The Tell-Tale Tarte

by Maya Corrigan

  “Rick has a prescription for beta blockers, the same blood pressure pills I take. He doesn’t like how they make him feel. He checks his pressure and only takes them when it goes up. Rosana delivers the pills to his study every morning. He treats them like a squirrel with acorns. Puts them in a desk drawer, behind the drapes, or on shelves higher than Rosana can see.”

  “Madison is taller and so is Clancy. They could see the pills on the high shelves.”

  “Rosana controls the supply. All of them had access to that medicine.”

  Val finished refilling the grocery bag. “Were you in Rick Usher’s study, talking about the meds?” When Granddad nodded, she continued, “How did the subject come up?”

  “I told him I took medicine to lower my blood pressure and asked him if he did.”

  A frightening thought hit her. “Every conversation you had with him was recorded. Suppose the person who put the bug in Usher’s study is also Emmett’s murderer? Your question about blood pressure meds sounds like you’re fishing for information about the murder weapon.”

  “It sounds like an ordinary question to me.”

  She looked up at him. “Not to a paranoid killer. Usher asked you yesterday to find him a lawyer. Whoever hears that on the recorder would probably assume what we did—that he wants to change his will. Somebody in the house might not like that and try to keep you from finding a lawyer.”

  “I already found a lawyer. They’re too late to stop me.”

  “They don’t know that.” She stood up, her stomach in knots. “Why don’t you plead a headache and go home? I’ll feel better if no one in this place can get to you.”

  “Are you going home now?”

  “I agreed to make dinner. I have to do it.”

  He took the last grocery bag from the trunk. “If you’re staying, I’m staying. You’re not any safer here than I am. The person who bugged the study would assume I told you what Usher said. So we’re a whole lot better off staying together.”

  She knew better than to waste her breath trying to change his mind. “Don’t eat or drink anything in the Usher house unless I give it to you.”

  Chapter 20

  The door of the Usher house swung open as if by an invisible hand as Val and Granddad approached it. The walls had not only ears, as he’d said, but apparently eyes too.

  A raspy voice came from behind the door. “Welcome to the house of Usher. Make yourself at home . . . if you dare.”

  Val smiled at Clancy’s mock eerie tones. The watchful eyes belonged to him, but the listening ears might not. Though she couldn’t rule him out as the bug planter, Rosana made a more likely spy. Vendors of hidden cameras and recorders probably sold most of their wares to spouses who suspected infidelity, and Rick Usher had cheated on her in the past.

  Clancy emerged from behind the door, his nose in the air and his mouth pursed. “I am the butler. May I take your coats?” He maintained a stiff posture as he helped them off with their jackets and hung them up.

  Val glanced at the bouquet of lilies perfuming the hall air. Did Rosana fear a May-December romance had blossomed under her nose? Her husband and Madison might not have a physical relationship, but emotional infidelity could damage a marriage too. Even a platonic relationship might lead an older man to remember a younger woman in his will. If that’s what Rosana feared, hearing that Usher wanted to talk to a lawyer without her being there would chill her.

  Clancy dropped his butler-in-a-haunted-house act once they were in the kitchen, emptying the grocery bags. “What’s for dinner, Val?”

  “Orange-glazed Cornish hen, roasted root vegetables, and a salad of baby spinach with dried cranberries and feta cheese.” And maybe a random leaf from one of the hanging plants. Val glanced at the green canopy over the kitchen island. Was it her imagination or had the plants grown and multiplied over the last two days? Val liked kitchens with hanging pots, the sort that could be used for cooking, not the kind from which poisonous plants like ivy and philodendron cascaded.

  “Cornish hen.” Granddad flicked his wrist as if shooing birds away. “A lot of work. Not much payoff.”

  Clancy flashed him a toothy grin. “The menu’s a welcome change from what we’ve been eating here lately. Before leaving, the personal chef made batches of one-dish meals for us and froze them, but we’re down to only four choices. And we have the same dessert every night—ice cream.” He covered his mouth with his hand. “Oops. I should have asked what you were serving for dessert, Val, before I heaped scorn on ice cream.”

  “I’m making warm chocolate tart.” She was happy to see two pairs of eyes light up in anticipation.

  Granddad moseyed around the kitchen. He inspected the plants on the shelves and the windowsill. “How long since the chef went away?”

  “Ten days.” Clancy unloaded sweet potatoes, parsnips, and beets from a grocery bag. “We’ve set up a routine for dinner. Madison dishes up and serves, and I clear the table and clean up the kitchen. She doesn’t like touching dirty dishes.”

  Val took the salad fixings to the counter near the sink. “When I cater a dinner, I normally cook, serve, and clean up. But tonight, I’d appreciate it if you could handle the cleanup. Because of the weather forecast, I’d like to leave for home as soon as I serve the dessert.”

  “Glad to help out,” Clancy said cheerily, “when you’re cooking.”

  Granddad snatched the beets and parsnips from the counter where Clancy had put them and took them to the refrigerator. Val was about to tell him to leave them out when she saw what he was doing. As he stuffed the vegetables into the crisper, he ran his hand along the top of the fridge, no doubt checking for bugs.

  “Who’s been cooking your food for the last ten days?” Val hoped her question would draw Clancy’s attention away from Granddad.

  “If you can call it cooking,” Clancy said in a low voice, “Rosana nukes a frozen casserole and dumps the salad from a cellophane bag into a bowl.”

  Granddad closed the fridge door, went to the far end of the counter, and peered behind the coffeemaker and the toaster on the counter, continuing his search for a bug.

  Val pulled the freezer drawer open to see what kind of casseroles the chef had made. Stacked there were microwavable containers with labels: creamed chicken with chipped beef, quiche, chicken pot pie, and mac and cheese. “I promise not to make any pasta or main-dish pies. You’ve all had your fill of those.”

  Clancy nodded. “Amen to that.”

  Rosana glided into the room on rubber-soled flats, carrying a copper watering can with a long thin spout. “How nice to see you again, Val. So glad you made it here tonight. I was afraid the weather report would keep you from coming.”

  This effusive welcome struck Val as more appropriate for a garden party guest than for the hired help. “To be honest, the forecast worries me. Though it didn’t keep me from coming here to cook tonight, I’d like to serve dinner earlier than you usually eat so I can beat the storm home.”

  Rosana pursed her lips. “You can cook the meal earlier if you want. We’ll just keep the food warm until seven thirty.”

  Behind her back, Clancy rolled his eyes. He doubtless wanted to eat the food when it was hot as much as Val wanted to serve it then, but she wouldn’t risk a road accident because of the hostess’s inflexibility. “Whatever you like. Dinner will be ready at six thirty.”

  Rosana turned to Granddad. “You’ll stay and eat with us, won’t you, Don?”

  He shook his head. “I’m gonna leave when Val does.”

  “Oh, dear. Rick said he’d join us because you’d be there. He’s been eating alone too often lately.” Rosana’s brow furrowed. “Let’s have dinner an hour early then. Don, will you please let Rick know that dinner will be at six thirty? Please stay and talk to him in his study until then.”

  “I’ll stay if he wants me to.” Granddad crossed the foyer toward the Ushers’ private wing.

  Rosana watered the plants on the windowsill. “Your grandfather’s a b
reath of fresh air in our ménage. He’s not a reporter or a fan, like the other people who come here hoping to talk to Rick. I’m happy Rick’s found someone whose company he enjoys.”

  Did that mean he no longer enjoyed his wife’s company? Val turned on the oven to preheat. “They seem to get along well.”

  “Rick needs someone at the moment. He’s depressed because our dog died.”

  Val mixed the glaze for the Cornish hens. “It took a while for my grandfather to get over his dog’s death. When did your dog die?”

  “On Saturday.”

  The same day Emmett died! Could there be a connection between the human’s death and the canine’s? Val heated the glaze in the microwave. “Was the dog sick long?”

  “He seemed listless and weak for a few days,” Clancy said.

  Rosana turned away from the windowsill. “Really? I didn’t notice. Would you water the hanging plants, Clancy? I don’t want to bother getting the stepladder.”

  “Sure.” Clancy filled the watering can and made quick work of giving the plants a drink.

  “You’re welcome to join us at the table for dinner, Val. Madison has a play rehearsal tonight and won’t be here. So that makes five of us including Rick.” Rosana took a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and removed two stemmed glasses hanging upside-down from a wine rack. “Can I pour you some wine, Val?”

  “No, thank you.” Wine paired well with cooking, but not with hunting for murder suspects or driving through a winter storm.

  “I’ll take some,” Clancy said.

  Rosana raised her brows at him. “Oh, you’re finished with today’s chapter?”

  “Not yet. I’ll have it done before dinner. Excuse me.” He left the kitchen.

  Val saw no sign that it bothered him to be treated like a schoolboy who had to complete his homework before he could eat or drink. Did Rosana think a glass of wine would make him less productive? Maybe he had a tendency to keep drinking once he started.

  Rosana opened the wine, poured herself a glass, and sat on a barstool at the island counter. “Your grandfather told me you run a café at an athletic club. I don’t know how well that pays, but I imagine you’d make more money as a personal chef.”

  “Possibly.” Val basted the hens with balsamic glaze. Running the café gave her a chance to chat with customers and friends. By comparison, a personal chef had limited contact with others. The job had never appealed to her. But if she lost the café contract, she might consider it as a stopgap.

  “If our chef doesn’t return next week, I’d like to have someone ready to take over. Would you be interested in that?”

  Understudy to the chef at the house of Usher—that entry would make her résumé unique. “I’ll think about it. Thank you for suggesting it.”

  Val was glad Rosana wanted something from her. She might answer prying questions more readily. Usher’s wife obviously favored contingency plans and redundant systems, and not just for cooks. She’d hired a backup for her husband and then a backup for the backup. When she approached Granddad last week, did she have a reason to think Emmett, backup number one, wouldn’t be around long?

  Val took out the hens she’d cut in half at home and arranged them on a roasting rack. “What made you get in touch with my grandfather?”

  “I saw an article in the local newspaper about him. He described himself as a problem solver, and I had a problem.” Rosana sipped her wine. “Rick and I have been very isolated since we moved here. That didn’t bother him for years, but lately he’s been depressed. Before we moved here, he loved talking to his fans. I hoped to chase his doldrums away by arranging for him to interact with some fans. He agreed to go to the book club on Sunday and then, at the last minute, he changed his mind.”

  “So you hired a stand-in for him in case that happened. Did he back out of a signing or other event ever before?” Like when Emmett Flint stood in for him at the bookstore?

  “Rick did that a few times when we lived in Baltimore. He had a reason then. He was convinced someone was following him, stalking him, probably a crazed fan. Rick was so worried he didn’t want to leave the house. He couldn’t concentrate on his writing either. That’s why we moved here.”

  Val basted the hens with half the glaze and put the roasting pan in the oven. “Did you report the stalking to the police?”

  “No. Rick believed someone was following him, but I wasn’t convinced of it.” Rosana smiled ruefully. “He said the man was Edgar Allan Poe, wanting revenge because Rick used his plots and characters. Obviously, Rick’s nerves were acting up.”

  Or maybe he was being stalked by his son, Raven, who looked and dressed like Poe. “Has he gotten over that?”

  “Living along the water is very calming. He isn’t afraid of a stalker anymore, but something else has been bothering him lately. He won’t talk about it.” She gulped her wine and muttered into her glass, “I’ve dedicated my life to that man. After all these years, he’s shutting me out.”

  Val guessed why Rosana had been so forthcoming about her private life. Like her husband, she was isolated and needed someone to talk to, especially now that he had withdrawn from her. “When did you two meet?” Val hadn’t forgotten Emmett’s notes about Rick and Rosana at the University of Virginia. No harm in verifying them with the source.

  Rosana smiled, maybe because she had happy memories. “He was teaching at the University of Virginia. I was in his class.”

  Emmett’s speculations had been correct on that. Val remembered his note about a job at the library. “I thought he worked at the library. Granddad must have said something that gave me that idea.”

  “Rick didn’t work there, but he haunted it. The university has a large collection of nineteenth-century American artifacts, manuscripts, and letters. That was Rick’s field.”

  “Did you work at the library?”

  Rosana laughed quietly. “No, but I knew that’s where I’d find Rick. He was the right man for me. I couldn’t let him get away. I hung around the library, so I could bump into him. I figured if he saw me there often enough, he’d notice me. And he did.” She finished her wine and stood up. “I’ll go set the table and then freshen up for dinner. Don’t worry about the wine. I’ll bring it to the table.”

  Val would have offered to set the table except that she was already on a tight schedule to make dinner early.

  * * *

  At six twenty all the food was ready to serve except the warm chocolate tart. Val would remove it from the oven before sitting down to dinner. She tossed the salad and distributed it among five plates, leaving some in the large salad bowl for seconds. When she put the salads on the table, she noticed raindrops trickling down the dining room window. At least they weren’t ice drops . . . yet.

  Rosana hurried into the room and took five dishes from the sideboard. “Please don’t forget to warm the plates before you put the food on them.” She followed Val to the kitchen. “You can do that either in the oven on low or in the dishwasher.”

  “Thank you for the reminder.” And the explicit instructions on how to accomplish a simple task. Val loaded the plates in the dishwasher and set it on the dry cycle. She’d previously suspected Rosana of being a micromanager. Now she was sure of it.

  Rosana put the white wine she’d opened earlier in a wine chiller and filled a pitcher with water. “I’ll put these on the table. There’s another bottle of wine like this one in the refrigerator in case we run low. If you’re ready to serve, I’ll let Rick and your grandfather know.”

  “I’m ready.”

  A brief cough came from behind Val. She and Rosana turned toward the cougher.

  Madison stood in the doorway to the dining room, balancing on stylish, high-heeled shoes. “Excuse me. May I speak to you, Rosana?”

  Rosana crossed the kitchen toward her. “I thought you went to a rehearsal tonight.”

  “The director called it off because he didn’t want us driving home in the snow and sleet.”

  They mov
ed into the dining room. Val heard only murmurs. She went over to the shelves near the doorway to the dining room and pretended to study the plants. Rosana’s voice drifted toward her.

  “One evening a year, Madison. That’s all we’ve asked of you. Rick will be so disappointed if you go back on your word.”

  “I planned to go with you tomorrow. It’s not my fault that tonight’s rehearsal was called off.” Madison’s voice verged on a whine. “I don’t think I can do a good job without another rehearsal. The play’s opening next week.”

  “Surely you can arrange for someone in the drama group to rehearse with you before the opening. I’ll give you free time to do that next week. Tomorrow night you have an essential role with us,” Rosana cajoled in a voice as smooth as honey, synthetic honey. “We can’t do it any other night, and no one can stand in for you.”

  “All right. I’ll be there.” Madison paused between each syllable as if she had to force it out of herself.

  “Thank you. Would you please set another place at the table for yourself? Val’s in the kitchen. You’ll need to tell her that you’ll be joining us.”

  Val scooted back across the room. What was happening that required Madison’s presence tomorrow night?

  Madison came into the kitchen, carrying a plate. “Hello, Val. I assume you’ll be dishing up and serving the food tonight.”

  “Of course. It’s part of my job.” Even if it weren’t, Val didn’t want anyone in the Usher house near her food or Granddad’s.

  “Kitchen duty isn’t part of my job description, but I get to do it anyway.” Madison added her plate to the others warming in the dishwasher and then left.

  A few minutes later, as Val put the food on the plates, she heard Granddad’s voice. He was talking with another man in the foyer.

  “I’d like to meet your granddaughter,” the man with the deep, rumbling voice said.

  She looked forward to meeting, at long last, the real Rick Usher.