The Second Fletcher Flora Mystery Megapack

by Fletcher Flora

“I don’t think that will be a prolonged problem,” she said. “Nettie’s taking care of it.”

  “Is the feeling between Nettie and Cory actually so strong?”

  “Stronger. She hates him intensely, and he, for his part, is afraid of her.”

  “Afraid of a child? You must be exaggerating.”

  “I’m not. She threatened to kill him the other night.”

  “When I was a kid, as I recall, I threatened to kill several people at various times. It’s merely a manner of expression.”

  “Nettie is no ordinary child. If she made her threats in a fit of hysterical anger, you could discount them. But she doesn’t. She is perfectly calm and deadly. It’s quite frightening, really, and I can’t say that I blame Cory for being impressed. He wants to send her off to school.”

  “Will you permit it?”

  “No. Cory and I have had an ugly scene about it.”

  “I still say that there’s something ludicrous about a man being afraid of a young girl.”

  “Nevertheless, the relationship between them has become almost intolerable. Be patient a little longer, darling. Nettie will solve our problem for us in good time.”

  “You think she’ll force a separation?”

  “Yes. And a divorce will follow. No one can blame a mother for refusing to desert her child.”

  “Where is Cory now?”

  “He drove into the village. He should be back any moment.”

  “Too bad. I was hoping for a little more free time. Oh, well, everything in its own time and place, I suppose. How about another martini now?”

  She held out her glass, and he carried it and his over to the table. Bending slightly over the pitcher as he poured, his eyes had a speculative expression, as if he were considering an idea hitherto neglected.

  * * * *

  There was a knock on the door of her room, and Stella, without turning away from her reflection in the mirror of her dressing table, called out an invitation to enter. In the glass, she watched the door open and Cory come in. He closed the door and leaned against it, both hands clutching the knob behind him. He was a small man with fine blond hair brushed neatly from the side across a thin spot on the crown. In her year of marriage to him, Stella had learned that he was, although generous and kind, a man of precarious disposition, subject to a kind of irrational and free-floating anxiety. In his eyes now, as he looked across the room to intercept in glass her reflected observation of him, there were shadows of worry.

  “Come in, darling,” she said, still not turning. “I’ve been having a nap. Is it getting quite late?”

  “Not late.” He left the door and came over to sit on the edge of the bed, her eyes following him in the mirror. “About five.”

  “That’s all right, then. Dinner’s early tonight, but we’ll have plenty of time for cocktails.”

  She began again to brush her hair, interrupted by his entrance, and she picked up the count immediately where she had left it, forming the sounds of the numbers with her lips in a rather absurd little ritual, as though a few strokes more or less made any difference. But it created diversion.

  “Have you had the .22?” he asked abruptly.

  “The what?”

  “The .22 caliber rifle. It was in the rack in the library.”

  “Of course not. You know that I never touch your firearms.”

  “It’s gone.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t take it out and leave it lying somewhere? You must admit, Cory, that you’re rather forgetful.”

  “I haven’t touched it in weeks. I thought you might have loaned it to Gavin or someone.”

  “Well, I didn’t. I wouldn’t loan your rifle to Gavin or anyone else.”

  “Someone has taken it. I wonder who.”

  “Nonsense.” She laid her brush on the dressing table and spun half around, back to the glass, to look at him directly. “Be reasonable, Cory. Who on earth would take your rifle?”

  “Someone.” His voice had suddenly a petulant, fearful quality. “Where’s Nettie?”

  “She’s in her room, I think. Why? Surely you don’t suspect Nettie of taking your rifle.”

  “It would do no harm to ask her.”

  “On the contrary, it might do a great deal of harm. The constant tension between you and Nettie is becoming unendurable.”

  “Am I to blame? I’ve done everything possible to make myself acceptable to her.”

  “She resented our marriage. You will simply have to be patient with her.”

  “My patience is rather strained these days. Nettie should go away to school. It would give her a chance to adjust.”

  “We’ve been over that. It would simply be evading the problem, and Nettie is, besides, too young to leave home.”

  “Nettie’s not really young at all. She’s ageless.”

  “I don’t believe that I like that remark. What do you mean by it?”

  “You know what I mean. She’s deliberately trying to destroy our marriage. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do to accomplish it Perhaps she already has.”

  “Stop it, Cory. I won’t listen to you say such things. It’s obscene for a grown man to feel such hatred for a child.”

  “I don’t hate her. She hates me. Frankly, I’m afraid of her.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a coward.”

  “Call me what you like, but there’s something abnormal about the girl. She’s completely enclosed. Nothing reaches her.”

  “She’s extraordinarily bright. You can hardly expect her to have the same interests as mediocre children.”

  “It’s more than that.” He stood up and jammed his hands into his jacket pockets. “I want to speak with her, if you don’t mind.”

  “About the missing rifle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I do mind.”

  “Nevertheless, I insist. If you won’t bring her here, I’ll go look for her.”

  “Very well. Have your own way. I’ll get her.”

  She left the room and walked down the hall to Nettie’s door. Trying the knob, she found the door locked, and there was, after she knocked, such a long interval of silence that she began to think that Nettie was asleep inside or had gone out somewhere, locking the door after her and carrying away the key.

  Then, when she was about to leave, Nettie’s voice sounded suddenly on the other side of the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Mother. I want you to come with me to my room. There’s something we need to settle at once.”

  A key turned, and the door opened. Nettie was wearing, as she had been yesterday, a white blouse and jeans. Behind her, an open book lay in a swath of sunlight on the floor.

  “I was lying on the floor reading,” she said. “What needs to be settled? Something new about me?”

  “You’ll see. It’s nothing to worry about. Come along, dear.”

  Together, they returned to Stella’s room. Cory, waiting, was still standing by the bed with his hands jammed into his jacket pockets. Stella had a feeling that the hands were clenched, and she was momentarily aware, with the slightest sense of compassion, of the depth of his desperation. She turned to Nettie, who was looking steadily at Cory with eyes that had acquired instantly the peculiar gloss of blindness.

  “Cory wants to ask you something,” she said. “Please answer him truthfully.”

  Nettie didn’t acknowledge the directive, and Cory, after waiting until it was apparent that she would not, spoke with a kind of rush, his words trailing away as if he barely had breath to utter them.

  “My .22 rifle is gone, Nettie. Did you take it?”

  From his voice she gauged the measure of his concern, and her own voice, when she answered, was bright with mockery.

  “Yes,” she said. “I took it.”

  Her candor was dearly a shock. Stella, who had expected denials, and Cory, who had expected a more trying inquisition, stared at her with slack faces that were almost comic and incomprehensible.

  “What
on earth for?” Stella asked. “You know you’re not allowed to use the rifle without supervision.”

  “I’m not sure,” Nettie said. “Perhaps I intended to kill Cory.”

  Stella sank down upon the bench in front of her dressing table. Cory did not move.

  “You mustn’t say such dreadful things.” Stella’s inflection suggested that she was protesting the innocent use of obscenity that had been spoken without understanding. “Where is the rifle now?”

  “In my room. I put it in the closet.”

  “Go and get it and bring it here.”

  Without a word, Nettie turned and went out. When she was gone, Stella sat staring at the floor, ignoring Cory, and Cory, hands in pockets, remained unmoving by the bed. There was nothing to be said that either was prepared to say, and they waited in silence for Nettie’s return. She came, in a minute or two, with the rifle under her arm. Stella, watching her walk toward Cory, was suddenly aware that the rifle was pointing straight at Cory’s chest. Half-rising, she extended one arm in a gesture of alarm or supplication.

  “Perhaps,” Nettie said, “I’ll kill Cory now.”

  Thereafter, action followed action in an odd and deliberate sequence, as if every sound and movement were carefully modified and measured. The report of the rifle was hardly more, it seemed, than the popping of a cork. Stella, arm outstretched, sank down again upon the bench. Cory, dying with his hands in his pockets, looked down with a kind of wonder, just before falling, at the small hole opened above his heart. Nettie turned to Stella, as children in need have always turned to mothers.

  “But it was a blank,” she said. “Gavin told me it was a blank!”

  * * * *

  Martin Underhill, a detective on the sheriff’s staff, after descending the stairs, crossed the hall and entered the library. The room was darkening, and it was several seconds before his eyes, adjusting to the shadows, found Stella sitting in a high-backed chair turned away from a window. She did not rise to meet him, did not move at all. He walked across the room and sat down in another chair facing her. In his manner there was a reassuring touch of deference which she assumed to be an offering to her position in the county, but in fact, it was detectable in his contacts with people of all stations.

  “How are you feeling, Mrs. Singer?” he asked.

  “I’m quite all right, thank you,” she said.

  “I’m afraid there are a number of points to clarify. Are you up to it?”

  “I’m prepared to tell you anything you need to know.”

  “Good. Suppose you begin by telling me again just what happened.”

  “As I’ve said, Cory’s rifle was missing. The .22 that you saw upstairs. It had been taken from the rack over there, and he was very disturbed about it. He suspected Nettie of taking it and, as it developed, he was right. Nettie admitted it. I sent her to get it and bring it back. She returned in a minute or two, carrying the rifle under her arm, and I saw that it was pointing directly at Cory. She said something about killing him, merely an expression of childish hostility, but then the rifle went off, and Cory fell. And that’s how it was.”

  “In spite of her remark about killing him, you’re convinced that it was an accident?” he asked.

  “Of course it was an accident. I have told you that the threat was just an expression of childish hostility.”

  “What caused the hostility?”

  “Nothing specifically. I mean, no particular incident. Nettie didn’t approve of my marriage to Gary. She resented him as an intruder.”

  “I see. But the rifle was loaded, Mrs. Singer. That bothers me. Do you think it was already loaded when Nettie took it from the rack?”

  “I doubt it very much. Cory never left his firearms loaded.”

  “Well, then. You can surely see that Nettie must have loaded it herself. Were bullets available?”

  “There were bullets for all the firearms somewhere. I’m not sure just where Cory kept them.”

  “Do you think that Nettie could have found the bullets?”

  “It’s entirely possible, but I’m sure that she didn’t.”

  “Oh? What makes you say that?”

  Again Stella was silent, again remembering. Now she was hearing Nettie’s words, almost lost in the echo of a shot and the trauma of horror.

  “Something she said just after she shot Cory.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said, ‘Gavin told me it was a blank.’”

  He stared at her through the shadows, trying to read the expression on her face. There was no expression to read. He began to appreciate the terrible exercise of control behind her apparent quietude.

  “Who,” he asked, “is Gavin?”

  “Gavin Brander. A neighbor. He lives half a mile or so up the road.”

  “What did Nettie mean?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve been thinking and thinking about it, but I’m just not sure.”

  “Have you asked Nettie?”

  “No. She had a terrible experience, you understand. She’s resting in her room. I don’t know if she’s capable of answering questions.”

  “We had better try. I’ll be as considerate as possible. Will you fetch her?”

  “If you insist.”

  “I’m afraid I must. I’m sorry.”

  Alone, he listened to the diminishing sound of her footsteps crossing the hall and ascending the stairs. There was an old-fashioned grandfather’s clock in the shadows behind him, and he listened to the mechanical measurement of time. Time passed, measure by measure, and pretty soon he was aware of footsteps in the hall again. Nettie entered, followed by Stella. Nettie made an odd little bow to Underhill, who had risen, and sat down in the high-backed chair that Stella had left. She seemed completely composed. Serene was the word that occurred to Underhill. If she had suffered a trauma, she had recovered with remarkable rapidity.

  “Nettie,” Stella said, “this is Mr. Underhill. He wants to ask you some questions. You must do your best to answer them.”

  Nettie nodded, staring with grave composure at Underhill, who resumed his seat and leaned forward hands on-knees.

  “Nettie,” he said, “why did you take your stepfather’s rifle?”

  “I wanted to play a trick on him.”

  “Oh? What kind of trick?”

  “I was going to pretend to shoot him.”

  Her confession of malice had somehow an air of innocence, as if she had admitted to soaping windows on Halloween. Paying silent tribute to her composure, he took a moment to recover his own.

  “Why did you want to do that?”

  “Because I hated him. I wanted him to go away, and to stay away.”

  “Was the rifle loaded when you took it?”

  “No.”

  “Where did you get the bullet?”

  “Gavin gave it to me. He said it was a blank.”

  “Don’t you know the difference between a live bullet and a blank?”

  “Of course. A live bullet will kill you. A blank won’t.”

  “I mean in appearance. Can’t you tell the difference by looking at them?”

  “I suppose I could if I really thought about it. But I didn’t. I hardly looked at it. The bullet Gavin gave me, that is. I put it right into my pocket and later I put it right into the rifle.”

  Underhill leaned a little farther forward, his grip tightening on his knees. His words were as precisely spaced as the ticks of the clock.

  “Listen to me, Nettie. I want you to be very careful how you answer. Do you think that Gavin Brander purposely gave you a live bullet in the hope that you would kill your stepfather with it?”

  “He must have, mustn’t he? How else can you explain what happened?”

  “Oh!” Underhill stood up, struck a fist in a palm, and sat slowly down again. “But why? Why would he want Cory Singer dead?”

  Nettie seemed to draw a little farther away into the shadows. Her voice was suddenly small and cold.

  “I wouldn’t want to say.
”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not my place to do so.”

  Stella, standing behind Nettie’s chair, released her breath in a long sigh, and Underwood lifted his eyes. Her face was drained of color and stiff as wood. Nothing in it moved except her lips.

  “She means that it’s my place, and I suppose it is. Gavin Brander is in love with me. And I, God help me, was in love with him.”

  “Was, Mrs. Singer?”

  “You can’t go on loving a man who is capable of using a child to commit a murder.”

  “It would be difficult, to say the least.” Underhill’s voice was light and dry, but his heart was turgid with restrained rage. “I think, if you will excuse me, that I’d better go see Mr. Brander at once.”

  * * * *

  Gavin Brander opened the door. Underhill, standing outside, introduced himself, and Brander’s eyebrows expressed surprise. He stepped back and gestured Underhill in. They went from the hall into the living room, Underhill preceding.

  “I’ve just had my dinner,” Brander said. “May I offer you a drink? I’m about to have one.”

  “No, thanks.” Underhill, in a chair, held his hat in his lap. “I’m on duty.”

  “Oh? Well, I suppose you fellows must work all hours.” Brander, postponing his own drink, claimed another chair. “What, precisely, is the nature of your business?”

  “I’m investigating a death. A neighbor of yours. Cory Singer.”

  He was watching Brander intently, and he had to give him credits for acting, if acting Brander was. His face betrayed just the right amount of neighborly shock.

  “Old Cory dead? That’s bad news. Since you are concerned, I take it that something in the matter is amiss?”

  “There is. Cory Singer was shot and killed by his stepdaughter.”

  “The hell you say!” More acting? If so, more credits. “So Nettie actually did it! She did it after all!”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, you were not acquainted with the family, and can’t be expected to know. But there was a lot of hostility between Nettie and Cory. On Nettie’s part, that is. She made his life difficult. Recently she threatened to kill him, but I’m afraid that I put that down to no more than childish extravagance. My mistake, it seems.”

  “His, I’d say.”