“—To those who understood the self-grinding coffee machine and the cyanide contained in apricot seeds,” Peter said. “Further narrowed, to those who had an opportunity to load the coffee machine here on Nantucket between Christmas and this weekend. With the expectation that Spence was bound to make coffee in the machine sometime over the winter or spring, when he was living alone.”
“It’s so nice not to have to explain the obvious to you,” Merry said gratefully.
“That’s a risky murder to attempt,” Peter pointed out. “What if Roseline or any random visitor used the machine instead?”
“—As Nora did, in fact. It was a risk. But I think the murderer knew enough about the household’s habits to take a chance. He or she knew Roseline never made the morning coffee. By the time the housekeeper arrived at ten a.m., both she and Spence had already consumed their breakfasts. The murderer didn’t expect Spence to have overnight guests before the summer—which argues that the murderer is a close family member who understood Spence’s schedule and life. He or she hoped Spence would run out of ground coffee in a can, try the new machine—or even better, have Roseline turn it on for him and thus incriminate herself if anyone asked questions. But ideally, there would never be a question of murder. There would be no autopsy. His death would be written off: an elderly man passing on from natural causes, no questions asked.”
“They didn’t figure on him getting coffee at the Wharf Rats instead,” Peter observed.
“No. Or the habits of a lifetime. He liked his coffee perked. He never used the machine. Nora did.”
“So who set them both up?”
Merry looked at him soberly. “I wish I knew.”
“And why kill Spence at all?”
She hesitated. “One of two reasons. He was worth a lot of money. I don’t know exactly how much—but I’m hoping to learn that from the lawyer who drafted his latest will. She agreed to meet with me early tomorrow, before she reads Spence’s last testament to his family.”
Peter did not react; he had no idea Alice Abernathy had exploded like a mortar in the middle of Step Above a few hours ago.
“And the second reason?” he said.
“Well—as I suggested this morning, Murphy’s life was partly a lie. Nora intended to expose his Laos ‘escape’ as a fraud. Spence may have been too confused to understand the implications of that when she turned up here on Nantucket. Or he may have understood them very well. And seen Nora as a threat he was forced to kill.”
“Was he mentally competent enough to rig her murder with those apricot seeds?”
Merry lifted her shoulders. “Not if his memory and confusion were authentic. I thought maybe he’d faked dementia to avoid a murder charge. A psychologist within the Murphy household told me Spence was truly tanking. Ralph said only that he’d gotten much worse since May, when Nora was here—which might have been a tactical ruse on Spence’s part. But the fact that he was himself murdered last night complicates that idea.”
“Because it seems unlikely there are two murderers—Spence and his own killer—working at Step Above.”
“Statistically and psychologically. Yes.”
“Statistically and psychologically, David Murphy is the most likely perp,” Peter said. “He gave the coffee machine to his father. He bought and opened the bag of coffee beans. His daughter delivered the cyanide-laced apricot seeds. They were both last here at Christmas. He could have set up the coffee machine to take out his dad once he’d flown back to Boston.”
“But that’s so obvious it gives me pause.”
Peter threw himself into a lounge chair. “You know the means. You know the opportunity. You even know a good deal about the motives. What you lack is a sense of the key players—the suspects in the case. Why exactly would one of them kill?”
“You played too much Clue as a kid.”
“Winters were long in Connecticut. Entertainment scarce.”
Merry sighed. And just then her cell phone rang.
She reached for it; the number was one she did not recognize. She almost let it go to voicemail—but then decided there was too much at stake. It might be one of the Murphys.
“Merry?”
“Who is this?” she asked.
“Cindy Ayers, over at Cape Air. You have a minute?”
“Of course.” She had asked Cindy to check her passenger manifests, but in the chaos of this morning had completely forgotten to call her back.
“You were looking for a David Murphy, out of Boston.”
“That’s right.”
“I can’t help you.”
“Ah,” Merry said. So the lawyer had told the truth.
“There’s no David Murphy out of Boston,” Cindy said. “But I noticed there’s a Kate Murphy, out of White Plains. That any use to you?”
“Kate Murphy,” Merry repeated. “When did she travel?”
“Easter weekend.”
“The end of March, early April?”
“The last weekend in March. She came in on a Friday, went back Sunday morning.”
“Thank you, Cindy,” Merry said fervently. “I’ll get an actual warrant to you in the morning—I need your records as evidence.”
“Just one thing.”
“Yes?” Merry asked.
“You want to know anything about her travel record?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who accompanied her on the flight. She paid for both tickets.”
“Of course,” Merry said.
“It’s a tongue twister,” Cindy cautioned. “You may want to write it down. Passenger by the name of Andre Henrissaint.”
Chapter Nineteen
Merry awoke to the distant sound of Sankaty Light’s foghorn braying at intervals across an island plunged suddenly into mist.
Nantucket’s nickname was The Gray Lady, with good reason. When the sun disappeared, the familiar landscape was shrouded beneath a shifting, opaque cloud. Bright summer color was oddly muted. The wet shingles that sheathed the exteriors of nearly every building darkened to sodden charcoal. The sea turned from marine blue to gunmetal. The air turned chilly. Vacationers, dressed in vivid slickers or sweatshirts stamped with Oversand Vehicle Permits, shifted from the beaches to the antiques shops and bookstores. For much of the off-season, Nantucket looked like this—monochrome and slightly bedraggled, just like the seagulls that huddled on wharf pilings, beaks turned into the wind. Summer People might lament bad weather, but islanders found it almost comforting. It reminded them that one day soon the hordes would retreat back across the Sound, parking lots would empty, and Nantucket would belong to them again.
Merry inhaled two mugs of coffee and drove straight into town without stopping at the police station. Alice Abernathy had told her she’d be available at 8 a.m.
The small house on Union Street glowed with lamplight behind its sheer white curtains. The yellow gleam was comforting on such a dismal day—like the smell of hot soup in a nor’easter, Merry thought. She hesitated on the sidewalk. There were two paths to separate doors—one led to the house, the other to a discreet sign that read Office. She chose the latter. The door was unlocked; when she thrust it open, a bell rang. The waiting room just beyond the threshold was small, snugly furnished, and empty.
Merry waited in front of an untenanted reception desk.
“Detective Folger?” called a voice from an inner room. Alice Abernathy appeared in the doorway. “Joan never arrives until nine-thirty. Please, come in.”
Merry followed her. The lawyer’s private office was at the rear of the house—with a bay window overlooking a neat garden. There was a love seat nestled into the space; Alice gestured for her to sit there, and placed herself in a wing chair set at an angle to the window. She had traded her golf clothes for a dark blue pencil skirt and white blouse. She also wore very high heels. The additional inches
lent an air of authority that had been lacking in cleats.
“May I offer you coffee? Water?”
“Nothing for me, thank you.”
“Then tell me how I can help.”
“As you’ve probably realized, I’m investigating the recent deaths at Step Above.”
“Deaths?”
“Spencer Murphy’s daughter, Nora, also passed away a few weeks ago.”
Surprise and disbelief crossed the lawyer’s face. “How bizarre. She seemed in good health. What happened?”
“We’re not sure,” Merry said carefully. “Ms. Murphy was poisoned—but whether deliberately or accidentally, we haven’t determined.”
“I see. Spencer Murphy’s death was definitely accidental, though? The result of a fall, his son said?”
“I’m afraid it’s a case of murder.”
Alice frowned at her. “Was it random?”
“I don’t think so."
“Then you won’t be sharing details until you’ve arrested the person responsible,” Alice concluded. “I’m glad you told me, Detective. I’m about to open my office to the Murphy family, and if one of them is a killer—forewarned is forearmed.”
“I understand Spencer Murphy asked you to draft his will.”
“Yes.”
“When was that, exactly?”
“The third week in May. He came here to my office on a Friday afternoon—the twentieth, I think—with his daughter.”
“How did he seem?”
“Was he competent, do you mean?” Alice smiled grimly. “I got that question yesterday, from the elder son. I wasn’t surprised. I left Boston thirteen years ago when I came around the Point”—this was a local’s phrase for moving onto Nantucket—“but I haven’t forgotten David Murphy’s reputation.”
“Which is?”
“Precise. Uncompromising. A tough negotiator. I didn’t expect him to lead with a threat—but he must have been feeling vulnerable.”
“Tell me about his father.”
“Spencer. Yes.” Alice smoothed her skirt over her knees, her thoughts turned inward to the recent past. “I get a wide range of clients on this island, Detective—and most of their concerns are chicken feed compared to an urban practice. Some are civil issues—estates, divorces, workmen’s compensation. Others are petty crimes. DUIs, shoplifting. Domestic violence. Drug possession.”
Merry nodded. That pretty much described the local crime blotter.
“Whenever I’m presented with an elderly client, I have to consider competence. Especially when the testator volunteers that he has another will extant and is changing his provisions. Most particularly when the elderly client is famous on several continents and a beloved local celebrity.” Alice looked at Merry directly. “In my opinion, Spencer Murphy was competent to order his will. He arrived with a handwritten list of bequests he wanted included, and language he thought was important. He’d composed it carefully beforehand. He understood why he was in my office. He went through his list point by point. I noted down his bequests and copied his final statement carefully. The following Monday, he read over the printed draft and approved it. He signed a clean document approximately fifteen minutes later. And asked me to file the original with probate in the Nantucket County courthouse on Broad Street.”
“Is that usual?” Merry asked.
“Not really. The client’s lawyer or executor generally retains the original until the client’s death, at which point the will is filed with the court. But Mr. Murphy was being cautious. On occasion, clients request a will’s immediate filing for safekeeping purposes. It is sealed by law until the testator dies.”
“What does that suggest to you, Ms. Abernathy?”
“That Spencer Murphy didn’t trust his son.”
“Thank you. That’s very helpful. Does this will you drafted significantly alter David Murphy’s inheritance?”
“I don’t know the provisions of the previous will,” Alice said.
Merry had to concede the point. “What was his daughter Nora’s role in all this?”
Alice shrugged. “Driver, I think.”
“He usually drove himself.”
“Caretaker, then. She didn’t speak much. She was simply watchful.”
Nora must have been familiar with her father’s list of final bequests; she may have helped him draft them. In which case, her work was done prior to arriving in Alice Abernathy’s office. “You had no reason to think that she had influenced Murphy in any way?”
“Oh, she definitely influenced him.”
“The Murphy sons suggest she spent most of her life trying to get the better of them. Did she pull it off in the end?”
“Given that she died first—I’d have to say no. Would you like to see the will?”
“May I?”
“Of course. You’re investigating a murder.”
The lawyer moved to her desk and unlocked a steel file drawer. “I’m going over the document with the family today. Initiating such a meeting seemed the best way to defuse David Murphy’s shock and hostility. Because there’s no question that the will in his possession is no longer enforceable.”
“He mentioned that he had his father’s power of attorney and was named as executor,” Merry observed. “Could he fight this document?”
Alice returned to the wing chair, settling reading glasses on her nose. “He’s welcome to try. But each of us has the right to overrule a previous will at any point in our lives—unless, of course, mental incompetence has been proved. David Murphy never had his father cognitively assessed or declared incompetent in court. So he hasn’t a leg to stand on. I’m sure he knows that. He just threatened malpractice to see how easily I scare.”
Alice handed Merry a dark green three-ring binder. “There’s a lot of boilerplate language at the beginning that you can skip over. Mr. Murphy’s personal statement is on the fifth page. The bequests and trust documents follow.”
“Trust?” Merry scanned the paragraphs that stated Murphy’s legal name and address, revoked all previous wills and codicils, and declared the present document to be his last will and testament. Then she flipped to the fifth page.
I am fully aware that this document represents a departure from the inheritance provisions I outlined in the past. I would like to offer my family an explanation—because it reflects, after many long years, a fundamental change of heart. I have lived for the past five decades with the knowledge that my happiness, well-being, success in my chosen career, and respected body of written work are based on lies. Worse, my long life in the public eye was predicated on betrayal, exploitation, and murder. I attempted to make amends for my sins with the adoption of Npauj Haam, legally known as Nora Murphy, at the death of her mother in Laos. Npauj Haam is my biological daughter, and in her search for the truth of her parentage she uncovered my lies as well. The substance of Nora’s journalistic work (hereinafter known as “Laos Project,”) shall be deemed authentic and the terms of its use mandated under this document, as follows:
That having earned more than ten million dollars from my deceptive practices over the course of a lifetime, I will inevitably bequeath blood money, criminally obtained, to my heirs;
That the aforementioned assets would be better spent in redressing the wrongs and injuries done to persons displaced around the world by war;
That after the execution of specified bequests, the residue of my Estate, including the value of all real property and financial assets, shall be held in Trust, for the establishment of a charitable foundation to be known as the Spencer Murphy Fund, as defined in the Attached Trust Documents;
That this duty being duly discharged at my Decease, Nora Murphy agrees never to release the Laos Project or otherwise acknowledge the circumstances of her birth and/or parentage, in any form, printed, oral, or digital, to the public;
That until my Deceas
e, all supporting materials pursuant to Nora Murphy’s Laos Project shall be safeguarded and secured by Alice Abernathy, Esq.;
At the time of my Decease and the execution of this Last Will and Testament, Nora Murphy authorizes Alice Abernathy, Esq., to destroy all materials pursuant to the Laos Project currently in her keeping.
Beneath this series of stipulations were two signature lines; Spencer Murphy and his daughter had each signed and dated one. The document was witnessed and notarized.
“She blackmailed him,” Merry said.
“So I gather.”
“But without a view to personal gain. She even lost the chance to publish a sensational story—the result of what may have been years of work.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. The materials Nora Murphy signed over to me are in sealed packets, deposited at the Pacific National Bank. I have no idea what those packets contain. Once the will has entered into probate, I will, of course, ensure that the contents are destroyed.”
Merry suspected that David Murphy would fight Alice for control of his sister’s research—but she saw no reason to voice what the lawyer must already know.
The bequests were fairly simple. Spencer Murphy had left his manuscripts and files to the Library of Congress. That he regarded them as useful to future historians struck Merry as somewhat delusional, but then she reflected that not all his bestsellers were necessarily compromised—merely the first, which had catapulted him to fame and established his journalistic reputation.
He had left a signed photograph of himself to the Wharf Rats, for placement on the clubhouse wall.
He had left his ancient Volvo to Laney, along with his notes on the birds of Nantucket, in three notebooks.
“So Step Above, and all his money, go to the charitable trust? The sons get nothing?”
“That was the deal. At present real estate and asset values . . . roughly thirty million. It’s terrible, of course—but the alternative was a public burning at the hands of his daughter. I suppose he couldn’t face that.”
He had embarked on his deception a coward, Merry thought—and ended it that way.
Death of a Wharf Rat Page 17