by Alisa Craig
The “we” was pure gallantry. The mosquitoes were ignoring him in favor of Janet’s more succulent epidermis, as what sensible bug wouldn’t?
They climbed back to the ridge where the breeze was brisker and the mosquitoes fewer. It was impossible not to pause and look back. Dusk was deepening now, and the fireflies were putting on some impressive pyrotechnics.
“Such a beautiful, beautiful place,” Janet sighed. “I used to dream about it down in Saint John. I wish our folks had bought the pond years ago. I hate to think what might happen to it now.”
“What could happen?” said Rhys, knowing full well.
“Lots of things, I’m afraid. We never gave it a thought as long as Mrs. Treadway was alive because we knew she’d never do anything to hurt us, but once Marion gets a clear title, she’ll sell it to anybody who comes along. Some rich so-called sportsman, like as not, who’ll cut down all the trees to build him a fancy lodge and fly in parties by helicopter. They’ll be staggering out blind drunk to take potshots at anything that moves, polluting the pond, scaring off the herons—”
“And the snapping turtles,” Rhys added gravely.
“Well, the turtles were there first, weren’t they?”
“Couldn’t you get in your offer first?”
“We could if we had the money, I suppose. Marion will want top dollar, you can bet your boots on that. As it is, I suppose Bert will just have to put up a fence and pray.”
“Of course, if the place became popular, Bert himself could sell out to a developer for a tidy sum.”
Janet gasped, as though Rhys had said a particularly dirty word. “Bert would never sell! This farm is his life’s blood. He’d die if he ever had to move.”
Rhys nodded. He’d known of people who’d died from having to leave their home acres. He’d known of others who’d died of trying to hang onto them. The case was taking on new ramifications, and he was liking it less and less.
CHAPTER 13
Rhys bade Janet a chaste good night, went back to the Mansion, and settled into his assigned bedroom. When Marion, Gilly, and the rest were safely bedded down for the night, he sneaked out, went back to the Wadmans’, and kept vigil on the porch hammock. He encountered no marauders except two raccoons, a family of formally attired skunks, and a number of wild rabbits. As dawn began to show gray over the cowsheds, he crept back to his lodgings and got into bed.
Because there was nothing special to get up for, he allowed himself to sleep till nine. He’d told Janet not to expect him for breakfast since he could always get something at the Mansion and didn’t know what he’d be doing after that. She’d said not to be too sure about breakfast and the teapot would be on the stove if he got desperate. A beautiful woman.
He could see that Bert’s car was back, so things must be under control over there. There was some secondhand coffee in the percolator and a box of sugar-coated frosty pops or some such abomination laid out on the kitchen table with a bowl and a spoon thoughtfully placed beside it. He ignored them, brewed a pot of strong tea, and cut a thick slice from a loaf that Janet must have contributed. After this simple but satisfying repast, he wandered into the yard.
Elmer, Gilly, and young Bobby were out in the new dog run, throwing sticks and laughing as the dachshunds beetled after them. Rhys wanted to talk to Gilly, but hesitated to go over, knowing his presence would put a damper on their fun, and her bodyguard would inhibit a free exchange of conversation. He desired a word with Marion, too, but she didn’t appear to be around.
Rhys sauntered out front and on down the hill road, noting that the property around the Mansion was indeed extensive though rocky and sparse-looking, and that it afforded a fine view of the valley across from the excellent new road that ran down into the village. Both the would-be developer and Pitcherville’s expectant tradesmen must have been disappointed when this appealing site proved unfit for building.
There wasn’t another house for almost a mile; then he began to encounter dwellings, decently kept up for the most part, each with its patch of bright annuals in front and its well-tended plot of pole beans and cabbages and turnips and whatnot around at the side. Pitcherville was a self-respecting place.
It was too hot to be walking with his coat on, but he kept his shirt sleeves buttoned and his sober tie knotted under his loosened collar. It wouldn’t do to make himself too comfortable since he was, after all, on duty. Behind every clean pair of parlor curtains, at least one pair of eyes must be watching every step he took, and by now they must all know who he was. How many of these respectable folk had reasons of their own to wonder why he was taking such an interest in their houses?
Rhys had no trouble finding Fred Olson’s garage, or its proprietor. Olson was sitting on a broken-down kitchen chair in the doorway, chewing on the stem of an unlighted pipe.
“Good morning, Marshal.”
“Mornin’, Inspector.” Olson got up and dragged out a second chair. “How’s it goin’?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Rhys told him. “I’m just stirring around to see what floats to the top. I expect you’ve heard the Mounties are in town.”
“Yep.”
“Have you any idea how Sam Neddick spotted me?”
A grin flickered momentarily around the pipestem. “Says you pinched ‘im once in Moose Jaw for disorderly conduct.”
That could have meant almost anything, and probably had. Rhys smiled back ruefully. “Old pinches have long memories.”
“Sam never forgets nothin’.”
“Or forgives, obviously. I shan’t get any help from him.”
“Not likely.”
They sat for a while without talking. Olson exchanged his unlit pipe for a surprisingly dapper gold-banded briar, stuffed tobacco into the bowl, and puffed until he all but disappeared in smoke. At last his voice came out of the cloud. “They’re claimin’ Jase Bain called you in to get ‘is patent back from Elizabeth Druffitt. I don’t know who started that one. Ma Fewter, like as not.”
“But why Mrs. Druffitt? It was my understanding her daughter inherits from Mrs. Treadway’s estate, not she. Can’t Gilly Bascom handle her own affairs?”
“Huh!” The marshal rapped out sparks on his boot heel and stuck the fancy pipe back in his shirt pocket. “Rhys, tell me the God’s honest truth: Do you think there’s anything to that patent business?”
“Do you?”
“Hell, no! Everybody’s been bustin’ their britches over Charles Treadway’s foolish inventions since before I can remember. I’m too old to start believin’ in fairy stories. Only if that patent ain’t worth nothin’, then what was the sense of anybody killin’ Miz Treadway?”
“How valuable would it have to be?”
“How’m I s’posed to answer that one? Ten dollars could be a lot o’ money if a person was flat busted.”
“Do you know anybody who’s that hard up?”
“I don’t imagine Gilly Bascom’s got two nickels to rub together right now, but Gilly’s always had ‘er folks behind ‘er, and now there’s the inheritance to borrow against if she needs to. See, that’s how it goes in a little place like this. Everybody’s got somebody, as you might say. Most of us never have any ready money to speak of, but we’re in no great danger o’ starvin’ to death. We know there’s always a handout to be got somewheres.”
Olson hesitated. “O’ course I’m speakin’ for Pitcherville. I wouldn’t know about foreigners.”
“You’re referring to Marion Emery?”
“Well, I did get as far as algebra though you mightn’t think so, an’ I’d say she’s what our teacher used to call the unknown quantity. Her father was a brother of Elizabeth’s, but as they say, there’s good eggs an’ bad comes out o’ the same basket. I was only a little-bitty kid when Phil Emery pulled out for the States but I know he was never welcome back. Too many girls’ fathers after ‘im with shotguns. I dunno if he married Marion’s mother or not. I s’pose his luck was bound to run out sooner or later, though, so he m
ust of. Anyways, she started comin’ up here seven or eight years ago faithful every few weeks to see dear old Aunt Aggie. Twasn’t as if Miz Treadway wanted ‘er. Accordin’ to Dot Fewter, not that you can put much stock in anythin’ she says, of’ Aggie treated Marion like dirt under ‘er feet. Hell’s bells, would you sit up all Friday night on a bus an’ then turn around an’ do the same thing Sunday if you wasn’t mighty anxious to get your meathooks into some ready cash?”
“But Marion’s been working regularly down in Boston, hasn’t she?”
“So she claims. I dunno what at, but it can’t o’ been much if she was willin’ to throw up ‘er job just like that soon as Aggie died.”
“She no doubt expected a larger inheritance,” said Rhys. “Didn’t you say it’s going to work out at about five thousand dollars apiece for her and Gilly?”
“Five thousand in cash plus a half interest in the property an’ whatever might or might not come out o’ that patent Jase Bain’s so set on gettin’ hold of. Don’t seem like much, but you never know.” He reached for the fancy pipe again. “I s’pose it might look just as good to Gilly Bascom, maybe better. Gilly’s done some awful foolish things in ‘er time. But, damn it, Inspector, I can’t see any woman burnin’ down her own house with herself an’ her kid an’ them two little dogs inside. Can you?”
“Not easily.”
Rhys thought of the young mother back at the Mansion sitting on that uncomfortable Victorian chair, sobbing her heart out. It was never safe, as he knew from sad experience, to exonerate a woman because she cried. She might have been feeling guilty because the fire had got going faster than she’d thought it would and the risk had been greater than she’d anticipated. She might have been having an attack of nerves. Or she might have started crying to keep him from asking too many awkward questions.
Faking an attack on yourself was the oldest trick in the murderer’s book. What good was it to have money behind you if you also had a tightfisted mother holding the purse strings and refusing to loosen up unless you made impossible concessions? And what if you were in love with a chap your mother didn’t approve of, and what if that chap had been brought up to respect the value of a dollar and wasn’t about to take unto himself a somewhat shopworn bride without some cash on the barrelhead? Rhys stood up and dusted pipe ashes off his pantlegs.
“Well, I expect I ought to get on with the job.”
“Where you goin’ now?”
“I thought I might as well mosey over and explain to Mrs. Druffitt that she’s had a couple of murders in the family.” The woman had to know sometime, if she didn’t already. Rhys had no doubt that the grief-stricken widow would be able to withstand the shock of being told.
Janet had explained to him that the Druffitt house was in fact the Emery house. The widow still lived in the dwelling where she was born, while the doctor’s ancestral home had been cut up into a lawyer’s office, presumably the one so well patronized by Jason Bain, a couple of stores, and the Owls’ Hall. They could both have used a fresh coat of paint. Rhys noted this not very interesting fact as he went up the steps and rang what had been the doctor’s bell.
Dot Fewter answered his ring, greeted him in an oddly subdued manner, and went to tell Mrs. Druffitt that he’d arrived. She then came back and lurked in the shadows, pretending to dust. Rhys was not surprised when Marion Emery accompanied her cousin into the foyer, or that both women met him with cold and sour looks. Even had they known Rhys was in fact a bachelor with a modest inheritance from a great-aunt of his own prudently salted away in the bank, they probably would have been no more cordial. Vipers in the bosom were clearly not their cup of tea.
“Well, Mr. Rhys,” said the doctor’s widow, “it appears we have been made the victims of a deception.”
He returned her Medusa glare with an apologetic smile that barely twitched the corners of his mustache. “I only wish the deception could have been maintained a while longer, Mrs. Druffitt.”
“I didn’t tell ‘em,” the hired help broke in. “They already knew when—”
“That will do, Dot,” snapped the mistress of the house. “Go back upstairs and finish your dusting.”
She motioned the other two into her late husband’s office and shut the door behind them. Rhys noted that the jamb was edged with felt weatherstripping and judged that the room must be almost soundproof. The murder might well have been accomplished without Janet’s hearing while she sat in the waiting room just outside.
Elizabeth Druffitt took the doctor’s chair behind the desk. Marion Emery sat down in the one no doubt intended for the patient. Rhys was left standing, like a poor relation about to be refused a loan.
“I daresay you ladies are wondering why I came.”
It was a feeble enough beginning. Marion snorted. Her cousin’s long upper lip curled. These expressions of scorn did not put Rhys off. He was used to them.
“The reason is,” he went on in his gently plaintive voice, “that the Mounted Police have been called in to investigate the murders of Agatha Treadway and Henry Druffitt.”
Both women went gray as the smoke from Fred Olson’s pipe. “I don’t believe you,” Marion gasped. “What is this, another trick?”
Rhys shook his head. “No, it is not.”
“But that’s crazy! Auntie died of food poisoning. I was there. I—” she caught her breath, her skin now the color of old putty. “Are you trying to pin something on me?”
“Shut up, Marion.” The doctor’s widow was gripping a handsome polished onyx pen stand, her knuckles shiny yellow knobs against the black stone. “Explain yourself, Mr. Rhys.”
“As you know,” he said, “Mrs. Agatha Treadway died of botulism, having eaten improperly preserved string beans. We have evidence that those particular vegetables were prepared by someone other than herself with malice aforethought, and that she was tricked into eating them.”
Neither of the cousins made any reply to that. They simply stared at him, their long, gaunt faces astonishingly alike. After a long time, Mrs. Druffitt said quietly, “And my husband?”
“Your husband died as the result of a skull fracture.”
“I know that. He slipped on that little braided mat right over there, and hit his head on the edge of this desk.”
“No, he did not, Mrs. Druffitt. He was struck from behind with a heavy, rounded object, similar to the head of that brass poker out in your waiting room. His body was then arranged in such a way as to make the death appear accidental.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
“Frankly, Mrs. Druffitt, our investigation will proceed whether you believe it or not. You will find the result easier to accept if you do, of course.”
Marion opened and shut her mouth once or twice, but the look on her cousin’s face silenced her. At last the doctor’s widow spoke again. “Do you have any evidence?”
“Oh yes, plenty of evidence. We don’t go around making up wicked stories to frighten innocent people with, you know.”
“Then,” the woman let go of the pen stand and ran her long fingers carefully across her forehead, “I suppose I must believe you, mustn’t I? This—this is a terrible shock. You must give me time—”
“Certainly, Mrs. Druffitt. I understand how you must feel.”
Actually, Rhys was not at all sure he did. Marion Emery’s reaction was easier to interpret. She was eyeing him with the trapped look of the born underdog. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. Guilty or innocent, she must realize she was bound to rank high on his list of suspects.
“Now, ladies,” he went on in a fatherly tone even though both were a good deal older than he, “I’m sure you realize it will be in your own best interests to work closely with me in clearing things up as quickly as we can.”
“But the talk! What will people think when you start going around asking all sorts of dreadful questions? Think of the gossip!” For the first time, Mrs. Druffitt’s agitation sounded wholly genuine.
“I had thought o
f that,” Rhys answered. “That was why I tried to pass myself off as a relative of the Wadmans. I was hoping to conduct my investigation so unobtrusively that nobody would realize anything was being investigated.” He smiled sadly. “Unfortunately, I ran into an old acquaintance.”
“I should call it more tragic than unfortunate.” The widow was pulling herself together now, sitting up taller in the cracked-leather swivel chair, the bones in her face standing out like an anatomical diagram. “Our position in this community —”
Marion said something nasty. Her cousin glared.
“Marion, I’ll thank you to remember that you’re in my house.”
“Knock it off, Elizabeth. If you think it’s any distinction to be an Emery, go take a look at that slut who’s probably got her ear glued to the keyhole right now. You know damn well why they kicked my old man out of Pitcherville, and you also know he didn’t get the habit from anybody strange. I’ll bet there’s hardly a soul in this village who isn’t related to us one way or the other, mostly the other.”
If looks could have killed, Rhys would have had another corpse on his hands as of that moment. However, Elizabeth Druffitt only said, “That will do, Marion. I’m sure Mr. Rhys doesn’t care to hear any more of your gutter talk, and neither do I.” She turned to the inspector with a gesture of apology. “I’m grateful that you appear to see the difficulty of my situation, even if those who should know better choose to treat it as a subject for levity. I shall certainly help you in every way I can. The sooner this terrible scandal is hushed up and forgotten, the better for all of us.”
Hushing up scandals was hardly part of his job, but he deemed it impolitic to say so at a time when co-operation was being offered. “Thank you, Mrs. Druffitt. That is very sensible. Now, since you are willing to help me, perhaps you and Miss Emery wouldn’t mind answering a great many questions.”
He took the two women with agonizing thoroughness through the recent events and a great deal more. He went into family history, village history, details of Charles Treadway’s wildly checkered career as an inventor, anything he could think of that would keep them talking and possibly turn up a word or two of useful information.