Murder at the Falls

by Arlene Kay

  “We found some scrapbooks that might interest you, though. It was fun seeing Henrietta’s photo and Magdalen as a child.”

  Carrick watched me with his piercing blue eyes. “My niece called me yesterday. Magdalen is still a handful, according to her.” He chuckled. “I would expect no less.” He closed his eyes. “As the Bard said, ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.’”

  I recognized the quote from Antony and Cleopatra, but Babette frowned. She was no fan of obscure language and preferred some of the more risqué contemporary romance novels. Say what you mean was her frequent plaint.

  “Forgive an old Irishman,” Carrick said. “It’s almost a congenital problem. Poetry, literature, and high drama—we love it all.”

  He shared a pot of tea, brewed strong and dark like the eyes of my lover. I bowed my head in shame, thankful that no one could read my mind. Prurient thoughts were quite unlike staid and sensible Perri Morgan. If I didn’t put a stop to it, I’d be worse than Babette!

  Fortunately, my pal had more practical thoughts in mind. “Great tea,” Babette said. She supplied individual spinach quiches and homemade scones to add to our feast.

  “Harney’s Irish Breakfast. Pure Assam,” Carrick said. “Wakes a body up good and proper.”

  I angled my head to the side, trying to check my watch without appearing obvious. Where in the world were the guys? Surely Magdalen hadn’t changed her mind. I shuddered as I considered other alternatives: accidents, illness—the list was endless. Fortunately, Carrick came to my rescue by suggesting that we review the materials while we waited.

  Babette clapped her hands in glee. “Oh goody! I love a treasure hunt.” Once again, I wondered how many grown women could act that way without appearing addled. In this instance her emotion was genuine, and it worked. Carrick gazed fondly at my friend and brought out the goods.

  They were layered inside a trunk, the type of item formerly called a hope chest. That custom had basically bitten the dust when a wave of independent women wondered why their hopes were confined to linen, silver, and marriage proposals. I supported the cultural shift, but occasionally wished that at least a few of the more harmless traditions had survived. This ornate piece of furniture was quite lovely, carved in rosewood with a highly polished sheen. “Henrietta brought this with her from Europe,” Carrick said. “I recall on rainy days how she let me and Magdalen sort through the contents. We called it her treasure chest and were ever so careful not to ruin anything.”

  He removed several vintage garments that emitted a whiff of mothballs. Babette immediately swooped down on them, caressing the fine fabric and holding them up to her body. The workmanship was beautiful, but, unfortunately, they were made for a generation of much smaller women. Magdalen might fit in them quite nicely, but both Babette and I were out of luck.

  The real treasure lay on the bottom of the chest, a sheaf of documents, letters, and what appeared to be a manuscript. My pulse quickened. Had we finally reached the end of our quest? I reached down, but before claiming the prize, my cell phone interrupted me.

  Wing Pruett’s somber voice echoed like a prophet of doom. “We won’t be joining you today, Perri.”

  “What’s wrong?” I whispered, hoping against hope for the good news I knew would not come.

  “Magdalen’s been detained by the police. Aleita was vague about it, but I suspect they plan to charge her with the murder of Carole Ross.”

  I sputtered something unintelligible. Pruett responded, but whatever he said barely registered. Did Aleita Page really believe that an eighty-five-year-old woman could plan and execute such a heinous murder? It was too monstrous to even contemplate, and I feared that Magdalen might not survive the ordeal.

  * * * *

  “Murder! Impossible.” Carrick Farraday blanched as he said the words. “Mags never had a mean bone in her body. Not then, not now. People don’t change that much. Who was the victim anyway?”

  Babette took a giant gulp of air before answering. “A nurse at the Falls. Big and kinda grim-lookin’. How in the world can they blame Magdalen for that? It’s a miracle she wasn’t killed herself.”

  The rest of Pruett’s message finally hit me. Just when things couldn’t be worse, they suddenly were. I steeled myself for high drama when my audience heard the rest of the story.

  “Luckily Micah’s there with her. That way they can’t bully Magdalen.” I stalled, taking the coward’s way out. Unfortunately I couldn’t fool Babette. She stood before me—hands on hips—and glared.

  “What are you hidin’, Persephone Morgan? Come on. Spill.”

  Carrick gripped the arms of his chair in a vise. He stayed silent but watchful as the scene played itself out.

  I kept my voice calm and low. No sense in fueling hysteria. “There’s another complication he mentioned. Just a possibility, not a certainty.”

  I could tell that any minute Babette might spring at my throat and throttle me. If that happened, even my Malinois wouldn’t protect me from their beloved Auntie B.

  “Remember the talk about that other resident who passed? Irene mentioned her yesterday.”

  Babette nodded. “Yeah. Sara Whitman. The one who popped off unexpectedly.” She blinked twice before continuing. “Now wait just a darn minute. You can’t be serious. They’re not blaming Magdalen for that other woman’s death too?”

  I spread my hands in a gesture of futility. “Sheriff Price ordered an autopsy. I don’t know the particulars yet, but Pruett will fill us in. He said to meet him back at my place.”

  The silence in the room was oppressive, so thick that a wave of nausea almost assailed me. I rose, signaling to Keats and Poe. “We’d better get going or they’ll be waiting for us. You know how impatient Pruett gets.”

  Carrick’s reaction was strong but understated. “How can I help?” he asked.

  We agreed that after Micah sorted things out, Carrick might visit his step sister. As we headed toward the door, something else occurred to me.

  “Any chance we could borrow those documents? I promise to take good care of them and return them promptly.”

  He looked uncertain for a moment but recovered quickly. “Of course. Take whatever you want. Maybe they’ll cheer Mags up if she gets to see them.”

  Nothing deters Babette when she has a question. “Just what’s in those papers anyway, Carrick?”

  He scratched his head. “I have no idea. It’s been years since I sifted through these things. Truth is, I didn’t even remember them until you brought it up.”

  I’ve become a pretty good judge of character over the years. During my stint in the army, I spent time in Psych Ops, learning how to gauge and influence behavior. Our model, to Persuade, Change, and Influence, had many civilian applications, chief among which was the ability to discern truth from lies. I carefully watched Carrick’s expression as he spoke, and my training told me that he was telling the truth. It also suggested that he was hiding something.

  “If you want to help, there’s one thing you might try,” I said. “Find out what your niece knows about all this. She might share things with you but not with us.” I shrugged. “It’s worth a try anyhow.”

  Carrick agreed, and after promising to call him as soon as we had any more information we left and headed back to Great Marsh.

  Chapter 15

  “I just can’t understand it,” Babette moaned. “Kind of late in life for Magdalen to turn into a serial killer isn’t it? Pruett’s old flame must be an idiot!”

  I ignored the reference to Aleita Page and focused on the problem at hand. No sense in speculating until we heard the facts. Besides, Aleita was both brainy and beautiful according to Pruett, connoisseur of the fair sex. I racked my own brain trying to think what information could possibly have surfaced.

  Babette riffled through the sack of documents Carrick had given us. I realized she
was restless and desperate for something to do, but as my foster mom had constantly stressed, haste makes waste.

  “Will you stop that before you ruin something?” I said. “You can’t see in the dark anyway. Besides, Oscar Wilde and his progeny are irrelevant to Magdalen’s current situation.”

  My pal mumbled something distinctly unladylike. It was a rare display of poor manners by a Southern belle raised to flourish in polite society. Compared with army expletives, however, Babette was a rank amateur totally outgunned in any slanging match.

  “What were you talkin’ about?” she asked. “The manuscript triggered this whole mess.”

  She sobered up as I stated the obvious. The murder of one, possibly two people had far more impact than any literary find. In addition, we couldn’t prove any linkage between the deaths and the manuscript.

  I puzzled over a larger question as well. How would an elderly woman gain access to a lethal substance like strychnine? Several years ago some of my neighbors recommended it for eliminating gophers and other pests. Pip had refused outright. Neither one of us could bear the thought of killing another creature, even one as annoying and destructive as a gopher. Unnecessary suffering by either humans or animals was contrary to our belief system. I’d already seen enough of it to last me for the rest of my life, thank you very much.

  “Are you listening to me, Perri?” When Babette was on the warpath, watch out. “Dreamin’ again, aren’t you? I swear, Wing Pruett has his hands full with you.”

  I smiled at the thought of Pruett using his very talented digits. Fortunately Babette missed my reaction and continued her rant about the manuscript, Magdalen, and our obligation to aid her. Before long we reached my little bit of heaven in Great Marsh and found Pruett and Micah waiting patiently at the door.

  Their faces were somber and they said very little until we were nestled around the fireplace sipping hot chocolate spiked with brandy. Keats, Poe, and Clara joined our circle as the guys updated us.

  Micah took center stage because Magdalen was his client. Apparently she had been formally questioned about the murder of Nurse Carole Ross and, due to a lack of evidence, had been released without being charged. Aleita suggested an evaluation of Magdalen’s mental fitness, but Micah staved that off.

  “We were lucky,” Micah said. “The magistrate was no spring chicken himself and I think he resented the sheriff’s actions. Fortunately I’m guardian ad litem for mentally incapacitated adults and that expedited things. Appointed me to represent Magdalen’s legal and medical interests.”

  Magdalen—incapacitated? That must have infuriated her.

  “Phooey,” Babette said. “There’s nothin’ crazy about that woman. Why, she’s as sane as I am. Just because she’s old doesn’t mean she’s a murderer or crazy.”

  None of us was unwise enough to comment on Babette’s sanity, or Magdalen’s either for that matter. Micah mentioned, however, that by having her evaluated Mags might be spared the indignity of a jail cell. Temporarily at least. It therefore remained a viable option.

  “Surprisingly enough Magdalen didn’t resist meeting with a therapist. Her only stipulation was that it not be Dr. Jethro Tully.” Micah raised his eyebrows. “I guess he’s the resident gerontologist at the Falls and she questioned his objectivity.”

  Babette snorted loudly. “Perri called him smarmy just like Mags did. Personally, I found him very appealing.”

  I learned my head back against the couch and closed my eyes. “Why did they arrest her?”

  Pruett squeezed my hand as he explained. “They didn’t actually arrest her. Just brought her in for questioning. Aleita didn’t want to, but she had no choice.” He sounded evasive, which meant that he knew more than he was willing to share.

  Leave it to Babette to surface the proverbial elephant in the room. “What changed? Why single her out now?” She pounded the table. “Stop pussyfootin’ around and tell us.”

  Pruett and Micah exchanged looks. “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.” I dove headlong into the morass. “Okay. How in the world would Magdalen get strychnine? It’s a controlled substance, for heaven’s sake.”

  Micah rubbed his hands together. “Gophers.”

  “What?” Babette and I spoke as one.

  Apparently my neighbors were correct. One can still obtain pesticides containing strychnine online. In addition to eliminating a host of outdoor pests, they presumably could serve up human pests on that endangered species list. I fired up my computer, and sure enough several vendors sold the stuff at a reasonable price.

  “Did Magdalen Melmoth order that stuff?” Babette’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Somehow I just can’t feature that.”

  “Nope. But the gardener at the Falls kept a supply of it in the shed. He said Mags was a keen gardener eager to help him with his chores.” Pruett sighed. “Apparently she quizzed him about pesticide use in the name of ecology. Or so she said.”

  The evidence was scarcely compelling. After all, as a farm girl, Mags knew plenty about herbicides and their uses. Her interest seemed natural to me.

  Every once in a while, Babette astounded me. This was one of those times. “I suppose he keeps that shed locked up good and tight.”

  Both guys shrugged.

  “Aha! That means anyone on the place had access to the same stuff.” Babette had a smug expression on her face. “I rest my case.”

  Micah flashed her a look of open admiration. He had just learned what the rest of us already knew: Babette Croy was far more than just a pretty face. “Good point,” he said, “but there’s one other thing.”

  I dreaded the answer that was forthcoming.

  “No one else had a blazing row with Nurse Ross before she was murdered. Magdalen certainly did. She admitted it. Apparently accused her of all sorts of chicanery.”

  Considering the victim’s sour disposition, I was positive other residents may also have nursed grudges against her. A contained environment like the Falls was a petri dish for breeding grievances of all sorts.

  Questions were still percolating in Babette’s brain. She poured herself another drink and swirled the liquid around in the glass. “How would a body get strychnine into chocolates anyway? Seems like someone would notice.”

  Neither Pruett nor Micah responded, but I had my own thoughts. High-end candy was often handmade, so it was irregularly shaped. No one was likely to notice or complain about any imperfections, especially in a facility where many residents suffered from failing eyesight. What better way to conceal the bitter taste of strychnine than to inject it directly into the candy? The Falls was a place with plenty of residents suffering from diabetes and other ailments. Finding a syringe would be no problem, and disposing of it would be even easier. I assumed that strychnine had been introduced into the candy via a needle. That rich milk chocolate would easily mask the bitter taste of the poison. The candy! Had Sheriff Aleita traced the purchase to anyone in particular? I waited for that particular pump to drop, praying that my new friend’s name would not be mentioned.

  Babette was unaccustomed to being ignored. “I’m still waitin’,” she said, stamping her foot for emphasis.

  Pruett threw back his head and laughed—a big hearty guffaw. “Who could ignore you, my lady? As it happens, someone injected poison into the candy—not every piece— just the soft centers. Not so hard to do when you think about it.”

  I closed my eyes and envisioned the scene. How clever to inject poison into the soft-center candy. Many of the residents probably avoided chewy caramels that might compromise bridgework or dentures. Someone with brains had expended time and effort planning this caper. It required stealth and discipline, two qualities Magdalen had in abundance. The one element she lacked was cruelty. No way would the literate, charming woman I had come to know do such an evil thing, whatever the provocation. Nothing could convince me otherwise.

 
; Micah hadn’t said much since he arrived. Perhaps he was busy considering his client’s dilemma and the consequences to come. More likely he felt constrained by his attorney-client relationship with Magdalen. He cleared his throat and captured our attention. “You probably don’t know this, but Magdalen has a secret admirer—at least that’s what she says. Seems as if she gets flowers and the occasional box of candy quite regularly.”

  I yearned for the childhood habit of putting my hands over my ears. Then I would miss what was surely to come.

  Micah’s voice was steady and unemotional as he continued his narration. “The chocolates were all from the same Belgian candymaker. The same one that poisoned Nurse Ross. She always shared them with the staff and residents without incident. No one would have suspected anything was amiss.”

  “Surely there are purchase records, something to prove who sent it.” I was on firmer ground now. No one could blame Magdalen for receiving a gift, could they?

  “They’re checking that out now. One thing they verified, though. She always saved the candy for others. Made a habit of it.” Micah locked eyes with Pruett when he said that.

  The key to solving homicides often lay with the victim herself. I knew that from personal experience as well as crime literature. I asked myself what we really knew about Nurse Carole Ross. One thing I had observed: she liked to snoop. Perhaps she’d uncovered the manuscript or knew about our quest. If so, had she shared that information with friends or a lover? Learning the answer was a task suited to the particular talents of the winsome Wing Pruett. His claque of superannuated fans would bask in the attention and spill anything they knew about poor Nurse Ross. He grinned when I proposed the idea but didn’t reject it. That boy knew his impact on all spectra of the fair sex. I gave him points for honesty at least.

  Micah reached into his briefcase and retrieved his iPad. From his grim expression I foresaw that more bad news would soon follow. “Something else,” he said. “The sheriff mentioned this but didn’t elaborate. Still, I ‘m afraid it’s something to consider.”