eyes widened, but I knew better. It must have been kismet or something very much like it. To my delight the canine in question was actually Ella’s dream dog—a Leonberger. The giant German working breed frequently topped 150 pounds and looked daunting to a nervous Nellie like Pruett. An enthusiast would see only a furry bundle of love that was cute and cuddly. Instead of charging us, the dog lost interest, heaved a gigantic sigh, and immediately collapsed back on the porch.

  “Good thing Ella isn’t here.” Pruett shuddered. “Seeing that dog would start her off again.”

  I gave Keats and Poe the “bleib” command, Schutzhund for stay, and eased out of the Porsche. As the front door of the house creaked a welcome, we got our first glimpse of Carrick Farraday.

  His height surprised me. Despite his age, Carrick was lean and stood a good six feet six inches tall. He extended his hand and grinned. “At last. Don’t get many visitors out here, so Paddy and I are out of practice. We’ve been on pins and needles waiting for you.”

  “Paddy?”

  He pointed to his dog as I introduced our quartet. “That’s a fine-looking vehicle you’ve got,” he said to Pruett, pointing to the Porsche. “’Course the Caddie’s not too shabby either.”

  Babette instantly went into Southern mode. “You’re so kind to see us, Mr. Farraday. I’m sure you were surprised.”

  Carrick motioned us inside. “Nonsense. When does a geezer my age get to entertain two beautiful ladies? By the way, bring your dogs in too. No need to leave those beauties outside. I’m a breeder myself, you see.”

  My eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you breed Leonbergers? I saw Paddy when we came in. He’s fantastic.”

  That established an instant rapport between us, dog person to dog person. Those of us who love animals are kindred spirits, easy prey for anyone who praises our pets. Pruett blanched as he looked around. “Where are they? The rest of them, I mean.”

  Carrick chuckled. “Don’t worry. My kennel is in the back. Daisy just had a litter and she’s not keen on any involvement by Paddy, even though the big lug is the da.” He gestured toward the room surrounding a gigantic hearth. “Please. Sit down and make yourselves comfortable. I made tea.” He winked at the men. “Combined with a slug of Irish whiskey, it really hits the spot.”

  Pruett brightened. “Now you’re speaking my language. We won’t keep you too long, sir. Just a few questions.” He introduced us, stressing my quest to help a friend seeking family roots. That was my cue and, recalling Magdalen’s plight, I poured emotion into it.

  “I was raised in foster homes,” I said. “Didn’t think much about that until recently, but with all the advertisements about DNA testing and tracing one’s ancestry, I decided to give it a try. Professor Douglas at GWU suggested I help trace someone as an experiment of sorts.”

  Babette plowed headlong into the conversation. “Perri joined the army, graduated from college, and has her own business in Great Marsh. Kinda like Wonder Woman, but without the cape and lasso.”

  Another chuckle from Carrick. “Admirable,” he said. “You may not recall, Ms. Morgan, but I bought several of your dog collars online. Fantastic quality. It’s tough finding durable products for the big breeds, you know.”

  The unexpected praise warmed me, especially coming from a professional breeder. “Before we start, perhaps you’ll show us Daisy and her pups. Pruett’s daughter goes gaga over Leonbergers and I love the breed myself.” Naturally that led to similar praise from Carrick for my Malinois, and Clara, Babette’s border collie. Micah seemed content, but I knew by the tapping of Pruett’s fingers that he was impatient. Too much doggy love by half for that boy.

  “Come on, then,” Carrick said. “We can just take a peek. Daisy outdid herself this time. Nine pups, can you believe it?” He led us back to a separate kennel structure the size of a small barn where Daisy and her brood were resting.

  “No problem touching them. They’re five weeks now and love to play. Daisy would probably appreciate a bit of rest.”

  Needless to say, Babette and I immediately made fools of ourselves by petting and cuddling the pups. Micah joined in, but Pruett stood back and watched.

  “Are they all promised?” I asked.

  “All but one.” Carrick pointed to a large male with a wide splash of white on his chest. “That’s Prospero,” he said. “Probably not show quality with that white hair, but a lovable cuss if I do say so myself.”

  I lectured myself on all the reasons why another pet was simply not in the cards but remained unconvinced. If Pruett hadn’t nudged me back to the house, I might never have left the whelping room.

  “Easy does it,” he said. “Keats and Poe don’t want another dog in the mix.”

  “Ella would love him,” I said. “Hope she doesn’t find out.”

  “Don’t worry,” Babette said. “I snapped a picture of Prospero to send to her.” Pruett gave her a horrified look and she laughed. “Just kidding.”

  “This is an ideal setting for a kennel,” Micah remarked. “Although I see by those highway signs that may change.”

  A sudden scowl darkened Carrick’s face. “Developers! Vultures I call them. Damn pests have been plaguing all the property owners around here. Planning ‘country estates’—their words, not mine. I threatened to sic Paddy on them and they scattered.” He shrugged. “’Course that was an idle threat. Paddy’d lick them to death, but they didn’t know that.”

  Micah shook his head. “Did they have any luck?”

  “Yeah. Couple of my neighbors sold up.” Carrick’s lips tightened. “Can’t say as I blame them, though. They were getting old and couldn’t turn down a couple of million bucks. Not that I could either, but I did.”

  “Understandable,” Pruett said. “It’s your home.”

  Carrick slapped him on his back. “Exactly. Born and raised here and hope to end my days here too. Besides, my deed restricts ownership to the Farraday family. Da locked things up good and tight in some kind of family trust. Don’t know the particulars, but I know that much.” He chuckled. “That cooled off most of them right away. They went for easier pickings.”

  He led the way back into the living room and the real test of our visit began. I mentioned the Kingsbury family and a possible connection between them and the Melmoths. That’s where Micah joined in. As an attorney, he lent an official air to the proceedings and was able to cite the specific information that led us to Carrick.

  “The trail grew cold with Henrietta Farraday,” Micah said. “We hoped to find some linkage to your family, sir. I found a number of Kingsburys in Ireland—almost an overwhelming number. Quite a prolific clan, if I may say so.”

  Carrick nodded. “Yes indeed. They took that go-forth-and-multiply line as a direct command.” He reached down and patted Poe’s head as he spoke. “Henrietta was my stepmother, you see. Fine woman. She married my da in 1949, when I was a wee lad of six months. My own ma died in childbirth.” His face crumpled for a moment as he said that. “Not unusual in those times, of course, and a boy needs a mother.”

  My next task was a delicate one. How to mention Magdalen without appearing too eager? Fortunate
ly, Pruett had me covered.

  “The immigration papers listed Henrietta’s daughter. Did she live with you?”

  Carrick’s face lit up. “My, yes! Magdalen, my feisty big sis. We were a tag team, don’t you know. Oh Mags. How I loved her.”

  “Did you two keep in touch?” Micah asked. “Sounds like you were close.”

  A shadow eclipsed the grin on Carrick’s face. “Ah now, that’s a shame, it is. You know how families can be. Da went first and then Henrietta passed in 1969. After that our family started unraveling.”

  “Magdalen?” I asked tentatively.

  “Don’t you know, that girl was always strong-willed. No rules for her, you see. My da—well, he was an old-time Irishman, ruler of the house, king of the castle. No chit of a girl was going to disobey him. When Mags finished college, she had dreams—big plans. She wanted to be a writer, like her own father. Da wanted her to stay home with her family and keep house. He ran a construction business and Mags was clever with figures.” The tale was so riveting and the family drama so vivid that I lost track of time and place.

  “It was the 1960s, you see, and the old ways were out the door.” He grimaced. “There was a big dustup—oh, I can still see their faces. Mags packed her bags, squared her shoulders, and walked straight out that door with Da shouting that he never wanted to see her again.”

  Tears coursed down Babette’s face. “And…?”

  “That was the last I saw of my sister. She kept in touch with Henrietta, at least I think she did. Mags’s name was never spoken aloud again in this house.” He poured a generous slug of whiskey into his teacup. “Sounds harsh, I know, but those old fellows were like absolute monarchs. Don’t get me wrong. Declan Farraday was a good man but very much a product of his generation.”

  Time for Pruett to edge into the conversation. “You never tried to trace your sister?”

  Carrick sighed. “Not really. Things weren’t so easy before the Internet, and by now, if she were alive, Mags would be in her mid-eighties. I Googled her name several times but got nothing. Probably should have hired a private investigator, but frankly I was afraid of what I might find.”

  Micah raised his eyebrows.

  “I mean, I guess I wanted to picture Mags roaming Europe, writing salacious novels. You know. It would have broken my heart to know for certain that she had passed.”

  I slowly digested the information, visualizing young Magdalen Melmoth asserting herself under difficult circumstances. Losing one’s family was heartbreaking, a huge price to pay for independence. I knew that all too well.

  “Did you have any other siblings?” I asked. “I always yearned for a big family myself.”

  He sighed. “No siblings, just my Uncle John, Da’s younger brother. He’s long gone, of course, but his daughter lived somewhere around here for a while, and her daughter went on to have the career Mags could only dream of.” He grinned. “Never married myself. I’m sure no lady would have an old codger like me.”

  Pruett drained his cup of tea and said, “How so?”

  “Like most bachelors I’m set in my ways,” Carrick said.

  “Pruett understands that.” Babette smirked. “Just ask him.”

  Something Carrick said sent a warning flash in my mind. “Was Mags’s father a writer, Mr. Farraday?”

  “That depends on who you believe. Harriet said so, and Mags was sure that her da was a genius. My own father didn’t take kindly to such talk, though. Felt it fed Mags’s fantasies, you see.” He grimaced. “Might’ve been a tad jealous as well.”

  Pruett nodded. “I know that feeling. My daughter is only seven, but I feel so helpless sometimes when she gets the bit between her teeth. I don’t suppose Henrietta left any papers around the house? Some links to the Melmoth family?”

  Babette launched into a long digression about her own family and how she’d squirreled away keepsakes in her attic.

  My mind wandered as they spoke, and I wondered if my own parents were watching from afar, and if they felt proud of me.

  “I might have some things piled up around here,” Carrick said. “After Da and Henrietta passed, I kind of lost track of things. Didn’t have the heart to relive those memories.”

  Micah saw his cue and asked if Carrick would permit him to sort through any papers on behalf of his client. “Under your supervision, of course, sir, and at your convenience.”

  We agreed to reconvene in a week, after Carrick had time to consider the offer and to locate the information.

  The bombshell of the evening occurred as Carrick and Babette continued their chat. I was so far down memory lane that I nearly missed the entire exchange.

  “Well, at least your uncle’s granddaughter did okay,” Babette said. “I bet that makes you feel proud.”

  Carrick nodded. “She’s a doctor. Not a physician but a PhD. Lovely girl, Joan is.”

  The room was toasty warm, but a sudden chill enveloped my body. “Joan?” I felt duplicitous until I pictured Magdalen, helpless at the hands of potential killers.

  “Ah yes. Her married name is Fergueson. Dr. Joan Fergueson. She lives not too far away from here.”

  Chapter 12

  Pruett looked away, Micah stiffened, and Babette gasped.

  “Something wrong?” Carrick asked.

  This time Pruett’s duplicity came in handy. “It’s so weird,” he said, “but I believe we’ve met her, or at least someone with a similar name.”

  Carrick’s blue-eyed gaze sharpened. “No kidding.”

  I explained that Babette and I did Therapy Dog work at the Falls, and that the staff director was a Dr. Joan Fergueson. “She’s a woman in her middle thirties,” I said.

  Carrick paused. “Might be my Joanie. She kept her own name at first but finally changed to his.” He folded his arms and stared at us. “What’s really going on here? I’ve tried to answer your questions and I deserve the truth from you.”

  I kicked Babette in the shin before she began blubbering and allowed Micah to take the lead.

  “My client asked us to help find any trace of the Melmoth family, especially any close connections.” He shrugged. “We had no idea that Dr. Fergueson was related to your family.”

  Carrick clenched his hands. “Who is this client?”

  Lawyers are trained to dissemble, and Micah immediately illustrated why he was the pride of Georgetown Law School. “I’m sorry. Until I contact my client, I can’t reveal any more information. Ms. Morgan and Mrs. Croy were only trying to help. Mr. Pruett is a respected journalist who is writing a feature about tracing one’s roots. Believe me, we were not trying to deceive you.” Those words appeased Carrick somewhat, although he still remained wary.

  “May I call you tomorrow after I confer with my client?” Micah’s wording was stiff and lawyerly, but it served its purpose. Legalese was an ointment that deliberately obscured meaning and reduced inflammation.

  We rose as one and prepared to decamp. The warmth of the room and our meeting had vanished, leaving in its wake a decided chill.

  I pressed Carrick’s hand and said, “Thank you for your kindness and for sharing your beautiful dogs with us.”

  He nodded stiffly, ever the old-school gentleman. At that point I doubted whether he would honor his pledge to share family data or any other information with us again. Fortunately, Babette had no inhibitions whatsoever. She flung herself into Carrick’s arms and sniffled noisily. “You can’t dismiss us so easily, Carrick Farraday. I’ll be back. Don’t you let Prospero go without callin’ me. Ya hear?”

  On that surprising note, we sped back to northern Virginia to plot our next move.

  * * * *

  Pruett was stone-faced as we navigated the back roads, but I was no chatterbox either. Betrayal was foreign to me and I felt sickened by our attempt to deceive a fine man like Carrick Farraday. When we reached route 66 East, I tu
rned to Pruett. “What next? I can’t face Carrick again unless we fess up.”

  He brushed a strand of hair from my eyes, a tender gesture that thoroughly captivated me. “Look, Perri. We had no idea how Carrick would be, and we didn’t lie. Not really.” I rolled my eyes when he said that. No amount of rationalizing would convince me otherwise. Intent to deceive was the same as a deliberate lie. I’d learned that in my catechism days, and nothing had changed since.

  Pruett was undeterred. After all, his stock in trade involved luring the unsuspecting into revealing information. Behavior I considered shameful was merely a tool of his trade.

  “Remember,” he said, “we had no idea that Dr. Joan Fergueson and Carrick Farraday were related. How could we possibly know? It does raise some interesting questions, though.”

  “Like what?”

  His eyes gleamed. Frankly they recalled the line from Poe’s masterpiece The Raven, about fiery eyes that burned into my bosom’s core. A touch dramatic perhaps, but with his slick black hair and sharp profile, Wing Pruett resembled a bird of prey.

  “Tomorrow we’ll see Magdalen and have it out with her,” he said. “Enough posturing and dissembling. Being old doesn’t necessarily make her trustworthy. She’s been playing us from the start, parceling out just enough information to keep our attention.”

  He was right, of course. I’m usually a shrewd judge of character, but Magdalen Melmoth had captured an empty space in my heart and probably had done so deliberately. What had Irene Wilson said about her? Magdalen was a demon with computers and social media. Surely a woman with mad technical skills could have found the same information we had. After all, Carrick Farraday practically lived in her neighborhood and, unlike us, Magdalen knew his first name. I leaned back and rested my head on the buttery leather seat of the Macan. Exhaustion and, yes, disappointment overwhelmed me. I resented being used as a stalking horse by a person with a hidden agenda, especially someone I had liked and trusted. Overall our foray had been successful, but at what cost? We’d gotten insights into Magdalen’s childhood, rebellious teen years, and family, and also confirmed that her father was a writer. Nothing definite about Oscar Wilde. Not one bit.