Murder Is a Must

by Marty Wingate

  “I give you,” he announced, “your focal-point display—the offices of Pym’s Publicity, Ltd.”

  He opened the flip chart with a flourish and held it in front of him, like a man wearing a sandwich sign. I saw a large sketch done in pencil with shadings and distinct lines, and my first thought was to wonder if Zeno had started out as a draftsman or architect. But that first thought lasted no more than a second as the subject of the sketch hit home.

  It showed a spiral staircase and a landing at the top with several figures looking over the railing to the floor below. Two others stood with their hands against a wall, as if backing away in horror. At the bottom of the stairs, sprawled at the feet of three other people, lay a body outlined in chalk.

  I couldn’t speak. Zeno glanced from me to Clara and back, his face lit with enthusiasm. “Don’t you see? We will replicate the iron staircase from Murder Must Advertise at the entry to the exhibition. It will be full size, in the middle of the room, and visible from anywhere in the exhibition, drawing visitors to it. It will be as if they had just walked into the murder scene themselves!”

  Beside me, Clara whimpered.

  “Put that away,” I whispered fiercely to Zeno, and when he didn’t move, I added, “Now!”

  He flipped the cover closed.

  “Ms. Burke,” Zeno said with a hurt tone, “you wanted an idea for the most prominent display in the show, and I have given you one. I must say I expected a different reception for a visual that not only embodies the puzzle of a murder mystery, but also ties into what you tell me is the most significant find—or, that is, nonfind at the moment—in the history of writing detective fiction. What have I done wrong?”

  “Clara,” I said, putting my hand on her arm. I felt her tremble. “I hope you don’t mind if I take you away from the exhibition today. It’s only that Mrs. Woolgar and I are barely keeping our heads above water with so much work. We’re trying to get out the Society’s newsletter and . . . there are all sorts of other things we need help with. So, I am going to take you back to Middlebank with me. All right? Why don’t you go on down and let Naomi know, and I’ll be right behind you.”

  I doubted if Naomi cared one whit where Clara worked—I only wanted to get the young woman out of this office so that I could have a word with Zeno.

  “Yes, of course, Hayley.” Clara popped out of her chair, snatched her coat, bag, and tablet, and fled.

  I closed the door. It always took Clara extra time on the spiral staircase, and after what Zeno had just shown us, she still might be hovering on the landing when I’d finished. I looked round at him now as he dropped the flip chart behind the desk.

  “Was there something wrong with Ms. Powell?” he asked.

  “Did it not occur to you—” I had caught Clara’s trembles. They’d gone to my throat, and I coughed them away and began again. “Did it not occur to you that your sketch represents how Oona was killed? That Clara was the first person to find her after she had been pushed down the stairs? Did you not think this would bring that horrible moment back to her? And how in the world could you think this an appropriate display for the exhibition? It would be seen as an advertisement for murder—real murder, not a story in a book! How would it look for the Society to condone such violence?”

  My ears rang. I took a deep breath.

  Zeno’s face had gone white and his hands shook. “But it is a story—that’s all. I wanted to tie in this exciting discovery and . . . oh, dear God, what have I done?” He sank into a chair. “I would never make light of Oona’s death, you must believe that, Ms. Burke. I assure you, it could be the one defining moment in my life. The watershed where I look behind at what I’ve lost as well as ahead. I face my past failures and hope my future actions will atone.”

  Could he be that thick? Yes, I believed he could.

  “Of course, now I see.” He nodded. “Why, I suppose my brazen idea would even shock the murderer, wouldn’t it?” He cut his eyes to the closed door. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

  “Well, regardless, Clara needs to step away for a moment. I’ve plenty for her to do at Middlebank. Obviously, your idea won’t do, and you will have to try again. I’ll be sure to check in at the end of the day, and if you’ve got nothing else, you may need to shift into a more technical role.”

  Would Naomi buy that? Would she insist that she become the exhibition manager—I’d seen that desire in her from the first meeting after Oona’s death. No, I may need to keep Zeno as the figurehead, disguising his demotion from both Naomi and himself.

  “If that happens, you and I will work on each and every display together,” I continued, although the thought of spending hours and hours with Zeno felt too much like a harsh self-imposed punishment. “You have time and you know the subject. Look for something that connects the women authors to Lady Fowling—a quality, a passion.”

  Zeno showed no emotion and only murmured something unintelligible. I thought it best to leave without asking him to repeat it. I paused at the top of the spiral staircase and looked over to the landing below, and with a sick lurch in my tummy, imagined Oona tumbling down. Even without Clara’s admonition, I held tightly to the railing.

  Naomi’s office door was closed, but I heard the clattering of construction downstairs and so followed it, and spotted Clara with the Druids, looking quite chipper.

  “Ms. Faber wasn’t in her office,” she explained, “and Mr. King-Barnes said it would be all right for me to observe their move-in. Did you know, Hayley, that the Druids never wrote anything down?”

  “That must make it difficult to come up with signage,” I said to Tommy.

  “Contemporary sources,” Tommy said, “and later, blokes such as Pliny the Elder helped us out a bit. We’d have much more, if it hadn’t been for those damned Romans.” He shook his head.

  Clara laughed. “Mr. King-Barnes says he actually likes the Romans and mounted an exhibition on the Fosse Way.”

  “Actually on the Fosse Way,” Tommy said with a grin. “Also known as the A46 in the East Midlands. We put installations in lay-bys along the highway with actors in Roman togas.” He spread his hands out as if sweeping across a roadside sign. “‘Have a Cuppa with an Emperor!’ People loved it.”

  I wonder, did Zeno work on that one?

  Mick Jagger started up, and Tommy patted his pockets until he’d come up with the correct phone. He answered as he stepped away, sounding a bit like—

  “Hayley.” Clara stood in front of me, her shoulders thrown back. “I want to assure you that my reaction to Mr. Berryfield’s idea was only momentary. And it wasn’t his fault. We should never try to blame another for our actions—it makes us look weak. We should take responsibility no matter what. I’m all right now, so I can stay and work. You don’t have to take me away.”

  “Nonsense,” I said. “We need you at Middlebank.” I’m sure I could find something for her to do.

  19

  Early Saturday morning, I boarded a train to Bristol Temple Meads and then, twenty minutes later, changed for a train to Wolverhampton, where I would change again for Liverpool—my normal weekend visit to my mum. On the last leg, I settled with a cup of tea and a bun, and texted Val.

  Wish you were here

  He rang, and when I answered, he said, “And you here. Although I quite look forward to going up to Liverpool to meet your mum.”

  Another hurdle we hadn’t jumped yet—meet the parents. Even at our age it mattered.

  “Bess is stopping by today,” he told me now.

  My heart fluttered. “Is she? I’m sorry I can’t be there.”

  “She wants to go through a few old boxes, she told me, but—it’s a bit odd. I don’t know what she’s looking for.”

  Her mother, no doubt.

  “Give her my regards,” I said.

  It wasn’t enough, but would have to do for now. Still, the remainder of my jo
urney I stewed about what else I could’ve said. “Regards” sounded cold—is that what she would think of me? Finally, having worried myself out on that subject, I picked up my worn paperback copy of Murder Must Advertise.

  * * *

  * * *

  At my mum’s flat, I deposited my bag and gave her home health-care worker an envelope with her pay. Once she’d left, Mum put a plate of shortbread on the seat of her rolling walker and took it to the kitchen table. I switched the kettle on, and we began to dissect our weeks.

  “Any word on your surgery date?” I asked.

  “No, still on the list. I don’t mind that,” Mum said. “I just hope it doesn’t interfere with your exhibition, because Dinah and I are coming down for it.”

  “Oh, Mum, you don’t need to, but—I’m awfully glad you will. Dinah will be a good traveling companion for you, and you know how accommodating the train staff are.” I measured out coffee into the cafetière and, when the kettle went off, poured in the water. I was awfully pleased Mum would see the exhibition. She had not been to Bath since I’d started at the First Edition Society, and I so wanted to show it off to her. And now, to introduce her to Val. I did not forget that I lived on the second floor at Middlebank—up two flights of stairs—but I would work something out.

  “Tell me more about Val’s daughters,” Mum said, reaching for mugs off the counter and uncovering the jug of milk. She and I had talked only briefly during the week. I had tried to cover everything—dinner at Val’s and the girls’ visits the next morning—but my account had been inadequate, to say the least. Now I could give it my full attention.

  “And so,” I said after Mum had given me a thorough interrogation, “I think what it is, is that they’re worried I’ll leave him and he’ll be hurt, and they believe it’s their job to prevent that from happening. At least, that’s what Bess seems to be worried about. Becky may have other ideas, but her sister has taken charge of the matter.” I wrinkled my nose. “Still, there’s something that doesn’t ring true.”

  “Mmm,” Mum said. “It does sound a bit off. As if Bess were . . .” She reached for another shortbread finger and tapped it on her plate. “No”—under her breath this time—“I’d say there just might be something else going on.”

  I ate my shortbread and we drank the rest of our coffees in silence, until Mum picked up on what sounded like an altogether different topic.

  “Do you remember the time a few years ago, when Dinah became so dead set against me selling my little house?”

  That was an odd time in all our lives. Years after my dad died, Mum had married again and moved to Liverpool from Ross-on-Wye. Shortly thereafter—when her husband moved to Scotland, taking part of her pension with him—she realized the marriage had been one of those bad decisions. At the time, I’d been so caught up in the drama of my own marriage’s disintegration and trying to protect Dinah, Mum had been divorced almost before I knew it. She decided to stay in Liverpool, and a few years later, when Dinah had turned seventeen, sold the house in Ross-on-Wye. My daughter had thrown a fit.

  “I do remember that,” I said. “She kept going on and on about how you were giving up a lifetime of memories and your independence and—well, I can’t remember what all she said.”

  “Dinah remembered that little house from her summer holidays. We thought she was worried about losing her memories. Turned out to be nothing of the sort.”

  “That’s right—what upset her the most was that she wanted to take a gap year and work on the Isle of Mull in a pub and have time to think about what she wanted to do with her life.”

  “But she didn’t know how to tell you,” Mum said, “and so she latched on to something entirely different to be upset about. She was quite adamant in her protests, as I recall. ‘But, Gran, how can you do this to us?’”

  I stared at the plate of shortbread. “Are you saying what Bess is upset about has nothing to do with Val and me?”

  “I’m saying you should put your detective mind to work and see what you can discover.”

  I snorted with laughter, and it took several minutes before I could speak. “Detective mind—good one, Mum. If I had one of those, couldn’t I point the finger at Oona’s murderer and save everyone a great deal of trouble?”

  “Early days yet,” Mum replied with a grin. “How’s the book?” She nodded at my paperback.

  “Nearly finished,” I said—or would be by morning, so that I could give a good report.

  * * *

  * * *

  On Sunday, over a late breakfast—so late it could’ve been called lunch—we discussed Lord Peter Wimsey.

  “I loved it!” I said of the story at Pym’s Publicity, Ltd., as I smeared butter on a slice of toast. “It must be the first thing police thought about Oona, too—that it was an accident. But as Lord Peter says, ‘Some accidents are too accidental to be true.’ It was true of Oona.”

  “Lord Peter has Inspector Parker, you have Detective Sergeant Hopgood.”

  “And Kenny Pye,” I said. Should I bring up my idea about introducing him to Dinah?

  “What about the wordplay?” Mum asked.

  “What a wit,” I said. “And Lord Peter made a fine copywriter, didn’t he?”

  “Because Sayers had been one herself. And there are all sorts of things a mystery writer can do with words, aren’t there?” Mum asked. “Codes. Anagrams.”

  “Oh dear,” I said. “You aren’t going to start in on that, are you?”

  Mum had been at the kitchen table that morning with her phone open to a wordplay app. Anagrams had become her latest craze.

  “Silent,” she said, and I knew it to be a challenge.

  “Sss . . . wait, I need something to write on.” I scribbled, tried once or twice, and said, “Listen!”

  “Tosser,” Mum said.

  I wrote, rearranged, and jabbed my pencil on the paper. “Stores!”

  “Repetitive mole rolls.”

  “What? Oh, Mum,” I said, “I’m being taken here, aren’t I?”

  “You’ve got to keep those little gray cells working.”

  “Well done, Ms. Poirot. Repetitive mole rolls.” I wrote it down and wrinkled my brow in mock concentration. “All right, what is it?”

  “Liverpool Lime Street.”

  “Really?” I copied that out, too, and ticked off each letter before I conceded. “But Sayers didn’t use anagrams, did she? She used—”

  A door in my mind flew open, and I had one of those blinding revelations just like a real fictional detective in which, suddenly, a puzzle becomes incredibly clear.

  “I’ve got it—I’ve got it! It was right in front of me the entire time, but I didn’t see. Do you remember I told you that Oona had me transcribe Lady Fowling’s notebooks from the 1950s?”

  “I do remember—and you weren’t best pleased about the assignment, thinking it was busywork.”

  “True, it did seem a rather useless task at first, but she is, after all, the exhibition manager.”

  “Was, dear,” Mum reminded me.

  “Yes, right. Well, I came across an odd list of phrases her ladyship wrote and I dutifully copied them out even though I had no idea what they meant. She did have a tendency to go off on tangents and hop from one topic to another in her notebooks. Sometimes even on the same page—detective stories, recipes, shopping lists. Makes for entertaining, if confusing, reading. So, I printed the transcriptions out and gave them to Oona, who went through the pages scribbling comments and jotting down ideas for the exhibition.”

  “What did Oona make of those odd phrases?”

  I slapped my hand on the table. “You may well ask! When she was found, dead, the papers were scattered everywhere. The police took them in as evidence, and Sergeant Hopgood asked me to take a look, hoping I’d find a clue to her murderer. I’ve gone through them twice and there was not a clue—ab
out anything. And do you know why that is?”

  Mum leaned forward. “Tell me.”

  “Because that one page with Lady Fowling’s odd phrases on it is missing. Gone! And now that I’ve read to the end of Murder Must Advertise, I know why. The phrases must be a word puzzle her ladyship made up, and Oona must’ve cracked the code.”

  “And what do they mean?”

  I slumped back in my chair, exhausted from this sudden burst of vision. “I think she learned the location of the book from the code—the signed first edition. She texted me seconds before someone threw her down the stairs. Here now, let me find it.” I grabbed my phone and brought up Oona’s last message.

  I know where it is! Death is the clue. Murder must

  Mum studied the text and then nodded slowly. “Death Bredon— I can see that. Yes, she must’ve known the book’s whereabouts.”

  “All along I had the feeling that I was missing something.”

  Mum took a sharp breath. “You weren’t missing the clue—the clue was missing!”

  We sat in silence for a moment. It had been the book all along. The murderer had taken the key to finding the first edition and that left us . . .

  “Well,” said Mum brightly, patting my hand. “It looks like you’ll have to go back to the original and break the code yourself, then, won’t you? It may not be first letters, remember that—could be any sort of wordplay.”

  If I couldn’t even get the name of the local rail station out of an anagram, I’m not sure how I was to—

  My phone pinged with a text. It was from Dinah—the three words that could strike terror in the heart of any mother.

  I’m all right.

  20

  Dinah, sweetie, it’s Mum.”

  “Mum. Hi. I didn’t mean for you to . . . I didn’t want to worry you. The fire’s out now.”