Death by Pumpkin Spice

by Alex Erickson

  Margaret’s hand fluttered to her chest. “The Pétrus? It was the last one!”

  “Hold up,” Paul said. “Start from the beginning and tell me exactly what happened.”

  Bertrand patted at his pockets as if looking for something, before frowning. “I was . . . borrowing a bottle of wine from Mrs. Yarborough. I wanted to take it home before something happened to it, when this woman came out of nowhere and attacked me.”

  “You weren’t supposed to leave,” I said. “Police orders!”

  Paul’s jaw clenched as he looked to Margaret. “Is what he said true?”

  “I don’t know anything about him getting attacked, but I am sure Bertrand had the bottle. He takes something every year.”

  A suspicious look glinted in Paul’s eye. “Takes?”

  Margaret waved a dismissive hand in front of her face. “It’s nothing. Every year, things come up missing. Wine. Art. Silverware. It happens.”

  “So, he was stealing it?” Paul asked.

  “I suppose you could call it that.”

  I looked dumbly from Margaret to Paul, then back again. “He was stealing from you, and you’re okay with it?”

  “It’s just wine.”

  “But the jewelry. You were upset that someone had taken it.”

  “That’s different, dear.” Margaret gave me a simpering smile. “They are far more personal and dear to me than some old bottle of wine, no matter the vintage.”

  “It’s ruined,” Bertrand lamented. He looked like he was going to cry. “And I didn’t even get to taste it! The bottle was still unopened.”

  “How much are we talking about here?” Paul asked. Margaret shrugged. “It was a good vintage,” she said. “I believe Howard had paid just over two thousand for it.”

  The whole room seemed to tip sideways. I took a hasty step back and braced myself against the wall. Did she just say two thousand?

  Paul looked as flabbergasted as I did, but managed to keep his cool. “Why were you running, then?” he asked.

  “I wasn’t running anywhere,” Bertrand said. “With the police all over the place, I thought it would be prudent to get the wine out of sight before you started searching people. I didn’t want to have to explain myself.”

  Too late for that. His excuse was sounding all too familiar. It was almost identical to the story Reggie Clements had told us, just replacing jewelry with wine.

  “Do you really think we would have been suspicious of you?” Paul asked, his patience clearly at an end. No one was listening to his commands, and it was making his job harder. “Running only makes you look guilty.”

  “It was an expensive bottle.” Bertrand said it as if it made everything okay.

  Paul took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay.” He glanced at me and I could see a hint of irritation there. I wasn’t sure if it was directed at me or at the situation in general. Under the circumstances, I let it slide without getting offended. He was having a rough time of it and didn’t need me telling him it wasn’t my fault.

  “I’m going to need you to come with me,” he told Bertrand, turning to the big man. “Once you’re secure, I’ll get you something else to dry off with.” One towel was obviously not going to be enough.

  “There are more towels in the hall closet upstairs,” Margaret put in.

  “Thank you.” Paul took Bertrand by the arm. “Once you’re dry, we’ll have a nice little chat.” He glanced at me again. “Alone.” And then he led him out the door, and away.

  Margaret clucked her tongue at me the moment they were gone. “You are quite the mess, aren’t you, dear?” She looked me up and down as if appraising me. “I think I have something that will fit you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, stepping away from the wall. A smear of mud remained behind.

  “Come with me.” She crooked her finger at me. “We’ll go somewhere private where you can change. I think you might want to take a shower.” Her eyes went to my hair where my hat was somehow still in place. “You look absolutely dreadful.”

  We started for the door, but she stopped just before we reached the hall. “Would you mind taking off your shoes?” she asked. “I can’t have you tracking mud all over my carpet upstairs and ruining it. Now that would be a shame!”

  18

  Margaret led me upstairs, into her private bathroom where, in her words, “No man will accidentally walk in on you.” She set a pair of white towels on the sink for me to use.

  “Thank you,” I told her, marveling at the size of the bathroom. It was as big as my living room and, thankfully, missing all of the horror furnishings of the rest of the house.

  “It’s nothing, dear,” she said. She started for the door and then paused, turning back to me. “I hope you settle this mess soon. It’s putting everyone through a tremendous amount of stress.”

  For the first time since Jessica’s murder, Margaret Yarborough looked like it was wearing on her. She’d been so composed and restrained before, yet now, I could see the stress lines at the corners of her eyes, the way those eyes were pinched with worry. Her hands were clutched at her waist, bones showing through the skin. She was no longer the demure Audrey Hepburn, but instead, an overly stressed widow, trying to hold it together.

  “I’m going to try my best,” I said.

  Her smile was shaky as she stepped outside the bathroom. “I’ll find you something to wear.” She closed the door behind her.

  The bathroom smelled like lilies in bloom. A garden tub teeming with jets rested beneath a skylight. A stand-up shower was in the corner. I eyed the shower for a long moment and nearly eschewed it for a nice, long bath in the tub. If it wasn’t for the fact I was in someone else’s house with a murder to solve, I very well might have done it.

  With a sigh, I stripped out of my filthy clothes and left them in a pile by the sink. The floor would need to be cleaned afterward, but I didn’t know where else to put them. With a quick check to make sure the door was locked—it wasn’t—I stepped into the shower.

  There was enough room behind the frosted doors to fit six or seven people. I couldn’t help but wonder if it had ever held that many. After what I’d learned about the Yarboroughs, I felt it likely. The showerhead was as large as a dinner plate and had so many dials and knobs, I wasn’t quite sure what to do.

  Thankfully, turning the shower on was easy enough. The spray was a bit soft for my tastes, but I wasn’t about to start fiddling with all of the knobs, knowing I’d probably break the thing before I found a setting I liked. I hurriedly soaped up, shampooed my hair, and rinsed off. I smelled like expensive perfume as I stepped out of the shower and reached for the towels. Like most everything in the bathroom, they smelled of flowers in bloom, and I felt like I was wrapping myself in a very large, very soft kitten.

  “I need to find better towels,” I grumbled as I dried off. My hair wasn’t going to dry anytime soon, not unless I wanted to search for a hairdryer, so I did the best I could with the towel. I stepped into my still-damp underwear, strapped on my bra, and then wrapped the other towel around me, tucking it in so it would stay in place. I headed for the door, which led into Margaret’s bedroom, hopeful I would be left alone to change.

  No one was in immediate evidence as I peeked out the door. Margaret’s bedroom looked like something straight out of a Dracula movie. There were red silks hanging from the walls, which were designed to look like castle walls. A chill worked through me as I stepped into the room, as if I could feel a cold breeze seeping through the faux stone. A fireplace sat against one wall, and the charred logs inside told me it was a real one.

  A bundle sat on the gigantic gothic bed, right beside two large white Persians who were watching me with interest. Both had eyes that were pale blue, and I was instantly in love.

  “Hi, kitties,” I said as I walked over to them. “You really are beautiful.” And they were. I loved cats, though they often weren’t nearly as fond of me as I was of them. These two sat on the red bedspread, looking all the
world like show cats waiting to be judged.

  Carefully, as not to startle them, I reached out and pet one. Its purr was deep, and rewarding blue eyes closed ever so slightly. “That’s a good kitty.” If I could have taken them home, I would have. Misfit might not have approved, but he’d get over it. He might be a terror sometimes, but really, he’s a giant softy, and I was sure he wouldn’t mind a few play friends.

  After petting the other cat—neither had moved, other than to lean into my hand—I turned my attention to the pile of clothes Margaret had left for me. The shirt was plain white and a little too large for my frame. The pants were just a pair of gray sweatpants that were likewise too large and baggy. Neither were Margaret’s, of that I was sure. She wouldn’t have been caught dead in something like these. At least the sweatpants had a pair of pockets in the front where I could shove my cell phone and keys.

  I dropped the towel on the floor, beside a pair of sneakers I assumed were for me. My shoes were currently sitting inside a trash bag sitting beside the sneakers. I put on the borrowed clothes, grabbed the trash bag, and went into the bathroom to deposit my Sherlock Holmes outfit into the bag with my shoes. I went back to the bedroom and slipped on the off-white sneakers, which smelled oddly of olives.

  I started to head back for the trash bag, as ready to return to the party as I was going to get in my unflattering garb, when a devious thought entered my head.

  No one else was in the room with me, and Margaret had no way of knowing if I was done with the shower or not. She was probably back downstairs, entertaining guests, which meant I might not be disturbed for a good long while.

  My eyes fell on the closet where Reggie Clements had hid when he’d attempted to return the stolen jewelry. Could a clue be inside? I doubted Jessica had been in here, and as far as I knew, the killer hadn’t been in the room, either.

  But I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. I checked the bedroom door to make sure no one was standing outside and then closed it again before heading over to the closet. It was one of those large walk-in types that I always wanted, but never had. Fancy clothes hung on hangers, many of them in dry-cleaning bags. There was a rack for Margaret’s shoes that seemed to go on forever. How could any one woman own so many shoes? I had a half dozen at best.

  There wasn’t much else of interest at first glance. I pushed aside some of the clothes, and there it was, hanging from a hanger, looking rumpled, as if hastily shoved inside and forgotten.

  I restrained myself from touching the white Monroe dress, just in case it was needed for evidence later. I carefully lifted the hanger and pulled it from the closet where I had better light. Other than its rumpled state, the dress looked pristine. There were no telltale pumpkin stains or smudges on it as far as I could tell. It looked like Margaret had been telling the truth and she’d simply changed because she didn’t want to wear the same costume as a murdered woman.

  But if that was the case, why did she have a spare costume at the ready?

  I looked back into the closet and checked the other articles inside, including peeking into some of the dry-cleaning bags. I couldn’t find any other costumes, though there were some dresses extravagant enough for a queen. I supposed it was possible she’d bought two costumes just in case she spilled something on the first, or perhaps had a planned costume change during the evening. It was something I’d have to ask her the next time I saw her.

  I shoved the Monroe dress back where I found it and then did my best to push the other clothes back where they’d been. I doubted Margaret would realize I’d been snooping, but figured it would be best not to take any chances.

  My next stop was at the long dresser where the jewelry box had been. Had Margaret removed it once she realized the jewelry was missing? Had someone else? I opened a few drawers and peeked inside, feeling like a thief, even though I wasn’t planning on stealing anything. There were boxes inside, but all of them were full. I was pretty sure Paul still had the set Reggie had attempted to steal, so where was the box? And did it even matter?

  I turned and glanced around the room. There were other drawers and dressers, including the bedside nightstand. And I hadn’t bothered looking under the bed, though it was often a place people hid things they didn’t want people to stumble across.

  I felt guilty about my snooping and didn’t think I could bring myself to go through more of Margaret’s life. There was nothing in here that pointed to a reason for Jessica Fairweather’s murder, so why keep poking around? It wasn’t like I’d read Margaret’s diary if I were to find it.

  I started to walk away when I noted a framed photograph lying facedown atop the dresser. A box of tissues sat on it, mostly obscuring it from view. I removed the tissue box, set it aside, and then picked up the photograph.

  It was of Margaret and Howard Yarborough, dressed as if they’d just come from a party. She was wearing a tight black dress and diamonds that sparkled in the light. He was wearing a tux, white hair parted at the side. They were both smiling, and I had the impression that the smiles were genuine. These weren’t unhappy people. They stood close together, her arm tangled in his own. I couldn’t imagine the rumors were true and she’d killed him for his money.

  Of course, jealousy and greed often made people do strange things. This photograph could be a few years old, and had been lying facedown with something sitting atop it. You didn’t treat treasured memories that way. Could someone else have done it? Or were things between Margaret and her husband tenser than it appeared.

  I started to set the photo back down, but paused. Something bothered me about it, something I couldn’t put my finger on. Margaret looked much the same as she did now, though the stress wasn’t as evident on her features. Howard, with his white hair, his pointed, beaklike nose, was the one who was causing the pinging in my mind. I stared into his dark blue eyes and tried to figure out what it was.

  Had I seen him somewhere before? He very well might have come into Death by Coffee a few times. But if he had, I sure didn’t remember him. I tried to make out what was in the background of the photo, but the lights were too bright, and with how the focus had been on the couple, it was too blurry to make out, anyway.

  I placed the photograph back where I’d found it, replaced the tissue box, and stood staring at it, head buzzing. There was definitely something about the photo of Howard that had my brain running triple time.

  I peered around the room one more time, hoping something there would jog my memory. There were no photographs or portraits on the wall, nothing that hinted that Howard ever lived here—other than the horror movie decorations.

  “I’m going to hate myself for this,” I muttered to myself as I started for the bed. I pet each of the Persians and then got down on my knees. I might not have wanted to keep snooping around, but the photograph was pointing me somewhere, and I needed to figure out where and why.

  I lifted the comforter and leaned down to look. Other than a toy mouse, there was nothing beneath the bed.

  A gentle cough brought me flying to my feet in a flurry of damp hair. A middle-aged woman dressed in the waitress outfits that all the female help was wearing stood just inside the doorway, a disapproving frown on her face.

  “Sorry,” I said meekly. “I was looking for my shoes.”

  Her eyes traveled down to my borrowed sneakers before returning to my face, skepticism heavy.

  “These aren’t mine,” I said. “Margaret gave them to me to wear since mine are soaked.”

  The woman sighed. “I don’t care.” She stepped aside, a clear indication I was to leave. “Mrs. Yarborough wished for me to make sure you were okay, and to invite you back to the party.”

  “Thank you,” I said, knowing I’d been caught but hoping the woman wouldn’t tell. She looked bored, and really, not the type to tattle. It wasn’t like she’d caught me with an armload of jewelry.

  “Uh-huh.” The woman tapped her foot as she waited for me to go.

  I took a moment to grab my phone and keys from th
e bathroom counter and then hurried out of the room, leaving my dirty clothes behind. I made my way back to the ballroom, hoping that, once there, I’d figure out what had bothered me so much about the photograph, and whether or not it had anything to do with Jessica Fairweather’s murder.

  19

  “Here we go again.” Buchannan leveled a glare my way. “Is there something I can help you with, Ms. Hancock?”

  I almost turned and walked away, not wanting to deal with Buchannan while I asked Mrs. Yarborough a few questions. For whatever reason, the man despised me, and the feeling was mutual. He thought of me as an annoyance, someone who couldn’t keep her nose out of other people’s business. He’d accused me more than once of inserting myself into an investigation and mucking things up.

  And I guess he had something of a point, but come on! How am I not supposed to get involved when the murders are happening around me, sometimes in my very own store? And while he might think I’m screwing things up with all of my nosy questions, I’ve actually helped out. Two murderers were behind bars because of me. Without my interference, they very well might have gotten away with it.

  Of course, Buchannan thought otherwise. If he could get away with locking me into a cell and throwing away the key, I was pretty sure he’d do it.

  “I have a few questions for Mrs. Yarborough,” I told him, doing my best to sound as if I had every right to be interrupting whatever he’d been saying to her.

  Buchannan scowled at me. “Does this have anything to do with the murder investigation? Because if it does . . .”

  “It doesn’t.” I paused, not quite able to follow through with lying to the police, even if it was John Buchannan. “Well, not really.”

  His eyes narrowed at me. “Ms. Hancock . . .”

  “It will only take a minute,” I said, hurriedly. “I’m not trying to butt in. Mrs. Yarborough was kind enough to let me use her bathroom to clean up, and I want to thank her.” Along with asking her a few choice questions, of course.