by Arlene Kay
“Wake up, sleepyhead.” Pruett touched my shoulder as we swung into the driveway of my home. “Need me to carry you inside?”
I bounced up immediately. “Hardly. I was just thinking. Resting my eyes.” For some reason I hated to be caught napping. It heightened my sense of vulnerability, particularly around Pruett, whose constant state of hyperactivity was almost superhuman.
“Sure. Must have been mistaken.” I knew he was laughing at me, but I refused to yield. No need to play the fragile vessel around him when there were plenty of women vying for that role. I gritted my teeth and stayed strong.
He checked his watch. “I think we have time for a strategy session if Micah and Babette are up to it. How about if I warm some brandy and light up the fireplace?”
That offer was just too good to refuse. Before long, four adults, three dogs, and one surly coon cat were gathered about the fireplace, inhaling the comforting scent of fragrant oak logs. Fortunately Zeke the pygmy goat stayed in his shed, with beautiful Raza to keep him company.
We quickly summarized our impressions of Carrick and the bombshell revelation about Dr. Joan Fergueson.
“I knew that heifer was up to no good,” Babette said. “Told you that, Perri, the first time we met her. Old starchy drawers.” She paused. “In fairness, those croissants they served were the best I’ve ever eaten. Heavenly.”
Micah glanced up from his iPhone and said, “It’s puzzling. Surely Dr. Fergueson knows the background of her residents. Magdalen’s name would stand out a mile to someone with her family history.” He shrugged. “Why hide it? Maybe she’s playing a double game.”
My mind was awash with answers to that very question. Had Mags revealed her supposed ancestry to either the staff or the other residents? Irene Wilson knew and might have quite innocently mentioned it. If the lost Oscar Wilde manuscript actually existed, Joan Fergueson may have coveted it and acted accordingly. Murders had been committed for far less.
Pruett added his perspectives to the mix. “I watched Carrick closely the whole time and I don’t believe he was lying. He truly didn’t know Magdalen’s whereabouts unless he gave an award-caliber performance.”
The consensus about Carrick was easy to reach; we all liked him. Babette was also gaga over his dogs, especially the pup Prospero. I’d seen that air of determination before and knew what it presaged. When the Croy express started rolling—watch out.
“We need to speak with Magdalen,” I said. “Tomorrow.”
Micah and Pruett had prior commitments, but I was undeterred. “No problem. Babette and I will swing by the Falls first thing. Don’t worry. We’ll keep you updated.”
They didn’t like it, but they bowed to the inevitable. Tomorrow would be a day of reckoning for us, Magdalen Melmoth, and Oscar Wilde as well.
* * * *
Before leaving the next morning, Pruett gave me plenty of unsolicited advice. Based on my army training, I knew how to protect myself, although Babette’s skills were questionable. We joked that if faced with danger, her only option was to talk her adversary into a stupor. There was more than a grain of truth to that; martial arts had not been on the debutante menu when Babette came of age. Pruett mentioned that and continued to dither over me until I finally called a halt to it.
“We’ll be in full view of dozens of people,” I said. “Besides, I’m eager to chat with Dr. Fergueson before she hears from Carrick first. Tomorrow’s our regular Therapy Dog day anyhow, so it won’t look suspicious.”
Pruett nervously ran his fingers through that thick crop of hair. His morning interview was with a congressman, so he was formally garbed in the DC uniform of a navy suit, a starched white shirt, and a tie. The effect was dazzling, but I kept my hormones in check. No time for nonsense today. No sir!
“Don’t try anything cute with those people,” he warned. “Remember, there’s a murderer running loose around there.”
“What does Sheriff Aleita say?” I teased. “Surely you have some inside info on the case.”
His normal good humor deserted him and Pruett was not amused. “Funny, Perri. We’re talking homicide here.” He looked down—a dead giveaway that he was trying to avoid something. “Besides, Aleita hasn’t gotten much farther than we have. Do you know how many outlets sell Belgian chocolates these days? Impossible!”
I pinched his cheek. “Come on, Golden Boy. Fess up. Who’s their chief suspect?”
Pruett straightened his tie and adjusted his jacket. “I have no idea. Besides, they’re wondering if Nurse Ross was the intended target all along. Guess who that puts in the bull’s-eye?”
I got the uncomfortable feeling I already knew the answer.
“One Magdalen Melmoth, that’s who.” Pruett gave me a superior smirk. “Seems that Magdalen had a big blowout with Ross that very week. Something about medication or lost items. Very explosive.”
I realized how absurd that was, but in a rural police force anything was possible. Magdalen might be railroaded into a jail cell if she wasn’t careful.
“Does Micah know?” I asked, trying to quell the panic in my voice. As a major fangirl of Perry Mason, I knew what he would tell his client: keep your mouth shut.
“He knows. Believe me, Ms. Melmoth is in good hands. Just be careful what you do at that place.” He shuddered. “The Falls. Even the name gives me the creeps. Like something out of a horror movie.”
Luckily for the sake of my nerves, Babette drove up at that point and tooted her horn. I kissed Pruett’s forehead, gathered my dogs and gear, and decamped as fast as I decently could. My pal was a ray of sunshine, garbed in shades of yellow with a pinch of orange. Naturally everything was perfectly coordinated, from her parka to her thigh-high boots. In contrast, I wore my peacoat, plaid flannel shirt, and perfectly pressed jeans with ankle boots. Both of us wore makeup, although I had to admit that hers was more skillfully applied. Our vehicle of choice that day was Babette’s new Range Rover, a snazzy ride with every possible premium feature and a fantastic red exterior. Fortunately I never envied my pal’s wealth or judged her conspicuous consumption. Both were aspects of her character that combined nicely with a loving heart and generous soul. As we clambered into the beast and sped off toward the Falls, I noted a telltale flush on Babette’s face that meant only one thing. Sex, love, or the prospect of both had once again entered her life.
“Did Micah get home all right?” I asked.
My friend was uncharacteristically closemouthed. “Yep.”
“He’s a good guy,” I said. “A keeper for sure.”
Whatever had gone on between the two of them remained a mystery, and I could only assume that things went well. No need to press. Sooner or later Babette would share every detail, even the most intimate ones. She simply couldn’t help herself.
“Let’s check in with Dr. Fergueson first thing,” I said. “We’ll know right away if she spoke with her uncle. What’s your bet?”
“Carrick seemed like a straight shooter to me. If he contacted her, she’ll probably tell us. Safer that way.” She grimaced. “Dr. Starchy Pants is one cautious critter, trust me on that. Won’t give away anything unless she has to.”
We pulled into the driveway, unloaded our gear, and queued up behind the other Therapy Dog participants. I waved to Kate Thayer but didn’t stop to chat. The oleaginous Rolf Hart stood behind her, surrounded by a gaggle of admirers. He virtually ignored his lovely borzoi, who he seemed to regard as a fashion accessory rather than a beloved pet.
Today’s group included two golden retrievers, one rambunctious Lab, and several miniature poodles. Blending in seemed the better part of valor and the crowd made it easy. Pruett would approve of a cautious approach and I hoped to assess the climate at the facility before acting. Right on cue, Dr. Joan Fergueson entered the lobby and welcomed us with a specious smile. To my surprise, she was accompanied by someone new in medical garb. It seemed early a
nd a tad disrespectful to have replaced Nurse Ross so soon after her death. Dr. Fergueson addressed that by noting that increased staffing at the Falls had been planned weeks before. The newcomer was introduced as Edgar Williamson, a burly man of middle years who looked like he meant business. His shaved head and perpetual scowl added to the dampening effect. Babette elbowed me as we stood in a semicircle around him.
“Hope we don’t have to tangle with that guy, Perri. He looks mean.”
“Be cool and watch out for Irene and Magdalen.” Babette was task oriented; give her a job and she forgot everything else. As I scanned the audience, I saw several residents who had mobbed Pruett last week, as well as a number of less mobile people in wheelchairs and walkers. No sign of either Irene or Magdalen. Babette clutched Clara in a death grip and twisted her own long locks into a ponytail. “Let’s get this show on the road,” she muttered. “Time’s a wasting.”
Most Therapy Dog programs followed an established pattern: a general introduction to the residents, a nod to each dog and handler duo, and an interactive session with plenty of laughter and a few prizes. The warm reaction by our audience was genuine, and because of their size, both Keats and Poe were tasked with opening and closing the session with a formal bow. I was so consumed by the explosion of love and awe for the dogs, I zoned out and forgot our true purpose. Fortunately Babette applied a sharp elbow to my side, bringing me painfully back to my senses.
“For heaven’s sake, Perri, stay on task. Stop mooning around.” Babette the Enforcer was in the house and I couldn’t argue with her.
“You slip out and find Magdalen,” I said, “while I chat up Dr. Fergueson. She glared at us the minute she came into the room.” It was probably paranoia on my part, although the look on Joan Fergueson’s face was far from friendly. Her greetings to the volunteers were artificial and good cheer was noticeably absent from her prepared remarks. Then again, I’d never noticed much warmth radiating from her before, so nothing had really changed.
“Hope that mean nurse doesn’t catch me,” Babette whispered. “He looks like a thug. Too bad Dr. Tully didn’t show up. I know how to handle his kind of hottie.”
After a few false starts she finally sidled toward the elevators, while I edged closer to Joan Fergueson. This morning the administrator had traded her somber attire for a flattering cherry dress whose vibrant color suited her well. Somehow I’d never noticed before that deprived of her drab uniform Dr. F was an attractive woman. Her jewelry was expensive but understated: an intricate gold necklace and a ruby ring that highlighted the color of her dress. Did she deliberately understate her sex appeal by shielding herself with the bland mask of bureaucracy? Some women equated drab, shapeless clothing with authority. Nonsense, of course, but not unusual.
“May I speak with you for a moment?” I asked. My smile was nonthreatening and letter perfect. “I met a friend of yours last evening.”
She swiveled her head wildly, as if looking for salvation. “Yes. Yes. Of course, Ms. Morgan. Just give me a chance to close the program out.”
I pondered her reaction, then shrugged it off. Clearly the woman was unsettled by my request, although she might have other pressing matters on her plate as well. Better not to read too much into it. Before long, she waved me into one of the more secluded conversation areas, adjusted the hem of her dress, and gave me a nervous smile.
“You mentioned a friend of mine,” said Joan Fergueson. “Who might that be?”
I’d had plenty of time to practice deception, a skill that had grown appreciably since I met Wing Pruett. Some day—in the future— I needed to evaluate that character flaw and make amends.
“We met your uncle last evening,” I said. “What a wonderful man!”
At first Joan looked puzzled, making me wonder how many relatives she had.
“You know, Carrick Farraday.”
Light finally dawned on the woman. “Oh. Uncle Carr. Yes, he is a real charmer. How did you happen to meet him?”
I gave an expurgated and slightly untrue account of our actions. “I’m a leather smith, you know, and turns out we’ve actually done business before. His Leonbergers were simply majestic!”
Joan coughed faintly. “Yes. Yes. Overwhelming. I haven’t seen him in quite a while, of course. The demands of everything here keep me so busy.”
Our conversation faltered, leading me to up the ante. “I had no idea you were related to Magdalen too. Strange how things turn out, isn’t it? That old six-degrees-of-separation theory at work.”
Dr. Fergueson turned aside and coughed once more. “You’ll have to excuse me. I can’t seem to shake this cold.”
“No problem,” I said. “Most everyone has some kind of bug this time of the year.”
That pause allowed Dr. F to regroup. She gave me a vague, minimally polite stare, as if I had made some glaring faux pas. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. What makes you think Ms. Melmoth and I are related?”
That took me aback. “Magdalen’s mother was Carrick’s stepmother. Magdalen lived with the Farradays until she finished school. I just assumed you knew all about it.”
Despite the warmth of the room’s central heating, Joan Fergueson radiated pure frost. “Family history never interested me much. I assure you there’s been some type of mistake.” Her features were set in an impenetrable mask that epitomized the term “stone-faced.” Had I stared at the monuments on Mount Rushmore I would have been more likely to spark a reaction. Joan Fergueson was one tough cookie who was unlikely to crumble easily.
Most people call me plucky, although Pruett says I’m hardheaded. Faced with Joan’s resistance I tried another tack. “By the way, how is Magdalen? I didn’t see her at today’s program and it kind of worried me. She’s so keen on the Therapy Dog program. She’s not ill, I hope.”
Joan gave me a steely glance designed to quell incipient rebellion by the masses. “You must understand that even if what you say is accurate, Ms. Melmoth and I are very remote connections at best. I try to discourage favoritism here, and frankly I screen out most of the residents’ chatter. I can assure you that Magdalen has never suggested such a thing to me. I’m surprised Uncle Carrick even mentioned the matter.”
I considered my options and decided to seize the moment. I have always been an impulsive kind of gal anyway. “I was surprised myself. We had no idea you were related. As it turns out, Magdalen was concerned about some missing family papers and I promised to help find them.” I shrugged. “It seemed like such a small favor and Wing thought it might make for an interesting piece.”
Her eyes widened. “Wing Pruett was part of this charade? Haven’t we had enough bad publicity?” She clutched the top of the sofa as if it were a lifeline. “Since Nurse Ross died our residents haven’t stopped chattering. You can’t believe how many calls I’ve gotten from their relatives, and the local press has simply hounded me.” For once the seemingly imperturbable Dr. F seemed surprisingly human and ready to crack.
Normally I loathe rubbing salt in a wound, but in this instance… “Murder tends to upset folks, I guess. The residents here are so vulnerable.”
A low sound from Keats alerted me to a possible problem. When I turned around Edgar Williamson was right behind me. For a large man he moved quickly, and his steps were surprisingly quiet. Stealthy.
“Something wrong, Dr. Fergueson?” His voice was guttural, more growl than gruff. Had I been alone I would have felt threatened.
She shook her head. “Everything’s fine, Edgar. Ms. Morgan was just leaving.”
I summoned my great big Brownie smile. “Of course. By the way, are there any storage facilities on-site for the residents? Might as well sift through Magdalen’s belongings while I’m here.”
Joan Fergueson puffed up like an affronted cobra. “Impossible! I can’t allow a stranger to pillage her belongings. I have a fiduciary responsibility here.”
I enjo
yed administering the coup de grâce to this uptight bureaucrat. Maybe Pruett wasn’t such a bad influence after all. Puncturing the balloons of the self-important provided instant gratification. “Oh. You probably didn’t know that Magdalen designated me as her heir. Power of attorney and all that legal stuff. I can have her lawyer fax you the information.”
Joan Fergueson showed admirable self-control. The information obviously floored her, but she recovered quickly. She squared her shoulders and assumed the mantle of authority once more. “Please do that. Each resident has a locker in the lower level. I keep a key and so do they. We don’t want them prowling about alone. Injuries, you see. Insurance liability.”
Magdalen had neglected to share that bit of information with me. I fumed inwardly but maintained my composure. Sangfroid, they called it in composition classes. The French have such a way with words. “Terrific. Mrs. Croy and I will check with you first.” I shook Joan’s hand and made my escape before Nurse Edgar could intervene.
Chapter 13
I found Babette, Magdalen, and Irene Wilson huddled together in Irene’s suite sipping chamomile tea and munching biscuits. Guilt was spread over their faces like strawberry jam.
“Okay you three, fess up.” I resurrected my sergeant self, hands on hips and serious frown. All I needed was a uniform and a nightstick. First, I tackled Babette. She was the youngest and most likely to yield under pressure. “What kind of trouble have you been brewing?”
My pal lacked the gene for lying. Her downcast eyes and swaying movement proved that.
“Stow it, will you, Perri? We’ve just been talkin’ about things.”
Magdalen coolly intervened. “Have some tea, dear. You must be parched.” She lowered a plate of chicken gizzards to the floor for my dogs, and those stalwart guardians quickly succumbed to the bribe.
