by Arlene Kay
We filled our plates and sprawled in the comfortable leather club chairs that ringed the room. After some preliminary chitchat, discussion turned to the business at hand.
“We have news on several fronts,” Pruett said. “But first, how are you doing, Magdalen?”
She sat on the edge of the chair with her spine upright and her shoulders soldier straight, a carryover from the Victorian strictures against poor posture. “Much better in these surroundings, cosseted by people and pets I love. Dear Micah has kept me out of jail, and Carrick fusses over me like I am an invalid.” Mags glanced fondly at her brother. “So, thank you for asking, Mr. Pruett, but I am fine. Quite able to hear your news.”
I noticed that Carrick had abandoned the role of genial host and now gripped the arms of his chair like a condemned man awaiting the death sentence.
Pruett played his part admirably. His dispassionate, matter-of-fact delivery recalled Jack Webb on the old Dragnet show. “Just the facts, ma’am.”
“It’s a fake. Is that what you’re sayin’,” Carrick stammered. “I just can’t believe it. Our mam was so certain.”
“Not necessarily. You know those academic types,” Pruett said. “They never agree on anything. Like dogs scrapping over a bone.”
Magdalen’s expression remained unchanged, as if she were an alabaster figure sculpted from stone. When she responded her speech was measured and calm.
“I understand, Mr. Pruett. Thank you for all your efforts. I suppose our killer wasn’t interested in my manuscript after all. I fear I’ve wasted your time. Sybil Vane is not a fake, however. It is a genuine Melmoth and I am proud of that.”
“Don’t be discouraged,” Micah said. “Publishers are interested in Sybil Vane. Quite a number of them. Some are university presses, but one or two are larger commercial ventures.” He leaned over and squeezed her hand. “I can represent you or refer you to a reputable literary agent if you prefer. Naturally you’ll want to think about it first.”
This time Magdalen reacted swiftly, and her wintry smile said it all. “At my age, Micah, time is a luxury I can’t afford. Let’s go full steam ahead. If it’s not the work of Oscar Wilde, at least my father’s name will gain some recognition.” Her voice quivered. “He was a good man, a talented man. He deserves that.”
Carrick broke the tension by quickly proposing a toast to her long-lost relative. After we hoisted a glass and gave a hearty cheer, the subject turned to real estate and lost gems. Naturally Babette went first. She explained her mission in more detail than was necessary but finally cut to the chase.
“I spent two whole days visitin’ high-end jewelry stores,” she said. “Lawd, it was exhaustin’. Luckily most of those owners know me, so that loosened their tongues.” I ignored the smug smile on my BFF’s face. No doubt she had probably sweetened the pot by making a few strategic purchases at each establishment. The Croy formula for ensuring retail loyalty seldom failed.
Magdalen frowned as she listened to Babette. “Really? Jewelry thefts? Naturally I heard some of those ladies grumbling about lost articles, but I never took them seriously. Complaining was just a way of life at the Falls. Almost a competition at times. Besides, gems never interested me much. They always seemed so trivial.”
My thoughts turned to Sara Whitman and her missing ring. Magdalen dismissed jewelry as trivial, but to many the rings, bracelets, and earrings from the past were important artifacts, part of their family heritage, as meaningful as Sybil Vane was to the Melmoth clan. From everything I’d learned, Sara Whitman avoided sloppy sentiment. Like Magdalen, she’d been one tough customer given to action, not idle talk. Her threat to contact the police proved that. Had it gotten her killed?
Babette continued. “My cover story was simple. Genius really.” After preening a bit she finally resumed her narrative. “I showed them a blowup of Sara’s emerald and said I wanted one just like it. Pronto.”
Once again I saluted Babette’s expertise. No way could I ever have gotten away with a story like that. But then again, like Magdalen I had zero interest in high-end gems and no track record as a purchaser.
Micah hunched over and put his hands on his knees. “Okay. What happened?”
“Just when I thought I’d failed, one of my sources saved the day. It seemed a consignment of custom pieces came in. Estate items, or so the seller said. He showed me photos of the goods on offer and the emerald ring was smack dab in the middle of the pack.”
Carrick gasped and I felt every muscle in my body tense up. Had we actually done it—unmasked the murderer? Pruett sat absolutely still with his arms folded as if he had heard this tale before. I couldn’t understand his reaction or lack thereof. Didn’t we all share the same goal?
Micah spoke first with an urgency I had seldom heard from him before. “Who was it? Did he have a description of the seller? Come on, Babette, you’re killing us here.”
She hung her head, avoiding our eyes. “You see, there’s a problem. My guy never actually met the seller. Someone sent him an email with shots of the items. When he said he needed to examine them and see the provenance, the seller got antsy and never kept the appointment. He tried emailing, but the account was closed.”
“Any idea how much that haul would have fetched at auction?” Carrick was no expert in jewelry, but he understood cold hard cash.
Apparently the expert had given a very rough estimate in excess of two hundred thousand dollars if everything checked out.
Babette bit her lip, and I knew she was close to tears at that point. Pruett rode to the rescue once again. “Good job,” he said. “Maybe we can trace the other items on that list to see if they correspond to those lost at the Falls. Micah can use his insurance contacts too. I know someone who can probably trace the IP address.” He winked and said, “Nothing stays secret anymore.”
I was proud of him for throwing her a lifeline. Despite her outlandish ways, Babette was very sensitive. Her feelings were easily crushed and as her best friend I should have done something to comfort her. Too bad I couldn’t think of even one comforting thing to do.
Carrick reached down and stroked Paddy. “I got to admit I’m stumped. What does missing jewelry have to do with these murders? Mags wasn’t involved. Like most fellows my age, I don’t know diamonds from paste. Now if Joanie were here, she’d know. That girl always loved sparkly things.”
Pruett and I exchanged glances. “Suppose Nurse Ross got wind of the thefts and confronted the thief,” I asked. “Things could easily have gotten out of hand. You said she loved to snoop, didn’t you, Magdalen?”
She nodded. “Truthfully she thought she was our protector, but Carole’s approach was ham-fisted. A good soul, but subtlety wasn’t her strong suit.”
I pictured Nurse Ross blundering headlong into a confrontation with the thief. Good intentions aside, that strategy was very risky. After all, Sara Whitman went public with her threats and she died. Apparently Carole Ross had been undeterred by the scent of danger or the lure of chocolate.
“Got your laptop handy, Carrick?” Babette asked. He pointed to a handsome mahogany writing table complete with computer and printer.
“Mags has the computer skills in the family,” he said. “She’s been organizing my kennel info all week. I’m what Jonathan Swift would call a Lilliputian when it comes to technology.”
Magdalen rolled her eyes. “Another great Irishman from another age. Send me your list, Babette, and I’ll print it out.” While they organized that, Carrick played host again. I was the designated driver, so I refused a refill, but the gentlemen were quick to accept his offer. “Nothing like fine Irish whiskey and beautiful women.” Pruett glanced my way as he said that. I’m realistic about my appearance, but a compliment still lifted my spirits.
After some urging Micah shared his real estate finds. “I’m not convinced that stolen trinkets are the answer,” he said. “Gold and silver hold value
, but property is fungible and much more reliable.” His eyes glowed. “A real wealth generator. Lots of transactions in your area, Carrick. But you already know that.”
The older man nodded.
Micah reached into his briefcase and unfurled a spreadsheet. “Take a look at these parcels.”
Pruett, Carrick, and I hunched over the table studying the figures. The addresses meant nothing to me, but one name stood out in most of the acquisitions: Venice Enterprises.
“Who or what in the world is that?” Pruett asked.
“Still digging,” Micah said. “It’s a shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands. May be all legal and proper, but someone took some trouble to complicate matters. Once we find the corporate officers things will become clearer.”
I recognized names of several of the property owners and they led right back to the Falls. Was the evil genius behind Venice Enterprises also affiliated with the Falls? Naturally one name sprang to mind: Rolf Hart. I told myself to power down until more facts emerged. After all, just because a man was arrogant and obnoxious didn’t mean he was also homicidal. Or did it?
When Magdalen rejoined us, she posed the pivotal question: Where do we go from here? Under the circumstances her poise astounded me. After all, as far as the authorities were concerned, Magdalen was still their chief suspect. They didn’t consider her a flight risk, but no other suspect was on the horizon. Sheriff Aleita was still pursuing leads but appeared no closer to resolving the murders. According to Micah, the lack of progress and the interest fueled by the media frustrated the sheriff and made her wary. Police harassment of an octogenarian woman, even one as feisty as Magdalen Melmoth, didn’t play well in rural Virginia, so Aleita was proceeding with caution.
Pruett seemed amused by the dilemma. He stood before Magdalen, hands on hips, and said. “You know the players better than we do, Magdalen. What’s your suggestion? Should we leave it alone or try something else?”
Magdalen didn’t miss a trick. “Ah, Mr. Wing Pruett, you’re thinking of your investigative piece, aren’t you? What good is a mystery without finding the culprit?” Her eyes challenged him to deny it, but he stayed silent. Tension rose in the room as each of us did too. Our dogs went on alert, their eyes searching faces for behavioral clues. Even Paddy abandoned his normal sprawl and acted more alert. For my part I was willing to forgo the detective work and return to the simple life of a leathersmith. Grand Marsh was looking awfully good at this point and I had plenty of clients to attend to. The quest for Oscar Wilde’s legacy was over, so I had done my part.
Unfortunately Babette had not gotten the message. “Here’s what I’d do,” she said. “Start from the beginning.”
My response was simple but inelegant. “Huh?”
She waved me off. “Not the book stuff. That’s over. Sorry, Magdalen.”
“Not to worry, my dear. I’m in good hands with Micah.” Magdalen furrowed her brow. “I was thinking, Isn’t tomorrow your regular time for Therapy Dogs?”
We nodded.
“Well then, I suggest you report as planned. Perhaps Mr. Pruett can spare some time as well.” She gave him a coquettish look. “Those ladies seem to open up to you. Now that they know you’re all officially on the case, I believe they’ll share some theories about the crimes with you. One never knows if something of value will emerge.”
Babette immediately agreed to vet the list of jewelry against those reported lost at the Falls. She assured us that custom pieces were far easier to identify than the mass market offerings in most shops. “Men really knew how to spoil their wives in those days,” she sniffed. “Not like the junk you see today.” She unleashed a diatribe against malls and the chain stores they perpetuated, which ended only when Pruett held his arm outstretched and bowed his head. “We get it,” he said. “I feel suitably chastened and promise never to set foot in one of those stores again.”
My task was more subtle but equally challenging. I agreed to chat up Sara Whitman’s friends and anyone with information about the day Dr. Tully died. Recollections varied and I had found that people often recalled things later that had seemed unimportant at the time.
I could tell Carrick was uncomfortable with the plan. Probably a case of divided loyalties. After all, his niece might well be impacted by anything we did, particularly if she was involved in the skullduggery. Come to think of it, Dr. Joan Fergueson might well be the architect of the crimes. She had the brains to plan and execute the thefts, access to the entire facility, and information about each resident. For Carrick’s sake I hoped she wasn’t involved.
After he reluctantly agreed not to alert Joan, we left on our homeward trek. The strategy was sound and our spirits were buoyed by a surge of optimism. I kept my fingers crossed. Luck would play a part in the undertaking, and sadly that lady might not be on our side.
Chapter 28
The weather gods cooperated nicely the next morning. Sunlight bathed the Falls in a brilliant golden glow that accentuated every carefully tended shrub. The idyllic scene contrasted vividly with our somber task, although our dogs and the residents seemed not to notice. Babette and I arrived first. I had dosed myself with a supersize mug of green tea, but I could see by the overcaffeinated gleam in her eyes that my friend had gone the espresso route.
“As soon as we do the meet and greets, I’ll make tracks for Irene’s place.” Babette tossed her blond curls. “Irene rounded up some of her pals for a little coffee klatch. Nothing formal. Just girl talk.”
She assured me that the invited guests had all lost or misplaced valuable items and were keen to retrieve them. “Leave it to me.” Babette chuckled. “I’ll wring every ounce of information out of them before I leave. You know how cagey I can be.”
Silence was platinum in these instances, so I merely bowed my head and smiled. There was no reining in Babette when she got the bit between her teeth. I’d learned it was far wiser to cross my fingers and trust her.
I signaled to Keats and Poe and joined the throng surrounding Kate and Gomer. Today was sing-along day, and many residents arrived early to claim choice seats. Oddly enough Rolf was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s your partner?” I asked Kate.
I noticed she was leaning heavily on her cane today, trying to manage Gomer, her guitar, and other gear without falling. “Need some help?” I asked. “Gomer can be a handful sometimes.”
“Sure. I’m not proud.” She grinned as her goofy pup wrapped himself around my legs. “He must think you’re a maypole. Rolf’s around here somewhere. I think he went into Dr. Fergueson’s office.”
I arranged a row of chairs in front of the audience and helped Kate and Gomer to the center. Meanwhile Keats and Poe joined me in greeting the residents as they entered the room. By now I knew which ladies were timid around dogs and which ones eagerly embraced them. One tiny woman garbed in shades of gray reminded me of a wren. She asked for permission, then bent over and gave my boys each a big hug. “I’m Therese,” she said haltingly. “Therese Ellis. May I speak with you after the program? I don’t want to sound foolish and it’s probably nothing, but I have no one else to tell. It’s about Dr. Tully.”
I checked the area to ensure that no one else was present and agreed to meet Therese on the veranda after the program ended. My spycraft was a tad rusty, but I still recalled the basics of covert operations. Rule number one: keep details to yourself if you want to avoid trouble.
Therese hemmed and hawed for a moment before leaving. “I don’t suppose you could bring Mr. Pruett with you? Men have such sound judgment about these things.”
Once again my superpower came to the fore. I reminded myself that Therese was from a generation that revered the patriarchy and assumed that only males could protect them. Apparently she’d forgotten the grisly fate that had befallen Dr. Tully, a man who failed to safeguard even his own life. I managed a sickly smile and promised to include Pruett in ou
r meeting. With that she slipped away once more, cloaked in anonymity and drab attire.
Promptly at ten a.m. the doors to the office complex swung open and Joan Fergueson, accompanied by Rolf and Portia, emerged. Call me crazy, but I thought I detected an extra bloom in Joan’s cheeks. Even Rolf looked almost pleasant if you counted a snarky grin instead of his trademark sneer. Kate and I exchanged glances but said nothing. Babette and Clara took their place as somewhere in the back of the room another guest arrived. A genteel murmur swept through the audience as Wing Pruett found a seat between two beaming dowagers.
“Her finger,” Babette said in a stage whisper. “Check out old starchy drawers’ right hand.” As Joan grasped the microphone I did just that, noting an eye-popping diamond of at least three carets that sparkled seductively in the sunlight. Small wonder she herself looked especially bright. Carrick said only last night that she had always liked a bit of glitz. I had little time to ponder the obvious: Joan Fergueson and Rolf were an item. Did their partnership extend to other areas of life as well?
I approached Rolf as he lined up with Portia. “Congratulations,” I said. “I hope you’ll both be very happy. Will Joan be joining your real estate ventures now?”
True to form he stared coldly at me and said nothing. It was awkward and unpleasant but not unexpected. Rudeness didn’t bother me. I’d faced far worse and survived intact. After a brief standoff, Rolf gave a terse and frosty response. “Frankly our personal plans are none of your business. If you’re still interested in discussing property, call my office. Heel, Portia.” He summoned his borzoi with a brisk command and moved next to Kate.
We went through the preliminary introductions as our dogs, the true stars of the show, performed their routine. Afterward, before refreshments were served, those residents who wanted to pet, hug, or otherwise interact with our guys were free to do so. Initially the size and dignity of Keats and Poe had made some residents wary, but soon even the more timid souls realized how genial and loving my boys were and joined their many admirers.
