Murder at the Falls

by Arlene Kay

Before I could hush her, Babette chimed in. “Bet you didn’t know he’s Magdalen’s stepbrother. We had a real, old-fashioned family reunion just now.” She staunched tears with a beautifully ironed handkerchief of Irish linen. So much for my plan to insulate Magdalen from potential danger. No wonder Irene and Babette were so compatible: two incurable magpies, birds of a feather.

  Both Kate and Rolf said nothing, and if they were shell-shocked, I couldn’t prove it. I glanced toward the back of the room, where the mountainous Edgar Williamson lurked, and chided myself about making snap judgments. True, the man was typecast as a villain; his size and perpetual scowl insured that. But some truly hideous beings such as Theodore Bundy were handsome, glib, and utterly heartless. Appearance proved almost nothing about the content of a man’s character.

  Kate spent a few minutes reviewing the day’s program, then led us into the main meeting area where Carrick and Paddy waited. Introductions were brief and reactions amiable, with the exception of Rolf’s. When Carrick extended his hand, the Realtor shook it without enthusiasm. Carrick, normally the most affable of men, acted stiff and uncomfortable. Fortunately the canine connection was more positive. Paddy and the lovely Portia bonded and became fast friends.

  Babette jabbed my side with her elbow and whispered, “Did you catch that? Something hinky between Carrick and ole Rolf. Understandable, though. Man’s a monster, and I don’t mean Carrick.”

  I immediately changed the subject to her new pup, Prospero. Babette launched a nonstop monologue that lasted until our program began extolling the virtues of her new charge. Every seat in the function room was occupied and a sea of smiling faces awaited us. I reminded myself that these residents were part of the independent living section of the Falls and were both mentally alert and physically active. The memory impaired or physically disabled were housed elsewhere.

  Irene and Magdalen had snagged front-row seats and waved at us from their perch. Predictably Wing Pruett was surrounded by a claque of admirers who clutched his arms and inflated his ego. Micah stood at the back of the room and solemnly observed the proceedings. His courtroom presence was impressive, but otherwise he was a shy, introverted guy.

  After Kate introduced each of us and our dogs, we held a question and answer session. Most people asked the ages and breeds of our dogs and the type of training they had received. We stopped by each row to encourage participants to pet our dogs or raise any other issues. Naturally Keats and Poe were a big hit, but Carrick Farraday and Paddy stole the show. It occurred to me that the mostly female audience was as enamored of Carrick as of his dog. Men in the over-sixty age group were in short supply, and in his own way Carrick was a superannuated hunk.

  Kate bustled up to me afterward and grabbed my arm. “Do you have it? Can I just take a peek? Please? I’ve never been even close to literary history before.”

  “Stop squirmin’ and I’ll get it,” Babette said. Her gruff response was unusual for someone who valued manners above almost all else. She bent over Magdalen and retrieved the novel. Instead of handing it to Kate, she tantalized her by holding it to the side. “What do you suppose ole Oscar Wilde would say about this? Seems like he always had some kind of sassy comeback.”

  The answer to that was easy. Wilde famously had said, “I can resist everything except temptation.” Even if Sybil Vane was not his work, just the possibility would drive a number of otherwise staid individuals beyond temptation to the brink of sanity. It was akin to a type of Lotto fever that afflicted everyone when the prize got enormous. Bibliophiles would regard a new work by Wilde as a far greater lure. Kate, for instance, acted as if she were in a trance. She treated the novel with reverence, mindful that the pages were fragile.

  “That woman is Magdalen’s mama,” Babette said. “Pretty, huh?” Kate nodded, but it was obvious she hadn’t heard a word. She was nose deep in the narrative, seemingly trying to memorize each page. When Rolf Hart jostled her, she totally shut him out. “Watch your step, buddy. I’m busy.”

  “Hmph,” he said. “Doesn’t look like much considering all the fuss.”

  Pruett responded in clipped tones. “You’re a businessman, right, Rolf?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “Well, that little book’s more precious than a million-dollar piece of real estate. Far rarer too.”

  The words “real estate” caused little dollar signs to appear in Rolf’s eyes. At least I imagined they did. That’s the problem I have when I truly loathe somebody: no room for objectivity or doubt. If I had even one scintilla of proof, I would have nailed Rolf for the murder of Nurse Carole and possibly the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby as well.

  “That reminds me,” he said, staring straight at Carrick. “We met a while back when I was in your neck of the woods. As I recall, you turned down a prime offer for your property.” His attempt at folksiness fell flat.

  Carrick returned the stare with interest. “Can’t say as I recall that.” He turned to Magdalen. “Hey, sis. How about joining me for a cup of cocoa? As I recall, you love that brew.”

  “Indeed!” Magdalen looked up at him with a shy smile. “Can Irene join us, Carr? Please.”

  Before long the three of them linked arms, and with Paddy in the lead headed for the truck. “Don’t wait up for us,” Carrick said with a wink. “With two lovely ladies for company I intend to take my time.”

  The rest of us headed home. Babette clutched Sybil Vane in a death grip while I pondered everything that had happened that day. Hard to believe it was finally over and even harder to link the manuscript to the murder of Nurse Carole Ross. For all I knew there was no linkage. Magdalen might still have an enemy who was willing to eliminate her at all costs.

  Pruett had promised to deliver Sybil Vane to his professor pal the very next morning with Micah in tow to tie up any legal loose ends. The process would be a lengthy one. I realized that scholars from around the globe would eagerly debate and study those precious pages. Questions about authenticity would fuel innumerable dissertations and academic fistfights for years to come.

  I also pondered the changes in Mags from her animated speech to the very becoming pink flush that stained her cheeks. The authenticity of the novel might be irrelevant after all. The reunion of two long-lost siblings was what really counted. It was all about family. When I mentioned that to Pruett he gave me a wary look.

  “Don’t kid yourself. Hold on to your hat, Leather Lady, we’re in for quite a ride. Even a whiff of fame does strange things to ordinary people. Trust me, I’ve seen it happen too many times. Plus, there’s the potential for lots of loot too. We’re talking a bonanza of bucks and fame for the lucky winner. Television appearances, lecture tours, and who knows what else. People have killed for less.”

  I considered myself a realist with a hardheaded, practical approach to life. When it came to Magdalen and Carrick, however, I cherished a secret hope that as in the romance novels that thrilled Babette, their lives would have a happily ever after. In every competition there was also a loser. I said a silent prayer that Magdalen and Carrick would weather the storm and emerge unscathed.

  Chapter 21

  For the next few weeks, life returned to normal again. Creature Comforts prospered, and my calendar was filled with dog and horse shows and a reunion with Pruett and his daughter Ella. We celebrated at Applebee’s, her favorite restaurant, by digging into heaping plates of chicken wings. Ella spoke very little about the European jaunt and I didn’t probe for information. Her glamorous parent, photojournalist Monique Allaire, always treated me with a thinly veiled contempt that stung. True, she was gorgeous, rich, and famous, everything I was not, but I had one big advantage over her. Despite her accomplishments, Monique was dissatisfied with life, whereas I thanked the Lord daily for every blessing I had. Pruett genuinely loved Ella, but Monique often used the little girl as a bargaining chip in a high-stakes game with him. I had no idea what her goal was, but in the perpetu
al feud between Pruett and Monique I was more than content to remain neutral and play Switzerland.

  To a seven-year-old child, the world was much simpler. Forget the glories of Paris and London. Ella plied us with endless questions about Carrick Farraday and Babette’s new addition, Prospero. I saw the look of despair in Pruett’s eyes every time his daughter mentioned Leonbergers and knew that the die was already cast. Sooner rather than later, Pruett’s elegant residence would inevitably house another canine resident. Ella loved all animals, but her doting daddy was still a reluctant convert who bravely confronted his discomfort around animals to please his daughter.

  I hadn’t seen Magdalen for several weeks, although the Sebastian Melmoth story dominated much of the local news. She was caught up in the whirlwind of change and spent most weekends at Farraday kennels. This was a happy time for her. A flurry of animated texts extolling the virtues of Carrick and his dogs assured me of that. Even the murder of Nurse Ross gradually faded into the background until another unexpected death brought Sheriff Aleita Page back into our lives.

  After a relaxing trail ride with Raza and my dogs I returned to find Babette pacing back and forth in front of my workshop. I knew immediately that something was very wrong. Her hair resembled a tangled hornet’s nest and her usually impeccable makeup was a cosmetic disaster. Only the presence of Clara and the pup Prospero provided any sense of normalcy. Before I dismounted she ran toward me waving her arms.

  “Where the heck have you been, missy? Don’t you answer your cell phone anymore? Pruett and I’ve been tryin’ to get you all morning.” In her excitement Babette combined a fit of tears with hiccups, rendering her speech nearly incomprehensible.

  I grasped Raza’s reins and walked slowly toward my friend. “Whoa! Calm down. What in the world is wrong?”

  A rivulet of tears and mascara streamed down her cheeks, adding to the chaotic scene. Not a good look for a former beauty queen, or anyone else for that matter. Babette bent over and regained at least some composure. Meanwhile Clara and Prospero licked her cheeks in a show of canine consolation.

  “It’s awful,” she sputtered as she fended off the dogs.

  I leaned against Raza for support, imaging the possible scenarios. Had someone died? At her age. Magdalen was the most likely candidate, but her health seemed quite robust. My stomach clenched. Had something happened to Pruett or Ella? I considered grabbing Babette by the shoulders and shaking her like a terrier with a rat. Luckily for her, she mopped her face and finally made sense.

  “Explain,” I said, making the supreme effort at control.

  “There’s been another murder at the Falls.”

  “Magdalen?” I sputtered.

  Suddenly the snarky side of my friend resurfaced. “Magdalen? Who said anything about her? Sheriff Page called Pruett this morning with the news. They just found Dr. Tully in his office. Dead. Murdered.” She grimaced. “Waste of a real hunk if you ask me.”

  Jethro Tully murdered? Unbelievable. He was my prime suspect in Nurse Ross’s murder, and the death of Sara Whitman as well. Glib, oleaginous men with perfect teeth, blow-dried hair, and manufactured smiles always aroused my suspicions. Another one of my prejudices, I confess.

  “How was he killed?” I asked Babette.

  She yawned and shrugged her shoulders. “I dunno, but Pruett said they know it was murder. That’s good enough for me.” The glint in her eyes told me that she was hiding something. How like Babette to parcel out clues and make me guess. Normally I refuse to play her game, but today was different.

  “Who found him?”

  More dissembling from my BFF, who preferred to avoid unpleasantness and focus on the sunny side of life. After several abortive efforts I lost patience with her.

  “Who found him? Spill everything or I swear I’ll tell Micah your real age.”

  She snapped to attention, as I knew she would. The age card was the ultimate power play when dealing with Babette, who famously claimed to be thirty-nine. Her driver’s license didn’t lie, though. Despite a wrinkle-free complexion, the lovely Mrs. Croy was closer to the big five-oh.

  “Okay. I wanted to protect you, but here it is. Kate found him slumped over his desk with Magdalen standing right next to him holding the murder weapon.”

  * * * *

  Babette had few details to share, but that didn’t suppress her endless speculation. “Maybe he threatened her or tried to steal the novel and Mags went bonkers. She has a temper, you know.”

  It wasn’t easy to ignore my friend when she went on a tear, but somehow I managed. I moved mechanically through the routine of grooming and feeding Raza and Zeke, keeping both dogs at my side for balance. Babette followed me back to the stable babbling something that simply didn’t register. After finishing those chores I grabbed my iPhone and called Pruett.

  He responded by providing a few impersonal details in a tone that told me he was not alone. “I’m heading over to the Falls now,” he said. “Micah’s already there, and so is Carrick. Meet me.”

  I peppered him with questions to no avail. Pruett can clam up with the best of mollusks when it suits him. After fueling up with espresso and removing the trail dust, I harnessed Keats and Poe and hopped into Babette’s Range Rover, determined to unearth the truth whatever the cost.

  * * * *

  An air of impending doom shrouded the Falls. Dark clouds, a cool wind, and a trio of police vehicles accentuated the gloom. On the far side of the building Pruett’s Porsche and Micah’s Cadillac sedan nestled together like old pals. Carrick’s truck was nowhere to be seen.

  Babette shivered. “Ooh. Looks spooky, doesn’t it?” She reached over and squeezed my arm. “Don’t freak out. Just wanted to see if you were alive.”

  This time I chose to ignore her antics. My mind was filled to overflowing with thoughts of Magdalen and murder. It seemed unbelievable: Dr. Jethro Tully struck down in his own office. No person or convoluted theory would ever convince me that Magdalen Melmoth was a killer, let alone a triple murderer. There must be some rational explanation for things. Had to be. I texted Pruett and got an immediate reply. “Stay in the car.”

  Babette, who had no qualms about violating my personal space, moved over and read the message. “Well, of all the nerve,” she huffed. “Wing Pruett thinks he’s a king or somethin’, givin’ orders.” She paused and dimpled. “’Course he’s pretty close to one, isn’t he, Perri? So manly. Real take-charge type of guy. Such a contrast with the wimps out there.”

  Before I managed to pinch her cheeks Babette pointed toward the entryway. “Look! Here they come.”

  Sure enough, Micah, Pruett, Sheriff Page, and a bedraggled Magdalen Melmoth plodded solemnly toward the patrol cars. Magdalen’s shoulders slumped and her eyes stared ahead unseeingly. She and Micah clambered into the back of the prowl car, but Pruett rode alongside the lovely Aleita. He glanced our way and put a finger to his lips.

  “Maybe she placed him in custody,” Babette quipped. “Sure looks like that woman wants our boy in cuffs.”

  I gave her a sour look and focused on the issues at hand. Pruett never had explained his relationship with Aleita, and I’d never asked. After all, we were both adults who had led full lives before we met. I realized that his love life had been considerably fuller than mine, but so be it. The issues confronting us now presented more than enough challenges.

  “Let’s find Irene,” I said. “See what she knows about this whole mess.” That was easier said than done, though, because two burly deputies were posted at the entryway to the Falls. To a law-abiding type like me, the task seemed insurmountable unless we confronted it head-on. Babette had other ideas.

  “Let me handle this, Perri,” she said with a sugary smile. “Bet I can get us through that door. Feminine wiles do the trick every time with those kinda fellas.” She winked. “Just follow my lead.”

  I warily approached the entrywa
y, but she bounded up to the lawmen ahead of me. Believe it or not, Babette immediately produced a pristine white handkerchief and a lusty chorus of sobs.

  “I must see my Aunt Irene,” she said. “She called me this mornin’ in a terrible state.” She daintily dabbed her eyes. “Her heart’s bad and I’m afraid she’ll have another spell if I don’t calm her down.” Defying all odds, Babette shed actual tears, droplets that flowed gently down her cheeks.

  The deputies looked perplexed, clearly stumped at how to handle the emotional storm. That’s where I came in.

  “Officers, I’m a therapy group member too. I can escort Mrs. Croy to her aunt’s room if you’ll allow it. We won’t touch anything or bother anybody. I promise.”

  People often comment that I look both reliable and respectable. That may not be a compliment because descriptors like “sultry” and “seductive” have far more cachet. In this instance, however, my girl-next-door persona was a definite plus. Both officers hesitated, then waved us through. As we made a beeline for the elevator, I deliberately ignored the sly look of triumph in Babette’s eyes. No need to encourage her already outrageous behavior.

  When the elevator doors opened, Carrick and Paddy appeared. I motioned them back and pressed the button for the second floor. Carrick furrowed his brow as if he were totally confounded. Paddy remained placid.

  “I’m sure glad you’re here,” he said. “Things have gone from bad to worse.”

  We filed down the corridor to Irene’s apartment and waited while Babette phoned her. “Irene, come out and open this door pronto before those deputies nab us.”

  The door slowly opened a crack as Irene Wilson peered out. Discarding her usually impeccable manners, Babette pushed ahead. Irene reluctantly admitted the rest of our little caravan into her flat.

  I studied her for a moment, expecting that the turmoil would have altered her appearance. Not so. Irene was the picture of well-bred chic in a paisley twinset, black pencil skirt, and double strand of pearls. Only the red rims of her eyes betrayed signs of trauma.