by Arlene Kay
Babette gave me her smug look. “Already touched bases with her and invited Kate to lunch as my guest. Right after our Therapy Dog meeting. Someplace extraspecial. I booked us a table at the Willard for tomorrow.”
The Willard Hotel, directly across from the White House, was an iconic DC spot, both pricey and private. I gulped, thinking of the dent this meal could put in my bank balance. My feeble protest didn’t fool Babette one bit.
“We just ate,” I said. “Think of the calories.”
“Oh pooh. By one o’clock tomorrow we’ll be ravenous. Besides, think of it as an investment. Always get the best, I say, and the best is not cheap.”
I resigned myself to fate and heaved an enormous sigh. With Babette’s help I fed my pets and spent an hour riding Raza around the trails. Just being near the beautiful Arabian mare calmed me and helped me to think clearly. Kate Thayer was privy to literary gossip and might advise us on our next course of action. She also had the inside track on Rolf and his various enterprises. Naturally discretion would be called for and I would have to restrain Babette’s exuberant impulses. She sometimes blabbered nonsensically without even being aware of the secrets being spilled. Pruett termed it “galloping glossolalia,” a term he’d learned when researching religious cults. It meant speaking in tongues and accurately described my BFF in full stride, minus the spiritual side.
Just before noon the next day, we sped into the District garbed in our ladies-who-lunch finery. Mine was more modest than Babette’s, but we managed to pass through the portals of the famous Willard without incident. Kate awaited us in the lobby looking slightly frazzled. Most people knew that the term “lobbyist” was coined by an irate Ulysses S. Grant to describe the pesky office seekers who swarmed about him at the Willard as he tried to enjoy his cigars. Smoking of any kind was verboten now, but the lure of two hundred years of history enveloped anyone entering the hotel in a warm embrace.
“Believe it or not I’ve never eaten here,” Kate said. “Not likely on a librarian’s salary. It’s rather overwhelming. All this gilt and marble. Almost too much of a good thing.”
Babette swept away her concerns with an imperious wave. “They’re lucky to have three lovely ladies like us. We class up the place. Besides, Perri and I want to pick your brain.”
We followed her into the elegant Café du Parc and were greeted with the ceremony befitting a big spender like Mrs. Croy. Naturally she was known by name by the staff and cosseted by the maître d’. He didn’t bow and scrape, but his manner was certainly deferential. Babette frequented the most celebrated haunts of the capital city and had for years. We had absolutely no problem scoring a choice table.
After studying the menu and making our selections we got down to the business of the day. Librarians—even retired ones—were accustomed to dealing with the unexpected and bizarre. Nothing upset the unflappable Kate Thayer, even the bombshell dropped by her hostess.
“We’re on the hunt for somethin’ big,” Babette said sotto voce, “and it’s right up your alley. Tell her, Perri.”
Kate raised her eyebrows but remained silent.
I gulped, attempting to frame a coherent sentence. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the works of Oscar Wilde,” I said.
“Of course. Historical fiction was my niche, but actually I’m a big fan of the man and his works.”
Babette dove into the conversational pool immediately. “We think there might be somethin’ new.” She said no more, giving her coy look.
Kate frowned. “New? As in an undiscovered work?”
Fortunately our server arrived at that moment with the soup. That gave me time to regroup before Babette interfered again.
“Look,” I said. “We’ve heard all kinds of weird things at the Falls, especially since the murder occurred. There’s talk that an undiscovered novel of Wilde’s might exist. Sort of a sequel to Dorian Gray.”
Kate’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding. There’s been no buzz about it in literary circles or believe me, I would have heard. Who knows how these rumors start anyway? A new work by Wilde would inflame everyone here and across the pond. Around the globe actually.” She leaned forward, temporarily forsaking her soup. “It would be worth a fortune too. Finding a treasure like that is the secret wish of every bibliophile I know. Unfortunately most of us can only dream of traveling to magical places. Our salaries never match those dreams and our pensions don’t come close.”
I gave an expurgated version of Magdalen’s history, including the fragment of Sybil Vane we had read. Kate listened carefully while Babette took delicate sips of lobster bisque.
“If there’s any truth to the tale, it would bring the literary establishment to its knees. I don’t suppose you found anything else to support it?”
I explained that we were sifting through Magdalen’s papers and those belonging to her stepbrother, Carrick, for any scraps of information. That made me wonder how many other people knew about the Oscar Wilde connection. Naturally upon hearing Carrick’s name, Babette digressed into a lengthy discussion about Leonbergers and her new family member, the pup Prospero.
“I’ve heard of the Farraday kennel,” Kate said. “Top-quality dogs. He finds it hard to part with them unless the buyer is fully vetted.”
Babette preened after hearing that. “I guess I passed his test,” she said. “Such a charmin’ gentleman.”
Despite the conversational detours I returned to the business at hand. Our window of opportunity would close with the last morsel of lunch and we needed Kate’s expertise.
When she learned of my accident Kate reacted immediately. “Do be careful, Perri. Two people have already died if you count Sara Whitman and poor Carole. Who knows what lengths someone will go to if this manuscript actually exists?”
I still wasn’t certain that the manuscript had inspired the murders or that Magdalen was the target. Carole Ross was privy to every secret at the Falls and knew where the proverbial bodies were buried. Had her behavior caused someone to eliminate her?
“You knew Nurse Ross fairly well, right? Did she ever mention it? Knowing Magdalen, she might have hinted about something.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “Poor Carole. Limited social skills but a really good heart. Believe it or not, she was devoted to the residents.”
Babette hooted rudely. “Coulda fooled me. That woman was positively unfriendly.”
I ignored her and soldiered on. “We’re worried about Magdalen Melmoth. She’s so vulnerable.”
Kate smiled. “Actually Carole—Nurse Ross—was worried about Magdalen too. She never mentioned any manuscript, though. Carole kept harping on about inheritances, real estate, and such. Not just Magdalen’s. You hear so many things about old people being swindled. Some of those residents have fairly hefty portfolios and no close relatives. They’re suckers for a sad story or a bit of attention.”
“Like Sara Whitman?” Kudos to Babette for bringing that up.
“Hardly!” Kate rolled her eyes. “Sara was a crusty old soul. Pity the person who tried to fool her. Funny thing, though. When Sara told everyone she intended to divest of all her fixed assets, Nurse Ross went ballistic. Told her not to be a fool and to hold on to her portfolio. Sara became irate and told Carole to mind her own business. Said she had no relatives and would do what she damn well pleased.” Kate coughed delicately. “Believe it or not she said she made a killing on some deal with her new partner. Sara and Magdalen were quite similar actually. Two very tough peas in a pod. Little wonder they fought.”
I gulped but forced myself to forge ahead. “Surely not enough to incite murder. The police want to exhume her body and test for poison.” I explained the official theory about pesticides used to eliminate gophers and the presence of strychnine. Babette mentioned the Falls’ gardening shed, but before she could link it to Magdalen, I aimed a swift kick at her shins.
Fortunately, our entrees appea
red as if right on cue, causing a temporary lull in the conversation. After taking a few bites of kale salad I sallied forth again. “Sheriff Page thinks Magdalen killed Mrs. Whitman and Nurse Ross. I’m so frightened for her.”
“Fiddlesticks!” Kate tapped her knife on her plate for emphasis. “Magdalen is smart and feisty, not homicidal. Rolf mentioned that theory and I told him to go peddle his papers elsewhere. Man’s a menace when it comes to gossip, but he has his uses. Just saying, he’s the one you should ask about financial stuff, although not much else. His people skills are limited.”
I’d wondered about Rolf’s involvement; a hard-driving businessman seemed an unlikely candidate for a Therapy Dog group. Had Rolf used it to gain entrée into the Falls? A sea of vulnerable oldsters would make enticing targets for a profiteer. On the other hand, maybe the man just loved dogs and wanted to be of service. I couldn’t discount altruism as a motive even though I loathed him.
Babette curled her lip. “I don’t like that varmint. Thinks he’s slick.”
“Maybe.” Kate nodded. “But the guy’s kind of a financial genius. Real estate speculator, builder, you name it. He’s been buying up properties like mad at a big profit, to hear him tell it.”
I stayed neutral even though I shared Babette’s distaste for him. Though Rolf’s borzoi, Portia was delightful, so he got a few points for that. I filed away my doubts about him and tried a new gambit. “Magdalen is a very distant relative of Dr. Fergueson. But you probably already knew that.”
Kate temporarily ignored her scallops and gave me a hard stare. “Look, ladies. My only interest is therapy dogs. I try my best to avoid the other drama. Gets in the way of the mission. Joan and I never discuss personal things.”
I backed off, but Babette had no inhibitions. She leaned forward and flashed her pageant-winning smile. “Oh pooh. Librarians, retired or not, never miss a trick. You don’t fool me. Now give us the scoop. Magdalen’s goose is cooked and carved if we don’t step in.”
Most people find Babette hard to resist. Fortunately Kate was squarely in that camp. She heaved a sigh and finally capitulated. “Okay, although I stress that these are only impressions. Dr. Fergueson keeps that stiff, professional persona firmly in place. I’ve never even seen the woman laugh, but she tries to be fair with the residents. Most are really sweet, but some are a handful. I think she really tries to make their lives comfortable.”
I knew without asking that Magdalen Melmoth was firmly in the latter camp. Feistiness was a virtue in my book, but to an administrator it might be less endearing.
“Dr. F called Magdalen difficult and Dr. Dreamy backed her up. ’Course my lady, Irene, says Mags is solid as a rock.” Babette’s comment left Kate looking bewildered.
“Dr. Dreamy? Who’s that?”
I chuckled. Following the Croy commentary would bewilder any novice. Fortunately I was fluent in the language. “She means Jethro Tully.”
Kate looked over her glasses and frowned. “He’s not my favorite. Too patronizing and, as my dear mother used to say, up to no good. I admit that he’s handsome if you like the smarmy type. Big favorite with the ladies. I thought at first that he was sweet on Dr. Fergueson, but now I’m not so sure.” She shuddered. “Personally I wouldn’t trust him to diagnose my pup Gomer let alone a house full of vulnerable seniors. He and Rolf are big buds, of course. Two of a kind.”
I abstained from dessert, but Babette went whole hog. “Come on, Kate. Don’t make me stand out. Perri watches her figure, but I go for the gusto. The crème brûlée here is fantastic.”
Kate grinned. “I’ve seen Mr. Pruett, so I get it. No wonder you watch your figure, Perri. Smart girl. Plenty of competition out there.”
As they gobbled their sweets, I got a sudden brainstorm. “Many residents at the Falls can’t eat sweets. I suppose everyone knows that.”
Kate savored a bite of dessert before responding. “Not really. At their age most do whatever they please, even the ones with diabetes. Not much to lose, I guess. Someone always has a tin of cookies or a box of candy around.”
Still the person who sent Magdalen the box of chocolate didn’t know her habits and expected that she would sample the treats. Was it an outsider or merely a casual acquaintance? According to Irene, Magdalen had a secret admirer who plied her with gifts.
Babette wrinkled her nose. “What about that new nurse—Edgar something or other? He looks like a real brute. Scary.”
“Don’t ask me,” Kate said. “He came highly recommended. Dr. Tully knew him from before and vouched for him. I know he’s an animal lover, though. Gomer adores him.”
From what I’d seen of Gomer, that wasn’t much of an endorsement. He loved everything and everybody, unlike my Malinois, who were far more discerning.
Conversation dwindled after that. Despite the elegant surroundings and haute cuisine, our lunch party left me mildly depressed. We had learned very little and wasted an entire afternoon for our trouble.
After Babette settled our bill, I made an impassioned plea to Kate. “Will you help us? Sound out your library pals about this Sebastian Melmoth connection? We scoured the Internet, but you must have sources we simply can’t access.”
Kate patted my shoulder. “Of course. Librarians are detectives of sorts, you know. A literary mystery is right up my alley. I’ll see what I can find out.”
As usual Babette had the last word. “Just remember. Be careful. Somebody’s willin’ to kill to eliminate Magdalen. Don’t take chances.”
* * * *
Pruett assumed custodial duty of me that evening, a welcome relief from Nurse Babette. She meant well but had never learned that the less-is-more philosophy applied to sickbeds as well as jewelry and cosmetics.
“Looks like those staples are mending,” he said, gently brushing my bangs aside. “Hard heads have their uses, I suppose.”
I ignored his feeble attempt at humor. My lunch at the Willard had left me in a cantankerous mood that hovered over me like a dark cloud.
“Maybe we’re wasting our time on this Oscar Wilde quest,” I grumbled. “For all we know Magdalen might be stringing us along. Lonely people want attention, you know, particularly older ones.”
“I thought you liked tilting at windmills, Dulcinea.” His smirk begged me to slap him silly, but as usual restraint was my superpower.
“For your information, Frat Boy, Don Quixote did the windmill tilting. Dulcinea was strictly eye candy.”
Pruett bowed to my superior literary wisdom, but offered a different perspective. “Whatever her motives, something is definitely going on at the Falls and Magdalen is right in the center of it. Micah told me that she passed the psych evaluation with flying colors and gave Aleita more than she bargained for when they interrogated her.” He chuckled. “They were expecting a docile old lady, but you know Magdalen. Fire and plenty of vinegar.”
“Is she still a suspect?” I asked. “What about Sara Whitman? Are they still linking that to Nurse Ross’s murder?”
Pruett spread his hands out wide. “Whoa, Leather Lady. One thing at a time. Micah didn’t say this, but I think the police are stumped. Dr. Fergueson keeps stonewalling them and no one can figure out a motive for the murders other than spite.”
A wave of guilt assailed me. Some friend I was. How could I have suspected Magdalen of any involvement in the murder? If the Sybil Vane trail turned cold so be it. Bottom line: my new friend had something valuable that someone was willing to kill for. She had asked for my help and I couldn’t abandon her.
We planned a quiet evening of reading and discussion, but it was not to be. An unexpected phone call galvanized both us and our pets into action.
I seldom answer my landline, especially at night. Customers use email or my cell phone and friends do the same. Not everyone gets the message, however. Every telemarketer in the world zeroes in on the dinner hour, inundating me with unwanted roboc
alls and promises of a magical impotence pill that Pruett simply has no need for. Tonight was different. The phone rang and an unfamiliar male voice, urgent and troubled, uttered my name. At first, I didn’t recognize the caller. Then I realized it was Carrick Farraday, and something was very wrong.
Chapter 18
Carrick was so anxious, he skipped the amenities and plunged into a long, muddled narrative that made my head ache.
“Slow down, Carrick,” I said. “Pruett’s here, so let me put you on speaker. Are you okay?”
He took several deep breaths, and when he finally spoke, his voice shook. “Forgive me for disturbing you, Perri, but I think you’ll want to hear this.”
Pruett moved closer to the phone, pad and pen in hand. I noted that clever scribe was also recording the conversation on his iPhone as backup. “Go on, Carrick,” he said. “No problem.”
“I found it, or at least I found something important.”
I closed my eyes, reluctant to break the spell by asking what the “it” was. Pruett had no such inhibitions. In his profession he had learned not to hesitate when a source was willing to spill information. “Ready when you are,” he told Carrick.
“I was browsing through my library, just looking for something to read, you see. That’s when I found it.”
Once again I forced myself to power down. Otherwise I would be tempted to shriek something dreadful into the phone. Carrick would get to whatever “it” was in his own way and time. Sure enough, patience finally won the day. He described a fusty old volume that was concealed behind some of his father’s papers.
“It’s part of Henrietta’s things, actually. She passed not long after my da, you know, and I haven’t had the heart to sift through them. Funny thing. I was a grown man at the time, but I felt bereaved, like an orphan.”
His anguish was spot-on. I’d waited a year before delving into Pip’s belongings even though they weighed heavily on my mind. It felt like a betrayal, a final recognition that he was gone forever. Babette offered to help, but I resisted. Somehow that task was so painful and personal that I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Then I met Wing Pruett. That freed me to honor the past but also think of the future.
