by Tracy Kiely
“Okay. Did Ms. Tanner have any relatives that you know of? Next of kin, that sort of thing?”
“No. She doesn’t … didn’t. Only me, I guess, and we were only distant cousins.” Her face crumpled. She took a drink from the glass, and after a steadying breath she added, “She was an only child and never married.”
“No children?”
Linnet sat up straighter on the sofa and said sternly, “Of course not, Detective. As I said, Jackie never married. To suggest a child outside of marriage is offensive!”
A crimson blush stained the back of Detective Stewart’s neck. “I meant no offense, ma’am. It’s a standard question.”
“Well, it’s a damn silly one, if you ask me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He went on quickly. “Mrs. Westin, it has come to our attention that Ms. Tanner thought she knew who killed Gerald Ramsey.” Linnet rejected this statement with a shake of her head. Not a strand of her perfectly coiffed hair moved as she did so. “Jackie said that? But that can’t be right. She never said a word to me!”
“It’s true, Mrs. Westin,” I said. “She told me so this morning. She was trying to get in touch with the police so she could tell them.”
Linnet’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “But who was it? Did she tell anybody?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Detective Stewart. “But she did announce her plans at the inn this morning. We are concerned that she was overheard and that’s why she was killed.”
“Oh, dear God,” moaned Linnet. “Did she say why she thought she knew?”
“All we know is that it had something to do with the lights.”
“The lights?” repeated Linnet thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, she did say something about the lights.”
“Do you remember what?” said Detective Stewart, leaning forward. His voice was urgent. I held my breath and waited for her to answer.
She shook her head apologetically. “I’m afraid I don’t, Detective. Jackie had a tendency to ramble on and I’m embarrassed to say that I didn’t always pay attention.” Her face crumpled. “Maybe if I had, she’d still be alive. This is my fault. If I hadn’t had the idea to go to the mystery dinner in the first place, then none of this would have happened.”
I grabbed her hand. Giving it a squeeze, I said, “That’s not true, Mrs. Westin. None of this is your fault.”
“That’s right,” said Detective Stewart. His face was red and his lips were pressed together in a hard, thin line. “I promise you, Mrs. Westin. I will find out who did this.”
After a few more questions, Detective Stewart asked Linnet to identify the body. “I am sorry to have to ask you to do this, but as you are probably the closest thing to a next of kin …” His words trailed off.
“I understand, Detective,” she said, standing up. “I’m ready.” She was still holding my hand. From the death grip she had on it, it was clear that she had no intention of letting it go.
Together we followed Detective Stewart to the sunroom. Thrown over a chair was Jackie’s gigantic afghan with its cheerful stripes of white, green, and blue. Had she been happily working on it when her killer came? I turned away, sick. As we approached the side door, my throat constricted. I felt as if I were trying to breathe through a straw. Linnet showed no sign of letting go of my hand. I continued forward.
The body still lay where I had found it, although a white sheet now covered it. Detective Stewart walked over and pulled the sheet back. The blue hat fell limply to one side, revealing the sparse white hair that Jackie had so carefully hidden with her hats. I averted my eyes; I simply couldn’t stomach another viewing. Beside me, Linnet jerked her hand up to her mouth. “Jackie,” she moaned.
Detective Stewart looked up at her. “Is this Ms. Tanner?”
Linnet nodded, her hand still pressed to her mouth and her eyes riveted on the body. I gently turned her away and helped her back inside. “I think I’d like to lie down now,” she said, her voice small. I walked her up the stairs. Her movements were slow and unsteady. At the top landing, she paused as if unsure of her surroundings. Fearing that she might be in shock, I steered her in the direction of her room. She sank heavily onto the bed and flung her arm across her face.
“Would you like me to call a doctor?” I asked.
She shook her head. I sat beside her on the bed for a moment before going back downstairs.
Detective Stewart was waiting for me. “How is she?”
“Okay, I guess, but you probably should have one of the paramedics check her out. She’s had a pretty nasty shock.” So had I, for that matter.
“What was their relationship like?” he asked. “Did she have anything to gain by Ms. Tanner’s death?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “This house is owned by Mrs. Westin. From what I gather, Jackie was down on her luck and Mrs. Westin invited her to live here as a kind of companion.”
“Did they get along?”
“As far as I could tell. I think Mrs. Westin lorded it over Jackie from time to time that she was here out of charity, and I think she sometimes treated her a bit shabbily. But I never saw Jackie get upset because of it.”
Detective Stewart nodded slowly, his mouth a tight line. Lost in thought, he turned and walked away toward the back of the house, slapping his battered notebook against his thigh as he went.
CHAPTER 21
One reason I don’t drink is that I want to know when
I’m having a good time.
—NANCY ASTOR
I T WAS LATE afternoon when I got back to the inn. I had called Aunt Winnie and told her about Jackie, so she and Peter were waiting for me. Randy was there, too. Pushing past them, I headed for the drink cart with a determined stride. I had never been much of a drinker, but tonight I thought I could become one.
“Elizabeth! What a hellish thing for you to go through,” said Aunt Winnie, trailing after me. “Do the police know what happened?”
“Someone killed her,” I said numbly. “Beat her to death. I found her outside in the backyard.” I closed my eyes against the gruesome image of her poor battered face. I finished the first gin and tonic and made myself another. A large one.
“Honey,” said Aunt Winnie, gently taking the glass from me, “alcohol is a crutch.”
“Yeah, well, tonight I could use a wheelchair,” I snapped, grabbing the glass. She frowned at me but didn’t argue. I sat down heavily in one of the fireside chairs.
Peter sat opposite me. “Someone must have overheard her this morning,” he said. I nodded dumbly. “Do the police have any ideas? Anything at all?” He searched my face for some kind of reassurance, but I had none to give. I shook my head. As far as I could tell, we were back where we had started. Actually, we were even worse off. According to Jackie, the “clue” that had led her to the identity of the murderer had to do with the lights. And the only one who’d had anything to do with the lights was Aunt Winnie. I took a large sip.
Peter glanced at Aunt Winnie. “What should we do?”
“Short of getting the hell out of this town, I have no idea,” I replied. “Detective Stewart told me that he was coming over here to talk to everyone. You can ask him when he gets here.”
“This is just terrible,” said Randy, shaking his head. “That poor woman. How is Mrs. Westin doing?”
“I think she’s in shock,” I said.
“Aren’t we all?” murmured Aunt Winnie. “Frankly, I’m scared. There’s a homicidal maniac on the loose!” Randy reached out and rested his hand on her shoulder.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said. Aunt Winnie gave him a brief smile. His words may have given her solace, but they did nothing for me. Neither of them had seen what I had. I took another, larger sip.
Aunt Winnie eyed me worriedly. “I’ve asked Randy to stay here at the inn until this is cleared up,” she said. “I think the more people we have under this roof, the safer we all are.”
Depends on the people, I thought, moving on from sips to gulps. A d
ark suspicion overtook me. Wasn’t there something about Gerald and the sale of Randy’s bookstore? Could Randy have killed Gerald for financial reasons? He had been around a lot lately. Was he trying to discern what we knew? I studied Randy as he sat, his hand protectively on Aunt Winnie’s shoulder. She smiled up at him. It was obvious that Aunt Winnie trusted Randy. I’d never had reason to doubt her judgment before. Suddenly, ashamed of myself, I pushed the ugly thought away.
Peter turned to Randy. “Did you ever find anything out from your niece, the paralegal, about Lauren?”
Randy straightened his glasses and shrugged. “Nothing more than we’d already surmised through local gossip. Lauren did meet with a divorce lawyer, although no action was taken. Conventional wisdom has it that the prenuptial agreement was ironclad and other than walking away with absolutely nothing, Lauren didn’t have any options.”
Peter leaned back in his chair. “And from what Elizabeth learned about Lauren and her son, Jamie, it’s doubtful that she’d want to take him out of that group house he’s in, especially if he’s making progress.”
Randy nodded. “Right. So we are left with a woman who wanted to divorce her husband but couldn’t because of financial reasons.”
Aunt Winnie pursed her lips. “Crimes have been committed for much less. And, unfortunately, when there’s a lot of money at stake, as there is in this case, it can bring out the worst in people,” she said thoughtfully. “And let’s not forget Polly. Gerald kept her a virtual prisoner. He wouldn’t let her go away to school and she wouldn’t be able to touch her trust fund for years. I wonder what happens to it now? Maybe she gets it early.” She was silent a moment and then snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute! Wasn’t Gerald’s first wife, Tory, having an affair when she died? Did anyone ever find out who it was with? Randy, you lived here then, did you ever hear of anything?”
Lady Catherine jumped up on Randy’s lap. He gently removed her before answering. “No, I never heard who it was,” he said, adjusting his glasses.
Aunt Winnie tapped her finger against her chin. “That’s someone with a grudge, I bet.”
Randy said nothing.
Peter put his head in his hands. “Let’s face it,” he moaned, “everyone who knew Gerald Ramsey had a motive for killing him.”
As if on cue, Daniel walked into the room. He was wearing a blue blazer and jeans, both of which hugged him in all the right places. His hair was artfully tousled and his smile lopsided. But for once his good looks had no effect on me. I was feeling, to quote Pink Floyd, “comfortably numb,” and I planned on staying that way for a long time.
Seeing our grim expressions, Daniel’s ready smile faltered. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Why the long faces?”
Peter answered him. “Ms. Tanner is dead. Murdered. Elizabeth found her this morning.”
Daniel’s eyes flew to mine. Did I imagine a look of panic in their blue depths? “Bugger,” he muttered under his breath. “How awful. What happened?”
Everyone waited for me to answer, which annoyed me. I wanted to sit in my chair, drink my drink, and forget. I didn’t want to have to keep reliving the nightmare. I took another long gulp. With great effort, I said, “Someone bashed her face in.” My voice sounded funny, like I was speaking through a tunnel.
From out in the foyer, the front door slammed. The Andersons’ voices floated in. Daniel called out to them. “Mr. and Mrs. Anderson? I think you’d better come in here.”
All sound from the foyer ceased. A second later, Henry and Joan warily poked their heads around the corner. “What seems to be the trouble?” asked Henry. His tone was casual, but his stance was not. His body quivered like an arrow ready to be released from its bow.
“Ms. Tanner was murdered this morning,” Daniel said. Joan took a step back, her hand flying up to her mouth. She stared at Daniel in horror. Henry reached out to steady her.
“Do the police know who did it?” Henry’s voice was harsh.
Daniel turned to me. I shook my head. “Detective Stewart is on his way,” I said. “He wants to talk with us.” I stared down at my glass. How could it be empty? I got up and made myself another one, studiously ignoring both Aunt Winnie’s and Peter’s disapproving expressions.
Henry began to argue, with whom I don’t know. I was only half listening, anyway. I longed to retreat into myself again. I heard him yelling something along the lines of inconvenience, safety, and deranged killers. Peter tried to calm him down, but it didn’t do any good. Henry began shouting something about Mrs. Dubois and I was wondering how I could get him to shut up and sit down when Detective Stewart arrived and Henry did just that. Two uniformed police officers remained in the foyer. Idly, I wondered if the back of the inn was surrounded as well.
Detective Stewart entered the room. “Good, you’re all here. I gather you’ve been told about Ms. Tanner,” he said, seeing me.
“Yes,” said Joan in a small voice. “Was she really murdered?” Her face was pinched as if in pain. Why? I wondered. We were all upset about Jackie, but Joan looked as if she had received a stunning blow.
Detective Stewart answered her. “Yes. And quite brutally. Now I need to take your statements as to where each of you were this morning.” He pulled out his notebook and said, “Why don’t we start with you, Mrs. Anderson? Where were you today?”
Beside her, Henry opened his mouth as if to argue, but Joan put her small hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. “It’s okay, Henry.” Turning back to Detective Stewart, she said, “My husband and I drove into town and did some shopping at a few antiques stores. We spoke with Mrs. Dubois by phone regarding some recent purchases. Then we had lunch in town, went to the movies, and came back here.”
Detective Stewart wrote this down. “I’ll need to get Mrs. Dubois’s number to verify your story and the names of the places you went.”
“Of course,” said Joan. A strand of red hair had escaped from her bun. As she recited the details, she methodically twisted and untwisted the lock of hair around her long fingers. Detective Stewart scribbled away. When she was finished, Detective Stewart turned to Daniel. “And you, Mr. Simms?”
Daniel was sitting on the couch, one arm slung over the back. He gave every impression of chatting at a cocktail party rather than being interviewed for a murder investigation. “I was with Polly Ramsey all morning,” he said. “As you know, her father’s funeral is tomorrow and I was helping her prepare for it.” Behind Detective Stewart, I saw Joan’s eyes widen. Her mouth opened as if she was about to speak, but this time it was Henry who put a restraining hand on his wife’s arm.
Detective Stewart stared at Daniel for a long moment, using that trick that had reduced me to a babbling idiot. Daniel merely arched his eyebrow and calmly returned the detective’s gaze. “Miss Ramsey will confirm this?” said Detective Stewart.
Daniel smiled and bowed his head. “But of course, Detective.”
Turning to Peter, Detective Stewart said, “Mr. McGowan, you’re next.”
Peter twisted in his chair, clearly not as comfortable as Daniel at sparring with Detective Stewart. “I was here most of the morning,” he said. “Around ten o’clock, I went to the Internet café in town to do some work. I was there maybe an hour. I don’t really know. Afterward, I came back here, and I’ve been here ever since.”
“What were you doing at the café?”
Peter hesitated before answering. “Just some work for my parents’ business. They’re working on some new properties.” I studied him over the rim of my glass. He was lying. I was sure of it. I had heard that tone too many times in my youth not to recognize it now. But why? I wondered. What was he up to?
“I see,” said Detective Stewart. “That won’t be too hard to verify. Great thing about the Internet; it leaves a record.” Peter squirmed but said nothing.
“And now, Ms. Reynolds,” Detective Stewart said, “perhaps you could tell me your movements this morning?” The smile he gave her reminded me of a portrait of Machiavelli I’d seen
years ago. I needed more of my drink.
Aunt Winnie returned the smile with one of her own. Seeing it, I groaned. I knew that smile; trouble always followed.
“I’d be delighted to,” she said. “I was here all morning. After breakfast, I went to my room and showered. I spent the rest of the morning in my office, catching up on some paperwork.”
I knew what Detective Stewart was going to say next and I dreaded it. I put my glass up to my lips and drained it, desperate to crawl into my retreat again.
“Well, that is odd,” said Detective Stewart, tapping his notebook. “Because Elizabeth here”—he waved a beefy hand in my direction and everyone looked my way—“Elizabeth says that she knocked on your door several times this morning before she left for Ms. Tanner’s house. She says that she got no answer.” All heads swiveled in Aunt Winnie’s direction.
She ignored them and said, “Well, that would make sense, Detective. As I said, I took a shower. I was probably in it when Elizabeth knocked. It seems rather obvious, actually.” She smiled that smile again. Bad, I thought. Very bad.
Detective Stewart said nothing for a long time. I looked sadly at my now empty glass. I wanted another drink, but that involved standing. And walking. Both seemed inordinately Herculean efforts. And if I was going to emulate any of the Greek gods today, it was going to be Bacchus. Good old Bacchus. Good old Greeks for coming up with him in the first place. Wait, Bacchus was the Roman name. What was the Greek name? I frowned. Dionysus! That’s my guy. I sat there full of fondness for both the Greeks and their god of wine. That’s when I realized I was drunk. I might be able to think of Dionysus’s name, but I sure as hell wouldn’t bet money on my being able to pronounce it.
Snapping his notebook shut, Detective Stewart stood up. He seemed very far away. He also looked very stern for a man named Aloysius. I stifled a giggle. No wonder he went by Al, I thought. Nicknames could come in handy at times. Really, there were so many. Winifred became Winnie, Linnet became Linney, Jacqueline became Jackie, and Victoria became Vicky. I stopped. Victoria. A memory swirled in my head. It tried to surface but was hampered by alcohol and the ongoing conversation.