Murder at the Falls

by Arlene Kay

  Carrick spoke so softly that I could barely hear him. “I have no right to bother you, but I figured you’d understand. Least I hoped so.”

  He still hadn’t said anything, and my patience was wearing thin. Pruett, however, saw an opening and immediately sailed through it. “We’ll be right over, Carrick. Don’t you worry.” When he ended the call a look of pure triumph suffused his face.

  I gave Pruett my stoniest stare. “Are you crazy? Now we’ll be up all night, and I for one have a business to run. You know, orders to fill, bills to pay.”

  He brushed off my objections like lint. “Don’t be a spoilsport. You know, maybe you should alert Babette, and while you’re at it I’ll call Micah.” He smiled coyly. “Of course, if you’re really too busy, we can go without you.”

  Not likely! I started this adventure and intended to see it through to the bitter end.

  As luck would have it, both Babette and Micah were otherwise occupied. Mrs. Croy was attending a gala at the Kennedy Center and Micah was presenting some dull-as-dust treatise on legal aid to his American Bar Association chapter.

  Pruett seemed delighted to have the field to himself, even though it entailed sharing his Porsche with Keats and Poe. There was no telling how long this excursion would last, so I hastily filled water buckets for Zeke and Raza, and poured each of them an extra portion of feed to stave off the munchies. Thatcher’s bowl was always filled in case that finicky feline decided to dine. While he waited Pruett pranced around the living room in a graceful movement worthy of Nijinsky. Clearly he was aching to reach Carrick to share his special find.

  “You’ll probably be disappointed by the big reveal,” I said. “Best to lower your expectations.” Pruett complained that I was a wet blanket, but from my perspective I was the only adult in the house. If Carrick produced the manuscript for Sybil Vane, I would rejoice. That outcome seemed highly unlikely.

  Pruett bundled me into the Porsche Macan and ignored my grumbling. He planted a kiss on my forehead and fired up the GPS. “Things are finally coming to a head,” he said. “Every time this happens my fingers start tingling. One way or another we’re going to solve this thing, and tonight may be the night.”

  Keats and Poe leaped gracefully into the back seat, ready for adventure. After facing down terrorists and bombs, civilian tasks must have seemed mundane to those war heroes. Either way I was grateful for their company. If my unwanted visitor returned to the house, I wanted the dogs out of harm’s way. With typical feline guile, Thatcher had the good sense to vanish whenever prowlers lurked or danger threatened.

  Throughout the journey to Carrick’s place, Pruett kept up a steady stream of conversation. Next week Ella returned, and he had plans for the three of us to celebrate. I suggested that Ella might bring her dog Guinnie to a Therapy Dog session. The gentle pointer had already mastered the Canine Good Citizen test and she would easily pass the temperament test as well. As an AKC Grand Champion, she was accustomed to being examined by strangers and mixing with other dogs.

  “I’m not so sure,” Pruett said. “Ella has schoolwork and horseback riding…” He didn’t fool me. Something was bothering him.

  “Okay. Out with it. Why don’t you want Ella to join the program? Obviously it’s up to you, but I’m curious.”

  Pruett was the ultimate Mr. Mom whose fierce devotion to his child was a trait I admired. He wanted to insulate Ella from danger. I got that. but an aversion to the entire Therapy Dog program still puzzled me.

  He grasped the steering wheel in a death grip. “Until we resolve this issue, I don’t want her anywhere near the Falls or that gang of weirdos. Something’s not right about the whole thing.”

  No need to remind him that most of our Therapy Dog members were outstanding citizens bent on giving back to the community. The situation at the Falls was peculiar and certainly not typical of the many venues served by the organization. I took a deep breath before saying something that might ignite a feud. Our arrival at Carrick Farraday’s kennel forestalled any further discussion on that topic.

  To my surprise the entire property, including the outbuildings, was ablaze with lights. That seemed like unusual behavior for Carrick, who struck me as the thrifty type. My anxiety level ticked up another notch as I envisioned a number of unsavory scenarios. Pruett sensed the same thing. He squeezed my arm and said, “Steady now. We’ll find Carrick and see what’s going on.”

  Keats and Poe leaped to the ground, ears alert, ready for action. I gave them the Fuss command, to ensure that they stayed at my side in a perfect heel. Despite the warm temperature I shivered as we neared the entrance to Carrick’s home. A sudden movement startled me and Pruett, but the Malinois weren’t bothered one bit. They recognized Paddy, rising slowly from the porch step, shaking his giant head. That sight comforted me. Surely nothing was amiss if this canine patriarch looked so untroubled. A moment later the screen door creaked open and Carrick emerged. His disheveled appearance was startling—thick tufts of white hair stood straight up, his eyes were red, and his face was smudged with soot.

  Pruett spoke first. “Everything okay, Carrick? You had us worried.”

  The older man flushed. “Didn’t mean to alarm you. It was good of you to come.” He gestured toward the house. “Please. Join me.”

  We gathered in the library where, despite the warmth outside, a fire blazed. The wide pine planks of the floor were littered with books and papers, a far cry from the neat and tidy space we had seen previously. A tray laden with a carafe of brandy, three snifters, and a plate of scones covered the coffee table. Carrick smiled when he saw me eye the treats.

  “Can’t take credit for those,” he said. “Just never mastered the culinary arts. My stepma was the chef around here. Henrietta could bake like a charm.” He poured each of us a drink and raised a toast. “To those magnificent Melmoth ladies, Henrietta and Magdalen.” We obliged him by clinking glasses and took seats by the vast stone hearth. Paddy sighed and stretched out next to Carrick while Keats and Poe stayed Velcroed to my side. After a few routine inquiries about Daisy and her brood, we got down to the business at hand. Pruett sat quietly, hands folded and long legs crossed. Despite this outward calm, his eyes telegraphed impatience and a quest for the bottom line.

  “Tell us all about your discovery,” he said. “Perri’s jumping out of her skin with curiosity.”

  Carrick took a mighty gulp of brandy and spoke. “Of course. Forgive me for woolgathering. Like I said, I was prowling about the library shelves when I found something odd.” He reached under the sofa cushion and produced a thin hardcover volume plus some outsize pages of heavy vellum. I felt my chest constricting. Could it be? Had we found the treasure that would ignite the literary world? I glanced at Pruett. His face wore the inscrutable look so valued in his profession. Until he saw proof, he refused to commit himself. Good thing Babette wasn’t with us. Knowing her, she would immediately have tackled Carrick to gain access to the prize. Come to think of it, that might not be such a bad idea.

  Carrick slowly rose. He carefully handed the book to Pruett and placed the written pages in my lap. I peeked over Pruett’s shoulder, eager to see the title. My hands shook, but Pruett’s stayed rock solid. The volume in question was bound in red Morocco leather, with faded gilt around the edges. Despite the rigors of age, both the title and author’s name were clearly visible. It read Sybil Vane by Sebastian Melmoth. I gasped, unable to say a word.

  Pruett gingerly opened the book, mindful of the fragility of its spine. The frontispiece featured a profile image of a lovely woman with long, flowing locks and a saucy smile. The inscription read, “To Henrietta, my salvation, my Sybil Vane.” There was no other narrative save the date of publication, December 1936.

  That set off all manner of alarm bells in me. Oscar Wilde was long gone by that date, although it was possible Fingal had published it afterward. There were many possibilities, but such speculation served
no purpose other than to clutter my mind. I looked to Carrick for some explanation—anything—that might clarify the situation.

  “That’s Henrietta,” he said, pointing to the frontispiece. “A beautiful woman inside and out. My da adored her and so did I.” He turned aside as his eyes filled. “So many memories. I know Mags will cherish this as I do.”

  Pruett had many dimensions to his character. When pursuing a story, however, he was the ultimate stoic. Sentiment was cast aside in place of ice-cold logic. “Have you read this, Carrick?” he asked.

  The older man shook his head. “When I found it, all I could think of was calling you. Read the letter on Perri’s lap. Should answer some of your questions.”

  Pruett leaned over, and together we read the letter, hearing the long-ago voice of Henrietta Melmoth Farraday. It was addressed to Carrick and Magdalen, crafted with the precise penmanship so typical of women of her era.

  “To my dear ones, Carrick and Magdalen, I wanted to share one final goodbye with you before my time on this earth expires. As you know, Declan, my beloved spouse, recently passed and left a legacy to me that will now pass to you both. Love of the land is in the Farraday blood, as it was in that of my family, the Kingsburys. I implore both of you to enjoy this beautiful place you have called home for so long and live in peace.

  “Your father left you another gift, Magdalen, one that I hope you will cherish and share with others. His literary genius produced the volume entitled Sybil Vane, a book that exceeds even that of its famed predecessor. You didn’t know him, but your grandfather was a great man who was cruelly treated by the world. Perhaps someday those who persecuted him will realize the error of their ways. Until then, guard this work as the treasure it is. Your loving mother, Henrietta Melmoth Farraday.”

  Pruett cleared his throat before speaking. “Well. That’s a very interesting document, but it raises as many questions as it answers.” He turned toward me. “What’s your take on it, Perri?”

  I didn’t answer right away because Pruett was right. Henrietta never mentioned the name of Magdalen’s grandfather, although one could infer from the description that he was the great Wilde. Or not. Furthermore, she hinted that Sybil Vane was the product of Fingal Melmoth, Magdalen’s father. Only one thing seemed clear: Carrick and Magdalen were to share the real estate that now comprised the Farraday homestead and kennel.

  “Did Henrietta have a will?” Pruett asked.

  Carrick shrugged. “Frankly I didn’t pay much attention. This property is in one of those family trusts. My lawyer says that takes care of me, and I guess Mags too, as long as we live.”

  I knew there were all kinds of real estate trusts with provisions that differed state by state. Neither Pruett nor I was qualified to judge this one. Micah was the one with the legal expertise, but even he deferred to experts when it concerned real estate.

  “Is Magdalen aware of this?” I asked. “She never mentioned it to me.”

  “Heaven only knows,” Carrick stammered. “I figured Mags was out of the picture, maybe even gone forever.” He grinned sheepishly. “Not very responsible of me, I guess. After all, I’m no spring chicken myself.”

  Pruett suggested that because Micah represented Magdalen, he might get involved. “This seems like something for the lawyers to pour over,” he said. “Real estate trusts are complicated.”

  Carrick heaved a big sigh of relief. “Good idea. Let them sort it out. I need to see Mags more than ever now. Would you arrange that, Perri?”

  I put aside my own business concerns and the irony that my simple act of altruism had morphed into a major entanglement. True, the Therapy Dog organization’s goals were to provide comfort and solace to people under stress. But nowhere in their manual did anyone mention money, manuscripts, or murder. The tangled affairs of the Farraday clan had left me mired in quicksand and sinking fast. Now I was the one under stress!

  “Still with us, Perri?” Pruett jabbed me with his elbow. “How about getting together at the Falls tomorrow? My calendar is free and that’s your usual day.”

  Carrick’s face brightened. “Sure, now that would be a blessing. Maybe I could bring Paddy with me. He’s registered as a Therapy Dog, you know, a bit out of practice but still in the game.” Paddy raised his giant head upon hearing his name and yawned. My enthusiasm was lukewarm, but fortunately in his euphoria, Carrick didn’t sense that. I pasted a faux smile on my face and agreed to make the arrangements. Meanwhile Pruett was busily recording the pages of Sybil Vane on his iPhone. Fortunately the work was not too voluminous, and he was able to finish his task in short order.

  “Why don’t we take the book home with us?” Pruett asked. “That way you don’t have to worry about it.”

  Carrick’s shoulders, which had sagged under the weight of his discovery, suddenly straightened. He patted Pruett’s arm. “Terrific. Let me wrap it for you.”

  When Carrick bustled off to another room I rolled my eyes at Pruett. “Mr. Considerate. You qualify for sainthood.”

  He flashed a smile at me that could shame a saint and wisely remained silent. Possession was nine-tenths of the law or, in Pruett’s mind, 100 percent. I knew he had no intention of letting that book out of his sight.

  After Carrick carefully wrapped the novel in brown paper and tied it with string, we finally said our goodbyes. It was almost midnight and I was exhausted. Pruett, on the other hand, seemed energized. He bounded to the Porsche with all the abandon of a teenager on his first date.

  Despite the late hour, I texted Babette about our plans. To my surprise, she called back immediately.

  “OMG,” she said. “You found it. You actually found it!”

  “I thought you’d be fast asleep,” I said. It took at least five minutes to explain the basics to my friend, including the letter from Henrietta and the Sybil Vane story.

  Babette was virtually bouncing back and forth, or at least it felt that way to me. Naturally she agreed to accompany me to the Falls the next day.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she trilled. “Funny thing. I knew you were up to somethin’. You know how keen my instincts are, Perri. ESP, spidey sense, and all that. Besides, I want to pick up Prospero this week. Ooh, everything’s coming together just perfect!”

  After far too much discussion we agreed to convene at my place the next day, or actually the same day at around noon. It was already well past midnight when our call ended.

  “Will Micah be there? He can catch a ride with me,” Babette said. She trotted out her coquette routine, but it was too shopworn to work on me.

  “Pruett’s handling all that. Now get some sleep. You’ll want to look your best.”

  An appeal to her vanity worked every time, especially when an eligible male was involved. Babette signed off immediately, leaving me to doze while Pruett drove through the night. When we arrived home I took one final peek at Raza and Zeke and lumbered off to my nice, cozy bed. Pruett was still busily texting someone or other as I eased into slumberland. I was sound asleep before he joined me.

  Chapter 19

  I was a whirling dervish the next morning, caffeine-fueled and task-oriented. Between feeding my pets, responding to customers, and packaging my finished products, I had little time to anguish over the afternoon to come. Naturally Pruett was an oasis of calm as he sat sipping espresso and reading the latest headlines.

  “You see more of the FedEx man than you do me,” he joked. “Should I be jealous?”

  “We have a relationship,” I said. “He’s the main man in my life. So dependable, and faithful to a fault. By the way, what kept you up so late last night? Should I be jealous?”

  “I texted Micah, and the Goose. Needed to set things in motion before this process got away from us.”

  My puzzled frown made him laugh. Who in the world was the Goose?

  “You know. Professor Bruce Douglas. My old roomie. The Englis
h Lit freak.”

  Ah. My synapses finally started firing as I recalled our conversation. “You sent him some of those pages you copied, didn’t you?”

  Pruett grinned. “Just a few as a teaser. Believe me, he’ll be on pins and needles when he reads them. Big coup for his university if it’s real. Every member of the publish-or-perish fraternity dreams of something like that.”

  I learned that Micah would join us despite his reservations about the Farraday real estate trust. His concern was understandable. An attorney specializing in those matters would have to review the document before any conclusions could be drawn. I wondered what Magdalen’s reaction would be. That land was worth a pretty price based on the offers Carrick had already received. Two million dollars could turn a lot of heads and change some lives as well.

  I checked my watch. There was just enough time for a quick gallop with my favorite girl, Raza. Pruett was nodding off on the sofa as I left to saddle up the elegant mare and enjoy sixty minutes of pure bliss. As usual, Raza greeted me as soon as I came into view. She coyly arched her neck and shook her fine, silky mane in a gesture reminiscent of a practiced coquette. I gently rubbed her muzzle and spoke softly to her as I adjusted the blanket, cinch, and saddle. She understood every word; of that I had not the slightest doubt.

  Zeke, my pygmy goat, immediately added his two cents worth by emitting a piercing shriek that was as close to a civil greeting as the little guy ever got. I wasn’t complaining. Since Raza became his stablemate, Zeke’s entire personality had been transformed. No more perpetually grouchy goat was he. I wholeheartedly welcomed his crusty, curmudgeon self as a vast improvement.