I watched as Theobald turned over a silver tureen to see what was marked on the bottom. I decided I could live with the idea of Theobald as a murderer.
Chapter 32
The chief was being relatively quick with his witness interviews. By nine, all of the rose growers were on their way home, except for Mother.
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” she said, whenever the chief asked if she’d like to go next. “I have to stay here anyway, to help Meg with the cleanup. I’m sure there are others who would appreciate getting out sooner.”
The chief didn’t press, so I assumed he didn’t consider her a prime suspect. And once Horace had finished work on the kitchen and the chief gave his approval, it was a lot easier to have her around to charm and cajole the catering staff and Mrs. Winkleson’s maids into working harder and more cheerfully than they would have for me.
Actually, the maids didn’t need much cajoling. One of them burst into tears the first time Mother uttered the word “please.”
The caterers were relatively enthusiastic, too. But as I looked out over the dozen assorted people busily tidying, mopping, and scrubbing the huge kitchen, I had to wonder if any of them had an ulterior motive for working so hard. If I’d done the poisoning, maybe I’d welcome a chance to help eradicate any trace evidence that might incriminate me. Assuming Horace hadn’t already found it, of course. My money was on Horace.
I found a moment to speak privately with Mother.
“You seem to be getting along very well with Mrs. Winkle-son’s staff,” I said to Mother. “Any chance you could ask them if they’ve seen this thing before?”
I held up the Baggie containing the doe urine bottle. Mother wrinkled her nose slightly.
“Of course, dear,” she said. In spite of her obvious distaste, she took the Baggie, checked to see that the top was securely zipped, and then tucked it into her tiny black purse.
“And give it to Horace when you’re finished,” I added. “He’s going to analyze it.”
Mother nodded. She looked tired and a little sad.
“I’m sorry I didn’t find the secateurs in time to keep them from being used as a murder weapon,” I said. “If it’s any consolation, the chief will probably be finding out who stole them in the course of his investigation.”
“Mrs. Winkleson stole them,” Mother said. “I’m almost positive. I realized it when I saw her to night. Remember when you were arguing with her?”
“How could I forget it?” I said. “For a few minutes, I thought I’d killed her. Not intentionally, of course, but by making her so mad she had a heart attack or a stroke or something.”
“It was nice of you to be concerned,” Mother said. “Though if losing her temper was apt to be fatal, the world would have killed her off long before to night. I think she was enjoying herself.”
“I hope so,” I said. “If she doesn’t make it, I’ll never be able to forget that I was the one yelling at her in her last conscious moments.”
“Anyway, watching her argue with you jogged my memory. She was standing there, clutching her drink, and she had a look of such . . . such . . . truculent glee. It was the same look she had when she was holding my secateurs at the garden club meeting. I realize that now. I suspect she was holding them, and waiting for her chance to pocket them, and thinking about how much I’d mind when I discovered they were gone. I don’t remember seeing anyone holding them after that. She took them. Then the killer found them here, on her property, and tried to use them on her.”
“You could be right,” I said. “And if the killer’s someone who knows about the secateurs, he or she might have thought it was a neat trick, using them to kill her. Killed with a weapon she’d stolen herself.”
“A pity,” Mother said, and then she pursed her lips together as if stopping herself from saying something she shouldn’t.
“That the killer got the wrong person?” I suggested.
“That the killer got anyone at all is more like it,” Mother said. “And that they used your ironwork as a weapon.”
“I’ll make you another pair just like them,” I said. “Not like the ones I’m making to sell to the garden club. With the delicate handles to fit your hands.”
“Thank you, dear,” Mother said.
From time to time over the next several hours, I saw her talking in a corner to one or another of the maids. The amber bottle would appear, and the maids would study it and shake their heads. Then Mother would talk some more, and the maids would smile and nod happily. I overheard enough of one conversation to know that she was enlisting the maids not only to keep their eyes out for more doe urine bottles but to search actively for them. From the looks on the maids’ faces, I felt confident that if any other little amber bottles were or had been concealed in the Winkleson mansion, we’d hear about it eventually. I only hoped none of them had any idea where they could find more little bottles to plant them on their unloved employer.
I found myself wishing I dared ask Mother to query the staff about the dognapping while she was at it. Poor little Mimi’s fate had been rather forgotten in the wake of the two attempts on Mrs. Winkleson’s life. But I had the feeling the chief would not take it well if I tried to interfere with his investigation of the dognapping— especially if the dognapping turned out to be related to the murder attempts. What were the odds of two unrelated crimes happening at the same place in so short a time?
I tried to remember what Mrs. Winkleson had said earlier about the threatening letters she’d received. “Cancel the rose show or else,” was all I could remember her saying. And “or else” were the only words left of the note I’d found in Mrs. Sechrest’s hand.
Probably a bad idea to point out this coincidence to the chief. He’d probably already noticed it. And in case he hadn’t, I’d talk to Horace later.
By midnight, the whole downstairs was in impeccable shape again, and there were only a handful of potential witnesses left. Rob and I were dozing on two of the white brocade couches, along with the caterer and three of her staff. Mother was sitting in one of the ghastly leather chairs, methodically stitching a crewelwork picture of a vase of roses. The brilliant reds, electric greens, and other bright colors of her embroidery thread were the only splash of color in the huge room.
I wondered if she was really being self-sacrificing in waiting her turn, or if she had some reason for delaying her interview. Using the time to work out her story. Waiting to see what really happened to Mrs. Winkleson.
Nonsense. Mother wasn’t a poisoner.
But what if she had some inside knowledge of who was? Knowledge she hadn’t yet decided whether to share with the chief. . . .
“Tired, dear?” Mother said, glancing over her embroidery glasses at me.
I nodded.
“It looks as if it won’t be long now,” she said, returning to her fabric. “Oh, and here’s your father. What news from the hospital?”
“Mrs. Winkleson is a lucky woman,” Dad said, as he sat down heavily in another uncomfortable leather chair. “She’ll make it.”
“Very lucky,” I said. “If I’m ever poisoned, I hope I’ll have two doctors standing by, not to mention an ambulance with two well-trained EMTs.”
“It also helps to be poisoned with something that’s easy to identify,” Dad said. “It didn’t hurt that both Smoot and I have the genetic ability to smell the characteristic bitter almond odor of cyanide. Not everyone can, you know.”
“And how fortunate for her that she was poisoned with something treatable,” Mother said. Was I only imagining the slight emphasis on “for her,” as if to imply that Mrs. Winkleson’s good fortune wasn’t all that satisfactory to the rest of us?
“And how fortunate that Chief Burke was on hand,” I said aloud. “To investigate the crime from the minute it happened.”
“Though it didn’t turn out to be murder,” Mother said. At least she didn’t add “More’s the pity.”
“I’m sure he’s relieved about that,” I said. “A
nd it’s still attempted murder.”
“Plus it’s a good bet whoever tried to poison Mrs. Winkleson is the one who killed Sandy Sechrest,” Rob said. “So this gives him a whole new bunch of evidence to help solve that crime.”
“I suppose,” Dad said. “There’s no actual proof the two are connected. And the complete change in methods is a little odd.”
“I suspect it’s only in books that serial murderers have an obsessive need to commit each crime in precisely the same way,” I said. “Although I can certainly see that Mrs. Winkleson might have more than one mortal enemy.”
“Still rather a lot of people here,” Dad said, frowning. “I hope that doesn’t unsettle Mrs. Winkleson.”
“Unsettle her?” I repeated. “She’s in the hospital, isn’t she? How would she know how many people are still here, much less be upset by it?”
“She’s coming back,” Dad said.
Chapter 33
“Coming back?” I repeated. Perhaps I’d been spending too much time around Dr. Smoot. For a moment, I pictured Mrs. Winkleson returning as one of the undead the medical examiner was so fascinated with. “She wasn’t poisoned then? Or not that seriously?”
“She was poisoned all right, and it could have been quite serious if she hadn’t received prompt medical attention,” Dad said. “But she’s not really ready to come home. Signed herself out against medical advice, but she insisted she had to come home so she could get up tomorrow morning to get her roses ready for the show. She’ll be here soon.”
“Is that wise?” Mother said. “Surely it would be better for her to rest for a few days.”
“That’s exactly what I told her,” Dad said. “But when I did, she accused me of trying to knock her out of the competition.”
“She didn’t,” Mother said.
Dad nodded.
“She said that the killer had tried to poison her and stab her in the back without slowing her down, and she’d be damned if she’d let some quack doctor do it.”
“The nerve!” Mother exclaimed.
“So she’s assuming it’s because of the rose show that someone’s out to get her?” I asked.
“Seems a reasonable assumption,” Dad said.
“Not the only possibility, though,” I said. “For example, I don’t think the chief should count out Mr. Darby as a suspect. He’s very protective of his animals.”
“Is she mistreating the animals?” Dad asked.
“Not that Dr. Blake and Caroline have been able to learn,” I said. “But I get the idea Mr. Darby isn’t happy. So maybe she’s doing something they haven’t found out about yet. Or maybe he’s just upset that she gets rid of all the animals that aren’t quite perfect.”
“Gets rid of them?” Dad asked. “How?”
“Nothing horrible, as far as I can tell,” I said. “Supposedly they’re sold to other farms. Most of them are unusual or valuable animals, so there’s a good market. But I think Mr. Darby gets attached to the animals, and resents her selling them off.”
“Understandable,” Rob said. “But is it a motive for murder?”
I shrugged.
“And there’s her nephew, of course,” I said. When I said it, I saw Dad glance around quickly, to make sure the nephew wasn’t still there.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “He went back to his hotel a couple of hours ago.”
“Hotel?” Dad said. “They couldn’t find him a bed here?”
“I don’t think he felt particularly welcome.”
“How sad!” Mother exclaimed.
“Maybe,” I said. “Of course, it’s possible that he really did hear about the murder on the news, assumed it was his aunt, and immediately set out to get here. But until the chief checks his alibi to see if he really was at home in Warrenton at the time of the murder. . .”
“Because no one pays any attention when I say I spotted him outside the gateway before the murder,” Rob said.
“Because they always like to check on testimony from someone who might have a grudge against the intended victim himself,” I said.
“Oh, all right,” Rob mumbled.
“Besides, they might want to check if he left Warrenton in time to have committed the dognapping,” I said. “Don’t forget the chief is still trying to solve that as well.”
“Yes, Theobald did seem rather eager to take possession of the house when he thought she was dead,” Mother said. “No accounting for taste, is there?” She looked around and shuddered.
“Hey, it’s not so bad,” Rob said. “A few gallons of paint, a few sofas that aren’t actually harder than the wood floor, and you’d be amazed how livable this place could be.”
“It would take more than a few gallons of paint,” Mother said. “But you’re right. What a canvas for a competent decorator!”
She meant, of course, what a canvas for her. She took off her glasses, stood up, and began slowly revolving with her hands on her hips and eyes narrowed.
“The first thing I’d do—” she began.
“Mrs. Langslow?”
We all started slightly, and turned to see the chief standing in the archway. A tuxedo-clad waiter was standing at his side. Seeing the waiter, the caterer and the rest of her crew rose and began shuffling to the hallway. The waiter fell in step with them. Apparently they’d all come in the same vehicle and were stuck here until the last of them was interviewed.
“Good news,” Dad said to Chief Burke. “Mrs. Winkleson will be fine.”
“Great,” the chief said. “I’ll go down to the hospital tomorrow morning to interview her.”
“You can interview her here, if you like,” Dad said. “She should be along any minute. Signed herself out. Sammy’s bringing her back.”
“Splendid,” the chief said. He didn’t sound as if he thought it was splendid. He sounded dog tired. “Well, in the meantime, Mrs. Langslow? If I could talk to you next?”
“Of course,” Mother said.
“But why do you need to talk to her?” Dad asked.
“We’re talking to everyone who—”
“After all, she couldn’t possibly have poisoned Mrs. Winkle-son,” Dad went on.
“Why not?” Mother whirled to glare at Dad. “Don’t you think I have the nerve? The cunning? The intelligence?”
“Oh, good grief,” the chief murmured, closing his eyes. Dad’s mouth fell open and he was clearly floundering desperately for words.
“Of course that’s not what he meant,” I said. “Dad of all people should know that you have the nerve, cunning, and intelligence to do anything you set your mind on. But he also knows you wouldn’t stoop to doing this.”
Mother looked puzzled but slightly mollified,
“What do you mean, wouldn’t stoop?” Rob put in. I glared at him. Didn’t he see I was winging it? Trying at all costs to defuse the quarrel between Mother and Dad? Now I was going to have to explain why poisoning Mrs. Winkleson amounted to stooping when at least half the party guests were in awe of whoever had managed it and probably eager to contribute to the poisoner’s defense fund.
The party.
“Do you really think Mother would poison anyone at a party where she was one of the hostesses?” I said. “That would fly in the face of every law of hospitality.”
Mother, liking the sound of that, drew herself up even taller and changed her stern look to a slight smile.
“Yeah, and poisoning someone with Dad around? Dumb idea,” Rob added. “Everybody knows he’s an expert on poisons.”
Yes, everybody knew, but did Rob have to remind everybody? And more to the point, remind Chief Burke? Had he forgotten that Dad, too, could have a motive for wanting Mrs. Winkleson out of the rose show?
“Besides,” I added, “Mother would never do something this unsubtle.”
“I thought poisoning was a subtle crime,” Rob said.
“Some poisonings,” I said. “But this? Poor Mrs. Winkleson puking all over her own living room within minutes of drinking the spiked drink? Mot
her’s a doctor’s wife. If she wanted to poison someone, she could certainly find something hard to detect. Something that wouldn’t kick in until long after Mother was gone, and for that matter, all the medical people Mother would know were attending the party.”
“Thank you, dear,” Mother said. “Of course, there is one thing you didn’t think to mention.”
We all looked at her expectantly.
“If I were poisoning Mrs. Winkleson,” she said, her voice suddenly very stern, “I wouldn’t have botched it.”
“This is all very interesting,” the chief said. “But it’s getting late. Mrs. Langslow, if you please . . .”
Mother smiled graciously at him, and sailed toward the archway to the hall.
“Why don’t you two go home?” Dad said. “I’ll wait for your mother.”
“Good idea,” I said. “I don’t want any more adventures to-night.”
“Before you go,” the chief said, “just one more thing.”
Chapter 34
“Just one more thing,” I repeated. “Isn’t that what Columbo always used to say?”
“Yes,” said Dad, the mystery buff. “Just before he asked the critical question that trapped the killer.”
He was beaming with delight at seeing real life echo one of his beloved mystery icons. The chief and I both sighed identical patient sighs.
“All I wanted to ask,” the chief said, “was how you knew it was a spiked drink? As opposed to the food, I mean.”
“I don’t,” I said. “I assumed it. After all, everyone was eating the crab croquettes. Everyone who isn’t allergic to crab, that is,” I added, looking pointedly at Mother, who had paused dramatically in the archway to listen. “It would have been hard to poison one and make sure she got it. And almost everyone knew Mrs. Winkleson always drank Black Russians.”
“Yes,” Mother said. “You should see the fuss she puts up when someone can’t serve her one. The ABC store is perpetually out of Kahlúa these days.”
Swan for the Money Page 18