Murder at the Falls

by Arlene Kay

  I was afraid to ask the next question. “They didn’t think Mags was a killer, did they? Please tell me that.”

  Babette shook her head.

  Micah leaned forward. “And Nurse Ross? What was the consensus about her?”

  Babette favored him with a dazzling smile. “That’s the weird thing. They really liked that gorgon. Who knows why. She was rude and grumpy to us, right, Perri? They said she really cared about them and watched out for them. Not uppity like Dr. Fergueson or nosy like Kate. They kind of resent some of the Therapy folks. Oh, not us. But they felt like Kate and Rolf were always butting in, trying to chat up the residents and asking personal stuff.”

  That reaction didn’t surprise me. One of the goals of the Therapy Dog program was to mingle with the residents, act friendly, and let them get to know our dogs. It was a delicate dance between intrusiveness and isolation that some were better able to navigate than others. Rolf very likely blundered into people’s lives without respecting their privacy. I questioned his motives. My experience with Kate was quite the opposite. Like most librarians, she seemed to be the soul of tact and genuinely helpful. Perhaps the residents confused friendliness with impertinence. It might well be a generational thing.

  “Anything else?” Micah asked, drumming his fingers on the table.

  Babette hesitated. “Well. Some of those ladies said things went missing.”

  “What kind of things?” Pruett came to attention all of a sudden. Had he been a dog, his ears would have stood up straight. “Maybe they misplaced their belongings,” he said. “You know how easy it is to forget things.”

  “Maybe, but this was jewelry and keepsakes. Expensive stuff.” Whenever anything of value was involved Babette got that speculative look in her eyes. I was ill-equipped to assess anything like that, but she took her finances very seriously. I’d learned to defer to her expertise. “Check out some of the pieces those old dears wear every day,” she said. “I scan the Weschler’s auction website and a couple of others just to keep my hand in. Great bargains to be had on custom pieces. Believe me, art deco jewelry and old-world diamonds are pricey. We’re talking thousands here.”

  Pruett frowned. “I’ll check with Aleita, but it’s doubtful that any police reports were ever filed. Joan Fergueson would keep that quiet if at all possible. Nothing dampens recruitment like rumors of theft.”

  There was more to come. I could tell by the smug smile on Babette’s pretty face. “Okay,” I said, giving her my stern sergeant look. “Out with it. Spill the beans.”

  “Someone did file a police report,” said Babette, “and you’ll never guess who.”

  I guessed the answer before she said the name, but why deprive her of her big reveal?

  Babette cleared her throat. “Sara Whitman, that’s who. The week she died. And that’s not all. She’d just had her physical with none other than Dr. Jethro Tully. Some women confide in their doctors, don’t they?”

  Chapter 26

  For a minute there was total silence. Pruett took a deep breath, Micah’s eyes widened, and I sat mute. The dogs, even the pup Prospero, sensed the gravity of the situation. They stared at us, ears up, eyes alert, waiting for our next move. Thatcher, ever the drama queen, shared the excitement by stretching her legs and purring loudly.

  “What’s the matter,” Babette teased, “cat got your tongue?”

  All at once we pummeled her with questions. Was she certain? How did the police react? Did Sara name anyone or tell Dr. Tully anything?

  Finally Babette held up her hands. “Stop. Here’s what I know. Sara didn’t name anyone in the report—worried about lawsuits, she said—but she told her pals that she definitely knew who the culprit was, and she had help getting to the bottom of things. If her jewelry was returned pronto, no harm no foul. If not, it was time to call in the cops.”

  At moments like this I was tempted to grab my friend and shake her like a rag doll. Pruett and Micah knew better and played it cool. Babette hoarded information like a miser did gold. She was Lady Bountiful, sharing scraps with the starving peasants. Threats were useless and begging did absolutely no good. One simply had to wait her out.

  “You guys are just spoilsports,” she groused. “No fun at all. She never got that jewelry back, of course, because she died. Satisfied? And I’m pretty sure that help she mentioned was the late Dr. Tully.”

  That would certainly provide someone with a motive for murder, or in this case for several murders. Money, filthy lucre, the bane of all evil. Lust for it had fueled wars and all manner of crimes since the world began. Had the quest for greenbacks also seeped into the Falls and poisoned that otherwise tranquil setting? I closed my eyes and meditated. Immediately the only image that arose in my mind was that of Rolf Hart. I was honest enough to confront my prejudices. He was a villain in my mind, but in all fairness that didn’t necessarily make him a killer.

  Pruett excused himself, reached for his phone, and stepped out of the room. I was certain he was contacting the sheriff and who could blame him?

  Micah, ever the attorney, focused on the practical. “Any idea what jewelry was involved? Most valuable pieces are photographed and insured. Easy enough to check.”

  Babette shook her head. “Her friends only recalled one thing she wore all the time: a humongous emerald ring surrounded by diamonds. Set in platinum and very valuable. Sara loved it because it was her grandmother’s. Called it her retirement policy.”

  I hesitated to ask the next question. Couldn’t bear it if Magdalen’s name came up. “Did the ladies mention Magdalen? I know she and Sara quarreled.”

  Babette gave an emphatic shake of her head. “Nope. Everyone knew Mags had zero interest in jewelry, or money for that matter. All she ever cared about was that stupid manuscript and her family’s literary legacy. She bored everyone silly braggin’ all the time. Irene was her only real friend.” Babette teared up. “Kinda sad actually.”

  My reaction was different. I heaved an enormous sigh of relief. Magdalen was no killer, but it was comforting to have it confirmed by those who lived with her. Once again Babette’s ability to inveigle information from almost anyone had served us well. Perhaps the missing items had feathered someone’s nest quite handsomely, someone who would kill to protect that secret. Pruett eased back into the room without saying a word.

  “Anything to share?” I asked.

  “Yeah, we’re supposed to be a team.” Babette folded her arms and scowled at him. Even Micah gave Pruett a wary look.

  Faced with a united front, Wing Pruett bowed to the inevitable. “Okay. Okay. I gave Aleita a heads-up about the jewelry. She’ll check out the police reports and the insurance angle. Bear in mind, though, that high-end merchandise can change hands through private sales without leaving any record.”

  After each of us got an assignment we agreed to reconvene the next evening at Carrick’s homestead. I was eager to quiz Magdalen about some things and to update both Carrick and her on our findings. Meanwhile Pruett promised to check with his university pal on the manuscript, while Micah continued to comb real estate transactions in Virginia. Babette favored us all with a mysterious smile. She vowed to grill her society friends and the upscale jewelers in the area about recent acquisitions, especially those involving emeralds. That worried me because she might easily put herself in danger or risk alerting the thief. When Babette focused on a mission, zeal sometimes overrode good sense.

  “Not to worry,” she said. “Irene gave me this photo of Sara and lookee there.” It was an exceptionally clear image of a diminutive woman sitting soldier straight with her hands folded in front of her. On her left hand she wore a stunning emerald ring.

  “Wow!” Micah said. “That’s really something.”

  Pruett praised Babette’s ingenuity and I had to agree. The theft angle was certainly worth pursuing. If anyone had the informal contacts to scour the local market, it was Babett
e Croy. Her personal collection of gems, which grew by the year, could fund a small republic. Retailers leaped at the chance to assist such a client.

  My guests left all at once, giving me time to tend to my pets and process everything that had happened. Beautiful Raza rubbed her velvety muzzle against me as if she knew the conundrum I faced. Zeke was less patient. The little goat headbutted me until I finally agreed to groom him. Then, having won yet another battle in our continuing war, he calmly munched his hay and bedded down for the night.

  I spent a few hours in my workshop, finishing some sorely neglected projects, and clambered into bed before midnight. Instead of the deep, dreamless sleep I sought, my night was troubled with vivid images of broken bottles, tempting chocolates, and blood—so much blood.

  * * * *

  Pruett phoned promptly at nine the next morning. I was hunched over the dining table, groggy, mainlining espresso, and fending off Thatcher, who insisted on hogging my seat. No friendly greeting came from my lips, no sir. I growled a barely audible sound that startled him.

  “Wow! Someone had a rough night,” he said. “My message won’t exactly lift your spirits, I’m afraid.”

  Keats and Poe hovered around me in doggy solidarity as I listened. Not another death, I prayed. Please Lord.

  “Go on,” I said. “What’s wrong? Is Magdalen okay?”

  “Nobody’s dead. It’s the manuscript, Perri. They’ve had a crew of Wilde experts analyze everything about it and the results aren’t good.”

  What a disappointment. Apparently the experts concluded that Sybil Vane was an elegantly written novel in the style of Oscar Wilde, an homage but probably not an original written by the great man himself. Several scholars speculated that Sebastian Melmoth may have crossed paths with Wilde, even befriended him when they both lived in Paris. That might explain the poet’s occasional use of Melmoth’s name, as a sort of tribute to his friend. Nothing more.

  “Magdalen has to be told,” I said. “Tonight’s as good a time as any, I suppose.”

  Pruett agreed and added another thought. “It still has possibilities, though. Several publishers are interested, and it should provide academic fodder for years to come. You know how they love to debate arcane issues. The Melmoth family might still get recognition.”

  Small consolation for a proud woman like Magdalen, who had lived in the shadow of the great man for so long. On the other hand, perhaps it would be liberating. Now she would be free to celebrate her real grandfather’s talents without constantly questioning her origins. Easy enough for an orphan like me to say.

  I texted Babette and Micah to confirm our departure time but didn’t mention the manuscript. No excuses. It was a case of procrastination with a purpose. Babette tended to go off-track rather easily and it was far better to keep her focused on the jewelry quest rather than the manuscript. Micah and Pruett were thick as thieves, so he probably knew the score already. Guy stuff.

  To clear my head and lighten my heart, I saddled up Raza and settled in for a soul-soothing gallop on the trails adjoining my house. As usual, Keats and Poe accompanied us. They formed a type of honor guard and were an effective deterrent to any predators—human or animal—who might stand in our way. Despite the beauty of the crisp fall day, my thoughts strayed to the drama surrounding my encounter with Magdalen Melmoth. Everything was drawing to a close and that was comforting even though it had yet to reach a satisfactory conclusion. Her dalliance with the ghost of Oscar Wilde had ended, but the unsolved murders at the Falls were a thundercloud that hovered over Magdalen and the rest of us. The outcome was painfully clear. Despite my best efforts, I had to concede that I had failed. It was high time to step aside and let the professionals handle the case. After all, why kid myself? Babette and I weren’t Holmes and Watson. Not by a long shot. I told myself that it was a thirst for justice that drove us and not ego. Three people—productive members of society—had lost their lives. I was realistic enough to know that sooner or later inertia would take over and the murders of Carole Ross, Jethro Tully, and Sara Whitman would be relegated to that cold case pile in the sky—unsolved and dismissed. Another thought riled me. Somewhere quite near to me a ruthless killer prowled about laughing at our amateur efforts. I really hated that.

  Our ride concluded with the comforting ritual of untacking, cool down, and grooming. Raza loved the attention, even though Zeke disrupted everything by braying and generally acting up. Raza nuzzled me as I rubbed her coat, curried, and combed her. I marveled at how delicately she sipped her water, just like the princess she was. Some philistines told me that my pet duties were too onerous. Get out and enjoy life, they said. Poor fools. In my view a life bereft of animals was an impoverished one. My pet family provided more love, loyalty, and support than most of the humans I’d ever encountered. Even irascible Zeke had some endearing ways when he wasn’t headbutting me or shrieking.

  Before Pruett and the gang arrived I did some grooming of my own. Nothing spectacular, just a soothing, sudsy bath followed by a brief nap and a change of clothes. Despite such efforts, my anxiety level continued to climb. Would Magdalen be devastated by our news or take it in stride? She was one tough cookie who was hard to read despite her apparent openness. Then I recalled something that Babette had said. If Magdalen’s obsession with Oscar Wilde was commonly known at the Falls, why would the killer strike out at her now? Perhaps Nurse Carole Ross had been the target all along. Her habit of gorging on sweets was probably as well-known as Magdalen’s aversion to candy. Gossip, most of it quite harmless, was common currency in residential facilities. Hadn’t Irene said as much? I knew with all my heart that Magdalen had no part in the murders. Motive was the sticking point. Unless she was unhinged—and I refused to believe that—Magdalen Melmoth had no reason to eliminate Carole Ross, Dr. Tully, or Sara Whitman. It made no sense at all.

  I had no time to ponder my theories before Babette, Micah, and Pruett arrived promptly at six o’clock, ready for action. We packed four adults and four dogs into my old Suburban and headed toward an uncertain outcome. As usual, it was Babette who started the conversational ball rolling.

  “What’s the latest on that book?” she asked. “I’ll bet Mags is beside herself by now.”

  Pruett cleared his throat and explained the Sybil Vane situation. “We just found out today. Tonight we’ll have to tell Magdalen the bad news and I’m not sure how she’ll react. After all, she’s lived with this delusion for years.”

  Micah grimaced, but Babette scoffed. “Don’t fool yourselves. Old Mags is sound as a bell. I’ll bet she already has some inkling of this. Besides, you can still write a heck of a story about the whole mess. Give her braggin’ rights at the old folks home.”

  Pruett paused, considering his options. “Babette, you’re a genius! I can frame it as a human interest piece centered on Magdalen’s family quest. Should make great copy.”

  Because I was the driver I was too distracted dodging homicidal motorists and roadwork to join in the happy talk. When I did my words stopped the discussion cold. “Hold on. Haven’t we forgotten something here? A little thing like the murders. How do they fit in to this human interest piece?”

  Pruett hesitated. “Look, Perri. Realistically we may never have that answer. Time to back off and leave the murders to the professionals.”

  Self-restraint was indeed my superpower. I bit back the tart response that hovered right on the tip of my tongue, the little reminder of just how inept that crackerjack Sheriff Aleita was. Only a jealous woman would mention that, and I rose above petty insults. Mostly.

  Micah poured oil on troubled water by pointing out the progress we had already made. “I did my due diligence,” he said. “Found some very intriguing information about real estate transactions.”

  Predictably Babette refused to be outdone. “You’re not the only one,” she crowed. “Wait ’til you hear my scoop about the jewelry. I outdid myself this time.” />
  Lights appeared as we drew nearer to Carrick’s compound. By consensus we agreed to defer any further discussion until we were able to share our news with everyone. I had no idea what the evening would bring.

  Chapter 27

  A welcome party awaited our arrival. Carrick, Magdalen, and Paddy peered anxiously out the front door as our caravan alighted from my truck and approached the kennel. Keats, Poe, and Clara stayed at our side in a perfect heel, but Prospero scampered ahead to greet his sire. Babette found it difficult—nay, impossible—to discipline the pup and instead smiled indulgently like the proud pet parent she was as he romped free.

  “Isn’t he adorable?” she trilled. In truth, Prospero was a hot mess.

  Pruett muttered as if he had another less positive description for the rambunctious pup. Fortunately the greetings by our hosts drowned out his comment. Carrick’s face was wreathed in smiles I had not seen before. Perhaps despite the tragedies, the influence of his long-lost sister had brightened his life. Magdalen’s expression was more difficult to read. She looked curiously unchanged in her neatly pressed shirtwaist and canvas flats, quite the same as the first time I met her. Her composure was such that I wondered if she already knew the fate of Sybil Vane.

  “Come in, come in,” Carrick said as he enveloped Babette in a hug. “Glad to see young Prospero lookin’ so fine. The other pups are all gone now, so the nest is empty.”

  Flames from the fieldstone fireplace warmed the main room and the beautifully carved mahogany sideboard featured an array of comestibles.

  “Help yourself,” Carrick said. “Mags outdid herself tonight. Hard for an old bachelor to compete with.”

  Pruett and Micah eyed the crystal decanters of whiskey and sidled up to the Jameson. Carrick grinned and poured each of them a dram in glasses that to my untutored eyes looked like Waterford.

  “Nice touch,” Babette said, nodding her head.

  Magdalen flushed with pleasure. “They were my mother’s. Came over from Ireland with us and stayed in remarkable condition. I used her recipe for the chicken pot pie as well.”