Murder at the Falls

by Arlene Kay

  He fumbled around in his briefcase, found his glasses, and adjusted them, slowly, carefully. My side view of Babette suggested she was losing patience fast and might soon explode. Fortunately, she controlled her emotions by clinging to Clara, giving her a nose kiss and a big hug.

  “Sara Whitman. I think you recall the name.” Micah nodded encouragement at us, as if he were addressing particularly bright pupils. “Apparently there was a fracas between Magdalen and her.” He shrugged. “Who knows what prompted it? Anyway they had a heated exchange. No blows, of course, but Magdalen may have threatened her. At least that’s what Dr. Fergueson said.”

  This time Babette jumped in. “That proves what?” She snorted. “Two old tabbies spittin’ at each other—BFD. Bet it happens all the time at those places. Nothin’ much else to do.”

  Micah kept his tone unemotional. That heightened the impact of his words all the more. “True. However, this spat got way out of control. Magdalen apparently threatened to kill Mrs. Whitman. Two days later she died.”

  Suddenly I appreciated Sheriff Aleita’s dilemma. My thoughts seemed disloyal, but I could not dispel them. When two deaths follow verbal threats, a pattern begins to emerge. I recalled how easily Magdalen had “borrowed” Nurse Ross’s car and found her way to my house. That required an agile mind, physical dexterity, and technical skill. Age was no barrier to antisocial behavior despite our culture’s tendency to idealize sweet little old ladies. Magdalen Melmoth was tough as an old army boot, but I still doubted her capacity for evil. On the other hand, I would describe her more as saucy than sweet.

  Babette pinched my arm, almost causing me to spill my drink. “Hey! Watch out! What’s wrong with you?”

  Naturally no apology was forthcoming. My pal firmly believed in the adage about the best defense being a vigorous offense. “Stop woolgathering,” she said. “We need all our wits about us if we plan to help Magdalen.”

  That galvanized Pruett into protector-of-womanhood mode. He knew better, but that didn’t stop him from trying. “Listen, you two. Stay away from the Falls. Let Micah and me handle things. After all, there may be—no, probably is—a murderer on the loose. Forget about that Therapy Dog stuff.”

  I met his eyes with a fierce and fiery glare of my own. Pruett knew me well enough to gauge my reaction.

  Babette sputtered with indignation. “Wing Pruett, you sexist pig. Perri and I started this adventure and we plan to finish it. So, if you’re thinkin’ of layin’ down the law—just forget it!”

  Silence enveloped the room as four adults and three canines assessed the situation. The dogs leaned forward, ears pricked, eyes alert. Pruett and Micah had a different reaction. They laughed.

  “I guess they told you, Wing.” Micah’s eyes glittered with amusement.

  Pruett rubbed his cheek and shared the joke. “Put me right in my place. Ouch!”

  Babette simmered down, enjoying the impact of her action. “What can I do to help?” she asked.

  I had an idea. “Look. Irene strikes me as a pretty cool customer. Find out her take on that Sara Whitman and anything else that might be relevant at the Falls. Why did Sara plan to leave the place? Something must have upset her. Meanwhile I’ll dig into this paperwork. The manuscript might still be the key to all the mayhem at that place.”

  Micah finished his drink and rose. “What’s my job—in addition to saving the skin of our favorite senior citizen, that is?”

  I was so glad he asked. “Can you vet the staff with the professional societies in the state? I agree with Magdalen about Dr. Tully, but he may be a creep and nothing more sinister. Dr. Fergueson, Nurse Ross, and that new guy may have something worth knowing in their backgrounds.”

  Micah agreed. He and Babette left at the same time, although I can’t swear they left “together.” Meanwhile Pruett made himself useful by helping me with some pet chores as well as the dishes. We connected with Ella via Skype and got the good news that she would return that next week. Later on Pruett once again proved his expertise in other areas too personal to mention. I admit that I cherished this domestic side of him. What a startling contrast it made to the dazzling sophisticate who haunted DC hot spots and dominated the society pages! I dared to dream that maybe—just maybe—our relationship could work out.

  Chapter 16

  Babette couldn’t wait to get started. Early the next morning—way too early for me on a Sunday—she phoned with plans for meeting Irene Wilson. “I already called her,” she said. “Instead of visiting at that mausoleum we agreed to meet in town for a fancy meal. You know—ladies who lunch. Big brunch.” She took a breath. “My treat, of course. Irene has to watch her pennies. That Falls place is superexpensive.”

  Although I was bleary-eyed, my synapses were still firing. Babette needed firm guidelines to keep her on track. Meanwhile Pruett rustled around in the dark, searching for his robe and slippers, stubbing his toe in the process. He muttered a few creative expletives so loudly that Babette overheard them.

  “See you got lucky last night,” she said, heaving a very audible sigh. “Wish I had. Micah said adios and rode out of Dodge in a hurry.”

  To avoid a diatribe on perfidious men, I congratulated my pal on her initiative and ended the call. My pets were milling about demanding attention, and before long Zeke would start braying for his breakfast. I intended to exercise Raza as well. Thirty minutes of trotting, cantering, and galloping the Arabian could clear my head like nothing else. Fortunately I had perfected the morning routine and was able to meet everyone’s needs in record time. Pruett met my urgent needs by producing two large lattes complete with foam.

  Both of us had prior business commitments, so our time together was short. We put aside our involvement with Magdalen and focused on our own work. He planned to interview a disgruntled congressional aide with a tale to tell. My leather products were featured at a juried craft show in the DC Convention Center and I had high hopes for significant sales. I would tackle Henrietta’s documents afterward.

  The hours passed quickly, and before long I was speeding up the George Washington Memorial Parkway toward home laden with cash and buoyed by significant sales. As usual, my dogs accompanied me on the trek. I’d found that few things deterred car thieves like two hovering Malinois guarding the contents. The weather had turned blustery and I yearned for a pot of tea and a roaring fire to mute the chill. When we reached home Keats and Poe immediately sped around the property doing their daily run and cavorting with Zeke and Raza rather than joining me indoors. I put on the kettle, lit the logs in the fireplace, and bounded upstairs in search of Magdalen’s papers. I was positive I’d placed them on my desk in the study, but they were nowhere to be found. Perhaps Pruett had taken them into the living room after all. Some primitive instinct caused me to clutch the banister as I started my descent. That action probably saved my life. I stumbled over Thatcher and tumbled headfirst into darkness.

  * * * *

  Thank goodness for my hard head. The first thing I saw when I awakened was Babette Croy bending over me, towel in hand. Some sticky substance was dripping down my face, and I realized with a start that it was blood. My blood.

  “I declare, Persephone Morgan, you are an accident in the makin’. You scared me half to death.”

  Typical Babette. Everything, and I mean everything, was about her.

  “Here. Help me up.” I leaned on her arm and gingerly rose to my feet. Nothing was broken, which seemed like a minor miracle unless you counted the wound on my scalp. Head wounds bleed profusely, so despite the mess, I wasn’t too alarmed.

  “Now don’t worry. Pruett’s on his way.” Babette smirked. “I called Micah too. Just in case. Sometimes a lawyer comes in handy.”

  I tried to protest, but a wave of nausea put a stop to that. Pruett wasn’t obliged to save me from harm. We didn’t have that type of relationship. Did we?

  “Did you faint?” Babette ask
ed. She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not pregnant, are you? Tell me right now. Pruett is such a wonderful father.”

  “Certainly not! For your information I fell down those stairs.” I felt certain she didn’t believe me. Babette the romantic much preferred the pregnancy theory to clumsiness. The gravity of the situation finally registered with my pal. After checking the locks on my doors Babette pointed to Keats and Poe, mystified. “How could anyone hurt you with these two guys around? They were outside when I got here.”

  I explained the situation, stressing that an intruder had probably rummaged around before I arrived.

  That didn’t satisfy Babette. “What about your burglar alarm? It wasn’t on when I got here.”

  Although I’m very security conscious, it was possible—no, probable—that in the rush to leave that morning neither Pruett nor I had activated the alarm. A stupid but understandable mistake.

  Babette played nurse while I lay on the sofa assessing my wounds. My livelihood depended on the use of my hands; fortunately neither one had been damaged. My knee was not so lucky. It had swollen to twice its normal size and throbbed painfully. Nothing was broken or sprained and I could walk with a bit of help. After Babette cheerfully recited the injuries I might have sustained, ranging from death to a broken neck, I felt fortunate indeed.

  I must have dozed off because I awakened to the murmur of voices. Pruett and Micah each sat in my leather wing chairs like Praetorian guards while Babette perched on the arm of the sofa. I carefully raised my head and smiled at them, inciting a near riot.

  “Don’t move,” Pruett said, rushing to my side. He folded me into his arms and gently kissed my forehead. “Another bid for attention, eh, Persephone?”

  “She’s not pregnant,” Babette said. “I asked already.” Both Pruett and I blushed at that one, but Micah maintained a lawyerly silence.

  After taking a sip of tea, I explained my theory. “I think someone was riffling through my desk. Magdalen’s papers are gone.”

  Micah and Pruett exchanged looks and were immediately challenged by Babette. “Okay, you two. What are you hidin’? Come on. Spill.”

  Micah reached into his briefcase and removed a sheaf of papers that looked very familiar. “Recognize these? I found them stuffed in your trash bin outside.”

  I felt mixed emotions: relief and confusion. Why had the intruder risked so much only to discard the documents? It didn’t make sense. “My money! Check my wallet, please.” Pruett gave me a strange look but retrieved my tote bag from the counter. I dove into my purse, checking the side pocket for my haul from the trade show. It came to over one thousand dollars, a significant budget and ego boost and a needed addition to my bottom line. I sighed as my fingers touched a comforting bulge of bills.

  “Call the cops,” Babette said. “Some sex maniac may be on the loose. No decent woman in Great Marsh will be safe ’til he’s caught.”

  Although Great Marsh had its share of both decent and decadent females, I doubted that sex was the motive unless an intruder found me too repulsive to molest. Besides, we couldn’t really prove anything. My injuries were my own fault.

  “Must we call them?” I asked. “Such a fuss for nothing.”

  Pruett and Micah exchanged looks again. Their crossed arms and frowns predicted what the answer would be, and I lacked the energy to fight them.

  “Come on,” Pruett said. “We’re taking you to the urgent care place first. Your head’s still bleeding; you need some staples. Micah and Babette can wait here for the police.” He wrapped the towel around me turban style and gently lifted me from the sofa. “I’d better call Aleita too. This may be connected to the situation at the Falls.”

  My one comfort was the thought that at least they couldn’t blame this on Magdalen Melmoth.

  * * * *

  By ten p.m. I was back in my own bed decorated with ten staples, a knee brace, and a thundering migraine. Mercifully the authorities had come and gone without major disruption and Babette had attended to the needs of my pets. Pruett insisted on spending the night. In fact, he declared that he would not leave the premises at all until I was able to fend for myself. Call it a cliché, but every cloud does indeed have a silver lining.

  Exhaustion should have taken its toll, but it didn’t. For some reason every time I closed my eyes another question swirled through my febrile brain. It made no sense and yet I couldn’t shake it. If someone had burgled my home, what in the world did he or she want? I groped for my flashlight, hoping to hobble out of bed without disturbing Pruett. I’d forgotten that he had lightning-quick reflexes. He leaped up before my feet touched the floor and switched on the light.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “Need any help?”

  “Can’t sleep,” I said. “Go back to bed.” Keats and Poe responded immediately, plying me with doggy kisses as if they had been derelict in their guard duties and wanted to atone. Thatcher, the cause of my injuries, remained unrepentant. She glared at me and turned away from the light.

  “Hold on. If you don’t behave, I’ll call in Babette. She’s keen to practice her nursing skills.”

  That threat gave me pause. The last thing I needed was my well-intentioned BFF hovering over me, checking my temperature and plying me with tea and soup. Solitude was required, or at least some respite from Babette. I needed to think.

  Pruett knew me too well. He slipped into his jogging suit and held out his arm. “Come on. Be a sport. We’ll both sift through those papers. Maybe we can make sense of it. Two heads are better than one, or so I hear.”

  “Depends on which heads are involved.” I couldn’t help grumbling even though he made perfect sense. My head ached and the staples itched.

  In the end we negotiated a truce and were soon ensconced in my study with a cozy fire burning and a pot of tea steeping. Pruett had pronounced homebody talents that both astonished and delighted me. He brewed a mean pot of tea and was a wizard at producing cinnamon toast.

  We divided the material and dove into it. Most of the items were mundane, artifacts of life lived in a different era. The daunting task of sorting through a mountain of minutiae was enough to bring anyone to her knees. These days we’d label Henrietta Melmoth a hoarder. The woman saved receipts for household expenses, report cards, even correspondence with her dressmaker, but not one hint of a manuscript.

  After toiling for two hours Pruett stood up and yawned. “I’m beginning to think this Oscar Wilde chase is a chimera. After all, we have only Magdalen’s word and a few tattered pages of script.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Chimera—pretty fancy language for five in the morning. Impressive.”

  He made a mock bow. “I live to delight you, my liege.”

  I swatted him away as I spied an official-looking document at the top of his pile. “Hey. What’s this?”

  “Henrietta’s will. We’ve seen it before. She leaves everything to her daughter. No surprise there.”

  Some niggling doubt floated through my mind. “Better let Micah see it, though. Did Henrietta die before Declan or after? It might make a difference.”

  Pruett shrugged. “Easy enough to find out. Ask Carrick or check the courthouse.” He yawned and headed for the bedroom. “I better get going. My editor isn’t thrilled with this project, you know. Thinks it’s a waste of my oh-so-valuable time.”

  His remark was a throwaway, but it made me think. Maybe we were all wasting our time. I was certain of only one thing: Magdalen genuinely believed in the Oscar Wilde connection absent one scintilla of proof. How to explain that? Family lore always emphasized the positive and her parents might have greatly admired Wilde. Perhaps they’d even encountered him in Paris and become friends. Sebastian may have penned Sybil Vane as homage to his hero. Without a copy of the novel it was impossible to say.

  I sipped another cup of strong tea and plotted my course. Ministering to my pets came first, as Tha
tcher snarkily reminded me. She was capable of emitting ear-piercing shrieks when her needs went unmet. I hoped to avoid that if at all possible.

  When Pruett appeared he was barbered and dressed for corporate combat. He planted a kiss on my forehead and headed for the door before delivering an ultimatum. “Don’t leave this house by yourself, Persephone. Promise me.”

  “I have a business to run, you know. I can’t stay immured in this place forever.”

  His smile was radiant. “Exactly. That’s why I’ve arranged for you to have company.” He checked his watch. “In fact, she should be here any minute.”

  Right on cue, the Range Rover swept into the driveway. Babette Croy was on the case.

  Chapter17

  She bustled into the house laden with food. “Don’t thank me,” Babette said before I opened my mouth. “You know I’m always here for you. When Wing called I came running.”

  The aroma of something tasty reminded me that I was hungry. In fact, I was starving. My generous pal had packed a basket full of sliced turkey, cranberries, gravy, and mashed potatoes. Comfort food supreme. Who cared if it was only seven a.m.? Both of us tucked into the feast as if we were starving Pilgrims at the first Thanksgiving. After we finished I divided the remaining scraps among the dogs and Thatcher.

  “Yum,” Babette said after emitting one very ladylike burp. “That hit the spot. Now I’m ready to do some detectin’. I have a plan.”

  I watched my pal carefully. “Just what did you have in mind?”

  She flashed me the innocent look that had fooled so many men. “Time to pull out the stops and ask for help. Expert help.”

  Her explanation made perfect sense. Our group scheduled its monthly Therapy Dog update for the third Wednesday of each month. The session was local, lasted only an hour, and was led by Kate Thayer. Why not leverage Kate’s expertise in another area: English literature? After all, the woman had been a top librarian at one of the country’s most prestigious institutions.