From the Murky Deep

by Kerry J Charles

  “Yes. I’m afraid,” she said simply. She held up the call button in her hand. “The doctor said to push this when I wanted her to come back,” she added, “and I can get more medicine for the pain. My head hurts so badly.”

  “All right then. Go ahead and push it. I’ll wait here until the doctor comes. And Lydia,” Dulcie reached out and took her hand. “You’ve been through a lot. More than just hitting your head, or your sister’s death. You need to rest and maybe talk with someone when you’re ready.”

  Lydia held Dulcie’s hand tightly until the doctor arrived.

  In the hallway, Dulcie rubbed her hand. Lydia’s grip felt like it had stopped the circulation. “Did you hear all of that?” she asked Nick.

  “Uh huh. I think so. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Do you think she’s in danger?” asked Dulcie.

  “I’ve got a guard here already.” He pointed to a man standing quietly behind Dulcie. “Thanks, Jack. I’ll send someone to replace you in a couple hours.”

  “No problem,” the man replied.

  Dulcie and Nick quickly left the building by the side stairs. Dulcie began to speak but he stopped her. “Not here,” he said. They made their way out, and silently walked down the street. “Want to go to my house?” asked Dulcie. “We’re closest to it right now.”

  Nick nodded. As soon as they were inside her house, Nick was on his phone. First he called the guard at the hospital to see if Clark and Ross had returned. They had not. Then he called Adam Johnson. Nothing new to report from him.

  “Got any coffee?” Nick asked. “I need to clear my head.”

  Dulcie quickly made coffee and they sat at the table. “That was quite a confession from Lydia, and it explains the paintings,” she said.

  “Two of them anyway. The van Gogh is still a mystery. Lydia couldn’t have possibly taken that.”

  Dulcie sipped her coffee. She had made it strong and it seemed to filter into her mind almost instantly. “Why would Lydia suddenly jump to the conclusion that Ross and Clark were trying to kill her? Why not just assume it was an accident?” she mused.

  “Do you think it was?” asked Nick.

  “I’m not totally convinced,” said Dulcie. “But I just don’t see why they wouldn’t want her around. Did she know something?”

  Nick drained his mug. “Is there more?” he asked. Dulcie reached for his mug, but he stood up. “No, no. I’ll get it.”

  Dulcie heard him rummaging around in the kitchen. He came back in and sat down, cradling the cup in both hands. “Okay!” He looked intently into the steaming liquid. “Okay,” he said again more softly. “We have Jennifer dead with your phone number on her hand, two artworks that belonged to Amelia but were stolen by Lydia, and a van Gogh that was stolen by a person or persons unknown from a random couple in Boston.”

  “Right,” said Dulcie. “Should I be writing this down?”

  Nick’s laugh was humorless. “Not yet. Let’s just walk through. Next we have Lydia thrown from a horse that Ross bought for her. Both he and Clark were getting her up on it when the accident happened. Jennifer was poisoned with ketamine that Ross had on hand. Clark, or his mother for that matter, could easily have taken it, though. So the primary suspects all appear to be from the Davenport-Jones family.”

  “Although, there’s one outside chance of another,” said Dulcie.

  “Not you!” exclaimed Nick. “I know your number was on her hand, but I’m pretty sure that….”

  Dulcie put up her hand to silence him, smiling. “Thank you for the vote of confidence. No, I was referring to someone else who may have had a motive to kill Lydia at least. Did you hear Lydia in the hospital telling me that Clark hadn’t been faithful to her?”

  “Yes, but she was speaking too softly for me to hear the rest.”

  “Well, she told me the name. It’s the woman that you spoke with after the funeral. You said your families had been friends. Alexia Kent, I think her name is?”

  Nick flinched so hard that his coffee spilled. Dulcie jumped up and grabbed a towel from the kitchen. She threw it at him as she said, “Wow, struck a nerve there! Did you have a revelation? Is she the murderer?”

  Nick focused on cleaning the coffee from the table. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “It does add another angle.” He looked intently at Dulcie. “Does Lydia know for sure?”

  Dulcie nodded. “I think so. I don’t know if she has absolute proof, but she seemed very sure.”

  Nick stood and went into the kitchen. He rinsed his coffee mug in the sink. “I should get going. I have to check back in with Johnson before he heads home for the day. You need anything?”

  Dulcie shook her head. “No, I think I’m fine. I don’t think my life is in danger, certainly. I’ll let you know if I think of anything else,” she said.

  “Good. I’ll call you later. Lock this,” He jerked his head toward the door, then quietly closed it behind him.

  I’ll call you. How many times had Dulcie heard that line before? But in the case of Nick, it was always true. He always did.

  For me, painting is a way to forget life.

  It is a cry in the night,

  a strangled laugh.

  ― Georges Rouault

  CHAPTER 15

  At some point during the night, Dulcie had awakened and began turning the events over again in her mind. The thought occurred to her that she should be looking at everything differently. They had been focused on Jennifer, Lydia, and the two artworks that she and Nick had found. The van Gogh seemed like an outlier. “What if,” Dulcie said out loud, “What if that’s the key?”

  Sitting in her office at the museum several hours later, Dulcie opened her computer and brought up an image of the painting. “Beautiful,” she murmured. “I can’t imagine owning something like this.” She realized that now she did in fact have the money to own something like that, but only just. “It would be gone in a flash, all on one painting!” she said out loud.

  She checked the provenance. It all seemed perfectly plausible. On a whim, she called the auction house that had sold the work. She knew several people there and perhaps could get some additional thoughts.

  “Claire! It’s Dulcie, how are you? …Great! I have a question for you. I’m looking up some van Gogh information and wondered if I could find out anything more about that piece that was stolen from the couple in Boston, you know the one? …Yes, that’s it. Sure, call me back. Thanks!”

  Dulcie hunched over her computer for the next hour typing in every web search that she could think of, clicking link after link about the theft. The couple was perplexed as to how it was stolen. The wife was very upset since it had been a gift that she had dearly wanted. The police could find nothing for leads. Cleaning staff, security people, even closed circuit television had all lead to dead ends.

  The phone rang again. “Hi Claire,” Dulcie answered. “OK… yes, that’s interesting. …hmmm… Wait a minute. What did you say? Who? Are you sure? …Yes, thanks!” she nearly forgot to end the call before dialing Nick’s number.

  Ten minutes later he walked into her office.

  “Close the door,” she said without looking up. She was staring at an image of the van Gogh painting on her computer. She looked up at him with the same intense gaze. “When is a theft not a theft?” she asked.

  He looked at her quizzically. “Is this a trick question?”

  “Sort of. Do you have an answer?”

  “Um, when it’s a joke? Or a misunderstanding? Or just something lost?”

  “Or fraud,” she said quietly. She let the words sink in.

  Nick’s brain began whirring slowly, then faster and faster. “They did it!” He said at last. “They stole it themselves! They collected on the insurance!”

  “Absolutely. Very clever, but not very original. Insurance companies take great pains to investigate. But this couple must have done an excellent job. They got away with it.”

  “Or nearly did. But what do we have for proof?”r />
  “How about this?” Dulcie told him about her conversation with the auction house. Nick was silent. He let the words flow over him. He closed his eyes. Yes, it was the simplest solution. It all came together. He opened his eyes and stood up.

  “I need to get a search warrant. I’ll talk later.” He quickly strode form the room, then poked his head back in. “Dulcie, thanks! You’re an angel!”

  Dulcie waited for him to leave, then sat back in her chair and spun around. “Yep, all in a day’s work, my friends! All in a day’s work!” She said to the empty room, grinning all the while.

  #

  Clark returned home with his father, to find the police thoroughly rummaging through his belongings. “What’s going on here?” he shouted. Ross stood beside him, unable to speak.

  “We have a warrant, sir,” the officer handed him a piece of paper. Nick grabbed it, crumpled it up, and threw it over his shoulder behind him.

  “I don’t care what you have! What the hell are you looking for? My wife’s in the hospital for Chrissake!”

  “I’ll call your mother,” said Ross, finally regaining his voice. It was all he could think of to do. He went back outside.

  Clark fumed watching the police go through his personal things as though they were browsing in a store, picking up each item, turning it over, putting it back. He saw two of them taking pictures. “This is an invasion of my privacy!” he yelled to no one in particular.

  From the bedroom he heard a woman’s voice shout, “Got it!”

  Nicholas Black came out of the bathroom where he had been analyzing the medicine cabinet. Clark glared at him. Nick continued into the bedroom. “Perfect. Show me where it was,” Clark heard him say.

  Nick came back out. “Clark Davenport-Jones, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Jennifer Hully and the attempted murder of Lydia Davenport-Jones.” He glanced at one of the other policemen. “Read him his rights.”

  “What! Are you kidding me? I didn’t kill anyone!” The officer was droning on as Clark continued to shout. A second policeman quickly put his wrists in handcuffs. Running out of breath, Clark was silent for a moment, the gravity of the situation descending upon him.

  “Oh, and I’ll need this.” Nick began to reach into Clark’s pants pocket but thought better of it. “Jill, a hand here?”

  The officer who had yelled from the other room stifled a laugh, stuffed her hand deep into Clark’s pocket, and pulled out his cell phone. “I’m assuming this is what you were after?” She smirked. It was well known that Nick had not been seen with a woman since he began work with the Portland Police Force. A few rumors had begun to spread that his preference was in the other direction. Nick ignored her comment and took the phone.

  Ross Davenport-Jones came back in. “Did I hear you yelling? Clark!? What the hell is…?” He trailed off upon seeing his son in handcuffs. A look of complete despair washed over his face. “Clark? What have you done?”

  Clark was now even more furious that his own father would assume that he had done anything at all. If he had not killed anyone before, he was ready to now.

  “Take him in,” said Nick quietly. Two policemen walked him out the door and slid him into the back of a cruiser.

  Nick heard Clark say, “For God sake, don’t turn on the damn blue lights! If the neighbors see anything…” The car door slammed and the cruiser swiftly backed out, blue lights flashing.

  Ross hadn’t moved. “What’s going on?” he finally managed to croak.

  “I’m sorry to tell you, Mr. Davenport-Jones, but we found this among your son’s things.” He held up a vial of liquid. “Do you know what it is?”

  Ross did not even have to look. He had seen it hundreds of times in his bag. “Yes,” he said hoarsely, “that’s ketamine.”

  The lights in Lydia’s hospital room were low, a soft warm glow that mirrored the evening sun outside. Dulcie listened to her steady breathing. She had hoped to speak to Lydia again, but did not want to wake her.

  As she was about to leave, she heard Lydia shift slightly on the bed. She looked over. Lydia’s eyes fluttered open. She turned her head to look at Dulcie, and winced.

  “Sorry,” said Dulcie. “Try not to move your head.”

  “Easier said than done,” Lydia replied. “Why are you here? Oh, I’m sorry. That sounded rude, didn’t it.”

  Dulcie smiled and shook her head. “First of all, I wanted to check on you. You seemed pretty scared the last time I saw you. Are you still scared?”

  “Not as much,” Lydia replied softly. “They have a guard outside, don’t they?”

  “Yes. I confess that when you called me down here the first time, I immediately called Detective Black. He didn’t want to take any chances.”

  Lydia reached for a glass of water. Dulcie quickly handed it to her.

  “Has anything happened?” she said between sips. A strange sense of doom had come over her.

  “Yes. Are you sure you want to know?”

  “I have to know,” Lydia said.

  “Your husband has been arrested for your sister’s murder and for your attempted murder.” Whatever reaction Dulcie had expected from Lydia, she was not prepared for what she heard next.

  “Good. But the little bastard didn’t do it.”

  Dulcie leaned forward. “I know,” she said simply.

  A large tear rolled down Lydia’s cheek.

  “Lydia, tell me one more thing. Was your sister dyslexic?”

  Lydia looked confused, but nodded slightly. She put her hand to her head as the pain shot through again.

  “That’s all. Please go easy on yourself. You were caught in a spiral. Truly. Now try to get some sleep again.”

  Lydia attempted a smile but failed. She simply closed her eyes.

  #

  Amelia Davenport-Jones screeched up the highway toward Portland. “They’re all a bunch of idiots,” she thought. “Especially that worthless spawn. No interests other than screwing anyone but his wife. Although that’s not necessarily bad. The longer they go without children, the easier it will be for me to convince him to divorce her. Little gold-digging bitch.” She nearly spat on the steering wheel.

  Clark’s father. What had she ever seen in him? Well, his money for one thing. That certainly did not hurt. But she couldn’t deny that knowing he was a pushover had also been immensely appealing. She had known from the beginning that she could convince him of anything and do whatever she wanted, without interference.

  It had been nice at first. But she had not counted on what the lack of respect would do to their relationship. Increasingly she saw him as a sniveling, whining, annoying coward. Every time she pushed him and he caved, her disgust grew. He was no better than a dog. No, actually, a dog was better. At least they didn’t talk back, which Ross had somehow found the courage to do on occasion.

  Amelia took the highway exit for Scarborough and made her way out to Prouts Neck. The lights were on in some of the houses. She could see people inside, talking, laughing. She imagined Clark’s arrest was the topic of conversation on everyone’s lips.

  Amelia saw Ross’s car in the driveway. She pulled in beside it. The house was dark. Strange. She got out and closed the car door gently, then went up the steps to the back door. She opened it slowly. “Ross?” she said quietly. Part of her had the gleaming hope that he had committed suicide and she would find his body on the floor.

  As she shut the door behind her, the lights blazed on. Amelia blinked, stunned, then glared around the room at the people seated in front of her. Her ridiculous husband, that damned detective, the annoying museum woman… then she realized that Clark was sitting there as well. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Come sit down with us, honey,” said Ross. She couldn’t remember the last time he had addressed her with any kind of endearment. He stood and took her hand, which she quickly yanked away. “All right then,” he said. “You can stand there and tell us how you did it.”

  Amelia blinked. She opene
d her mouth. Nothing came out. She closed it. Then, without warning, she burst out laughing. She laughed and laughed and could not stop. Her sides ached. She collapsed into the chair next to her and continued to giggle uncontrollably.

  At last, finally able to speak again, she said. “You are all such imbeciles!” This brought on more gales of laughter.

  Nick was not amused. “We certainly are,” he said. “Such imbeciles that you got away with it, right?”

  Amelia straightened up, still smiling. “Well, I nearly got away with it!” She tried to suppress another giggle.

  “Why don’t you tell us how it happened, from the beginning?” Nick said.

  Amelia turned to him. “If you’re so damned smart, why don’t you tell me!”

  Nick looked at her coldly. “All right. Let’s start with the van Gogh.”

  “Oohh! Great place to start!” Amelia chimed in.

  “You had wanted it from the beginning, didn’t you? But the bidding went too high, even for you. You lost out. But, just after the purchase the couple who did buy it learned that they had just suffered a huge financial loss. They planned the theft and collected on the insurance.

  “That’s where Jennifer came in. Somehow they knew her, although we haven’t determined exactly who introduced them. Jennifer loved risks. She agreed to hide the painting for a time, then she would return it to them when everything had blown over. They paid her well. She devised the idea of putting it underwater. Brilliant, to be sure.”

  Amelia smirked. “Brilliant except for the fact that I overheard her talking to her sister about it. Not directly, of course, but I put it all together.”

  “So that’s when you decided that you had to have it, right? It didn’t matter to you that no one else would know, or be able to see it. The painting would be all yours. The premier work of your entire collection.”