by Arlene Kay
Babette immediately threw her arms around her friend and hugged her. “I was so worried about you and Mags. Tell us everything.”
Irene’s voice quavered. “I don’t know much, that’s the thing. We were having tea when Mags got a call from Dr. Tully.” At that point Keats approached Irene and put his head on her lap. Stroking him immediately calmed her.
Carrick leaned forward “From someone in his office or the doctor himself?”
Irene shook her head hopelessly and said she couldn’t really say. “I assumed it was the doctor, but maybe not. Why? Is that important?”
If Sheriff Aleita was fixing time of death, that call was a critical factor. Perhaps Magdalen was lured to the murder scene and set up by the real killer.
“What happened next?” I asked Irene.
She dithered a bit but finally recalled that Magdalen said it was important. Said the doctor found out something big about Nurse Ross’s murder. “I should have gone with her, but she said not to bother. If only I had insisted…”
Keats sensed her distress and nuzzled Irene’s hand. There was no time for recriminations, and after a second of canine consolation she continued her narrative. “I got worried when she didn’t return, so I went to find her. I never did see Mags, only a crowd of people making a ruckus. Mrs. Thayer came out with Dr. Fergueson and asked us to return to our rooms. That other man, Rolf somebody or other, was there too with his dog, Portia.”
Of course. Today would normally have been a routine day for Therapy Dog visits. I had begged off because of my workload and Babette had some other engagement. Apparently, Kate and Rolf had carried the load.
Carrick had managed a brief conversation with Magdalen before the sheriff arrived. She said that she found Tully there sitting at his desk, already dead. Blood was splattered everywhere, and it appeared that the doctor had been assaulted with the ragged edges of his glass water bottle.
“He loved that Pellegrino,” Irene said. “Always the kind in the glass bottles. Wouldn’t drink a drop of tap water or anything in plastic. No sir. Not him.”
“Hmm. Can’t quite see Dr. Dreamy being excited,” Babette said, “even in his most intimate moments. Seemed like the ultimate cool cat to me.”
When it came to the male of the species Babette’s observations were usually spot-on and I’d learned to take them seriously. Come to think of it, part of Jethro Tully’s charm—such as it was—had been his composure.
That left unanswered the big question: What possible motive could drive Magdalen Melmoth to murder Jethro Tully? My iPhone pinged as I pondered that question. Pruett—finally.
Just hearing his voice warmed me all over, a daunting admission from a self-sufficient woman like me, who prided herself on her independence. Had I become vulnerable to a man who could easily break my heart? The answer was a resounding yes. Fortunately I had long passed the point where that bothered me. Come what may, I was in it for the long haul.
“What’s the latest?” I asked.
“I’m on my way over there now,” he said. “I won’t even think how you got past the cops. Meet you in Irene’s apartment.”
The other three brightened and looked my way, as if they too expected Pruett to know everything. Given his talent for secrecy and deception, they were destined for disappointment. Pruett might indeed have the answers, but he was likely to hoard that information until after his exposé was published.
“It’s teatime downstairs,” Irene said timidly. “Nothing fancy, but we might get some information.” She blushed, as if curiosity were an unpardonable sin. “We can see Mr. Pruett arrive from the dining area.”
“Great,” Babette said. “I could use a couple of those scones they make. Delish! Bring the dogs too. That loosens tongues.”
We marshaled our forces and trekked down to the residents’ lounge. Despite or because of the murder, the place was packed. It wasn’t really surprising. Most of those gathered there had precious little excitement in their lives and had lived long enough not to be shocked by much, even a stray body or two.
Kate, accompanied by Gomer, bustled up to us and waved us to a table. “Thank the Lord you’re here. I need all the reinforcements I can get.” I noted that a strand of hair had escaped her French twist, and her lipstick was a thing of the past. Gomer wore his trademark goofy grin despite the tension in his owner’s face.
“Looks like you could use a breather,” Carrick said, pulling out a chair for her. “Here. Sit a spell.” I had to admit the man was quite a charmer. Kate’s reaction confirmed that as she banished her frown and managed a smile. When Babette returned with a plate piled high with scones, each of us gratefully partook.
“What can you tell us?” I asked Kate. Her relationship with Joan Fergueson was closer than mine and she had been at the scene of the crime. I was confident that Kate the library maven was a keen observer who didn’t miss a trick. It wasn’t ghoulish curiosity. We couldn’t help Magdalen without knowing all the facts no matter how painful they might be. Time to learn the truth and face the consequences.
Chapter 22
Before answering Kate took a sip of tea. “I don’t really know much. Rolf and I were in the lounge setting up the program. Today’s musical chairs day and you know how we arrange the circle.” Musical chairs was a favorite performance at the Therapy Dog sessions. Residents loved it and the dogs enjoyed the treats that came with it. To motivate them, each participant received a prize, win or lose. Unfortunately at least four dogs were required for the game to function adequately.
“Anyhow, we had only two dogs, so I went to check with Dr. Fergueson. It was almost one o’clock, but the place was a ghost town.” Kate blanched as she said those words. “I swung by Dr. Tully’s office and that’s when I saw her. Magdalen. She was standing over him, holding that broken Pellegrino bottle in her hand.”
Babette was never one to mince words. “Was he already dead? We heard he got bashed on the head.”
Kate nodded. “Slumped down in his chair, blood and water everywhere. But it wasn’t his head. She…or somebody…slit his throat. I bent over to feel his pulse and it got all over me.”
Irene gave a strangled cry and put her hand over her mouth. Carrick and Babette gasped, and I have to admit feeling a tad woozy myself. Clobbering someone in a fit of anger was unacceptable but understandable. Slitting his throat…? No way would I ever believe that Magdalen Melmoth committed such a brutal, horrific act. Besides, how could an octogenarian, even a fit one, overpower a healthy younger man? Impossible! Surely this crime required physical strength as well as cunning. That argued for a much younger and stronger killer, probably male. Someone cruel and brutal enough to slit his victim’s throat. Suddenly that scone, oozing strawberry jam, seemed far less appealing.
“Did Mags say anything?” I asked. “She must have been in shock.”
Kate shook her head. “Just that someone else killed him. I told her to put down the bottle, lock the door, and come with me while we called the sheriff’s office. She didn’t give me any trouble. Agreed right away.”
Carrick asked the kind of question that a prosecutor might pose. “How would you describe her manner?”
“Calm, detached, almost clinical.” Kate swallowed hard. “Frankly that surprised me. Probably in shock, I suppose.”
It didn’t surprise me one bit. I knew from experience that tragedy affected people in many different ways. During my army stint I’d seen soldiers whose buddies had been shredded to pieces play a boisterous, all-night poker game afterward. Yet the next morning, when the impact settled in, they were virtually catatonic or sobbing like infants.
I could tell Carrick wasn’t buying this homicidal image of his stepsister either. He cracked his knuckles, then steadied himself by stroking Paddy. His words were terse as he turned toward Kate. “Not Magdalen. No way. That girl couldn’t bear to see any creature hurt, let alone commit an atrocity hers
elf. Mark my words, she was set up.”
No one contradicted him, although I’m positive the others shared my concerns. People change over the years, often for the worse. Carrick and Mags had been apart for over half a century. He really didn’t know her anymore and couldn’t predict how she might react when threatened.
“What about Rolf?” I asked. “Did he see anything?”
Kate furrowed her brow. “I can’t recall. Everything was so hectic.” She evaded my question rather neatly, and that gave me pause.
“Were you two together the entire time? Where is he now?” Carrick asked. He adjusted well to the role of Grand Inquisitor. Dostoyevsky’s depiction of that character had always intrigued me, and Magdalen needed all the defenders she could muster.
Babette barreled right into the conversation. “Yeah, that varmint has some explainin’ to do. I don’t trust him even one inch. He’s the sleazy type for sure. Wouldn’t put anything past him.”
More dissembling by Kate. “I didn’t notice. The entire episode was so disturbing that I zoned out.” She shivered. “The sheriff questioned everyone, though. Made us all feel like criminals. Rolf took off as soon as she finished with us. Pressing business, or so he said. Can’t say that I blame him. Wish I had thought of that.”
Irene touched my arm and pointed toward the door as Pruett glided into the room. The man had both a panther’s grace and a cat’s inclination to toy with his prey. Despite his alluring looks, when parceling out information Pruett was fully capable of deception. Moreover he appeared to relish it. Like the villain in countless dramas, he was garbed entirely in black leather, which suited him as it did few others. I ignored Babette’s grin and Kate’s nervous giggle of assent. Today I nursed a grudge that no number of sultry moves would erase.
Pruett stopped at our table and bowed. “Ladies, Carrick. May I join you?”
Babette hastily moved her chair to clear a space. “Sit right down here, Wing. We’ve been waitin’ for you all day.”
He patted her shoulder and eased onto the chair. When our eyes met Pruett telegraphed a message of caution. I gave him a brief nod and powered down. Sooner or later, in his own good time, he’d share whatever ghastly details he could.
Carrick crumbled his scone into dust. “Where is she? Did they arrest Mags?”
Irene gave a faint cry and bit her lip. She seemed on the verge of tears, barely holding things together. I reminded myself that despite her appearance, Irene was a woman in her eighties who was unused to a diet of mayhem. Come to think of it, I was feeling a bit frazzled myself.
Pruett explained that no arrest had yet been made and that Micah would remain there for the duration with Magdalen. That wasn’t good enough for Babette. She scrunched up her face and fired a volley of questions his way. “Stop bobbin’ and weavin’. What’s the story? Did someone really slit his throat? Did Mags do it?”
Instead of angering him, that verbal assault made Pruett laugh. A big, hearty, masculine guffaw. “Whoa, lady.” He held up his hands in surrender. “Give me a break. I’m starving and my throat’s dry as dust.”
Irene immediately filled a plate with scones and signaled the attendant for a fresh cup of tea. “Here, Mr. Pruett. We didn’t mean to appear rude.”
I recognized a delaying tactic when I saw it, but Irene was totally deceived. In my book, a brutal murder obviated the need for party manners and polite asides. Given my druthers I would have demanded an immediate accounting of events from this slippery scribe who knew far more than he revealed. Once again, self-discipline, my superpower, saved the day.
After my guy consumed several scones and two cups of tea he lay down his fork, used his napkin, and shared the news. “Magdalen didn’t say much, except that she found Tully already dead. She grabbed the broken bottle without thinking.”
That made sense to me. Despite everything we’ve gleaned from crime shows on TV, innocent people often act irrationally when faced with horrific situations. “What did Tully tell her when he phoned?” I asked.
“Nothing much. Just that he knew the motive for the murders and it had nothing to do with the novel.” He shrugged. “Or words to that effect. Micah shut everything down before things went too far. He insisted that a cardiologist examine Magdalen because of her heart.”
Babette chuckled. “Bet that got your girlfriend’s knickers in a twist. Serves her right, huh, Perri?” I scowled at her while Kate gave only a faint smile. Pruett was momentarily nonplussed but quickly recovered.
“Oh, you mean the sheriff,” he said. “Like most cops she wanted to press on, but Aleita is one cool customer. She arranged things with a doctor. No problem.”
Carrick steepled his hands together. “Let me get this straight. Dr. Tully solved the murder, or thought he had, and it wasn’t about Sybil Vane. Then what in the world could it be?” He bent down and hugged Paddy. “That eliminates Mags as a suspect, doesn’t it? Probably some drug thing at this institution. You hear about that stuff all the time.”
Irene’s face brightened. Drug dealing was certainly preferable to believing her best friend was a cold-blooded killer. I could tell by their faces that Kate and even Babette were unconvinced. Pruett wiped all emotion from his face, treating us to his most inscrutable pose. He subscribed in theory to Buddhism, with a healthy appreciation of Sun Tzu included. That served him well when playing poker and probing for information. Not as effective for providing consolation to others.
“The police aren’t ruling out anyone at this point,” he said. “They’ll wait for the forensic team and the coroner to weigh in.”
“So, Tully was alive when he phoned Magdalen?” I constructed a mental timeline of the gruesome crime. “Irene, did she leave immediately?”
Once again Irene seemed startled. “Not really. Mags finished her tea and primped a bit. We were just finishing our lunch, you see. Mags valued her independence. She never jumped when one of those staff people gave an order even though she was excited about this one. Mags always made sure she called the shots.”
Carrick nodded fondly, as if this was just the type of behavior he expected of his big sis.
I calculated that up to fifteen minutes might have elapsed between Tully’s call and Magdalen’s arrival at his office. Plenty of time for someone else to step in and silence him forever.
“Where was everyone else?” I asked. “You know, Dr. Fergueson and Nurse Edgar. I thought they stayed around when the residents had lunch.”
Babette bounced in her chair. “Yeah, that’s right. Wouldn’t take but a minute for that big lug to slit someone’s throat. Arms like ham hocks, that one. Never did take to him, no sir.”
Pruett shrugged but offered no additional information. Based on my experience that meant he knew something else but wasn’t about to reveal it in front of a group. At that point we adjourned. Babette accompanied Irene back to her apartment, while Kate grabbed Gomer and headed for the exit, leaving Carrick with me and Pruett.
“Let me ask you,” Carrick said, “what state was Magdalen’s clothing in? Looked pretty normal to me.”
Irene had mentioned that Mags primped before heading down to the office, and that suggested a nice outfit. I immediately grabbed my iPhone and texted Babette. I was confident she would wring a full description from Irene by whatever means were necessary. No one could wring information from the unwary like my BFF.
Pruett played possum, but I knew better. If Magdalen Melmoth committed that brutal crime, surely she would have been covered in gore. I’d only gotten a glimpse of her when she passed by. It was impossible to judge because her black cape had been slung over her shoulders and she was flanked by Sheriff Aleita and Micah. A sudden ping on my phone told me that, true to form, Babette had once again delivered the goods.
“Okay, you guys, listen up. Mags wore a pinstriped shirtwaist dress with a cameo broach, a purse, and gloves. She was carrying that black cape of hers ove
r her arm.” I turned to Pruett. “Now it’s your turn. Seems to me if she committed the crime, she’d be covered with Tully’s blood. Was she?”
Pruett admitted that the sleeve of Magdalen’s dress contained bloodstains. According to Mags, when she entered the room she bent down, picked up the broken Pellegrino bottle, and backed away from the body without touching it. That would account for the bloodstains on her dress. When Kate found her she was about to call for help.
Time to confront Pruett. I folded my arms and gave him my tough sergeant glare. “There’s more, isn’t there? Come on. We’re waiting. Fess up.”
Carrick resumed his Inquisitor role. “Please, Mr. Pruett. This is no time to hold back. If she’s charged with murder, Mags may not survive the shock.”
My guy looked almost shamefaced when he finally shared his secrets. “Okay. There’s one other point to consider. Tully’s office had been ransacked. Papers all over the floor and drawers upended. Someone—probably the murderer—was definitely looking for something.”
That suggested to me that Magdalen was telling the truth at least about part of it. Jethro Tully knew something that would point the finger at Carole Ross’s murderer and maybe clarify the death of Sara Whitman. His killer had been determined to find that information at any cost.
Carrick grunted. “They’ll be dusting the place for prints and such if those television shows get it right. Should tell us something at least.” He gave Paddy a gentle hug and got ready to leave. “I’ll stop in and see how Janie’s doing. Stay in touch with me. Please. I can’t lose Mags again after all these years. If her attorney needs money…”
Pruett nodded and promised to contact Micah as soon as we got home.
Chapter 23
Our return trip was a solemn one. I was too exhausted to speak, and Pruett’s febrile brain was probably focused on his forthcoming article. His phone rang only once, and he responded with a series of terse comments—none of which told me anything.
