by Emily Queen
“Imagine if you painted the wainscot a light, airy color and covered the rest with new paper—something flowered, I think, would be best,” Rosemary allowed her vision of the room to come to life as she walked through the space, gesturing towards what she would change and what she would keep the same.
“Of course, the woodwork needs refreshing, but you won’t want to get rid of the patina altogether. She’ll have indoor plants, I imagine—that window seat is lovely, but the window is wide enough that you could build some open shelving up the sides so she can view the river through a frame of leaves and blooms.”
Max followed Rosemary’s gaze around the room, listening as she described what she would do. So clearly did she describe her vision that it came to life. He pictured the changes sweeping around the room and turning it into a light, airy space his mother would love. Moving on to the other rooms of the flat, Rose kept up her running commentary, even giving Max an idea of how long such a redecoration might take.
“You could have it ready for her in under a month. Less if she doesn’t mind shifting from one bedroom to the other. Would that be soon enough?”
“For someone who doesn’t even want to move, I’d say so,” Max joked, “although, I believe she’ll be more comfortable than she thinks she’ll be once we’re finished with this place.” He realized he’d included Rosemary in his plans and quickly tried to correct himself. “I mean, once I’ve finished with it.”
“You’re making me wish I wasn’t hurrying off to Cyprus. This is just the kind of project I could sink my teeth into.” Rosemary gazed at the faded wallpaper with longing, her fingers itching to begin tearing at the curled edges.
She resisted the urge and looked to Max. “What do you think?”
“I think you are a genius, Rose.” He found himself standing close enough to her to smell her perfume. Rosemary's heart began to thump a little harder, and her breath caught in her throat. She took an instinctual step back and was so preoccupied with her own confusing thoughts she didn’t notice the look of disappointment that crossed Max’s face.
“Not a genius, just an artist with a vision.” She struggled to keep her voice steady and was relieved when Max returned her smile. It took an effort for him to do so, but he wasn’t the type of man who would allow her to be uncomfortable.
Right now, he sincerely wished he were.
Chapter 10
Dr. Redberry, his wife, and his office were quiet the next day, causing Rosemary to spend an inordinate amount of time agonizing over whether she ought to go over and check on the couple.
Somewhere around the middle of the day, Vera had enough and snapped, “If you want to go over there, then go. If not, stop worrying about it and relax.”
Frederick opined—and Vera had begun to agree—that putting off their trip might have been unnecessary.
The men spent the day lounging around, eating, and meandering down by the riverbanks, while Vera finally persuaded Rosemary to spend some money at the stores. An inordinate amount of money, to her mind, though she supposed any sum was worth the smile on Vera’s face. What’s more, her cases were packed and ready to go, and she’d managed to find a bathing costume that was both stylish and modest enough to suit her tastes.
Eventually, Rosemary pushed her concerns to the back of her mind, and even enjoyed another evening with Vera, her brother, and Desmond. They had reached a sort of understanding, with Frederick and Des allowing themselves to be led around by the women, their protests delivered only half-heartedly.
Breakfast the next day started as a gay affair, with talk of the upcoming holiday dominating the conversation.
“I hear the ruins are rather beautiful and worth a day of foot travel,” Rosemary said, her brow furrowed. “I do hope we’ve packed appropriate shoes, Vera.”
Frederick snorted and answered for her. “I would hazard a guess that Vera has packed enough shoes to outfit everyone who ever lived in those ruins. Stop worrying, Rose. They do have shops on the island. If you’ve forgotten anything important, you’ll have no trouble finding suitable replacements.”
“He’s right, Rosie. I’ve thought of everything, you rest assured.”
Wadsworth, with his usual pomp and circumstance, entered the room with his hands full, “Your newspapers, my lady. I believe you’ll want to take a look at the cover of the Herald.” He bowed and made his exit after depositing the items on the dining room table.
“Rosie, does your butler always have a stick up his rear end?” Frederick asked while Rosemary picked up the paper and began to read. His infantile question went unanswered as she took in a sharp breath.
Killer dentist on Park Road—Dr. Martin Redberry suspected of murdering patient. The article went on to state that the death has not yet been officially ruled an accident, and to speculate that since the man died in the chair and the investigation wasn't moving forward, Martin perpetrated the perfect crime.
The hush that fell over the table wasn’t broken until Desmond cleared his throat. “Is it possible there’s some truth to the article? How well do you know Abigail Redberry, Rose? Well enough to be absolutely positive neither she nor her husband could kill?”
Before Rosemary could formulate a response, Freddie offered his opinion with another wave of his scone. “Anyone will kill for the right reasons. Straight down to the most mild-mannered person, everyone has a breaking point.”
“You might drive me to mine,” Rose warned, “if you don’t stop spreading jam everywhere.” Freddie offered a cheeky grin, but one that carried no true repentance.
Rose sat back down, hard, on her chair. “No matter whether it’s true, this article is enough to ruin Martin’s reputation and, indeed, his entire career. Nobody likes dentists as it is,” she said.
“Who is this reporter?” Vera asked, “and where did he get his information? That’s what I would like to know. Max seems certain the overdose was accidental.”
“Nathan Grint is his name,” Rosemary replied, checking the byline.
Frederick sat back in his chair and smiled until Rose cast him a disapproving glance. “What exactly are you so happy about?” she asked irritated.
“I’m not happy, exactly, but I do believe I’m the one who expressed doubt regarding Martin’s innocence. And here I am, vindicated.”
“You aren’t vindicated yet, brother dear,” Rosemary retorted. “Just because this reporter has his hackles up doesn’t mean it was murder, or if it was, there’s no proof Martin is the one who killed Mr. Segal. Whatever happened to ‘innocent until proved guilty’? I seem to remember that you relied on that adage when it was your neck being measured for the noose.”
Frederick ignored the chastisement. “Who else might have done it, then? Who else would have had the opportunity, I ask you?”
Forehead wrinkling, Rose chose not to answer but pulled her eyebrows together as she thought back to Martin’s behavior at the play and after the police and the coroner had left.
“Personally, I think if anyone in that house is a killer, it would have to be Abigail,” Desmond interjected, causing Rosemary to stare at him with a look of wide-eyed horror.
“And why on earth would you think that?” She asked, incredulous. “What possible motive could she have?”
Desmond winked. “Just a gut feeling, I suppose. That woman is hiding something—mark my words.”
“You two are both way off,” Vera said, siding with Rose. “If the police truly believe Mr. Segal was murdered, don’t you think Max would have said as much to Rosie? He’d have been here warning her to keep her nose out of the case.”
“He did say he expected the inquest to come back with a ruling of death by misadventure,” Rosemary said, declining to mention that Max had done just that. “I can’t picture either of the Redberrys as cold-blooded killers.”
Laying claim to the last scone, Frederick chose preserves over clotted cream and slathered on a thick layer. He took a bite, then scattered crumbs everywhere when he used the scone to gestur
e. “How well do you know Martin and Abigail, really? Well enough to be certain of their motives?”
Folding the paper while she thought the question through, Rosemary finally sighed. “Probably not, which is all the more reason to have a conversation with Martin and see if I can get a better sense of him.”
Chapter 11
“Please, come in.” Abigail allowed Rosemary to take her hand and give it a gentle squeeze as she ushered the group into the foyer. Frederick and Desmond had insisted upon joining the women for what they gleefully termed a bout of sleuthing. Out of deference, the two men had promised to treat Dr. and Mrs. Redberry as friends rather than potential murderers. Rosemary entertained doubts that Frederick, in particular, would be capable of keeping his word.
“Martin isn’t taking this very well, as you can see,” Abigail gestured to her husband, who leaned over in his chair with his head in his hands. “We thought, perhaps, since you seem to have a knack for solving mysteries, you might be willing to weigh in on the matter,” she said, a plea in her voice. “Martin didn’t kill that man. Even your inspector Whittington agrees. The newspaper article will ruin us. Patients are already calling to cancel appointments.”
Rosemary looked from Martin to Abigail but said nothing. On the surface, Abigail seemed the type of woman who would defer to her husband whenever called upon to do so. Until that moment, Rose would not have guessed Abigail possessed the fortitude to maintain her composure during a time of crisis, but that is precisely what she did. While Martin crumbled, Abigail stood strong.
Knowing that she would have done the same had it been Andrew in trouble, Rosemary couldn’t help but admire her neighbor and pledged whatever assistance was in her power to give.
Martin Redberry’s basic personality Rosemary found more challenging to pin down entirely. Having previously seen a display of his mercurial nature caused a few lingering doubts. The man ran hot and cold at the turn of a moment, and yet, Andrew had always insisted a certain amount of distance was necessary before attempting to judge a man.
Attitude alone didn’t make the man a murderer, and once again, Rose found herself in a situation where she simply couldn’t walk away and expect justice to be properly served. Unlike her last foray into solving a murder, Abigail was asking her to find a way to protect the innocent. Otherwise, Martin would be found guilty in the court of public opinion.
With the attention of the news article adding pressure, the police might be forced to reconsider the case. No matter how much she trusted Max, Rose worried for Martin’s reputation—and his freedom.
“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do whatever I can to help,” she said, looking at her companions with a question in her eyes. Helping the Redberrys meant postponing their holiday yet again, and she felt terrible about it.
Judging by the sparkle in Frederick’s eyes, he was intrigued by the idea of investigating a murder in which he was not the prime suspect. Vera and Desmond both nodded to indicate they agreed. Desmond, in particular, not having had the opportunity to watch Rosemary in action, was more than willing to hang around and see how things developed.
The matter settled, Rosemary shifted into investigative mode. “I think the best way to proceed is to treat the incident as if it were a murder. I want you to be perfectly honest and answer my questions to the fullest. I need all the information you can provide to make sense of what did or did not happen to Mr. Segal.”
To that end, she asked the pertinent questions. “Why don’t you start with your movements that morning. Don’t leave anything out.”
Martin’s head came up, his eyes darting to Abigail, who nodded in reassurance. Mollified, he leaned back against the brocade and stroked his chin before beginning.
“Well, after our evening at the theater, I had a bit of a headache. I wasn’t looking forward to taking patients at all. I’d honestly hoped my morning would clear itself, as it sometimes does. As a rule, we get a lot of cancellations. Not just me, but my colleagues in the field as well. Dentists are widely feared, even though our practices have evolved in recent years.”
Simply having the conversation was enough to put one’s teeth on edge.
“It may not be pleasant to receive a shot of Novocaine in the gums,” Martin continued, “but it’s better than having a tooth pulled with only whiskey for a painkiller. I did an extraction first thing in the morning, and then performed two teeth scrapings before tea.”
Abigail shivered at Martin’s description, causing Rosemary to wonder if she was as hardy as she appeared.
“I had planned to spend an hour lounging in my chair. Abigail can attest to the fact that she’ll often find me there, sound asleep, when she comes down with my tray. Anyway, I received a call from a, er, distraught patient”—Martin stumbled over the words—“and was forced to make a lunchtime appointment. If I’d known he would wind up dead…” Overcome, Martin hung his head in his hands once more.
Despite her reservations about the man, Rosemary’s heart went out to him. “I know this is difficult, Martin. Take your time. There’s no hurry, but must you must be thorough. Please, hold nothing back.”
“I’m responsible. Whether the police consider it an accident or not is irrelevant. The man died in my chair. If he hadn’t been there to begin with, none of this would have happened. How am I ever going to live with myself?” He glanced at his wife for strength.
Abigail took his hands in her own and spoke softly but with conviction. “This is not your fault. You were simply doing your job. No one can prove there was foul play involved.”
“Ah, but therein lies the rub, for unless Rosemary can pull off a miracle, no one can prove the opposite, and like my conscience, my name shall never be clear.”
Speaking brusquely, Abigail gave Rosemary a telling look. “Then let us pray for that miracle.”
“Quite so. Quite so.”
“One wonders,” Freddie said, playing the role of adversary, “how a potential murderer might stage such a caper. Oh, not you,” he rushed to add when Martin’s hot gaze fell upon him. “But still, how might such a thing be done, say a soul bent on murder were to enter into the equation?”
Abigail’s dagger gaze failed to turn Freddie from the question, and Rosemary admitted she’d quite like to hear the answer.
After a moment’s thought, Martin said, “Forgive me, but I cannot fathom how anyone would have been able to perpetrate a crime such as this. The only people with access were those in the waiting room, and Polly—my aide and secretary,” he explained. “All of my morning appointments other than the emergency under which Mr. Segal found himself were set up days ago. I simply don’t see how anyone in the waiting room could have predicted his arrival.”
“Who exactly was in the waiting room, Martin?”
“Two, I believe, but I honestly don’t know. You’d have to ask Polly about that.”
“Were you acquainted with the dead man in a personal capacity?” Proving herself astute, Vera asked the question.
“In passing, though not well enough to predict what possible motive anyone might have for killing him.” Shoulders slumping, Martin said in despair, “No one will believe me innocent, and why should they? The death happened in my office, which makes me look like the guilty party. I am the only one who will fall under public scrutiny.”
Clearing her throat, Abigail interjected, “You forget that I was also on the premises, Martin, and Mr. Segal did not die a violent death. Why should a woman not be suspected just as surely as a man?”
Her husband looked up at her with an unfathomable expression in his eyes and snapped, “We’ve discussed this at length, and you agreed to keep yourself out of it. Why would you say that now?”
“Because, Martin,” she said, glaring at him hard for a moment, “it’s the truth.” She turned to Rosemary. “I brought down Martin’s tea tray, even though I suspected he might be napping. I wanted to ensure that he ate because when he doesn’t, he tends to become forgetful and difficult. In fact, I think
you might want to put something in your stomach now, dear.” It didn’t sound like a term of endearment.
“You say you did not know him personally. Was he a regular patient?” Rosemary cut in, getting back to the point. Her focus shifted to include Abigail, watching the woman’s facial expressions and noting her reactions to Martin’s explanations.
“He’s come in for work a time or two, yes,” Martin replied slowly. “As I said, I don’t know him particularly well.” His face turned a delicate shade of pink. “And I hate to speak ill of the dead, but he wasn’t exactly the most pleasant gentleman on the face of the earth.”
Frederick snorted. “Murder victims usually aren’t,” he commented and left it at that.
“Please recount the events leading up to the death, Martin,” Rosemary prompted, shooting a quelling look at her brother.
“Well, he had a cracked tooth that had become infected and was causing him considerable pain. I offered a shot of Novocaine, but he insisted upon gas. Such a big man, formidable even, and yet the idea of being poked in the gums terrified him. I agreed, strapped on the mask, began to administer the nitrous oxide, and reached for my forceps. Unfortunately, Polly is still learning the intricacies of dental procedure and laid out the wrong one. She’s a whiz on the telephone and has a way of putting patients at ease, but she rarely sets my tools properly. For a trained nurse, she’s somewhat of a disappointment. Under normal circumstances, I’d have double-checked before beginning to administer the gas, but as I said, it was a rough morning. I turned the valve off and went to the supply closet to search for the proper forceps. When I couldn’t find them, I called Polly in and explained to her, again, what's required for an extraction.”
“I can attest to the fact that he’s telling the truth,” Abigail cut in again, casting a look at her husband that had his mouth snapping shut. “I entered via the back staircase with Martin’s tray and went straight to his office, as I usually do. As silly as it sounds, I’ve always loathed the dentist, and I can’t even stand to hear the noise of the drill.”