Rose Scented Murder

by Jill Paterson

  ‘I know, but she told me that’s where I had to meet her on that day.’

  ‘Did you always pay her in cash?’

  ‘Always,’ replied Mowbray.

  ‘I see. And when you arrived, did you see anyone else on the premises?’

  ‘No. There was no one else there.’

  ‘What time did you leave?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘It was just after five-thirty. I think.’

  ***

  ‘What do you think, sir?’ asked Betts as the two officers left the interview room.

  ‘She says she left the Adelphi at about 5:30 pm. I seem to remember Constance Parsons said she didn’t arrive until six o’clock that evening which means...’

  ‘Even though she has admitted to killing Dolores Madden, she couldn’t have attacked Ms Parsons,’ put in Betts.

  ‘Exactly. Of course, there’s every possibility she might be lying since it will connect her to Howard Greenwood’s murder. I don’t want her charged until we know for sure and to do that we need to speak to Madelaine Wells again.’

  ‘We’re running short on the amount of time we have left to hold Mowbray, sir,’ said Betts, looking at his watch. ‘I’ll apply for a detention warrant and I’ll have Ms Wells brought in for questioning.’

  ‘Also apply for a search warrant for her residence and dressing room at the State Theatre,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  CHAPTER 22

  I n the incident room, Fitzjohn made adjustments to the whiteboard by adding the recent evidence gathered from Stephanie Mowbray as Dolores Madden’s killer. Was she also guilty of Howard Greenwood’s, he mused and, was she the person who attacked Constance Parsons? That theory fell easily into place, but was it the right one? As he looked up at the clock on the wall, the door at the rear of the room opened.

  ‘Ah, Betts, how did you get on?’

  ‘You were right to have searches conducted, sir. Nothing untoward was found at Wells’ residence but in her dressing room at the State Theatre we found written notes stashed in her handbag. I suspect they concern the last chapter of Greenwood’s memoir and possibly taken during the break-in at his home. I’ve sent them to the lab for analysis but I do have a copy for you here.’ Betts passed Fitzjohn the folder he held in his hand.

  ‘Good work,’ said Fitzjohn opening the folder. ‘It’s more than I’d hoped for,’ he continued as he ran his eyes over the pages. ‘He clearly states here that Madelaine Wells deliberately pushed his wife, Marsha Greenwood, down the stairs and he plans to see her pay for her crime.’ Fitzjohn looked up. ‘Did Wells offer an explanation as to how the notes came to be in her possession?’

  ‘No, sir. She was fairly taken aback when we arrived and was less than cooperative.’

  ‘Any evidence concerning the roses?’ asked Fitzjohn, placing the notes back into the folder before handing it to Betts.

  ‘No, sir, but there is one interesting factor that’s turned up. Remember the photograph that remained intact on Howard Greenwood’s study wall?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Mrs Evans identified it as a photograph of Howard Greenwood and his wife on stage on the play’s opening night. I seem to remember the back of the frame had been tampered with.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Betts. ‘Tampered with so that the photograph could be replaced. The lab has identified the two people on stage as Howard Greenwood and Madelaine Wells. I checked with theatre management who confirmed the photograph was taken on Wells’ first performance in the female lead.’

  ‘Bizarre behaviour, don’t you think?’ said Fitzjohn. ‘It makes me wonder what exactly we’re dealing with here.’

  ***

  Fitzjohn and Betts entered the interview room to find Madelaine Wells applying lipstick by way of the room’s two way mirror while her assigned lawyer, a young man impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit sat at the table. She looked around when the two officers appeared in the doorway but, unmoved by their presence, she gave her lips a further coat.

  ‘Good evening, Ms Wells. Please take a seat and we’ll commence the interview,’ said Fitzjohn as he pulled out a chair.

  With an air of complacency, Madelaine thrust the lipstick into its tube, tossed it into her handbag and, throwing back her head, glided across the floor. Glowering at the three men, she sat down, her tight fitting turquoise dress riding up along her shapely legs. Aware of her attempt at diversion, Fitzjohn sat down and cleared his throat. Madelaine’s lawyer, transfixed by the scene, flinched, adjusted his chair and rearranged his papers.

  As the interview got underway, Fitzjohn placed a plastic sleeve, containing the presumed notes on the last chapter of Greenwood’s memoir, on the table. ‘Ms Wells, can you tell us how you came to have these papers in your possession?’

  ‘Howard left them in my dressing room one night at the Adelphi Theatre after a performance,’ replied Madelaine indignantly. ‘When the theatre closed down they must have been packed up with the rest of my belongings. I didn’t even know they were in my dressing room until your sergeant found them.’

  ‘I think that’s highly unlikely since they were found in your handbag,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Now, why don’t you tell us the truth since lying will only serve to make things more difficult for you. I say that because we believe these papers were stolen from Howard Greenwood’s home in the early hours on Saturday, July 8, the day after his death.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that since I was at home that morning recovering from my migraine the previous night,’ said Madelaine, shifting in her chair.

  ‘Ah, yes, how could I forget,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘You explained it all to us, didn’t you, during our first discussion. You said you arrived home at around eleven p.m.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And yet, we have a witness who saw you in the laneway outside the Adelphi at twelve-thirty that night.’

  Madelaine glared at Fitzjohn. ‘Whoever said that is mistaken. You know I went home. I showed you the Uber fare on my iPhone.’

  ‘So you did. However, there was nothing to stop you going back to the theatre, Ms Wells,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘To do what?’ Madelaine hesitated. ‘Wait a minute. You’re not suggesting I killed Howard are you?’

  ‘These notes imply he was planning on publishing his memoir that accuses you of killing his wife.’ Fitzjohn placed his hand on the plastic sleeve containing the notes. ‘These have been found in your possession. We also have a witness who saw you at the crime scene just before Howard Greenwood was murdered, so yes, Ms Wells, we are suggesting you killed him.’

  ‘It’s not enough to charge me with their murders.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it is,’ replied Fitzjohn, ‘because one of your victim’s didn’t die, a fact I’m sure you’re well aware of since you’ve attempted to terrorise her with two bouquets of long-stemmed red roses.’ Madelaine did not reply. ‘Not only that,’ continued Fitzjohn, ‘it so happens she has a clear memory of your assault on her and has identified you. Of course, the roses make our cases even stronger since they’re also involved in two of the three murders.’

  Madelaine glared at Fitzjohn, ‘You can’t accuse me of murdering three people.’

  ‘I think you’ll find we can,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Howard Greenwood, his wife Marsha, and Dolores Madden.’

  ‘But I didn’t kill Dolores. And Marsha fell.’

  ‘We have a witness who says you pushed her. If you have another scenario, now is the time to tell us.’ Madelaine’s eyes darted between the two officers. ‘Well?’ asked Fitzjohn, sensing Madelaine’s rising confusion as she attempted to clarify her answers.

  ‘All right, we did argue at the top of the stairs that night, but it was when Marsha gave me a shove and I pushed her arm away that she became unbalanced and fell. It was an accident, but Howard wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘He spoke to you about it?’ asked Fitzjohn with a grimace.

  ‘Yes, while we were on stage. Subtle remarks in my ear saying he would ex
pose me for all the world to see as his wife’s killer through that damn memoir he was writing. On the last night of the play he said it wouldn’t be long because he was putting the finishing touches to the final chapter. I panicked. I had to stop him publishing it.’

  ‘So, you returned to the theatre?’ Fitzjohn waited for Madelaine to answer.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied at last with an air of despondency. ‘I knew he’d stay on for a while after everyone had left the party because he was sentimental about the theatre’s closure.’ Madelaine smiled. ‘The look on his face when I opened the door. It was priceless. He didn’t know what to expect. He started ranting. Told me to get out. That’s when I snapped. I grabbed the first thing I could get my hands on which was a rolled up newspaper and lashed out at him. I had to shut him up.’

  ‘And the roses?’

  ‘They were in a vase on the dresser. I thought they added an amusing touch.’

  ‘And they became your signature because you used them in Dolores Madden’s killing as well, didn’t you?’ prompted Fitzjohn.

  ‘I’ve already told you, I didn’t kill Dolores. She was already dead when I got to the theatre.’ Madelaine chuckled. ‘Such a spectacle couldn’t have happened at a better time. I thought the ghost writer would die right there on the spot before I got a chance to finish her off myself. And I would have in the end; given a little more time.’

  ‘If you didn’t kill Dolores, how do you explain the roses thrown over her body?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Dolores always collected the flowers thrown after a performance and put them in water. On the last night they just happened to be long-stemmed red roses. I suppose her killer found them and mimicked me. It annoyed me because, as you said, long-stemmed red roses are my signature, no one else’s.’

  ‘So it appears,’ replied Fitzjohn as he began to question Madelaine’s psychological state of mind. ‘Tell me, Ms Wells, with the theatre now closed down, where did you get your supply for those you sent to the ghost writer?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know? I would have thought a clever detective like you would have worked that out. Maybe it was just too easy because I used the Sydney markets. There are always flowers for sale.’

  ‘Read Ms Wells her rights, Detective Sergeant Betts,’ said Fitzjohn as he got to his feet and left the room.

  ***

  In the wee hours, Peta Ashby’s office door stood ajar exposing its dark interior as Fitzjohn walked through the station to the canteen. Deserted and silent but for the hum of the coffee machine, he took a cup from the tray at the side and filled it with the strong aromatic liquid before settling himself at one of the tables. Cradling the cup in his grasp, he took a sip and sighed, the culmination of the day's events lending to a sense of satisfaction. When the door opened, he looked up to see Betts.

  ‘Just to let you know, sir, Madelaine Wells and Stephanie Mowbray are being processed,’ he said as he poured himself a cup of coffee and joined Fitzjohn at the table. ‘I just need to complete the paperwork.’

  ‘Excellent. And I’ll get started on my reports to the chief superintendent so I can give them to her in the morning.’ Fitzjohn finished his coffee and set his cup down. ‘I’ll also speak to Constance Parsons to put her mind at rest with the news the killers are behind bars. Hopefully, despite the trauma she’s been through, she can get her life back to normal.’ Fitzjohn shook his head. ‘They haven’t been easy cases to solve and I have to admit, there were times I had my doubts we’d be successful.’

  ‘They’ve were among the most baffling cases we’ve had, sir, but we got there in the end and with a twist I didn’t expect. I’d all but come to the conclusion that Mowbray was the killer.’

  ‘To be honest, I was leaning that way myself until the missing link, being Marsha Greenwood’s death, surfaced,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘And we still might not have been successful if Wells hadn’t mentally collapsed. I’m sure there’s a serious underlying problem there, Betts.’

  ‘I have her scheduled for a mental health assessment, sir.’

  ‘Good, because I have a feeling Howard Greenwood’s continued intimidation sent her over the edge. The coroner’s finding of death by misadventure must have been an affront to his senses since he knew the truth.’

  ‘A tragic outcome for both he and his wife,’ said Betts, getting to his feet. ‘I’d better get started on that paperwork.’

  ‘Before you go,’ said Fitzjohn joining Betts as he left the canteen. ‘I want to apologise for putting your career at risk during my suspension. It was selfish and reckless of me.’

  ‘I could have refused, sir.’

  ‘That’s beside the point. I should never have asked.’ Fitzjohn watched Betts walk ahead, his thoughts a mixture of satisfaction in having solved the case yet tinged with a rising feeling of disquiet.

  ***

  With his reports on the Greenwood and Madden homicides along with a further report for the assault on Constance Parsons complete, Fitzjohn shrugged into his suit coat and, with a glance across the room, switched off the office light and left the station. He emerged into the cold night air and climbing into the waiting taxi sat back with a sigh, the events of the day flooding over him.

  With Meg now back home in Melbourne, his cottage emitted no welcoming light through the stained-glass front door as he made his way along the garden path to the porch and turned the key in the lock. As he stepped inside, the clock on the mantelpiece in the living room chimed twice, filling the silence. He hesitated for a moment and looked in the direction of the kitchen doorway at the end of the hall almost expecting his sister to appear with her cheery greeting – well, on most occasions, he thought with a chuckle. Even so, the emptiness left by her departure was evident. Weary, he placed his briefcase on the hall table at the same time catching his image in the mirror above. Puzzled, he paused and became acutely aware of a rising sense of unrest. Surely it can’t be Meg’s absence, he thought. It must be with the investigation coming to an end. It tends to be somewhat of an anti-climax. With a sigh, he turned off the hall light and climbed the stairs.

  CHAPTER 23

  D espite his exhaustion, Fitzjohn tossed and turned throughout the night only to wake in the early hours of the morning with his sense of disquiet still evident. Determined to push it to the back of his mind, he pulled on his old gardening clothes and made his way outside, pausing on the back porch to take in the freshness of the air and listen to the birds gathered in the trees above.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Fitzjohn.’

  Startled, Fitzjohn turned to see Blossom on the other side of the hedge. Dressed in a colourful floral gown, her hair swept up and held with a matching scarf, she flicked the ash from her cigarette before putting it to her lips.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Carey,’ he said as he stepped off the porch. ‘How’s your sister after her ordeal?’ he asked with genuine concern.

  Blossom exhaled a stream of smoke into the damp air. ‘She’s planning her revenge on you, I’d say,’ replied Blossom with a chuckle.

  ‘I regret the matter went as far as it did. I really do,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘I’ll drop in to see her this morning.’

  ‘If you value your life I don’t think you should do that, Mr Fitzjohn,’ replied Blossom. ‘Especially since I won’t be here to calm her down when she sets eyes on you. You see, I’m leaving for home very shortly.’

  ‘Well, in that event, perhaps I should leave it for a few days,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Have a good journey and I’ll no doubt see you the next time you come to visit.’

  ‘You will, although I doubt it’ll top this stay with Rhonda being arrested.’

  ‘Mmm. I realise it must have caused you a great deal of anxiety.’

  ‘Quite the opposite,’ replied Blossom. ‘I can’t thank you enough. I’ve enjoyed every minute. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to my sister.’ Blossom paused. ‘I suppose you think that sounds unkind, Mr Fitzjohn. But, you see, I’ve spent my whole life being the black sheep of my family, wit
h both Rhonda and my brother, Edwin, never putting a foot wrong. I can’t help but feel pleased that they’ve both fallen from their high perches even if Edwin’s plunge was as a result of his son’s illegal activities.’ With a wide smile, Blossom waved and disappeared into the house.

  Fitzjohn raised his hand in a wave as Blossom vanished from view, mystified that she could be related to Rhonda. Perhaps she’s adopted and doesn’t know it, he thought as he carried on along the garden path to the greenhouse. Opening the door, he switched on the CD player and the sound of Chopin’s Etude in E Flat filled the air. Turning, he surveyed the rows of orchids with their diverse colours and shapes standing erect in the morning stillness aware that his feeling of unease had surfaced once again. Maybe it’s not the completion of the investigation that’s making me feel this way, he thought as he began to tend each plant. It could be my suspension. Perhaps it affected me more than I realised at the time. It has to be that because it can’t be the fact that Meg has gone home to Melbourne. After all, I’m happy she’s embracing a new interest in life. Time is what I need. Time to get back into my routine.

  ***

  Ignoring his unease and in an effort to have his reports on the investigations in front of the chief superintendent when she arrived at the station that morning, Fitzjohn left for work early. On arrival, he entered the building carrying his box of belongings under his arm, his thoughts filled with re-establishing himself in his office. When he opened the door, however, he stopped on its threshold, his grip on the box tightening. ‘Who am I fooling but myself?’ he muttered at last. Placing the box on his desk, he removed the reports from his briefcase and left the room to make his way along the corridor to Peta Ashby’s office where he found her already at work.

  ‘I had hoped to have these on your desk for your arrival,’ he said as he walked into the room and handed her the reports.