by Arlene Kay
“Do you suppose she has anything to eat at her house?” he asked. “I’m starving.”
“Ask her yourself. Better yet, there’s a diner right up the road. Knock yourself out.”
Pruett pulled down the sun visor and finger-combed his hair. He had great hair, thick, black and wavy. I care about personal appearance, but a primping male was just too much! For some reason, memories of Pip flooded into my mind. Unlike Pruett, he had zero vanity and scoffed at the thought of excess grooming. I bit my lip, resisting the tears that threatened to fall. Pruett had never seen me cry and he never would. Those girly tactics conveniently called “feminine wiles” were unworthy of me. I simply was not the kind of woman who tried to manipulate men.
“Getting ready for your close-up?” I asked. Sometimes Pruett brought out every snide bone in my body. He also activated latent insecurities about my own looks. Through a supreme effort of will and gritted teeth, I resisted the temptation to check out my reflection in the mirror.
His eyes narrowed as he faced me. “No excuses. I’m in the appearance business. You know that. Have to maintain a presentable façade for my fans. It’s a reality of the media obsessed era.”
I snorted something impolite and focused on driving and worrying. Pruett was quiet for once as he kept his eyes glued to his smartphone. Poor Babette. She was not the hysterical type but losing a good friend and colleague so horrifically would unhinge anyone. Surely even a terrier like Bascomb wouldn’t suspect Babette—or me for that matter—of murder.
“Hmm,” Pruett said. “Word about the murder is out on the wire services. Must be a slow news day. Of course, anything that happens within spitting distance of DC makes headlines.”
I ignored both him and the posted speed limits. Traffic was horrendous, much heavier than normal for early afternoon and that ratcheted up the tension.
I turned onto Babette’s street, prepared to run the gauntlet of cop cars.
Pruett wanted to say something. I could tell by the way he learned forward. Fortunately, a stern-faced trooper with a no-nonsense look approached us.
“Sorry folks. Restricted access. This is a crime scene.”
I slid my driver’s license from my wallet. “Mrs. Croy asked for me. I’m Perri Morgan.”
The trooper consulted his clipboard and nodded. “Right. What about him?”
I was tempted to cast Pruett out, but my better nature asserted itself. “He’s with me. His car is up at the house.”
A gaggle of reporters in a news van pulled in behind us, just as the cop waved us through. “Go on up and park near the house. You folks be careful now.”
I pulled into the garage after dodging several police vans and forensic trucks.
“Your car is at the curb,” I told Pruett. “Enjoy your day.”
He ignored me and hopped out of the truck. “That espresso went right through me. I need to use the bathroom.”
He was quick; I’ll give him that. By the time I freed my dogs Pruett had disappeared, Babette was nowhere in sight, and even the police had scattered. I knocked twice on the front door.
“It’s Perri. I’m here, Babette.”
The first face that I saw was her ex-husband’s. He’s not ugly, at least not physically, but that air of perpetual petulance renders him unattractive. The man found fault with everyone and everything—especially his ex-wife. Perhaps he saved his charm for the students of Hamilton Arms School and their wealthy parents. Carleton Croy headed the Guidance department and anchored the Theater Arts presentations as well. Several of my clients raved about him, using superlatives like “inspirational” and “empathetic” to describe him. I was hard-pressed to reconcile that paragon with the callous bully-boy I knew.
“Perri, thank God you’re here!” Carleton’s pristine appearance had suffered a major setback—his thick reddish hair was askew, and crumbs clung to his mustache. He clutched my arm and quickly ushered me into the library. True to form, Carleton the Anglophile called it his study.
“Babette is resting,” he said sotto voce.
I couldn’t help frowning. “But she just texted me a half hour ago. What’s going on?”
The library door burst open, dislodging Babette, Clara, and the ubiquitous Wing Pruett. Carleton curled his lip, a familiar gesture that indicated disapproval, but Babette flung her arms around me and sobbed.
“Oh Perri! What’s happening to me? The cops rounded up every one of my guests and gave them the third degree.”
I understood her anguish. Finding a corpse was a nasty business especially when the body in question was a dear friend. The memory of poor Ethel’s outstretched foot with its varnished nails sent chills through my body. I tried unsuccessfully to blot it out.
“Thank goodness Wing was here,” Babette said. “He’s agreed to advise me on how to handle the media.”
I shot a venomous look at Pruett, which he totally ignored. Instead of guilt, his handsome face radiated a totally underserved look of virtue. Babette might be grateful, but I was not. I knew his game. Pruett planned to isolate her until he was able to consolidate his big news scoop and hit the airwaves. Ethel and everything about her would soon become fodder for the Washington Post or a sleazy tabloid.
“They hustled Jakes right into a squad car,” Babette said. “Naturally I had to tell them about his behavior. That horrible blog he writes. The man is a vicious beast. Ethel had no use for the man. None at all.”
Jakes! I’d forgotten all about the buttoned-down biologist on our guest list. Come to think of it, he was tall and rangy, just like the mysterious figure who attacked me. Had he murdered Ethel in the mistaken belief that she was Babette?
“You’ve never actually met him, have you?” I was testing my theory that Ethel had been murdered in place of Babette. True, Ethel’s hair was grey, but in a darkened room, that might not have mattered. They were about the same size, and any intruder would logically suppose that the woman in the master bedroom was the lady of the house.
Babette curled her lip. “No, but I’ve seen his nasty little face on television. Reminds me of a weasel. Maybe a wolverine. They’re oversized weasels, aren’t they?” Her voice rose until it reached the upper registers. I knew all the signs: my pal was working herself into a first-class hissy fit.
Instead of calming his ex-wife, Carleton folded his arms in front of him and turned toward the door. As husbands, and especially ex-husbands went, he was worthless until it came to his spouse’s bountiful checkbook. Then Professor Croy was velcroed to Babette’s side.
I resurrected the soothing tones used everywhere to defuse volatile situations. “You might be right, Babette, but until we know what Jakes told the police, we’re just spinning our wheels. For all we know, he may have already confessed.”
Babette managed to eke out a smile.
“I’ll nose around the police station and see what I can find out.” That was Pruett, being helpful again. I glared at him, but Babette beamed a beatific smile his way.
“Ethel told me she had other plans this morning,” I said. “What changed?”
Babette shrugged. “Sheila Sands called and wanted something. Then Ethan Torres emailed all these questions about our project. Ethel offered to stay while I ran the errands.” A tear slid down her cheek as she thought of her friend. “Did she die in my place, Perri? I couldn’t bear that?”
Some men dissolve when confronted by tears. Carleton went into a snit. “For Christ’s sake stop the caterwauling! Grow up, Babette. Ethel’s gone and that’s that. She probably ran into a burglar and things went bad.”
He might be right. Probably was. But that didn’t explain Ethel’s semi-nude body nestling between her employer’s silken sheets. Some servants might enjoy a roll in the hay, but Ethel was fifty and sensible. If she had planned a dalliance it would have been orderly, scrubbed and penciled in at the right time. Ethel was no thrill seeker. Why t
ake chances when her own home was only yards away? Then I recalled that pedicure and Ethel’s big surprise.
“Ethel didn’t seem like the pedicure type,” I said. “Too much of a time waster.”
Babette frowned. “Pedicure? Ethel couldn’t stand that kind of stuff. Why?” She walked over and put her hand on my forehead. “Are you okay, Perri? You sound disoriented.”
I set the scene once again, visualizing Ethel with those pretty painted toes and the lacy chemise.
“Maybe I should drive her home,” Pruett said.
“You promised to scout around the cop shop,” I reminded him. “Besides, I have a client coming by after supper. At least I hope she won’t cancel.”
“Who is it, hon?” Babette knew everyone in Great Marsh and beyond.
“Sheila Sands. She rides in the Middleburg Spring Races and she’s getting her dogs ready for Westminster too. Wants to update all their equipment.” I crossed my fingers, hoping that my wealthy client wasn’t too squeamish after today’s shock. I could use a quick infusion of cash, and Sheila had plenty of it. She was also a pretty sharp cookie who might have some insights on Ethel’s murder. After all, she had been there too.
“Will you be okay?” I asked Babette, giving her a hug. “I’d stay over if it weren’t for my pets.”
She patted my hand and managed a wan smile. “I’ll manage. But keep in touch. The cops keep going around in circles without doing much.”
“For Pete’s sake, Babette. The crime happened only six hours ago.” Carleton was fuming, and it showed. “Don’t interfere. You’ve caused enough trouble with your silly posturing. I forbid you to get involved.”
The room grew unbearably silent after his outburst. Even the dogs sat statue-still and stared. Pruett and I locked eyes and for once we were in sync. What kind of man forbids his ex-wife to do something? It smacked of a scene from Ibsen. Victoriana at its worst.
“Ethel was my friend, Carleton, and she died in my bed. I will not rest until the murderer is found.” Babette called to her dog and swept up the stairs, showing a type of dignity under fire that heartened me. I took the opportunity to beat a hasty retreat with Pruett right on my heels.
“Wow!” he said. “That was awkward.”
“More fodder for your article?” I asked. “The human-interest touch.”
Pruett grabbed my elbow until a growl from Keats made him rethink his behavior. “Look. You’re suspicious of the press. You have reason to be. I get it. But know this—I do have standards. Solving a murder—now that’s up my alley. Marital spats, not so much. Maybe we could work together instead of sparring.” He looked sincere and I almost fell for it until a flashbulb nearly blinded me.
“Right on track, huh Pruett.” A blowsy blonde with a camera stepped toward us. “You sure know how to work the angles. Come on, mate. Share.”
That was my exit line. I broke free, called my dogs and jumped into the Suburban, leaving him and his buddy in the dust.
Chapter 5
I fumed all the way back home, hurling vile insults at Pruett and saving a few for myself. How naive was I to be taken in by his tactics when he was pursuing a story? The Internet brimmed with tales of Pruett’s deceit and deception. Anything for a story. There was a duality to the man that I had seen up close and personal. He was a wonderful parent, generous partner and all-around good guy—unless a scoop was involved.
There was enough time before Sheila arrived to feed and brush Zeke and the rest of my pet parade. As usual, tending to the animals soothed my spirit and put things into perspective. They surrounded me in a furry embrace that made everything worthwhile and minimized the trauma of the day.
I did a rapid course correction when Sheila arrived. No more mooning over the past. This was business. Dollars and cents. In addition to being an admirable person, Sheila had the good fortune to be happily married to Ellis, an octogenarian moneybag who funded all her pursuits enthusiastically and without complaint.
“I wasn’t sure whether you’d be up to it after today,” Sheila said. She parked her super-charged Range Rover Autobiography and hopped out with a vitality that belied her sixty some years. Sheila had kept both her figure and her sense of humor intact. Standing nearly six feet tall didn’t hurt her one bit. Not many women of any age could parade around looking fantastic in a tweed hacking jacket, cream jodhpurs, and thigh high boots. Sheila could and did. “I’m still recovering from the shock myself.”
I shook my head and waved Sheila inside. “You can bring Cecil in too,” I said, motioning to the giant beasty in the back seat. Might help us with our measuring.”
Sheila opened the hatch, pushed aside her mountain bike and coaxed the Ridgeback out. “He’s kind of shy for such a big boy. Scared of his own shadow half the time.” She gave Cecil a nose kiss. “Some lion dog! Of course, he’s still a baby.”
“Hey, you bully,” I called to Zeke who was hanging over the fence with a malevolent gleam in his eye. “Pick on one of your own kind for a change.” The last time Cecil visited me, Zeke had thoroughly terrorized the poor pup. It was apparent from the way the dog slinked toward the house that he vividly recalled the incident.
I patted the side of the Range Rover. “That’s some snazzy vehicle you’ve got there, lady. What color is it anyway?”
She shrugged. “They call it Madagascar Orange; can you believe? Ellis was worried that my old heap would collapse and die at one of the shows. Plus, this snazzy number is great for pulling the horse trailer. At least they’ll see me coming.”
After we shared a laugh at the absurdity of the situation Sheila leaned down and hugged me. “Don’t be brave on me now, Perri. You’re not that tough. Poor Ethel. Bashed in the head by a fire extinguisher!”
She didn’t ask for details. Sheila was far too refined to pry, and besides she didn’t have to. I willingly spilled every second of that horrific experience.
“I never got near the body,” Sheila said. “The cops cordoned off the entire area before the meeting started.”
“So, they never questioned you at all?”
“Not really. Just took my name and license number and sent me packing. I didn’t fight them, truth be told. They wouldn’t even say who the victim was. I figured Babette finally had enough and clobbered Carleton.” Sheila ran her fingers through her shoulder length silver hair. Make no mistake. It was platinum, not granny grey, and Mrs. Ellis Sands looked like a million bucks. Correction several hundred million bucks.
“I was all set to offer Babette a stiff drink and the name of a great attorney. Carleton started playing her for a fool as soon as they got married. He’s even worse now.” Her expression told me that Sheila was only half-serious.
“I got the full treatment,” I said. “That Lieutenant Bascomb made all kinds of aspersions about Ethel and a purported love triangle with Babette and Carleton.”
Sheila gave a loud, unladylike hoot as she visualized the scene. “Ethel had more sense than that. Besides, I doubt that Carleton can handle one woman, let alone two. He’s such a prissy guy. Having great equipment doesn’t count if you don’t know how to use it.”
I ignored the equipment comment and shrugged. “You’d be surprised how many women consider him a cross between George Clooney and the Dali Lama. More to the point, something made Ethel strip right down to her chemise. I can’t for the life of me figure that one out. Come to think of it, Ethel wearing a chemise seems weird too. She was more the sturdy cotton type. Haines all the way.”
Sheila grinned. “Honey, people wear all kinds of really weird stuff underneath their clothes. Gives them a sick thrill. Think of all the uptight guys wearing ladies’ unmentionables. Remember, I was an ER nurse before Ellis rescued me. Ooh. The stories I could tell you.”
Ethel was no weirdo and she was entitled to her little secrets just as we all were. No one knew that I slipped on Pip’s graduation ring from Cornell every night
before turning off the lights. It helped me to sleep almost as if he were holding me again. It was a harmless ritual, but some might think that was strange too.
Sheila spoke gently to her dog and stepped inside the house. “Maybe that guy in black held her at gunpoint or ripped her clothes off.”
Once again, I shook my head. “Doubtful. Her things were neatly folded on the bench in front of Babette’s bed. Just what you’d expect of Ethel. She was such a sensible person.” I suddenly recalled the pedicure. Sheila raised her eyebrows when I mentioned it.
“That’s weird. Ethel once told me what a waste of time pedicures were. That entire Mani Pedi craze made her sick. Downright foolishness she called it. Doesn’t sound like her at all—unless a man was involved.”
Sheila was a great believer in the power of sex to transform both men and women. Her husband was well into his eighth decade, a sensible, belt and suspenders kind of guy who wore starched shirts, French cuffs and bespoke suits every day, even on weekends. That didn’t deter his wife from reading lurid romance books and dreaming. Despite advancing age and immeasurable luxury she still yearned for a steamy love life. Personally, I was ambivalent. Until I met Pruett, I neither had nor wanted physical contact with any man but Pip. Still, I made a note to check with Babette. She would know if any hanky-panky had occurred by checking the sheets. The forensic team had already removed almost everything from the bedroom, but knowing Babette, she would still find out.
“I guess we better get down to business,” I said to Sheila. “Let’s check your inventory and see where we stand.” We spent the next hour discussing show leads, collars, shampoos, and other canine paraphernalia, then switched over to equine gear. Sheila loved Rhodesian Ridgebacks, a brave, formidable breed that suited her just fine. For important dog shows, she employed a professional handler but at local events often did the honors herself. Despite her husband’s strong disapproval, Sheila was also an accomplished equestrian who still rode her gelding during competitive shows in the area. Like many riders, she had taken her share of nasty spills. In her one concession to Ellis, she no longer participated in “eventing,” the equine equivalent of the iron man challenge, which consumed three days and included dressage, show jumping and cross-country.